#And now Damp January

[trivialbob]

The last few days I've been weary of social media and the Internet in general. It's not any sort of New Year's resolution, but I've used my phone less. I can't say that's had a negative impact on my life.

On my laptop I cut down to mostly reading the newspaper, but no more looking at the comments people leave on stories. What a waste of pixels. I still like viewing Manhattan townhouse floor plans on Zillow. Those townhomes are really interesting to me. Twenty feet wide, six levels, and only some have elevators. It's incredible that there are so many listed for eight figures.

We had light snow overnight. Outside is much less brown now. Unfortunately the clouds are sticking around like that last party guest who doesn't realize it's time to go home (been there, done that).

This morning at the dog park Sulley got mad at me. I wouldn't let him keep a dead, frozen mouse he found in some tall weeds. He forgave me at home, as I started to give Oliver and Ella a treat and he realized I wasn't going to chase him down to give him one.

Later I decided I needed provisions. Dreary days were made for Target and Costco runs. The Vikings weren't keeping my attention anyway. I donned my Target-red jacket and aimed my truck for the big red bulls eye. Good grief, everyone else in town had the same idea.

As I entered the store I saw a young mom pushing a cart with two small girls hanging on to it, both leaning precariously. "Someone is about to join the Target Crying Child Club," I thought. Moments later the girl leaning off the front of the cart lost her grip.

She attempted a front one-and-a-half somersault with a mid-flight twist and totally nailed the landing--on her face. The girl stood up, birdies circling her head, and looked at me silently. I read her expression as, "Whoa, did you see that?!"

Then mom, who hasn't learned a certain important child-rearing lesson yet, says with alarm, "Oh my gosh! Are you OK?"

That was the cue for the girl to enter wailing mode. If the mom had simply said, "Nice move, Olga Korbut" I'm sure the kid would have remained quiet, though she might have wondered, "Olga who?"

Not waiting around for the medal ceremony I made my way to the men's clothing section. Sometimes Target has some sweet deals on sweatshirts. I didn't see any I liked today so off to paper products and food.

An end-cap display of Goldfish crackers beckoned me with a sale price, then mocked me by once again lacking the pizza flavored variety.

Sulley didn't get to keep his frozen, dead mouse. I didn't get to bring home any pizza Goldfish crackers.

[dear-ao3]

friends, besties, worsties, davids, and meow meows of the jury. i have a tale for you. while i claim to be no bard (like saph, the queen of very long dramatic tumblr stories that make your heart weep), i must spin a wee bit of yarn in the form of a story. what story? a story of the green cake.

we shall, as most stories do, start almost at the beginning.

the date? january 2nd.

the time? late.

the occasion? saph comes home the third.

the problem? i have no butter or sugar.

now, saph's birthday was recently, so like any other best bud i said i was making a cake. i believe my exact words were 'i'm making you a cake whether you like it or not."

now, gang, i must level with you. this is the fourth cake i've made in my life. i am a reasonably good baker (i can bake a Mean Loaf of Bread), but i'm not a very experienced baker. 3/4 cakes were reasonably good, and only one was just slightly off. so, my track record is mixed, but i am hopeful.

now, let me take you to the present.

i am sitting at my dining room table, typing this post. i am wearing a shirt covered in flour, the green cake is in the oven.

how did i get here?

well, we won't go to the beginning. we've already seen what was basically the beginning, with me having no butter or sugar. the real story begins the morning of january 3rd. which is today. which is when saph comes home, expecting a green cake. as most reasonably well adjusted people do when their roommates parents are visiting, i stressed cleaned the entire apartment at 4am, after realizing the mice in my walls are fucking. i did not leave them a condom. i did not have one that would fit them. i can only hope they have plan b. so naturally, i went to bed at 6am.

and i still had no sugar or butter for the green cake for saph.

and i needed to get started on this cake before 10am, or saph would be here before it was finished.

and i went to bed at 6am. so naturally i set my 9:00, 9:02, 9:04, 9:06 alarms, and hoped i'd lock in when i woke up.

friends, i hate to admit it, but i did not lock in. nay, i slept through all of my alarms and woke up at roughly 9:45. it was cold, damp, and the mice were still probably fucking. i threw my hair into a messy bun, and ran downstairs, only to find my mom was selling me to one direction.

jk. it was far worse.

because saph said she had sent me something.

what did saph send me?

a full poster of david malukas! do i know why? no! but he lives in my kitchen now, providing me with mental support. thanks david!

so, i begin to make the cake after laughing for about 10 minutes about why david is now in my apartment. it starts off surprisingly well. i have not forgotten the salt.

everything is normal.

until i remember.

the cake needs to be green.

why? idk thats what saph said she wanted so i am just going to do what i was told to do and make this damn cake green.

but its now late in the process, and if there is one thing i have learned in all my years of watching the great british baking show with my mom, it is to never over beat your cake.

and my cake, right now, was perfect. trust me. i ate plenty of dough to know it was wonderful.

so now i am trying to figure out how to make the most perfect shade of nico rosberg green, feeling a bit like an alchemist. david malukas is staring me down. my time grows shorter and shorter with each beat.

and then, gang, i had to give up on this being nico rosberg green. i did not want to kill my cake. my green cake. my now mint-green cake that i am baking for saph. so naturally i'm like, okay, time to pour this.

easy, right?

WRONG.

so one thing to know about me is i suck at cutting things.

it's unfortunately a key ingredient in cake making that you have a stupid little circle on the bottom of your cake tins. i cut it the best i could. which was bad. so i'm already fighting demons trying to get the stupid parchment paper from sliding every which way, and then, my friends, i realized something horrible.

the batter had not mixed at the bottom. so now i was fighting even more demons and trying not to get loose flour in my cake.

i think i succeeded. only time will tell. david is watching. the cake is almost done.

i am setting the green cake free.

look upon him now, and weep. the green cake prevails! even though he doesn't look very green yet.

and now, for the hardest part. frosting.

let's see how that goes.

david still watches.

[my-castles-crumbling]

flashback - January 18 - wolfstar - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 297

"No!"

Remus woke up to screaming, and not for the first time. He was just glad that this time, he was already there, and did not have to stumble across the dorm room in the dark.

"No, AH! No, PLEASE!"

Sitting up quickly, Remus reached over, gently shaking the shoulder of the trembling boy next to him. "Sirius? Sirius, baby, it's alright, it-"

"NO! No, not Reg, hurt me!" Sirius voice was more whiny now, more desperate, and his face was scrunched into a terrified grimace that nearly broke Remus's heart.

"Sirius! Love, wake up!" Remus said a bit louder, pulling the flailing boy into his arms, cradling him close to his chest. "It's not real, it's a dream, sweetheart, c'mon, now..."

It took a few more shakes and a many more terrified moans from Sirius, but eventually, teary eyes opened and met his.

"What happened?" Sirius panted, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. One of his hands was gripping Remus's sleep shirt like a lifeline.

"Nightmare," Remus whispered, running his fingers through Sirius's damp hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You're safe, love. I'm here."

"I...yeah," Sirius nodded, biting his lip and sniffling a few times. "...thank you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Remus offered hesitantly. Sirius looked so fragile, so vulnerable, like he was about to break.

And the other boy hesitated. But after a moment, it seemed like he decided that whatever flashback had haunted his dreams was too painful to discuss. "Just...just hold me, yeah?" he mumbled, laying down and pulling Remus with him.

"Always," he responded instantly, wrapping his arms tightly around the one piece of his heart that he would do anything to protect.

They fell asleep like that, tangled together in each other's arms.

[crossfandomskylines]

You Deserve This

Pairing: Glen Powell x Female Reader

Summary: In the heart of London, you’re visiting your boyfriend, Glen Powell, on the set of his latest project when he receives a life-changing phone call. After years of hard work and quiet perseverance, Glen is finally nominated for a Golden Globe for his role in Hit Man.

Word Count: 685

A/N: Here's a little drabble I wrote this morning after the news about Glen's Golden Globes Nomination broke. I'm just so proud of him and I feel like he deserves all of the recognition he's been getting lately. Please let me know if you like this with hearts, comments, and reblogs!

The soft hum of London’s streets filtered faintly through the walls of Glen’s trailer, a comforting backdrop to the cozy stillness inside. You were curled up on the couch, one of Glen’s oversized hoodies draped over you like a warm cocoon. It smelled like him—part cologne and the other part something inherently Glen—and it had become your go-to for days like this when the weather outside turned damp and chilly.

The book in your lap had long since lost your attention. Instead, you lazily traced your thumb along the edge of the page, half-listening to Glen’s conversation a few feet away. His voice was steady, his Texan twang softened as he spoke into the phone.

“Yeah, I get it,” he said, pacing the narrow length of the trailer. “I mean, January feels like forever away, but...”

You glanced up briefly, noticing the furrow of his brow and the way his free hand ran through his hair—a clear tell of his nerves. But you didn’t press him. Glen wasn’t one to let you in on something big until he’d wrapped his head around it himself.

“Uh-huh,” he murmured. “Yeah, I’m listening.”

Your gaze shifted back to your book, but the words blurred together. Something about the way his tone had shifted caught your attention. The pacing stopped.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, his voice catching. “What?”

You looked up again, your heart skipping. Glen turned slightly, one hand resting on his hip as the other clutched the phone tightly to his ear. He cleared his throat, his voice soft but noticeably shaky. “Are you serious? No, no, you’re not messing with me right now, right?”

The disbelief in his tone sent a chill through you, and you set the book aside, sitting up straighter.

When Glen finally lowered the phone, his hand dropped to his side, and he stood there for a moment, utterly still. Slowly, he turned to you, his green eyes wide and glistening.

“I—I got nominated,” he said, almost breathless. “For a Golden Globe. Best Actor in a Comedy or Musical. For Hit Man.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before their weight hit you.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, breaking into a smile as you launched off the couch and into his arms. “Glen! Oh my God!”

He caught you with a low laugh, though it was shaky and choked. His arms wrapped around you tightly, grounding himself in the embrace as he buried his face into your shoulder.

“You deserve this,” you said, your voice muffled against his neck. “Every single bit of this, Glen. You’ve worked so hard for this moment.”

You felt him exhale deeply, his chest rising and falling as he held onto you like you were his anchor in a storm. When he pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed, but the smile on his face was brighter than you’d ever seen it.

“I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. After all these years, all the times I thought maybe this would never happen…” His voice cracked again, and he swallowed hard. “I’ve wanted this for so long. And…for it to be…it’s this project, you know? I poured everything I had into it.”

You cupped his face, brushing a stray tear away with your thumb. “And it shows. Everyone who sees that movie can see it. This is just the beginning, Glen.”

He laughed softly, leaning into your touch as his hands settled on your waist. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, his voice low. “Having you here for this moment…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if words failed him.

“I’m here, Glen. Every step of the way,” you said, pulling him back into a hug.

He rested his chin on the top of your head, holding you tighter this time. “I’m so damn lucky,” he murmured.

You smiled, feeling the tension in his body finally ease. This was his moment—one he’d worked tirelessly for, one he completely deserved. And you couldn’t have been prouder to stand beside him, supporting him through it all.

[bits-and-babs]

Im so sorry I didn’t see this till after request were closed but so idk if you gon see this but, f!reader had her nipples pierced? I’m sorry but I feel like price would be obsessed with readers piercings like if she had a tongue piercing too? Manz would go crazy. Smut? Dw if not <33

✦ 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 6: NIPPLE PIERCINGS

cds!john price x recruit!reader | smut, 18+ | 1.2k words

summary: three months into your sas training course, chief directional instructor captain john price drills you on cold-water-shock survival.

cw: f!reader, cold water shock, power imbalance (recruit x directing staff), secret relationship, breast/nipple play, p in v sex, cream pie.

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 7: INCUBUS ⇾

It wasn’t as though there hadn’t been sufficient warning, but three years of service in the British army was nowhere near enough to prepare your body for the brutal battering that SAS selection subjected it to. Your blisters had blisters, and your body pulsed with a bone-deep ache every time you managed to crawl into bed upon dismissal. 

You had been sufficiently warned… About everything except this. 

Freezing cold water drips from your nose as you hoist yourself out of the pool at the base of the waterfall. Cold-Water-Shock training was a standard part of SAS selection– the ability to control your own discomfort and maintain a level head whilst also teaching the fundamentals of surviving sub-zero. January weather meant temperature levels were unsurvivable past a handful of seconds, and you could feel why. 

The process was simple. Fully submerge yourself into the icy depths before raising to the surface and keeping your chin above water. Next step; breathe. Regain composure and steady your breathing to fight the effects of cold-shock. Recruitment Staff would then ask you a handful of simple questions to assess competency before heaving you out of the water. 

You’d passed, you felt, with flying colours. The savagery of the otherworldly Brecon Beacons had failed to shake your resolve, answering the questions with ease. Even now, drenched to the bone and involuntarily trembling, you maintained a strong eye contact with Chief Directional Instructor Price as he eyed you with a stern expression. 

It’s momentary— barely there. You’d have missed it had you blinked. Price’s thick eyelashes, made damp by the sleet that had been battering the group all morning, dipped below your face. Sapphire blue irises glint in the low light when they zero in on their target. You hadn’t worn a bra this morning given you’d been forced out of bed at the arse-crack of dawn and expected to be in the van within five minutes… They’d left you little to no choice. 

Regardless of this reasonable explanation, you suddenly begin to regret your decision to forgo the cover, Staff Price gazing at the way your grey t-shirt clings to your pebbled nipples and the exposed shape of the piercing balls either side of each mound. 

“That’ll be all, 16,” he says, that raspy grit to his voice warming you from the inside-out. That fever encroaches on the apples of your cheeks when you realise he’s yet to pull his eyes away. 

“… Yes Staff.”

✦✦✦

“You did that on purpose.”

John’s voice, husky and full, was surprisingly even considering how tight your pussy walls clenched around his thick, veiny cock. You wail quietly at the soft breath that dances across your assaulted skin, nipples so incredibly sensitive. Sucked and nibbled and licked, the tender skin screams when Price drags the flat of his tongue over your pierced nipple with a delighted hum. 

“N-No—“ you choke out, the overstimulation of your nipples sending another shockwave of bliss down your spine. You know you’re squeezing him, because John ruts up into your fluttering pussy with a far less composed groan. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to!”

“You’re not foolin’ anyone, Love,” John murmurs, gently taking your pebbled nipple between his teeth and rolling it. 

You see stars— swirls of technicolour dancing behind your eyelids with how tightly you squeeze them shut against the cataclysmic pleasure that seeps between your thighs. When John jerks his hips up again, you can hear how wet you are. It’s sloppy, disgustingly soaked, and Price loves it. 

“Fuckin’— Hah-“ John moans against the supple flesh of your breast, wrapping his lips around it and sucking on the hypersensitised skin. This time, when you arch your back from the bed with a wail of his name, he begins a slow and leisurely pace with his hips. 

Burying your fingers into the short-crop of his hair, you brace against the ticking bomb of your orgasm as it approaches. Each long stroke of John’s hips makes another disgustingly wet sound, your cunt greedily sucking him in and creaming around his throbbing dick as he flicks his tongue back and forth across your abused nipple. His other palm, battle calloused and rough, squeezed the other breast, thumb equally torturing your second nipple. 

It comes in waves; cresting, crashing tsunamis rather than soft laps of the ocean on a beach. A prickling heat that singes away the Beacon’s icy cold from your toes and creeps up the inside of your thighs. Your heart slams against John’s lips, your hands pushing into the back of his head to keep him there while you chase what could only be described as liquidation. 

“Ohmygod—“ you slur, and it’s as though the edges of your vision blacken. In truth, you’re not sure what you call him as you come apart on his cock, sobbing out a hapless string of garbled noises that don’t sound anything like his name. Toes curling either side of his hips, you fail to brace against the overstimulation that rips violently through you. 

“Fucken’ ‘ell—“ he groans deeply, a guttural growl that seems to vibrate the atoms in the air around you. The deliberate, methodical thrusts of his hips suddenly pitch to a sloppy, desperate gallop. John’s hands grasp the bed sheets so tight you almost hear the threads strain against the pull. 

He cums, coating the inside of your cunt with a rumble of your name that sounds so foreign to your ears with the afterglow buzzing in your eardrums. John continues to fuck you through it, taking pleasure in the way you squirm and squeal and cry until his cum seeps between your legs, coating the inside of your thighs with his seed. 

Sharp, heaving breaths echo in his small quarters, and you’re almost certain that his fellow DS had definitely heard you this time. But when John places his damp forehead to yours, eyes closed as he relishes in the bliss of being so close to you for just a moment longer, you struggle to find it in yourself to worry. 

“You should wear a bra,” John mumbles, pressing a kiss to your lips— but missing in the haze of post-orgasm-bliss and settling for a peck on the corner of your mouth. 

“Why?” You muse, still a little breathless as he works his lips down your chin and over your jaw. The gruff, burly Chief of Directing Staff was so affectionate when the door was closed. You knew that this thing you had going on was more serious than a thing when you stopped being anxious about getting caught and being kicked off the course— instead stressing about John offering his tenderness to another recruit. “If this is how you react to seeing me with a wet shirt and no bra, I’ll dunk myself in that water every damn day.”

In a moment of sobriety, John pulls back to look you in the eye. His aquamarine irises hold a heavy seriousness that makes your breath stall for a moment, afraid you’d said something out of line. 

“Love, I completed that whole trainin’ session with a rock hard cock.” 

A beat. 

Just before peals of laughter burst from you. John rolls his eyes, turning onto his back on the mattress. Still, he’s unable to bite back the smile that pulls on his lips.

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

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@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh

[ethereacals]

Moony's Moon and Star.

synopsis; after a huge party that you were convinced you'd be alright going to, you end up hiding in your slytherin boyfriends dorm from every little thing.

pairings; poly!moonwater x seer!reader

warnings; profanity, social anxiety troubles

a/n; i'm totally not basing this off of a recent experience (except i didnt have a remus or regulus to comfort me)

THE PARTY WAS LOUD, booming even.

Students from every house drinking and dancing from wall to wall.

Couples in bathrooms and lines outside the door.

It was the last Gryffindor hosted party until holiday break, lasting until early January.

James, Sirius, and Peter had planned their last big prank of the year, though Remus wasn't very involved.

He was specifically tasked by Regulus to keep a watchful eye over you.

You had convinced your boyfriends (and not exactly yourself) that you could go to this party and make it out alive.

But godric, were you wrong.

You felt suffocated, pushing through the piles and piles of people as you somehow made it out into the silent hallways.

Tonight in the castle was the infamous no patrol night, where Filch and other teachers on duty wouldn't patrol. Basically meaning there was no curfew.

It was actually meant for students who needed to pack last minute, but everyone knew that this was a better option.

Not many students lingered the halls, besides a few horny little fourth year boys trying to get to second-base with their girlfriends of one week.

You made your way down to the dungeons, somehow making it that far without collapsing into yourself.

Quietly, you whispered the password and generously allowed into the Slytherin common room by the giant snake-like accents slithering away to reveal the dimly lit space.

You made your way up to Regulus' room, which by your knowledge was to be completely empty.

Your suspicions were right, and that left you to collapse onto his bed and let your emotions get the better of you.

You thought you could handle it.

You took deep breaths.

Hell- you even tried to stay with Remus, but the crowd separated the both of you whilst James pulled him aside.

You were trembling, and desperately wanting your boyfriends but not being able to immediately contact them.

Unexpectedly, you started feeling faint. Like your consciousness was being tugged right from your fingers.

It was like you were in a large, dark ocean with the moon just over head.

It was too far to see very clearly, though it's presence was still there.

Then, there was a star. A bright star. It was reaching for you, but the waves kept tugging you under as you felt like you were constantly drowning and being swept away.

You tried to reach for the star, but the tide crashed above you as your hand reached tirelessly towards the star.

And after one colossal wave, you had fully sunk.

The little stars glow dimming as you sunk under.

Before you jolted conscious once again, now feeling a cold hand pressed on your back.

You looked up to see your boyfriend, Regulus, a worried expression painted onto his face as you realized that you were practically laying on top of him.

"I-" You started, eager to explain yourself and why you didn't stay. As you expected some sort of lecture or "I told you so" from him.

"You don't have to say anything, amour. You're safe." He mused from below you, just as you realized how heavy your breathing as and damp your cheeks were.

"I know you were determined you could stay, but we're proud of you that you searched for solitude instead of making yourself more uncomfortable." A different voice spoke softly, that voice obviously belonging to Remus.

"I-I said I would s-stay though and I didn't..." You attempted to find some sort of blame to place on yourself, but clearly your boyfriends weren't taking it.

"Dove, it's completely alright." Remus caressed your cheek gingerly, as Regulus and his ice cold Antarctic hands against the lumber of your back.

"Please understand nobody is mad at you, it's alright, amour." Regulus cooed, his ring finger drawing imaginary lines down your forehead to the tip of your nose.

"O-Okay.." You murmured sleepily, the Sight making your brain go all fuzzy and lulling you to sleep.

"Bonne nuit, mon amour. Respire, nous sommes là..."

(goodnight, my love. just breathe, we're here…")

Regulus whispered, smiling gently at his boyfriend as you fell asleep.

You definitely were in good hands.

[featherandferns]

day 4/24 - obx christmas countdown

‘If it's true love, that he thinks of, so next Christmas, I'm not all alone’ - Ariana Grande, Santa Tell Me | smut-fluff | jj x fem!reader

You and JJ had been messing around together since summer. Summer. That’s six whole months of sneaking out at all hours of the night to the Chateau. Six months of being tangled up in bedsheets with JJ’s sweaty, sexy body. Six months of life-altering orgasms and six months of repressed feelings. But like a trained marine, you had experience with pushing down your emotions. As of now, you’d been a professional at denying yourself love. But you knew that you did love JJ. How could you not? It was as if God had read through your checklist of your dream man - good-looking; good in bed; good at heart; good humour - and sculpted JJ Maybank and plonked him down in your town. And you made a silent, secret pact with yourself that if nothing had changed by January - if you didn’t confess your feelings, and find out if JJ felt the same - then you had to go cold-turkey. No pun intended. 

That secret pact was awfully hard to stand by when you’re stood in some random local kid’s house for a Christmas party and spot JJ walking across the room. He’s so pretty you want to cry. So effortlessly beautiful with his hair perfectly tousled; his jawline sharp like carved ice; smirk shadowed on his skin like a wine stain. The loose jacket overlay hangs handsomely on his shoulders as if tailored to his body. The moment his eyes flit across the room and meet yours, you’re amazed you don’t melt into a puddle and rip your clothes off on the spot. The spiked cider does little to ease your nerves as he casually wanders over. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says. 

“Right back at you,” you smile. The song changes to some poppy rendition of Let it Snow but you refuse to let yourself get in the mood. His words ring like a funeral march. You count down the days until the new year. The days which you had left to grow a pair and just ask. 

“How’s the cider?” he asks, nodding down to your glass. 

“Alright,” you uselessly reply. His fingers brush against yours as JJ takes the glass from you. He takes a slow swig and you shamelessly watch every tiny detail unfold: the bob of his adam’s apple; the dampness that lingers on his lips; the way his tongue darts out to mop it up. God, what you’d give to– 

No! Stop it, stop it! 

The pact - we must remember the pact. 

You take the glass back and smile. He nods. “Pretty good.”

“Mhm.”

“So…Got any Christmas plans?”

“Just spending time with the family,” you say, shrugging. He nods again. You can feel the question stirring. See it in the way his eyes look at you, scanning over you as though your clothes are merely a figment of imagination; a philosophical theory that he’s decided not to buy into. You’ve seen that look many times before and ended up beneath it many more. 

“What about tonight? Any plans?” he wonders slyly, his eyes darting over your figure from head to toe. 

The pact, the pact, the pact, the–

“Not really,” you guilefully shrug. You flash him that smile that always seems to work. The rest is a blur of ditching glasses, intertwined hands, brushing past bodies, trying doors, until you end up in some random bedroom of this weirdly oversized house, with JJ on top of you. 

His lips are hot and heavy as they kiss you. He pushes against you with a groan as if desperate to feel your skin on his. The layers of clothes are rude now, keeping the two of you apart, but you’re too distracted by the feel of his lips on yours, the erotic way his tongue brushes against yours in a way that has you yearning for more, to shed them. 

JJ coaxes you back against the pillows of some poor stranger’s bed. His lips are wet and prurient as they stray from your mouth, onto your neck. Your breath comes out short in sighs, whining, as you paw at his face and his neck and his body. You tug off his overlayer and he shrugs it off, his hands quick to return to your body. One slips below your breast and the other cups at your cheek, gently guiding your face just-so to give him more skin. He knows your body so well it’s as if he’s found the map and memorised it. Knows every short cut and every route. Knows what to do that has your body pulsing, pussy weeping, desperate for more. 

Somewhere through the layers of walls, you hear the music change. The voices of party-goers are muffled and in the erotic haze, your thoughts clouded and mind foggy, you forgot where you were. Santa tell me, if you’re really there… Ariana’s voice rings out through the house and some girls sing along loudly. It feels as if they’re condemning you in tuneful, cheery lyrics. 

“Wait, wait,” you murmur. Your body can’t believe what you’re doing as you softly push JJ off of you. 

His lips are swollen and wet, eyes hooded and pupils dilated, cheeks adorably pinkened, as he looks down at you. His arms flex damningly as he holds himself, hands placed either side next to your head. His breathing heavy just like you. 

“What’s up? You okay?” he murmurs. 

You swallow and shake your head. He frowns and eases off you, sitting back on his haunches. You sit up too. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brushing his hair off his face. 

You tug your cardigan around you and glance off to the side of the room. Your eyes survey the chest of drawers and the array of pictures and trinkets atop of it. JJ murmurs your name and it sends you back to the very first night, in clammy June. You’d always been keenly aware of JJ Maybank’s existence. Hell, everybody on Kildare island was. The night his eyes landed on you and his attention switched was the night your whole life veered off course. It’s easy to not miss something you never had. But now you’d had a taste and JJ was like a forbidden fruit. After that night, you wanted more. However, it seemed like JJ did too. The two of you kept seeking one another out at random keggars and house parties. Then it strayed from party scenes and instead ventured into more mundane settings, in which he’d extend an invitation, and the hook-ups were no longer kept to just the nights. Then it turned into phone numbers and mutuals on social media, which led to random conversations and exchanges of funny memes. It became this confusing blur of lines where JJ straddled something between being a friend and a fuck-buddy. And in that confusion came feelings that you tried to cram down like an overflowing box of Christmas lights. 

“Woah,” JJ chuckles. You blink yourself back to the room. “Where’d you go?”

“I don’t know,” you say, chuckling a bit too. “Sorry.”

“You’re good. We don’t gotta do anything,” JJ shrugs. He grabs for his overlayer and your body fills with adrenaline. Your hand shoots out and grabs onto his arm. He looks at you, mildly concerned. 

“Okay,” you say. He quirks a brow. “Okay, okay. I just need to get this over with because it’s been driving me crazy and I know if I don’t just ask, then I’m never going to ask, and I made to a promise to myself that I would ask and–”

“--Woah, woah, woah,” JJ laughs. He places a hand on each of your shoulders. His eyes gaze into yours and he smiles reassuringly. “Breath. Goddamn.”

You do as he says. He stays like that, waiting, and you take another shaky breath in. Your eyes slip shut as you mentally prepare yourself for the sting of rejection. It’s now or never. Rip the bandaid off. The confession comes out so quick it could be mistaken for one word.  

“I have feelings for you.”

It’s hard to hear anything over the hammering of your heartbeat in your ears. The party feels as though it’s miles away. The muffled voices are nothing more than extractor fan hums. The music is nothing but croaking frogs and rustling wind. It’s all whitenoise now. Your breath sticks to your throat and your chest tightens with nerves as you wait. You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You’re too terrified to come face to face with JJ’s expression of pure horror. 

They fly open when you feel his lips on yours though. The kiss is frenzied, rushed, desperate to have you close, almost. Your hands fly up and hover in the air, just shy of his face, but his are on your cheeks. As the kiss stretches on, your hands sink down to your legs and your eyes slip shut once more, and you loose yourself to the feeling of JJ kissing you as if you’re the last breath of air on earth. 

“Thank fuck. Cause I wasn’t sure how much longer I could go without saying something,” JJ murmurs the moment his lips part from yours. Your eyes open up and he’s staring up at you. Beneath the usual cocky, confident facade is a shyness. A vulnerability. Maybe it’s in his smile - nervous, waiting, unsure. Yours must mirror it. 

“Really?” you say, feeling a laugh want to bubble out of you. 

“Really. Shit, I thought I was being so obvious, too.”

You laugh and shake your head. Sighing out, happy - no, elated - you gaze up at the ceiling. “Thank fuck.”

You’re more than happy to have JJ silence you with his lips on yours. For the first time in a long time, you won't have to spend Christmas alone.

[unabashegirl]

The Cover | part 4

Y/N and Harry, lifelong best friends, pretend to be a couple for a family wedding weekend in Edinburgh. As they navigate the event, old feelings resurface, and what starts as an act turns into something real, leading them to confront their true emotions for one another.

Author's note: Hello everyone, here is the final part of the cover. I've decided to keep the smut exclusive to my Patreon subscribers. I hope that is okay with you. Also remember that this is a shorter version of the original.

I'm trying to come up with new ideas for one shots. Pls vote! Especially if you are subscribed to Patreon! Help Decide the Next One-Shot!

I'm still trying to gather the money to continue my journey to medical school in January. I've only gotten 1% of my goal. I'll leave the link here in case you would like or are able to help me. Please I am desperate! 🥺 https://ko-fi.com/mariabernal8706

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As the evening wore on, the rehearsal dinner turned into a carefree celebration under the soft glow of fairy lights. Laughter filled the warm air, wine glasses clinked, and the once-formal atmosphere relaxed into something more boozy and free-spirited. Most guests had trickled out, leaving behind only close family and friends, including the bride, who was barefoot and swaying on the grass.

Harry sat at the large wooden table, eyes on the makeshift dance floor where family members stumbled over each other, laughing. His blazer was discarded over his chair, the top buttons of his shirt undone, a sheen of sweat glistening on his chest. The summer night was humid, and the heat from earlier hung in the air, clinging to everyone like a heavy blanket. Harry ran a hand through his tousled curls, the dampness at his hairline a reminder of how sticky the night had become.

Harry leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, the other holding a glass of whiskey, now mostly just melted ice. He hadn’t been drinking much since the toasts, but the buzz from earlier still lingered, making him feel a little lighter than usual. His shirt clung to his chest, damp from the heat, and he unbuttoned another button to catch some air.

Across the yard, Y/N spun in her floral dress, laughter echoing in the warm night air, blending with the upbeat music from the DJ. Her cheeks were flushed, hair wild from dancing and drinks. She was the brightest thing in the yard, a glowing figure of joy among the family still hanging around.

Harry took a slow sip from his glass, his gaze never leaving her. She was magnetic—the way her dress swayed, the way she threw her head back when she laughed. It was impossible not to be drawn to her.

His shirt collar felt tight again, and Harry absentmindedly tugged at it, his eyes tracing the way Y/N’s dress hugged her in all the right places. There was something about the way she moved tonight—so free, so completely herself. It was like watching the most beautiful thing in the world, no filters, no pretenses.

He exhaled, a mix of admiration and frustration settling in. They hadn’t confessed anything yet—no love, no admissions of the truth that lingered between them. Watching her from the sidelines, it hit him just how deep he was in it.

Y/N’s cousin twirled her on the "dance floor," and for a split second, she stumbled, giggling as she caught herself. Beth, now barefoot, joined in, and the three of them—Y/N, her cousin, and Beth—started dancing in a clumsy circle, arms around each other’s shoulders.

The group’s laughter rang louder than the music, and even Y/N’s cousin—who had spent the evening showing off her fiancé and trying to impress Harry—was caught up in the happy, drunken haze of the night.

Harry sighed, rolling his shoulders and sinking back into his chair, the sweat on his skin cooling in the evening air. His gaze never left Y/N as she moved, effortlessly beautiful. It struck him again how out of place she seemed here—surrounded by these people, with their petty remarks and forced conversations. She was so much more than that. Watching her dance, carefree and full of life, made his chest tighten.

Then, as Y/N spun in the circle, her eyes met his. For a moment, her smile softened, more intimate, before she waved at him playfully, inviting him to join. Harry shook his head, raising his glass in a half-teasing salute.

She pouted, narrowing her eyes at him before rolling them and letting her arms drop from her cousin and Beth. Without missing a beat, she marched toward him, the fabric of her dress brushing her legs with each step.

“You’re really just going to sit there all night?” Y/N teased, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. Her voice was light, but the challenge in her eyes was undeniable.

“I’m enjoying the view,” Harry replied, his voice lower than he meant to. He grinned, but there was no mistaking the heat behind his gaze.

Y/N’s lips curved into a knowing smile, and she tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “The view’s better up close,” she said, holding out her hand.

Harry stared at her outstretched hand, the challenge and playful spark in her eyes tempting him. It was impossible not to be drawn in. His heart raced, the idea of crossing that line between friendship and something more pulling him in.

For a moment, he considered brushing her off with another excuse. But something shifted. A decision settled in his chest, heavy but certain.

Without another word, he reached out, his hand taking hers. Instead of getting up, he tugged her gently toward him. Y/N gasped in surprise as he pulled her close, his grip firm but careful. She stumbled slightly, and before she could react, Harry pulled her down onto his lap.

“Harry—” she whispered, voice breathless, the protest fading before it even left her lips.

Harry wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Y/N's legs draped over his lap as she sat sideways on him, his other hand settling on her thigh. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of her dress, the floral print fluttering slightly as she adjusted. The delicate pattern contrasted with the intimacy of the moment.

His heart raced, but he kept his voice steady. “Thought you’d look better here,” he murmured, his words laced with both playfulness and something deeper.

Y/N looked up at him, wide-eyed and speechless for a moment, her cheeks flushed from the sudden closeness. She shifted in his lap, slow and tentative, the nervous energy between them thick and palpable. Neither of them had fully acknowledged the tension before.

Her hands found his chest, fingers brushing against the open buttons of his shirt. She swallowed hard. “Harry, what are you doing?” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. Was it a challenge? A question? Or just a way to steady herself in the chaos of emotions between them?

He smirked, though his heart felt like it might burst. "I don’t want to dance," he murmured in her ear. "I prefer being here with you."

Her breath hitched at his words. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She’d always hidden her feelings, pushed them aside, but this felt different. It felt real. The way Harry’s arms held her, the way his breath brushed against her skin—it was as if they’d always been this close, even when they hadn’t.

Y/N bit her lip, her nerves taking over for a moment. She wasn’t sure if this was just Harry being playful or if something had really changed between them. But as she sat in his lap, his hand on her thigh, the truth felt undeniable.

Harry could feel her hesitation, the tension in her posture, caught between leaning into him and pulling away. His thumb brushed over the fabric of her dress, a small, reassuring touch, silently telling her it was okay to stay.

“Relax,” he whispered in her ear, his voice low and soft. “Just… stay.”

Y/N exhaled, her body melting into his as she allowed herself to give in to the moment. She leaned her head back against his chest, their breaths syncing as they sat close and quiet, the fading party around them.

The world blurred into a soft hum, the laughter and music fading into the background. All that remained was the warmth of Harry’s embrace, the steady beat of his heart beneath her hand, and the electricity of their unspoken feelings finally surfacing.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, her hand resting over Harry’s on her thigh, fingers intertwining. “What are we doing, Harry?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tightened his hold on her, his lips near her temple. “I’m not sure,” he murmured, “but I don’t want to stop.”

Her heart fluttered at his words. For the first time that night, she allowed herself to believe—just a little—that maybe he felt the same way she did.

Y/N took a deep breath, summoning the courage she needed. The alcohol made her head spin, but it also gave her the boldness to act. She knew if anything was going to happen, it had to be now.

Suddenly, she stood up from his lap. Harry looked up at her, surprise and curiosity flashing in his eyes. Y/N reached for his glass, brushing against his fingers as she took it. Without breaking eye contact, she downed his drink in one swift motion.

Harry’s gaze was intense, a mix of desire and uncertainty in his eyes. Y/N’s heart raced, but she ignored the nerves and extended her hand to him—an invitation, a challenge, all in one.

For a moment, Harry hesitated, his eyes searching hers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he took her hand. Y/N felt a jolt of electricity as their fingers intertwined. With a gentle tug, she pulled him up from his seat, their bodies close, the tension between them undeniable.

Without a word, Y/N led Harry away from the fading party, through the quiet halls of the house. The sounds of laughter and music drifted behind them, their footsteps echoing softly in the silence, their heartbeats quickening in sync.

They reached the door to their shared bedroom, and Y/N paused, her hand on the doorknob. She turned to face Harry, her eyes searching his.

His gaze was intense, a mix of desire and something deeper. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The simple touch sent shivers down her spine.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered, his voice low and husky.

Y/N nodded, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

With that, she turned the doorknob, and they stepped into the room together, closing the door behind them. The night was far from over, and whatever happened next would change everything.

Y/N woke up before Harry, her head pounding slightly from the drinks of last night. The dull throb of a hangover tugged at her, but the memories of the night before were as vivid as ever. Every touch, every whispered word, every lingering moment—it was all clear in her mind.

She lay there for a moment, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Her gaze drifted to Harry, lying beside her on his stomach, completely naked. The sheet had been kicked off during the night, leaving him uncovered. His broad back rose and fell with each slow breath, muscles relaxed, his messy curls falling across his forehead. He looked peaceful, vulnerable, and breathtakingly beautiful.

For a brief moment, Y/N let herself admire him—the smooth lines of his back, the curve of his spine, the way his body seemed perfectly at ease. A warmth spread through her chest, not just from the memories of their night together, but from the way Harry made her feel in this quiet, unspoken moment.

With a sigh, she slipped out of bed as quietly as possible. Grabbing a pair of pajamas from her suitcase, she slipped them on, the soft fabric comforting against her skin. Her mind buzzed with thoughts of the day ahead—the wedding, the ceremony, the reception.

Y/N cast one last glance at Harry before tiptoeing out of the room. She needed a moment to herself—and some breakfast—before the chaos of the day began.

Heading downstairs, she stepped into the dining room, still feeling the faint throb of a hangover, but the promise of coffee and food was enough to offer some relief. She spotted her cousin and Beth immediately. Both looked worse for wear after last night's festivities. Beth was lounging in her chair, sipping a Bloody Mary with a smug expression, while Y/N’s cousin—the bride—was nursing her headache with a cold compress pressed to her puffy face, slowly nibbling on toast.

"Morning," Y/N greeted as she made her way to the coffee pot, pouring herself a steaming cup. She sat down at the table, hoping the caffeine would kick in and help her survive the day ahead. Beth’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she took another sip of her drink.

"So," Beth said, leaning forward with a sly grin. "Where did you disappear off to last night?"

Y/N’s cheeks flushed with heat, the memory of waking up next to Harry still fresh in her mind. She tried to play it cool, taking a long sip of her coffee before responding. "We just... went to bed early," she said, keeping her tone casual, hoping to brush it off. "Nothing exciting."

Beth’s grin only grew wider. "Uh-huh. Sure. You just went to sleep, huh?" She leaned in, lowering her voice like they were sharing a secret. "Come on, Y/N, don’t be shy. You’re a dirty girl now, aren’t you?"

Y/N nearly choked on her coffee, her face burning even hotter as she shot a glare at Beth. "Beth, seriously," she muttered, feeling more exposed than she wanted to admit. Before she could say anything else, her cousin, the bride, spoke up.

"I’m actually glad we have a moment to talk alone," her cousin said, setting down her toast and focusing her attention on Y/N. Her voice was sweet, but there was a sharpness in it that immediately put Y/N on edge. "I’ve been wanting to bring this up for a while now."

Y/N’s pulse quickened as she turned to face her cousin. "Oh?"

Her cousin smiled tightly, pressing the ice pack harder against her swollen face. "I’ve been meaning to say… I’m a bit surprised, to be honest." She gave a small, pointed shrug before continuing. "That someone like Harry would notice… well, someone like you."

Y/N’s heart sank, though she’d braced herself for comments like this. Hearing it still stung. Her cousin’s words were dripping with condescension, like she couldn’t believe Harry would even look twice at Y/N, let alone be interested.

"Someone like me?" Y/N echoed, her voice calm but guarded, forcing herself to keep her tone even.

Her cousin waved a hand dismissively. "You know what I mean. You’ve always been so quiet, so reserved. And Harry’s... well, he’s Harry Styles. A global superstar. It’s just... unexpected, that’s all."

Y/N’s stomach twisted as insecurity rose to the surface. She’d always known Harry’s fame was a shadow that loomed over everything, especially in situations like this. But hearing it like this? It felt personal. It felt like her cousin was questioning her worth, her place beside Harry.

Before Y/N could think of a response, Beth cut in with a sharp laugh. "Oh, shut up," she said, dismissing the bride’s thinly veiled insult with a wave of her hand. "Harry doesn’t care about all that. If anything, he’s lucky Y/N even looks at him."

Y/N shot Beth a grateful glance, feeling the tension shift slightly in the room, but her cousin wasn’t done. She leaned back in her chair, sizing Y/N up with an unreadable look. "Well, I suppose we’ll see," she said, her voice laced with skepticism. "But it’s just... different. I never would've guessed."

Y/N swallowed, trying to keep her composure, but her cousin’s words hung in the air like a cloud she couldn’t shake. She took a deep breath, forcing a smile despite the nervous flutter in her chest. "Yeah," Y/N said softly. "It is different."

Beth, ever the firecracker, raised her Bloody Mary in a mock toast. "Different is good."

Y/N’s cousin’s voice dripped with saccharine sweetness, her next words like poison. "I mean, you’re just so... simple," she said, emphasizing the word in a way that felt anything but kind. "And that’s okay! Not everyone has to be flashy or... glamorous." She waved her hand dismissively, as if to brush aside any possibility that Y/N could be more than what she was implying. "You’ve always been the quiet one, the one in the background. I suppose some people might find that... charming."

Y/N forced a tight smile, but her cousin’s words stung deeper than she expected. Doubt crept in with every backhanded comment. Was she really that unremarkable? Did everyone see her the way her cousin did—as someone who didn’t quite belong with someone like Harry?

Beth wasn’t having any of it. “Simple?” she scoffed. “You mean down-to-earth, real—not fake like some people I can name.”

Her cousin smirked, clearly pleased with herself. “Look at Harry’s usual type—models, actresses. Saw him with that model in London last week? They looked so into each other.”

Y/N froze, her stomach twisting. “What model?” she barely managed to ask.

Her cousin leaned back, eyes sparkling. “You must’ve seen the pictures. They were everywhere. Harry was all over her. Thought they were dating.”

Y/N’s head spun, images of Harry with someone else filling her mind. She hadn’t seen those photos, but the thought gnawed at her.

Beth wasn’t having it. “Can you stop stirring shit? Harry’s here with Y/N, clearly doesn’t care about some random model.”

Y/N’s cousin didn’t respond, just gave a tight smile. Y/N tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest.

Y/N’s cousin gave her a sweet, condescending smile. “I just thought they looked so... in love. But who knows?” Her eyes glinted, clearly relishing the discomfort she was trying to stir.

Y/N felt the doubt creep in, but instead of reacting, she straightened her back. She locked eyes with her cousin and said, her tone ice-cold, “You know, I could say a lot of things right now. Things that would take that smug look off your face.”

Her cousin blinked, caught off guard. Y/N smiled, the edge never leaving her voice. “But since it’s your wedding day, I’ll keep them to myself. I’ll play the part, smile for the cameras, and make sure everything’s ‘perfect.’”

With that, Y/N turned and walked away, the weight of the moment settling in as she left her cousin speechless. No more doubts. Not today.

Y/N shot her cousin a cold smile, letting the weight of her words sink in. "After today, we’ll be strangers. I don’t plan on speaking to someone so self-absorbed and cold-hearted ever again."

Beth raised an eyebrow, impressed by Y/N's bluntness, but her cousin's face fell, her shock turning to indignation. Before she could respond, Y/N brushed off her hands nonchalantly. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, let me know when hair and makeup get here," she said casually, turning on her heel and walking out.

But as soon as the door closed behind her, Y/N’s facade cracked. The anger that had fueled her words faded, replaced by confusion and pain. Her heart raced, and doubts flooded her mind. Was her cousin right? Did she really belong in Harry’s world? Or was this all just a fantasy? The thought of facing him upstairs—of confronting everything she was feeling—felt too overwhelming. She couldn’t do it, not now.

Y/N slipped quietly through the back door into the garden, the crisp morning air doing little to ease the storm inside her. Coffee cup in hand, she made her way to a small table, steam rising from the mug, the only warmth she could feel.

Her hands shook as she took a sip, the bitter taste matching the thoughts spiraling in her mind. The garden, serene and beautiful, felt like a different world from the chaos in her head.

She had no answers, no idea what to do, or where to go. It all felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

Y/N gripped the mug tightly, trying to steady her racing thoughts. But before she could find her peace, the back door creaked open.

Her mom stormed out, face flushed with anger. Y/N didn’t need to ask why—her cousin had already run to her, no doubt twisting things to make her the villain.

"Y/N!" her mom’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and demanding. “What did you say to your cousin?”

Y/N tensed, her heart sinking. Of course, this was coming. She didn’t even look at her mom, just stared into her coffee, hoping it would swallow her whole.

"She came to me in tears, Y/N! Tears! On her wedding day! How could you be so cruel?"

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek, keeping her voice steady. She didn’t want to argue—not when she felt so broken inside. "You don’t know what she said to me," she murmured. "She’s been making snide remarks all morning—about me, about Harry. About everything."

Her mom crossed her arms, annoyed. "She’s the bride, Y/N! You could’ve let it go. It’s one day. Now look at what you’ve done. The whole family is talking about it."

Y/N’s chest tightened. "It’s always about how things look, isn’t it?" she muttered, almost to herself. "I didn’t want to make a scene, but I wasn’t going to let her tear me down, not today. Not when I’m already—" she stopped, not wanting to show just how fragile she felt. "Not when she was being completely out of line."

Y/N’s heart dropped as her mother’s words hit their mark. “Out of line?” Her mom scoffed. “She was just pointing out the obvious. Harry isn’t like us. He’s not… your type. And everyone knows it. You should’ve thought twice before bringing him into all of this.”

The sting of her mother’s words cut deep. It was like being told, once again, that she didn’t fit in. That she was too much of an outsider, even in her own life. She felt small, like everything she’d worked so hard for wasn’t enough to make her belong.

“Mom,” Y/N whispered, trying to hold back the wave of emotion building in her chest. “Why do you always make me feel like I’m not enough?”

Her mother paused, just for a second, before shaking her head, as if dismissing Y/N’s hurt. “I’m just saying you need to be realistic,” she said, voice lowering as if that would soften the blow. “Harry’s great, but he doesn’t belong here. You don’t belong here. You need to think about what’s best for you.”

That was it. The words that would stay with Y/N for days. The ones that would echo in her mind, repeating like a broken record. She wanted to scream, to tell her mom how much it hurt, but instead, all she could do was blink back the tears. She didn’t have the strength to keep fighting, not now, not with everything weighing on her.

“Just… fix this,” her mom ordered, voice soft but still holding that cold command. “Make it right before the wedding starts. You owe her that.”

Y/N felt the world close in, her heart sinking lower than she ever thought it could.

Y/N’s heart sank as her mom walked away, leaving her standing in the cold. No response. No comfort. Just the weight of her words hanging in the air. She wiped at the tears that had started to spill, her chest tight with everything she couldn’t say, everything she couldn’t change.

She dragged herself upstairs, each step heavier than the last. Her mind was a mess, full of her cousin’s cruel comments and her mom’s cold disappointment. What was she supposed to do with all of this? Where could she go?

When she opened the bedroom door, the warm steam from the shower hit her like a wave, and there he was—Harry. Freshly showered, his damp hair curling at the ends, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He was toweling off, his back to her. For a moment, she stood frozen. Her heart ached, unsure of how to handle the storm brewing inside her.

Then he turned around, his face lighting up when he saw her. “Hey, there you are,” he said, walking toward her with that familiar smile. But then, his expression faltered when he noticed the tear stains on her face, the redness in her eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked softly, his hand reaching for her. He moved toward her as if to kiss her, but stopped short, brow furrowed in concern.

Y/N opened her mouth, but no words came out. She tried to smile, to act like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was—everything felt too big. Her throat tightened, and the tears started all over again.

Harry’s face softened, his hands cupping her face gently as he wiped at the fresh tears. “Talk to me. What happened?”

Y/N’s heart raced in her chest. The question she didn’t want to ask, but needed to, bubbled up. “Are you seeing someone? A model?”

Harry froze. The question caught him off guard. “What? A model?”

Y/N's voice trembled, her tears barely held back. “Are you seeing a model, Harry? Please, just tell me the truth.”

Harry looked at her, confused. “What? No, I’m not seeing anyone. Where’s this coming from?”

She choked on her words. “My cousin said she saw pictures of you with someone in London last week, and—”

He immediately softened, understanding clicking. “Y/N, listen to me,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “If I was seeing someone, you’d know. I’m not dating anyone. It’s just you and me.”

Her heart lifted with the sincerity in his voice. He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. “You know how the media is—they make stories out of nothing. Those pictures? Nothing serious. Just some event.”

Y/N closed her eyes, leaning into him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just… everything here has me so confused.”

Y/N melted into Harry's embrace, the warmth of his words easing the ache in her chest.

Harry held her close, his hand soothing her hair. He pulled back slightly, his green eyes full of concern. "Y/N, we don't have to stay here," he said gently. "We can leave right now. You don't have to stay if it's making you feel like this."

Her heart raced as she blinked up at him. “But it’s the wedding…”

“I don’t care,” he cut in, shaking his head. “I don’t want to see you upset over something your cousin said. You don’t need to deal with that. Not another second.” He cupped her face, his eyes searching hers. “We can go. We’ll pack up, drive back to London—just you and me. Leave all this behind.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten, knowing he meant it. He would drop everything for her, even for the weekend. The sincerity in his voice made her heart ache.

“I don’t want to see you hurt, love,” Harry murmured. “If staying here means you’re miserable, then let’s go. We can make our own weekend. No pressure, no fake smiles, no cruel comments.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the idea of leaving so tempting. But she still hesitated. “Harry, I... I don’t know.”

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “It’s your choice. We stay if you want, but you don’t owe anyone here anything. Not even your family.”

Y/N rested her hands on Harry’s chest, leaning into his warmth. The idea of running away with him was tempting, but she couldn’t just walk away—not now, not after everything. Still, his words meant everything.

“I… I think I want to stay,” she whispered, voice steady. “I don’t want to run, Harry. Not from them.”

Harry nodded, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Alright. But if you change your mind, we’re gone. I’ll pack in a heartbeat.” His small smile made her laugh softly, despite the tears still clinging to her lashes.

“Thank you,” she murmured, sinking back into his arms. “For everything.”

“I’ve got you, always,” Harry whispered, his breath warm against her hair. “No matter what.”

The wedding was beautiful. Y/N couldn’t deny it. Despite the tension with her cousin, the love between the bride and groom was undeniable. Her cousin’s eyes sparkled as she walked down the aisle, and the way her fiancé looked at her—like she was the only person in the world—had Y/N’s heart swelling. She even teared up a little.

Though Y/N hadn’t patched things up with her cousin, she didn’t feel the need to apologize. She knew she’d done nothing wrong. Her cousin’s hurtful words had crossed a line, and Y/N wasn’t about to apologize for standing her ground. Harry agreed, and that was all that mattered.

As for Harry? He was the star of the wedding. Eyes constantly on him, people whispering and sneaking glances, captivated by the famous face. But Harry didn’t seem to care. His focus was entirely on one person.

Y/N.

he was wearing a sky-blue silk dress that seemed to float with every step. The fabric hugged her perfectly, and her hair tumbled in loose waves around her shoulders. Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. Throughout the ceremony, the reception, and every moment in between, his gaze never left her—she was the most breathtaking thing in the room.

No matter how many people tried to pull him into conversation, Harry stayed focused on her. His hand found hers more than once, squeezing it under the table during speeches, or brushing her back as they weaved through the crowd.

Every time Y/N caught his gaze, her heart skipped a beat. That warm, genuine smile—just for her—made her feel like she was the only person in the world. There was an unspoken bond between them, growing stronger with every minute that passed.

As the night wore on, filled with laughter and celebration, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pride. Not just for standing up for herself, but for the man standing by her side.

[soprawrites]

ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚ New Year's Temptation ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚

Shinji Hirako x reader

CW: MDNI, nsfw, smut, glove kink, fingering, edging, oral fingering, established relationship, fem! reader (shinji calls reader a good girl)

WC: 1,222

Notes: I kept seeing fan art of his New Year's outfit in Bleach Soul Puzzle and it has reignited the glove kink in me. So, of course, I had to write something even though we're half way through January now. If you've yet to see any of the fanart, I implore you to check them out! I'm not going to repost art, but here are a couple links to the fanart I had in mind while writing -> 1 and 2

You hadn’t expected your New Year’s to turn out like this. You were supposed to be enjoying all of the festivities that the Seireitei had to offer, spending quality time with Shinji and your friends. But here you are, a quivering and whimpering mess, all because of some gloves.

Those damn gloves.

You had finished getting ready to go out first, smoothing down the cloth on the long sleeves of your elegant furisode as you waited for Shinji to finish. When he had stepped out dressed in a colorful haori hakama set while pulling on some black silk gloves, you had paused, entranced with the way his lithe fingers flexed and stretched with the movement. When he caught you staring—because of course he had, ever perceptive as always—his face immediately split into a cocky grin. You knew that the second he gave you that look, you wouldn’t be going out anymore, you’re fate sealed.

He had sauntered over to you, whispering sweet nothings in a seductive voice, kissing you fervently and tempting you until eventually, he had his hands all over you, running up and down your body and touching your most sensitive parts to have you soaking wet for him.

You jolt, brought back to the present as one of his hands, still gloved, pumps into you and presses against a particular spot that has you trembling. You clutch onto the light green cloth of his haori to steady yourself as his other hand slides up your abdomen toward your chest, the smooth silk of the glove tickling your skin. He had pulled your obi free and opened your kimono, laying you bare to the cool air of your shared living space.

Shinji’s fingers brush against the spot again, a small yelp leaving your lips as you squeeze tight around him. He grins widely at your reaction as he keeps his pace, stretching your dripping pussy with his gloved fingers. You're tingling all over as he continues to prod at your g-spot, feeling your orgasm coming. All you need is a little more pressure, so you jerk your hips into him, hoping that he’ll understand what you want; you don’t want to give him the smug satisfaction of hearing you beg for it because you know you’ll never hear the end of it if you do.

His thumb grazes against your clit making you gasp from the pleasurable sensation as you reach closer to your high but instead of repeating the motion, Shinji simply pulls his hand away from you. Your eyebrows draw together as you bite your lip in frustration, your building release fading away from you.

“Hm? What’s that look for?” He’s smirking deviously. “Isn’t this what ya wanted?” He tugs on his gloves, making sure they’re snug before examining the slick damp spots on the hand that had just been knuckle-deep inside of you. It’s like he’s putting on a show for you, exaggerating the way he turns his slender hands this way and that to get a good look at the mess you had made of them.

His brown eyes level with yours, a playful glimmer in them as he smirks at the enthralled expression on your face; your eyes are half-lidded and dazed, lips parted as you pant slightly. “Am I wrong? Is this not what ya wanted?” You watch as he leans slightly further back from you, tilting his head in a questioning manner, his short silky hair falling with the movement as he teases you. Shinji cups the side of your face, running his thumb delicately over your bottom lip which was more plump than usual from all of the heated kissing you had done earlier. “Show me what ya want.” He whispers, voice dropping to take on an even more seductive tone.

Still immensely frustrated at the loss of pleasure and from his teasing antics, you decide to just listen to him, knowing that if you don’t he’ll edge you even more and you’re too worked up to want that at the moment. You had been so close to your release that you would do anything to get the feeling back.

You reach for his wrist and guide his hand back down to your slick folds, pushing your hips against him and urging him to continue. A pleased expression crosses his face, his sly smirk stretching wider. “Good girl.” You’re still so wet from his previous touch that his clothed fingers slide back into you easily. A combination of a delighted sigh and moan slips past your lips and he uses the opportunity to slide the thumb that had been prodding against your lip into your mouth.

Turned on, you wrap your lips around the digit, sucking as he presses gently against your tongue. He sucks in a sharp breath of air, eyes clouding over in a dazed lust as he lazily pumps his other hand in and out of you. “How naughty of ya…” his voice is shaky as his usual cunning demeanor starts to falter. He slides his thumb out of your mouth, replacing it with his middle and forefinger and you repeat the same motion. The wet heat of your mouth soaks into the cloth on his fingers as you continue running your tongue along them, sucking. 

It seems like he’s had enough of the gloves, at least on one of his hands, as he pulls it away from your core quickly. He uses his teeth to pull off the now completely soaked piece of clothing off of his hand before promptly sliding his fingers back into you. He groans in a low voice, now able to feel your slick walls as they squeeze around him while his fingers fuck into you. Your arousal builds as he nudges against that one spot much like he did earlier when he was teasing you only now he doesn’t relent, repeatedly pushing against it.

The palm of his hand presses onto your clit firmly, grinding against it in time with his thrusting digits. With the added friction it only takes a few more strokes to push you over the edge. You cum, moaning around his fingers in your mouth and clenching tightly around his hand as he slowly pumps into you to draw out your release.

When he pulls away after a minute he examines his hand again, admiring your slick arousal that cotes his thin fingers before smirking at you mischievously. “Didn’t know ya had a glove kink, darlin’! Remind me to wear them more often!”

Your face heats up, embarrassed by the fact that he clocked your kink before you even had the chance to realize you had it. “No, I don’t!” He arches a thin eyebrow in disbelief, gesturing with his wet hand toward you for emphasis as you drip onto the end table he had pushed you onto earlier. “Don’t look at me like that! Ugh, you are so insufferable.” You huff with a pout, crossing your arms over your chest and looking off to the side.

“Ya know ya like it.” He snickers in amusement and there’s that shit-eating grin back on his face. You just sigh, unable to stop the smile that starts to form on your lips. He may be insufferable but that’s what you love about him after all.

[raellynaaa]

── ✦ PIECES OF US - SJY

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you hate your birthday. every time someone has that special day and celebrates it, you always remember your bad memories in the past. however, jake brings back your happiness through some photographs. can you love your january again?

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: bf!jake x fem!reader 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: fluff, slight angst 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.2k 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆: photograph by ed sheeran 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): kissing (almost), petnames, dark past

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 celebrated your birthday.

not since your 5th, when the bright balloons, cake, and excitement of your friends became a painful memory. a day that should have been happy was ruined overnight because of a small mistake you made.

the familiar weight settled in your chest. every congratulation sounded like your father's harsh voice. his sentence still lingered in your mind, every word, every demanding condemnation.

even now you could hear it.

in cold january, on your 20th birthday.

when you were at the cafe finishing a task, your eyes drifted to a group of girls in the corner. they were crowded around a small cake, candles flickering in the dim light, and one of the girls smiled as she closed her eyes to make a wish.

a pang shot through your heart. you wanted that, to feel carefree, to laugh, to be celebrated, but ... no one remembered. not even jake, who had been so busy lately with his organizational responsibilities on campus. fate seemed to keep that happiness away from you, burying your old wounds deep.

and you should be grateful for that.

you decided to leave after two hours of staying in the cafe. you didn't want to go home yet, so you sat down on the park bench. the cold from the metal seeped through your long coat.

you stared at the sky. your breath forms small clouds in the crispy air. as if the world sensed your sadness, it began to snow.

soft flakes drifted down, landing gently on your hair, your coat, and the ground around you. you watched them fall in silence, feeling a strange calm wash over you.

as you stared at the snow-covered ground, a small movement caught your eye. a white cat, almost blending into the snowy landscape, approached you cautiously. its small body shivering as it sought warmth. the cat nudged against your legs, curling up at your feet as if seeking comfort.

you hesitated for a moment, then slowly reached down to stroke the cat's fur. its warmth seeped into your hand. a faint smile tugged at your lips. you didn't need anyone to say "happy birthday". in this quiet, snowy evening, maybe this was enough.

"why didn't you call me to pick you up?"

a warm voice broke through the silence of the night. at the same time, you felt something soft and warm wrap around your neck. you looked back quickly, finding jake with a small pout. his hair tousled and damp from the falling snow.

"look, you're going to get sick if you go home like this." he adjusted the scarf with a little more care than his words implied.

you looked up. "i just—"

before you could even respond, jake pulled off his beanie and gently placed it on your head, covering your ears from the biting wind. his hands lingered for a second, making sure it fit snugly.

"you always do this," jake huffed, but there was no real anger in his voice. "don't stay out late too often, babe. i don't like it."

you stared at his eyes for a second before looking away, crouching down to pick up the cat in your arms. "i don't want to interrupt your schedule."

"oh, c'mon. you know you're my priority."

you chuckled as you stroked the cat's fur. "how did you know i was here?"

"i know all your favorite places," jake replied casually. he tried to get your attention, but you avoided his eyes.

it seemed like your guess was right, jake didn't remember your birthday. he never mentioned it. not once.

jake glanced over, noticing the way your shoulders slumped. he murmured, nudging your lightly. “you okay?”

you nodded, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. “yeah, i'm fine.”

"babe, just tell me. what's on your mind?" jake was about to hold your wirst, but you suddenly stood up.

"i'm going to find a warm place for this cat," you walked with the cat in your arms. the little creature purred softly. there is no collar around its neck, so you were having a hard time to find the owner.

jake suddenly stepped closer to you. you froze as you felt his arms snake around your shoulder. jake pulled you close, his chest pressing against your back. his breath was warm against the cold air. before you could react, he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

"happy birthday," jake whispered softly. his voice low, almost intimate in the way it filled the quiet space between you two.

for a moment, you couldn't speak. your breath caught in your throat as the warmth of his words settled deep within you. he had remembered after all, just not in the way you had expected. there was something about the way he said it, about the timing, that made the moment feel more meaningful than you could have imagined.

"you … remember?" your voice almost trembled, jake immediately tightened his arms.

"almost every night." jake stepped to your side. his smile made your heart beat faster. “it's been a year since we started dating, i know how hard birthdays are for you. so, now ... let me fill your special day with ours."

jake pulled something from his pocket. your eyes widened in surprise as he held out a small camera. he aimed it at you, the cat still resting in your arms as snow gently fell around. the flash went off, capturing the quiet moment under the winter sky.

as the picture slowly developed, jake took a step closer to you and captured several moments together. he handed you the photographs, the edges still slightly wet from the snow.

“i've been thinking about this day for a while,” he said quietly, watching as the image slowly came into view. his gaze then fell on the cat that was nestling in your coat. "and this cat ... it's my gift to you. i found and adopt it from a pet cafe. i think we can take care of it together with layla."

you blinked, momentarily stunned by the memory. you looked down at the polaroids in your hands. the image became clearer, a picture of you holding the white cat, the snow falling like a soft veil around you, and a soft smile on jake's face.

“every time you feel that old pain creeping back,” he trailed off, holding your gaze as he lifted the picture between them, “just take out these photographs. remember this moment. the snow, the cat, us together. let it remind you that you're not alone."

tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back, not wanting to cry on this night. you leaned into him, burying your face in his chest, the photos still clutched in your hand.

"thank you," you whispered.

jake wrapped his arms around you once more. "you don't have to thank me, love."

"how can i?" you whined. "you're the only one with me now."

jake grinned. "give me your birthday treat then."

"w-wait, what?" you looked up and wondered, but jake was just bringing his face closer. he tilted his head slightly.

"you know what i mean." jake's breath hit your pale lips. maybe if you moved just a little bit wrong, you would kiss him without meaning to.

"you planned this from the start, huh?" you tried to pinch his waist, but he quickly grabbed your wrist before that happened.

"can you resist?" jake chuckled. his fingers slowly grazing your chin. "if you won't do it, i'll take it myself right away."

©raellynaaa (don't repost, copy, or plagiarize any of my works)

[rhyrhy]

‘Slut me out’ series ˚ · .˚ ༘🦋⋆｡˚

Football! Fuckboy! Abby Anderson x female reader!

Cw: internal conflict, toxic situationship! , college/ modern setting Abby!, no talks on body or race specifics! (Shorter ep)

MDNI - mlist for previous chapters

Chapter four: Game day 🏈 (still proofreading!)

“You’ve already made up your mind.” The words echoed in your head, twisting like a knife. What was she getting at? She ghosted you. Why did you feel guilty? This wasn’t your fault. Sure, sleeping with her and letting her convince you that you were ‘different’ had been downright idiotic… but, god, it had felt so good to be in her arms. Temporary or not.

“Earth to Y/N!” Layla’s voice cut through your thoughts as she waved a hand in front of your face.

Suddenly, it all came rushing back—the roar of the crowd, the deafening cheers, the stadium alive with energy as the game got underway. Dragged out of your dorm by insistent friends, you now sat sandwiched between them, trying to keep your focus on the moment. Seeing Abby on the field wasn’t ideal. Less than pleasant, if you were honest. But you weren’t here for her. Today was about you, your friends, and enjoying this day out.

Yeah, Forget her. That chapter was closed.

Today, January 17th. 6:00pm

“Dude, You’ve been zoning out for, like, ten minutes,” Charity said, popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “Come on, loosen up. It’s game day!

You gave some sorry excuse of being ‘tired’. Layla gave you a knowing look but didn’t press. Distracting with lots of group selfies. She and Charity were the only ones who knew the full story about Abby—how things had started, how they’d fallen apart, and how you were now stuck in this…unspoken limbo.

Yet, Your stomach twisted every time you spotted her. She stood tall, confident, her presence was a black hole commanding your attention, as she took her place. The same Abby you’d let into your heart, the same Abby who’d ghosted you and made you feel like everything and nothing simultaneously. What a mess.

She was in her element, wearing her jersey and cleats, her braid tied tightly. You hated the flutter you still got when seeing her despite everything. The flashbacks of the night you had still painfully vivid in your mind. this is so ridiculous.

You didn’t understand why she wasn’t more upfront about it just being a causal relationship, and just expected you to know it would ‘never’ be anything more. You deserved better than that, better than her current behavior. However it was hard to let go of that potential, and ‘what if’s’. The way she laughed and held you in the afterglow of screaming your lungs out and gripping her sheets. it was …soft.

A Jekyll and Hyde.

——-

The halftime whistle sounded, feeling a bit restless and hungry you suggested that you and layla grabbed snacks, while charity held onto the seats. You maneuvered through the crowd, heading toward the concession stands.

As you waited in line, the air felt lighter, the noise of the game fading into the background. For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax, leaning against the counter while Layla debated between nachos and a pretzel. You were reminding her of how she never finished her nachos and would force you to eat the rest so she didn’t ’waste her money’ when goosebumps spread across your skin.

You didn’t want to look over. You shouldn’t look over.

But you did.

You paused, feeling the familiar figure burning holes into your back ,through your fragile calm. Slowly, you found yourself turning around despite your mind screaming at you to ignore her. Any conversation you two had thus far was unproductive and pointless. The meaningless pillow talk, Her apology, You cutting her off in her dorm doorway. The more your heels turned your heartbeat grew louder in your ears. Replying all your previous conversations.

Thump. thump. thump.

Here we go, you took a breath and finally faced her fully. Dreadfully, there she was. standing a few feet away, her jersey slightly damp with sweat, her hair a bit loose and frizzy from its fishtail braid. Those less familiar blue eyes were fixed solely on you. the faint sheen of sweat making her look… unfairly good. Her gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.

Abby was the first to look away, running a hand over the back of her neck like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself.

She didn’t leave, though.

It felt like a movie scene the way the people around you faded, when you made eye contact. Suddenly you were on a stage with a bright spotlight beaming on you with a sudden stage fright. You opened your lips to speak, but no words came out. What could you possibly say? why were you so wordless when it came to her? Layla, awkwardly shifted unsure if she should walk away or stay put.

hesitantly she took a few steps forward until she was a respectful distance away. Your pulse hammered in your ears. You didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, her hands stuffed into her pockets.

“Hey,” she said finally, her voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Absolutely not.” Layla scoffed, disapproving of whatever Abby was going to spit out.

Abby shifted awkwardly under Layla’s glare but didn’t back down. Her eyes darted back to you, a quiet determination behind them. For a moment, you thought she might walk away again, Praying she’d back off like she did last time.

But, of course, she didn’t.

Layla let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, now you want to talk? After everything--” She began to get louder, clear upset for her friend and the situation. The last thing you wanted was a public scene, so you cut her off.

“Layla, it’s fine,” you said putting a hand on her shoulder. god this felt like high school all over again.

“Are you serious?” Layla hissed. Then gave in.“Fine. But I ain’t going far,” she added, shooting Abby one last warning glare before stepping away.

Abby rubbed the back of her neck again, the gesture almost endearing if you weren’t so upset with her. “Look, I know I’ve been a mess. I screwed up. But—”

“You think?” you cut in, unable to stop yourself. “Do you have any idea how hurtful this whole situation has been for me?”

Abby flinched at your tone but didn’t look away. If anything, she stepped closer, her brows knitting together in frustration. “I know, I know” She paused and tilted her head back in defeat. What the hell could she even say right now. “Look, I was.. I was scared,” she admitted, the words barely audible. “I didn’t know how to handle… everything. You. Us. It was easier to shut down than to face it.”

You stared at her, your heart a mix of anger and something… softer, something you didn’t want to acknowledge. Standing your ground, and letting her continue. You couldn’t fold like you did in her dorm. You couldnt.

“I- Jesus..Yeah,” she said, looking up at you again. “The ghosting… it was Easier for me. But it was wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady her own emotions. "And..You have every right to be upset," she said quietly. "I messed up. So understand, I'm sorry, okay?

And there is was, the apology. The apology she repeated three times. The apology you had been waiting for for weeks. It felt almost too good to be true…she’s sorry? no ignoring…or hurtful comments. Just an honest apology. Your chest tightened at the sight of her looking like a kicked puppy. but the weeks of self disgust and insecurity from being thrown to the curb after feeling comfortable enough to be inmate was still strong when if it was subsiding a little. Why did it take you cutting her off to give you that?. so many questions…But all you said was

“…Thank you for that, Abby” The wounds she’d left were still fresh, and forgiveness wasn’t something you could offer so easily. Especially not right now.

The world began to fade back in as the moment disappeared. The weight of the apology replacing the old internal conflict.

Layla nudged your arm gently, breaking the silence as you stared at the spot where Abby had stood moments ago. Her voice was softer now, lacking its usual sharp edge. “You did good, it’s over now. Cmon” she said taking your arm back to the stands.

——

The game resumed, you found yourself retreating into your head, the apology replaying over and over. She’s sorry. The words rang hollow and real at the same time, like an echo you weren’t sure would fade. You had those words before, and she only repeated her actions. was this time different? how were you supposed to know if that was for you or her guilty conscience.

Why can’t she just go away.

———

Taglist cuties: @deadbolted @grey-jedi12 @ceylnisgone @evabby @abby-anderson-wifey @icedsimpsayo @elle-girlylesbian

———

So happy the Abby girls like this so far! 🦋! Chapter 5 also tonight! Editing rn!

upcoming chapters- updates! Will link 🔗 soon!

Chapter five: Out of bounds— (I did say there was a party this weekend didn’t I 🤭?) (nsfw)

Six: Overtime

Seven and final : Touchdown!

——

Also how would you guys feel about a 🔞oneshot! Of Ex-abby! Based on this c.ai bot I made randomly? Lmk!

[jamespotterlovesreggie]

Remember- A Rosekiller micro fic

January micro prompts day 31 - @rosekillermicrofic

“Hey Evan did you remember to do your Transfiguration assignment” Regulus asked .

He was going to do it but it wasn’t his fault Barty walked out of the shared bathroom and into the dorm room. They were alone and Barty just looked so hot standing there steam practically radiating off his body , his hair was still damp and the towel didn’t cover nearly enough of his muscled body .

He couldn’t do the whole ‘just friends’ anymore and he lunged forward and kissed Barty passionately , he paused for a second to look at Barty’s reaction and he was happily surprised when Barty kissed him back.

“Oh I forgot but on a completely unrelated note Barty and I are now dating” Evan replied.

Regulus looked puzzled but then he decided that it was better to not ask for the details.

[reaveries]

▬  𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲

gif credit to @robpattinsongifs (much higher resolution on their account)

summary: late-night visits from your definitely human boyfriend

pairings: edward cullen x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k (approximately 7 minutes reading time)

a/n:  I’ve had this baby marinating in my drafts since January, when I was going through my bi-annual Twilight Renaissance. I was actually in the middle of writing a RE2R Leon Kennedy fic today and decided to put on a twilight playlist, and then I just knew I had to finish this one. It’s my first *published* non-RDR fic heehee (I have so much in my drafts, it’s insane). Anyways, enjoy (pardners)!

masterlist archive of our own

It’s that dreadful time of year again. 

The sun is making its curtain call as students from the nearby elementary school trip over themselves running home. Little girls and boys have sticky remnants of lunch peeking from the corners of their mouths and the grass is still slick from morning showers. But dusk is impatient in February, and its eagerness is encouraged in a town hidden beneath perpetual overcast nine months out of the year.

The school children ran past her window minutes ago when the sky had been painted brilliant indigo. Now, when she looks up the only thing left to see is her own dark reflection and the warm orange glow from a candle on the sill. Its tall flame stutters, collapsing and rising with the damp breeze. 

A page turns, disrupting the otherwise quiet room. The only other noise that can be heard is a soft pitter of water dripping onto the floorboards from a coat hanging off the closet door. 

She reaches for a mug sitting on the corner of her nightstand and promptly sets it back down upon finding it empty. It returns to its spot atop crumpled receipts and library hold slips belonging to the growing stack of books accumulating dust at her bedside. These books tower over the permanent nightstand residents: lazily discarded beaded necklaces, a sample bottle of floral perfume from Christmas, two little ceramic bunnies purchased from an antique mall in Port Angeles last summer, car keys, and drugstore chapstick. It might be worth convincing her to let go of some of these post-object permanence discoveries, but that is a matter for another time.

In a desperate attempt to comprehend the words she’s reading, she rolls onto her back and extends her arms straight in the air so the book hovers a foot from her face—a change of perspective to freshen the mind.

It does not help. 

No matter how much she shifts or squints, the antiquated prose remains stubbornly uninviting. She can’t fathom why anyone would willingly subject themselves to something so archaic and convoluted and furthermore, recommend it as one of their favorite novels.

With a huff, she adjusts the headphones at her ears, hoping the music will clear her mind. But despite her best efforts, the book slowly drifts closer to her chest and her eyelids grow heavier as the music lulls her into a dreamless sleep. 

When she wakes to cold fingers grazing her jaw it’s impossible to tell whether she’d fallen asleep or if she just blinked. The weight of the headphones gently disappears as they’re pulled off and set down on the nightstand. She grumbles incoherently and stretches out her legs, not unlike a cat after a long, difficult day of lounging around. Her eyes begrudgingly flutter open and immediately find him only inches away. He’s watching her, peering down with a twinkle in his amber-colored eyes.

“Edward…” she whispers.

“Dracula,” he says, eyebrows raised as he makes the observation. “I thought you didn’t like Gothics.”

She reaches a finger into the book on her chest and folds the page over before tossing it carelessly into the sea of knitted and quilted blankets at the foot of the bed. With the haze of sleep still clouding her eyes, she smiles sheepishly up at him.

“I’m trying.”

He chuckles lightly and brings his hand to her hair again, brushing stray strands off her forehead and tucking them behind her ears before leaning down to place a chaste kiss above her eyes. Though his lips are soft, the icy touch of his skin sends a shiver down her spine. He’s always cold; a result of his anemia, he says. However, the downpour that's dampened his hair and clothes to his skin has chilled him even more so.

In an effort to sit up, she raises herself onto her elbows and catches a glimpse of the bright red digital numbers on her bedside clock.

“You’re late, you know,” she chides, watching him settle uncomfortably at the head of the bed. He sinks down among the pillows, their plushness contrasting humorously with the stiffness of his demeanor. He reaches behind his back and tugs free a stuffed rabbit lodged between him and the headboard, then sets it down softly beside himself.

“I had to make a quick stop. I hope you can forgive me,” he says in a hushed voice, so as not to make too much noise in the resting house. His eyes flit towards the nightstand and she follows them to see a new item sitting amongst the disorder. A tall styrofoam cup with steam rising thinly from the lid. Coffee. 

The mug she just finished sits right beside it. She’d considered brewing more but that was before being rendered unconscious by Bram Stoker nearly an hour ago. Her heart swells at his thoughtfulness, but a more pressing question comes to mind before she can voice her gratitude.

“How did you even climb up here with that?” She asks, reaching for the cup with both hands.

“I’m very…agile.” There’s a look in his eyes that tells her there’s more to it, but she chooses to ignore it for now with a shake of her head.

The taste is immediately harsh, significantly more bitter than how she makes it herself. Any trace of a smile dissipates and is replaced with a pronounced look of disgust.

“Good God, Edward,” she exclaims. “Decaf? What did I ever do to you?”

He laughs and takes it from her hands, leaving her still reeling from the unexpected taste. “As much as I love staying up with you, you need sleep,” he says, a hint of sternness in his voice. “You didn’t get any last night and you don’t hide it well.”

He says the last part sweetly, tilting his head to the side and following her motions with his eyes, watching her pick up the stuffed rabbit by its cotton paw.

“Don’t hide it well?” She repeats, the indignation in her voice contrasting with the softness of the toy as she raises it high into the air and brings it down against his chest with a soft thud. “Well maybe I wouldn’t have to hide anything if you—weren’t—keeping—me—up—all—night!”

With every word, the rabbit hits his forearms poorly attempting to shield himself from the blows. Edward grins as she attacks him, the soft toy barely making a sound against his arms. He watches as her hair falls across her face in the midst of the unrelenting attack, the warm glow of the candle casting a soft halo around her.

But then, his amusement fades as he sees the exhaustion in her eyes. 

He gently takes the rabbit from her and sets it aside before grabbing her arm mid-swing and pulling her into his chest. She sighs heavily and surrenders, relaxing against him. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his lips brushing against her hair. “I’ll let you rest tonight.”

Despite his tender words, a residual half-baked frustration lingers inside her. “How did you manage to stay awake in class?” she mumbles into his sweater, the words muffled. “I mean, you didn’t get any sleep either.”

He chuckles, as if privy to some inside joke.

“Well, someone had to take your notes for you,” he says, his fingers trailing through her hair in a soothing motion. “And besides, you looked so peaceful drooling away.” 

She looks up at him, a hint of a drowsy smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I did not drool,” she insists.

He grins down at her, his eyes alight with fondness. “Of course not.”

She groans and buries her head into his chest, to which he responds by encircling his arms around her waist and pulling her closer.

“I’m never falling asleep in front of you again,” she grumbles.

His chest rumbles beneath her cheek as he laughs. “Alright, angel.”

He shifts his hand from the crown of her head to the curve of her back, tracing languid circles over the fabric of her t-shirt as the room fills with a comfortable silence. The rain outside grows heavier, tapping against the glass with a more insistent force. Her body is warm against his and he can feel the steady thumping of her heartbeat as if it's his own. A few minutes slip by, and he senses her breathing even out and deepen. Without disturbing her, he reaches for a nearby blanket and drapes it over her, then turns his gaze to the candle on the windowsill.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, as the dwindling flame fades out of focus. 

This is his favorite part of the day.

Vague arrays of soft, muted hues and shapes swirl around in his vision, overtaking the warm surroundings of her bedroom. They morph into recognizable figures after some time, and he can hear them speaking when he focuses. For the most part, they sound as if he’s underwater and they’re conversing on the shore. But every now and then, a clear phrase emerges.

Suddenly, the floating shapes assimilate into a figure resembling him and he realizes what this dream is. It’s a recurring one he’s particularly fond of. He settles in and pulls her closer as the scene ebbs between reality and distortions of the unconscious mind. 

He can’t remember how he used to pass the night hours before he met her. Books, records, films--looking back, they feel hollow compared to nights spent like this. Part of him hopes he’ll never know what it's like to want for this. But these dreams, and her thoughts in the waking hours, assure him he won’t ever have to find out.

[assortedseaglass]

Talk Refined - Chapter One

Michael Gavey x Reader

[Masterlist]

Summary: When Michael Gavey unwittingly insults a fellow Oxford student, they enter into a game of intellectual cat and mouse.

Content Warnings (this chapter in bold): Language, Smut, Saltburn Spoilers

Pool was never your forte. Truth be told, you were more of a darts girl. There was something though, in the soft click of the balls knocking together and the damp thunk of them landing in the pocket that scratched an itch on your over-worked mind.

Hilary term was coming to an end, and with it brought the dread that your extended essay title had been submitted. ‘“For the sake of some colour;” women as decoration, in response to Turner’s High Street, Oxford (1810)””. No going back now.

You’d escaped the January madness that had descended on your best friend, Esme. Like most other courses, she had exams at the start of the new year and spent her days in the library and nights in the pub. Much like now, come to think of it.

“You’re up,” you called to your friend as you missed potting a red. “Esme!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” she shimmied between the pool table and a few pub patrons, taking her cue in hand and leaning over the felt green. Click, thunk. A yellow sank into the corner pocket.

“Who were you talking to?” You indicated a man in his early twenties, eyeing up Esme’s backside as she leant over the table to reach another yellow.

“Bartender,” she missed the ball and passed the cue back over the table. You took it and swiftly potted a red. “Nice one. Just borrowing this,” she lit her cigarette with a metal lighter. When she was done, she tossed it back to the bartender and he winked.

The two of you’d met at a humanities and arts, inter-college social less than two weeks into your first term. Dress as your subject and be ready for a night of frivolity even Elagabalus couldn’t imagine. You’d found some of silk scarves in a charity shop, bought cheap pearls from Primark and gone as the Girl with a Pearl Earring. Outside the Blenheim was where you first spotted her. Dressed in a bedsheet draped as a peplos, she had climbed a lamppost and was swigging wine straight from the bottle. That is a girl I want to be friends with, you’d thought, and promptly beelined for her and begged for the bottle.

“You doing philosophy?” You asked after chugging the cheap merlot.

“Classics. And you, I’m guessing history-”

“History of art, yeah.”

The next morning, you’d woken in her dorm room at Brasenose, the autumn sunlight blinding and your breath smelling as if something had crawled inside you and died there. Esme didn’t mind. Her mouth was stained red from the wine and a hickey the size of Brazil adorned her neck. You’d been inseparable ever since.

“Bollocks,” you missed potting a red and, as Esme swept to grab to pool cue, the pub erupted in song.

“RUBY RUBY RUBY RUBY!”

“Ahah ahah ahaaaaaaaah!” Esme sang the refrain in your ear as she twirled you round, the cue discarded on the table.

“DO YA DO YA DO YA DO YA!?”

“Fuck’s sake,” It was hard not to smile despite your best efforts. You felt like a twat but no-one was looking at you. All were too busy singing to notice the two tipsy girls dancing by the pool table. In any case, the only person whose opinion mattered to you was the one spinning you in her arms. One wayward spin and bumped you into the pool table. Giggling, you opened your arms to be embraced once more-

“Oh shit,” Esme whispered hastily, suddenly standing straight and flattening her hair. “Got any lip gloss?”

“Erm,” you patted your pockets. “No sorry.”

“Damn,”

“Who’ve you seen?” you smirked, standing by your best friend’s shoulder and following her line of sight. Well, it could have been any number of students in the packed pub. There were some rugby lads, double polos with both collars popped. Pretty boy Felix Catton and his posse of poshos. It could have even been that girl Eleanor, now greeting a friend at the bar. Esme and Eleanor hooked up at the Brasenose Christmas party. Esme said it was “unexpected” and “not her usual flavour”, but you’d met her once after tutorial, and the way she looked at her tutor’s bottom as it wiggled down the corridor in her Peacock’s pencil skirt was not one of envy. “Well?” You asked impatiently. “Who is it?”

“There, blue check shirt, dark hair.” Esme pointed at the bar where such a man was standing. Two pints of lager in hand, he turned and seemed to look around the pub. “Cute, isn’t he? He’s at Brasenose too, doing English I think.”

“Oh right.” As a Wadham girl, you had never seen this boy before. You supposed he was quite good-looking, in a boy-next-door sort of way. You thought perhaps he would be bonny, were it not for the solemn expression on his face. He meandered through the crowd to a small table at which sat another boy.

The two were starkly different. Where Esme’s boy was dark haired, the other was fair. Esme’s boy was stocky, but even sat down the other was gangly, and while Esme’s boy clearly wasn’t an avid reader of Esquire, the blond boy looked like he’d rolled around Oxfam’s bargain bin in total darkness and worn whatever stuck; a pair of baggy cargo shorts pulled up far too high and cinched tightly with a black belt, a pair of Merrell trainers and a novelty tshirt. THIS IS HOW I ROLL. Below the wording was an anagram and equation.

If it weren’t for the middle-aged glasses and frankly atrocious haircut, he’d be quite good looking too. Two Oxford virgins; Trinny and Susannah’s wet dream.

“What’s his name then?”

“Oliver, I think.” Esme was licking her lips and fussing with her bangles.

“You look great,” you swatted at her hand. “And the other one?”

“No idea. They’re always hanging around together. Oliver,” she said his name with some uncertainty. “Oliver never says anything, the other one’s always talking a mile a minute but I haven’t really seen him about. Doesn’t go to any parties.”

“Him and the girl with-”

“Agoraphobia.” You said in unison. The characters of Esme’s college were more vivid to you now than those in a Dickens novel.

“I bet he does maths,”

“I told you, he does English.”

“No,” you tut. “The other one.”

“I reckon it’s physics.”

“Put a pint on it?”

“You’re on,” Esme smacked your hip. “Come on, there’s a table by the bar.”

Following the plume of her cigarette smoke, Esme led you to the sticky wooden table and ordered you a pint of Thatchers. She, a pint of Stella. At the table beside you both, Maybe Oliver and The Other One were talking quickly. Well, the maths-slash-physics boy was. Maybe Oliver was staring distractedly towards the other end of the pub. You looked over your shoulder. Felix Catton was settling down with another round of beers, his stupid eyebrow piercing gleaming in the low pub lights.

“Swap with me,” Esme whispered.

“What?”

“Swap with me so I can look at Oliver.”

You sighed and stood up, shuffling round the table to sit parallel to Oliver. Esme smiled at him as she sat down and he smiled back. When she giggled, you kicked her under the table. Now across from maths-slash-physics, you could see him clearly.

This close, you stood by your assessment that he could have been handsome. His light eyes were framed by not just those hideous glasses but thick, dark lashes. He had a jawline and cheekbones that would make Agyness Deyn jealous. His lips, though strangely curved were plump, and he had a distracting habit of frequently wetting them. But there was something so distinctly and undefinably creepy about him. He talked like a snake, quickly with hissed “s”s and “t”s. You noticed with unease that he barely blinked as he watched for any minutia in his friend’s reaction, and he moved with an almost jerky stiffness. All elbows and angles. This strange combination of beautiful and revolting made him impossible to ignore. Like catching yourself in the mirror after dying your hair. A strange feeling of the uncanny.  

He caught your eye, sensing you staring at him, and you quickly glanced at Esme. Shit. She’d been talking to you about something.

“-of course, it’s easy to compare the Iliad and the Aeneid, but really they’re very different.”

Aha. She was trying to impress, hoping Maybe Oliver would hear. “Oh yes?” You leant forward on your arm and wiggled your eyebrows at her. “Tell me more.”

Esme was clearly delighted that you’d cottoned on to her plan. Brushing her hair from her shoulders and leaning forward too, she continued. “Well, you have to start with the language. One is Greek and one is Latin. Now, we go through this in linguistics. Everyone has to get up to speed with their Greek and Latin so we’re all on the same level-”

You giggled and she kicked you under the table. Esme knew you already knew this and didn’t care. You knew that Esme was just showboating. When you kicked her back she got the giggles and glanced at Maybe Oliver. His eyes were still trained on the back of the pub, and she sighed, taking a gulp of beer. In perfect symmetry, you drank your cider and in the lull you admired the lengths your friend went to flirt with a seemingly average boy.

“-Jameson spends the whole time staring at her tits, completely ignoring the fact she can barely do her times tables.”

Esme choked a little on her drink and your eyebrows shot upwards with barely contained glee. This was far more interesting. You and Esme watched each other, communing telepathically about the intriguing conversation between the boys next to you.

“-times tables, Oliver!”

“Told you it was maths!” You whispered at Esme. Without a word, she got up with a smile to buy you another pint.

“-just fuck off and do history of art, love, save us all the trouble!”

You stilled in your seat, cider halfway to your lips. Did he just-? You ran the sentence over in your mind. “Fuck off and do history of art, love, save us all the trouble.” It wasn’t the first time you’d encountered snobbery about your selected study. Friends from school deemed it “hoity-toity,” and even your parents had worried about your career prospects.

“But what can you actually do with a history of art degree?”

You’d thought Oxford would be different. Surrounded by other young minds, eager for knowledge and an appreciation of the world around them, freshly opened up like your first bottle of champagne; long-awaited, exciting and with a little bit of bite. Just for the adults.

“Excuse me?” Your heart was pounding in your chest as you leant over a little and smiled at the pair of boys. You were proud of your subject but that eagerness to prove its, and your, worth was impossible to ignore. Oliver and Maths Boy looked at you.  “Do you,” you cleared your throat. “What’s wrong with history of art?”

The gangly boy scoffed and turned rigidly in his chair to face you. Like most other nerds, you’d expected him to shy away from anyone outside of his carefully selected circle. This boy, however, seemed to take up an enormous space in your mind. He was confident. Already taken aback by his vicious comment, that threw you even more.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s an easy option that’s become an elitist haven for the middle class.” He pushed his glasses up his long nose with a bony finger. “You ever met any of those ‘students’?” He put air quotes around that last word and you flinched, neck bristling with anger. You doubt he’d have noticed if you put your top over your head and did the Cupid Shuffle; he continued as if nothing happened.

“Load of public-school wankers spouting their useless opinions on aristocrats lounging about in gilded frames, just so they can justify getting a job in daddy’s gallery. It’s an irrelevant, niche subject for people who think their view of the world is superior to us mere plebs’.”

“Michael,” Oliver murmured. He turned to you, not quite looking you in the eye. “Sorry-”

“Here’s your pint,” Esme placed another Thatchers before you. Both you and “Michael” ignored your friends.

“You think it’s irrelevant?” You took a swig of cider without taking your eyes off him. Angry little prick, this fella. You knew the like; maths, physics, economics, law. The students were all the same. Thinking they were better than everyone else because they could swan off into the sunset with £40k job straight out of uni and reap the benefits that the arts provided them without any need to know better. The designer clothes and fast cars, the beautiful buildings they worked in, the nails on the woman ripping open the condom wrapper…

“What’s irrelevant?” Esme said brightly. She held out her hand for Oliver. “Esme, hi.”

“Oliver-”

“History of art, apparently.” You said haughtily.

“Ouch. Who said that?” Esme sat down beside you, still smiling at Oliver.

“Michael.”

“Who’s Michael?”

“Michael Gavey.” The man in question announced himself by extending a long arm in Esme’s direction. She shook his with slight shock and raised her eyebrows at Oliver. He lowered his head in shame.

“Our girl here’s a history of art student.” Esme patted your hand. If you, Esme and Oliver expected this to soften Michael, it didn’t work.

“Ah,” he smiled, mirth lighting his eyes. “That’s why you’re so tetchy. Which school was it then? Cheltenham? Roedean?”

“She went to state comp actually,” Ever your champion, Esme came to your defence.

“Scholarship student?” Michael sneered.

“No,” you rebuffed quickly.

“What’s wrong with that? Me and Oliver here are.”

“Nothing You were the one trying to get me to say it was.”

Michael smiled with satisfaction and an awkward silence fell between the four of you. The clink of glasses and drunken chatter continued around you. This wasn’t the first charged student encounter that had happened in this pub, nor would it be the last.

“I suppose you think maths is superior?” You folded your arms and raised an eyebrow. A challenge. Prove it then.

“Of course it is,”

It was your turn to scoff. “Why can’t there be room for both?”

“There is room for both. Mathematics is just more important.”

“Jesus,” Oliver rubbed his hands over his face.

“Mathematics is the foundation for everything. The modern world as we know it wouldn’t exist without it. Technology, healthcare, finance, governance, everything. It prevents chaos. Without mathematics, society would collapse.” He fidgeted in his chair to turn more vividly towards you, his hands excitedly grasping for something in front of him that didn’t exist. Maths, probably. “We create predictions and complex design systems so that life as we know it can exist, and continue to exist.”

He looked at you as though you should have been impressed. You supposed his excitement was quite sweet. In truth, you knew maths was important. History of art student though you were, you weren’t an idiot. You were at one of the world’s top universities for God’s sake.

“But what’s the point of existing if there’s nothing to enjoy? To live for?”

“Pardon?” What had he expected? For you to roll over and kiss his feet? Take him round the back of the pub for a quick knee tremble? “Oh yes, Michael, tell me more about Fermat’s conjecture! More! More!”

“Art is what makes life worth living for. Its history helps us understand politics, religions, societies and peoples of the past.”

“All that from staring at a Bruegels?” Michael looked at Oliver with a laugh, hoping for back up. Oliver was tearing up a beer mat.

“Yes!”

“Well, it’s never done anything for me.”

His arrogance and ignorance was astounding. This final comment was the drop that sent you overflowing with exasperation. “Yes it has,” you snapped. Michael glared at you. “Aside from what I literally just said, art has done everything for you. Take today for example.”

At this, Michael sat forward. He couldn’t resist a reasoned argument with concrete evidence.

“You woke up this morning at Brasenose, is it?” He nodded. “At Brasenose, in a dorm with Carol Vorderman posters on the walls, posters designed by graphic designers who studied art. Those posters line the walls of a building almost five hundred years old. From barely known architects to Powell and Moya, each added to its history with their extensive understanding of art and beauty. For some reason you then got up and decided to put on that God awful tshirt which, although many would believe otherwise, was designed to be aesthetically pleasing or visually arresting. The latter it certainly is. There you go. Art.” You were on a role.

“I’m assuming you had lectures or tutorial today? The book you read? The covers were made by, you guessed it, artists. You came here with Oliver and decided to get a craft beer because you’re a pretentious prick, and got the darker of the two because, and I agree with you here, the label is prettier. You’re gonna go home in an hour or two when you’ve had one too many pints and ogled that pretty girl at the bar,” you pointed at Eleanor. “Whose thong caught your eye above her low rises. Fashion? That’s art by the way and extremely influential on society ‘as we know it’.” You quoted him back and loved the way his lips quirked into a tight line.

“And thinking of her and her pretty thong, you’ll whack out ZOO mag and whack out a swift one over some big-titted page three girl in a pair of lace knickers that were designed by someone with a fashion degree. Art.”

Esme and Oliver stared at you. A manic, self-satisfied smile was plastered on your face, and when you downed your pint to cool down from the warmth that outpouring had exerted, Oliver actually smiled. Michael said nothing. Did nothing. He was entirely, utterly unreadable. You wanted to smack him.

He glanced from you to Esme, to Oliver and at last to his pint. Like you had done, he picked it up, finish it in three gulps and placed it back on the table. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus.” What the fuck was he talking about? He spoke to his friend as if you and Esme had ceased to exist. “Going for a slash. Get me another pint please, Oliver? Thanks.” He stood from his chair, unfurling like a stick insect, and made purposefully for the gents’.

Your mouth fell open. Esme chuckled nervously. “He’s a charmer,” she said to Oliver.

“Yeah, ‘scuse,” he muttered, shuffling awkwardly to the bar.

You both sat in your chairs, baffled silence befalling of you. “Well, no double dates for us then.” Esme said.

You laughed. “No date for you fullstop.”

“Yeah,” Esme glanced at the bar where Oliver was now waving at someone. You watched as he made his way over to Felix Catton and his friends. “Bit dull, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Oliver sat down as the rest of the posho’s table cheered. “Though if he’s friends with Felix Catton…?”

“Didn’t realise you were so shallow?” Esme teased.

“I’m not! But the parties, Esme, the parties!”

“I know, I know, I’ll remember that Christmas one forever. Oh God, here he comes,” Esme shrank in her seat. Michael was weaving through the crowd back towards the table.

“Why isn’t he going to sit with Felix and Oliver?” You whispered. “He better not be coming back here.”

You and Esme watched as his approached slowed, faltering when he noticed Oliver and his pint were missing. He glanced around, looking at his feet as if to find Oliver on the floor. It was painful. Watching the realisation dawn on his face. You and Esme knew it before he did.

A hand raised in the air; he had spotted Oliver at Felix’s table. You watched, with pity and embarrassment, as Michael waved and Oliver turned away.

“Shit,” Esme said.

Hand moving to push up his glasses, Michael, with head hung low, left.

“Shit,” Esme said again. “Bet you feel like a bitch for shouting at him now.”

And despite his pomp and arrogance, his cynicism and creepiness, you really did feel awful.

Notes: The amount of research I did for this was wholly unnecessary. Added some links because 2006/2007 was quite a place. The script hit me like a fucking train. It says, “Back with Michael: CRUSHED.”

Many thanks to @thecruel for their help with the transcript of the Saltburn pub scene, and to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for the Michael Gavey inspo, your headcanons are always spot on.

Tags: @lexwolfhale* @theoneeyedprince @lovebittenbyevans @fan-goddess @ellrond @very-straight-blog @arcielee @tsujifreya @liv-cole @myfandomprompts @annoyingkittydetective* @elizarbell @solisarium @thekinslayersswordhand @nightdiamond8663* @slowlysparklyninja* @kate-to-the-ki @bellaisasleep @xxxkat3xxx @lacebvnny @moonriseoverkyoto @ewanmitchellcrumbs @moonlightfoxx @pendragora @aemonds-holy-milk @st-eve-barnes @sapphire-writes @babyblue711 @targaryenrealnessdarling @slytherincursebreaker @bottlesandbarricades @valeskafics @anjelicawrites @exitpursuedbyavulcan @barbieaemond @chattylurker @itbmojojoejo @humanpurposes @cyeco13 @heimtathurs @in-a-mountain-pool

*could not tag

[novascharms]

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 2.1 chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

three

sunday, january 19th

rafe shifted in his chair, pencil tapping rhythmically against the edge of your desk. "hey, can you help me with this one?" his voice cut through the quiet of your room, where you'd stretched out on your bed, flipping through your notes.

"mhm, just read it out," you replied without looking up, too comfortable to move.

"nah," he said, leaning back in the chair and tilting his head toward you, "come over here."

you sighed dramatically, rolling off the bed and padding over to where he sat. "fine," you muttered, leaning against your desk. "what's the problem?"

he pointed to a particularly messy equation on the page. "this one. i don’t get it. like, where do you even start?"

you leaned in to look, but suddenly all you could notice was him. he looked good today, better than he usually did and you'd done a pretty good job of not making it noticeable that it was affecting you but the sudden proximity completely took you out of the loop. his hair still slightly damp from practice, the faint scent of soap mixed with something deeper, something earthy and warm that reminded you he’d been sweating just hours ago. it should have been gross. it wasn’t. it was distracting.

his shoulders stretched against his hoodie, his jaw tense as he stared at the paper, and you caught a hint of his cologne lingering underneath it all. god, why did he smell so good? your brain stuttered over itself, a series of fragmented thoughts replacing any coherent explanation you were supposed to give.

"so, do i start by dividing or…?" his voice pulled you back abruptly.

"what?" you blinked, realizing he was looking at you now, an amused expression tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"i said," he repeated slowly, "do i start by dividing?"

you stared at him, blank for a moment before forcing yourself to focus on the equation. "uh, no," you stammered, cursing yourself for losing track. "you..simplify first. combine the terms on the left."

"combine the terms," he echoed, his smirk growing. "got it."

you tried to look anywhere but at him, but he shifted closer, his elbow brushing yours. "you good?" he asked, clearly entertained.

"i’m fine," you lied, straightening up and pointing at the page. "just… d-do..focus. combine the terms and go from there."

he gave a low chuckle but went back to work, leaving you to silently pray he didn’t notice how flustered you were.

you shifted back to your bed, lying on your stomach and propping yourself up with your elbows, but your attention kept drifting to him. the way his hands moved as he flipped through his textbook, the slight smirk tugging at his lips, his hair falling just perfectly into place—it was all too much. rafe seemed to notice your lingering gaze, his smirk widening ever so slightly.

"you’re staring," he teased, his tone light but his eyes sharp, almost daring you to deny it.

"am not," you countered quickly, flipping open your planner to avoid his gaze. your cheeks were warm, and you hated that he could see right through you.

"right," he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching, the movement making his hoodie ride up just enough to expose a sliver of skin. "if you say so."

you groaned internally, forcing yourself to focus on anything else. "so, how do you feel about what we’ve covered so far?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation back to algebra and not his stupidly distracting everything.

"i feel like i’m actually getting it," he said honestly, sitting up straighter. "like, for real. it’s weird, though. i’ve never had someone explain stuff like you do."

"what do you mean?"

"i dunno," he shrugged, looking at you. "it’s just… different. better. like you’re not just repeating what’s in the book, you actually make it make sense. you don’t give up on me when i don’t get it right away."

"well, that’s kind of the job," you replied, your voice softer. "i’m supposed to help you, not give up on you."

"yeah, but you’re not just doing the job," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "you actually want me to understand it."

you swallowed, his words hitting deeper than they should. "of course i do," you mumbled, looking away.

"you’re something else, you know that?" he said suddenly, and when you looked back at him, he was smiling—soft, genuine, and completely disarming.

"don’t try to charm your way out of studying," you said, trying to sound teasing but failing to hide the slight waver in your voice.

"who says i’m trying to get out of studying?" he shot back, his smirk returning. "maybe i just like seeing you flustered."

"flustered?" you repeated, your voice going an octave higher. "i’m not flustered."

"uh-huh," he said, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk. "whatever you say, teach."

"focus, cameron," you said, forcing yourself to look at your planner instead of his stupidly perfect face. "next session, i’m making you do extra problems for wasting time."

"can’t wait," he said, his grin widening

"though you don't really need it..you're learning pretty quickly" you add softly.

rafe’s grin spread slow, lazy, and just cocky enough to send a strange flutter through your chest. “well, i’ve got this tutor who explains things better than any teacher ever has. plus, she’s patient and never complains when i need her to go over something twice.”

your eyebrow lifted, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “or, in your case, thrice.”

“is that a real word?”

“thrice..? yes, of course.”

he leaned forward a little, his elbow brushing the edge of the table. “okay, so… i once had this drunk argument with two of my friends where we all ganged up on one of them, swearing it wasn’t a word. i think i owe him a beer now.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. “mm, that sounds like my kind of party. i love proving people wrong.”

“and you’re good at it,” he said, voice dropping slightly.

your gaze flicked to him, surprised by the weight of his tone. “how do you know?”

“cause you’re good at everything.” he replied smoothly.

you rolled your eyes, a small laugh escaping despite yourself. “everything’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“not really,” he said, his voice dipping. “i’ve only known you for, what? two weeks? and you’ve already made me smarter than i was four months ago. you’re… impressive, hard-working, disciplined. honestly, i think my coach would exchange me for you if he had the chance.”

you laughed at the mere idea of you kicking a ball. it would be a safety hazard for everyone involved. “there’s plenty of stuff i’m not good at, trust me. my parents just drilled it into me that there’s nothing you can’t learn with enough time, effort, and training. same goes for you, you know. i’m not some genius or anything.”

he ran a hand through his hair, his expression softening. “i guess i’ve always been good at soccer. and once everyone realized that, it was kind of decided. i was the soccer guy. but i do love it.”

“you can love soccer and still be good at other things,” you said, tilting your head. “like algebra.”

he groaned, letting his head drop dramatically onto the desk. “algebra and i have a toxic relationship.”

“at least algebra can’t give you a concussion,” you teased lightly.

his head shot up, a grin tugging at his lips. “you kidding? have you seen the size of this book?”

you laughed, shaking your head. “okay, fair point.”

he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as he studied you. “i’m gonna be honest with you.”

you set your pencil down, mirroring his posture. “okay, shoot.”

“i never even tried to study for algebra before this. didn’t think i could get it, so i just… didn’t bother. the book’s basically brand new. well, except for day one. i opened it then.”

your jaw dropped, and you sat up straighter. “rafe! are you serious? you have to at least try. even if you think you’ll mess it up.”

“yeah, yeah, i know that now,” he said, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

you sighed, though your expression softened. “honestly, i’m giving you credit for pulling a 2.5 without even trying. that’s… not terrible.”

his face lit up. “see? that’s what i’ve been saying! thank you.”

you smirked, shaking your head. “don’t let it go to your head. no more slacking, though. i think you can do way better. in fact, i know you can. and i’ll help you get there.”

his smile shifted, quieter, sincere. “yeah, i know you will.”

"and you'll get your glowing recommendation." rafe says and you couldn't even believe you'd almost forgotten about that part of the deal.

"and it better actually glow." you added as you closed your planner. rafe chuckled, "you know you've got principal oakley by the balls?" he says and you gasp at his language. "don't say something like that!"

he laughs, sinking into his chair. "the way you hold yourself around him? the way you walk around the office like you own the place?" he's still grinning and you sit up, trying to think back to that day. were you actually that bad? "you were essentially bossing him around. it was so fucking se—" rafe stops in his sentences and you frown at his abrupt pause. "sick..it was really sick. i think he and i were both at a loss for words."

you agree that they did say a lot less than you did but that tended to happen whenever you were in a room. you could just get so carried away and end up talking people's heads off. you had a lot of thoughts that refused to stay inside of your head like ever.

"i guess it's just..very important to me. his recommendation will make me stand out. it's only the beginning of my 30 year plan. he cannot mess this up." you sigh throwing yourself back onto your bed, stomach twisting at the thought of a less than perfect letter being sent.

"tell me about your thirty year plan." and that, that was something no one ever asked. they asked why and feigned interest for a second but no one ever really asked you to talk about it.

you sit up turning to him, "really?" you ask, a little stunned and he nods and moves to your bed to look at your planner. you'd had it since you were ten, always adding things whenever your mind went places too far to see in the near future. it was your whole life, literally. a little battered but loved nonetheless. you weren't joking when you said you would run into a burning house for this book.

and rafe looks sincere when he urges you to tell him about it again so you start and you talk and talk and talk and you don't stop until almost an hour later and realise a couple of things at the same time.

rafe sat there and not only did he listen attentively, he asked questions and constantly assured you that he was listening.

he'd moved from your desk to your bed, lying on it like he owned, pillow rested under his neck whilst you sat cris crossed by his side, close enough for your knee to knock against his side a couple of times.

you were extremely late for your community service at the retirement home.

"wait, wait.." you glanced out your window to see the sky looking darker than it should. rafe looks at you in confusion, rasps out the softest, "what?" that almost stops you in your track but you keep going and reach for your phone. your eyes widen when you see the time. "oh, no, no. i'm late.." you groan jumping out of bed and pulling your knit jumper over your head.

"late..? time s'it?" he asks and when you say seven pm, his brows raise in surprise. time had gone by so insanely fast. you had blinked and an hour and a half passed.

as you hurriedly grab your bag, rafe grabs his book off the desk, "come, i'll drive you." he offers and you're shaking your head but he's already grabbed your wrist and is dragging you down the stairs. "rafe, you don't even know where i'm going. it's okay." you try but he's pulling on his shoes and essentially ignoring you. you don't like it. you stop in your tracks and he looks at you after a beat. "y/n, put your feet in those little flats and let's go."

you blink at the demand, surprised with his tone but find yourself putting your flats on without another word and then he's driving you to the retirement home.

chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

[clairesblouse]

Whispers of the Sea

𓇼 Chapter 9 │ Chapter 10 │ Chapter 11

𓇼 SMAU (Rafe Cameron)

𓇼 Ex-childhoodfriend!Rafe Cameron x Poet/Blogger!OC-Reader

𓇼 Not finished!

𓇼 Masterlist of "Whispers of the Sea"

𓇼 Summary: "Whispers of the Sea" breathes life into forgotten memories through wistful poems and hidden truths. Drawn to it's words, Rafe finds himself chasing echoes of a past he can’t fully recall. The anonymous blogger is the childhood friend forgotten in time. Rafe searches for the pieces of a forgotten puzzle, trying to make sense of the storm brewing in his mind, while his heart fills with the poems of the girl he once adored.

Rafe didn’t want to admit it, but a feeling of unease had settled in his chest. Maybe it was because of the illusion his mind had created, that this girl was the personification of the sun, and her last messages seemed like a storm.

He sighed, locking his phone as he burried his head between the pillows on his bed. A sharp pain began to sting in his abdomen, his mind spinning around something he still hadn’t figured out, and the need to do something overwhelmed him. Even if he didn’t understand what.

He adjusted the AirPods that were loosely hanging from his ear and turned up the volume on his phone. Without realizing it, he fell into a deep sleep, even though his body remained aware and recognized his surroundings.

The loud ping of a notification startled him, his heart racing, and it felt like the temperature had warmed, as his rebellious bangs now clung to his forehead, damp with sweat.

With foggy eyes, he unlocked the screen. New message.

From her.

julie's notes: it's literally WAY too late and i just finished this chapter....💀💀💀 i'm extremely lazy to edit SORRY but i promise I'll update more often, maybe in january.

anyway, don't be a stranger.

hope you liked it!! first time irl narration, what do you think? if u wanna be added to the taglist just lmk!! xoxo

taglist: @pinkyqily @frankoceanluvr11 @urbrunettebombshell @angelicameron @amidvalas

@littlefreak-liz @rafeswhoooreee