sabsclusive

[sabsclusive]

SOME OF YOUR LOVE

He doesn’t rush. His hands are slow—sliding under your hoodie, warm and steady on your hips. You don’t stop him.

The air shifts. Heavy with the kind of silence that means something.

You breathe in, deep and shaky, and Matt catches it. His mouth finds your neck. Not rushed, not hungry. Just soft. Intentional. Like he’s saying sorry without saying anything at all.

You tilt your head without thinking, letting him in. His hands move under your sweatshirt, palms flat against your stomach, and you flinch—ticklish from being touched so gently after so long.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

You nod. “Just cold.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No.”

You lift your arms so he can pull the hoodie off, then toss it somewhere behind you. He watches you like he’s trying to memorize this—eyes moving slow, like he’s scared if he looks away, it’ll vanish.

You reach for his shirt and he lets you peel it off. He’s warm under your hands. Familiar. Still him.

When he leans in to kiss you again, it’s deeper this time. He kisses you like you’re the only thing grounding him. Like he’s been craving this but didn’t know how to ask.

You let your hands slide down his back, nails dragging just enough to make him shiver.

He pulls you into his lap. Lets you straddle him, slow, his hands still soft on your waist like he’s trying not to break you.

Your hips rock once—barely—and he exhales hard through his nose.

You smile a little. “Still got it?”

“Don’t start,” he mutters, voice rough. “You already know.”

You do. You just like hearing it.

You move again, this time with purpose, and feel him start to harden beneath you. You reach between your bodies, lazy and slow, slipping your hand under the waistband of his sweats. He groans, low in his throat, when your fingers wrap around him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw clenched, forehead pressed to yours.

He’s hard already. Warm and heavy in your hand.

“You miss me?” you ask, half-teasing.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just moves your hand away, flips you under him, and kisses you like he’s answering with his whole body.

You breathe him in, legs already parting without thinking. He kisses down your chest, slow and dragging, and his mouth finds the soft of your stomach. He pauses there.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he says, quiet.

Then he hooks your sweats and underwear down in one move and spreads your thighs open. Doesn’t hesitate.

His tongue is warm, sure, slow—no rush, no ego, just focus. He listens to how your breath changes. What makes your thighs tremble. What makes you arch.

You thread your fingers through his hair. “Matt—”

“I got you,” he says. His voice is low. Real low.

And he does. He keeps his mouth on you until you’re clawing at the sheets, chest rising fast, moaning into your arm.

You cum soft, hips rocking into his face, breath broken and uneven.

He licks his lips when he comes back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like nothing about this is new. Like he’s still your husband, still knows your body better than anyone ever could.

You pull him back down. “I want you,” you whisper, voice raw.

Matt nods, strips the rest of the way. Lines up, slow, pressing into you with one long push that knocks the air out of your lungs.

You’re already soaked, still twitching from the last one, so he slides in deep—slow and heavy. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, locking him there.

He groans, low and shaky. “Fuck, you feel good.”

He starts moving. Not fast. Just deep. Intentional. Like he’s trying to remind your body what it’s been missing.

You claw at his back, dragging your nails down his spine, and he curses against your neck. Every thrust has you gasping, mouth open, hands fisting in the sheets.

Your second orgasm builds hard. No teasing. No patience. It hits quick, sharp and tense, your body arching under his, a choked moan slipping out as you cum all over him.

Matt bites down on your shoulder, groaning through clenched teeth. His hips stutter, then slam in deep one last time before he cums—hot and thick, buried so deep inside you, it makes your toes curl.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, catching his breath, forehead pressed to yours.

— @mournfuldeer @bluestriips

[sabsclusive]

BACKSEAT THEORY

You’ve been getting rides from Matt since sophomore year.

It started on accident—your mom got caught up at work and forgot to pick you up after practice. You were sitting on the curb outside the gym, pretending not to be pissed off, when he pulled up and leaned across the front seat.

“Need a ride or you just enjoying the view?”

It wasn’t funny. But it worked.

Now, it’s just what happens. Practice ends, you throw your bag in the back of his car, and he drives. No questions. No waiting around. You don’t even think about it anymore.

Today, you’re both quiet. Not the weird kind—just tired. The kind of quiet that comes after drills and sore legs and the slow ache of a long week.

Matt’s got one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the volume on whatever playlist he threw on. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s tape on two of his fingers. You stare a little too long before looking out the window again.

“You hungry?” he asks after a minute.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He nods. Doesn’t push it. Just keeps driving.

His car smells like cheap cologne and whatever gum he’s always chewing. The windows are cracked. It’s cold out, but he doesn’t care. He’s never cared about little things like that. You always have.

When he pulls up outside your place, you wait a second before opening the door.

“You coming in?” you ask, not really expecting him to say yes.

“Nah,” he says. “Got homework.”

You raise a brow. “You? Doing homework?”

Matt glances at you. “Gotta graduate.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

You let that sit there, unsaid. It’s easier than whatever else is circling the back of your throat.

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “You good?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

He looks at you for a second too long, then nods. “Okay.”

You get out. The door shuts behind you with a soft click. He waits until you’re inside before he drives off—like always.

You watch the taillights disappear down your street, and for a moment, you wonder when something changed.

Because it did.

Somewhere between freshman year and now, between late-night drives and long afternoons spent doing nothing in his room, the air shifted.

You just haven’t said anything yet.

Neither has he.

THE NEXT DAY

The party’s already too loud when you walk in.

You hate this kind of thing—sweaty bodies, bad music, everyone pretending like they’re not checking who came with who. But your friends dragged you here, and you didn’t feel like arguing.

You don’t see Matt at first. You weren’t looking for him, either.

(That’s a lie, but whatever.)

You end up in the kitchen, half-listening to someone talk about their college applications while you scroll through your phone. There’s a drink in your hand, barely touched.

“Thought you didn’t like parties.”

You look up, and there he is. Matt, leaning against the counter like he owns it, hoodie sleeves pushed up, that stupid smirk on his face.

“I don’t,” you say. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Nick said it’d be fun.”

“Nick’s also the one who thought eating six gas station burritos was a good idea.”

Matt laughs. “Yeah. That was a bad week.”

You look at him for a beat too long. He looks good. Not that he normally doesn’t, but something about the lighting, the way he’s looking at you—whatever. You look away.

Someone brushes past you, and you step closer to Matt without thinking. His eyes flick to the space between you. He doesn’t move back.

“You alright?” he asks, voice lower now.

“Yeah. Just… crowded.”

He nods, but he’s still watching you.

Then it happens—some guy you barely know sidles up next to you, leans a little too close.

“Hey, you’re in my English class, right?”

You blink. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“I thought so. You looked familiar. You here with anyone?”

Before you can answer, Matt shifts. Subtle, but enough. His hand brushes your arm. The guy notices.

“I’m good,” you say quickly. “Nice seeing you.”

The guy lingers half a second too long, then walks off.

You glance at Matt. He’s got that look on his face again—half bored, half annoyed.

“What was that?”

Matt shrugs. “Didn’t like his face.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You didn’t wanna talk to him either.”

“Still not your call.”

Matt doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you for a long second.

“I’m getting some air,” you mutter, brushing past him toward the back door.

He follows. You don’t ask him to.

Outside, it’s quieter. Cool air on your skin. You sit on the steps and hug your knees. Matt stands behind you for a second, then drops down next to you.

“Don’t do that,” you say.

“Do what?”

“Act like you get to be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

You shoot him a look. “You acted like I was two seconds from getting kidnapped.”

Matt scoffs. “He was being weird.”

“He said hi.”

“He said you here with anyone.”

You don’t say anything. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I’m not trying to be a dick,” he says. “I just… I don’t like when guys talk to you like that.”

You look at him.

“Why?”

He looks at you, too. “You really don’t know?”

Something inside your chest tightens.

You don’t answer. Neither does he.

Not right away.

But then he says, quieter, “You looked good tonight. That’s all.”

The silence after that feels heavier than the music pulsing through the house.

Your heart’s beating a little too fast. You don’t know what to do with that.

So you say the dumbest thing you can think of. “You trying to make a move, Sturniolo?”

He huffs a laugh. “Would you let me?”

You look at him.

He’s close. Closer than he should be. The porch light catches the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He leans in, just a little.

And then—

“I should go find my friends.”

You stand up too fast.

Matt doesn’t stop you.

You spend the whole weekend pretending it didn’t happen.

Not the party, not the look on Matt’s face when you walked away, not the moment on the porch where you let him almost kiss you. Nope. None of it. You bury yourself in homework and playlists and dumb shows you’ve already seen twice. It helps.

Kind of.

Monday hits hard. Cold air, heavy backpack, a pop quiz in second period. You’re trying not to care that Matt hasn’t texted you all weekend, but of course you care.

You see him after school, by the parking lot, talking to Nick and Chris. He looks normal. Laughing at something, hand running through his hair the way he always does. You should keep walking.

You don’t.

“Hey,” you say.

Matt turns. His smile falters when he sees you, but just barely. “Hey.”

Nick and Chris make themselves scarce fast, muttering something about food. You and Matt are alone again.

You don’t really know what to say.

“You ghosted,” he says first.

You scoff. “I didn’t ghost.”

“I texted you.”

You cross your arms. “Yeah. Once. ‘You good?’ That’s not exactly begging me to talk.”

Matt leans against his car. “I figured if you wanted to talk, you would.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that he’s still looking at you like he knows something you don’t.

“What do you want me to say, Matt?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you’re actually thinking. Instead of whatever fake thing you’ve been saying since forever.”

You bristle. “Okay, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell everyone you don’t like me like that,” he says, voice calm, “but then you let me almost kiss you. And you didn’t look scared. You looked like you wanted it.”

You freeze.

Then laugh. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Am I?” he steps closer. “You gonna tell me I imagined all that?”

“I’m gonna tell you you’re making something out of nothing.”

He’s standing right in front of you now. “Then say it. Say you don’t want me to kiss you.”

Your jaw clenches. Your chest feels too tight.

“Say it,” he repeats, low. “And I’ll walk away.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Matt’s eyes are locked on yours. His voice dips again. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You push past him. “You’re so annoying.”

“Still not a no.”

You keep walking. He doesn’t follow. But your heart’s racing the whole way home.

Later That Night

You’re supposed to be asleep. Instead, you’re laying in bed with your phone glowing too bright, scrolling through texts you haven’t answered and notes from class you barely understood today.

And then, your phone buzzes.

Matt:

You left your hoodie in my car. Want it back?

You stare at the screen. You hadn’t even noticed.

You:

Didn’t even know I left it lol

Matt:

Smells like you. I’m keeping it.

Your breath catches.

You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. It’s like every word with him lately has a second meaning, like you’re both circling something you can’t name.

But you still type back.

You:

Gross. I hope it gives you pink eye.

Matt:

Worth it.

You turn off your phone. Pull the blanket over your head.

You don’t sleep.

THE NEXT DAY

You never thought the backseat of Matt’s car could feel so claustrophobic. But right now, every inch between you two is charged — like the air’s been waiting for a spark.

The afternoon sun presses through the windows, casting stripes across his face, sharp angles you hadn’t really noticed before. His usual smirk is missing, replaced by something quieter. Almost serious.

You want to tell yourself it’s just the cramped space, the long silence between you, but your chest tightens anyway.

“So,” Matt says finally, voice low, “You still mad about the hoodie?”

You roll your eyes but don’t say anything.

He snickers, a sound that’s rougher than usual. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

The car rocks slightly when he shifts closer. You freeze.

“Look,” he says, eyes flicking to yours, “I don’t want to pretend anymore. Not with you.”

Your pulse thunders in your ears. “Pretend what?”

“That this — us — is nothing.” His hand brushes yours. “That you don’t want me like I want you.”

You bite your lip, breath shallow.

Matt leans in, his mouth close enough you can feel the heat. “Tell me to stop if you want.”

Your voice catches. “Don’t.”

And then he’s kissing you — slow, deliberate, the kind that demands attention and makes your whole body tense in a way that’s both terrifying and irresistible.

His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him. His jaw presses into your cheek, teeth grazing your skin lightly, teasing. It’s not soft, but it’s not harsh either — it’s exactly the kind of kiss that pulls you under, leaves you breathless and wanting more.

You slide your hands into his hair, fingers tangling as the world shrinks to this car, this moment.

When he finally pulls back, eyes dark and unreadable, you’re not sure who’s more stunned.

“I’m not letting this be just a ride home,” he says quietly.

You nod, heart pounding. “Good.”

Because maybe — just maybe — the backseat is exactly where this was always supposed to start.

Matt’s fingers don’t leave your waist as the car hums forward, but his eyes keep flicking back to the road like he’s trying to focus on something else. You can feel the tension in his jaw, the slight tremble in his hands. Like this is new territory for him, too.

You clear your throat, voice barely above a whisper. “So, uh… what now?”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now? Now I’m gonna try not to fuck this up.”

You laugh, nervous but real. “High standards.”

He shrugs. “I’m a terrible boyfriend, but maybe I’m a good kisser.”

The car slows to a stop at a red light. You turn to look at him, really look, for the first time. The quiet confidence is still there, but underneath it, you see the uncertainty — the same shit you feel every damn time you think about crossing that line.

“So,” you say, voice dropping, “since you’re apparently good at kissing… what else are you good at?”

His grin goes wicked. “You’re about to find out.”

He leans over, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to your neck. Your breath hitches. The light changes, but you don’t move.

Matt’s hand slides lower, fingers grazing the curve of your hip under your shirt, warm and steady. The heat pools low in your belly, that familiar pull you’ve been trying to ignore.

“This is new,” he mutters, voice rough.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Feels like it.”

The car’s interior feels like a world away from the rest of everything — from the years you spent pretending this was just friendship.

Matt’s hand tightens on your hip, and you realize you’re not pretending anymore, either.

The car is parked now, windows fogging up like a confession booth. Matt’s eyes catch yours in the rearview mirror—dark, serious, and just a little dangerous.

He slides his hand from your hip to your thigh, fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse spike. Your breath catches, heart hammering louder than the rain tapping on the roof.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “About you. About us.”

You swallow hard, the ache of all those years of holding back tightening in your chest.

Without warning, his hand moves higher, slipping under the hem of your shirt, skin warm beneath his touch. His thumb circles your hipbone slowly, deliberately. You shiver.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, voice teasing but serious.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to. Your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate for the heat of his mouth on yours.

Matt’s lips crush against yours, rough and demanding. His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips burning trails across your skin. You arch into him, craving more—more pressure, more contact, more of whatever this is.

His teeth graze your bottom lip, and you part for him, tongues tangling in a messy, urgent dance. The sound you make—a low, shaky moan—spurs him on.

His hand moves lower, tracing the curve of your ribs, before dipping under your jeans. You freeze for a second, heart hammering, but then you nod, giving him permission.

Matt’s fingers find your bare skin, cold at first, then warming as he strokes you through your panties. His touch is teasing but relentless, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he groans against your mouth.

You don’t care about the world outside the car anymore—just the way his hands and lips claim every inch of you, the heat pooling deep inside like wildfire.

Matt’s hips press against yours, hard and insistent. His breath is ragged as he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You sure about this?” he asks, eyes dark with want.

You nod, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

He grins, wicked and wild, before crashing back into your mouth, hands and mouth working in sync to pull you apart—and you finally let yourself fall.

Matt’s hands don’t hesitate. He slips your shirt over your head, fingers grazing your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. His eyes darken when he sees you bare beneath the fabric, and damn, the way he looks at you makes heat pool between your legs all over again.

He pushes your jeans down slowly, deliberately, like he wants to savor the moment—but you’re already aching, desperate for him. Your hands roam his back, pulling him closer, nails scraping lightly as the tension coils tighter.

His mouth finds the column of your neck, teeth grazing the skin just enough to make you shiver. You tilt your head back, giving him full access, every nerve alive and screaming.

“God, you’re driving me insane,” he mutters, voice rough.

Your breath hitches when his hand slides lower, fingertips tracing the bare skin of your hip, moving closer and closer to where you want him most. He’s teasing, playing with that delicious edge, and you’re burning alive.

With a sudden flick, his fingers slip inside you, slow and insistent. You gasp, clutching his shoulders as your body bends into his touch. He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest, raw and full of need.

“I’ve waited too damn long for this,” Matt whispers against your skin.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as he sinks deeper, each movement sure and demanding. The world outside the car doesn’t exist anymore—only you and him, heat and wetness and the messy, urgent connection you’ve been denying for years.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, dark and wild, full of something fierce and unfiltered. “You ready?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

You nod, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break your ribs.

Matt’s grip tightens on your hips, and then he’s moving inside you—slow at first, testing, but then fucking harder, deeper, harder.

Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, nails digging into his shoulders as you ride the edge together, raw and fierce.

His voice drops to a harsh growl. “You’re mine. You hear me?”

“Yes,” you choke out, lost in the storm of sensation, lost in him.

And as the world crashes around you, all you want is this—him, here, now, raw and real.

The car rocks with the force of Matt's thrusts, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh obscenely loud in the confines of the backseat. You clutch at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin, as he drives into you again and again, each deep stroke sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.

"Fuck," he groans, one hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat to his hungry mouth. "You feel so fucking good."

Your head falls back against the seat, a low moan escaping your lips as his teeth scrape along your pulse point. Your hips rise to meet his, urging him deeper, harder, chasing the building pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

He picks up the pace, pistoning into you with a fierce intensity, the car creaking and swaying with the force of his movements. The smell of sex and sweat fills the air, heady and intoxicating.

"Come on baby," he growls, snapping his hips sharply. "I want to feel you come apart on my cock."

His filthy words send a bolt of lust straight to your throbbing clit, and you can feel your orgasm bearing down on you like a runaway train. Your thighs start to tremble, your walls clenching around him as the tension reaches a fever pitch.

"Please," you whimper, teetering on the edge. "I'm so close."

Matt slides a hand between your bodies, his calloused fingers finding your swollen nub and rubbing tight circles. That's all it takes to push you over the precipice.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as pleasure crashes through you, wave after wave of ecstasy radiating out from where you're joined. Matt follows right behind you, with a guttural moan, spurting deep inside you as his own release overtakes him.

You collapse back against the seat, boneless and sated, as Matt rests his forehead against yours, both of you panting harshly. He presses a tender kiss to your lips before pulling back to gaze down at you with a sated smile.

"That was..." he starts, shaking his head. "Fuck. I don't even have words."

You huff a laugh, tracing idle patterns on his chest with your fingertips. "Same."

He shifts off of you, pulling you close and tucking your head under his chin. You melt into his embrace, relishing the warmth of his skin and the thud of his heart beneath your ear.

"I meant what I said," Matt murmurs after a long moment. "You're mine now. No more pretending."

You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, your lips curving into a soft smile. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go either."

He grins, bright and boyish, before capturing your mouth in a sweet kiss full of promise. And as the rain patters softly on the roof, you know that no matter what happens next, you'll face it together.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of stolen kisses, heated glances, and clandestine touches whenever you think no one is watching. You and Matt have become experts at navigating the tricky waters of your new relationship—sneaking off to empty classrooms or the gymnasium during lunch to steal a few illicit moments alone.

But despite the thrill of it all, you can't help but feel a growing sense of unease. The secrecy is starting to wear on you—keeping your relationship hidden from prying eyes feels more like lying than living. And with each stolen moment, you find yourself wanting more—more time, more intimacy, more...everything.

You confide in your best friend Sarah over a post-practice milkshake one afternoon, worrying your straw between your fingers as you spill your guts about the conundrum you and Matt have found yourselves in.

"It's just...I'm tired of sneaking around like we did something wrong," you admit, heaving a sigh. "I want to be able to hold his hand in the hallway and kiss him goodnight like a normal couple. But we can't do that if we can't even tell people we're together."

Sarah takes a thoughtful sip of her shake before replying. "I get what you mean. But...have you talked to Matt about this? Really talked to him? Maybe he has some ideas or feelings about it too."

You shake your head, a pang of guilt lancing through your chest. "No, not really. I don't know if I'm ready for that conversation yet. What if he doesn't want the same things as me? What if...what if it scares him off?"

Sarah reaches across the table to squeeze your hand, her expression soft with sympathy. "Hey, don't borrow trouble, okay? Just talk to him. Worst case, you two have a heart-to-heart and you decide it's not working out. But best case? You get to have an amazing boyfriend who loves you and wants to shout it from the rooftops. Don't sell him short."

Her words echo in your mind long after the milkshake run is over, as you make your way through the motions of the rest of the day. By the time practice ends and you meet Matt by the car, your resolve has solidified.

"Hey," he greets you with a quick peck on the cheek as you climb into the passenger seat. "How was the rest of your day?"

"Good," you reply, a hint of nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin. "Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about..."

Matt glances over at you as he starts the engine, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Oh yeah? What's on your mind?"

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "Well...this whole thing with us, keeping it a secret...it's starting to feel kind of suffocating, you know? I just...I really like you, Matt. A lot. And I'm tired of sneaking around like what we have is something shameful."

Matt is silent for a long moment, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he navigates out of the school parking lot. Your heart pounds in your chest, worry knotting in your gut as you wait for his response.

Finally, he speaks, his voice carefully controlled. "I hear what you're saying. I do. But...can you give me some time to think about it? I don't know if I'm ready to come out and tell everyone just yet. I need to wrap my head around this whole thing."

Disappointment floods through you, even as you try to keep your face neutral. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

But inside, doubts start to creep in. What if Matt is just using you as his dirty little secret? What if he never wants anyone to know about your relationship?

The rest of the drive home passes in silence, the weight of unsaid words hanging heavily in the air between you. By the time Matt pulls into your driveway, your stomach is in knots.

"I'll call you later," he promises as you reach for the door handle.

You nod stiffly. "Okay. Talk to you then."

You close the car door behind you and head inside, feeling more alone than ever. But as you mount the stairs to your room, you make yourself a silent vow: no matter what happens, you won't let yourself be a dirty little secret anymore. You deserve better than that.

THE NEXT DAY

You keep yourself busy all morning with chores and homework, trying to distract yourself from the anticipation of hearing from Matt. But as the hours tick by with no word, doubt starts to creep in.

Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he realized he wasn't ready for this level of commitment after all. Maybe he just wanted to get in your pants and now he's done with you...

You're so lost in your swirling thoughts that you nearly miss the text notification that pops up on your phone screen. Your heart leaps into your throat when you see it's from Matt.

Matt: Meet me behind the bleachers after school.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you type out a reply.

You: Ok. See you then.

The rest of the day drags by with agonizing slowness, each minute stretching into infinity. By the time the final bell rings, you're wound tighter than a coiled spring.

You make your way out to the deserted practice field, your footsteps echoing in the eerie quiet. As you round the corner of the bleachers, you spot Matt waiting for you, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders hunched against the chill in the air.

He looks up as you approach, his expression unreadable. "Hey."

"Hey," you reply softly, stopping a few feet away from him. "So...did you think about what we talked about yesterday?"

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground between you. "I did. And...I think you're right. This sneaking around thing...it's not healthy. For either of us."

Your heart starts to race, hope and fear warring for dominance in your chest. "So...what does that mean? For us?"

Matt takes a step closer, reaching out to take your hands in his. His touch is warm and grounding, anchoring you in place.

"It means...I want to do this right. I want to be able to hold your hand and kiss you without worrying about who might see. I want to be able to take you on real dates and introduce you to my family and...and just be with you, out in the open, without any secrets or lies between us."

Tears spring to your eyes as relief washes through you in a tidal wave. "I want that too. So much."

Matt pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as he buries his face in your hair. "I'm sorry it took me so long to figure this out," he murmurs. "I didn't want to mess this up or lose you. But...I'm ready now. To tell everyone how much I love you."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, joy and disbelief mingling together in a heady rush. "You...you love me?"

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own shining with emotion. "I love you so fucking much. More than I ever thought I could love anyone."

A watery laugh bubbles up from your chest as you throw your arms around his neck, crushing your lips to his in a fierce, desperate kiss. He returns it with equal fervor, one hand tangling in your hair while the other grips your hip, holding you flush against him.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless and grinning like fools. "I love you too," you confess, nuzzling into his neck. "So much."

Matt's arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with contentment beneath your ear. "Good. Because I'm never letting you go."

And as you stand there, wrapped up in each other's embrace beneath the bleachers, you know that this is just the beginning. The beginning of something real and true and powerful—a love that will carry you through every challenge and triumph that lies ahead.

Because when it comes to Matt Sturniolo, you know in your heart that he's worth fighting for—and that together, you can face anything.

[sabsclusive]

i love your work sm! is it okay if i can be on your tag. if not its okay! Keep going i love the work! <33

Ofc you can! ❤️

[sabsclusive]

DETENTION

─── ❛❛ 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻 : 𝟐𝑲? ❞ . WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT/SMUT, STRONG LANGUAGE, SUB!READER, DOM!MATT,

It starts, as most disasters do, with Matt Sturniolo trying to skip sixth period and you… being nosy.

You’re not even trying to catch him. You’re walking back from a student council meeting with your little clipboard and your color-coded notes, when you see a flash of black hoodie sprinting down the back stairwell.

You don’t mean to say anything.

You should mind your business.

But then your mouth—your very responsible mouth—opens anyway.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be out here!”

Matt stops halfway down the steps and turns slowly. His expression is unreadable. He’s got that effortless kind of slouchy, hot-boy menace. Messy hair. Half-laced sneakers. That hoodie everyone says smells like weed and trouble.

“You snitching?” he asks, almost bored.

You blink. “I’m— I’m literally the class president. What do you think I’m doing?”

He just stares at you. One eyebrow raised. Like you’re the confusing one.

“You don’t even like sixth period,” he mutters, turning to go.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you volunteered to decorate the vending machine for Earth Day, so…”

Your mouth falls open.

That’s how both of you end up in the principal’s office — you, trying to explain how this is all a big misunderstanding; Matt, kicking back in the chair like he’s been here a hundred times (he has). Mr. Delano doesn’t even listen.

“I don’t care who started what,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose like y’all gave him a migraine. “You’re both getting detention. This week. After school. Together.”

You gasp. Matt grins.

Detention is in Mr. Haskins’ room. The clock ticks like a hammer. There’s a weird smell coming from the supply closet.

Matt’s already sitting when you walk in, feet propped on the desk in front of him, AirPods in, clearly not planning to take any of this seriously.

You sit two rows away.

“Scared to sit next to me?” he asks without looking up.

“I just don’t want to catch anything.”

He laughs. “You’re hilarious, president.”

You try to ignore him. You open your binder. You organize your pens. You look like an overachiever and a hater.

But then he throws a paper airplane at you.

You snap your head up. “Are you five?”

He shrugs. “You looked bored.”

“I’m trying to do my homework.”

“Aw. Want me to help?” His smirk is unfairly pretty.

You scowl. “I’d rather fail.”

On Day Three, Mr. Haskins leaves the room to go yell at the drama kids down the hall. The moment he’s gone, Matt turns sideways in his chair and just looks at you.

“What?”

“You ever break a rule before?”

You snort. “Of course.”

“Like what?”

You think. Then: “One time I skipped breakfast.”

He stares.

You look away. “I have low blood sugar, okay?”

He leans forward, voice low. “You’ve never even had a detention before, have you?”

“No,” you admit.

He whistles. “Damn. So you’ve never snuck out. Never drank. Never—”

“Stop.”

He grins. “You’re such a square.”

You cross your arms. “You act like being a delinquent is a personality trait.”

“It’s a lifestyle, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. But your face is hot. And your heart’s doing that annoying thing where it skips for no reason.

That night, you can’t stop thinking about the way he said “sweetheart.”

By Friday, y’all are weirdly… comfortable. Still bickering, but it’s slower now. More like a rhythm. Like flirting in disguise.

Matt catches you staring while he’s doodling in his notebook.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

He raises a brow. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?”

You whip your head toward him. “How do you know that?”

He leans back, smug. “You’re not that hard to read.”

You want to fight him. You also want to die.

But instead, you say, “So what if I haven’t?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just think it’s kinda sad.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re cute. Bossy. A little stuck-up. But kissable.”

You blink.

“Kissable?”

“Uh-huh.”

The bell rings.

Mr. Haskins leaves to go help another teacher with a projector.

You don’t know why you follow Matt into the janitor’s closet.

You just do.

The moment the door clicks shut, he turns.

“You sure?” he asks. He’s not smiling now. Just watching.

You nod.

And then—

Well.

Let’s just say he fixes it.

And you don’t think you’ll ever look at a broom closet the same way again.

You feel the air in the closet thicken, charged with something electric and new. Matt steps closer, his gaze locked onto yours, and suddenly the world outside feels miles away. The dim light casts shadows across his features, making him look even more alluring, and you can’t help but feel a rush of excitement mixed with nerves.

“Are you really sure?” he asks again, his voice low and almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity there that makes your heart race.

You swallow hard, your mind racing with a million thoughts. This is so unlike you—so reckless. But there’s something about Matt that pulls you in, that makes you want to break free from your carefully curated life, even just for a moment.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and it comes out more confident than you feel.

He steps closer, invading your personal space, and you can smell the faint hint of his cologne mixed with something earthy and wild. It’s intoxicating. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and your skin tingles at the contact.

“Okay, then,” he says, his voice dropping even lower. “Let’s see if I can change your mind about a few things.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips with his. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if he’s gauging your reaction. But then you melt into it, your body responding instinctively. You lean into him, your hands finding their way to his hair, pulling him closer.

Matt deepens the kiss, and it’s like fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. You can hardly believe this is happening—this moment, this connection. It’s everything you didn’t know you wanted and more. You feel alive, exhilarated, and a little bit terrified.

Just as you start to lose yourself in the kiss, the sound of footsteps outside jolts you back to reality. You pull away, breathless, and your eyes widen as you glance at the door.

“Shh,” Matt whispers, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Don’t want to get caught, do we?”

You can’t help but laugh, the tension breaking as you realize how ridiculous this all is. Here you are, hiding in a janitor’s closet, kissing the school’s biggest troublemaker. But it feels so right.

“Okay, okay,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “But we should probably—”

He interrupts you with another quick peck, and you can’t help but smile. “Just one more for the road,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning now. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like it,” he replies, leaning back against the door, looking far too pleased with himself.

You take a deep breath, still feeling the warmth of his lips on yours. “I guess I do.”

“Good,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “Because this is just the beginning.”

And as you both stand there, the world outside forgotten, you can’t help but wonder what other rules you might be willing to break with him by your side.

You both stand there, the world outside forgotten, as you wonder what other rules you might be willing to break with him. Matt's hands find their way to your hips, pulling you against him. You can feel his hardness, and it sends a jolt of desire through you. He starts to unbutton your jeans, his movements quick and sure. You help him, pushing them down along with your panties. He steps back to take in the sight of you, his eyes dark with lust.

"Fuck, you're hot," he growls, before kissing you again, his hands exploring your body. You reach for his belt, fumbling slightly in your eagerness. He helps you, shedding his jeans and boxers in record time. His cock is hard and ready, and you wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly. He lets out a low groan of pleasure.

"More," he urges, his voice hoarse. "I need more."

He lifts you effortlessly, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He enters you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You cry out, your head falling back as pleasure rushes through you. Matt starts to move, his hips thrusting against yours in a steady, relentless rhythm. Each stroke is deep and powerful, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"You feel amazing," he murmurs against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. His words send a fresh wave of arousal crashing over you. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back as you match his movements, desperate for more.

Matt's pace quickens, his body tensing as he nears his climax. "Come with me," he commands, his voice strained. "Let me feel you come undone."

His words push you over the edge. Your orgasm hits you hard, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. Matt follows soon after, his body shuddering as he finds his release deep inside you.

You both stand there, panting and sweaty, your foreheads resting against each other. Matt's fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction and contentment.

"That was...intense," you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He grins, a look of pure male satisfaction on his face. "Told you I could change your mind."

You roll your eyes but can't stop yourself from smiling. "You're something else."

"Yeah, but you like it," he replies, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

As you both start to clean up, you can't help but wonder what other trouble Matt has in store for you. One thing is for sure—your life just got a lot more interesting.

As you both regain your composure, Matt keeps his arms around you, holding you close. The closet, once a mundane space, now feels like a private sanctuary, charged with the electricity of what just happened. You can feel his heart beating steadily against your chest, a stark contrast to the wild race of your own.

"You know," he starts, his voice a low rumble, "I've been wanting to do that for a while now."

You pull back slightly to look into his eyes, a mix of curiosity and amusement in your gaze. "Oh, really? And why's that?"

He smirks, a playful glint in his eye. "Let's just say you've been on my mind a lot. And not just in the obvious ways." He pauses, his thumb tracing small circles on your lower back. "There's something about you, you know. You're different."

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. "Different how?"

"Different from the usual girls I... spend time with," he admits, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "You're more... real. Less interested in the games and more interested in just being you. I like that."

You feel a flush of pleasure at his words, a mix of pride and surprise. "Well, aren't you full of compliments today," you tease, nudging him gently.

He chuckles, a deep, warm sound that vibrates through you. "Only with you. Most of the time, I'm too busy being an ass to notice the good stuff."

You can't help but laugh at that, the sound echoing softly in the small space. "True enough. But I have to admit, you're not so bad when you're not being a troublemaker."

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "Glad to hear it. So, what do you say we make a habit of this? Meeting up, breaking a few rules, having some fun?"

You consider his offer, a smile playing on your lips. "I think that could be arranged. But only if you promise to keep being yourself. The real you, not the school's bad boy act."

He leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "Deal. But only if you promise to keep surprising me. Life's too short to be boring, right?"

You nod, your heart swelling with a mix of excitement and affection. "Right."

Just as you're about to kiss him again, a louder set of footsteps echoes outside the closet, followed by voices. You both freeze, listening as a group of students walks by, their chatter fading into the distance. You look at Matt, your eyes wide with a mix of amusement and anxiety.

"Guess we better get out of here before someone decides to use the mop," he whispers, a mischievous glint in his eye.

You nod, quickly pulling on your clothes. Matt does the same, his movements efficient and quick. As you finish dressing, he pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss.

"That was fun," he murmurs against your lips. "Let's do it again soon."

You smile, your heart fluttering with anticipation. "I'd like that."

He opens the closet door a crack, peeking out to make sure the coast is clear. Satisfied, he nods to you, and you both slip out, blending into the crowded hallway as if nothing had happened. As you walk away, you can't help but feel a sense of freedom and exhilaration. You've broken the rules, and it feels amazing.

Later that day, as you're walking home, your phone buzzes with a new message. It's from Matt, a simple smiley face emoji accompanied by the text, "Today was fun. Can't wait for round 2." You can't help but smile, your cheeks flushing as you type out a response.

"Me neither. Be careful out there, troublemaker."

His reply is instant. "Always. Sweet dreams, beautiful."

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. This is going to be interesting.

Over the next few days, you find yourself in a whirlwind of stolen moments and secret meetings. Matt is everywhere and nowhere, always popping up when you least expect him, always ready with a smirk and a suggestion for more mischief. You both share a secret, a bond that makes every stolen kiss and touch feel electric.

One afternoon, after a particularly intense study session, you find yourself alone in the library with Matt. He pulls you into a secluded corner, his hands already roaming your body. You melt into his touch, your back pressing against the bookshelf as he kisses you deeply. His hands slip under your shirt, his fingers tracing the lacy edge of your bra. You shiver, your body arching into his touch.

"God, you drive me crazy," he murmurs against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. "I can't stop thinking about you."

You gasp as his hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "Matt... someone might see," you whisper, even as you grind against him, seeking more friction.

He chuckles, a low, husky sound. "Let them. I want everyone to know you're mine."

His words send a thrill through you, and you kiss him harder, your hands tangling in his hair. He lifts you effortlessly, setting you on the edge of a nearby table. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him close. He grinds against you, his hardness pressing against your core, and you moan softly.

"More," you urge, your voice breathless. "I need more."

He smiles, a wicked glint in his eye. "Your wish is my command."

He unbuttons your jeans, pushing them down along with your panties. You help him, kicking them off completely. He steps back to take in the sight of you, his eyes dark with lust. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he growls, before leaning in to kiss you again.

His fingers find your center, teasing and exploring. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his touch. He slips a finger inside you, then another, his thumb circling your clit. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back as he brings you to the brink of ecstasy.

"Matt, please," you beg, your voice hoarse with desire. "I need you inside me."

He smirks, his fingers moving faster, his thumb applying just the right amount of pressure. "Not yet. I want to hear you come first."

His words send you over the edge. Your orgasm hits you hard, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over you. You cry out, your head falling back as you ride out the sensation.

Matt watches you, a look of pure satisfaction on his face. "That's it," he murmurs. "Let go for me."

As your body calms, he quickly sheds his jeans and boxers, his cock springing free and hard. He lifts you off the table, turning you so that your back is to his chest. You bend over slightly, giving him better access. He enters you from behind, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"You feel so good," he groans, starting to move. His thrusts are deep and powerful, each one sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

You push back against him, meeting his movements with your own desperate rhythm. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, a symphony of our mutual desire. The library, once a place of quiet study, is now a haven for our secret pleasures.

Matt's pace quickens, his body tensing as he nears his climax. "Come with me," he commands, his voice strained. "Let me feel you come undone around me."

His words push you over the edge again. Your second orgasm is even more intense than the first, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure wash over you. Matt follows soon after, his body shuddering as he finds his release deep inside you.

You both stand there, panting and sweaty, your foreheads resting against the bookshelf. Matt's fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction and contentment.

"That was...incredible," you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He grins, a look of pure male satisfaction on his face. "Told you I could make you feel good."

You roll your eyes but can't stop yourself from smiling. "You're insufferable."

"Yeah, but you love it," he replies, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

As you both start to clean up, you hear voices approaching. You quickly pull on your clothes, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Matt just smirks, clearly pleased with himself as he buttons up his jeans.

"Until next time," he whispers, giving you a quick peck on the lips before slipping away, leaving you to hide your flushed cheeks and disheveled hair.

You take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself as the students enter the library. You can't help but smile, your body still humming with pleasure. This is becoming a habit, and you love every minute of it.

As the days turn into weeks, your encounters with Matt become more frequent and more intense. You both crave each other's touch, and the thrill of the forbidden only adds to the fire burning between you. One evening, Matt invites you to his place, a small apartment above a local shop. The moment you step inside, he pushes you against the closed door, his mouth crashing down on yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, exploring your body with a frenzy that matches your own desire. You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He obliges, ripping it off and throwing it to the side, then doing the same with yours. Your bras are swiftly discarded, and he captures your bare breasts in his hands, his thumbs rough against your sensitive nipples.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he growls, his mouth trailing down your neck, biting and sucking, marking you as his. "I can't get enough of you."

You gasp, your head falling back as he continues his assault on your senses. His hands grip your ass, lifting you effortlessly, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you to the bedroom, his mouth never leaving your skin. You can feel his hardness pressing against you, and you grind against him, seeking relief from the ache building inside you.

He throws you onto the bed, and you bounce, your breasts heaving with each ragged breath. He stands at the foot of the bed, his eyes roaming over your body like a starving man. "Fuck, you're a sight," he murmurs, quickly shedding the rest of his clothes.

You take a moment to appreciate the view. His body is lean and muscular, scars and tattoos adorning his skin, each one telling a story. His cock stands proud and hard, ready for you. You lick your lips, eager to taste him, but he has other plans.

He crawls onto the bed, a predatory gleam in his eye. "I want to devour you," he says, his voice a low growl. "Every fucking inch of you."

He starts at your feet, his tongue and teeth tracing a path up your leg, biting and sucking, leaving marks on your tender flesh. You squirm, your body already on fire with need. He takes his time, exploring every curve, every dip, every sensitive spot. By the time he reaches your core, you're a writhing mess, begging for release.

He hooks his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer, and dives in, his tongue licking and probing, his fingers joining in, stretching and filling you. You cry out, your hands fisting the sheets as he brings you to the brink of ecstasy. Just as you're about to fall over the edge, he pulls back, a wicked smile on his face.

"Not so fast," he teases, crawling up your body, his cock poised at your entrance. "I want to feel you come around me."

He enters you in one swift, powerful thrust, filling you completely. You cry out, your body arching off the bed as pleasure courses through your veins. He starts to move, his hips thrusting against yours in a relentless, rough rhythm. Each stroke is deep and hard, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"Fuck, you feel good," he grunts, his teeth gritted with effort. "So tight and wet."

His words send a fresh wave of arousal crashing over you. You meet his thrusts, your body slamming against his, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you in place as he pounds into you.

"You like that, don't you?" he growls, his voice hoarse with desire. "You like it rough."

You can only nod, your mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure builds inside you. He leans down, his teeth capturing your nipple, biting and sucking, sending jolts of pain and pleasure mixing together.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Let me feel you come undone around my cock."

His words push you over the edge. Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over you. You scream his name, your nails digging into his back, holding on for dear life.

Matt follows soon after, his body tensing as he finds his release deep inside you. He groans, a low, guttural sound, his hips still moving as he rides out his orgasm.

You both collapse onto the bed, panting and sweaty, your bodies entwined. Matt's fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you can't help but feel a sense of contentment and satisfaction.

"That was...intense," you manage to say, your voice hoarse from screaming.

He grins, a look of pure male satisfaction on his face. "Told you I could make you feel good."

You roll your eyes but can't stop yourself from smiling. "You're something else."

"Yeah, but you love it," he replies, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

But neither of you are done yet. Matt rolls off you and pulls you on top of him, his cock already hardening again. You straddle him, feeling him press against your sensitive flesh. He reaches up, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples, sending shivers down your spine.

"Ride me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Let me watch you lose control."

You oblige, lifting your hips and slowly lowering yourself onto his length. You both moan as you take him in, inch by inch. You start to move, your hips rolling and grinding, finding a rhythm that drives you both wild. Matt's hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, guiding your movements.

"Faster," he urges, his voice strained. "I want to see you fall apart."

You increase your pace, your body slamming down onto his, taking him deeper and deeper. You can feel another orgasm building, your body coiling tight as a spring.

"That's it," Matt encourages, his voice a low growl. "Let go for me. I've got you."

His words push you over the edge. Your second orgasm is even more intense than the first, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. You throw your head back, a silent scream on your lips as you ride out the sensation.

Matt isn't far behind. He flips you onto your back, his body covering yours as he thrusts deeply, his release spilling into you. He collapses on top of you, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm.

You both lie there, entangled and spent, your breaths slowly returning to normal. Matt rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"Stay the night," he murmurs, his voice soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the rough, demanding lover he was moments ago.

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

As you drift off to sleep, safe and sated in his arms, you know that this is just the beginning. Your relationship with Matt is wild, unpredictable, and utterly consuming. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

— TAGLIST : @bluestriips

[sabsclusive]

i LOVE ur writing i LOVE the sold out on sundays au i LOVE your aesthetic. pls make a taglist and put me on it immediately

YESS WILL BE DOING THAT 🫶🏽🫶🏽

[sabsclusive]

SOLD OUT ON SUNDAYS ─── ❛❛ 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻 : 𝟏𝑲 ❞ . WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT/SMUT, STRONG LANGUAGE, EMOTIONAL TENSION/ANGST, UNRESOLVED ANGST,

“Then why’d you say it like that? Why’d you look me dead in the eye and throw it in my face?” Your mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

He laughs bitterly, pushing a hand through his hair. “It’s not even about the dude. It’s the fact that you thought it was cool to embarrass me like that. Like I’m just some background character in the little rom-com you got running in your head.”

You flinch. That one lands.

“You don’t even get it,” he says, quieter now. “I’ve spent weeks… watching you walk in here all confident, headphones in, iced coffee like a shield. I notice everything. I remember every damn outfit. And you—you just treat me like I’m this… whatever.”

“Matt—”

“No,” he snaps, cutting you off again. “It was gross. The whole thing was gross. I don’t like seeing that side of you.”

The silence after that is different. Not tense—just hollow.

You feel the weight of his disgust hit you all at once. Not hate. Not rejection. Just… disappointment that stings harder than either.

And the worst part?

You get it.

You get exactly why he’s mad. Because you did it for attention. Because you wanted a reaction. Because you didn’t think it through.

He turns away, grabbing his hoodie off the chair. “Lock up when you’re done.”

Then he walks out.

And you don’t stop him.

The door clicks shut behind him, the sound of it echoing in the stillness of your apartment. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Neither of you moves.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Matt stands there, his back to you, his shoulders rigid. The flickering light from the kitchen casts shadows over his face, making him look more distant than he’s ever seemed before. You’re not sure what to say—how to bridge the gap that’s formed between you. The words that hung heavy in your chest earlier now feel too insignificant to voice.

The argument still burns in your mind. His anger had been like a cold slap, each word from his mouth hitting harder than the last. He’d walked out, leaving you standing in the silence, grappling with the weight of what had just happened. And now here he was, back at your door, still pissed. But you can feel something else beneath the anger. Something deeper.

“I’m not—” You start, your voice hesitant, but Matt doesn’t turn around.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he mutters, his voice raw, coated with frustration. “I’m not looking for excuses.”

You swallow hard. “Matt, I didn’t mean it like that. I swear. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

The words seem to hang between you, suspended in the thick air. He still doesn’t turn to face you. Instead, his fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling it off slowly—deliberately—before he tosses it aside. You catch a glimpse of the muscles in his back, the way his skin stretches over them as he moves.

It hits you in the chest—this vulnerability, this rawness. He’s giving you something, showing you something, without a word. And you can feel it, the intensity building between you, even if you don’t fully understand what it means yet.

“You think you can just do whatever, say whatever, and then it’s fine?” His words come out in a low growl, and you can see his muscles tense, his jaw set. The frustration is still there, but there’s something else now. Something much more dangerous, something you both can’t ignore anymore.

“Matt—”

“Shut up.” He turns quickly, and the look on his face stops you in your tracks. His eyes are dark, full of something you can’t quite place—desire, anger, need. And in that moment, it’s almost as if he doesn’t care about the lines you’ve both drawn anymore.

Before you can respond, he’s stepping toward you, closing the distance, and your breath catches in your throat. The air between you both crackles with the tension you’ve been avoiding for so long. The tension that’s been building for weeks, even if neither of you admitted it.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t wait for permission. His hands reach for you, grabbing hold of your arms and pulling you toward him. His lips crash against yours, hungry and demanding. There’s no softness to this kiss, no gentleness—only the press of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the desperate need to connect.

You don’t pull away.

His hands slip down to your waist, sliding beneath your shirt, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of your stomach. You shiver at the contact, the heat of his touch searing you through the fabric. He pushes you back until your legs hit the edge of the couch, and without hesitation, you fall into it.

Matt follows you, climbing on top of you, his body pressing you deeper into the cushions. The weight of him is grounding, his chest against yours, his lips still trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes your pulse race.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, his voice rough as he pauses, looking down at you, searching your face for something—an answer, maybe. “You really think this is just gonna fix everything?”

You reach for him, your hands sliding to his jaw, pulling him back down to you. The intensity in your kiss tells him everything he needs to know. No, it won’t fix everything. But it’s the only way you know how to express what you’re both feeling—raw, unspoken, unresolved.

His hands are everywhere, roaming over your body, his touch both urgent and insistent. He’s not holding back. Neither are you. The world outside doesn’t exist anymore. There’s no room for guilt or regret. There’s only the two of you, locked in this moment, needing to let go of everything else.

You tug at his pants, your fingers fumbling to get them off. He groans low in his throat, a sound that sends a jolt of heat through you. You want him closer. Want to feel him in a way that makes everything else disappear. He helps you, pushing his pants down before he’s back on top of you, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that’s more intense, more desperate.

When he breaks the kiss, he looks down at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “You’re sure about this?” he asks, his voice gravelly.

You nod, your breath shallow as you try to keep it together. “I’m sure.”

The moment feels like a decision, a moment of choice you both make without thinking, without hesitation. It’s messy. It’s angry. It’s everything you don’t know how to express in words but can only show in the heat of this shared need.

And it’s the most real thing you’ve felt in a long time.

[sabsclusive]

JUST POSTED MY FIRST FIC

[sabsclusive]

SOLD OUT ON SUNDAYS𓂃۶ৎ ─── ❛❛ 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻 : 𝟏𝟐𝑲? ❞ . WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT/SMUT, STRONG LANGUAGE, SUB!MATT, DOM!MATT, DOM!READER, DOM!MATT, JEALOUS/POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, ARGUMENTS, EMOTIONAL TENSION !!

The store smells like dust and vinyl. Like that old-lady perfume you can’t name but know by heart, and rain-soaked cardboard boxes stacked by the front. The radio in the back’s playing some crusty old jazz station — something with too many horns — and the fluorescent light above the counter is flickering like it’s got beef with the ceiling. Matt doesn’t even notice anymore.

He’s behind the register, headphones halfway in, hoodie up, looking half-dead. He’s got one AirPod in and the other tucked into his hoodie pocket, and even though nobody’s shopped in twenty minutes, he’s still thumbing through the rack of CDs like there’s treasure hidden in between the cracked Jewel cases.

Until the doorbell rings.

Ding.

He doesn’t have to look up. He already knows it’s you.

The girl who only shows up on Sundays. The one who wears the same pair of Air Force 1s like they’re armor. The one who never talks except to mumble “thanks,” iced coffee in one hand and something oversized slung over your shoulder — always. You shop like it’s a mission. Like you’re here to save the ugly clothes nobody else wants. Matt doesn’t get it, but… he also kind of does.

You walk in with your headphones on, no eye contact, no smile. Just straight to the racks like clockwork. Sundays mean chaos for everybody else — brunch, church, errands — but for you? It’s thrift therapy.

And Matt?

Well. Matt watches.

Not in a creepy way. He just notices.

You always go for the skirts first. Then the oversized blazers. Then the bin with the ugly sweaters, like you dare them to be cute. He’s seen you hold up a lime green mohair cardigan like it was the hottest thing in the store — and then actually make it hot a week later when you wore it in here cropped, cinched, and stitched with rhinestones on the collar.

It’s annoying. It’s impressive. It’s kind of hot.

Not that he’d say that.

Matt watches you flip through hangers like you’re flipping pages of a book. Sometimes he tries to guess what you’ll pick. He’s almost always wrong. You like things with ugly patterns and weird buttons. You like jackets that don’t match your shoes and pants that don’t match your bag. But somehow, it works. And somehow, you don’t care if anybody else gets it.

He does, though. Lowkey.

You’ve been coming in every Sunday for two months now, and you still haven’t said more than five words to him. But Matt remembers every outfit. Every bag. The time you wore two skirts layered on top of each other and made it fashion? Yeah. He still thinks about that.

“Yo,” he says casually when you finally head toward the counter, two skirts in your hand and a blazer that smells like mothballs slung over your arm.

You blink. Slide your headphones down.

“Huh?”

He nods toward the items. “You know it’s half off jackets today, right?”

You pause. “Even this one?”

Matt glances at the tag. “Yeah. That’s technically a jacket. Even if it looks like it got pulled out of somebody’s uncle’s closet.”

You snort. “That’s kind of the point.”

Matt smirks.

You pull your phone out to check your student discount — and freeze. Then curse under your breath.

“No way,” you mutter. “I left my ID. Again.”

Matt leans forward on the counter. “Second time this month.”

You look up at him, annoyed — more at yourself than him, but still. “You memorize that or something?”

He shrugs. “You’re memorable.”

Oh.

Not him saying that all casual like he didn’t just make your stomach do a full cartwheel.

You roll your eyes to hide the smile threatening to creep up. “Whatever.”

You go to set the clothes down, but Matt leans in a little closer. “You could leave it on hold ‘til next week. Or, I could just act like you showed me the ID and give you the discount anyway.”

You blink.

“…You’d do that?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t snitch.”

You purse your lips, then nod once. “Cool.”

He starts ringing you up, slow and careful. You fidget with your sleeves, feeling the tension creep up your neck. There’s something weird about the air between you two today — like it’s… warmer. Or maybe that’s just him watching you a little longer than usual.

You glance up. “You work Sundays every week?”

He looks surprised you asked. “Yeah. Only day I don’t have class.”

“Oh. You go to school?”

“Community college. Art program.” He clears his throat, like he wasn’t planning to say that. “Trying to transfer next year.”

You blink again. “What kind of art?”

He pauses.

“Stuff you’d probably call weird.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I literally turned a doily into a corset. Try me.”

He smiles at that. For real this time.

The door creaks, and you both glance toward it. It’s started raining outside — pouring. Like full downpour, windshield-wiper-on-high type rain. You groan, pulling your hoodie over your head.

Matt hesitates, then reaches under the counter and pulls out a folded-up thrifted umbrella.

“Keep it,” he says, holding it out like it’s no big deal. “Some lady left it in the dressing room last week.”

You squint at him. “You sure?”

He shrugs. “You’ll bring it back next Sunday.”

Oh.

So he really do pay attention.

You take the umbrella and look back at him. “Thanks.”

He nods. “See you next week.”

You pause at the door. Glance over your shoulder.

Then smile — just a little.

“Yeah,” you say. “See you.”

And then you’re gone, out into the rain, headphones back in, umbrella open. Matt watches the door swing closed behind you and presses play on his playlist. The jazz is still playing overhead. The CD rack still dusty. But yeah — the store feels different now.

Sundays used to feel like the slowest day of the week.

Now? They feel like something might actually happen.

The thing is, you weren’t even planning to try anything on.

You came in for one thing: that red tartan pencil skirt you saw on the mannequin last week. You had plans for it — split the hem, add grommets, maybe a lace-up moment in the back if you were feeling dramatic. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Headphones in. Hoodie up. Zero eye contact. That was the system. That was what kept you sane every Sunday.

But the skirt was gone.

“What happened to the plaid?” you asked, pulling out one earbud, squinting across the racks like it might materialize if you looked hard enough.

Matt — that boy with the messy curls and the stare that was too intense to be polite — blinked at you from behind the counter. Like he was surprised you spoke. Like he hadn’t rung you up fifteen times already.

“Oh. Uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Sold it.”

You blinked. “To who?”

He shrugged. “Some girl. Yesterday.”

You blinked again. “And you let her?”

Matt tilted his head like that was a weird thing to say. “It’s a store,” he said slowly. “People buy stuff.”

You just stood there, betrayed. Your hand gripped the edge of a mismatched rack like it personally offended you. The silence stretched. Your iced coffee was sweating in your hand. You sighed, real dramatic, then wandered back toward the ‘Bottoms’ section.

Fine. If the tartan skirt was dead, you’d find something better. Hotter. Petty revenge by outfit.

You flipped past rows of corduroy, plaid, denim, sequins, and neon nightmare spandex until your fingers landed on it: a black leather micro mini. Mid-rise. Slight stretch. Gold stitching that caught the light like it was flirting with you. It had absolutely no business in a dusty little shop like this. Naturally, you snatched it.

The fitting rooms were tiny — more like prison cells with mirrors — but you squeezed inside anyway, peeling off your cargo pants with one hand and pulling the skirt on with the other. It hit mid-thigh. High-mid-thigh. You tugged it down. It tugged back. Rude.

Still, when you turned to the side, it was kind of… perfect?

You stepped out to check the mirror by the shoes, adjusting the waistband. You weren’t even thinking. Just doing that dumb thing where you admire the fit and make little mental notes like crop top, gold hoops, statement boot. You twisted to check the back.

That’s when you felt it.

Eyes.

You glanced up.

Matt was watching you from behind the register.

Not in a pervy way. Not in a creep behind the dressing room curtain way. But in a he forgot how to blink kind of way.

You blinked. He blinked back. Then looked away fast, cheeks blooming pink like somebody set a match to them.

You froze. Your heart did this stupid stutter, and you said the most intelligent thing possible:

“…You good?”

He coughed. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“I mean,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Do you like the skirt or…?”

Matt looked mortified. “It’s cool,” he mumbled.

You waited. He looked like he was fighting a demon.

“It’s…you wear it well.”

You snorted. “That’s so grandpa-coded.”

Matt half-smiled, still red. “It was either that or ‘slay,’ and I felt like that’d be worse.”

You turned back to the mirror, heart hammering in your ears like a kick drum. He said you wore it well. You wore it well. You didn’t even know Matt talked that much.

You looked back at him one more time, just to see if he was still staring.

He wasn’t.

But he was smiling.

The skirt went in the bag.

You didn’t even flinch at the $12 tag. You just handed Matt a crumpled twenty and said, “No receipt,” like you were buying something way less scandalous. He didn’t say anything either. Just rang you up like normal. Only his hands were a little shaky, and he gave you a paper bag instead of plastic, which he never did.

You walked out that Sunday in your cargos again, the skirt rolled up in the bag, but it felt different now. The air. The weight of the door swinging shut behind you. Like the rhythm of your Sundays — same iced coffee, same entrance, same rack to the left of the fake potted fern — was off. In a good way. Like a song you’ve played a hundred times just hit different one day.

By next week, he’d put a disco ball on the counter.

You weren’t sure why it caught you so off guard. It was a tiny thing — probably from the kids’ section — but it was spinning. Slowly. And Matt was just standing behind it like he hadn’t added a whole party prop to the register area.

“Okay, Studio 54,” you said, raising a brow.

He glanced up from pricing cassette tapes. “Huh?”

You pointed at the disco ball.

“Oh.” His eyes widened like he forgot it was there. “You like it?”

You squinted. “I’m deciding.”

Matt nodded, serious. “Let me know. We value feedback here at Dusty Depot.”

You snorted. “That better not be the actual name.”

He shrugged. “It is now.”

You bit your lip so you wouldn’t smile, but he caught it anyway. His mouth twitched.

You moved to the rack, same as always, but now there was this… extra hum in the air. Like both of you knew something changed. You didn’t know what it was yet, but it was sitting in the air between you — right next to the disco ball.

You were flipping through old concert tees when you heard him again.

“You have good taste.”

You glanced up. “Obviously.”

Matt looked mildly impressed. “Okay.”

“What?” you grinned.

“Nothing,” he said, trying not to smile. “I just think you’re funny or whatever.”

That “or whatever” hung in the air for too long.

“Wow. High praise from a guy who shelves porcelain dolls for a living.”

“They’re vintage,” he said, deadpan.

“And terrifying.”

He shrugged. “It’s camp.”

You cracked up. That was the first time he made you laugh out loud, like actually laugh. Not the polite kind, either. A real, scrunched-nose, unfiltered cackle that made you step back and cover your face.

“Stop,” you wheezed, shaking your head. “You’re gonna make me buy something cursed.”

Matt tilted his head. “You already did. That mini skirt had beef.”

You stared at him.

He blinked. “I mean—it was like, spicy. Not spicy spicy, just… like… fashionably rude.”

You burst out laughing again. “Fashionably rude is wild.”

He shrugged. “I call it like I see it.”

And just like that, your Sundays weren’t the same anymore.

You weren’t supposed to be back there.

Not technically. Not unless you worked there. But there you were, standing next to the register, peeking at the stickers he’d slapped across the cash drawer and the messy handwriting on his price tags. The air smelled like old records, plastic hangers, and a little bit of boy. Which is to say… like sandalwood deodorant and soda someone forgot to throw away.

“You really don’t got a back room?” you asked, squinting.

Matt shook his head, crouched under the counter digging through a bin of misplaced earrings. “We got the closet. That’s where we keep the weird mannequins and taxidermy nobody wants.”

“That’s sick.”

“You’d like it.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Wow. I’m flattered.”

He smirked, eyes still down. “You give cursed energy. In a good way.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t say anything. Mostly because your heart was acting like it had never been around a boy before. He was right there — right next to you — knees grazing yours every time he shifted. And you were wearing one of your Sunday specials: a denim maxi skirt turned mini with safety pins up the side, paired with a mesh tee over a thrifted baby tank. You looked good. And Matt? He noticed.

He just didn’t say anything.

He never said anything. Not direct. But he looked. You weren’t imagining that.

“So what—” you started, to distract yourself, “—do you just stand back here looking mysterious all day?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes I price records. Sometimes I clean. Sometimes I pretend to clean.”

You nodded. “And sometimes you flirt badly.”

He froze.

Then stood up way too fast, hitting his head on the counter. “Ow.”

You blinked. “Oh my God.”

“I’m good,” he winced, rubbing the back of his head.

You squinted at him. “Sure. Real smooth.”

Matt laughed under his breath, still pink in the face. “Didn’t say I was good at flirting.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” you said, turning so he wouldn’t see you smiling.

Silence settled in again — warm and thick and slow, like honey.

You peeked down at the register. “Wait… are those Pokémon stickers?”

Matt turned redder. “…No.”

You pointed. “Is that Pikachu with a grill?”

“Okay, yes. But ironically.”

You cracked up. “Yeah, okay, cashier of the year.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, a little shy, a little smug.

And then — like it wasn’t a big deal at all — he asked:

“You wanna price stuff with me?”

Your brows raised. “Like, actually?”

He nodded. “I trust your taste.”

You tried to play it cool. “So I can abuse power and price cute stuff lower?”

Matt smirked. “I plead the fifth.”

You bit your lip. “Bet.”

And just like that, you were in. Behind the counter. Sitting on a crooked stool next to a boy who thought you were funny, stylish, and maybe a little cursed in the best way.

That Sunday lasted three hours.

Neither of you even noticed.

It started with the yellow sunglasses.

You didn’t even plan the fit like that — it was lazy. Tube top, patchwork jeans, cardigan falling off your shoulder, and those crooked yellow lenses you’d found in a $1 bin the first Sunday you ever came in. You tossed them on your head and walked in sipping a strawberry matcha like you weren’t thinking about Matt all morning.

But you were.

A little.

Okay, a lot.

He was behind the counter like usual, hoodie half on, curls messier than last time, writing something in a tiny notebook. He didn’t look up right away. He always looked up when you walked in — and this time, he didn’t.

You hovered by the scarves a little longer than necessary.

Finally, he looked up.

Then looked again.

And stayed.

You caught it.

It wasn’t the “oh, she’s here again” look. Or the “let me not be weird” look. It was the lingering kind. The kind where someone’s eyes trail down — from your lips to your neck to the gold chain resting on your collarbone — then flick up real fast when they realize they’re being too obvious.

You blinked. “You good?”

Matt jumped slightly, eyes wide. “Huh? Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced.”

“Mmhm.”

You walked over slow, dragging your fingers across a row of vintage windbreakers like you weren’t clocking the way his gaze stuck to your hands.

“I’m saying,” you added, “if you’re gonna stare, at least be sneaky about it.”

Matt flushed. “I wasn’t— I mean— I’m not—”

You tilted your head. “You weren’t staring?”

He cleared his throat. “Not in a weird way.”

You held back a smirk. “Cool. So it’s the normal kind of staring.”

Matt turned bright red and ducked back behind the register like it was a shield.

You laughed to yourself and walked off — not too fast — and pulled a floral mini from the rack just for drama. It had ruffles. He absolutely saw it. Later, while you were flipping through old cookbooks by the dusty stereo, he crept up next to you.

“I like your sunglasses.”

You turned to him, lifting the yellow shades off your head and sliding them onto your nose. “These?”

He nodded, soft. “They’re loud. In a good way.”

You blinked behind the lenses. “You always say stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff that sounds like compliments, but you’re too shy to say it straight up.”

He laughed under his breath. “I said I liked ‘em.”

You studied him. “You like me, too?”

He looked stunned.

Then he smiled — not big, just enough.

“I plead the fifth,” he murmured.

And walked off.

You stood there, cheeks burning, pretending not to freeze.

Because that? That wasn’t nothing. You knew they closed at 6.

The sign said it.

Your phone told you.

Matt told you. Twice.

But when 6:07 rolled around and he still hadn’t kicked you out… you kept pretending to flip through a rack of ripped Levi’s like you couldn’t read time.

“You know we closed, right?” he said, leaning against the wall, arms folded.

You didn’t look up. “Oh nooo… for real? That’s crazy.”

He grinned. “You absolutely know what time it is.”

You shrugged. “Guess I just lost track.”

Matt squinted. “You always leave by now.”

“Maybe I’m evolving.”

He didn’t say anything for a second.

Then: “Maybe I don’t mind.”

That made you look up.

The store was dead quiet. Just the hum of the old AC and the faint sound of some soul record playing in the background — the kind that made the air feel warm. And Matt was right there, watching you. Not in a weird way. In a knowing way. Like he saw straight through your ‘I’m just shopping’ performance and didn’t mind one bit.

You laughed under your breath and set a jacket back on the hanger. “So what happens now? You gonna throw me out?”

He shook his head. “Nah.”

“Oh? You breaking store policy for me?”

He walked toward you slowly, every step louder than it should’ve been on that squeaky tile floor.

“I don’t think you’re just here for the clothes,” he said.

Your breath caught. “Oh?”

He stopped in front of you — not too close, but close enough that you could smell the cedar in his hoodie. Close enough to see the little scar under his chin and the freckle on his cheek.

“And if I am?” you asked.

Matt looked down at you, quiet. That stare again — soft, heavy, not moving. The kind that makes your knees do something they shouldn’t.

“Then I’m glad,” he said.

You laughed, nervous. “You’re weird.”

He shrugged. “You’re still here.”

Your fingers grazed a hanger behind you, but you weren’t really looking at the clothes anymore. You were looking at him. Wondering what it meant that he didn’t flinch when you got this close. Wondering if he always looked at girls like this — or if it was just you.

Then — completely calm, like it was the most natural thing in the world — he said:

“You wanna hear the record I keep behind the counter?”

You blinked. “You hide records now?”

“Only the good ones.”

He held out a hand.

And you took it. Behind the counter, the store looked different. Quieter. Older. The overhead lights buzzed while he put the record on. It cracked a little at the start — then melted into this warm, jazzy loop. Saxophones. A bassline. Some smoky-voiced woman crooning about wanting something she’s not supposed to want.

You sat on the little stool while he leaned on the register next to you, saying nothing.

Just listening.

Your knees touched.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t leave until 7:43.

And even then, he held the door open slow. Like he didn’t want to watch you go.

It was dumb.

You barely touched him. Y’all didn’t even hug. But somehow your brain took that one long stare behind the register and ran with it like it was a full-blown music video. And now here you were — 3:02 in the morning, bonnet slightly crooked, laying flat on your back staring at the ceiling like Girl, be so serious right now.

Because why did you dream that he kissed you?

Why did your subconscious go full softboy indie romance on a boy who’s barely said more than eight sentences to you at a time?

And worse — why was it good?

You groaned into your pillow.

In the dream, you were back in the shop. But it was darker. Like dream-dim — warm string lights, a record spinning in slow motion. You were wearing something you would never wear in real life — some slinky little tank and a skirt that rode way too high.

He was behind the counter again. Looking at you like he knew something. Like he’d been knowing.

And then — no warning — he just stepped around the register, walked right up, and kissed you like he meant it. Hands low on your waist, mouth slow and sure, like it wasn’t the first time.

You woke up so mad.

You flopped back down and grabbed your phone.

Siri, why did my brain make up a whole fake moment with a boy who hasn’t even asked for my number?

Siri was useless.

You considered texting your group chat, but it was 3am. All they’d say was “you’re delulu” and “tell him.” As if it was that easy. As if you didn’t have a whole wall up made of sarcasm, thrifted boots, and an iced matcha addiction.

Still, you opened your notes app and typed:

Sunday.

Matt.

Dream.

Bonnet slipped off.

I hate it here.

You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling again.

You weren’t gonna act weird next time.

You weren’t gonna bring it up.

You were gonna be cool.

So cool.

It was a Sunday like any other. You walked into the thrift store, the familiar chime of the doorbell announcing your arrival. Matt was behind the counter, as usual, his head buried in a book. You made your way to the racks, pretending to browse while stealing glances at him.

After a while, you picked up a particularly hideous sweater and held it up. “Think this would look good on me?” you asked, a smirk playing on your lips.

Matt looked up, took one look at the sweater, and burst out laughing. Not the polite chuckle he usually gave, but a full, genuine laugh that lit up his face.

“Absolutely not,” he said, still laughing. “But I admire your confidence.”

You laughed too, the sound mingling with his. It was the first time you’d seen him so unguarded, and it made your heart flutter.

You spent the rest of the afternoon chatting, the conversation flowing easily. The tension between you was still there, but it was different now. Lighter. More playful.

“So what happens if I do buy the ugly sweater?” you asked, holding it up like it was high fashion.

Matt tilted his head, leaning on the counter. “I’d judge you.”

You smirked. “I can handle that.”

“I’d also say you owe me ten minutes behind the register to defend your choices.”

You blinked. “Ten minutes?”

He shrugged. “It’s serious business.”

The way he said it — that dry tone, the steady stare — made your stomach flip.

So you bought it.

Ten minutes later, you were behind the counter, standing way too close in a sweater that looked like a couch from 1973.

“This is deeply hideous,” you whispered.

Matt stood behind you. Too close. He smelled like laundry and cedar again.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you make it look…” His voice trailed off.

You turned to face him.

That was a mistake.

You were way too close now — breathing each other in. Your back brushed the edge of the register. His hand was on the counter, knuckles brushing your waist like it wasn’t an accident.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“Say it,” you whispered.

He blinked, slow. “Say what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

A beat passed.

Then, voice low:

“I’m thinking if I kissed you right now… you wouldn’t stop me.”

You didn’t move.

His hand slid off the counter — to your hip. Gripping. Testing.

You nodded once.

He leaned in.

The kiss was slow — mouth soft but full of intent. Like he’d been wanting to for weeks but refused to rush. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you just a little closer. Your fingers curled into his hoodie. His tongue grazed yours — just once — and your knees damn near gave out.

Then he pulled back, barely.

His breath hit your mouth.

“You always stay this late?” he whispered.

You licked your lips. “Only when it’s worth it.”

You weren’t even looking for it.

You were behind the counter, killing time, sipping iced coffee and flipping through the sketchpad he left open like it wasn’t his entire brain on paper.

It was normal at first. Outlines of jackets. A couple sneaker silhouettes. Scribbled song lyrics in the margins. But then — dead in the middle of the book — you.

Back turned. Leaning forward. Coffee in hand, headphones on. Skirt barely covering anything. Down to the scuffed toe of your Doc and the chipped red nail polish on your thumb.

You stared at it for a long time.

“Matt,” you said, not even bothering to hide your tone.

He glanced over from the racks. “Yeah?”

You held it up. “You serious right now?”

One blink. Not a single flinch. “What?”

“This is me.”

“Damn,” he muttered dryly, walking over. “Caught.”

You tilted the book. “What, you just sit in the back drawing me like a project?”

He stood right in front of you now, voice low. “You been walking in here every Sunday in these little skirts, looking like that… and you’re surprised I noticed?”

You crossed your arms. “You didn’t say anything.”

He shrugged. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I’m Matt, I jack off to you like twice a week’?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Relax,” he added, smirking. “I only drew it. I got a very vivid imagination.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

That heat from last week came crawling up your throat. But now it was laced with something else. Tension — yeah. But also confusion. Intrigue. Suspicion.

“Come here,” he said, already reaching.

You didn’t move, but he stepped into your space anyway. Hand on your hip. Grip way too firm. The sketchbook slid off the counter and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“You creepin’ me out right now,” you whispered, even though your breath hitched the second he touched you.

“I haven’t even started yet,” he said, smiling like a dare. “You want creepy, baby, we can do creepy.”

And then — he kissed you. No build-up. Just heat. Teeth. Tongue. His hands gripped your waist so tight it felt like punishment. Like you owed him something.

You gasped, he laughed into your mouth. “That little noise? Yeah. Keep doing that.”

You barely remembered how your panties came off — only that they did, and fast. He sat you on the counter like it was a throne and dropped to his knees like he’d done it before. Your skirt got shoved up to your waist. His mouth was filthy — all tongue, all spit, all control.

“I should’ve done this the first time you walked in here,” he said, licking slow and messy up the inside of your thigh. “Could’ve saved myself the backaches.”

You moaned, grabbing his hair. He laughed again, mean this time.

“Yeah. Take it,” he muttered, pushing two fingers in without warning. “Thought you were real quiet. Turns out you’re just full of shit.”

He fucked you with his mouth and fingers till your thighs were shaking, then stood up and unzipped his jeans like it was nothing.

Condom. Wallet. Quick. Practiced.

He flipped you around and bent you over the counter like he owned you. You barely had time to breathe before he shoved in — hard. One hand in your hair. The other flat on your lower back, holding you in place like he knew you’d run.

“Goddamn,” he hissed. “This is what you been hiding under those grandma skirts?”

You whimpered.

He gripped harder. “What? You don’t like being talked to?”

You didn’t answer fast enough, so he grabbed your throat and pulled you back.

“Say it,” he whispered against your ear. “You want it like this?”

You choked out a breath: “Yes.”

He snapped his hips in deeper. You gasped, legs folding.

“Fuckin’ knew it.”

By the time he finished, your legs barely worked and your lipstick was smudged halfway down your face. He didn’t even pretend to be sweet. Just tucked himself back in, pulled your skirt down, and passed you your underwear with a stupid little smile.

“That sketch?” he said, nodding at the pad on the floor. “Think I’m gonna update it.”

You glared at him, breathless. “You’re sick.”

“Sure am,” he said, leaning in close. “And you still keep showing up.”

You barely remembered how you ended up outside in the rain. One minute you were stumbling around the back of the store, fighting with your jacket, and the next, you were standing under the awning, blinking hard to focus.

You should’ve gone home. You should’ve done anything but stand there, breathing the cold air and trying not to let the panic set in.

But you were thinking about him. About that.

And how much he’d messed with your head.

The front door to the store creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn. You didn’t want to turn. But you could feel him before he spoke.

“You can’t leave like that.”

Your fingers twitched. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

You took in a sharp breath, sucking the rain-soaked air down into your lungs. He didn’t even sound like he cared — which pissed you off more than anything else. But you didn’t say that. You just let the silence stretch.

Matt stepped out into the rain, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was quiet for a few seconds before he spoke again, closer now. “Thought I broke you, but damn… you’re still standing.”

“Stop,” you muttered, your back to him. “Just… stop. I don’t need your jokes right now.”

“You don’t?” He laughed, but it was low — like he could hear the cracks in your voice. “Funny. Because you liked me joking earlier.”

The words were too much. You turned around, eyes narrowed, throat tight. “That wasn’t a joke, Matt. That was you being a creep.”

His expression didn’t change. His smirk slipped, replaced with that familiar look of quiet understanding. “You’re right,” he said, voice dropping a little deeper. “But I was being serious, too.”

“Seriously what?” you shot back, fists clenched at your sides. “That you wanted to fuck me?”

He shrugged, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. You think I didn’t want it?”

“Don’t talk like that,” you snapped, your heart pounding. You hadn’t felt this conflicted in forever. Your body was still humming from the aftermath, but your mind was too tangled.

He was smirking again. “Like what? Real? Because I’ve been real with you from the start.”

The rain had soaked through his hoodie. But the way his eyes stayed locked on yours? It was like everything else didn’t matter.

He stepped closer, his presence too close, invading that space you usually kept for yourself. His hand brushed your arm, just barely, but it was enough to make you tense.

“What’s so bad about me being honest?” he asked, his voice low, almost teasing. “I like you. You liked what happened. But you’re acting like you want to run now. What’s that about?”

You didn’t have a good answer.

“Answer me,” he pressed, stepping forward just enough that you had nowhere to go but back. “I can see it. You’re into me, right?”

Your heart skipped.

“I—” You bit down on your lip, trying to hold it together. But you weren’t getting anywhere. Not with him looking at you like that.

He smirked again, his hand landing on your wrist this time, holding you there as if he was claiming some part of you — just like everything else.

“You want to run away? Fine. But you’re not going to, are you?”

You couldn’t speak.

He took a step back, but only to breathe you in. “You want me again. I’m sure of it.”

Before you could process, his lips were on your neck — hot, desperate, and enough to make your breath catch. He didn’t care about how awkward this was or about the rain splattering against your skin. All he cared about was you.

“I told you. You can’t just show up like that — in those skirts and with that look — and expect me not to want to tear you apart,” he murmured, lips dragging up the side of your neck. “Now, you’re stuck with me.”

You pulled away from him, trying to breathe normally, but your body was betraying you. The moment you did, he grabbed your wrist and spun you right back into him.

“Relax,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “I won’t bite.”

But you were already on edge, too aware of how badly you wanted to be touched.

This time, you didn’t try to stop it. Your body was already responding, aching, heated, and so damn frustrated.

“You’re not funny,” you muttered, but it was weak — you knew it was weak. You were already giving in.

Matt’s grin was back in full force. “Yeah, I am,” he whispered. “You like me this way, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer.

But you didn’t need to.

You barely remembered how you ended up outside in the rain. One minute you were stumbling around the back of the store, fighting with your jacket, and the next, you were standing under the awning, blinking hard to focus.

You should’ve gone home. You should’ve done anything but stand there, breathing the cold air and trying not to let the panic set in.

But you were thinking about him. About that.

And how much he’d messed with your head.

The front door to the store creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn. You didn’t want to turn. But you could feel him before he spoke.

“You can’t leave like that.”

Your fingers twitched. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

You took in a sharp breath, sucking the rain-soaked air down into your lungs. He didn’t even sound like he cared — which pissed you off more than anything else. But you didn’t say that. You just let the silence stretch.

Matt stepped out into the rain, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was quiet for a few seconds before he spoke again, closer now. “Thought I broke you, but damn… you’re still standing.”

“Stop,” you muttered, your back to him. “Just… stop. I don’t need your jokes right now.”

“You don’t?” He laughed, but it was low — like he could hear the cracks in your voice. “Funny. Because you liked me joking earlier.”

The words were too much. You turned around, eyes narrowed, throat tight. “That wasn’t a joke, Matt. That was you being a creep.”

His expression didn’t change. His smirk slipped, replaced with that familiar look of quiet understanding. “You’re right,” he said, voice dropping a little deeper. “But I was being serious, too.”

“Seriously what?” you shot back, fists clenched at your sides. “That you wanted to fuck me?”

He shrugged, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. You think I didn’t want it?”

“Don’t talk like that,” you snapped, your heart pounding. You hadn’t felt this conflicted in forever. Your body was still humming from the aftermath, but your mind was too tangled.

He was smirking again. “Like what? Real? Because I’ve been real with you from the start.”

The rain had soaked through his hoodie. But the way his eyes stayed locked on yours? It was like everything else didn’t matter.

He stepped closer, his presence too close, invading that space you usually kept for yourself. His hand brushed your arm, just barely, but it was enough to make you tense.

“What’s so bad about me being honest?” he asked, his voice low, almost teasing. “I like you. You liked what happened. But you’re acting like you want to run now. What’s that about?”

You didn’t have a good answer.

“Answer me,” he pressed, stepping forward just enough that you had nowhere to go but back. “I can see it. You’re into me, right?”

Your heart skipped.

“I—” You bit down on your lip, trying to hold it together. But you weren’t getting anywhere. Not with him looking at you like that.

He smirked again, his hand landing on your wrist this time, holding you there as if he was claiming some part of you — just like everything else.

“You want to run away? Fine. But you’re not going to, are you?”

You couldn’t speak.

He took a step back, but only to breathe you in. “You want me again. I’m sure of it.”

Before you could process, his lips were on your neck — hot, desperate, and enough to make your breath catch. He didn’t care about how awkward this was or about the rain splattering against your skin. All he cared about was you.

“I told you. You can’t just show up like that — in those skirts and with that look — and expect me not to want to tear you apart,” he murmured, lips dragging up the side of your neck. “Now, you’re stuck with me.”

You pulled away from him, trying to breathe normally, but your body was betraying you. The moment you did, he grabbed your wrist and spun you right back into him.

“Relax,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “I won’t bite.”

But you were already on edge, too aware of how badly you wanted to be touched.

This time, you didn’t try to stop it. Your body was already responding, aching, heated, and so damn frustrated.

“You’re not funny,” you muttered, but it was weak — you knew it was weak. You were already giving in.

Matt’s grin was back in full force. “Yeah, I am,” he whispered. “You like me this way, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer.

But you didn’t need to.

The thrift store’s air conditioning was broken again.

You could feel it the second you stepped inside — that warm, trapped heat clinging to every rack of dusty denim and 90s tees. But you didn’t care. You adjusted your headphones, iced coffee in one hand, and started flipping through skirts like it was just another Sunday.

And it was.

At least, for you.

Matt watched you from behind the counter, chewing on the inside of his cheek, pretending he wasn’t thinking about you in ways that would get him fired twice over.

You had on this long denim skirt — high-waisted, frayed hem, cinched just right — and a cropped baby tee that read HEAVEN SENT in rhinestones.

Yeah. That was insane.

You didn’t look at him once. Not a glance.

You just popped your gum, turned up your music, and kept shopping. Calm. Cool. Like nothing had ever shifted between you two.

Meanwhile, Matt was barely breathing.

He watched you try things on over your clothes — an oversized jacket here, a cropped sweater there. You smiled at your reflection once, and he swore his knees buckled.

He waited. Waited for you to say something. Do something. Look at him.

But you didn’t.

You were halfway to the fitting rooms when he finally said your name.

Soft. Careful.

You paused — headphones still in, brows lifted like hm?

He motioned you closer. “Tag’s stuck. Let me fix it.”

You walked over, confused. “On what?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached behind you and tugged the tag from the back of your skirt. Except… there was no tag.

You raised a brow. “Wow. Real smooth.”

Matt smirked, but his hands stayed on your waist.

“I’m not tryna be smooth,” he said. “Just tryna remind you I exist.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re loud. It’s hard to forget.”

He stepped closer. Way too close. “Loud? Me?”

“You’re literally standing on top of me.”

“You’re not moving.”

You didn’t. You wouldn’t.

He leaned in, voice low. “You’re pretending you don’t remember, but you do.”

You blinked slowly. “I’m pretending you’re normal.”

Matt grinned. “Bad move.”

And then it happened — sudden, rough, messy. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the back, into that dusty employee hallway that smelled like old patchouli and cardboard. Before you could speak, he had you against the wall.

“Say stop,” he muttered, eyes dark, voice low and steady. “Say stop and I’ll let go.”

You didn’t.

He smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

Then his hands were everywhere — gripping your thighs, yanking your skirt up, pushing your legs apart like he’d been waiting all week to wreck you again.

“You wear this little skirt in here and act like it’s nothing,” he muttered, pressing his mouth to your neck. “But you wanted me to do this, huh?”

You bit your lip hard, head tilting back, but he caught your jaw.

“Don’t hide,” he growled. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

You gasped — and he took full advantage of it, dragging your panties down and lifting one leg over his hip.

His jeans were already half undone. You didn’t know when, didn’t care.

He didn’t waste time. Just thrusted into you — fast, deep, like he’d been counting down the seconds to it.

You cried out, fingers digging into his hoodie.

He laughed. “Too much already?”

You nodded. But it wasn’t a real no. Not even close.

He sped up.

Your back hit the wall. Again. Again. Again. Rough. Fast. Dirty.

“You tryna act like a little angel,” he panted against your mouth, “but I know what you need.”

His grip tightened on your thigh. The hand that wasn’t holding you up slipped under your shirt, groping rougher than last time — like he needed all of you right now.

“I think about this every Sunday,” he whispered, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “I dream about this shit.”

You gasped again, body trembling — and he loved it.

“Gonna cum like this?” he teased. “Like a good little problem?”

You almost screamed.

And he didn’t stop. Not until your legs shook. Not until you went quiet.

Then — and only then — did he pull back.

Panting. Smirking. Ruined.

You looked up at him, dazed.

He tapped your chin with two fingers.

“See you next Sunday.”

You walk into the thrift store like always — headphones on, iced coffee in hand, cute outfit that you definitely picked just to mess with him.

Matt’s already waiting at the counter. Arms crossed. Hoodie pushed halfway up his sleeves like he’s been pacing. The second he sees you, he points at the back.

“No games today,” he says. “We’re talking.”

You raise a brow. “Talking?”

He nods. “In the back. Right now.”

You sip your drink. “You’re weird.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. You ruined my brain. Congratulations.”

You follow him anyway, because of course you do. You love watching him try and fail to act like he’s not on the verge of folding every time you touch him.

He closes the door behind you and turns around fast.

“Alright,” he says, “I’m running this now. You’re done. You had your little chokehold moment last week, and I’m over it.”

You blink. “Oh?”

He nods. “Yup. Starting now, I’m the one calling the shots. I’m the one doing damage. You’re gonna be the one shaking.” You just stare at him for a second. Then you take one step forward, grab his face in both hands, and kiss him hard. Like hard. And that’s it.

He whimpers.

Whimpers. Then melts like a folding chair. You pull back, smug. “Say that again?”

He blinks, dazed. “…Say what?”

“Exactly.” He groans. “Okay—damn. Hold on.” You laugh, but he pulls you into him and buries his face in your neck. “No, I’m serious,” he mumbles into your skin. “I had a whole monologue planned. I was gonna be mean. Maybe even ignore you for five minutes.” You smile. “Tragic.” He pulls back slightly, gives you this mock-serious look, and deadpans: “I should’ve made you beg. Or brought up butt stuff. Something to throw you off.” You snort. “Butt stuff?”He grins. “You wouldn’t survive. You’d combust.” You smack his chest, still laughing, but he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles like a complete simp. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you say. He hums. “I am. And you’re dangerous. I think about you all the time. I literally rearranged the employee schedule just to make sure I see you every Sunday.” You pause. “You changed the schedule?” He shrugs. “Yeah. So what?” You squint. “Matt.” “Don’t act surprised. You know what you do to me.”You kiss him again, slower this time — deep, lazy, a little messy — and when you pull away, his eyes are soft. Like too soft.

“You still running this?” you whisper.

He shakes his head immediately. “Not even a little bit.” You walk into the thrift store, expecting the usual—Matt, his hoodie, maybe some sarcastic comment about your outfit. What you don’t expect is the girl standing at the counter, leaning over it way too casually, laughing at something Matt said. That’s not normal. You stop in your tracks, watching the exchange. It’s not the first time someone’s flirted with Matt, but there’s something about this girl’s tone—too soft, too familiar. She’s close to him. Too close. The way she touches his arm when she laughs? You don’t like it. Not one bit. Matt catches sight of you standing there, and for a second, the air feels thick with something you can’t quite name. You cross your arms over your chest and wait. You’re not going to be the one to interrupt. But when she slides a hand across the counter toward him, you definitely notice. She’s playing all the moves—laughing at his jokes, touching his shoulder like she’s claiming territory. It makes your stomach twist. You don’t even realize you’re walking toward them until Matt looks up, his face going slightly pale when he sees you, and that’s when the girl finally notices you too. “Oh, hey!” she says, eyes bright, as if you two are friends. “You’re the fashion student, right? You’ve got some great taste—Matt was just saying how much he loves what you do.” You nod coolly, your gaze never leaving Matt’s.

“Is that right?” you ask, voice even. Matt clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah. Y/N, this is… Sarah. She’s just—” Sarah interrupts, cutting him off, grinning way too wide. “Yeah, Matt was just telling me how cute you are. He said you two are pretty close. I think that’s sweet.” You swallow the wave of irritation, trying to keep your cool. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck. “Cute,” you repeat, your voice low. “I didn’t realize we were that close.” You turn, heading to the back of the store, but you hear Matt stumble behind you. “Y/N, wait—” he calls, his voice tense. You turn to face him. “I’ll be in the back.” When the door clicks shut behind you, you finally let yourself breathe, your frustration turning into something sharper. Matt follows you, his steps hurried. When he gets inside, he closes the door behind him, his expression apologetic. “Look,” he starts, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t— I didn’t realize it was bothering you.” You don’t look at him. You know if you do, you’ll crack. “It didn’t bother me,” you lie. “Just… never mind. She can flirt with you all she wants. Whatever.” “Y/N,” he says, his tone more serious now. “It’s not like that. You know I—” cut him off. “I know what? You were just laughing with her, Matt. It’s like you didn’t even care. Like I’m just… what? The Sunday girl who buys stuff and leaves?” Matt’s face falls. “No. You’re not just that. You’re not just ‘the Sunday girl.’ You’re—” He takes a step toward you, voice almost a whisper. “You’re the one who gets me. Who actually knows who I am.” You look up, meeting his eyes. “Then why’d you let her think…. Think you were interested?” “I wasn’t. I promise you, I wasn’t. You don’t have to worry about her, okay?” He steps closer, taking your hand carefully. “I just… I don’t know what I was thinking.” You snort, letting out a breath. “That’s the problem. You don’t know.” There’s a beat of silence between you before he pulls you close to him, hands on your waist. You don’t pull away. Not yet. He looks down at you, his voice rough. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I let that happen. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I always want.” You feel your heartbeat speed up, but you’re not ready to let him off the hook just yet. “Prove it,” you say quietly. He smirks. “How?” You tilt your head up, your voice low and teasing. “I want you to apologize. And I want it to be real. No more messing around. You. Me. And you’re going to show me how much you care.” Matt’s eyes darken. “You’re really gonna make me work for it?” You nod, your lips curving. “Absolutely.” A couple of minutes later…

The tension is unbearable. You’ve barely spoken since you walked into the back room, but now, Matt is all over you. He’s kissing you, pulling you against him, and you can feel the difference — his urgency, his need to make up for what he almost didn’t realize.

When he pushes you back against the wall, you finally let him take control. His hands move faster now, more deliberate, desperate to show you that he’s sorry, that he’s yours.

And when he pulls back to look at you, his lips swollen, his eyes dark, it’s clear he’s ready to prove it.

You don’t even have to say a word.

You kiss him again, slow this time, showing him what forgiveness feels like — messy, hot, but full of that need to feel connected, to not let anything come between you.

You were just trying to be funny. That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway. There was this old man at the front counter earlier, one of those regulars who always tries to flirt with the young girls while buying 99-cent mystery books and yellowed paperbacks. You were behind the counter with Matt when it happened — when the man winked at you, asked if you were “single like this dollar bill,” and you, caught in the moment, laughed a little too hard. But it wasn’t just the laugh. It was the way you leaned into it. The way you grabbed the old man’s receipt, looked at Matt dead in the face, and said, “Looks like I have options now.” You thought it was dumb and harmless. Matt didn’t. Now the store’s half-closed, the racks are pushed back, and he’s slamming the drawer shut harder than necessary. You’re standing by the front window, fiddling with the beaded necklace you were gonna buy. The silence feels heavy. “…You good?” you finally ask, casual. But your tone is shaky. Matt turns around, jaw tense. “You think that was funny?” You blink. “What?” “That old dude. That little… performance.” His voice is sharp now. “You think I wanna sit here and watch you flirt with some creepy ass sixty-year-old? While I’m standing right next to you?” You stare. “Matt, it was a joke—” He cuts you off. “No it wasn’t. You leaned into that shit like you were tryna prove something.” You scoff, nerves twisting up now. “Are you serious? You know I wasn’t actually flirting with him”. He shakes his head taking a step closer. NOTE : NEEDED TO MAKE A PART 2💔

[sabsclusive]

Yall.

[sabsclusive]

BY AU —

❛❛ THRIFT STORE CASHIER!MATT X FASHION STUDENT!READER ❞ #1 #2

❛❛BAD BOY!MATT X CLASS PRESIDENT!READER ❞ #1

ONE SHOTS —

nothing yet

SERIES IN PROGRESS —

nothing yet

COMPLETED SERIES —

nothing yet

[sabsclusive]

໒ྀིCHRIS STURNS BAE

──── Chris girl. hip hop + rnb. writer. 4teen. autumn. scorpio. horror movies. rom coms. the peanuts. spongebob. black n white. sza. tyler, the creator. Crotchet. gold jewelry. baking. cooking

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