#empty cans get sent down the slides

[electryone-moon]

The fourth year engineering project is to add a level to the building, like high stakes Jenga.

All classes are held on the newest floor.

This tradition predates elevators.

It takes seven hours to climb the stairs to the top.

Nobody has ever actually seen an engineering student. The only evidence of the faculty’s continued existence is a new slide appearing near the end of each year.

Universities should have swing sets

[yeyinde]

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

[rafesangelita]

super specific maybe, but can i request something cute with season two rafe? 🥹 like i know he was behaving unhinged most (all) of the time, but like those rare moments with him, maybe after he’d come home late at night after disposing of bodies, and you’d be there in his room half asleep waiting for him :(

saw this video and immediately thought of him https://www.instagram.com/reel/DBHE5mvpTg9/?igsh=MXN2Mm80dThxd3lqcg== 😞 (also i’m the one who sent the other vid of the little drabble you wrote & i loved it sm!!!)

warnings: slight angst, fluff, heavy petting, kissing, reassurance + comfort, cuddling, mentions of blood

you stirred underneath your sheets, the empty space next to you feeling colder than usual. it wasn’t out of the ordinary for rafe to turn up at your place at super late hours of the night, but it still didn’t stop the sting you felt in your chest whenever you’d glance at the clock and be reminded that he wasn’t here with you.

rafe was going through something, and he refused to tell you anything about what his little ventures consisted of, but you weren’t dumb— you’ve seen the blood on his clothes whenever he’d show up with his pupils blown wide, nothing but darkness swimming in his eyes. you knew not to ask him any questions, but you were still curious nonetheless.

you found yourself blinking in and out of sleep, your eyelids growing heavier as the time stretched by. it wasn’t until you heard the click of your door when you sat up and saw rafe standing in the corner. “sorry, i didn’t mean to wake you..” his voice came out slightly shaky and barely above a whisper. you were quick to guide him to your bed, carefully examining his face as you did so.

sliding his hoodie off, you took his t-shirt along with it so he was left in his jeans. “are you okay?” you straddled him, finally feeling at peace when his arms snaked around your waist. rafe let out a relieved sigh, his bangs falling in his face as he shook his head. “i’m fucked up,” he pulled away, “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.” you shushed him, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips.

“don’t worry, we’ll figure it out, okay?” your words never failed to ease the worry rafe felt deep in the pit of his stomach, your reassurance being the only thing he had for comfort at times like these. you pressed another kiss to his cheek, following up with a series of pecks until a smile cracked out onto his lips, his arms pulling you flushed against his chest.

rafe swore nothing felt better than having your hands cupping his face while you trailed kisses up and down his neck, the weight and warmth of your body against his own making him relax for the first time in days. you continued your ministrations until his eyes fluttered closed and he was resting his cheek in the cuve of your shoulder.

“let’s get you into some new clothes..” you whispered, moving his hair out of his face, “how does a hot shower sound?”

[tetsvya]

clueless, kuroo tetsuro

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  kuroo tetsuro has a thing for girls with long hair. so what if you're a girl with long hair? that doesn’t mean anything!

➼ pairing! kuroo tetsuro x fem!manager!reader

➼ warnings! none, just fluff and humor. maybe ooc because i haven't written in years??? unfortunately, because this is based on the scene of kuroo and yaku arguing about their preference, this is really for my long haired girlies 😣 i apologize to the short haired readers

➼ word count! about 1.4k

➼ author’s note! "haikyuu renassiance!" we all cheer in unison. anywho, this is my first time posting in two years. please be nice to me 🫡

"So, you prefer girls with short hair then, Yaku?" Kai asks, shedding off the white button-up of his school uniform and revealing his black practice t-shirt. The three third-year Nekoma players had found themselves in an empty classroom, deciding to use it as a makeshift changing room. Luckily for them, they had all worn their clean practice clothes under their school uniforms. Doing so allowed them to save time and cut back the number of minutes they were already going to be late to practice, thanks to Yaku getting distracted by a group of girls, which Kai noted all had short hair. Hence, his question.

Yaku paused his work of ridding himself of his tie to send Kai a proud grin, pointing towards him with both hands, “Yesss!

"And you, Kuroo?" Kai turns to him, now curious to know his captain's answer as well.

"Long." Kuroo's answer is firm, leaving no room for debate. Still, he glances at Yaku, as if daring him to try.

Yaku only snorts, shaking his head in amusement as he too turns to look at his captain, "Like that wasn't obvious."

"Ehh," Kuroo's eyes narrow, head craning down to peer at the libero, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Yaku starts, taking a step closer as he peers right back up at Kuroo, "Everyone knows you have a crush on our manager, who just so happens to have the longest hair I've ever seen!"

"Ehh?" Kuroo repeats, louder this time as he cranes his head down even more, "Who says I have a crush—"

"Hey!" The door to the classroom slides open with a shocking force, startling the boys and drawing the attention of all three of them to it. Kuroo and Yaku both grow rigid as they find you standing in its opening. Quiet pants slip past your lips, and you take a moment to catch your breath as you stare at the three of them before you begin speaking, "There you guys are! I've been looking for the three of you everywhere."

"Hello," Kai greets kindly, the only one not left in a stupor at your sudden appearance, smiling as you make your way into the classroom. "We apologize, we're running a bit late."

"Yeah," You huff, coming to a stop a few steps away from them as you cross your arms, "It was your guys' turn to set up the nets. So when you guys didn't show up in time to do so and none of you answered your phones, Coach sent me to find you guys. Didn't know I'd be going on a wild goose chase."

Your words leave you in a huff before your eyes land on Kuroo, raising an eyebrow at the captain. His shoulders tense even more at the sudden eye contact and he's quick to snap his head in the other direction. Kuroo suddenly feels warm, realizing how you could have easily heard the conversation transpiring between the three of them. Stupid Yaku, Kuroo curses the libero in his head, doesn't even know what he's talking about.

"Sorry, Y/N." And of course it’s Yaku who disrupts his thoughts, pulling Kuroo's eyes to him just as he sends you an innocent smile, "We got carried away, talking."

There's a teasing tone to Yaku's voice, and Kuroo knows it's directed at him. Why is he friends with him again?

"I don't even want to know," You speak, and Kuroo can envision you shaking your head at the three of them, "Just get dressed and get to the gym as quick as possible, please."

All three boys give some noise of recognition in response to your words, and Kuroo takes the chance to glance at you then. He's quick to regret it. Your hand rises just as he locks eyes with you, reaching up to tuck some of the more unruly pieces of your hair (which most likely came undone due to your seemingly frantic search of the three third years) behind your ear and out of your face. Kuroo's eyes follow the movement of your hand, trailing downwards and taking in the long strands of hair that fall well past your shoulders. Once again all too aware of the conversation he was just having with his teammates, the tips of his ears burn as he pulls his gaze away from you once more. He shakes his head, trying to get Yaku's words out of his mind. Just because he liked girls with long hair, and just because you so happened to be a girl with long hair, did not mean he liked you.

Right?

A snort of laughter suddenly leaves Yaku, having caught the interaction, and Kuroo turns to him with a heated glare. You don't miss the exchange between them either.

"Are you two having one of your petty arguments again?" You accuse, eyes glancing between Kuroo and Yaku who are suddenly staring back at you like two deers caught in headlights. "Seriously, you've been fighting like this since first year. What topic could you guys possibly still be discussing?"

Yaku's smirk returns as he glances at his captain with an all too knowing look before he turns back to you, "Well, if you really want to kn—"

"Nope!" Kuroo is quick to interject, speaking for the first time since you entered and drawing your attention away from Yaku and back to the captain himself. Your eyes widen as he begins to take long strides in your direction. "No arguing here!"

Your lips part, confusion taking over your features at the odd behavior your captain is displaying. You don't get the chance to say anything, however, as Kuroo makes a show of glancing at the clock on the wall before turning back to you with a dramatic gasp, "Oh, would you look at the time! We should really be heading to practice."

"You still have your school shirt on, Kuroo.” You point out when he stops in front of you, pointedly glancing down at Kuroo's attire, which consisted of his practice shorts and white button-up, with his red school tie hung loosely around his neck.

"I'll just change it once we're in the gym," Kuroo responds, waving away your interjections before he drops his hands onto your shoulders and forces you to turn around and back toward the door. You attempt to dig your heels down when he begins to push you in the direction of the door, but you're truly no match for his strength. Stupid volleyball training.

"Kuroo," You voice your protests, attempting to swat at his hands in order to get him to release you. Once again, your attempts remain futile, "Let go of me!"

"No can do! As captain and manager, it's our job to be on time to every practice. What would our team do without us?" Kuroo shakes his head, clicking his tongue as if he's scolding you. He turns back to Kai and Yaku, flashing them a warning smile, daring them to say another word. Yaku merely watches on with an unamused look, while Kai holds a placid smile. There's extra sweetness in his voice as he practically chirps out, "Bring my stuff to the club room, will you?"

"I was on time!" You retort, not giving Kai nor Yaku a chance to respond to their exasperating captain as you send them a pointed look, all the while succumbing to your fate and allowing Kuroo to push you out of the classroom. After all, he did have a point. It probably wouldn't be long before Lev managed to push somebody's buttons (most likely Yamamoto’s) one too many times and ended up in hot water. "The only reason I'm not there right now is because I came looking for you guys!"

"Ah, now is not the time to deal blame, Y/N. Our juniors are waiting on us." Kuroo argues back, shaking his head as he removes one hand from your shoulder to slide the door shut behind the two of you. Still, Yaku and Kai face the door as the sound of your guys' bickering persists. It grows quieter and quieter with each passing moment, and it isn’t until they can no longer hear your guys' voices does Yaku glance away with a shake of his head.

"He's clueless." Yaku deadpans, glancing back down at his tie as he continues to work on untying it.

Kai nods, neatly folding his button-up before placing it in his bag. "Completely."

[kissbabie]

risky sex with bachira ♡

it was during practice when bachira had slipped into the locker rooms early, claiming he needed to fix something, which was a total lie, as the rest of the guys were still outside on the field. he was already sitting and beaming happily on the bench when you crept in after him, looking left and right like you were sneaking into some forbidden place.

"thought you weren't gonna come," he grins, hair sticking to his face, body slick with sweat, and eyes shining in that fucked up way that meant you were in so much trouble. you couldn't believe you even agreed to this when he sent you a message saying how much he needed you, but you definitely knew he couldn't wait until after practice to have you.

"we have, like, five minutes," you whisper, pushing the door shut behind you, heart pounding from the nerves. "don't be weird. make it fast."

"cute when you try to boss me around," he hums, getting up towards you. before you can sass back, he's got your back shoved against the lockers, hand snaking down under your skirt like he's done it a hundred times, and his fingers slide right against your already-slick slit. "no panties," he purrs into your ear, breathing hard. "came in all wet for me, like a slut."

you try to make some remark back, but you're breathless, hips chasing his hand before he yanks your leg up and pulls his cock out - thick and already leaking so much precum.

bachira doesn't even wait. he slams into you so hard the lockers rattle behind you. he's pounding into you, completely rough and relentless, causing your high pitched moans and whines to echo way too loud throughout the empty room

"shh, baby," he coos mockingly, slapping a hand ove mouth with a smirk. "gonna get us caught, you know. what if someone walks in? you want them to see you dripping all over my cock like this?"

which is a perfect coincidence when he says that, since you both freeze, when you hear voices and footsteps outside.

"shit-!" you gasp, panicking. bachira slaps a hand over your mouth again, giggling like a deranged manic. "don't make a sound."

he keeps going. slow, grinding thrusts now, so deep and deliberate your eyes roll back, body twitching from the effort of staying quiet. you clamp down hard around him when the door creaks open just a little - someone poking their head in, calling out for him, but ultimately deciding to leave once bachira exclaims, "just gimme a sec!"

the second the door clicks shut, bachira lifts your leg higher and fucks into you brutally, moaning against your ear.

"gosh, baby," he sang, licking along your neck as your body trembled against the lockers. "staying quiet while someone almost saw us. bet you just loved that."

you whimpered pathetically, gripping his onto should high pitched and tears stinging your eyes as you whine, "meguru- s'too much, f-feels too good, can't take it—!"

bachira just laughed, nuzzling into your neck as he smiled. when he pulled back, he was staring like a man possessed at the visible bulge in your stomach, caused by how deep he was inside you, stretching you so far he could see it. with eyes wide as if he had a newfound determination, he pants, "gonna cum inside. right here in the locker room, baby. then, m'gonna fuck you until you're too dumb to even say my name, m'kay? just gotta stay quiet, kay?"

for this req

© 𝒌issbabie | don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[writersdrug]

Bartender Simon, who cuts of a drunk costumer. The costumer is angry and begins insulting Simon, particularly his looks. It doesn't bother Simon but how does Waitress!Reader react?

Alas... the much-awaited ktih

Warnings: making out, groping, dry-humping

It was only seven pm, and Cole was already drunk. Simon knew this would happen - it usually does, at least every Friday night. He comes in, drinks for a solid two hours, until Simon finally has to cut him off and steer him in the direction of his apartment. The man at least lets him add twenty percent auto gratuity if he has to be sent home like that - and, more often than not, it's every week.

Today, however, is a different story.

Cole had come in at four, right when the pub opened. He gave you his usual, tight-lipped smile, making his way to the seat he took every Friday evening. Simon was already pouring his beer by the time he removed his coat. The conversation continues (mostly one-sided on Cole's part), as does the night, and he never ceases to tip the beers back - rattling on about how much money he makes, only getting louder when a group of women walks by.

Around nine at night is when he began to get drunk enough that the numbers on his tab begin to blend together. "A'aight- 'nother one for good fortune." He smacks his empty glass against the bartop, making you jump slightly as you did your tips at the end of the.

"Not tonight." Simon says, hovering over the POS and punching buttons on the screen. "You got 'nuff for good fortune. You can pick it back up next week."

"Bahhh, c'mon - I'll pay double." Cole slurs, leaning over the bar.

"What's your wife's name?" Simon asks, turning back around and leaning against the liquor shelf.

"... Sharon."

"Ya not even married, Cole."

He laughs, eyes glassy as he smacks the bartop and wheezes. "Tha's good! Real good- ya got me. Can't keep a woman 'f I tried."

Simon doesn't comment. He slides Cole's receipt across the bar, before promptly turning back and grabbing a glass.

Cole sighs, crumpling the receipt in his fist. "Y' don't want business?"

"Don't want you gettin' lost findin' your Uber." Simon replies, polishing a glass.

"Y'know..." Cole leans back in his seat, very adamantly refusing to leave, "I know you're strugglin' t' bring in the money with... whatever ya got goin' on behind the mask."

Maybe when he was a lieutenant, constantly dealing with jabs and stabs towards his ego, it would have gotten to him. But Simon just huffs in annoyance. "This what you resort to when you can't get a beer?"

"Defensive much?" Cole bites back. "You could use the money to fix y'r fuckin' face. Should stop bein' such a cunt n' worryin' 'bout me like you're my mum."

"Hardly - your mom probably wishes she'd swallowed you instead."

Simon nearly drops the glass - it takes him a moment to realize that you had spoken, and another one to process just what exactly you had said. He turns around to find you, staring Cole down with the most disgusted, angry expression he's ever seen you display. He's speechless - mostly because he didn't know you had an arsenal of insults, ready to fire off like this.

Cole chuckles drunkenly, turning in his seat to face you from down the bar. "Don' like it when I insult y'r bank account, do ya?"

"Aren't you supposed to be dumpster diving or something?" You snap, getting up out of your seat - Simon's never seen such a look in your eyes, and he quickly steps out from behind the bar to jog over to you. He places a hand on your shoulder, but you don't back down.

"You realize who you're talkin' to, little girl?"

"Draco Malfoy if he'd gone into British Parliament."

"Oi-" Simon snaps, fingers digging into your shoulder - surprisingly, you swat his hand away. You're fuming at this overgrown cabbage, running his mouth like he actually means something to anyone in this pub.

Cole purses his lips; your insults are getting to him. "You gonna do somethin' with this chick?" he asks Simon - who nearly blows a cap, but you beat him to it.

"Y'know, maybe you should spend your money on fixing those fucking teeth - because I see they're still social distancing - instead of wasting our time here, you grey, fucking sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake-"

"Hey- stairwell. Go." Simon gives you a gentle shove towards the stairs, and you throw your hands up and storm off. He stares after you, wide-eyed and tense, watching as you disappear behind the stairwell door. He's quickly growing hard, concerningly, after witnessing you fire off at Cole with a loaded gun full of wit and anger - it was quite possibly the most attractive thing he's seen you do.

Cole huffs, breaking Simon's focus. "Women - sticking their noses where they don't belong." he looks at him, expecting the bartender to agree.

Simon's holding back the urge to drive his fist into the man's skull. He grabs Cole's jacket from the back of the chair and shoves it into his chest so hard he nearly falls from his seat. "If you're not gone in the next ten minutes, Soap 'n I will make you leave, you understand?" he doesn't even wait for a reply, turning on his heel and stalking towards the stairwell, boots thudding heavily against the ground.

He's got bigger priorities at the moment.

You're standing in the stairwell, chewing the edge of your sweater as you stare at the dustpan and broom. Simon can surely fight his own battles - he didn't seem irritated in the slightest by Cole, why did you step in? Simon isn't yours (unfortunately), you don't need to defend him. You don't have the right to defend him other than the fact that he's your coworker. Manager. And you were definitely doing it based on other, unspoken reasons. It was obvious. Is it obvious to him? Forget possibly losing your job, is he going to be mad that you lost your shit like that? That you put your foot where it doesn't belong? That-

The door to the stairwell swings open, and you stop your pacing. His eyes are lidded. Angry? You can't tell. He looks rather intimidating, tall and tense as the door swings shut behind him, mask bunched into his fist as he shoves it into his back pocket.

You think he's about to let you have it, to chew you out for your outburst. "Simon, I'm-"

His rough hands are around your face before you know it - right as you open your mouth to yelp in shock, he leans down and kisses you.

Your eyes force themselves shut. You don't have a chance to pull away, not with his hand cradling the back of your head. He won't let you; you don't want to. His breath fans across your face, fingers calloused yet gentle as they relax around you, and you sigh into his touch, tilting your head to let him get closer. Your arms rest against his shoulders, squeezing the muscle as you feel months of worry and anticipation melt away-

And then, as quickly as it had begun, Simon has the audacity to stop and pull his head back.

His eyes find yours, still cupping your face in his hands. He looks breathless - good. At least you know he's just as riled up as you are, now. There's a hint of pink on his cheeks, and a need for reassurance in his hazy stare. He needs to know he was right, despite the months of flirting and the little chase you've been leading him in; now that he's finally caught up, caught you in his grasp, he needs you to tell him you want this. Though he doesn't know how he'll survive if you don't.

"You ok?" He pants, brow creased with uncertainty.

You let out a noise of frustration - threading your fingers behind his neck, you pull him back down, sealing your lips against his once again.

He exhales through his nose in relief. His hands find your waist as you part your lips, letting him slip inside and explore your mouth. Your fingernails dig crescents into his skin - he lets out a rather needy-sounding groan, backing you up until you hit the wall. You whine; your tongue flicking across his lower lip sends a shiver down his spine, heat building and twisting and tangling in his gut until you break away for a moment, nipping your teeth into his lip.

His mind short-circuits; he grunts, all the blood in his head rushing south to his cock, where it's getting uncomfortably warm and tight. He grabs you underneath your ass and hoists you up, and you squeak, instinctively locking your legs around his hips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he kisses you feverishly, desire brewing in your stomach as he presses you into the wall, tongues and teeth clashing, the both of you unable to satisfy the ever-growing blaze. It threatens to burn up the stairwell until there's nothing left but a sweaty, naked mess.

Simon breaks away to latch onto your neck, taking the thin flesh and rolling it between his teeth You bite back a whimper, carding your fingers through his hair; he bucks his hips in response, albeit involuntarily. You can sense the knot in your pelvis tightening, underwear growing slick as you feel the size of his erection with each thrust. Even through his clothes, you can tell it would be a challenge, but you've never been one to back down.

Fingers slide under his shirt, feeling the solid wall of muscle and fat beneath - his retracts a hand and drags it up your stomach, kneading and groping your tit through your shirt, silencing your moan with another searing, wet kiss. He's grinding into you now, hips rolling, cock twitching through his pants as you lock your ankles behind his back, and fuck he's ready to strip you bare right here and fuck you against the wall, ready to get back at you for teasing him for so long, ready to listen to your cries as you take each and every rung of his piercing-

He catches himself, lips moving away from yours to kiss along your chin, all the way up to your jaw. He sighs as he stills his hips, letting his head fall against your shoulder as he leans his weight into you. You feel him relaxing, wondering if he's worried about you again, but you so desperately want this to continue where it's heading.

"I'm alright, I'm alright-"

"I know..." he mumbles, his hand sliding back to your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, fingers barely slipping past the hem of your shorts. He wants to go further, to feel the hem of your panties snap against his fingers, but he forces back the urge.

"What's wrong?" you pant, craning your neck to the side to look at him.

"'M not..." he huffs, pulling his head back and gazing down at you. "Not fuckin' you in the stairwell, dove. 'S filthy back here."

Your face heats up even more - the fact that he had to hold himself back from disheveling you right now is an unspoken compliment. "Can we take it upstairs?"

He chuckles and gently sets you down, much to your disdain. "No. Got a bar to run." He says, preening at the way you pout at that. "And I'm takin' you out, first."

"Out?"

"Yea, for lunch."

"Wh- where?"

"You decide. Monday."

Monday - that's deep-clean day. "Don't we have to be here at noon?"

He chuckles. Always worrying about losing your job. "I'll make an exception. Won't fire ya for goin' on a date with me."

Date. God, you could scream. "But what if Price-"

"If that man ever threatens your position at this pub," Simon leans down, gently grabbing your chin between his fingers, "you come to me, n' I'll knock some sense into 'im. Sound good?"

You're too starstruck to register half of what he's said. Simon Riley's just kissed you. AND admitted to wanting to fuck you. Now, he's taking you on a date on Monday. Did you have any plans? Doesn't matter. If you do, they're cancelled.

"Uh huh..." you say, absentmindedly leaning into his touch.

Looking down at you: you, you... god, can he call you his? Is that too soon? The stars in your eyes while you're staring at him, the struggle within himself to avoid both adoration and getting hard(er)... He takes another deep breath, thumb running down the blossoming hickey on your neck.

"Right." he taps your cheek softly, then goes to tuck his shirt back in from where you'd torn it from the waistband. "Go ahead n' take a minute. Come to the bar 'fore you leave."

He grabs the handle to leave, hesitating only for a moment. Both of you seem to have the same idea, sharing a hive mind with each other. You quickly move forward and he leans down as you both kiss again, slower, trying to savor this one. Honey drips from your brain into your chest, every cell in your body screaming in relief, satisfaction, and pure joy...

He breaks away again, laying a kiss to the crown of your head. You sit down on the stairs as he walks back onto the pub floor. He's still hard, and it's plain as day - but he could care less right now. He's got you just as much as you've had him. There's a lightness in his shoulders, a voice in his head that you've finally plucked free and thrown into the abyss, only to be replaced by your own being.

You're still sitting on the stairs, massaging your tits through your shirt as you try to smooth your nipples out. Your mind is racing a million miles a minute. What should I wear? Will Price be upset? Should we try to hide this? Will anyone care? Should I wear perfume or just body spray? Is work going to be weird now? He's not going to treat me differently, is he?

You sigh, biting your lip and trudging up the stairs. Your fingers run over the hickey on your neck. I need to find a whisk.

[ghstyles]

Birthday Girl | H.S

Friendrry | Fluff | One shot | Fine line Harry | Masterlist

a/n: It's my birthday, therefore, it's also Y/N's birthday. Hopefully I'm not stood up like her

· · ─────────── ·H.S· ────────── · ·

The restaurant is upscale without being pretentious, exactly the type of place where a group of twenty-somethings might gather for a special occasion without completely emptying their bank accounts. Soft lighting casts a warm glow over polished wood tables and leather booths, while ambient music plays at a volume that allows for easy conversation.

Y/N sits alone at a large table set for twelve, feeling increasingly conspicuous as the minutes tick by. The birthday headband she'd bought on a whim, silver with "Birthday Girl" spelled out in glittering letters, is stuffed into her bag, her initial enthusiasm for wearing it having evaporated around the fifteen-minute mark of sitting alone.

She checks her phone again, scrolling through the mounting collection of last-minute cancellations and excuses. Work emergencies, sudden illnesses, family obligations, all perfectly reasonable individually, but collectively forming a pattern that's impossible to ignore. A few haven't even bothered to text, their silence speaking volumes.

The waitress approaches for the third time, her sympathetic smile barely masking her pity.

"Are you still waiting for the rest of your party?" she asks gently.

Y/N forces a smile, though it feels brittle on her face. "Just a few more minutes, if that's okay. I'm sure they're just running late."

The waitress nods, clearly not believing it any more than Y/N does, but kindly playing along. "No problem. Can I get you another drink while you wait?"

"Please," Y/N agrees, sliding her half-empty cocktail glass toward the edge of the table. "A stronger one this time, if you don't mind."

As the waitress retreats, Y/N slumps slightly in her chair, the carefully applied makeup and styled hair suddenly feeling like wasted effort. She'd been so excited about tonight, her twenty-fifth birthday, surrounded by friends in a nice restaurant, maybe even making a better impression on Harry Styles if he actually showed up (which he clearly wasn't going to).

It had been impulsive, adding him to the invite list. They weren't really friends, more like friendly acquaintances who shared a social circle. They'd met a handful of times at parties and gatherings, exchanged pleasant conversation, laughed at the same jokes. Nothing special, except for the way her heart seemed to beat a little faster whenever he walked into a room, or how she found herself paying more attention when he spoke.

But that was normal, wasn't it? He was Harry Styles, after all. Harry Styles. Everyone reacted that way to him.

Still, she'd sent the text invitation, trying to sound casual: Having a birthday dinner on Friday. Nothing fancy, just food and friends. You're welcome to join if you're around.

He hadn't responded, which wasn't surprising. He was probably on tour, or in a studio, or on a yacht somewhere with a supermodel. The invitation had been a shot in the dark, nothing more.

The waitress returns with a significantly stronger cocktail, setting it down with another sympathetic smile. Y/N thanks her and takes a long sip, the alcohol burning pleasantly down her throat.

Thirty-five minutes now. This is officially pathetic.

She reaches for her bag, ready to settle the bill for her drinks and slink home to salvage what remains of her dignity, when the restaurant's front door bursts open with enough force to draw every eye in the place.

Harry Styles stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath, his hair wild as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. He's wearing black jeans and a partially unbuttoned silky shirt in a shade of blue that makes his eyes look even more vibrant than usual. Most strikingly, his face is covered in what appears to be remnants of glitter and stage makeup, as if he's come straight from some kind of photoshoot or performance without taking time to clean up.

For a moment, Y/N thinks she must be hallucinating, perhaps the second, stronger drink was a mistake on an empty stomach. But then Harry's eyes lock with hers across the restaurant, and his face breaks into a relieved smile that sends her heart into an irregular rhythm.

"Y/N!" he calls out, loud enough to draw more stares as he weaves through tables toward her. "Thank god you're still here. I'm so, so sorry I'm late."

He reaches her table, slightly breathless, and Y/N can only stare up at him in shock, her planned departure forgotten.

"Harry?" she manages, her voice embarrassingly small. "You...came?"

"Of course I came," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He pulls out the chair next to hers and sits down, leaning toward her with an earnest expression. "I'm really sorry I didn't respond to your text. I wasn’t sure what time the photoshoot was and didn’t want to say yes and then bail the day of." 

Y/N is still trying to process the fact that Harry Styles is sitting at her birthday dinner, apologizing to her as if his presence was expected, even guaranteed.

"But...how did you know where to come? And when?" she asks, confusion evident in her voice.

Harry's expression softens, a slight blush coloring his cheeks beneath the remnants of makeup. "I, uh, asked Mia for the details when I saw her last week. After I got your text." He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "I meant to reply, I really did. But then I got busy with work, and...well, I'm here now."

He glances around the table, his brow furrowing as he takes in the empty chairs and untouched place settings.

"Where is everyone else? Mia, Zack, the others?"

Y/N feels a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her. It's one thing to be stood up by all her friends; it's another to have Harry Styles witness it.

"They, um, couldn't make it," she says, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to mortified. "Last-minute things came up."

Harry's expression shifts, confusion giving way to understanding and then, surprisingly, anger. His jaw tightens, a muscle working in his cheek as he glances around the empty table again.

"All of them?" he asks, his voice low and controlled. "Every single person had something 'come up' on the same night?"

Y/N shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant despite the lump forming in her throat. "It happens. People are busy."

"No," Harry says firmly, a hardness in his tone that Y/N has never heard from him before. "No, that's not okay. It's your birthday, Y/N. They RSVP'd, yeah? They committed to being here?"

Y/N nods reluctantly, not meeting his eyes. "Most of them, yeah. But honestly, it's fine. I was just about to head home anyway."

"Absolutely not," Harry declares, his tone brooking no argument as he settles more firmly into his chair. "It's your birthday dinner, and we're going to have a proper celebration."

Before Y/N can protest, Harry flags down the waitress who's been hovering nearby, clearly curious about the unexpected arrival of a pop star at her station.

"Hi there," Harry greets her with his signature charm, his earlier anger carefully masked behind a warm smile. "We're ready to order now. Just the two of us."

The waitress, whose nametag reads 'Sophie', blinks rapidly, visibly star-struck but maintaining her professionalism. "Of course, sir. Would you like to hear the specials?"

As Sophie recites the day's offerings, Harry turns to Y/N with a conspiratorial smile. "What are you hungry for, birthday girl? Order anything you want. It's on me tonight."

Y/N shakes her head, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "Harry, you don't have to do this. Really, I understand if you want to leave."

Harry's expression softens, his green eyes holding hers steadily. "I don't want to leave, Y/N. I want to celebrate your birthday with you. If you'll let me."

There's something in his gaze, a sincerity, a warmth, that makes Y/N's protests die on her lips. She nods slowly, a small, genuine smile finally finding its way to her face.

"Okay," she agrees softly. "Thank you."

Harry's answering smile is brilliant, lighting up his entire face. "Brilliant. Now, what shall we order? I'm starving."

They place their orders, Y/N choosing her favorite pasta dish, Harry opting for the steak, and settle into conversation that starts slightly awkward but quickly becomes surprisingly easy. Harry asks about her job , her family, her plans for the future, listening with genuine interest to her answers. In turn, he shares stories from his recent tour and the photoshoot he just came from.

"That explains the..." Y/N gestures vaguely at his face, where flecks of glitter still catch the light when he moves.

Harry laughs, rubbing at his cheek and examining the sparkly residue on his fingers. "Yeah, sorry about that. They had me in full makeup and glitter for this avant-garde fashion spread. I tried to clean up before leaving, but they were taking forever, and I was already so late..."

He trails off, looking suddenly shy. "I didn't want to miss your birthday entirely."

The simple admission sends a flutter through Y/N's chest that she tries desperately to ignore.

"Well, you look good with glitter," she offers, then immediately feels her cheeks heat at the compliment. "I mean, it suits you. The whole rock star aesthetic."

Harry's dimple appears as he grins at her, clearly pleased by her flustered state. "Thanks. Though I'm more partial to a classic suit these days."

Their food arrives, momentarily pausing the conversation as they arrange plates and napkins. As Y/N reaches for her water glass, Harry suddenly snaps his fingers, as if remembering something.

"Oh! I almost forgot." He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, which he'd draped over the back of his chair, and pulls out a small, neatly wrapped package. "Happy birthday, Y/N."

Y/N stares at the gift, surprised and touched that he'd thought to bring something. "Harry, you didn't have to get me anything."

"I wanted to," he says simply, pushing the package toward her. "It's nothing fancy, just something small I thought you might like."

With slightly trembling fingers, Y/N unwraps the package to reveal a delicate silver bookmark. The top of it is shaped like a crescent moon, with tiny stars dangling from fine chains attached to it. It's beautiful in its simplicity, clearly chosen with thought rather than expense in mind.

"I remembered you mentioning how much you love reading," Harry explains, watching her face carefully for her reaction. "And how you hate dog-earing pages. Thought this might be useful."

Y/N runs her finger over the smooth silver, deeply touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift. It shows that he's actually paid attention to things she's said in their brief interactions, that he's remembered details about her that most people wouldn't.

"It's perfect," she says softly, looking up to meet his eyes with a genuine smile. "Thank you, Harry. I love it."

His answering smile is warm, relief evident in his expression. "I'm glad. Now, " he glances toward her bag, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "I’m pretty sure that is supposed to go on your head. What’s it doing in your bag?"

Y/N groans, covering her face with her hands. "No way. I'm not wearing that thing. It was silly enough when I thought I'd be with a group of friends, but in public, with just us? Absolutely not."

"Come on," Harry coaxes, his voice taking on a playful wheedling quality. "It's your birthday! You should wear the headband. I bet it's sparkly and fabulous."

"It's ridiculous," Y/N counters, though she can feel her resolve weakening under his charming insistence.

Harry leans forward, his expression suddenly serious. "Y/N, as someone who has worn some truly outrageous things on stage, feather boas, sequined jumpsuits, that one unfortunate experiment with leather chaps, I can assure you that a birthday headband is extremely tame by comparison."

A laugh escapes her despite her best efforts. "Leather chaps?"

"We don't talk about the chaps," Harry says gravely, though his eyes are dancing with humor. "The point is, you should embrace the birthday spirit. Wear the headband."

With an exaggerated sigh of surrender, Y/N reaches into her bag and pulls out the sparkly "Birthday Girl" headband. Before she can change her mind, Harry gently takes it from her fingers and stands up, moving behind her chair. With surprising tenderness, he carefully places the headband on her head, adjusting it so that the glittering letters are centered.

"Perfect," he declares as he returns to his seat, his voice softer than before, his eyes lingering on her face in a way that makes her stomach flip. "Beautiful birthday girl."

The compliment, delivered with such quiet sincerity, sends a wave of heat to Y/N's cheeks. She drops her gaze to her plate, suddenly finding it difficult to meet his eyes.

"Thank you," she murmurs, not just for the compliment but for everything, for showing up, for staying, for making what could have been a humiliating disaster into something unexpectedly special.

Harry seems to understand the multiple layers of her gratitude, his expression softening as he raises his glass in a toast.

"To Y/N," he says, his voice warm with genuine affection. "Happy 25th birthday. May it be the beginning of your best year yet."

Y/N raises her own glass, clinking it gently against his. "Thank you for salvaging it."

"The night's still young," Harry points out with a grin. "We haven't even had dessert yet. I heard the waitress mention something about a chocolate lava cake that sounds absolutely sinful."

As they continue their meal, Y/N finds herself relaxing more and more in Harry's company. There's something about him that puts her at ease, the way he listens intently when she speaks, the genuine interest in his questions, the complete lack of pretense despite his fame. By the time they're sharing the aforementioned chocolate lava cake (which is indeed sinful), Y/N has almost forgotten the initial heartache of being stood up by her friends.

Harry, however, has not forgotten. As they near the end of their meal, he brings the subject up again, his tone careful but firm.

"I still can't believe none of them showed up," he says, stirring his drink thoughtfully. "That's really not okay, Y/N. Friends don't do that to each other."

Y/N sighs, the hurt she'd been successfully ignoring for the past couple of hours resurfacing. "I know. It's just...I don't think I'm a priority for any of them. Not really."

Harry frowns, clearly troubled by her words. "Then they're idiots. All of them."

The vehemence in his voice surprises Y/N. "You don't even know them all that well."

"I know enough," Harry counters. "I know that anyone who would bail on your birthday dinner without a genuinely emergency-level reason is not someone who deserves your friendship."

He hesitates, then adds more gently, "You deserve better friends, Y/N. People who show up for you the way you'd show up for them."

Y/N nods, a lump forming in her throat at his kindness. "Maybe you're right."

"I know I'm right," Harry says with a confidence that would sound arrogant from anyone else but somehow just sounds caring coming from him. "And for what it's worth, I'm really glad I got to be here tonight. Even if the circumstances aren't what either of us expected."

There's something in his tone, a hint of something more than friendly concern, that makes Y/N look up sharply, catching an expression on his face that she can't quite decipher before it's replaced by his usual easy smile.

"Me too," she admits quietly. "It's been...nice. Really nice."

Harry's smile widens, his dimple deepening in that way that makes her heart skip. "Good. That was the goal."

When the check comes, Harry smoothly intercepts it before Y/N can even reach for it.

"Harry, no," she protests. "You've already done so much. Let me at least pay for my part."

"Not a chance," Harry says firmly, already sliding his credit card into the leather folder. "It's your birthday dinner. Besides, I didn’t even RSVP, remember? Technically, I'm crashing your party."

"Some crash," Y/N retorts with a small laugh. "You're literally the only guest who showed up."

Something flickers in Harry's eyes, a brief shadow that's gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "Their loss," he says softly. "Truly."

As they prepare to leave, Y/N carefully placing her new bookmark in her bag and reluctantly removing the birthday headband (at Harry's insistence, she'd worn it through the entire meal, even when the waitstaff brought out a complimentary slice of cake with a candle and sang to her), she finds herself not wanting the evening to end.

"So," Harry says as they step out into the cool evening air, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. "Can I call you a car? Or are you close enough to walk home?"

Y/N hesitates, torn between not wanting to impose further and not wanting to say goodbye just yet. "I'm not far. Just a few blocks."

Harry nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Right. Well, I could walk you? If you want. Just to make sure you get home safe."

There's an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice, as if he's genuinely unsure whether she'll want to prolong their time together. It's this hint of vulnerability that gives Y/N the courage to be honest.

"I'd like that," she says with a small smile. "If you don't mind."

Relief crosses Harry's face, followed by a warm smile. "I don't mind at all."

They fall into step beside each other, walking in comfortable silence for a few moments before Harry speaks again, his voice casual, almost too casual.

"So, this might be a bit forward, but...would you maybe want to do this again sometime? Without the birthday headband, I mean. Just...dinner. Or coffee. Or whatever you like, really."

He's rambling slightly, which Y/N finds endearing coming from someone usually so composed and confident. It takes her a moment to process what he's actually asking.

"Are you...asking me out?" she clarifies, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. "Like, on a date?"

Harry stops walking, turning to face her directly. In the soft glow of the streetlights, with flecks of glitter still catching the light on his cheekbones, he looks almost otherworldly, a fairy tale prince somehow transported to a London sidewalk.

"Yes," he says simply, his green eyes steady on hers. "I am."

"But..." Y/N struggles to make sense of this unexpected turn. "Why? I mean, you're you, and I'm...just me."

Harry's brow furrows slightly, a flash of frustration crossing his features. "Do you really not know?"

When Y/N just stares at him blankly, he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further.

"Y/N, I've wanted to ask you out since the first time we met, at Tom's birthday thing last year. You were wearing that green dress, and you were arguing with someone about books, and you were so passionate and smart and beautiful that I couldn't take my eyes off you."

Y/N's mouth falls open slightly in shock. She remembers that night, remembers being introduced to Harry Styles and trying desperately to act normal while her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. She remembers getting into a heated debate with Tom's pretentious cousin about the literary merits of contemporary fiction, completely forgetting about Harry's presence until she looked up to find him watching her with an amused smile.

"But you never said anything," she manages finally.

Harry shrugs, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I tried. Several times, actually. But something always got in the way, you'd leave early, or someone would interrupt, or I'd lose my nerve." He laughs softly, shaking his head at himself. "Not very rock star of me, I know."

"So when I texted you about tonight..." Y/N begins, pieces starting to fall into place.

"I nearly dropped my phone in excitement," Harry admits with a self-deprecating grin. "Asked Mia immediately for all the details, made sure I'd be in London, even rescheduled some studio time."

He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that seems almost shy. "I was planning to play it cool, you know? Just show up with the group, maybe sit next to you if I could manage it, see if we hit it off properly."

His expression darkens slightly as he continues, "Then I show up and find that all of our so-called friends have bailed on your birthday. Which, by the way, made me want to call each of them personally and give them a piece of my mind. But it also gave me the chance to spend time with just you, which was...well, it was perfect, actually."

Y/N stares at him, trying to process everything he's saying. Harry Styles has had a crush on her for a year. Harry Styles rearranged his schedule to attend her birthday dinner. Harry Styles wants to date her.

It's too much to take in all at once.

"You don't have to answer now," Harry says quickly, misinterpreting her silence. "I know it's a lot, and you've had a weird night, and I'm probably not making it any less weird by dumping all this on you. We can just–"

"Yes," Y/N interrupts, surprising herself with the firmness of her answer. "Yes, I'd like to go on a date with you."

Harry's face lights up with a smile so bright it could rival the streetlamps illuminating the sidewalk around them. "Yeah? You're sure?"

Y/N nods, a matching smile spreading across her own face. "I'm sure. Although I have to warn you, it'll be hard to top tonight. Not many first dates involve a birthday headband and abandoned dinner reservations."

Harry laughs, the sound warm and genuine in the quiet of the evening. "I'll do my best to make it memorable in other ways."

They stand there for a moment, smiling at each other like idiots beneath the streetlight, before Harry offers his arm in an old-fashioned gesture that somehow doesn't feel out of place coming from him.

"Shall we continue, birthday girl? I believe I promised to see you safely home."

Y/N slips her arm through his, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the mild evening air and everything to do with the man beside her.

"Lead on, Styles," she says with a teasing smile. "And for the record, I'm glad you were the only one who showed up tonight."

Harry's answering smile is soft and intimate, just for her. "Me too, Y/N. More than you know."

As they continue down the sidewalk, arms linked and conversation flowing easily between them, Y/N thinks that perhaps being stood up on her birthday wasn't such a disaster after all. In fact, it might just be the best thing that's ever happened to her.

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavefanficsever @spinnic @catmomstyles3 @mads3502

[incvbvsribbons]

Laying on your stomach in my bed, wearing a short skirt and no panties, so innocently playing on your phone, knowing I’m going to be home soon.

You’ve been blowing up my phone all day with teasing messages and pictures, knowing that I’m at work and can’t respond to you, forced to glance down during my busy day and hope to catch a break, just to scroll through everything you’ve sent in the bathroom, cock in hand while enjoying my pretty girl.

You hear the bedroom door swing open slow, the hinges creaking slightly as I walk in. You ignore me, knowing exactly what I came in here for. From behind you, the sound of my pants dropping to the ground as I undress is unmistakable, as well as the feeling of the bed shifting as I crawl up behind you, pressing my cock against your ass as I slowly grind against it.

“You’re such a tease, sweet girl, don’t you know that?” I say softly, my hands sliding across your back, pushing your shirt up. My cock presses up against the entrance of your pussy, rubbing along the folds of it as I pick up your wetness. “Such a needy girl, you can’t even handle me being gone for a day so I can make the money to buy you pretty toys?” You put your phone down and press your face against the pillow you’re laying on, suppressing a gentle moan as you feel me pressing harder against you, barely sliding inside your tight hole.

“B-but I missed you, daddy….” You groan into the pillow. You feel my fingers tangle through your hair as I pick your head up off of the pillow, leaning over your back until your eyes strain looking upwards to see my face. “Well, baby, maybe I should just show you how much I missed you too.”

My cock slides all the way into you nice and slowly, making sure you feel every inch of me until you hit the base of my shaft. You bite your lip, letting out a small yelp as I start thrusting into you, moaning in your ear while you clench tightly around my cock, happy to not feel empty anymore. My arm wraps around your neck, hugging you in the crook of my elbow as I thrust my hips faster, smacking into your ass as I pound into you, hearing your little “uh uh uh uh uh”s with each rapid movement, mouth slightly open as drool drips down from your lips onto my arm.

“Fuck, my baby feels so fucking tight around my cock, you must’ve missed this feeling so much while you were all alone, huh?” I groan roughly into your ear. The only response I manage to get from you are more pretty moans and pleads, as you’re already long gone, your brain shut off and only thinking of how nice it feels to take me deep inside of you. I thrust into you more and more, until I’m laying on top of my pretty girl, grinding my cock into your needy cunt, before I wrap my other arm tight around your stomach, and with a moan, cum deep inside of you, my cock twitching as I fill you up completely. I gently release some pressure off of your throat, giving you a break as I lay on top of you, my cock still deep inside of you as our fluids slowly drip drip drip out of your pussy. “You’re such a good girl…” I say, stroking your hair gently as you tilt your head to rest against my arm, just waiting until I get the energy to go another round.

[cillians-sweetheart]

Secret Boyfriend - Thomas Shelby

Thomas Shelby(39) x Fem!Reader(18)

Plot: Y/N has a new, secret boyfriend who she meets up with late in the night to avoid judgement from her parents as he is not quite what they would want, but perfect for Y/N in pleasing all her needs.

Content: Smut, age-gap, pet names, secrecy, oral (m), rubbing (m & f), car sex, riding, dirty talk (m & f), huge daddy kink, no protection, Tommy sounds kinda pervy but romantic too

(Modern day Thomas Shelby in this story)

Laying in my little white bed, I kick my feet and grin at my screen while I text my new boyfriend, Thomas. I’ve met him through the internet and have met with a few times late at night when my parents were asleep. 

I couldn’t have them find out I had been seeing a man almost 3 times my age. I was freshly 18, and still a child to them. They’d never understand what Tommy and I have. He was tall, and fit. And each time I’d see him he’d wear the type of suits he wore to work. Perfectly tailored to his figure, and always smelling rich and manly. There was no way I could keep my hands to myself when I was with him.

Most nights I’d run out to his car in the dark and we’d drive around the city to an empty road where he'd kiss, and caress me until the sun rose. His lips were always so gentle. And during the day I’d sneak away from everyone to text him. 

{“I miss you”}, I texted while smiling and giggling like a high school girl. I mean technically I was, so it made sense.

Just seconds after a new message pops up on my screen. {“I miss you too my girl ;)”}

{“how was work?”}

{“Ah, it was fine, just boring office stuff. Nothing interesting.”} Thomas sent while sitting alone in his house, still in his work clothes and also grinning to himself.

{“Can I see you tonight?”}

{“Won’t your parents be home, baby?”}

{“Please daddy… I need you”}

Thomas chuckled to himself, {“Haha baby, don’t do this to me. I really want to come and touch you but I don’t want you getting caught”}

{“When my parents go to sleep I can sneak out and come meet you. No one will see me”}

{“Oh baby, you’re just tempting me. You know I can’t resist feeling you… I’ll be there tonight.”}

{“Ok thank you daddy, I’ll see you soon”} 

I sent the message with my cheeks a flustered shade of pink. I quickly jumped up from my bed and changed into nicer clothing and quickly applied makeup on my smooth face. It was getting late anyway so I’d get ready now. 

Thomas too got up and grabbed his car keys. He loved how I begged for him, and how I’d do anything just to see him. And soon enough he arrived outside my house. He was nervous for me, but couldn’t wait another second longer to touch me. 

{“I’m here love. Whenever you’re ready”}

{“Coming daddy”} I quickly replied and quickly ran down the stairs to the front door. 

When I came outside, Thomas was leaning against his expensive car with that handsome smirk he always got when he saw me. I quickly ran to him with my short dress flowing in the wind and brushing against my thighs. I wrapped my body around him in a tight hug, and inhaled deeply his rich scent and felt his toned chest through his shirt.

“Oh my princess…” He smiled and kissed the top of my head. “Come on baby.” He led me to the passenger seat and opened the door for me. 

We drove around through the dark empty roads. His big hand lightly rubbed my bare thigh with intimate caresses. Slowly I began to slide down in the seat making his hand go higher and higher between my legs. He got the hint and trailed his hand up my dress to gently tickle me through my thin, lacy pantries. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off him from beside me as he rubbed me with his finger. I bit my lip and whimpered at his touch. He looked over to me, his eyes scanning from my shivering legs up to my baby doll face. 

“You’re such a cute girl… couldn’t wait to see daddy, couldn’t you?” He asked with his voice so smooth, and silky on my ears. 

“Mhm,” I nodded, looking down between my legs at my growing wetness for him. 

Eventually after several minutes driving through the quiet streets, Thomas parked at the end of a dead road. There was nothing but trees and darkness all around us. Thomas turned off the car and turned to me. 

“Give daddy a kiss.” He leaned in closer to me, moving his hands up to hold my face. I instantly fell into him and my lips latched onto his hungrily. Sweet little moans escaped my lips each time they’d separate even the slightest. 

Thomas pulled back to look closely at my face. With his thumb he traced my bottom lip, and in return I kissed his skin lovingly like a little puppy. “Such a good girl… you know exactly how to please your daddy, hm?” 

I nodded, continuing to kiss his thumb and over his whole hand. My submission was more than obvious for him. There’s nothing I’d not do for him. 

I pulled my lips away from his hand and Thomas leaned back to get out of the car. I watched him outside just briefly before he got back into the car in the backseat. He sat right in the middle with his legs spread and his bulge showing through his dress pants. 

“Come here.” He sat back, watching me with amusement as I crawled to him. “Good girl… Crawl to daddy.” His voice was low and sensual, making my legs shiver. 

In the backseat I straddled Thomas’s lap and looked into his blue eyes that I could barely see in the dark, but I could feel the lust in them. 

My hands felt around on his muscular chest and unbuttoned his shirt as my hands travelled lower and lower down his torso. His skin beneath was hot, and smooth and the hair on his chest, and below his belly button made my panties wet as I touched it. His legs spread wider, and his pants grew tighter. I felt as his hardening cock poked and rubbed me through my pantries. It made my mouth water.

I moved to the side on the leather seat next to him and looked up into his eyes while I eagerly undid his pants. His hips moved lower into the seat and his head laid back against the leather. He felt his cock just aching to be touched, and sucked. 

“That’s good baby, keep going.” He groaned under his breath while I pulled his big, needy cock from his pants. My eyes glared up into his while my face and lips slowly lowered to his hot, wet skin. I kissed and licked at his pink tip like a little kitten while making eye contact the whole time.

Thomas petted my silky hair while looking down at me with admiration, “My good baby… pleasing your daddy so well,” He groaned to the feeling of my lips hungrily sucking and kissing on his tip. His hand gripped in my hair and he tilted my face up to look at him while he pushed my mouth down the length of his thick cock. He groaned and cursed while I loved on his sweet, sensitive skin. I needed to give daddy more and slowly bobbed my head and sucked in my cheeks around him. “Hmh… god… just like that baby, just like that.” 

I sucked and swallowed him like it was the last thing I’d ever do. I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to. He tasted so good, and making my daddy feel good was all that I lived for. 

I pulled my mouth up from his dripping cock with a pop when he tugged on my hair. “Come.” He patted his thigh and I obediently sat up and straddled his lap. “Let daddy see that little pussy…” He was voice rough and hot in my neck and he lifted the straps of my pantries off and down my hips. I leaned back and let him strip me until I was completely naked on his lap, sitting and waiting for the attention I craved. 

“So cute,” He whispered glaring down my body and between my legs. His fingers slipped between my legs and slowly he rubbed my wet clit in gentle circles.

I was so sensitive from my growing arousal, and my sweet sounds and whimpering just encouraged him more. 

His fingers felt so perfect, rubbing faster and harder. I grind against his fingers eagerly spreading my wetness all over his hand. “You wanna cum?” He asked with his breath hot in my neck. 

“Mhm… Mhm daddy, please” 

“Cum on my cock… rub it.” He turned to lay back onto the seats and I sat on his cock against his lower stomach. My wet lips stroked his length, and my clit rubbed against his smooth veiny skin. I moaned and whimpered all sweet and desperate while I rubbed my pussy on him. 

Tommy gripped my hips, “fuck…,” he groaned with his head falling back. My soft lips were practically milking him and filling his stomach with precum. And eventually, I came with loud needy moans, and my fingers digging into his chest. His cock was absolutely throbbing by now and was bigger than it's ever been. 

“Oh, that’s such a good girl…” he praised sitting back up on the seat, me still on his lap. Tommy’s hands reached up into my hair holding my face close to his. We kissed sloppily while I sat and lowered myself down onto his aching cock. It filled my little hole so perfectly. Made purely just for him, as he’s the only one who’s ever used it. 

My hands held onto Tommy’s bulky shoulders, and he lifted his hips to forcefully thrust. My high pitched moans were in sync with his quick movements, and echoed throughout the car. The windows fogged and the air around us got hot and humid. 

Tommy’s lips sucked and kissed at my neck leaving his mark of property. My fingernails dug into his back and shoulders while trying to muffle my pleasurable whines in his hot neck. 

“Yes… Yes!” I yelled pounding my hips down onto him. “Daddy!” My body trembled and grew weak. Thomas took control using all his strength to buck his hips up against mine, his cock reaching deep inside. 

Thomas’s hand held tightly onto my plump butt, moving me up and down. Both of our skin grew damp with sweat and arousal. The movement between us got sloppy the closer we got. Neither of us had a proper thought but the feelings in our bodies. Everything between us with our bodies and lips, it went so fast like time hadn’t existed. Nothing existed when he and I were together, nothing but each other. 

And eventually over those last few, sloppy thrusts, Thomas’s cock shot his hot cum deeply into my cervix. His hips bucked up into mine forcefully which broke me into spilling my fluids onto his lap. I held onto him tightly as the sensitivity grew and faded and as our bodies began to slow down to a stop. 

I breathed heavily with little whimpers escaping with my exhale. I could feel Tommy relax and soften while still inside me. And before we moved we took the time just holding each other and gently kissing with the little energy we had left. 

I could feel the love Thomas had for me from the way he’d caress my bare hip and kiss me ever so gently. There was always a difference between him -in the way he acted-  before and after sex, but I loved both sides equally. He was rough and dominant but also gentle and romantic. And in the end he’d drive me home and kiss every inch of my face before I’d go back inside to sleep peacefully. 

“I love you my sweet girl,” He’d say each time. 

And from me, “I love you too, daddy.” With a kiss on his cheek. 

[m-robinavitch]

wet.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Female!Reader

Summary: Not so innocently texting your boyfriend during his shift.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Jack Abbot being Jack Abbot, short little blurb

You were tired, exhausted and looking forward to just crawling into bed and melting into sleep because it’s been a long fucking shift. But you needed to text Jack first. Just- just a little something for him to think about until he gets home in the morning and you have some time to kill while you wait for your pizza.

[You]: Hi baby

[Jack]: Hi

[Jack]: What’s wrong?

[You]: Nothing. Just miss you.

[You]: Are you busy?

[Jack]: Yes.

[Jack]: But I always have time for you.

You can see the three dots indicating Jack is typing some more but you’re faster. You already planned this. Immediately you send him a picture- the picture you took right before texting him. Clad in his old army shirt, only his old army shirt but you’ll let him figure that out in a bit. The dots stop. You smile victoriously for a moment when they reappear.

[Jack]: That’s not what I meant when I said I always have time for you.

[Jack]: Fuck

[Jack]: What do you have on under?

You knew your boyfriend well enough that he can’t leave it alone. The thrill of seeing you when he’s supposed to be focusing at work. He will absolutely be thinking about it until he gets home in the morning, he won’t be able to last 10 hours without you. And to respond to his question, you send the other picture you took. On your front, back arched just a little so he can get a clear view of your ass that has nothing on it- bare and needing him.

[Jack]: Robby almost saw that

[You]: Do you think he’d like it?

[You]: Or this maybe?

Your next picture was sent. Laying on his side of the bed, shirt pushed up so he can get a clear view of your chest- how you’re grabbing your breast and how you definitely don’t have any underwear on. He needed to excuse himself, needed to find an empty on call room because he’s fucking half hard at this point and the only thing that’s calming him down is cumming into his own hand so he can focus on work- then as soon as he gets home he’ll fuck you into the mattress as punishment for distracting him. Maybe he’ll let you cum. He hasn’t decided yet. Jack locks himself in the viewing room, leaning against the door and trying to unbuckle his belt but you send him another fucking picture and- oh. No. No- not a picture, a video. He’s sure he had a stroke because you’re whining his name and pushing your fingers inside yourself and- ‘Fuck- Jack. I need you so bad right now baby.’ He can’t stand it. He calls you.

“Baby?” You answer, whining into the phone the way you know he likes. How you sound so pathetic and desperate for him. Like you can’t do this without him. Breathing a bit heavier, you ask him to help you.

“Fuck- you know you can’t do this to me at work honey.” He grits out, licking his palm and sighing in relief once his hand is finally wrapped around his cock- tipping his head back to rest against the door from the feeling. He’s already leaking at the tip and trying to think about how you’d be on your knee for him right now. Like last week, yanking him into the supply room because you couldn’t handle it anymore- dropping to your knees and ignoring the way he said someone could walk in on your both but- you made quick work of him.

“But I need you Jack-” You sigh into the phone, sounding so desperate and sweet in his ear and he can hear you shuffling around and moaning- the little gasp that you make because you know he likes it when he slides his cock or his fingers inside you and it just involuntarily happens. He can picture your spread out on the bed, phone on speaker next to you so you can use both hands- shirt pushed up over your breasts so you can palm and play with your nipples like you need, maybe licking your fingers to get them wet before your toy with your clit. Fuck or maybe you’ve been playing with yourself for hours already and just need him to help you cum. Jack thinks about all the possibilities while stroking his cock to the sounds of your moans and whines and-

“Fuck baby, you need me? How wet are you? Tell me.” He needed to hear it- hear how wet you’ve been just thinking about him. He starts stroking faster and bites his lip to hold in his moans. Fuck maybe he can get you to FaceTime him so he can watch you and see it and-

“Jack- baby I’m so fucking wet,” you don’t give him a moment to respond, your tone has changed and- “wet like my fucking laundry that you didn’t put in the dryer.” Dial tone. That’s all he heard. And somewhere he can hear you cackling to yourself because he’s breathing hard and his cock is still in his hand and- fuck. He was so fucking close- trying to call you back but it goes to voicemail. You weren’t three fingers deep like he thought- you were on the couch, still in his shirt but also his sweats and devouring the pizza you ordered along with his super fancy beer that he doesn’t drink often. You unmute the TV, settling back against the couch and smiling to yourself when your phone keeps ringing.

[Jack]: Answer me.

[Jack]: Now.

[Jack]: Baby I’m sorry please…

[Jack]: Wait until I fucking get home.

[Jack]: Send me another picture so I can cum at least.

When he gets home he better rewash your fucking laundry, dry it, and fold it. But not until after he shoves his tongue inside you and makes up for it. One final text pulls you from your plotting and-

[Jack]: I came.

Of course he fucking did.

[erwinsvow]

OMG I WAS THE ANON WHO SENT SMTH ABT ASKING JACK ABBOT TO BE UR BOYFRIEND A BAR AND SITTING IN HIS LAP TO ESCAPE A CREEP (unless tumblr ate my ask bc it hates me), BUT IVE BEEN WATCHING ANIMAL KINGDOM AND IM FROTHING AY THE MOUTH NOW THINKING ABT POPE AND THAT SITUATION GRHAGEHEH

im only on s2 of animal kingdom but i just ADORE how you write pope and i needed to share this with you because whenever i think of pope's characterization i think of you frfr

i actually went so physically insane over this prompt. i was counting down the minutes until school ended so i could write this and it's so small but i hope you like it. it would be perfect for jack but ohmygod for pope. imagine this is how he meets wifey or something. jesus lord

he sits on a stool at deran's bar, right against the counter, because he doesn't have anywhere else to be. anywhere else to go right now. there's bruises littered across his back and a visible scratch on his neck and one on his forehead that's still healing. a wrapped up hand picks up his beer and takes a long sip before setting it down a little harder than he intended.

the place is packed—it always is. some part of andrew, deep inside, is happy for deran. the people here are drunk and chattery and he knows that there's regulars and locals who prefer this place. his brother created something that others love, that people go to willingly.

and andrew hasn't felt anything close to that feeling in forever. he takes another drink of his beer, this time until it's empty, and raises it towards the bartender. he doesn't know where deran is tonight, probably out mixed in the crowd, mingling and talking. craig is probably with him. and like always, andrew is alone.

the bartender brings over another and takes the empty bottle away. it's his third or fourth—though it takes so much to get him drunk, he hasn't even begun to feel the stupid effects of it yet. and all around him, people keep partying, talking, drinking. loud over the music that plays in the background. it's all too loud.

this one will have to be his last. he needs to go home. but the idea of going inside the house, to his bedroom, to the bedroom that was lena's, makes him think the beer might come back up. he'll take the truck to the beach, sit there for a few hours. roll the window down so there's nothing but quiet and ocean waves. nothing can fix how he's been feeling recently, but maybe that can patch it up for a few hours, a temporary band-aid. (what he really needs is something closer to surgery, but he can't think about that right now. band-aid it is.)

he takes a breath, shoulders rising in the black shirt he'd worn today. another sip of his beer. and just when he decides it's time to go be alone—always, he's always alone—he feels a tap on his shoulder. there's a healing bruise, yellow and green, there so he winces briefly before turning to face who it is—craig or deran. he's not sure who else it could be.

and then he sees you. blinking up at him, eyes fluttering quickly. breathing heavy and turning your neck as if someone's following you. you look jittery and nervous, though for once, it's not directed at him. it makes something dark and protective wash over him briefly. you take little shallow breaths, he can tell from how your chest heaves, when he turns and faces you all the way. he doesn't think he's ever seen you before.

"yes?"

"w-what's your name?" you turn again, like you're waiting for someone to show up behind you.

"my name?" he repeats quietly. he can barely hear you over the continual drone of the bar and the shitty music. you nod quickly, taking a step closer to him. you slide between his seat and the seat next to him, standing there, so close that a couple more inches and you'd be touching him, skin to skin.

you don't look drunk. you're not slurring your words or stumbling. your hands are empty, your eyes still scanning the crowd. you're wearing a pretty dress and he stares at the strap of it on your bare shoulder momentarily before meeting your eyes again.

"your name. please, i-"

"it's andrew."

"andrew. andrew, i-" he almost doesn't catch the rest of your sentence. the way you say his name catches him off guard. slow and sweet and you said it twice like you're really making sure it's him. you say it as if you're happy it's him. he doesn't think he's ever heard it said like that before. "-i know this is going to sound crazy, but i really need help, um-"

and some instinct in him rises up quickly, washing over his body like a flood wave. that you need help. that you picked him to ask for it. that you seem jittery and nervous but maybe a flicker calmer than you were a moment ago. and he did that. and the satisfaction from that makes him incredibly glad he didn't leave after his last beer.

"what's wrong?" he interrupts you, but you notice it. how he sits up straighter, how his bruised hand twitches. it doesn't hover over you, yet, but he keeps it ready as though he might have to at any moment. his eyes are hyper-focused on yours. he listens to every word. and somehow, though you just walked up to the first guy you thought wasn't completely drunk, you think you're safe with him.

"this guy-" but you don't get to finish. since andrew locked eyes with you, you hadn't looked around to see if the guy that's been bothering you all night was getting closer. you couldn't find your friends and he'd used that opportunity to get right next to you and not take no for an answer. so you'd split the second he turned around, getting through the crowd as quickly as you could, wondering if maybe the bartender could help. but realizing a lesson your friends had told you a long time ago—the only no a guy like that will listen to is if it comes from another guy—you walked right up to a stranger in a black shirt instead.

"there you are-" the voice booms. you freeze mid-sentence, something andrew does not like at all. your expression changes, worry drapes over your face again, and despite andrew never being good at these things, he knows you're very uncomfortable. "was looking all over for you. where were we?"

you don't turn right away. your eyes stay locked on andrew's, taking one step closer to him.

but andrew doesn't half-ass anything. certainly not this, when you're trembling like a leaf and he can tell his drunk asshole won't stop bothering you. wordlessly, just from your pretty, worried eyes. he moves his hands to your waist—gently, but firmly. he doesn't wander them, just keeps them in place, still sitting down, moving his gaze from your eyes to the guy's.

but you worry, momentarily, that it's not enough. the asshole looks from you to andrew, to andrew's hands. before you can stop to think about it too much, you perch yourself against him, sitting on his lap. you swing your arm around his neck and keep a hand on his bicep to steady yourself. and andrew plays along perfectly, finding it too easy to bring one hand to your knee and keeping the other on your waist and look up at the guy in question.

he doesn't have to say anything. he knows that he recognizes him.

"oh," the guy starts, backing up a step right away. "i thought you were kidding about the boyfriend. you didn't say it was-"

"she wasn't," andrew says, though unbeknownst to you, he means it. "do we have a problem?"

"no, no, pope, no man. sorry about that, i'll-"

"tell her sorry." you turn your gaze from the encounter between the two men to andrew, not sure why he said that.

"i-i'm sorry-" he stumbles out, before walking away quickly. you must have picked the right guy to ask for help—he seems incredibly scared of andrew. briefly you wonder if you should be scared too.

"thank you," you say, looking back at andrew. he's looking at you too, and you don't realize how close your faces are until you can feel his breath against your cheek. he blinks up at you, not looking away. "oh, i'm sorry, i'll move-"

but his hands are firm on you, keeping you in place.

"stay." the way he says it, it doesn't feel like you have much of a choice. but you'd be an idiot to run from a man who just helped save you when you couldn't find your friends or anyone else to do so. his huge arm feels tense and taut under your hand and it's easy to melt into his grip, getting comfortable against him. you almost feel like you can trust him, like you didn't just meet him ten minutes ago.

"can i buy you another beer? to thank you?"

"yeah. sure."

[zolass]

Charming Player Top Mafia Boss Oc x Bottom Male Reader x Right-Hand Man Oc

Another one finished, actually crazy. Also because Charming Player was the first idea from 3 and I wrote it as last- also Reader was supposed to be kinda Playboy type shi- those two are not the first dicks he had in his ass. Might focus on Oc x Oc works besides a Series with Top Male Reader, if y'all have requests you can just slide them in and I'll definitely look over them.

MDNI if you do, not my problem what you consume. Content/warning: Smut, mentions of prostitution, debt fuck :), face fucking and deep throating, unprotected sex, double penetration, if I missed some I'm sry.

3k words

You were in debt– deep debt that you could drown your ancestors in. You borrowed money, from someone your friends– hell even the bartender told you to never lend money from Llyod Vaughn. But that’s what you did, while you gambled it away in the same club, said man owned.

Biting your lip, you watched the frustrated faces of the middle aged men in delight, hiding your smile behind your cards. You were so close to winning all the money on the table, it was definitely enough for you to buy a trip to a tropical island and live your life a bit more carefree. Yet the session was suddenly interrupted, as heavy boots hit the floor, approaching the table you were sitting at.

The four other men at the table, looked somehow even more panicked than before as their eyes landed on the person stopping right behind you, “Y/N come with me,” the graveling voice of none other than, the right-hand man of Lloyd. The voice sent shivers down your spine, one of slight fear but mostly lust. 

As you looked behind you, the stern gaze of dark eyes catched yours. You couldn’t help but pout, you knew your game and chance of winning was now over. With a heavy sigh you placed your cards on the table before getting up and following after the man. “I could’ve won that– do you even know how– fuck it, anyways are you bringing me to your boss?” you stopped your train of thoughts spilling from your lips, when you didn’t get an answer. 

Rolling your eyes, another pout formed on your lips, before quickly getting distracted as your eyes raked over the man’s body. He was definitely really attractive, dark brown hair that was tied back in a man-bun, the five o’ clock shadow on the jaw had your legs wobbled by the lustful thoughts swapping through your mind.

The other man only threw you an annoyed look and a scoff, as he led you up the stairs into a room with the sign ‘Vip Exclusive’ on it. The room was definitely large, there was an entire wall made out of glass that showed the on-goings on the first floor, the light of the club flickered dimly into the room, which was lightened up in warm light. 

Said room was basically empty except for a few guards, a bartender, the man by your side, yourself and well another person that was standing at the wall of tinted glass. Your eyes scanned over the man, he wore a suit that clung nicely to his body, dark hair styled back, you couldn’t see his face but you could see his hand, large with a few obvious veins, fingers wrapped around the glass.

You gulped, as your throat felt suddenly dry, “Look who we have here, Mr L/N, you’re quite some trouble, hm?” The voice was deep and smooth, yet it sent you a shiver down your spine, the voice was cold with a hint of frustration. Lloyd turned around with a raised eyebrow, “How exactly are you going to pay your debt back to me? If you don’t have any income, hm?” he took slow deliberate steps towards you, coming to a stop in front of you, “I mean– you lend a million dollars in the last three years and not one penny made it back to me, after you promised you would pay back,” he placed a finger under your chin, lifting it up to meet his grey eyes. 

Licking your lips, you felt suddenly nervous. You didn’t think it would be this much, you thought if you won in a gamble you can easily pay back– yet it seems you’ve forgotten. Your eyes quickly skimmed across the room, before landing on the glass wall, in the far corner there was the open room in which he was only minutes ago, his jaw clenched lightly as he took a deep breath. You could see the four middle aged men and a new additional person who’d took your place, before your eyes locked back on Lloyd’s, “I was about to win enough money to pay you back–” a scoff and a chuckle came from Lloyd and the man who brought you here.

“We both know– you’ve forgotten a long time ago from whom you got all that money to play your dirty little games– you won’t suddenly pay up,” he dropped your chin and took a step back, his eyes analyzed your body seemingly satisfied with what he saw, “Well with a body like that– there might be another possibly for you to get the money, as you’re not getting any more from me to throw away,” you saw how Lloyd licked his lips, before he retreated to a seat lounge.

Suddenly a push on your back, made you follow the man, with the other close behind you. Lloyd sat down on the plush red seating, while you stood by the table in front of him, “I think it’s time for you to show some of the.. good qualities you could use to pay me back,” the black haired male said, as he spread his legs with an arm draped lazily over the back of the lounge.

Lloyd teasingly tapped his lap, you wanted to ask if there’s another way for you to pay back, you didn’t want to sell your body. But maybe if you would play your charms right, after getting a taste of the man and satisfying him, you could stir the man’s mind to maybe a different deal. You licked your lips, as you took two steps closer before you kneeled down between Lloyd’s legs, who didn’t comment and only watched.

Using your teeth on the zipper from Lloyd’s black dress pants, pulling it slowly down, as your eyes were locked with the grey ones. You worked on the man’s pants until his semi-hard cock springs free. Your hand wrapped around it, while giving the slightly reddish tip a few kitty licks, tasting the precum on your tongue, while you stroked his cock a few times until it was hard and pulsing in your hand.

Your lips wrapped around the tip, suckling on it. You could feel your own dark blue dress pants, that were already tightly clinging to your skin, pressing against your own hardening dick. A soft grunt left Lloyd as you took more of his cock into your mouth, while your tongue licked over the protruding vein that ran up his cock. When you reached the base, you hummed lightly after you had eased your gag reflex, a hand fisted your hair, which made you look up through your lashes with slightly watery eyes, you came face to face with a hungry look. 

Slowly you started to bop your head, until the hand in your hair guided you, rougher. Your eyes rolled slightly back when Lloyd used your throat, until he stood up from his seating position with your mouth still on his cock. You only heard a door open and close, and a grunt before said man started to thrust his cock into your warm wet mouth. You couldn’t help but moan as the man above you used your mouth, while his tip hit the back of your throat.

“Fuck you have such a good mouth– oh f-fuckk–” your cock twitched painfully, at the words, while Lloyd’s thrust picked up the pace, until your face was shoved against his groin, pubic hair itching your skin as the cock in your mouth twitched before ropes of hot cum shot down out of his tip down your throat, followed by a groan from the man. As his load emptied in your mouth you tried to swallow as good as you could, to not choke on his dick and cum. 

When you swallowed the last drop, the hand let go of your hair, you pulled back easing your throat. You sucked on the tip, before letting the cock plop out of your mouth. Lloyd sat back down on the seating, his legs spread as he waved a hand, “Alio would you.. Bring me the lube?” the man Alio, who is the one that brought you here and the only one who stayed, stalked away to probably grab the requested item.

Lloyd leaned forward, a finger placed under your chin, lifting it, “Your mouth definitely would get some money– let’s see the quality from the rest of your body, hm?” the words made your cock pulse painfully in your slacks, you rubbed your thighs together trying to give your aching cock some relief. 

Grey eyes focused on your movement, a raised eyebrow and a mocking smirk formed on Lloyd’s lips, “You’re hard from sucking me off? God– you’re a little slut, aren’t you,” his voice was mocking, yet the grey eyes were flooded by lust. “Get up and strip,” was the order that followed quickly. When you stood, you slowly started to undress, starting with the black silk shirt, which was only half buttoned exposing his collarbone and chest a bit, the shirt was slightly see-through underneath the light, making it obvious what was barely hidden underneath anyways, after that followed the black dress pants that highlighted your legs and ass, this was also when Alio returned. Now you stood only in your black fitted panties with an obvious bulge, and your patent leather shoes.

After a few seconds, you also pulled your underwear off, a satisfied look was on Lloyd’s face, who tapped his lap again. This time you didn’t kneel, you sat down on his lap, a hand was placed on your lower back as you sat face to face with the man. You slowly lifted your hands and started to unbutton Lloyd’s suit and dress shirt, which got you a raised eyebrow with a look of interest, but he never stopped you. 

Your hands wandered over his warm exposed chest, before your hands dropped again. A chuckle left Lloyd, before he reached his arm out in which Alio placed the bottle of lube. “Is that all you would do to please me?” Lloyd asked teasingly, making you bite your lip, before you leaned forward and started to place kisses on his neck and jaw, first they were a bit hesitant before they got slightly more confident and eager. 

The sound of the bottle opening made the heat pool in your groin, and a soft gasp left you as two fingers pushed into your hole, your arms automatically grabbed onto Lloyd. “You know– I might be an asshole, even considered a monster by many.. but I don’t have sex with unprepared partners,” the low voice of Lloyd sounded by your ear, the warm breath hitting the shell. 

Soft moans left your throat, between the kisses you littered on his skin, a few red marks blossomed on his skin from where you sucked. The long, slick fingers worked your hole open until they brushed and prodded against your prostate, making your eyes roll slightly back, while a moan rippled from your throat. “There it is,” Lloyd mumbled, before he pressed against it a few more times, enlightening the soft moans from you that had his cock pulsing. 

Lloyd pulled his fingers out, before lightly tapping your hip, “Lift your ass,” he ordered and you followed. He aligned his tip with your hole, teasing your hole slightly, “Get down on it,” and you did. You felt the bulbous tip pressing against your hole before it breached the rim, a shaky moan left you and a breathy groan against your ear from the black haired male.

The length pushed slowly into your hole, inch by inch until you reached the base. Your hips shook lightly as the tip pressed against that sweet spot, your arms were looped around Lloyd’s neck as you took slow breaths. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, you started to lift your hips before dropping them again. It was slow at the beginning, before you picked up the pace and found a rhythm that not only had you feeling good but also Lloyd, whose hands were grabbing onto your hips.

You were lost in pleasure, as moans spilled from your lips. The soft grunts and groans from Lloyd firing you up to keep going, until a heat coiled in your stomach as you slammed your hips down and the tip kissed your prostate, the feeling intensified. Your legs shook, barely able to continue to ride Lloyd, who noticed and thrusted up into your hole, quickly pushing you over the edge.

A loud moan, as your eyes rolled back. Your hands holding tightly onto Lloyd, as your legs shook and your cum spurted out of your cock, splattering onto Lloyd’s exposed chest, who was focused on your face as sloppy thrust hit your prostate, while your hole clenched tightly around his twitching cock, which added to the erotic face you had, made him shoot his load into your warm velvety hole.

Not once before had any of his partners made a face that looked so erotic, making his cock twitch even more after his own orgasm ebbed. When your eyes met, you looked up at him with slightly teary eyes, “More–” you spoke, which made him raise both eyebrows before a smirk settled on his lips, “You’re quite a needy slut for dick,” he said before his eyes wandered from you to Alio who seemed focused on not sparing the two of you a look, but seeing the bulge in his right-hand man’s pants told him enough.

“Alio come over–  seems like one cock isn’t enough for him,” Lloyd spoke, gaining both of your attention. Alio slowly walked over, looking at his best friend, while his eyes sometimes strayed to your figure. “What are you waiting for? Needy boy wants more,” Lloyd’s voice pulled Alio out of his train of thoughts, before he started to undress. The boss’ focus landed back on you, as he pushed a hair strand behind your ear, “Do you think you’re able to take both of us?”

You looked at Lloyd and swallowed hard, “I can try..” you said, the thought did send excitement down your spine, but if you could take it was the question that you were about to solve, as Lloyd laid on his back with you following close behind. The slick sound of Alio jerking his lubed cock made you clench around the man already inside of you.

Lloyd grabbed your chin and pulled you further down, closer to his lips, “We have to make you relax or else it won’t work well,” were the last words before his lips crashed with yours, pulling you into a heated kiss. Alio watched for a few seconds, before he walked over stopping behind you. 

You only felt how your hole slowly stretched more, as Alio slowly eased his cock inside your hole. It was a bit uncomfortable yet it sent waves of pleasure up your spine, “You’re doing so well,” Lloyd spoke gently against your lips, before trying to stir your focus elsewhere until Alio was sheathed fully inside your hole, alongside Lloyd. 

“So full– fuck-” you whimpered as your legs trembled and soft gasps left your lips from the twitching cocks. Suddenly a hand wrapped around your leaking cock from behind, stroking it making you moan as cum spurted out of your cock. Lloyd kissed your neck, while rubbing your left hip until his eyes fell onto the bulge in your stomach. “Well, would you look at that,” Lloyd’s voice was husky, as his free hand moved to your stomach and pressed against the bulge, enlightening pleasured sounds from the three of you.

Alio on the other hand, was slightly unsure, he was aroused by the idea of fucking you after what he heard and saw, especially now that his cock was in you– but he didn’t know how much you could take. “You can move,” you spoke loud enough for the two to hear, the men both gave each other a look, before Alio pulled his hips back, before thrusting back in. As Alio thrusted in, Lloyd pulled out and so it continued.

It was slow yet pleasing, your body trembled as gasps and breathy moans left you. Both men groaned, at your hole clenching and their cocks rubbing against each other, the pace got quicker which ended with your arms giving out, and your face planted on Lloyd’s chest while your ass was filled up. Alio’s hand was still wrapped around your cock that was hard and weeping again, which brought him to stroke your cock in the same pace as their thrust, making you cum for the third time.

As your hole clenched tightly around their cocks, additional to the stimulation of their cocks rubbing up on another, made both of them come inside of your hole– loading you even more with cum. They pulled two more orgasms out of each other, while both of them penetrated your hole. Your thighs shook, as one cock pulled out, Lloyd’s, while Alio started to freely pound into you from behind, having you spill another orgasm onto Lloyd’s dress pants.

Your mind was reduced to a cock drunk and overstimulated mess, babbling and drooling. After you whined about not being able to cum anymore– Lloyd showed you that one more was possible, while one more turned into another, another and another. By the time your body was wrecked by another orgasm, your cock was shooting blanks and your hole dripping and stuffed with one last orgasm from Lloyd as you passed out on the man’s chest.

Lloyd gently caressed your head, as your sleeping form rested against him, with his cock buried inside of your, keeping most of the cum from dripping out. He grabbed his suit jacket and draped it over your naked form, and an arm wrapped around your figure. With a slightly exhausted sigh, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the jacket pocket, taking one out before throwing the pack over to Alio, who had his pants closed again. Lloyd grabbed the lighter and lit the bud of the cigarette. 

“Are you keeping him?” the sudden question rang out, yet Lloyd only took a drag on the cigarette, before blowing the smoke out, “Yeah, he’s worth it. Why would I give such a gem away, if I can simply keep it for myself.”

[sturniqlo]

SNEAKING AROUND- MATT STURN

summary: after y/n's brother is fast asleep, matt sneaks into her room to continue what had happened in the kitchen.

cw: brothers best friend trope, cursing, SMUT; hickies, making out, oral!f!receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, cowgirl, belly bulge, spanking, creampie, getting caught?

an: read part one here | short n smutty

masterlist | join my taglist

-----------------------------------------------

"when it turns out she's a devil in between sheets, and there's nothing she can do about it." - only angel, h.s

-

-

It must've been fifteen minutes after Matt had sent Y/n the dm. She sat in her bed patiently waiting for her door to open. She tidied up her room even though Matt won't pay attention to her room. He'd be busy doing other.. things.

A quiet knock on her door made her sit up from her laying position. "Come in." She spoke softly. Matt opened her door and saw the soft glow of her sunset lamp. Her room smelled like vanilla and a hint of caramel, something Matt always smelled when he would walk by her room to head to the stairs. He'd never actually been in her room. He would just stand in the doorframe as Daniel would be the one in here asking her something. Not this time.

Matt entered and closed the door quietly behind him. "Hi." He said as he took a seat on her bed in an empty spot next to her. "Hi, Matt. Took you long enough." She smirked, climbing onto his lap as he sat against her plush headboard. "I know, 'm sorry, I'll make it up to you." He runs his hands up and down her bare thighs, as her shorts had ridden up higher.

"I know you will." She tilts her head, and rubs her hands up and down his chest. "Can you take this off?" She kisses his jaw and tugs on his tank top. Matt tugs it off and throws it somewhere on the floor and she does the same with her shirt. Matt groans at the sight of her bare breast and grabs her jaw and places his lips on his for the third time tonight. Y/n moans feeling his soft lips on hers.

"Shh, can't let your brother hear, hm?" He pulls away and attached his lips to her neck, siding his hand down to squeeze her tits and roll her nipples between his thumb and index finger. "Can you be quiet for me? Can you do that for me?" Y/n sighs in pleasure and nods her head at his words.

"Yes, I- I can do that." She whimpers when Matt finds her sweet spot. Matt notices this and runs his tongue an extra time and sucks a bit harder. Y/n moves her hips against his, trying to get some friction to soothe the ache between her thighs.

Matt places a wet kiss on her sweet spot before removing his face from her neck. "So needy, moving your hips against mine." He moves his hands to her hips, stopping her from moving. "Matt- please." She wants to continue. "Let me taste you first. Can I?" He looks up at her.

"Yes, fuck yes. Please taste me." She nods quickly. "Go ahead, lay down f'me." Matt pats his right hand against her hips. Y/n wastes no time and gets off of his lap and lays down next to him. Matt gets up from his position and moves kneels down between her legs, his hands coming next to her head.

"Gonna let you brothers best friend get a taste of you?" He refers to the event that is about to happen. "Yes, want your mouth on my pussy." She brings his head down to meet her lips in a kiss. It's messy, just like the one in the kitchen. Matt runs in right hand down her body to the waistband of her skimpy sleeping shorts. "Can I-" Before he even finished his sentence, Y/n nodded and he chuckled at her eagerness.

Matt backed away from her to be able to slide the pair of shorts off with ease and threw it off with their shirts on the floor. All she was left in was her baby blue cotton thong with a wet patch on her heat. "Look at that, fuck." He groaned, laying on his belly between her thighs. She props her legs up and spreads them. He kisses her inner thigh before laying his head there. "So wet already. Who made you this wet, hm?" He presses a finger into the wet spot. "Oh- you did. You did, Matt." She sighs, finally getting touched where she needed it the most.

Lifting his head up, he presses a kiss to her covered cunt and loops a finger under her thong and moves it to the side. Thanks to her sunset lamp and fills the room with its orange glow, he's able to see her swollen clit and glistening folds. "Look at that, you're dripping." He thumbs at her swollen clit. Matt pulls away, and tugs her thong off throwing it before going back to her center.

He swiped his tongue from her achy hole to her clit. "Taste so sweet, can't believe I've been missing out on this for so long." He goes in for another lick. "Shit!" She moans, bringing her right hand to tug on his hair. "Mm, keep pulling my hair like that." The vibrations of his groan affect her pleasure and gets her even wetter if it was possible. Matt continues to lap at her pussy as he can't get enough of her unique taste. "So fucking good." He pulls his mouth off, replacing his mouth with his fingers.

"So good, Matt. Fuck." She brings a hand up to her tit and squeezes it. He inserts a finger into her and sucks her clit into his mouth. "Holy shit." She cries, covering her mouth instantly as she was loud. "What'd I tell you? Your brother is down the hall. I don't think he'd like to find me between these pretty thighs of yours."

"M' sorry. I'll- shit! I'll- I won't be loud." She can't think straight. Her words coming out in a mumble. Matt continues fucking his finger into her- adding another- and comes up to be face to face with her. "I promise you, next time we'll be alone and you can be as loud as you fucking want. I wanna hear your pretty moans. Wanna hear how good I'm making you feel."

Next time.

There's going to be a next time. "Okay, y- yeah. Next time." She gasps when she feels Matt's warm mouth on her nipple. "Fucking love your tits, baby." He groans, swirling his tongue on her nub. She covers her mouth and cries at the sensation of his mouth on her nipple and his fingers thrusting in an out of her. "I'm close. So, so close. Don't stop." He goes back down and places his mouth back on her. "Mmph, just like that." Her moans are mumbled by her hand covering her mouth.

Once again, the vibrations of his groan from her pulling his hair add on to her building orgasm. "I'm cumming!" She arches her back off of the bed and cums. Matt's fingers slowing keep thrusting in her, riding her through her orgasm. "Fuck." As she grows sensitive, Matt pulls his fingers out and places a wet kiss on her clit and cleans his fingers with his mouth.

He comes up to her and kisses her so she can taste herself on his tongue. "You taste so good, don't you?" He says in between kisses. "Mhm." She hums, inserting her tongue into his mouth and Matt doesn't fight her. Instead, he lets her explore his mouth.

Y/n surprises Matt by flipping them so she'd be on top. In the process of doing so, their lips disconnected from eachother. "Gonna let your best friends little sister ride you?" She says something similar to what he had said earlier. "Fuck yeah." He brings his head behind her head and brings her to his lips.

Her hands come down his chest to the top of his pajama pants. "Want them off?" He asks. "Yes, want your underwear off too." She kisses his jaw before getting off his lap so he can take his bottom clothes off. Once he does so, she drools at the sight of his cock. It's the perfect shade of pink. It's big and his tip is leaking with pre-cum. "Look at your pretty fucking cock. So hard. Is it from me?"

She hold him in her hands. Squeezing him as she waits for a response from him. "Just for you, baby. Just for you." He sighs in pleasure, throwing his head back against the headboard. "You're so big. Think it's gonna fit inside me?" She smirks and he groans at her words. "Yes I-" His words are cut off by her lips on his for the hundredth time tonight.

Y/n disconnects her lips from his, a string of saliva connects them partially before breaking. "Ready for me to ride you?" He nods. "Wait- what about a condom." He reminds her. "I'm on the pill, unless you still want a condom, I don't mind." She reassures him, reminding he still had options. "Oh okay, no condom is more than okay. Wanna feel you wrap around me." A part of inside of him fills with excitement knowing he'd be able to feel her fully. Y/n sits up on her knees and lines his tip up with her hole.

As she sinks down on his length. They moan. "You're so warm." Matt lulls his head back. Y/n closes her eyes in pleasure as she feels him stretch her. "Fuck- I feel you so deep inside me." She fully sinks down. Y/n waits a few seconds before she starts moving.

"Look at you, riding me in the middle of the night." He says with a hand on her ass as she rolls her hips. "You feel so good, babe." The pet name flows easily out of her mouth. She looks down at where they connect and sees the outline of his dick on her lower belly and she whines. "Fuck, Matt. Look at this- feel it." She grabs his hand and places it on where the bulge forms and she bounces up and down.

Matt groans and he feels his cock in her when she moves up and down. He takes his hand out and sees the bulge. "Holy shit. So fucking hot." He moans, looking up at her bringing his hand to her jaw and pulling her towards him to reconnect their lips. As she rolls her hips, their kiss is interrupted by moans, pants and clashing teeth.

"Keep going, baby. Keep fucking yourself on my cock." He rests his head back on the headboard and rubs her left ass cheek before spanking. "Oh! Again, fuck, do it again." She whimpers. "You like that? You like being spanked?" Matt soothes the raw area by rubbing it before spanking it again.

"Mm, I'm so close!" She continues rolling her hips against hers. "Me too, shit! Keep doing that!" He rolls her nipple between his fingers. With a couple more rolls of her hips, they both come undone together. "Shit!" "Fuck! I'm cumming!" They both moan out together. Y/n helps them ride out their high until their both sensitive.

Y/n slowly lifts her hips and Matt looks to where they're connected and sees his cum drip out of her. "Baby, shit. Look at my cum dripping out of you." He hisses. She plops herself next to Matt and lays her head on his chest.

"Well, that just happened." She lets out a breathy laugh, wiping her hair that's stuck to her forehead. "Yeah, it did." Matt giggles, pressing a kiss to her head. "Do you know what time it is?" She looks up at him. "Not sure." Matt grabs the nearest phone he sees and checks the time. "It's three- oh no." His face drains from its color. "What is it?" She sits up, bringing the blanket to cover her chest.

Matt flips the phone- her phone- to her and sees the message that sits unopened.

daniel

what the actual fuck?!

"Oh my god."

[strnilolover]

Cabin On The Mountain

in which . . . matt and reader decide to go to a cabin for a get away up on the mountains, secluded from everyone and everything else. what happens when they get snowed in their first night and matt decides on how to keep them busy?

content warnings : this is a short little mini series that will explicitly contain smut and mature themes. this whole thing will basically be smut with zero to very little plot whatsoever. this also skips a lot, so they are all different days and things they do each day. length also may very (they will mostly be short, but can be longer).

additional warnings : smut. kitchen/counter sex. unprotected pnv. dirty talk. praising.

intro , one , two , three

ON THE COUNTER

day four…

when you woke up this morning, the snow was still inches high outside—not allowing for any outdoor plans to be made and done. and it was frustrating, not being able to go outside and enjoy the chill air while wandering around with matt.

you didn’t let it get to you too much—matt’s words having been in your mind since yesterday morning.

“and I plan on fucking you on every surface in this cabin until that snow outside is gone.”

you couldn’t deny that the thought of all the places he was going to fuck you at, turned you on. just knowing he could take you anywhere at any moment without be caught by someone.

it was thrilling.

you hadn’t bothered putting on much this morning—just a lacy bra and matching panties, the cool air brushing against your bare skin. matt had gone to bed before you last night, so he hadn’t seen what you’d decided to sleep in, and you hadn’t thought much about it when you got up.

currently you were focused on breakfast, flipping some pancakes as another pan held bacon—it was the perfect breakfast to wake him up with.

but upstairs, matt had woke up groggy, rubbing a hand over his face before turning over and realizing the side of your bed was empty. he frowned, pushing himself up as he swung his legs over the side of the bed—still sluggish as he padded downstairs in just his sweatpants. but the second he stepped into the kitchen, all of that sleepiness vanished.

his breath hitched, and his cock twitched in his sweats as he took in the sight of you—standing there, oblivious, wearing nothing but that delicate little set. the straps of your bra dug slightly into your shoulders, and the lace clung to your curves in a way that made his mouth go dry. your panties were barely there, hugging the swell of your ass just right.

“fuck,” matt exhaled under his breath, reaching down to palm at his erection. at the sound of his voice, you turned your head, smiling. “oh good morning, baby. I was just making breakfast—”

you didn’t get to finish.

matt was on you in seconds, pressing himself against your back, his hands immediately finding your hips. he groaned, already hard, grinding against your ass as his lips brushed against the skin of your neck. “you tryna fucking kill me?” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and lust.

your body shivered, tilting your head to the side as he kissed and nipped at your skin. “I— I just thought I’d be comfy,” you murmured, barely able to focus with the way he was touching you—the way he was making you feel.

“comfy, hm?” his hands roamed, sliding over your stomach, up to your breasts, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your bra. “walking around like this, looking like a goddamn dream first thing in the morning?” he groaned, squeezing your tits before his hands dropped lower, smoothing over your thighs. “you got no idea what you do to me sweetheart.”

you gasped as he gripped your hips and turned you around, pressing you back against the counter. his eyes were dark—hooded—scanning over you with pure hunger. you could feel him, hard and heavy through his sweatpants, and it sent a rush of heat straight to your core.

“matt,” you whispered, looking up at him.

“yeah, baby?” he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs. then, before you could react, he lifted you onto the counter, pushing your legs apart so he could slot himself between them. “you want me?” he murmured against your lips. “want me to fuck you right here, pretty girl?”

you nodded, breathless, your panties already soaked with your arousal. “please.” you whispered—your breathing quickening.

“that’s my good girl,” he praised, reaching down and tugging your panties aside, swiping two fingers through your slick folds. “fuck, you’re already so wet. you like teasing me, don’t you?”

you whimpered as he pressed both of his fingers to your entrance, slowly pushing them in and curling them just right. “n-no, I wasn’t— I just—” a broken moan slipped past your lips, head tipping back at the feeling of his fingers stretching you out.

he smirked at your reaction, quickly pulling his fingers out and bringing them to his lips, sucking your arousal off them. “sweet as always,” he murmured. his free hand coming down, pushing his sweats down just enough to free his cock, already throbbing, the tip leaking precum.

he wrapped his hand around himself, pumping a few times—spreading the precum around his pink tip before he lined himself up, teasing you, rubbing his cock through your slick folds. “you gonna take me like a good girl?” he murmured.

“yes,” you breathed, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer—your heels digging into his lower back.

matt hummed, dragging his cock through your folds a little more—teasing you. and you whined, your heels trying to push him forward more. he smirked, chuckling. “so impatient.” he whispered before pushing in slowly, groaning as he filled you inch by inch. “jesus,” he hissed, his hands gripped your thighs as he bottomed out, holding himself there for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you.

you moaned, arching your back as your nails dug into his shoulders. “fuck- matt—” you choked out.

“mhm I got you, baby,” he whispered before pulling back and thrusting in again, slow and deep. “fuck, you feel so good.”

slowly he set a rhythm, rolling his hips into yours, his cock dragging along your gummy walls. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him with each thrust, the sounds of skin slapping and your breathless moans filling the kitchen.

“look at you,” he murmured, a hand coming up to grip your face, eyes locking onto you. “taking me so well. my perfect fucking girl.” the fingers on his other hand come down to brush over your clit, circling it slowly. “you wanna cum for me baby? hm?” he mocks.

you whimpered, nodding frantically as your hands continued to grip onto him—body sliding forward as your legs opened wider. allowing him to hit deeper, the pleasure built in your core.

“mm i know.” he cooed, picking up his pace. “let me feel it. cum all over my cock, baby.” and he thrusted deeper, both hands now gripping your thighs to keep you wide open for him as he moaned each time you squeezed around him.

it didn’t take much more—with a sharp gasp, your walls spasmed, pulsing around him as your orgasm washed over you. and he groaned, his head tipping back, thrusting deep a few more times before spilling inside you, filling you up as he moaned.

for a few moments, neither of you moved, just catching your breath, tangled up in each other as your arms wrapped around one another. matt chuckled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. slowly he pulled back just enough to admire the way you looked—flushed, breathless, fucked out—swiping a thumb over your bottom lip.

one of his hands on your thighs retracts back and gives it a quick smack, smirking as you gasp—a small giggle escaping your lips after.

“let’s get some breakfast.”

a/n : tell me why it took me so long to do this WHAT

[gf2bellamy]

hi! love your fics so much <3 i was wondering what do you think of sunshine!reader and post-prison spencer... like that man is so wary about everything after what he'd been through and sunshine!reader was just being the goodness incarnate, breaking down his walls one by one 🙏🏻

sunshine — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: spencer having a cut on his forehead , mention of spencer having nightmares , mention of germophobia a/n: hiii !! this made me realize how much i love writing sunshine!reader x postprison!spencer <3 hope you like this

Spencer’s gaze lingered on you as you laughed with Penelope, your bright energy filling the room like a warm sunrise. The corners of his mouth twitched—just barely—but as soon as he felt it, he forced himself to look away, focusing on the coffee he was pouring.

But then, like clockwork, you shattered through them. 

“Spencer!” Your voice was light, cheerful as you entered the breakroom. “Hi! Good morning! I haven’t seen you all day.” 

You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing against his in an innocent touch, but one that sent a ripple of warmth through him. He straightened slightly, tightening his grip on the coffee cup.

“Morning,” he murmured. “Yeah, I woke up a little late today.” 

What he didn’t say—what he never really said—was that the nightmares had stolen his sleep again, twisting through his mind until exhaustion finally won out, making him oversleep. 

You tilted your head. “You know, my alarm clock is pretty amazing. Hasn’t failed me once,” you said, watching him take a sip of coffee. Then, almost as an afterthought, you mumbled, “Except maybe once or twice…” 

A sheepish grin spread across your lips before you perked up again. “But I can totally give you the brand name! You should definitely get one.” 

Spencer looked at you, really looked at you. The way you stood there, all warmth and light, as if the world hadn’t touched you with the same cruelty it had touched him. A part of him wanted to let that warmth in—just a little. 

Instead, he gave you a small, wary smile. “No, it’s fine… but thank you.” You flashed him a bright smile.

“Okay,” you said simply, turning to grab a cup and start making your own coffee. 

Spencer lingered for a moment, watching as you hummed softly to yourself, completely absorbed in your task.

He exhaled quietly, forcing himself to turn away. But as he reached the doorway, something pulled at him.

So he glanced back. 

Just for a second. 

You, still oblivious, stirred your coffee, completely unaware of the way his gaze softened—just barely—before he shook his head at himself and disappeared down the hall. 

He wasn’t sure why he looked back. Maybe that was the part that scared him the most. 

That wasn’t the first time moments like this had happened. 

Like that one evening on the jet. 

The case had been brutal. He sat in his usual spot, silent, lost in thought. 

And then there was you. 

Sliding into the seat next to him, your knee brushed against his, a casual, fleeting touch that sent a ripple of awareness through him. You didn’t pry or push—you never did.

You simply pulled a small Sudoku book from your bag and flipped it open. A quiet invitation. 

Spencer wasn’t sure why he kept sneaking glances at you as you worked through the puzzle, pencil tapping idly against the page. Maybe it was the way your lips quirked in concentration, or how you absentmindedly twirled the pencil between your fingers when you were thinking. 

You were stuck—long enough that he finally caved. 

“Four,” he murmured, tapping his finger lightly against the empty square, his arm brushing against yours in the process. 

Your head snapped up, eyes meeting his, and then came that smile—the one that made something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

“Thanks,” you said. For some reason, that made him feel lighter. You bit your lip surpressing an even bigger smile at the realization that your plan was working.

At some point, you shifted the book between the two of you, an unspoken offer to let him join in. He could have filled out the entire page in seconds—he already had the answers mapped out in his head—but he waited, watching you work through each number, patient in a way he rarely was. 

And when he saw it—that telltale little pout, the way your lips puckered just slightly when you were stumped. 

Without a word, he would lean in again, pencil grazing the page. 

“Seven,” he murmured. 

Your smile was even brighter this time. You always had a way of brightening his day, even when he least expected it. 

Some mornings, Spencer woke up convinced that smiling was out of the question. And yet, somehow, you always managed to prove him wrong. 

Like today. 

He stepped into the bullpen, his eyes catching Emily and JJ standing by a small pink bakery box, happily grabbing donuts from inside. By the time he walked closer, the box was already half-empty. 

Typical. 

Spencer barely had time to process his disappointment before your voice chimed in from behind him. 

“Spencer!” 

He turned just as you appeared, a small box in your hands. Without hesitation, you pressed it into his. 

“Here.” 

He blinked down at it, fingers curling around the edges. “Hi. What’s this?” 

“Open it,” you urged, practically bouncing on your feet. 

Lifting the lid, he found a single chocolate-sprinkled donut inside. His favorite. 

“I knew the team would finish them all,” you said, nodding toward JJ, who—right on cue—grabbed another donut with a sheepish grin. “So I thought I’d get you one in a separate box.” 

You smiled, and Spencer found himself just… staring. 

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” he said softly, offering a small but genuine smile before taking a bite. 

You and he both knew why you’d gone out of your way to do this. It wasn’t just because he was often late these days, dragging himself in after nights spent wrestling with his own mind. It wasn’t just because the team had a tendency to wipe out the treats before he even got a chance. 

It was because you’d noticed. 

Noticed the way he hesitated before grabbing food that others had already touched. Noticed that, despite his insistence that prison had forced him to overcome his germophobia, old habits still lingered. 

But neither of you said anything about it. 

Instead, you just smiled at each other before heading to your desks, like this was normal—like it wasn’t something small and kind and significant. 

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Spencer started to believe that kindness didn’t always come with a catch. 

That's when things started to shift.

One morning, as you were settling in at your desk, a cup appeared in your line of sight. 

You blinked, looking up—only to find Spencer standing there, his expression unreadable but his gesture speaking louder than words. 

“Oh.” A flicker of surprise crossed your face before it melted into a bright smile. “Thank you.” 

You took the cup carefully, warmth seeping into your palms, trying to pretend like this wasn’t a big deal. Like your heart hadn’t skipped a little at the thought of Spencer Reid going out of his way for you. 

Spencer shifted slightly on his feet, glancing away as if regretting the decision to linger. “I, um… You always bring everyone else coffee. Thought I’d return the favor.” 

Your fingers curled around the cup a little tighter. 

“Oh, so you do notice,” you teased lightly, taking a sip. It was exactly how you liked it. Of course it was—Spencer noticed everything. 

He gave a small, almost imperceptible huff of amusement, shaking his head. “I notice a lot of things.” 

Something in the way he said it made your stomach flip. 

But before you could respond, he cleared his throat and tapped the file on your desk. “We have a briefing in five minutes.” 

And just like that, he was walking away, as if this was nothing. As if he hadn’t just let his walls slip, even for a second. 

You watched him go, a knowing smile playing on your lips. 

Little by little, he was letting you in. 

And he probably didn’t even realize it yet. 

The next instances were small, almost imperceptible, but to anyone paying attention, it was clear Spencer was letting his walls down bit by bit.

He’d consistently choose the seat next to you in the bullpen, even if there were other open spots. He’d find himself working alongside you—no matter what the task was.

And it wasn’t just in the office. Spencer’s schedule seemed to align with yours more often than not. He’d find himself finishing up work at the same time as you and walking out alongside you.

The way he would stand near your desk, leaning in just a bit to hear your voice, was becoming something he almost looked forward to. 

There was no grand moment of confession, no flashing neon sign that screamed, Spencer is letting you in, but it was happening in little gestures, in the softening of his gaze when he looked at you.

Maybe he wasn’t fully aware of it, or maybe he was too guarded to admit it, but it was happening, and that was enough for you. 

But one particular day, the usual rhythm shifted. The case they’d been working on had taken its toll on everyone, but Spencer had been especially distant.

No one had missed the way he’d brushed off the slight injury to his forehead, a thin cut from the struggle during the case.

It was barely noticeable at first, but under the harsh lighting of the bullpen, it was impossible to ignore. 

“Spencer.” Your voice was soft but firm. He turned slowly, his expression unreadable, but you could see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. 

You were already reaching into the drawer of your desk, fingers brushing over the familiar cool metal of your first aid kit.

It was instinct, really—an automatic response to someone else’s pain. 

“Come here,” you said, motioning toward the chair beside your desk. Your smile was warm and reassuring.

“I’m fine.” His voice was quiet, dismissive. A reflex, more than anything. 

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Spencer Reid,” you said gently, and something about the way you spoke his name made his resolve waver. “You’re not fine. Come here.” 

For a moment, he didn’t move. You saw the conflict flicker across his features, the instinct to withdraw battling against something else—something softer, something that looked a lot like longing. 

Then, with a quiet exhale, he relented. 

You resisted the urge to let out a relieved sigh as he sat down, watching as he brushed his hair back from his face.

“You should’ve taken care of this before we got on the jet,” you murmured, pulling out disinfectant and a clean cotton pad. Your hands worked steadily, but your heart was another matter entirely.

It always seemed to race when he was close like this. 

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh, though there was little humor in it. “There were more important things to worry about.” 

You frowned. “That doesn’t mean you don’t get to take care of yourself.” 

He didn’t respond, but you could feel his eyes on you as you stepped closer, standing between his legs without thinking twice about it. It wasn’t until your fingers tilted his chin gently upward that you realized how close you were. 

Your breath hitched. 

Spencer, for his part, remained still. If he was aware of the proximity, he didn’t say anything. But you saw the way his lips parted slightly, how his gaze flickered from your hands to your face like he was memorizing the details of the moment. 

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. 

“This might sting,” you warned softly. 

He gave a small nod, but his eyes never left yours. 

The moment the antiseptic touched his skin, he barely reacted. But you felt the sharp intake of his breath, saw the slight twitch of his fingers where they rested on his lap. 

“You’re really bad at this whole ‘letting people take care of you’ thing, you know that?” you said, attempting to lighten the air between you. 

Spencer exhaled a small chuckle, and the sound made your chest feel warm. 

“I’m aware.” 

You smiled despite yourself, shaking your head as you pressed a bandage carefully over the cut. “Yeah, well. Lucky for you, I’m stubborn.” 

Something flickered in his eyes—something almost too vulnerable to name. 

“I’ve noticed,” he murmured. 

Your fingers lingered against his skin for just a second too long before you forced yourself to take a step back, clearing your throat. 

“There,” you said, suddenly feeling breathless. “Good as new.” 

Spencer didn’t move right away. He just sat there, watching you in a way that made your stomach twist into knots. 

Then, finally, he spoke. “Thank you.” 

You nodded, offering him a small smile. “Anytime.” 

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, Spencer did something that surprised you. 

He stood up and reached out, hesitating only for a second before his fingers wrapped around your wrist. The contact was fleeting—just enough to make your breath catch—but then, in a single motion, he pulled you forward. 

Before you could fully process it, you found yourself wrapped in his arms. 

Spencer was hugging you. 

It wasn’t a quick, polite embrace. It was full-bodied, desperate in a way that made your heart ache. His arms tightened around you as if he was afraid you might slip away, and when you felt his lips rest against your shoulder, you thought you might actually break. 

You exhaled shakily, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around him in return. You felt the tension in his frame, the way he held onto you like he didn’t want to let go. 

One of your hands moved up, fingers threading softly through his hair in a soothing motion. You felt him exhale against your skin, the tension in his shoulders melting little by little as he leaned into your touch. 

When he finally pulled away, it was slow—like he wasn’t entirely ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt.

His eyes, usually guarded, were soft in a way you rarely got to see. 

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at the sight of it. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” you interrupted gently. “Not for that.” 

He blinked at you, something unreadable passing through his gaze. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just nodded. 

And then, to your surprise, he lifted a hand, hesitating for only a moment before brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was barely there, fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine. 

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of just how close you still were. 

“I should probably—” Spencer started, but he didn’t move, his eyes locked onto yours. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, but you didn’t move either. 

Neither of you did. 

Not yet. 

And in that moment, you knew. 

The walls he’d spent so long building were finally beginning to come down.