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HE CAN SPIT IN ME

nothing casual about this btw

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I need that yam yam

nothing casual about this btw

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THIS IS FROM MY WATTPAD ACOUNT @/Jun0Writes. ITS AROUND 4.2K WORDS! It's also smut so yeah! This is your warning <3

𝓖RANT HAD BEEN CLEANING.

Like actually cleaning, not just a quick straighten up or moving around old crumbs around the counter with a sponge. He had G's Bluetooth speaker going low, playing something mellow and vibey, and he tied up his Yankee issued hoodie into this awful little knot at the back so it wouldn't hang low when he wiped the coffee table.

Unknown to Grant, Giancarlo had been leaning in the doorway, just watching. Amused. A little proud. And a shit ton distracted.

And then, without saying a word, he walked over towards the couch and casually dropped the matte black shopping bag right in the middle of the space Grant had just cleaned.

The younger man blinked. "Uhh..." He stoop up, wiping his hands on a nearby napkin. "Did I miss a birthday or something? Whose bag is that?"

Stanton just shrugged, lips tugging into a smirk. "Yours."

Grant looked at him like he'd been handed a live ferret. "Mine? You got me stuff?"

The older man nodded toward the bag, all nonchalant. "Open it."

So Grant did. 

He reached inside and pulled out the first item, those damn shorts, he held them up by the waistband and let them unfold, he looked at Giancarlo with a sharp, suspicious squint. "Where's the rest, are they for me or like what the fuck."

Stanton didn't say anything at first, just gave a slow blink. A once over. The corner of his mouth twitched like he wasn't trying not to grin. "No baby, they're for you."

Grant lifted them again, "You sure? They look like something I'd get written up for at the team hotel."

"Exactly," Giancarlo said under his breath, and that made Grant freeze.

He tugged out the second item, and it was the cropped tee. It had a little logo on the front in soft stitching, barely anything. The hem was cut short enough that Grant's stomach would for sure be completely out.

The veteran tilted his head, eyes heavy and dark as they skimmed over Grant's frame like it was mentally dressing and undressing him in the same breath. "That one might be my favorite," he murmured.

Grant's face went pink, ears included. "Bro... I'm not wearing this out."

"You don't have to."

That made Grant stop, his eyes flicking up to meet G's.

"You just gotta wear it for me," Giancarlo added, voice low, barely a murmur.

Grant swallowed, still holding both items like they might combust in his hands. "I was literally vacuuming like five minutes ago," he muttered, cheeks warm.

Giancarlo stepped in closer. "Yeah. And now you're modeling, just for me."

"I'm not modeling."

"You're holding the clothes I picked out," Stanton said, brushing a finger against the hem of the shorts Grant still had bunched in one hand. "That's step one."

Grant looked down at them again, then to Giancarlo then back down.

"You're the worst," he muttered, smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

The man didn't even try to deny it. "And you're gonna look so damn good in those," he said, his lips getting near Grant's ear, right towards the tip.

Grant's ears were glowing, he shook his head, but he didn't hand the clothes back, nor didn't stuff them away either. He only folded them and said, "Be right back."

Giancarlo's grin grew slow and satisfied, "Good."

As the younger man stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the clothes he were just holding were folded neatly on the edge of the counter. He stared at them for a good thirty seconds, clearly debating.

"This is a trap," he muttered to himself. But he was already pulling his hoodie over his head. The shorts went on first.

Well. He tried to get them on. They were snug, not uncomfortable, but very intentionally tight in a way that left nothing to the imagination. The fabric clung to him like it was tailor made, low on his hips and stretched across his thighs and ass like it had a personal vendetta.

He twisted sideways in the mirror and exhaled. "Jesus," he whispered. "Okay."

Next came the crop top, it was soft, like weirdly soft, and it hit right at the top of his abs. Yeah, this was a full show. He gave himself one final look in the mirror as he turned around. "He better get a hard on," he murmured. 

Grant knew he looked hot, it made himself squirm. It also made something flutter hard in his chest. But as he went to open the door, he rubbed the back of his neck, debating whether he was about to be brave or stupid.

Giancarlo was exactly where he'd expected him to be. He leaned against the hallway wall with his phone in one hand, looking up the second he heard the door click. 

And then he went completely still.

Grant stood there in the doorway, arms slightly crossed as he tried to hide his stomach. "So...?"

Giancarlo didn't even pretend to look at his face first. His eyes dragged down slowly, from the cut of the crop top, across Grant's torso, past the waistband of those little shorts. He didn't say anything. Just bit the inside of his cheek and blinked hard, like he had to reset his entire system.

"Holy shit," he finally muttered.

Grant laughed awkwardly and looked away, still blushing. "I told you they were too tight."

"No," Stanton cut in, stepping closer. "They're perfect."

He circled around Grant, just once, like a shark taking in the view. "You don't know what you're doing to me right now," he muttered, voice low and serious.

Grant swallowed. "I... wasn't trying to do anything."

The older man paused behind him, warm breath ghosting the back of his neck. "You don't have to try baby."

The rookie nearly short circuited at that. He spun to face him, totally red now, but Giancarlo was already backing off a step with his hands up. Like he knew exactly how close he'd gotten to crossing a line just...looking.

"You wore it," he said simply, like the fact alone was a gift. "Damn."

Grant shrugged, trying to hide a smile. "You bought it."

Stanton tilted his head. "So what're the odds you leave it on...for a while?"

The younger man raised an eyebrow, "And if I do?"

"Then I might have to reward you."

Grant groaned dramatically and pushed past him, but he was smiling, biting his lip to try and keep himself from letting the smile get bigger, but he didn't take the outfit off. He just walked back towards the living room and cleaned.

As Grant moved across Giancarlo's living room, humming under his breath as he wiped down the coffee table once again. He felt the crop top ride up every time he reached or stretched. 

The shorts? Well... they were doing exactly what they were designed to do, which was to cling, lift, highlight and ruin G's concentration.

From the couch, Giancarlo had been pretending to scroll his phone for the past couple minutes. Not a single word had registered. His eyes kept drifting up, like a reflex, and then immediately darting away when Grant looked in his direction.

Grant noticed. Oh, he definitely noticed.

"You're quiet," Grant said casually, glancing glancing over his shoulder as he knelt to organize a stack of magazines on the bottom shelf. "Everything okay?"

Giancarlo cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. "Yeah. Mhm. Totally fine."

"Hmm." Grant lingered down there a beat too long, still squatting, back arched slightly, one hand resting on his knee as the other slowly fanned through the pages. His legs were strong and thick from years of baseball, and the way the shorts hugged him...

Stanton blew out a breath and muttered, "I'm going to die."

"What was that?" Grant asked. turning around with his most innocent expression and a dangerous little smirk.

Giancarlo ran a hand down his face. "You know exactly what you're doing."

And Grant did know what he was doing. He had placed the final magazine down, then stood up and padded over to where Giancarlo sat. He didn't even hesitate. Just braced one hand on the man's shoulder and swung a thigh over to straddle him, his small shorts riding up, knees bracketing Giancarlo's hips

Grant looked down at him, mouth tugged to one side, a challenge in his eyes. "You gonna reward me like you said? Or just stare until I die of embarrassment.

Stanton's hand went straight to Grant's bare thighs, broad palms sliding up to his hips, fingers digging in with welcome weight. "I'm deciding," he said, voice a fraction rough. "You look too good. It's distracting."

Grant confidence flickered, but then doubled down. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Giancarlo's, their noses almost touching. "You bought the clothes. Not my fault if you can't handle it."

They stood in silence for only seconds, but then Grant could feel Giancarlo's dick, hardening underneath him, unmistakably so. The older man was in athletic shorts, and his erection was strained but Grant could feel  pressing against the curve of his own ass through the flimsy fabric of their clothes.

"Deciding?" Grant repeated, cocking an eyebrow, as if he didn't notice the obvious. He grounded down just slightly, shifting his weight directly into Giancarlo's lap, and watched the man swallow a curse, his jaw tight.

"You're going to keep doing that until I lose my mind," Stanton said, hands tightening at Grant's hips. His thumbs slipped under the hem of the shorts, teasing bare skin.

Grant smiled, slow and wicked, and rocked forward again. "Maybe that's what I want."

"You should get a penalty for that," Giancarlo said, but his voice was mostly air, and he leaned into the touch, eyes flickering.

The younger man continued to let himself grind down, just a little, just enough to feel Stanton's dick continuing to press against him. It was something rigid and hot, an eager pressure through both their shorts. 

The contact made him lightheaded, and he had to suck in a breath to steady himself. Giancarlo's hands found his waist, squeezing, then sliding up under the crop top to rest on bare skin, his thumbs pressing gentle, lazy circles on Grant's ribs.

"I could keep going," Grant said, but his voice barely carried.

"I think you want to," Giancarlo rumbled, dark eyes locked on Grant's mouth.

Grant rocked forward again, this time slower, letting the friction drag out, savoring the way Giancarlo's dick nudged perfectly up the line of his ass. "I want to hear you say it," Grant said, half a challenge and half a question. "Say what you want me to do."

Stanton met the challenge with a look that pinned Grant in place, low and full of hunger. "I want you," he started, voice rough, "To keep grinding on my dick like that. Want to hear you get all needy for me. Want to see you make a mess in those, right here, on me."

Grant felt his whole body light up, blood rushing so hard he could hear it. "That's all?" He managed, voice gone all breath and dare.

"I want to fuck you," Giancarlo said, not even pretending to hide it. His hands flexed at Grant's hips, pulling him in for another long, slow grind. "Want to see your ass bouncing while you take me."

Grant's resolve nearly snapped as Giancarlo bucked his hip, the friction spiking so sharp Grant had to catch his breath, and then it was just a tangle of hands. Stanton dragged Grant closer till their bodies were flush, their chests and thighs were pressed together, nothing but the thinnest slip of fabric between them.

"You better not rip these," Grant managed, but he was already laughing, breathless in a way that made the world tilt sideways. 

Stanton only grinned, predatory, like a lion staring down a deer. The older man's let his hands roam up Grant's sides, pressing his palms flat and dragging them upward to map out the lines of his ribs, like he was cataloging every single inch for later.

"Not going to rip them, you look good in them." He said, even as his thumbs hooked the waistband and pulled, hard enough to let Grant know that the threat was very, very real.

The younger man had leaned in to kiss him, or maybe it was more like a hot, desperate press of his open mouth to the corner of Giancarlo's jaw, tongue flicking at the skin there because Grant could barely think with the way their hips were pressed together.

He squeezed his knees tighter around Giancarlo's waist and rolled forward again, and this time the friction made both of them stutter out a noise. But before Grant could get pulled under, Stanton caught him with both hands and lifted him up, like it was nothing, setting him on his own feet.

At first Grant staggered, he was unsteady, a little lightheaded in the new air between them, and it took a second to process being upright again. But when he looked down at Giancarlo, he saw something wild and wanting in his eyes, a look that made Grant's pulse drum under his skin.

Giancarlo motioned for him to turn around. Grant hesitated, but Giancarlo's palm was already on his lower back, steering him, gentle but unyielding.

Grant turned.

He could feel the heat of Giancarlo's attention on his bare skin, and felt suddenly taller, as they stood in the middle of the living room like a present waiting to be unwrapped.

The next touch was light, reverent almost. Giancarlo's hands mapped his back, thumbs tracing the line of Grant's spine through the super soft tee, then slipping under the hem, pushing it up.

The crop top bunched around his armpit, and from behind, Giancarlo pressed in, kissing the space between Grant's shoulder blades, tongue flicking out to taste the hollow there. He bit, just once, and the heat of his mouth made Grant shudder.

Then Giancarlo's hand moved to Grant's hips, bracing him, and in a practiced maneuver, Stanton nudged at Grant's short. He ran his thumb under the waistband, slow, coaxing. 

"Let me see you," Giancarlo whispered, his voice close and sandpaper rough, and his other hand palmed Grant's lower stomach, his fingers splayed wide, the way a catcher would settle for a wild pitch.

Grant's body answered before his brain did, arching back into Giancarlo, blindly trusting. The older man hooked his fingers and eased the shorts down, every inch deliberate. At the curve of Grant's ass, Giancarlo kissed the back of his neck, tongue warm and exploratory, then dragged his teeth down along the muscle that ran from neck to shoulder, a slow, hungry scrape.

The shorts continued to inch lower and lower until they clung mid thigh, and the air hit Grant's skin, raising goosebumps everywhere that his lips weren't. As G pressed up, behind him, nothing but his hands and the barely there barrier of his own pants. 

There was a moment, just a moment where Giancarlo seemed content to just look, letting his hands linger as if the body in front of him was some newly discovered planet. 

Grant's ass was big like a planet, but Grant felt the burn of being seen, but Giancarlo made it out to be like something sacred.

Stanton's fingers spread wide over Grant's hips, covering the sides as if he could cup the whole thing in two hands. "Goddamn," he exhaled, "You don't know how good you look, do you?"

Grant tried to fire back, something biting and half joking, but the words were stuck in his throat, replaced by the hot, dumb thump of his heart. He'd been looked at millions of times, by coaches, scouts, other players, but Giancarlo was different.

He looked like a man ready for Thanksgiving.

"You know I wasn't joking about seeing that perfect ass bounce as I fuck you right?" Giancarlo breathed, his mouth right by the shell of Grant's ear now, and his hands, those massive hands, dragged once more up Grant's side, flattening and squeezing, kneading like he could sculpt Grant into something entirely his.

"Then do it." Grant managed, sounding less like a dare and more of a plea.

Stanton didn't need  to be told twice. His eyes drank Grant in, the way his crop top cut off above the navel, how the shorts threatened to fall but clung on at the tops of Grant's thighs, how Grant's breath was coming shallow and ragged, and how his own body was betraying every ounce of calm he tried to keep. 

Giancarlo shed his shirt first, he didn't just whip it away, he reached behind his neck and peeled it up.  Then he dropped his shorts, which were not ceremonial or slow, but fast. He unhooked the jaw string, let them fall, and then he was as bare as Grant, the difference being Stanton looked like he belonged naked, like this was his starting state.

The older man's cock was hard, curving up toward his stomach, nothing shy or self conscious about it. He sat back down on the couch, leg spread, and with a glance up at Grant who now facing him. Still half undressed and blinking at him in the middle of the living room.

Stanton spat into his palm, wet and casual, and wrapped his hand around his dick. He started to stroke, slow at first, like he was testing the friction, his eyes never leaving Grant.

He pumped once, twice, then tipped his head back and groaned, the sound low and deliberate. The curve of his cock glistened, thick and leaking, and the sight alone made Grant's knees want to buckle. Grant's mouth went dry, as Giancarlo continued to slowly coax his dick.

"Come here," he rasped, voice shredded and direct. "Sit on it." 

Grant's legs almost gave out for real, but he managed to step forward. He stepped out of the shorts, leaving them puddled behind, and straddled Giancarlo's lap again, this time with nothing between them.

His own cock was already half hard, bobbing in the air as he settled on thigh to either side of Stanton's hips. He could feel Giancarlo's cock, hot and slick against his skin, pressing up between the cheeks of his ass as he lowered himself.

G's hands caught him, bracing him gently but with absolute control, and for a moment they just breathed together, the world shrinking into the shared beat of their pulse. Giancarlo reached up, tracing Grant's jaw one hand while the other anchored tight to his hip. "You look so fucking hot," he murmured, almost reverent. "Want you like this all the time."

He started to guide Grant down, the tip of his cock parting Grant with gentle insistence. Grant braced both hands on Giancarlo's chest, sturdy and warm. He could feel the weight of Stanton's gaze as he lined Grant up. 

The first slide in was a shock, slow and so thick it almost robbed Grant of his breath, he exhaled out a shaky, "Fuck-" as he eased down, feeling the stretch, the way Giancarlo's cock filled him inch by inch.

The older man watched every second. "You're taking it so fucking perfect," his fingers splayed tight on Grant's hips. "Perfect, I knew you could."

Grant tried to answer, but all that came out was a strained little whimper, the words stuck somewhere behind his teeth. The pain was quick to fade, melting into a liquid heat as he bottomed out, ass flush against Giancarlo's lap.

Stanton's hands roamed the shape of him like he was a priceless thing, built for display and worship. "That's it," he murmured, his mouth dragging up Grant's neck, teeth testing the sensitive skin. "You're so good baby. So fucking good for me." He let the words fill the space between them, mapping them onto Grant's trembling body.

The second baseman wasn't used to being praised like this, at least not off the field, maybe a knowing slap on the back in the dugout, a half serious compliment, but never this relentless chain of want and approval.

It left him dizzy. Needy. He couldn't do much more than ride the slow thrust of Giancarlo's hips, his hands flexing against the plane of Stanton's chest.

"You like that?" Giancarlo rumbled, his voice gone thick and rough, every single syllable was laced with hunger.

"Yeah," Grant managed, breath hitched. "Yeah-I-fuck"

Stanton's hand found the waistband of the crop top, yanking it upward so it bunched at Grant's armpits, exposing even more skin. He licked a stripe up Grant's torse, catching a nipple in between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. The sensation made Grant shudder, his whole body tensing around the cock buried inside him.

Them came a sharp, wide palmed slap to Grant's ass. Not brutal, just enough to light up every nerve and make his body jerk forward. "Jesus," Grant choked, but he didn't pull away. Instead, if at all possible, he braced himself harder on Giancarlo's lap, gripping his shoulders, head dropped forward as the heat radiated from the place Stanton had struck him.

The veteran laughed, low and musical, and followed up with another, savoring the way Grant's breath stuttered and his body instinctively clenched. "You love it," Giancarlo said, and there was so much pride in his voice, so much honest admiration. "You're the hottest damn thing I've ever had in my hands. And you're all mine. You understand?"

Grant couldn't make words, just nodded, already burning from praise as much as from the ache. He moved with Stanton now, finding the rhythm letting his body do the talking as he bounced gently on G's cock, the friction driving his brain static.

"God I wanna see you," Stanton growled, and he spread Grant's ass cheeks further, holding him wide, wanting to watch the glide of his cock disappear and reappear. His hands were huge, fingers digging deep into the muscle, owning every inch. "You take me like a fucking champ," he said, loud enough to echo off the high white walls. "Knew you could."

Grant didn't know it was possible to feel so wrung out and so alive at the same time. He rocked back, letting Giancarlo set the pace, their skin slick where their bodies connected, the slap and drag of flesh a beat for their shared hunger.

Another slap to his ass, and this time Grant yelped, but Giancarlo soothed it instantly, hands gentling to a caress. he moved a thumb down, circling where their bodies joined, just stroking there as if to remind Grant of how perfectly, impossibly full he was.

"Yeah like that," G whispered, more to himself than anything. His other hand slid between their bodies, finding Grant's cock, slick with sweat and need, and he stroked it in time to the rhythm. "You're not gonna last are you?" he taunted, tone tender, almost sweet.

"Fuck-no," Grant admitted, voice shredded. "Not if you keep-shit, Giancarlo-"

"I love it when you say my name like that," He said, the soft scrape of teeth at Grant's throat. "You're so good, baby. So fucking perfect. You make me crazy." His hands never stopped moving, working Grant closer and closer.

The words, the touch, the heat of it all had blurred together, and Grant could feel himself start to slip. He dug his fingers into Giancarlo's biceps, grounding himself in the living mountain of the man beneath him. "I'm gonna-" he tried, but the warning was useless, because Giancarlo jerked his hips up, hard and deep. Grant shattered, coming messily between their bodies as Giancarlo coaxed it out of him, murmuring praise the whole time.

"Mmm good boy," Stanton husked, and it was so patronizingly fond Grant almost wanted to cuss him out if he hadn't just came so hard his vision went white for a second. He collapsed forward, head on Giancarlo's shoulder, gasping, letting the aftershocks rip through him.

But Stanton wasn't done. He kept one hand firm on Grant's hip, the other bracing his lower back, and he started really fucking him, deep and relentless, chasing his own high now. The change in pace made Grant gasp, but he held on, letting himself be used because it felt so fucking good to be wanted like this.

"Stay with me baby," G grunted, and maybe he was a little gone, too, because his words were slurred and ragged. "Wanna fill you out, wanna see it leak out of you."

The filth of it made Grant's cock twitch again, oversensitive and still red from the orgasm. He braced himself and rode the older man, meeting each thrust, his skin on fire, his entire body trembling with exhaustion and need in equal measure.

Giancarlo's own finish was sudden, a bright flare as he tensed hard, hoisting Grant up and slamming him down on his cock with brutal finality. He held him there, fully sheathed, and the pulse of heat as he came inside Grant was unmistakable.

They stayed like that for a moment, Grant breathed hard, Giancarlo wrapped around him like he wasn't ever letting go, but eventually the world edged back in.

"Fuck," Grant said, weakly, and managed to laugh "You're insatiable."

Giancarlo just smirked, feral and satisfied, and ran a hand through Grant's hair, tugging him down for a slow, grateful kiss. "Still think I'm the worst?"

Grant tried to glare, but it was all softness now, the edge gone. "Yeah," he said, "But I guess you are my worst," and nuzzled in.

"Soo...does that mean round two?"

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Heres some random gifs of my man xoxo <33

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Id let this man do whatever he wants to me

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Go read my works on Wattpad

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souvenir 𝜗𝜚 carmax

━━ ❝ when you cut a hole into my skull, do you hate what you see? ❞

[ 3.51k words ]

MAY 30TH, 2025

5.0 innings.

3 strikeouts.

8 hits.

6 earned runs.

An ERA that ballooned from 1.29 to 1.92.

Flat. Unfocused. Frustrating. Embarrassing.

A disgraceful performance as an ace.

But worse than the boos or the headlines or the replay loops that refused to die—was what came after.

Carlos.

It wasn’t even that bad, really.

Just Carlos, standing under those brutal fluorescent lights, answering a few harmless questions about his next start. Routine. Expected.

But Max watched from the tunnel—still in her undershirt, hair damp, jaw locked—and saw something different.

Saw the way Carlos smiled, easy and relaxed. Saw how he leaned a little closer to the reporter when she laughed at something he said. Saw her hand graze his forearm like it belonged there.

And worst of all?

Carlos let it happen.

He didn’t step back. Didn’t shake her hand off. Didn’t glance around to see if Max was watching.

Just kept talking, kept smiling. Oblivious. Comfortable.

Flirting.

At least, that’s how it looked to Max.

And after five innings of getting lit up on the mound, of trying not to crumble every time Boone walked past, of hearing her name dragged by broadcasters who just last week called her the best arm in the league—Max didn’t need to see that.

Didn’t need to feel invisible.

Didn’t need to feel like a failure and a fool, all in the same goddamn hour.

She sat low on the bench, legs stretched long in front of her, cleats still caked in dirt. Her cap was pulled down just enough to shadow her eyes, though anyone who looked close enough would see the storm brewing beneath.

The dugout was mostly empty now—players scattered, coaches inside, game winding down. She didn’t want to be around them anyway. Not after that outing. Not when everything still itched beneath her skin.

So she sat alone.

Until she wasn’t.

Carlos dropped down beside her, shoulder brushing hers casually like everything was normal. Like she hadn’t just melted down in front of the world.

He shook a bag of sunflower seeds at her. “Want some?”

She didn’t look at him. “No.”

He tried again, voice lighter, teasing. “You still mad your ERA’s higher than mine now?”

Silence.

Then, without turning, she muttered, “Shut up.”

Carlos blinked, a little thrown. “Okay, damn. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Max.”

She finally turned, jaw tight. “I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

He studied her for a second, his teasing fading. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a hard line. She didn’t look at him—she looked at the field, but she wasn’t seeing it.

He leaned back a little, trying to stay calm. “You’re pissed at me.”

“No, I’m pissed at me.” she snapped, before closing her eyes and correcting herself. “And also you.”

“The hell did I do?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Her fingers pulled at the edge of the bench, knuckles white, chest rising and falling too fast.

Carlos stared at her profile—flushed, exhausted, clearly holding something back—and tried to figure out where this flipped.

But she just kept her eyes ahead, jaw working, and didn’t say another word.

Carlos didn’t get it.

He sat there like nothing had happened, casually spitting sunflower seed shells into the cup between his feet, eyes flicking between the game and the scoreboard.

Like she wasn’t falling apart right next to him.

“Could’ve gone either way if the bullpen held,” he muttered, not really to her, more to the air. “Dodgers got lucky. Couple bloops, that double—bullshit inning, honestly.”

Max didn’t respond.

He kept going.

“Boone pulled you too early, anyway. You’d have settled. That fifth run was soft—”

“Carlos.”

He didn’t even look at her. “Just saying. You’re allowed one bad game, Max. It’s not the end of the world.”

Her breath caught. That was it. That was the moment.

Not the stats, not the flirtation, not the failure. That sentence. That stupid, casual shrug of a sentence.

She stood.

He looked up, confused. “Where are you going?”

“I said I didn’t wanna talk about it.”

“Jesus, Max—”

“No, really, Carlos,” she cut in, stepping past him. “Thanks for the pep talk. Very insightful. Maybe you can save the rest for your new friend next time.”

That made him freeze.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Max didn’t even break stride. “Whatever you think it does.”

Carlos blinked. “Max Dorian, sit your ass back down.”

But she was already down the steps, disappearing into the tunnel like she hadn’t heard him—or worse, like she had and just didn’t care.

He sat there for a second, stunned. A low murmur from the field filled the space she left behind, but it sounded far away. His jaw ticked, hands clenched around the seed bag, crushed now in his fist.

He didn’t even know if she was mad about the game anymore. Or the media. Or him.

All he knew was that she was mad—and walking away from him.

And that part? That pissed him off the most.

The hotel bathroom light buzzed softly above her, casting a warm, too-yellow glow over the counter as Max gently patted her face dry. The towel was rough against her skin, and her short hair was damp near the roots from where she’d splashed too much water during her rinse.

She looked at herself in the mirror for a second. Eyes tired, cheeks blotchy. Not from crying—she hadn’t let herself—but from the heat still simmering under her skin. The kind of heat that came from holding too much in for too long.

She tossed the towel on the counter and stepped out, bare feet quiet against the carpet as she crossed toward her bag, tugging the waistband of her sweats higher on her hips. One of the shirts she’d stolen from Carlos was draped loose over her frame—soft from too many washes, faded lettering across the chest. She wore it without thinking. Maybe that annoyed her more.

Then—click.

The door opened.

Max turned just slightly, just enough to see him step in.

Carlos.

Still in his hoodie, cap turned backwards, eyes sharp from the hallway’s fluorescent lighting—but quiet, too. Watching her.

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Just grabbed a charger off the dresser and walked back toward the nightstand like he wasn’t even there.

And Carlos? He didn’t speak either. Not yet.

The silence between them was loud enough already.

Carlos let the door close behind him with a soft thud. He didn’t move from where he stood—just watched her walk away from him again, like she hadn’t already done enough of that today.

His jaw tensed. Hands shoved in his pockets. “The hell is your problem?”

Max plugged in the charger, her back still to him. “Funny hearing that from you.”

His brows lifted, tone sharper now. “What the hell does that mean?”

She turned just slightly, enough that he could see the side of her face. Her jaw was clenched, eyes darker than usual. “You were practically leaning on her.”

Carlos blinked. “Who?”

“Oh, come on,” she muttered, finally facing him fully. “The reporter. Blonde. With the flirty voice and the notebook you couldn’t stop looking at.”

“You’re serious?” He laughed, short and disbelieving. “She was asking about my slider, Max.”

Max cocked her head, eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Bet she was gonna ask if you could slip between her legs in her hotel bed too.”

Carlos froze.

Just for a second. A pause sharp enough to cut through the space between them.

Then he scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

She didn’t back down. “I saw the way she looked at you.”

“And I didn’t look back.”

“Oh, you looked,” she snapped. “You smiled. You fucking flirted, Carlos.”

Carlos stepped in closer now, voice lower, rougher. “You’re acting like I wanted her. Like I’ve ever made you doubt what the fuck you mean to me.”

Max looked up at him, eyes glinting but not soft. Her lips pressed together, holding in whatever she wanted to scream—or sob.

And then she turned away.

Carlos cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Max.”

“No,” she said quickly, brushing past him, heading toward the dresser. Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. She opened a drawer, grabbed a brush she didn’t need. “Don’t.”

He stared at her back. “Max.”

She shook her head harder this time, shoulders tense as she tried to look busy, to be busy. Like brushing her already-dry hair would erase how badly she wanted to break.

Carlos didn’t let her keep pretending. He gently tugged her wrist until she turned to face him.

His eyes moved over her face—slow, careful, searching like he was trying to read the truth under her skin. The stubborn line of her jaw. The red tint around her eyes. The way she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Max didn’t answer. Just shook her head again, teeth pressing into her bottom lip to hold back whatever it was she didn’t want to admit.

Carlos reached up, fingers brushing her chin. He tilted it up, coaxing her to look at him. To see him.

His voice dropped, gentler this time. “Baby. Tell me.”

She opened her mouth, lips parting like the words were there—on the tip of her tongue, right behind her teeth—but all that came out was a shaky gasp. It cracked in her throat, sharp and unfinished, and she cut herself off with another shake of her head.

Carlos’s eyes softened. “Bug.”

She shook her head harder, chest rising in a short, uneven breath before both hands came up to cover her face. Palms pressed against her cheeks like maybe she could push the tears back in. Maybe she could hide from the way it all felt too much—the game, the pressure, him smiling at someone else.

Carlos didn’t move for a second. Just watched her, something thick building behind his ribs.

Then he stepped in and wrapped his arms around her—tight. No questions. Just quiet, solid warmth. His chin pressed to the top of her head, one hand rubbing slow over her back.

“I got you,” he murmured into her hair. “You hear me? I got you.”

“I did bad,” she whispered, barely loud enough to hear against his chest. Her fingers fisted into the front of his shirt, like admitting it made everything cave in all at once.

Carlos exhaled slowly, the kind that hurt because he hated hearing her like this. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the top of hers—firm, grounding.

“No, you had a bad night,” he said against her hair. “That’s different.”

She didn’t answer, just stayed there, clutching him like she didn’t know what else to hold on to.

Carlos tightened his arms around her. “You're still my ace. Still the one I’d trust with the ball every single time.”

Her breath hitched. He kissed her again—top of her head, temple, her hairline.

“And you’re still my girl. No stat line changes that.”

She finally looked up at him, eyes glassy and tired and aching in a way that made his chest hurt. Carlos cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing along her jaw like she might break if he wasn’t careful. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, slow and steady.

“I did bad,” she repeated, smaller this time, like saying it again might make him believe it.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.

Instead, he dropped his forehead to hers and said quietly, “Then we have a bad day. That’s all it is, Max. One day.”

She blinked, lips parting, but he kissed the corner of her mouth before she could speak.

“Doesn’t mean you stop being great. Doesn’t mean I stop being proud of you.”

She sniffled, barely holding it together, and Carlos leaned in closer—so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.

His voice dropped to a murmur. “That reporter? She could’ve asked me to crawl into her lap and I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Max let out a soft, shaky laugh through her nose, but he didn’t stop.

“I wasn’t flirting. I was talking about my next start. Thinking about you the whole time. About how pissed you'd be if I said something dumb on camera.”

She looked down, and he nudged his nose gently against hers until she met his eyes again.

“I’m not looking at anyone else, Bug. You’re it for me. Even when you're pissed. Even when you think you did bad.”

More tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them, silent and hot, and Carlos brushed them away with the backs of his fingers.

“Okay?” he asked gently, eyes searching hers.

She nodded, barely—but it wasn’t enough for him.

He leaned down into her view, dipping his head until their foreheads almost touched, his voice even softer this time. “Okay?”

Max swallowed hard and whispered, “Okay.” She nodded again, slower this time, more certain.

Carlos exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. “Okay,” he repeated, wrapping his arms around her again and pulling her in. “We’re okay.”

She sank into his chest without hesitation this time, hands fisting in the fabric at his waist, holding on like he was home.

Because he was.

Carlos pressed a long, steady kiss to the side of her head, his lips lingering like he didn’t want to let go. She pulled back just enough to see his face, eyes still glassy, lashes damp.

He nodded toward the door, voice low. “C’mon.”

Max blinked. “Where are we going?”

He reached for her hand, fingers lacing with hers as he turned toward the door. “My room,” he said simply. “You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”

Max’s fingers twitched in his, her voice small as she followed half a step behind. “You don’t have to—”

Carlos stopped walking. Turned.

“I want to,” he said, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence. His voice didn’t rise—it didn’t have to. It was firm. Solid. Like the point wasn’t up for debate.

Her mouth opened again, just barely, but he gave her hand a gentle tug and said, quieter this time, “Let me take care of you tonight, Bug.”

She didn’t say anything after that.

Didn’t argue. Didn’t pull away. Just nodded—barely—and let him lead her down the quiet hallway. Her steps were slower than his, but he adjusted for her without a word, still holding her hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground.

When they got to his room, he unlocked the door with one hand, the other never letting go of hers. He pushed it open and stepped aside so she could walk in first.

She did, slowly, eyes scanning the familiar space like it might look different tonight. Maybe it did. It felt quieter—lights low, curtains drawn, the kind of silence that felt like a blanket.

Carlos let go of her hand only to shut the door behind them, then turned and nodded toward the bed. “Lay down, yeah? I’ll be there in a sec.”

Max hovered at the edge of the bed, watching him as he reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off in one fluid motion. His back flexed with the movement—shoulders broad, muscles shifting under smooth, tan skin like a living sculpture.

Carlos caught her staring in the mirror.

“You like the view?” he asked over his shoulder, smirking just enough to make her want to throw something.

Max rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched. “God, I hate you.”

He turned, dropped the shirt onto a chair, and grinned. “Sure you do, Bug.”

Max huffed and folded her arms, even as her eyes betrayed her, lingering a little too long on the curve of his bicep as he moved.

“I do,” she said, chin lifted. “I hate how cocky you are.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate that you smirk like that when you know I’m looking.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate your stupid back muscles.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate how good you smell after games, even when you’re sweaty. It’s disgusting.”

Carlos raised a brow, walking over to her slow, deliberate. “Mhm.”

“I hate your dumb little man bun.”

He leaned down until their noses nearly touched. “That’s five, Bug.”

She blinked.

He grinned. “You got any more or are you just gonna keep listing things that turn you on?”

She rolled her eyes and shoved at his chest, just hard enough to make him grin wider.

“Asshole,” she muttered, then turned and flopped back onto the bed, arms splayed, short hair fanning out against the pillow.

Carlos stood over her for a second, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way she settled like the weight of the day had finally let go.

“You done bein’ dramatic?” he asked, toeing off his socks.

“Five earned runs and my boyfriend flirting with a blonde? Let me process,” she deadpanned, eyes closed.

He chuckled low, climbed in beside her, and tugged her close by the waist. “Still stuck on that, huh?”

“I hate you,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Mhm,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Add that to the list.”

She shifted, tucking herself in closer, her cheek resting on the thick curve of his bicep like it belonged there. One of her legs tangled loosely with his, fingertips lazily picking at her nails as silence stretched between them.

Carlos ran his hand up and down her spine in slow, steady motions, thumb brushing over the hem of her shirt every few seconds.

“You good?” he asked after a beat, voice low in the dark.

Max gave a half-nod, still focused on the edge of her thumbnail. “I just… hate feeling like that.”

“Jealous?” he asked, teasing a little.

She looked up at him, eyes steady even in the low light. “No. Small.”

That made him pause. His hand stilled against her back. “Bug…”

“It’s dumb,” she added quickly. “I know it’s dumb. I was just mad and tired and—”

He tilted her chin up gently, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “It’s not dumb if it got to you.”

She blinked, then looked down again, picking at her cuticle. “Still feel like I pitched like shit.”

“You did,” he said bluntly, earning a weak snort from her.

“Thanks.”

“But you’re still mine,” he added, dropping a kiss to her temple. “Even when you give up six runs and ice me out for hours.”

She sighed, finally relaxing against him. “You’re such a dick.”

“Mhm.”

She stopped picking at her nails just long enough to curl her fingers around his wrist and hold it there against her waist. “But you’re my dick.”

“Exactly.”

Max snorted, low and reluctant, the sound muffled into his bicep. She glanced up at him, nose wrinkled just a little, her eyes still a little puffy from earlier but softer now.

“You’re so proud of yourself for that one, huh?” she murmured.

Carlos didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Absolutely.”

She shook her head and exhaled, quiet and amused, the tension finally ebbing from her shoulders. Her fingers drummed lightly on his wrist where she still held it against her waist, gaze flicking to his face and back down again like she didn’t want to admit how good it felt to be here.

“Was I really that bad?” she asked, voice small again, but not broken. Just curious.

He leaned in, brushing his nose along her hairline. “Nah. You just weren’t perfect. That’s allowed.”

Her fingertip brushed over the steady beat at his pulse point, a soft, idle touch that made Carlos’s skin twitch beneath it. She hummed, low in her throat, eyes searching his face like she was still trying to figure him out—even now.

When she finally looked up at him, her chin resting on his bicep, her lashes casting shadows beneath her eyes, he was already watching her.

“I love you,” he said, like it was easy. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it didn’t make something in her chest crack open a little wider.

Max blinked. Once. Twice.

Then her fingers stilled over his pulse, and her voice came quieter than before, barely above a whisper. “Say it again.”

Carlos didn’t even hesitate. He leaned in, lips brushing her hairline once more.

“I love you.”

She didn’t move at first. Just kept her eyes on him, like hearing it twice wasn’t enough to believe it.

Her throat worked around a swallow. “Even after tonight?”

Carlos’s brow furrowed, just barely. He shifted, rolling slightly so she was more tucked into him, his hand coming up to rest at the back of her neck.

“Especially after tonight,” he murmured. “You think I only love you when you’re perfect?”

"Yankee fans only do."

Carlos went still.

For a second, all he did was breathe—slow, deep, like he was trying to keep something sharp from slipping out. His thumb traced a slow circle against the back of her neck, grounding himself more than her.

“Yankee fans don’t sleep next to you,” he said quietly. “They don’t hold your hair when you throw up from nerves, or rub your knees after flights, or learn your tells like second nature.”

Max looked away, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to speak but didn’t trust herself to.

“They love what you do,” he continued, voice low but firm. “I love you.”

Her breath hitched. Not from surprise, but from how steady he sounded—like he meant it more now than before, like he needed her to hear it when she couldn’t believe it for herself.

“You hear me, Bug?” he asked, finally tilting her chin so she’d meet his eyes again. “You’re more than the fucking stat line. More than a bad night. And if the fans forget that—I won’t.”

Her eyes shimmered, wide and dark and glassy. She nodded before she could speak, pressing her lips together.

And when she finally found her voice, it cracked just slightly. “Okay.”

Carlos tilted his head, eyes searching hers. “Okay?”

Max nodded, a little stronger this time. “Okay.”

He didn’t wait another beat. “C’mere,” he murmured, arms pulling her in tight.

Her face tucked into his chest easily, like muscle memory. His hand settled on her back, rubbing slow, steady circles between her shoulder blades. Soothing. Anchoring.

He kissed the top of her head—soft, lingering—and let his eyes fall shut.

Like holding her was the only thing that made sense tonight.

i need to be put down uvhwjfwkajfnwrfnrwekjv

ok anyways im active on here for 2 days then disappearing because fuckass wattpad suspended me for NOTHING. hope you enjoyed :3

@maxfriedss

[uzielinterlude]

THIS IS FROM MY WATTPAD ACOUNT @/Jun0Writes. ITS AROUND 3K WORDS! It's also smut so yeah! This is your warning <3

It didn't take long for Giancarlo's hands to slide from Grant's waist down to his ass, fingers curving with purpose. When he gave a gentle squeeze, Grant moaned softly into his mouth, the sound caught somewhere between surprise and need.

"God, you're just perfect," Giancarlo murmured, voice low and rough, his fingers pressing in just a little harder. "I want all of this to be mine."

Grant bit his lip, breath catching as he looked at him. "You claiming me?"

Giancarlo chuckled, warm and close, the sound vibrating right against Grant's ear. "Only if you'll let me."

Grant nodded, slow and certain. That was all Giancarlo needed.

He leaned in, lips finding the curve of Grant's neck, kissing, sucking lightly. His hands stayed firm on Grant's ass, squeezing, grounding them both in the moment. Grant groaned, hips rocking against him, and it was impossible not to feel the way Giancarlo's erection pressed harder beneath the denim.

"Someone needs a little attention," Grant teased, fingers slipping beneath the hem of Giancarlo's shirt, tugging it up with a grin.

Stanton's lips hovered over the spot he'd just been working on, warm breath grazing Grant's skin. "Then give it the attention it deserves."

Grant laughed, soft and breathless, as he pushed himself up just enough to shift off Giancarlo's lap. "So... about that dream?"

Giancarlo's eyes followed him, dark and wanting, as he leaned back and spread his legs just slightly, smirk playing at his lips. "You want to turn it into reality."

Grant's hands made their way to the waistbands of Giancarlo's pants. His lips pressed against the fabric of Stanton's pants as he pressed a kiss over the clothed erection.

The kiss sent a shiver through Giancarlo, his back arching slightly as if responding to an unspoken command, Grant could feel the heat radiating off him, a tangible tension that electrified the air between them. He pulled back just enough to meet Giancarlo's gaze, those dark eyes brimming a mixture of lust and longing.

"Is this what you had in mind?" Grant asked, teasingly biting his lip as he traced the outline of Stanton's dick with his fingertips. The way Giancarlo's breath hitched in response was intoxicating. 

"Just a bit," Giancarlo replied, his voice thick and gravelly, eyes narrowing with desire. "But I think you'll want more anyways."

Grant smirked, feeling bold. He loved this dance, the teasing and the push and pull that had always charged their encounters. Slowly, he worked the buttons of Giancarlo's pants open, each click echoing like a heartbeat.

Giancarlo had lifted himself slightly, letting them fall and pool around his ankles. His hard on was straining against his briefs, an outline so clear, an outline so big. It left Grant biting his lip as he stared back up at the man he was kneeling in front of. 

Grant's heart raced, anticipation flooding his veins as he brushed his fingers over the outline, feeling the way it pulsed beneath the fabric. He looked back up, meeting Giancarlo's gaze, which was smoldering with desire and a challenge that dared him to take it further.

"You're really something else," Grant breathed, voice barely above a whisper. He could feel the head radiating off Giancarlo's skin.  The electricity between them as he leaned closer, pressing his lips against the waistband of those briefs. The taste of longing hung heavy in the air.

Giancarlo's breath hitched, and a low groan escaped his lips, sending ripples of satisfaction through Grant. It was intoxicating to have that power, to know he could evoke such raw pleasure with just a touch. He let his hand slide down the length of Stanton's thighs, fingertips teasing as they danced along the sensitive skin.

"Don't keep me waiting," Giancarlo urged, his voice low, velvet growl that sent shivers down Grant's spine.

With a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Grant let his fingers linger a moment longer before he hooked them into the waistband of Stanton's briefs, pulling it down just enough to expose his hard dick beneath. 

The sight was breathtaking, an invitation wrapped in desire that made his pulse quicken. "So fucking big." Granth breathed, his gaze drinking in the sight before him. He leaned in closer, letting the warmth of bis breath mingle with the cool air as he planted soft kisses along the taut skin of Giancarlo's thigh. each kiss was featherlight, a promise yet to be fulfilled.

When Grant finally was bold enough he had grabbed Giancarlo's dick near the base and held it upright. His eyes were locked on it, but of course he had to have his fun. 

"Fuck," he muttered, placing his forearm next to Giancarlo's dick. "Look at this thing."

Giancarlo's hands found their way into Grant's hair, firm yet gentle as he guided him closer. "Open."

And so the rookie listened. He had opened his mouth and let his tongue fall out. The veteran wasted no time grabbing onto his own dick and slapping the tip against Grant's tongue. 

Grant shuddered at the boldness of it, the way Giancarlo's grip tightened in his hair, anchoring him in place. The sharp contrast of the heat against his cool tongue sent a thrill through him, and he couldn't help but let out a soft, eager sound that vibrated against Giancarlo's skin.

"Just like that," Giancarlo urged, his voice thick with pleasure. "Doing so good for me."

Grant could feel the heat pooling at his core, desire mixing with a heady rush of confidence. He closed his lips around the tip and moved slowly, teasingly, drawing back before sliding down again, taking in more of that intoxicating size. The taste was a mix of salt and musk, electrifying his senses as he began to explore.

"Jesus," Giancarlo gasped, pushing his hips up slightly, encouraging Grant to take him deeper. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

The air was thick with tension, a heady mix of urgency and unbridled desire as Grant's movements slightly quickened. He could feel Giancarlo's heart racing between his fingertips, each pulse echoing the beat of his own. He focused, pouring everything he had into this, the warmth enveloping him as he took more of Giancarlo's length, savoring the feeling of being so wholly consumed.

"Just like that," Giancarlo urged again, his voice strained, barely restrained. "God, yes. You're perfect."

With each deliberate motion, Grant drew closer to that edge, the heat radiating from Giancarlo intoxicating and overwhelming. He could feel every shiver, every gasp vibrating through him like a melody, a rhythm they were both learning to dance to. Encouraged by the sounds spilling from Giancarlo's lips, he dared to experiment, swirling his tongue around the sensitive tip and varying the pressure of his mouth as he pulled back.

"Fuck, you're incredible," Giancarlo groaned, his fingers tightening in Grant's hair. "Taking my dick so well, like you were made for this."

Grant hummed around the thick length, the vibration sending visible shudders through Giancarlo's powerful thighs. The praise washed over him like warm honey, making him double his efforts, hollowing his cheeks as he worked his way down.

"That's it," Giancarlo panted, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "God, the way your mouth feels... perfect fucking heaven."

Grant's eyes fluttered up, meeting Giancarlo's heated gaze as he swirled his tongue around the sensitive tip, tasting the salty evidence of Giancarlo's arousal. The connection between them was electric, intensifying with each word of praise.

"So fucking good with that mouth," Giancarlo groaned, his hips beginning to stutter upward with more urgency. "Natural talent right here."

Grant's confidence soared with every word of praise, every labored breath from above. He took Giancarlo deeper, relaxing his throat, determined to show just how much he wanted this.

"Grant," Giancarlo gasped, his voice right with restraint. "I'm getting close. You might want to-"

Grant pulled back just enough to look up, his lips glistening and swollen. "I want to taste you," he whispered, voice rough from use. "All of you."

Their eyes locked in a moment of silence understanding before Grant descended again with renewed purpose, his movement were more deliberate now. He wrapped his hand around what he couldn't fit in his mouth, working in perfect rhythm.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Giancarlo growled, his grip tightening in Grant's hair, holding him firmly in place. "That's it. Nobody gets to see you like this but me, understand? Nobody else gets to feel this perfect mouth."

Grant moaned around him, the possessive words sending heat coursing through his body. The vibration of his response seemed to push Giancarlo closer to the edge.

"Mine," Giancarlo hissed through clenched teeth, his hips jerking forward. "So fucking good for me. Only me."

Grant's eyes watered slightly as he took him deeper, driven by the raw need in Giancarlo's voice. The praise mixed with possession was intoxicating, making him work harder, desperate to please.

"Jesus, Grant-I'm-" Giancarlo warned dissolved into a deep guttural moan as his body tense. 

The warm, salty release flooded Grant's mouth as Giancarlo's entire body went rigid. Grant kept his lips wrapped around him, swallowing eagerly as each pulse delivered more of Giancarlo's cum onto his tongue. He savored the taste, the intimacy of taking everything the older man had to offer.

"Fuck," Giancarlo gasped, his chest heaving as he looked down at Grant with glazed eyes. "Look at you...taking it all."

Grant gave one final, deliberate suck to the sensitive tip before releasing him with a soft pop. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed himself up his knees, legs slightly wobbly from kneeling so long.

"How was that for making dreams come true?" Grant asked, voice a little hoarse as he settled back beside Giancarlo on the couch.

Giancarlo didn't bother to answer with words. Instead, he scooped Grant up, an easy motion as if he weighed nothing, and carried him down the hallway.

Grant's legs instinctively locked around his waist, the motion jostling a gasp out of him. Once inside the bedroom, Giancarlo kicked the door shut behind them and laid Grant down on the bed, it was a bit harder than necessary, but Grant relished the thud of the mattress against his spine.

The room was dim, heavy with the scent of Giancarlo's cologne and the aftershocks of what they'd just done. For a moment, neither moved, both of them catching their briefs, staring at each other in the silence. Grant felt something inside him shift, caught between reverence and wilderness.

He wanted to be ruined by this man.

Giancarlo was the first to move, he stripped his shirt off, and crawled towards Grant.

In two practiced movements, Giancarlo grabbed the hem of Grant's crewneck. The cotton bunched in his hands, and he dragged it up, pausing only to let Grant's arms lift before tugging it over his head.

The air in the room felt suddenly cool against Grant's skin, all the exposed nerves lit up and raw. He shivered, maybe from the chill, maybe from the way Stanton lingered. His gaze raking over Grant's chest in a way that was almost reverent.

"You really don't know what you do to me," Giancarlo said, voice rough shorn and sharp. His hands hovered at Grant's waistband, then dipped, undoing the single button with steady fingers. 

He slid the zipper down, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing Grant's stomach and making something primal twist deep in Grant's gut.

He made a show of peeling the jeans from Grant's hips, fingers grazing sensitive skin, thumbs pressing into the muscle of his thighs before finally yanking them away. 

Grant was left in nothing but a pair of low slung, worn briefs that left little to the imagination. 

Stanton whistled, a low, appreciative sound. "Knew you had a great ass, but damn baby." His hands smoothed over Grant's thigh, up to the soft swell, his palms finding home in the fullness there. He squeezed, kneading the flesh, unhurried, like he was enjoying a luxury. "It's even better up close."

Grant flushed, grin crooked. "You sound like you've been thinking about it."

Giancarlo laughed, a quick bark that faded into something darker. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Hell, some guys have even stared at how big it is, but I'm the only one who gets to do this." His thumbs dug into the fabric, slightly spreading Grant's cheeks with a practiced confidence. "Perfect. Just fucking perfect."

Giancarlo hooked his thumb under the waistband and, with a sharp little tug, peeled Grant's briefs down, exposing him fully. He let them dangle at Grant's knees for a moment, the fabric stretched and helpless, before pulling them the rest of the way off and tossing them carelessly to the floor.

He pressed Grant down, belly flush to the mattress, and nudged his knees apart with steady, insistent hands. The air was cold on Grant's bare skin, but Giancarlo's touch burned wherever it landed. 

Grant exhaled shakily, fingers curling into the comforter at the first teasing sweep of Giancarlo's hand over the curve of his ass.

Stanton took a moment, as if working through a puzzle he wasn't ready to solve quickly, massaging the flesh in slow, deliberate circles. When he leaned in, the stubble of his jaw scraped a line up the inside of Grant's thigh, and Grant bit down on a gasp.

The weight of Giancarlo's body pressed in behind him, overwhelming and all consuming. Grant could feel the hard length of Giancarlo's dick slotting into the dip of his back, the heat of it burning through any remaining hesitation.

Giancarlo's hand was steady, splayed wide over Grant's hip, holding him in place, while the other drifted up to brush the hair from Grant's neck, exposing the soft, vulnerable skin.

He bent low, his lips finding Grant's ear. "Stay just like this," he whispered, the words half command, half promise, and Grant felt his entire body shiver in anticipation.

The next thing he knew, Giancarlo's fingers, strong and rough slipped beneath Grant's chin, coaxing his head to turn, to look up at him. The intensity in that gaze was almost too much to bear. 

"Open up," Giancarlo instructed, voice soft but implacable. He placed his index and middle finger into Grant's mouth. 

Grant, pliant, took them greedily, tongue swirling and lips closing tight at the base. He sucked like he meant it, like he was starving, spit slick and hungry for whatever was next. 

Giancarlo watched, transfixed, as Grant's cheeks hollowed, gaze locked upward in a challenge. How far, how deep. Giancarlo grinned, pressing in until Grant gagged just a little, a wet sound that made them both shiver.

"That's it," Giancarlo mumbled, pulling the fingers free, wet and gleaming. He didn't wait. He used his free hand to spread Grant apart and pressed the glistening tips to the tight ring of muscle, circling once, twice, before pushing in.

Grant gasped, whole body tensing, then melting as the fingers breached him. they slid in easily, thanks to Grant's spit, and Giancarlo worked them slow and careful, curling them, scissoring to stretch Grant open.

Each motion was measured, patient, coaxing Grant past the first tight ache into something looser, warmer, flush with promise.

"You take it so well," Giancarlo murmured, a note of pride in his voice. "Like you were born for this baby."

Grant whimpered, pushing back against the intrusion, greedy for more, letting the burn give way to a sweet, heady ache. His head spun, dizzy with the feeling of being so open, so utterly at the mercy of Giancarlo's hands.

So when Stanton added a third finger, Grant arched, knuckles going white where he gripped the covers. He was sure he couldn't take it, but then Giancarlo leaned in, tongue tracing lazy circles along Grant's spine, and suddenly it was all he wanted.

"There you go," Giancarlo praised, fingers working deeper, his mouth pressing wet kisses across Grant's shoulder.

The fingers left him suddenly, a rush of air filling the absence. Grant wanted to whine, to beg, but the words caught in his throat as Giancarlo shifted behind him, the heavy heat of his cock pressed directly where Grant ached most.

He waited, breath coming in short, desperate bursts, as Giancarlo lined himself up and pushed in, aching slow. The stretch was sharp, splitting him open in a way that left his mind blank but for the feeling of being filled, claimed.

Giancarlo kept his hand on Grant's hip, fingers digging in so tight it almost hurt, grounding him against the slow, inexorable slide inside.

"Fuck," Giancarlo groaned, voice shaking. "So tight for me. All mine. You feel that baby? Only for me."

Grant could only nod, the sensation too much for words, the burn and the pressure twisting into something molten and necessary. Giancarlo moved with deliberate patience, inch by inch, never giving in the urge to slam forward, even as Grant squirmed and pushed back in silent. There was a gentle cruelty to it, the way Giancarlo withheld, made Grant feel every fraction of the breach, every second of the slow, relentless stretch. 

It was possessive, yes, but also devotional. Like Giancarlo was savoring the act of claiming him.

"God, you're perfect like this," he whispered, voice thick as honey and twice as heavy. "I want to make it last. Want you to remember it every time you sit down tomorrow."

Grant's fingers twisted in the bedsheets, nails digging little moons into the cotton. He whimpered, high and helpless, the sound muffled by the pillow, but Giancarlo still heard it. He bent over, chest to Grant's back, and bit his way up Grant's neck, nipping hard enough to leave a mark.

He twisted his hand beneath Grant and wrapped it around the rookie's cock, jerking him in time with the careful grind of his own hips. Each stroke was synchronized to a lazy, deep thrust, Grant's body was caught between pleasure at both ends, a rush of sensation with no escape.

The tension wound tighter, Giancarlo's voice going ragged in his throat, as he pressed a palm into the small of Grant's back, holding him right there, exactly where he wanted him. "You're gonna cum for me." he said, a voice of declaration and a dare.

Grant moaned in answer, unable to do anything but obey, the pressure inside him mounting with each thrust, each relentless pull of Giancarlo's hand. He was sobbing out nonsense into the pillow, every thought dissolved in the electric flood building at the base of his spine.

"Fuck-so close," Giancarlo gritted, the rhythm faltering as he jerked his hips faster, less controlled, more desperate.

He pistoned in, the slap and slap of skin obscene and urgent, and Grant couldn't hold back. He came first, heat flooding his chest as his whole body tightened, cum splattering across Stanton's hand and the sheets in sticky lines. The sensation undid him, every muscle seizing and then going soft, boneless, in the wake of it.

Giancarlo groaned, deep and guttural, and buried himself hard, hips jerking as he spilled inside Grant, the pulse of it so intense Grant could feel it, could sense the warmth filling him. They stay tangled for a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the low hum of blood in their ears.

Grant wasn't sure how long they remained like that, a simple organism gasping for air and purpose. Eventually, Giancarlo pulled out, slow and careful, then collapsed to the side.

One arm thrown lazily over Grant's waist. The room was thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and something else. A strange, soft contentment that seemed to settle in the sheets.

Grant's breath was still shaky, every muscle spent and heavy, He turned, a little uncoordinated, pressing his back to Giancarlo's chest. Stanton immediately curled around him, nuzzling into the slope of Grant's neck, exhaling a warm, satisfied sigh.

It was quiet, the kind of silence that felt earned. Giancarlo's hand splayed over Grant's stomach, his thumb brushing lazy circles in the half light.

"Didn't pin you for a cuddler Giancarlo," Grant murmured, eyes shut, voice raspy with exhaustion.

"You bring it out of me," Giancarlo said, his arms tightened around Grant, "And you have earned it to call me G."

[uzielinterlude]

SLURP

[uzielinterlude]

hes picking out his suit for our wedding xoxo

[uzielinterlude]

2024 World Series Champion, Jack Flaherty <3

[uzielinterlude]

Ugh I need him badly

[uzielinterlude]

Thinking about how Jack Flaherty would behave when told 'No Touching' under any circumstance.

He laid beneath you, head sunk into the pillow just enough to tilt his gaze upward, perfectly angled t take in all of you. His eyes were dark with need, following every, slow deliberate shift of your body as you straddled him. There was tension in his arms, the kind that ran straight from his shoulders down to his fingertips. It was barely visibly, but visible enough, the twitch of restraint. His hands picked up from the mattress, hovering over your waist wanting to touch you, but knowing he can't, he trembled slightly like they were magnetized to your skin, but forbidden from making contact.

You see tonight, you were in control. He wasn't calling the shots, wasn't setting the pace. He was yours to tease, yours to ruin slowly and deliciously.

You leaned in just enough, letting your voice spill out in a low whisper that barely skimmed in the air. "How badly do you need me Jack?"

His fingers flexed again, wanting too, needing to touch you, but they fell away in surrender. "Please," he murmured, voice hoarse with hunger. "I just…I need to touch you."

You laughed softly, more breath than the sound, the kind that danced along in the air, filling the room. You slowly began rolling your hips in a measured rhythm, both calculating and devastating. The friction had him swallowing hard, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

You licked your bottom lip, while grinding down just a little bit harder, just to see his reaction. "We both agreed, no touching."

A strangled groan slipped from him as he tipped his head back into the pillow, his jaw clenched. His hips bucked up, desperate to meet yours, trying to chase the rhythm you were so cruelly controlling. "You're killing me," he whispered, his voice both a plea and a half laugh.

You smiled, dragging your fingertips down the center of his chest, slowly, deliberate. You brought your lips closer right down towards his tensed jaw pressing small kisses along them, "Don't worry, I'll make it worth it all."

Jack swallowed hard, a thick lump catching in his throat as his fingers twitched for the hundredth time beside your waist. He lifted his hand again, helpless against the urge, but he didn't dare touch you. They hovered, shaking slightly, desperate for contact.

"Someone really can't go five minutes without putting their hands on me huh?" you said, your voice smooth, teasing. You caught his wrist easily, raising them above his head and pressing them down firmly into the pillow.

He let out a breathy laugh, half cocky and half strangled. "What can I say?" he murmured, lips curling into a grin even as his breath stuttered. "I love having my hands on what's mine."

He lifted his head off the pillow, chasing and trying to press his lips onto yours, but you stayed just out of reach.

You leaned in close, your breath gazing his lips but never touching. "Well…tonight you're mine."

Jack's eyes fluttered shut, a low groan escaping his lips as he rolled his hips up, trying to match the slow, torturous pace you had set. You didn't move faster, if anything you moved slightly lower. You wanted him to come undone beneath you.

"Then please…" he breathed, voice cracking around the edges.

You tilted your head, lips brushing the edge of his jaw, right on his stubble towards his ear. "Please what Jack?" Your voice a sultry whisper. "What do you need me to do?"

"Make me yours."

With that, you leaned in again, pressing soft kisses along the stubble lining his jaw. Your hands come up to cup his face, holding him there, ever so helpless, and ever so eager he was. Your pace picked up, just slightly, enough to make his breath hitch. "Don't worry handsome," you murmured against his skin, your voice dripping with warmth and control. "I will." Your lips traced down the curve of his jaw, ghosting over the edge of his chin, while your hands slipped lower down into his chest, his bas, until your palm pressed firmly against the growing arousal in his sweats. You ribbed slow, deliberate circles into the hard outline.

"F-fuck baby," Jack breathed, his hips jerking upward into your hand, entirely on instinct.

You smirked against his skin, savoring every twitch of his body. Then, slowly, you pulled back, slipping off him and sliding down towards the foot of the bed. He didn't move.

His wrist were still locked together above his head, fingers clenched into the sheets, obedient and desperate. For a beat, you watched him, caught in the moment. The way the sot light skimmed his chest, highlighting the flex in his bicep, the sharp lines of his abs. His body looked as if it had been carved and sculpted just to tempt you.

Your gaze dropped lower.

His erection strained visibly beneath the fabric of his waistband, thick and pulsing, demanding attention. You bit your bottom lip, slowly crawling back up the bed with your back arched just enough to tease, hips swaying, ass high, knowing exactly what kind of view you were giving him.

Jack's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His eyes were locked on your every move. One of his hands drifted downward, cupping himself through the fabric, squeezing softly, his head tipping back with a quiet groan. "You are such a goddess," he whispered, voice rough with awe and arousal.

And then, unable to take it anymore, he shoved a hand down the front and into his sweats, groaning as he wrapped his fingers around himself and started to slow, slow and steady. You watched him with his hand buried under the waistband, his chest rising in uneven swells, his lips parted in helpless need. But you weren't going to let him finish like that.

Not with you.

You crawled back towards him, each movement slow, but purposeful. His hands stilled as you reached the waistband of his sweats, and his eyes locked onto yours, wide and hungry. "Let me," you whispered, gently tugging the fabric down his hips.

He couldn't even speak, he just swallowed hard and lifted his body slightly for you making it easier. His eyes never left your face as you freed him fully, his hands twitching again, like they wanted to grab you, guide you, do something, but he stopped himself.

You saw the way his fingers curled into fists against the sheets, the way he gritted his teeth to stay in control. You leaned in and kissed the inside of his thigh first, it was slow and lingering, as you traced a path with your mouth, deliberately skipped where he wanted and needed you the most. You could feel him trembling, feeling the restraint in his body.

When your lips finally closed around him, slow and warm, he let out a low, shattered groan, his back arching slightly off the bed. "Jesus," he breathed, voice cracking. His hands shot up, desperate to bury themselves into your hair, wanting and needing to feel your skin, but then he caught himself. Instead they gripped the headboard around him, his knuckles turned white, veins in his arms pulling tight as he held on for dear life.

However you took your time.

Each motion was slow, your mouth working him with a rhythm designed to drive him over the edge. You glanced up to find his eyes on you, glassy and overwhelmed, watching you like you were some kind of dream, he yet still couldn't believe was real.

"Please…" he groaned, the muscles in his thigh tensing beneath you. "I- god, you feel…" He didn't finish the sentence.

You wrapped a hand around his base and sucked just a little harder, dragging your tongue along the underside in a way that made him almost break the rule. His hands clenched the sheets with one hand now, the other still pressed into the headboard. like letting go might just break him.

You pulled back just enough to let your lips hover him, slick and glistening. "You're doing so good for me handsome."

His head tipped back, a frustrated growl in his throat. You could tell he was right on edge, but it was your edge to control, and you were not quite done with him yet.

Jack's chest rose and fell like he'd just finished a sprint, fast, uneven, desperate. His knuckles were bone white where they gripped the headboard, and every muscle in his body was straining with the effort not to reach for you.

You could see it in the way his abs clenched, the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands, the way his mouth parted like he was this close to begging. You ran your tongue slowly along his length again, then took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, letting him hit the back of your throat, just enough to make his hips stutter. He gasped, sharp and guttural, and his head slammed back against the pillow.

"F-fuck, baby, please," his voice cracked hallway through the sentence, low and pleading, like he didn't even know what he was asking for anymore. "Please let me touch you. I need…god, I need to."

You pulled back, lips wet and swollen, your hands slowly stroking him as you looked up at him with a grin. "Uh uh," you said, shaking your head. "We're not there yet, Flaherty."

His eyes fluttered shut, a ragged moan slipping from his throat as he bucked slightly into your fist, his hands flexed again around the wood of the headboard letting out a strained laugh, like he was both loving and suffering through every second of it.

"You're evil," he murmured, breathless.

Your mouth trailed kisses along his abs, then his chest, then his throat. Your hips were ready to straddle his again, warm skin to skin now, and he let out the softest, neediest sound when he felt how wet you were. His body twitched beneath you like it took everything in him not to flip you over and take control.

You forehead pressed against his, lips hovering over his mouth. "You want to touch me that bad?" you whispered.

His eyes opened, blown wide. He nodded slowly, lips brushing yours. "I want to touch every inch of you," he said, voice raw. "I want to pin you down, make you feel everything you've been doing to me."

You smiled, letting your hips grind into his one more time. His breath caught. "Then earn it," you whispered. "Hold still for me. Just a little longer."

And with that, you slide your hands between your bodies again, lined him up, and sank down onto him slowly. Watching his face the entire time.

Jack's mouth fell open, a silent cry in his throat. He gripped the headboard so hard it creaked beneath his hands.

He was completely at your mercy.

And you were going to take your time.