#i woke up in the dream and got out of bed thinking about all the shit i have to do today

[mattslilies]

Can You Even See? - C.S.

"you need a haircut, baby." or ... the one where chris keeps pushing his hair out of his eyes. like, all the time. warnings: none! word count: 592

you love chris, and with that comes loving all of his many hairstyles throughout the months. his hair grows very quickly, a trait that you're always incredibly jealous of, so he often went through short and long phases each year.

as much as you adored his short hair and the way it framed his face, you couldn't deny that you were the most obsessed with when it grew out, and he kept it long.

it often got fluffy, and even floppy, and it was so much fun to run your hands through. one of your favorite pastimes when laying in bed with him was to comb through it with your fingers, and pull it into small braids, or even teensy tiny pigtails.

chris was always a good sport, never once complaining about your consistent messing with his hair, but that was mostly because he was a touchy-feely person, and adored having your touch on him, especially when that meant your hands were anywhere near his face.

often times, he would fall asleep while you were running your nails along his scalp, the feeling soothing him straight to dream-land. you found it one of his most adorable traits, and always gently teased him for it when he woke back up. it brought the prettiest blush to his face.

unfortunately, the long hair would always get to a point where it would become inconvenient for chris. every time he was watching tv, or looking at something on his phone, he would have to reach up every few moments to push his hair out of the way.

or, when he would get out of the shower, his hair would take twice as long to dry, and it would drive him crazy for the entire time that it took to no longer be sopping wet.

one day, you were sitting next to chris, combing the hair out of his face, and you noticed that it had gotten incredibly long, longer than he normally let it grow.

"you need a haircut, baby."

his eyes snapped open, having fallen shut with your gentle touch on his forehead.

"do you not like it anymore?"

you shook your head, pressing a kiss to your boyfriend's forehead.

"no, of course i do! you know i love your hair long. but you keep having to push it out of your eyes no matter what you're doing, and i see that it makes you frustrated sometimes. if you let it grow much longer, you're going to have to start pinning it back."

he smiled up at you, a cheeky grin stretching from ear to ear.

"what, you don't think i'd look amazing in one of those pink headbands with the flowers on them?"

you laughed, gently tugging on his hair.

"i'm sure you would, baby. but i don't think you'd want to spend twenty minutes in front of the mirror every morning focused just on your hair."

he sighed, relaxing into your touch as your hands continued gently twisting and braiding the brunette strands on his head.

"no, i wouldn't. i'm a little too lazy for that."

you smiled, humming in agreement.

"i know, honey."

"a haircut it is, then. i'll go get it cut sometime this week."

you were a little sad, but you found comfort in the fact that his hair grew very quickly, so you'd be back adoring his long hair in just a few months.

his long hair was adorable, yes, but short hair made him look straight-up sexy, so you were perfectly fine with him getting a haircut.

a/n: divider from @hyuneskkami !

taglist <3

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[lyssakinzzz]

Temptation

(Hiii oml I realized the font I used didn't register on the web! I'm sorry for all web readers! If you have any good font pls rec)

Plot: you're husband hates you, and has not touched you in years! But remmick reminds you of the touch of a man.

Establish some what of a relationship, married reader, remmick x black married reader, smut, dumbification, porn with plot, kinda dominate submissive roles, spousal abuse, breaking and entering of sorts(welcome mat), cheating, oral(f! receiving, remmick playing with your mind a bit. Squirting, breeding if you squint.

You were a clean woman, a home maker too. Your house looked gorgeous, your garden, the aesthetic, your porch. You had the cutest house in the delta. From your opinion nice houses started from the outside, so you invested into a beautiful welcome mat. Annie, your friend said you can let in haints and vampires with it. You never really believed her, until now.

It felt like a man was in your house every single night when your husband was gone, he would loom over you, as you dreamt, you could've sworn he was giving you dreams of him. Because, why else you were think of a white man making love to you. This was one of the nights when the dreams got intense, you were met with the same man in your bed, licking your cunt and making you go feral. He had lustful eyes, a sweaty head, and a gorgeous physique. He sounded foreign, but from here. It was so strange.

You woke up in a sweat and your panties soaked, shit. You thought as you went to the kitchen to quench your thirst, you sat outside a bit and fiddled with your lips a bit, this was so strange. Not until sudden did you feel this presence, you prayed and prayed for it to go away, but nothing.

You sigh, and go back inside and walk to your bedroom just to be met with the same man from your dreams, you felt so alarmed. How'd he get in? You were at the front door the whole time. You rubbed your eyes like a cartoon character hoping he'd disappear, he just smirked instead.

"You dreamin' of me, girl." He smirked with a bit of a playful undertone to it. "Well, I'm flattered, truly ma'am, but don't you got a man on your arm. Now, I ain't think it's right for a married women to have such dirty dreams of another man..." He spoke in the same accent as he inched closer and grabbed your wrist, you whimper in some kind of fear but that just seemed to turn him on. "You Klan, sir?" You spoke up, you sounded a bit respectful and civilized but terrified, his eyebrows furrowed and he mortified by the pure idea. "Ma'am?" He asked dumbfounded you would even think that, a bit offended too as his eyes widened.

"Then why you up in my house, touching on a married women like me! My husband's gonna shoot you dead on this porch if you don't leave, immediately!" You spoke as you gained control over the situation, and pushed him away. "You mean the cheating one who beats on you?" He whispered, looking into your eyes, something about them just wasn't right. He didn't look alive. You felt hot with anger. "Don't you accuse my husband of that horrible stuff! He is a good man!" You yell, you said the last part almost like you were trying to convince yourself "He is a good man".

"Now, I'm sorry, angel. How bout I beg you for forgiveness right here on this floor,hm. As long as you show me what that voice sounds like when it's beggin' back?" He spoke in a low deep tone, he smirked as he saw your reaction to his words. "Yeah don't that sound good, it's a shame that man don't touch such a pretty little angel like you, hm? I'll fuck you real nice n sweet, darlin'." He muttered as he set you down on the mattress. He slowly kissed your neck, he inhaled the perfume on it, and practically moaned.

He kissed down, his hands slowly slipping under your floral nightgown, he gripped your perky boobs and played with them, he let out a sound of satisfaction when he felt how soft they were. He slowly peeled your nightgown off and kissed down your body, slowly and gentle just the way you liked it. You moaned, as your hands slipped down him as he kept getting lower. You could tell he was trying to keep it together as he reach your pussy. He let out a moan the second he peeled off your cotton panties.

"Fuck can't believe she's already this wet for me, hm?" He groaned as he kissed and licked it, teasing you a bit. He knew you wanted him to just starting eating it. "Mm, this is the sweetest pussy I've ever tasted" he groaned, going insane he was holding back as well. You looked down at him with pleading eyes and that was the straw that broke the camels back, he immediately started to eat you out. You moaned. "Gah!" you moaned as he kept going, he was so much better than you husband ever was, even when you two still had sex he would be like a blind man still not knowing where your clit was. However, this man had experience, he knew your body better than your husband of years. You moaned "Fuck!" your chest was moving up and down frantically, and you were basically about to rip the hair out of his head. This was an awesome way to end the five years of involuntary celibacy.

You groaned as you squirmed and tried to move away from him. He was strong so he kept you there and lapped you up like a dog who hadn't had water since 1910. You went cross eyed and fell back down as he stuck his tongue so far up, farther than your husband could ever yearn to reach. You felt blood rush to your head and your realase coming way faster than expected. You shook as he kept going and then it felt like a dam break as you squirted all over his face. He lapped it up and smirked as he flipped you over. You whine as he smacks your ass in a way to tell you to put it up, you mindlessly obey him.

"You know I never realize we never exchanged names, I'm remmick. You are?" You didn't even answer just had half lidded eyes, he chuckled and took off his belt and you felt his dick fall on your ass, he spat on his hand and lubed it up as you where whimpering and clenching over nothing. This fuckass white man really fucked you stupid. He sunk into you and you immediately moaned, you gripped hard onto the sheets as he fucked you hard.

"Damn this pussy's tight" he grunted as he thrusted into you. You whined, as he sunk your screaming self into a pillow. "Sh..sh..You don't want anyone to know how much of a fucking slut you are when your husband isn't here." He whispered as he kept thrusting, you whined loudly in the pillow and nodded. Ironically Remmick was way louder than you, he kept whimpering and you just know he woke up 5 houses. You started to loose around him as your body got used to the feeling of him being inside, in order to tighten you back up he threatened you a bit.

"Bet your husband would loveee to walk in and see his pretty pure wife fucking a cock other than his huh? In fact why don't I stay until he comes home so I can greet him, hm?" He grunted, as you tightened around him.

"That's it, girl..." He moaned as you tightened while he fucked your overstimulated cunt. He felt his balls tighten as he felt realase coming. He went faster as you screamed for him to not come inside, and tried to push him away. He chuckled not caring as he came inside you and he watched as your eyes fluttered as you got filled up and you sunk back down.

"Relax, I'm shootin' blanks." He said as he pulled out of you. Even though it wouldn't be too bad if he fucked his babies into you....

OKAY I JUST MADE MY FIRST FIC AYEEEEE AND TYSM FOR ALL THE LOVE IM GETTING ON MY HCS LIKE WHAT??? MY PHONES BUZZING EVER TWO SECONDS LIKE IM TIKTOK FAMOUS IN A MOVIE LMAO ANYWAYS YALL BETTER EAT THIS UP BYEEEEEEE

[jassy2uall]

I’d Never Forget Our Anniversary (pt. 3)

Billie Eilish x fem!Reader

“This time, you are celebrating your anniversary with your girlfriend, Billie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today was the day. Yours and Billie’s actual anniversary.

You’d spent the night tangled in blankets and laughter, reflecting on the chaos of the past year—silly arguments, long drives, slow mornings, and those late-night “I love you”s whispered into the dark when everything else was quiet.

But none of it compared to this. Today marked one full year, and every second of it felt like something you’d dreamed of writing—but never quite captured—until now.

You woke up to an empty bed, your brows furrowed, until Billie reappeared in the doorway holding a breakfast tray that was somehow bigger than her grin. Pancakes stacked high, a tiny cup of warm maple syrup, fresh-squeezed orange juice, perfectly scrambled eggs, and sausage, all arranged with more care than you'd ever expect her to admit.

“Breakfast for my baby,” she said, placing the tray gently on your lap.

You lit up, pulling her in for a kiss. “You’re so sweet.”

“Only the best for you,” she replied, crawling back under the covers beside you and watching like you were the sunrise.

You sat there together in your little cocoon, the world outside forgotten. Just soft giggles, food-sharing, syrupy fingers, and lingering touches beneath the sheets. It was everything love was supposed to be—messy, warm, delicious.

After breakfast, you got ready. Billie wore a black fitted button-up with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and the silver chain necklace you got her for her birthday. You slipped into a champagne-colored dress—soft, flowing, like poetry in motion—and styled your hair just enough. Billie stared for a solid thirty seconds before her mouth finally caught up.

“You look like a dream. Like… a real-life angel.”

You laughed and kissed her cheek. “And you’re my favorite cliché.”

Billie already knew what the day held—you’d told her in advance being how you did mix up your actual anniversary. But she still didn’t expect her nerves to kick in so hard until you were both floating off the ground in the hot air balloon.

At first, she grinned, holding your hand like a kid about to ride their first roller coaster. But as the ground got smaller, her grip tightened. Her smile wavered.

“Babe?” you said softly.

She didn’t look at you—just stared out at the horizon. “Y-yeah. I’m good. Totally fine. Love the view. So, um…high up.”

You touched her arm. “Billie. Are you afraid of heights?”

She blinked fast. “I didn’t think I was.”

Then the basket creaked slightly with the breeze. Billie stiffened like a board.

“Okay. Yeah. I’m afraid. I’m totally freaking out.”

You tried not to laugh, gently rubbing her back. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you were so excited! And I wanted to be all romantic and fearless and boyfriend-coded or whatever.”

“Billie,” you said, cupping her face. “Being scared doesn’t make you less romantic. It just makes you human. And cute. Very, very cute.”

She buried her face in your shoulder, groaning. “Can we go back down now?”

Eventually, the pilot agreed to cut the trip short, descending slowly and gently. As soon as you touched the ground, Billie dropped to her knees and kissed the grass.

“I will never disrespect the earth again.”

You were still laughing as you helped her up, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Still the best view I’ve ever had.”

—

Later that afternoon, you took a walk downtown. It wasn’t exactly peaceful—paparazzi trailed you both, snapping photos, calling out questions.

“What are you two celebrating?”

“It’s our anniversary,” Billie answered, wrapping an arm around your waist.

Some of them actually backed off after that, which was rare. Surprising, even.

After browsing a few shops, the two of you wandered into a quiet little jewelry store tucked between a bookstore and a coffee shop. The lighting inside was golden and warm, the air smelling faintly of wood and vanilla. Tiny glass cases glimmered with simple, beautiful things.

Billie brushed your hand with hers. “Hey. Can I show you something?”

She led you to a case where two delicate silver rings sat side by side—one etched with a tiny star, the other with a crescent moon.

Your breath caught. “They’re perfect.”

She hesitated, voice soft. “Promise rings?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Yes.”

You each slipped one onto the other’s finger, hooking pinkies after for good measure.

“I promise to love you even when you're being dramatic,” she said.

You grinned. “And I promise to love you even when you nearly faint in hot air balloons.”

—

That night, dinner was at your favorite restaurant again—a cozy, candlelit place with soft jazz and warm lighting. It was the same one where you’d waited for her the night before. Thankfully, none of the same staff was on tonight.

Billie reached across the table, tracing circles on your palm.

“I can’t believe you were sitting here all night waiting for me,” she said quietly.

“Forget about it, babe,” you said, brushing it off with a smile. “I’m just glad my waiter isn’t here. He felt a little bad for me,” you added, sipping your champagne.

Billie let out a nervous laugh, her gaze falling to your lips as you drank. She admired you quietly for a while, like she still couldn’t believe you were hers. The way you glowed under the candlelight, how at home you looked in love.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.

You looked at her and mouthed a shy “stop,” but she didn’t. She just reached for your hand again.

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a total simp,” she said, “but… this has been the best day of my life.”

You smiled, cheeks warm. “I have one more thing for you.”

You pulled a folded piece of paper from your bag and placed it carefully on the table. The poem. The one Billie had been begging you to share.

“I wrote this for you. And I want to read it out loud.”

Billie’s eyes softened. She nodded, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You looked up at her—really looked at her—and began:

Hopelessly In Love

by Me

I fell in love

Before I knew who you truly were.

Those beautiful blue ocean eyes—

I feel myself getting pulled into them.

I can’t fight it,

And I don’t want to.

You're everything I imagined and more,

Everything that I love and adore.

You speak in glances and hold me in silence,

You touch like a promise—

Soft, steady, certain.

Even your flaws feel like poetry to me.

The way you hate mornings,

The way you love too loud,

The way you say my name

Like it’s a home you never want to leave.

Before you, love felt distant—

Like a language I didn’t speak.

But with you, it’s fluent,

It’s natural,

It’s ours.

You taught me that I don’t have to be perfect

To be worthy of something this real.

That broken things can be beautiful,

When they’re held right.

I look at you and see my future—

Messy and magical,

Quiet and chaotic,

But always, always full of you.

And if I had to do it all again,

I’d still choose you,

In every lifetime,

In every version of this story.

Because the truth is—

I’m hopelessly in love with you.

And there’s no place I’d rather be

Than right here,

In this moment,

Forever yours.

By the end, Billie was silent, her eyes shimmering under the candlelight. She blinked quickly and brushed a tear away.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever loved me like that,” she whispered. “Not the way you just said it.”

You leaned across the table and cupped her face. “That’s because no one else gets to. You’re mine.”

Her bottom lip trembled slightly. She let out a shaky laugh, trying to play it cool, but her eyes gave her away.

“I swear, you ruin me,” she said. “In the best way. That poem… I don’t know how you do that. How you make words feel like they were always meant for me.”

“Because they were,” you said. “Every word I write that sounds like love—it’s you. Even before I met you, I think I was writing toward you.”

She took your hand again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then your wrist, slow and deliberate.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said. “I know I mess up sometimes—okay, a lot. But I never want to stop trying to be better. For you. For us.”

“I don’t need perfect,” you said. “Just real. And you’re the most real thing I’ve ever had.”

Suddenly, she stood, pulling you gently up from your seat. You giggled as she led you out onto the private balcony. The city lights stretched out below like stars made just for you.

She wrapped her arms around your waist and rested her forehead to yours.

“Dance with me,” she whispered.

“There’s no music.”

“I don’t care.”

So you danced—slow, clumsy sways, your laughter echoing into the night. The city hummed below you, and above, only stars and silence.

Eventually, she sighed, her chin resting on your shoulder.

“I’m gonna keep that poem forever,” she said. “Like… printed. Framed. Tattooed on my soul.”

You laughed, tucking your face into her neck. “Good. Because there’s more where that came from.”

She pulled back, looking into your eyes. “Then I can’t wait to read every chapter.”

And under the stars, with promise rings on your fingers and poetry in your hearts, the story you were writing together felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

And the best part?

You knew it was only the beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note: Phew, it’s finally done! I’m so sorry it took me so long; college was really stressful. But I’m free for now, and more Billie fanfic is on the way!

[murobrown]

.

[thebibliosphere]

I’ve had an increase in rainbow aura with my migraines lately (I used to get them once a year, if that. Now, I’ve had it twice in one month) so I’ve become somewhat paranoid whenever something flashes over my vision.

Sometimes, it's just light reflecting off my phone, but it still makes me freeze up in a fear response when it happens because it usually means I’ve got about 20 minutes before I’m in agony.

Apparently, this new paranoia extends into my dreams now, too, because I was running down a long corridor, aware that there was something behind me that I needed to escape, but all of a sudden, in my dream, rainbow zigzags consumed my vision, and I stopped, dead and went, “fuck, migraine.”

That's when I became aware of James Bond/Daniel Craig standing beside me, gun drawn.

“Oh, shit. Do you need to lie down?” he asked while I stared at him.

I said, “What about the thing chasing us?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, darling. If you need to lie down you can lie down. I’ll just kill them.”

I blinked at him for a bit, still winded from running then said, “Sure,” starting to get to my knees, ready to lie down on the cold stone floor beneath us.

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Kill ‘em. I’m just gonna...” I gestured vaguely at the floor. “Be right here, I guess.”

“You can go upstairs, you know,” he said, loading a fresh clip into his gun. “This museum has a hotel on top of it.”

“Oh good,” I said, starting to suspect this was a dream and not Daniel Craig about to murder the people chasing me because I had a migraine. “I’ll do that then.”

So I got back up and started climbing the stairs that looked an awful lot like the stairs in the Kelvin Grove Art Gallery, only to abruptly walk into Deathstroke and Nightwing doing their best to kill each other in the corridor of what was clearly a hotel based on the room service tray Nightwing was using to deflect projectiles.

They froze. I looked at them. They looked at me. “I’ve got a migraine,” I said,

“Shit, sorry,” Nightwing said, putting down his tray as both men stepped back to let me walk down the decimated corridor. “We’ll be more quiet.”

“Room 13 is open,” Deathstroke helpfully informed me.

“Is there a body in it?” I asked, now leaning against the wall, less walking along, more sliding.

“Not anymore.”

“Do you need anything?” Nightwing asked, “pain killers? Ice pack?”

I waved them off and made my way into room 13 where David Jason dressed as Detective Jack Frost looked up at me from the book he was reading on the bed.

“This is a dream,” he informed me.

“No it isn’t,” I said, despite knowing it was as I hobbled over to the bed and flopped down beside him. “And this room was supposed to be empty.”

“Open, not empty,” corrected Jack Banon who had taken David Frost’s place, dressed like young Alfie from Pennyworth as he sat beside me on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “There’s a very distinct difference between the two. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Who do you think moved the body?”

“I need to sleep,” I said, “if I can fall asleep, the migraine might go away.”

“That's all right,” he said. “You do that. I’ll make sure no one else comes in. Oh, just one thing before you do.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something I couldn't quite see and held it out to me. “You’ll need this.”

“What is it?” I said, my brain doing the dream thing where it refuses to read books or interpret numbers correctly. “I can’t see, what is it?”

“Oft, sorry. Can’t tell you that. More than my job’s worth.”

“You’re job...”

“Yeah.” and thats when he leaned over, stuck me with a needle and said, “Night night.”

And I woke up to the sound of @mothman-etd getting into the shower and Holly Mop wiggling under thre covers with me.

First words out of my mouth were, “What the fuck?”

And then I immediately pulled up Tumblr to write this down before I forget it because what the fuck.

Didn't wake up with a migraine though so... *knock on wood*

[i-like-loserz]

sleepy!san

cw: explicit (18+), sub!san -- as always, teasing/taunting, over the clothes things, kissing, chill smut :), not beta-read

note: a short one because i love my sleepy guy and i can't hold any fic back after i finish it!

masterlist

---

imagine sleepy!san whose eyes are all puffy and bleary from how hard he was sleeping. he's in nothing but his boxers, sporting fluffy hair that falls against his forehead.

he was sleeping in (as in -- he was literally dead to the world when you got up) but when you return to the bedroom after getting coffee, he's immediately sitting himself up to great you, pretending like he was already awake.

he's like a puppy who's eager to greet you. cute.

he rubs his eyes cutely and says good morning in a soft voice -- it's deeper and raspier than usual, but still gentle.

you can tell he's still tired by the way his eyes refuse to open fully, still getting used to the morning light, but he refuses to go back to sleep because he wants to see you and hang out (even though it's the weekend).

"sleep good?" you coo, going over to sit on the edge of the bed to fix his bed-head.

"mhm..." he sighs and leans against your hand as it brushes through his soft hair. "i had a weird dream" he mumbles, eyes still half-closed as you start massaging the nape of his neck.

"yeah?"

"you were there -- you're always there --" he interrupts himself, "but you didn't know me." he looks at you with wide puppy eyes. "you were a waitress or something...hitting on me."

you laugh, "really?"

"yeah but I was stumbling over my words and could barely get anything out. so i lost you..." he pouts, "i don't think i even got your number."

"aw, sannie..." you brush his bangs away from his eyes, "well, i'm here now."

"yeah, i'm so glad i woke up to you." he nuzzles his face against you, "i missed you."

"i've barely been out of bed for 20 minutes!" you tease.

"mph..." he huffs, frustrated that you don't get it, "you didn't miss me??"

"of course, sannie, i always miss you~" you whisper to placate the sensitive man.

"i really missed you though." he stresses. his hand takes a hold of yours and leads it to his body -- he's so warm, like a hot cup of tea that's just barely cooled off enough to drink though it might hurt at first to get it down.

"hm? how much?" you let him guide your hand against his chest and down his muscled torso.

"i think i was hard in my dream..." he admits, sheepishly.

"in the restaurant?" you gasp, "such a pervert, preying on an innocent waitress." you can't hold back an amused smile as you cup over his hardness that strains against his boxers.

"i couldn't help it when you wear that waitress outfit and talk in a customer service voice." he whines, face already flushed in embarrassment for being called a pervert.

"oh, so i was just being nice?" you tease, "not even flirting? and you got hard from that?"

his hips flex against your touch as he grapples with the intense pleasure of your hand mixed with your taunting words.

"it's not like that!" he pouts, "i-it was involuntary..."

"aw, baby, you just can't help it can you," you kiss over his neck and caress his shoulder and chest to soothe him, "always so needy for me."

"i just like you too much." he confesses, "you're so pretty it hurts." his hand gently squeezes against your wrist, "like my dick physically throbs for you..."

despite the vulgar wording -- and drool-worthy picture san gives you, there's something endearing about him. he's so honest and open with you. he tells you everything because he knows you'll take care of him and he's not afraid to tell you how much he likes you.

you lean in for a kiss, enjoying the way he perfectly melts against you, eager to deepen it. you slowly drag the waistband of his boxers down as you suck against his bottom lip. he groans against your mouth as his cock meets the cool air in the room, slapping against his lower stomach.

when your lips separate, you see it with all its glory. hard, pink, and already leaking for you, desperate for your attention.

"let me help you with this, baby."

[dollbrbie]

meguru bachira ʚ ɞ can i fuck you again?

cw. smut mdni, mentions of alcohol use, obsessive behaviour

you’ve kinda always known bachira had a crush on you. it was pretty obvious, to say the least. so when you got so unbelievably drunk at a random party, you thought why not? you couldn’t deny that he was pretty cute, and the vodka you had been drinking had gotten you so unbelievably worked up. plus, he was right in front of you looking at you like you were his goddess.

so then one thing led to another! and you somehow ended up taking this man’s whole virginity.

like god, no wonder he won’t leave you alone.

of course, you quickly hurried off once you woke up and realised what the hell you just did. bachira was cute and all, but definitely not someone you’d make your boyfriend. he was just way too… much.

but he was a guy, he’d get over it, you thought.

oh, absolutely not. since then, he’s been spamming your phone whether it’s his daily check in or a late night ‘can i fuck you again?’ text. he was starting to drive you crazy, you did not realise how much of a fucking headache meguru bachira was.

even his friends don’t hear the end of it, isagi coming up to you and practically begging you to just answer one of his calls, or to let him down gently because he can’t deal with the constant rambling bachira does, talking about the way he had you, legs spread beneath him while whimpering his name.

it’s so embarrassing, you think.

well, clearly not that embarrassing when you’re at another party, exactly one week from the night you took bachira’s virginity, making out with him on a leather couch as your friends give you confused looks. didn’t you just call this man desperate and annoying?

and for the second time, your find yourself back in bachira’s bed, your legs spread perfectly open for him as he bottoms out inside you.

“do you still think i’m annoying?”, he giggles as he movies in and out of you so painfully slow.

“go faster.”

he shakes his head with a cheeky smile, “say please and i will.”

you scoff, “in your dreams.”

he frowns, grabbing your face as he suddenly picks up his pace, his strokes brutal and deep as he abuses your poor pussy.

“wha— wait, wait- fuck.”, you plead.

“nuh uh. sick of you being so mean to me.”

“bachira, fuck, please, please.”

he smiles at the sight before him, so pleased with himself that he’s got the girl he’s obsessed with under him yet again, whimpering and begging. just the way he’s always imagined when using his fist to fuck himself on his countless virgin nights.

oh and trust me, he’s not letting you get away so easily this time.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[narcjsistx]

— 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈! ; words: 0.5k

think about the first time you and RIN ITOSHI slept in the same bed... nothing sexual, wait!! or at least, not that time. you've been together for a while now, but you've never spent the night together since he always comes home late after practice and you're busy with your activities

so when you got stuck at the itoshi's house after having dinner with his family, having you sleep with him was the only option. there was a storm outside and it would be dangerous to go out in all that rain!. when his parents suggested you stay at their house, Rin was already thinking about how strange it would be to have you SO CLOSE for A WHOLE NIGHT. not that he minds tho

he lent you an old shirt and shorts of his, leaving you the bathroom free while he waited for you in his room. he was literally dying of anxiety, not that he was ashamed, but what was he supposed to do? he had been used to sleeping alone for practically forever, except for a few times when he had slept in his parents' bed because of the storms, but he was a child! and now YOU would be lying next to HIM??

when you came out of the bathroom wearing his clothes, he almost exploded. you were beautiful. too beautiful. i mean, you always were, but with his stuff on you were even more beautiful. and while he was lying down and you were getting under the covers, the only noise outside was fortunately that of the storm, otherwise you would have heard his heart. it was exploding

for a while, he pretended to be asleep. he didn't really know what to do, all the scenarios where he got a little closer ended in catastrophe in his mind. he didn't want to make such an intimate experience uncomfortable for you, it was the last thing in the world he wanted. but hell, he wanted to hug you so bad at the same time

shyly, his arm rested on your waist, and when he noticed that you didn't seem bothered, he put the other one under you and slowly pulled you towards him. he hid his anxiety well but inside he was wondering if he had overdone it since yeah, you didn't seem bothered, but you weren't even hugging him back. maybe he had exaggerated

but when your arms wrapped around his upper back, Rin breathed a sigh of relief. the anxiety slowly melted away as he rested his face on your chest, enjoying the feeling of having you so close and warm. he couldn't decide whether he preferred this or scoring goals in a match

when he woke up the next morning, you were both in the exact same position, his arms still wrapped around your waist as if you might escape. your head was resting on the pillow and at the same time on his head, which remained on your breast. it was relaxing to see you so calm in the morning, still in dreamland

maybe you were dreaming about him

he had been dreaming about you all night

he could almost get used to this, if one day you decided to spend the rest of your life together

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

[mariasont]

hey girlie, first of all absolutely adore all of your hotchie fics no one writes him as well as you do!! second of all i am dying to read bimbo!assistant! x hotch smuuuutt (only if ur comfortable, pls ignore if not!!) i feel like that would be the only time hotch would have her completely and utterly speechless (idk why but i literally cannot get hotch w a breeding kink out of my goddamn mind!!!!!!) anyways hope ur having a fab day, and thank u for feeding us over the last few days 😘

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader want’s aaron’s attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit stuff going on here, fingering, p in v, no condom (bc we trust hotch is responsible but you shouldn’t be), dirty talk, hotch is a boob man sorry not sorry, after care with a side of psychoanalysis bc he can’t help himself

wc: 6k (got a little carried away my b)

a/n: thank u sm for requesting ugh!!!! u all r going to give me a god complex if you keep talking about how i write hotch LOLOL i love u sm hope u like the fic!!

Saturdays with Aaron had a way of making time feel like something slippery and golden, something you could almost touch before it vanished between your fingers. The mornings stretched long and languid, a lazy kind of indulgence that should have felt endless, but somehow, with him, it never was.

You woke up late. Very late. The kind of late that made you blink at the clock in mild disbelief before flopping back against the pillows. And then there was the warmth. Not just the heat of the blankets, but something deeper, something winding low in your belly.

Oh. Right. The dream. You swallowed, biting your lip as if that might make the memory dissipate. It wasn't outright filthy, but it had been suggestive enough. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing. It was the kind of thing that made you wish Aaron was still in bed.

He wasn't, of course. That would require Aaron Hotchner to do something reckless and irresponsible, like relax. If he wasn't keeping the country from total collapse, he was finding something equally as urgent to fix, probably buried in reports right now, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the page like national security depended on it. And maybe it did. You didn't know.

What you did know was that you'd been circling him all afternoon, orbiting like some needy little planet trapped in his gravitational pull, and he still hadn't acknowledged you. A small part of you, one you didn't want to name, had hoped he'd notice you by now. That he'd glance up, see you, reach for you. But he hadn't. And that was okay. Really. You weren't needy. You weren't desperate.

But you noticed him. You always noticed him. And this version of him, the weekend version, was particularly hard to ignore. The casual clothes, casual for him, anyway, stomped all over your ability to think straight (not that you had much to concentrate on in the first place).

The grey crewneck he had on stretched across his shoulders, molding to the shape of him like it had been made for him. His jeans, worn in all the right places, settled on his hips in a way that made you feel like a pervert just by looking.

Even his hair had you practically drooling. Not messy, of course — Aaron Hotchner didn't do messy — but it was softer than usual, a little mussed, like he'd dragged his fingers through it one too many times without bothering to fix it.

It made him look almost touchable, like someone who should have been stretched out next to you on the couch, letting you mess it up even more, not hunched over a pile of paperwork like the case files were going to disappear if he blinked.

His forearms flexed every time he turned a page, his muscles shifting subtly every time he moved. You didn't even realize how blatantly you were staring until his fingers skimmed up to his jaw, scratching absently at the stubble there. Because now all you could think about was how it would feel under your fingertips, under your lips, under — okay. Enough.

The magazine in your lap was technically open, fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with designer gowns and scandalous headlines. Normally, you'd be all over it, sipping coffee as you devoured the who wore what and who was caught with who. But today, you weren't really reading, you were just holding it, turning pages for the sake of it. Something to occupy your hands while you definitely didn't stare at Aaron.

He had started keeping these around after you mentioned, offhandedly, how much you loved them. You hadn't even meant it as a suggestion, but the next time you visited, there it was, sitting on the coffee table like it had always been there.

He hadn't spared you so much as a glance since you walked in, not even when you'd practically drifted past his desk, close enough that he should've felt you there. He had mumbled a good morning, sure, but his eyes never left the page, his attention locked onto whatever was in that file.

You sigh, loudly. Pointedly. The kind of exaggerated little huff that normally earns you at least a glance, maybe even a what's the matter, sweetheart? There was no reaction today. He just flipped another page, one hand smoothing over the text, the other tapping against the desk like you were completely invisible.

You toss the magazine onto the table, just a little too hard. Then you stretch out on the couch, shifting just enough that his button-down rides up, baring more of your thighs than should be considered decent. The air against your skin makes you hyperaware of what isn't there, only your favorite panties. The tiniest scrap of fabric between you and absolute obscenity. If he so much as glanced in your direction, he'd have the perfect view. But he doesn't.

You sigh again, softer this time, just enough to sound absentminded, like you're not trying to get his attention (even though you absolutely are). As you push yourself off the couch, you stretch a little, giving yourself an extra moment to watch him. You make your way toward him, steps slow, letting the hem of his shirt brush against the tops of your thighs as you move. His fingers flex against the page.

You settle against the edge of his desk, bracing yourself on your elbows, making a very intentional point of pressing your tits together. It's the kind of thing that should be subtle, just a natural consequence of your posture.

Months of Aaron have taught you more than just the way he takes his coffee or how he organizes his files. You've studied him, memorized him even. And one thing has become crystal clear:

He's absolutely a boob man.

You realized it gradually, the subtle stiffening of his posture whenever you leaned a little too close in the office, the way his fingers flexed when your blouse had just a bit too much give.

Then, when you started dating, it became even clearer. His hands never just grabbed, they claimed, like he was making up for all the times he couldn't touch.

His voice would go low, reverent, when he murmured, so pretty, sweetheart, his thumb brushing over your skin like he needed to feel it. And your bras, he had thoughts about those, much to your surprise. Which ones were his favorite. Which ones he hated because they got in the way.

But it wasn't until months later, when he had you spread out beneath him, his mouth hot and urgent against your skin, that he admitted it. His voice was rough, breathless, his grip tightening as he groaned, been trying so fucking hard not to look at these for years. And then, just to prove it, his mouth sealed over you like he had years to make up for.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe lunch?"

His eyes lift — quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

Because before they settle back down, they pause, just for a fraction of a second, right there. Right at the collar of his button-down, where the top buttons are hanging loose, where your skin is warm and soft and practically begging for attention.

But then, before you can revel in it, he's already looking back down. "No, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, actually contemplating throwing his stupid case file out the window. He's either knows what you're trying to accomplish and ignoring you on purpose or he's just that focused. You weren't sure which was worse.

You shove off the desk, but you don't step away. Instead, you step closer. Your hands find his shoulders first, sliding down to his chest as you lean into him, pressing against his back. The shift is immediate. He goes still, his spine going ramrod straight, like his brain has just caught up to what's happening.

Your shirt is paper-thin, your nipples are pressed right against him, and unless he's suddenly gone completely numb, he feels it.

You sink against him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder, breathing him in. Gods, he smells good. Clean, sharp, like something expensive.

You recognized it as the cologne you bought him. The one you picked, the one you dabbed on his wrist in the middle of a department store and grinned, telling him, This. This smells like you. This is the one.

Your fingers skim over his collar, your nails just barely catching against the heat of his skin.

"What are you working on?" You let the question drip from your lips, your voice all honey, sweet, but not innocent.

Aaron hums low in his throat. "Case notes."

"That's boring. Is there anything I can do to help? Your assistant is very willing to be of service."

His fingers pause and your stomach flips. But then, before you can savor it, he moves. His hand finds yours, lifting it with patience. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, featherlight, frustratingly  chaste, before setting your hand back down like you're some good little thing that's been successfully pacified. And then you catch it, the tiniest twitch of his lips.

"Thank you, honey, but I've got it under control."

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare.

"You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

"Hmm. So that's what you want? For me to use you?"

"I don't know. Is that an option?"

Aaron's laugh is low, the kind that rumbles through his chest without much warning. It's never loud, it doesn't have to be, but it still manages to send your stomach into a ridiculous free-fall.

"There's just some stuff I need to finish up."

You groan, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder, arms squeezing around him like you can physically hold his attention. Like you can will it away from the pages in front of him and back to you where it belongs.

"Is that your way of telling me I just have to sit here and be patient?"

Aaron's pen doesn't pause. "Mhm."

You huff. "And you think I'll be able to do that?"

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

"You've survived this long," he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I think you'll manage."

"Fine," you say after a moment, stepping around the chair before sinking into his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you, but he doesn't. He never does.

You shift until you're settled, one leg draped over his, chest brushing his. His breath stutters — just a little, just enough to tell you that he feels you. His fingers flex against the desk, pressing harder into the wood, tension rolling through his back as he goes perfectly still beneath you, like he's waiting to see what you'll do next.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you hum, arms draping easily over his shoulders as you sink against him. Your cheek brushes his, lips just close enough that if he turned his head, just a little, you'd be right there. "You said you had to finish working. Don't let me stop you."

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything.

You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it.

He's humoring you, and that's fine.

You let him pretend for a while, content to exist in the space between distraction and indulgence. You shift in his lap, weight pressing into his just enough.

His body reacts before he does, muscles tightening, his breath slowing like he's thinking too hard about not reacting.

"Sit still."

"I am still," you reply, the words light on your tongue, but the slow curve of your hips tells another story.

"Sweetheart."

You lean in, close enough that your noses brush, your forehead pressing to his as your lips part ever so slightly. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long.

His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach.

His gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to where your bodies fit together, the rise and fall of your breath syncing with his.

His hands land on your hips, thumbs pressing in, not enough to stop you, just enough to remind you he could if he wanted to. When his eyes meet yours again, there's no rush, no immediate reaction. You knew exactly what it meant and what usually followed, he was just waiting for the moment you tip the scales too far.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you're trying to do?" he asks, his voice low, the kind of tone that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear.

"I'm just feel a little... overlooked." Your fingers tighten where they rest, nails digging in to make sure he feels it. "Is it so bad that I want your attention?"

His grip tightens, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips with a kind of warning you'd be stupid to ignore. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, scorching into your skin like a brand.

"You have my attention." You don't believe him. Not really. You press your lips into a pout, brow furrowing just slightly. "But if you keep moving like that, I might now be so nice about it."

Your hips shift, an instinctive little squirm, testing to see if you can push past his hold. You can't. "I can't help it."

"You can't help it?" he repeats, almost thoughtful, like he's turning the idea over in his mind. "I think you can. You just don't want to."

You want to argue, you really do, but nothing comes out, only a sharp inhale that never quite makes it into words. Because he's right. He knows he's right.

The little noise that escapes your throat is purely instinctual, frustrated but breathy, like your body is already conceding before your mind catches up.

"I told you to stop," he murmurs. He mirrors you, crowding in, his breath skimming your ear. His palm presses into the small of your back, slotting you back into place. "But you don't listen, do you?"

You shake your head without even meaning to, the deafening roar of your pulse making it impossible to think clearly.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower, turning darker, more intimate. His hands flex as if to remind you of the control he holds. Then his lips graze your jaw, his breath fanning over your skin. "You push. You test the boundaries. And then you pretend to be shocked when I hold you to them."

His fingers slide down, dragging over your thigh with an almost excruciating slowness. He pauses to squeeze there.

"First, you sprawled out on the couch —" his thumb sweeps over your skin, "like you didn't know exactly how that would look."

Your breath stutters, catches, knots itself into something tangled and messy as his hand moves, sliding higher, pressing firmer, stopping just shy of where the ache blooms.

His eyes darken, the heat behind them smoldering with something deep, something that settles like fire in the pit of your stomach.

"Then you leaned over my desk, practically shoving these —" His hand moves before the words fully land, cupping the curve of your breast. His thumb rolls over your nipple. "— right in my face."

Your breath catches, your hips lifting, your thighs parting like you're meant to be touched. Like you need him there. But he doesn't give in. He just moves lower, slow and taunting, until his palm covers the heat between your legs, pressing lightly over the thin fabric of your panties.

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

"And now this," he murmurs, and gods, his voice, his voice, is like a razor wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting all at once. "You squirm and pout like you don't know exactly what you're doing. But I know better, don't I?"

Suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop.

A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," you murmur so quietly, you're not even sure if he hears it. "I just... I wanted you to notice me."

Aaron's hum is low, deep, almost amused. His thumb finds your jaw, sweeping along the curve of it as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Oh, I noticed you. I always notice you. In fact, you're all I ever notice." His hand slips away from where you want it most. "But if this is the only way you know how to ask for my attention, sweetheart, then I think we have a problem."

His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

The friction is blinding, sending heat licking up your spine, setting every nerve in your body on fire. Your legs tremble, a sharp, choked sound escaping before you can stop it, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails sinking deep into muscle as pleasure coils tight and insistent in your belly.

"Aaron," his name slips from your lips, high and uneven, like it costs something to say it. Your head bows, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands trembling against his chest. "I wasn't trying to be bad. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You didn't think, did you? And now look where that's gotten you."

His words should sting, but they don't, not when his hands are so gentle, smoothing down your spine like he's soothing something raw inside you. And then his voice, warm and promising, settles over you, "But I'll take care of you now."

And gods, you need him to. He's so hard, the thick length of him pressing against you through denim and cotton, teasing, tormenting. Everything burns — your skin, your stomach, that deep, pulsing ache between your thighs. Your head swims, feverish, your mind caught between more and please and I can't take this. But he knows. Of course, he knows.

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want to keep going, you'll take care of it. Go ahead."

Your hands move with the kind of urgency that betrays just how badly you need this, need him. Your fingers trail down, brushing over the tight muscles of his stomach, and it's almost enough to make you dizzy, just touching him, just knowing what's waiting for you beneath layers of fabric.

The button of his jeans fumbles beneath your fingers before finally popping open. And then you're pulling him free. He's thick in your hand, burning hot against your palm, and something about that, about feeling him like this, for you, makes something feral sink its teeth into you.

And then he finds you.

His fingers slip under your panties, gliding through the obscene slickness there, and you don't mean to react so violently, don't mean to moan so loud, but it rips out of you before you can stop it.

"Oh, honey," Aaron murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he's just now realizing the full extent of your undoing. "I didn't realize you'd gotten this worked up."

Like it's an observation. Like it's fascinating.

His fingers push, stretching you open, teasing just the right spot, and you jerk against him with a sharp, strangled moan. Your grip around him tightens, your strokes turning sloppy, uneven, desperate.

"Aaron —" His name tumbles out high and needy, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.

"I didn't mean to —" Your voice shakes, a hitched little gasp tangled between syllables. "I just —" Your breath stutters, heat climbing, overwhelming. "I didn't know what to do."

"You don't have to know what to do." His fingers slow just enough to let you catch his breath as he murmurs. "You just have to let me take over. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Your nod is frantic, almost mindless, as his words echo in your ears.

"Please."

His fingers thrust deeper, and the shock of it rips a gasp from your lips, straight into his kiss. It's messy, frantic, all clashing mouths and stolen air, your breaths coming too fast to match his, like you're afraid if you let him go for even a second, he'll pull away.

Your grip on him tightens without thinking, your fingers flexing around his cock, but the sensation barely registers now, drowned out by the wetness pooling between your thighs, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls.

You can't keep up. You're chasing something that feels just out of reach, your hands leaving his cock, fumbling for something solid, something real. They find his face, fingertips brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw, trying to find yourself in him, in the way he's ruining you.

You kiss him like you can tell him everything that way, like he might understand the ache better through lips and tongues and the way your body trembles under his hands.

And then — he stops. His fingers slip free, and the sound you make is a whine, a protest, your hips tilting, seeking, trying to drag him back in. But he doesn't move, doesn't give you what you need, just smirks against your lips like he enjoys watching you squirm.

"You're so impatient," he murmurs against your lips.

But before you can protest, before you can tell him that yes, yes, you am impatient, please just give it to me, his hands tighten on your hips. And then — oh.

He lifts you, positioning you just right, and then, lowers you down.

The head of his cock pushes inside, and your breath catches, lips parting in a broken gasp. The stretch is devastating, inch by inch forcing your body to open, to yield to him. He's so deep, impossibly deep, and for a second, you forget how to breathe, how to think, your only thought being how does he even fit?

It feels endless, your thighs shaking against his as he takes his time, forcing you to feel every slow, torturous inch. Your body clenches around him, your nails dragging over his scalp as you bury your face against his neck.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice thick, lips grazing your temple. "That's it. Let me take care of you. You just have to let me in, sweetheart."

"Okay, okay," you whisper, voice shaky as you bury your face against his neck, arms wrapping tighter around him.

His other hand moves, dragging up your spine before wrapping around your waist. And then — he presses deeper.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you breathe, just sinks in, stretching you open until he's fully seated inside you. Until there's nowhere left to go.

"That's it," he groans, voice tight, his mouth ghosting along your jaw. "So tight. So warm. Fuck, sweetheart, you know this is what you were made for, don't you?"

You try to think of something, something teasing, something bratty, something that might tip him over the edge, but your body betrays you, trembling around him, squeezing down so tight you feel him shudder.

"God, you're tight," he mutters, his fingers pressing into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. "I can feel every little tremble, every squeeze. You feel that, sweetheart? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"It's like you don't want to let me go. Is that what you want, honey? To keep me right here?"

Your body clenches down instinctively, like you're answering him without meaning to, and his breath catches for just a second before his lips curve against your skin. You nod, frantic, a little dazed, a little wrecked, and his chuckle is pure sin.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back just enough to create the kind of unbearable friction that makes your breath catch, your body tightening like a bowstring.

"Every little sound you make drives me insane." His breath drags over your cheek, his lips just shy of touching, like he's teasing himself as much as he is you. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

You try to answer, you really do, but your lungs don't work properly anymore, your body focused on the pleasure threatening to snap at any second. Your fingertips tremble against his shoulders, your thighs quiver, and Aaron knows exactly what that means.

"That's it. I can feel you trembling, sweetheart. You're so close, aren't you?"

His words strike something deep, something primal, and the fire curling between your thighs roars in response. Your head tips back, your breath breaking apart as your hands scramble for purchase, fingers sliding to his face, thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. You pull him into a kiss that's all hunger, all desperation, your lips parting to let him devour you.

He groans into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your chest, and then his hips snap up into you. The stretch is suffocating, the sheer fullness of him sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your body with every deep thrust.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "You don't have to hold back. Just let go for me, sweetheart."

It crashes into you harder than you expected, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. Your moan catches halfway, tumbling out in pieces as your body convulses, clenches tight, gripping him in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts deep, brutal, final, and then he's gone, his head dropping back as a groan tears from his chest.

He fills you in thick, pulsing waves, each pulse making your thighs tighten around him, making you gasp at how deep it settles. The feeling is overwhelming — the heat of him, the weight, the way his cock still twitches inside you, like he’s unwilling to let a single drop go to waste.

You're not sure where your body ends and his begins, your limbs heavy, useless, boneless as you slump against him. Your breath stutters, still uneven, every exhale pushing against his chest as the last waves of pleasure roll through you.

"You take every drop so fucking well," he murmurs. "Meant to keep you full."

His fingers press into your hips, just a little tighter, just enough to make you feel how deep he still is.

"Don’t move yet."

Your breath stutters, the words landing deep, something fluttering tight in your stomach.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher — "I want to make sure it sticks."

You shudder, pressing closer, your face tucking against his neck as everything —the fullness, every drop of his cum —settles in.

Aaron exhales, his chest rising beneath you, and suddenly, he shifts. His grip on your hips soften and slide up, like he can feel the way you're trembling against him. 

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You try, you really do, but when you inhale, it's a stuttering, gasping thing, barely controlled. Your thighs still shake, your body still throbs around him, and you can feel the way he exhales, like he enjoys this, enjoys feeling you like this, soft and trembling in his arms.

"Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. "That was a lot."

You nod, or, at least, you think you do. Everything feels floaty, light, warm. Your head feels like it's filled with pink clouds. Your limbs feel soft, useless, like you're some well-loved doll that's been played with for hours.

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

"You okay?" His brow furrows slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You blink slowly at him, lips parting, trying to focus.

"Mhm," you hum, then pause, frowning just slightly. "Wait, no — hold on."

His jaw tenses immediately, but you reach up, poking his cheek with a weak, clumsy finger.

"You didn't kiss me," you mumble, like it's the most important fact in the universe. "You're supposed to kiss me after, 'cause, like, you love me and all that."

His head tilts, just barely shaking, like he's in mild disbelief of you. And okay, fine, maybe you do say a lot of dumb things. But this wasn't dumb. It was valid. It was scientifically proven that post-sex cuddles should include at least one (1) I love you and one (1) kiss, and you were simply holding him accountable.

"Of course I love you," he murmurs, like the answer is so obvious, so unquestionable, that it almost makes you feel silly for asking. And then he kisses you.

It's deep, drawn-out, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. 

You're still in his lap, still tangled in the ridiculous, oversized leather chair, but you don't feel like you're anywhere. Not in his apartment, not even in your own body. Just floating, existing in between his lips and yours.

When you finally pull back, it's not even voluntary — just the sad, unfortunate reality of needing air.

"Wow," you murmur, your fingers lazily brushing over his jaw.

"Wow?"

"Mhm." Your tongue darts out, sweeping over the kiss-swollen curve of your bottom lip, like you're trying to catch what's left of him there, trying to savor it. "Like... I feel very wow."

A smirk tugs at his lips, but his hands don't stop moving, don't stop tracing, don't stop feeling. His fingers smoothed absently over your hips, up your spine, his palms blending into your skin. Like he's checking for something. Like he's making sure you're here with him.

And for a second, you think he's about to kiss you again. He looks like he wants to, his gaze flickers to your lips, his hands flex just slightly, his body leans in just a hair. But then his gaze flickers, his lips part slightly as if he'd just remembered something.

"You said something earlier."

You blink again, brain lagging behind slightly as reality creeps back in, still floating somewhere in bliss. Which you felt was a more pressing topic than whatever he's about to say.

Your face scrunches up immediately, like maybe if you look cute enough, he'd drop it. 

"I said a lot of things earlier," you rush out, voice a little too high, a little too hasty, your hand flapping vaguely in the air. "So many things. A real stream of nonsense, actually. I was just saying words, you know, as one does —"

You shift slightly, suddenly painfully  aware of the position you're in, and he doesn't even blink.

"Aaron," you say, narrowing your eyes. "You're literally still inside me and you want to have a conversation right now?"

"Yes," he says simply, like of course he does, like this is completely reasonable, like you aren't still wrapped around him, skin warm and sticky from what you just did.

His brows furrow slightly, and his head tilts in that very specific way that means he's already pulling apart the words, unraveling them like a thread, and working through them with that brain of his before you can even begin to take it back. 

"You said you felt overlooked," he states plainly, like a fact, which you guessed it was. "If that was something you just said in the moment, we can drop it."

His eyes narrow, studying you like he already knows the answer. "But if you meant it, then I want to understand why."

Your mouth parts, ready to push out something easy, something light, something that won't lead to the very real, very terrifying act of actually admitting things.

He was serious. Not angry or annoyed. Just serious. And concerned.

You exhale, suddenly very invested in dragging your nails lightly over his chest, watching the way they disappear into the fabric of his shirt, how his muscles shift slightly beneath your touch.

"I mean... it's not a thing," you mumble, barely glancing up. "More like a thing-adjacent."

"Sweetheart." The firmness in his voice made your stomach flip. It's not a scolding or a warning, just his way of making you hear him. "I'm not interested in whether you think it's a thing or not. I'm interested in whether it's true."

"I mean, I guess... maybe a little."

His fingers flex, like he's taking that in. He nods once, slowly. "That makes sense."

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

"Yes," he states plainly, like it's obvious. "You pick up on subtle changes, even the ones I don't intend to project. And when I get hyper focused on something, I shut everything else out. Not just you. Everyone."

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else, everything outside of that, is temporarily shut out. When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

Your breath catches. He says it so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it almost doesn't sting at first, it just lands.

His grip tightens ever so slightly where his hands rest on your like he already knows how you're taking it.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to be paying attention," he murmurs, fingers brushing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. "It doesn't mean you don't exist in the back of my mind, even when I'm caught up in something else."

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

"Do you know what I did last night after you fell asleep?" he asks.

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

He smirks. "Eventually. But first, I checked the thermostat. You always get cold at night, even when you say you won't."

Your face warms. "That's just —,"

"And before I left for work last week, I moved your car closer to the building because I saw you left your umbrella at my place."

"I —,"

"And when I'm out of town, do you know what I do every morning?"

You swallow.

"No."

"I think about what you're having for breakfast," he murmurs. "Not consciously. It's not something I try to do. It just... happens."

"You always eat something sweet," he continues, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "It's usually a pastry or something covered in chocolate. Sometimes cake, if we're being honest."

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

"So, tell me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up. "Does that sound like someone who overlooks you?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Your heart aches, not the bad kind, but the kind that makes your chest feel too small for everything inside it. Because he's right. He notices everything. Not in the big, showy romance-movie ways but in the little things. In ways that matter.

You inhale a little too hard, blinking quickly, but the stinging in your eyes isn't going anywhere.

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

"I'm not crying," you announce, even though your voice cracks on the last word, which kind of ruins the effect.

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly, poking his chest. "I just, I feel very loved and now I have to process that."

"Okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do you need time to process, or should I just assume you're going to be attached to me for the foreseeable future?"

"Oh no, you're definitely stuck with me," you declare. "Like, you might need to call someone if you ever actually want me to let go."

His smirk is instant. "You're saying I should alert the authorities?"

You nod sagely. "I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do. But by the time they arrive, I'll have already made a compelling argument about how you should just let it happen."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm sure you would."

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taglist is closed for now until i can figure out the best way to include more than 50 mentions :(

[ariestrxsh]

olderbrothersbsf!matt x innocent!reader

જ⁀➴ ♡ content warning: smut, innocence corruption, masturbation, public fingering, praise, sneaking around, mentions of sex and virginity loss, small age gap (both characters are adults)

જ⁀➴ ♡ summary: your brother's childhood best friend, matt sturniolo, takes your virginity, and the two of you begin sneaking around in plain sight.

dividers by @/roseraris

Young God

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

Matt woke up in a cold sweat, his chest covered in a thick layer of perspiration, laying on the floor next to your brother's bed in his dark room. He had heard your brother's voice so clearly in his dream that he was sure it was real while it was happening.

He had taken your virginity earlier in the night, and his conscience was already nagging at him in the form of vivid nightmares that the interaction had ended in your brother walking in on the two of you.

In reality, he was thankfully a heavy sleeper, and it was a running joke in the family that he could sleep through a car accident, and he actually had once. It was a minor fender bender, but still. So even as Matt woke up in a panic, gasping for air, your brother was snoring loudly, the same way he was when Matt had snuck back into the room after he'd cleaned you up.

It's not that Matt regretted having sex with you. In fact, he was already plotting how he could get you alone again. But he knew he was playing a dangerous game. Your brother was bigger than he was, stronger than he was, and he'd seen him beat the shit out of people for less. Matt really believed him when he told him he'd kill him if he had sex with you.

But how could he have walked away from you after finding you like that, pleasuring yourself and moaning his name? He really thought it would have been more cruel to have left you all alone to your own devices when he knew that what you really wanted was between his legs, and he knew he could make you feel better than any toy could.

He started pawing at himself through the soft fabric of his underwear while he replayed the encounter in his head. He recalled the way he had stumbled upon you with your vibrator, softly moaning his name from one room over. He remembered how vulnerable and fuckable you'd looked.

His curious hand wandered into his waistband, and he wrapped his fingers around his thick shaft, fervently tugging at his cock while he recounted the shocked expression on your pretty face while he'd breached your entrance. He couldn't stop thinking about all the lovely sounds you'd made while he'd deflowered you, stretching you out for the very first time.

He started pumping faster, his mind flooded with images of you, getting closer and closer to the finale. He remembered how you'd clenched around him while he played with you and the way your breasts had jiggled while he had pounded into your sweet little cunt.

You were no longer pure and virginal, and it was all thanks to him. He had tainted your innocence with his dark desires.

He threw his head back and shut his eyes as a few strangled moans filled the room. His stomach dropped, and his muscles tightened as he finished himself off, milking his throbbing cock for all of its worth. He came all over his hand while he pictured your hole dripping with his seed after he'd filled you up.

He remembered the way you had softly begged him, "Please, don't tell my brother," while peering up at him with your big eyes, your lip caught between your teeth as his cum was still dribbling out of you. "I wouldn't dream of it," he had panted in response before leaning down and pulling you into a deep kiss.

A satisfied smile formed on Matt's face as he slowly brought his strokes to a halt, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips. He couldn't wait until the next time he got to have his way with you.

Finally, Matt was able to drift off again and sneak in a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep before the sun began to rise.

જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴

The next morning, you woke up smiling and satisfied from what Matt had done to you the previous night. You galavanted into the long hallway, tiptoeing past your brother's door. You floated down the staircase, running your hand along the smooth banister like you did every morning on your way to the kitchen.

"Morning Boots!" You greeted the family dog, ruffling his fur, and he wagged his tail in response. You let him out the back door to do his morning business.

You were humming to yourself, rifling through the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs when Matt appeared out of the corner of your eye at the bottom of the steps. "Shit," you muttered as you lost your grip on the carton of eggs, sending the last six in the container crashing to the floor about your feet.

"Sorry, sweet thing. I didn't mean to startle you," Matt chuckled, watching you forget how your motor skills worked just because he was in your presence. "Hi, Matt," you timidly greeted him.

For a moment, you glanced up at him and then back down at the shattered eggs beneath you as you remembered the vulnerable position he'd seen you in the night before. You knelt down on the ground and started scooping up the broken shells.

"I make you nervous, don't I?" Matt smirked, slowly walking towards you. You innocently looked up at him with a flushed expression and your big, doe eyes. You didn't have to respond for him to know he was right. "Has anyone ever told you how pretty you look on your knees?" Matt cooed quietly, bending down and softly brushing his thumb against your smooth, pink cheek.

You felt your stomach drop as Matt looked into your eyes, caressing your face and saying all the right things to you. "You were such a good girl for me last night," Matt whispered, smiling deviously and running the pad of his thumb along your plump bottom lip.

Suddenly, you heard heavy foot steps descending the stairs, and Matt quickly pulled his hand away as your brother materialized at the bottom of the staircase. Matt started to help you pick up the broken egg shells, but you couldn't will away the pink shade your face took on after Matt had spoken so sweetly to you.

"That's okay. I'll just have cereal for breakfast," your brother rolled his eyes, approaching the pantry after witnessing the mess. "It's my fault," Matt said, winking at you as he stood up, disposing of the eggs shells and rinsing off his hand. You avoided eye contact with them both, cleaning the rest of the egg off the tile.

You appreciated that Matt took the attention off you by taking the blame. You were paranoid that if your brother looked at you for too long that he could see it written on your face that you weren't a virgin anymore.

"You know, why don't we all go out for breakfast?" Matt suggested, smirking over at you once he picked up the nearly empty carton of milk out of the fridge.

જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴

You, Matt, and your brother found yourselves at a nearby local diner with a bit of a 50's vibe to it - classic checkerboard floor, a vintage jukebox, and vinyl pink booths. I Only Have Eyes For You by The Flamingo's played quietly through the speakers as a woman in bright red lipstick and a poodle skirt greeted the three of you and led you towards your table in the back of the empty restaurant.

Both you and your brother sat down across from each other, and Matt made the bold move of taking a seat next to you, earning a curious look from your brother that Matt quickly brushed off.

The waitress poured fresh, hot coffee into each of your ceramic mugs and set off in another direction to give you all a few minutes with your menus.

You decided on French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Matt got the biscuits and gravy combo, and your brother got steak and eggs. Shortly after ordering, the server came back around to top off everyone's coffee.

"So what do you guys like the most about being away at college?" You asked Matt and your brother as you stirred a couple sugars and cream into your mug. "Definitely the fact that our overprotective mother isn't always asking where I'm going," your brother chuckled, taking a sip of coffee.

"How about you, Matt? What do you like the most about college?" You asked, batting your lashes at him. "Probably how loud I can fuck now that I don't live at home with my parents," Matt said, smirking over at you.

"Wow. How inspirational. Maybe tone done the sex talk in front of my little sister, huh?" Your brother snorted, dipping his fingers into his water and flicking it at Matt. Matt did the same in return. You blushed and giggled at their rapport.

"What have you guys missed the most about being home?" You wondered, glancing between the two boys. "I missed Boots the most. We can't keep pets in our dorm rooms," your brother stated, excited to be around the family dog again.

You turned your attention towards the boy to your left to hear his response. "I missed you the most," Matt said in a seductive voice, staring into your eyes, nudging you in the knee with his, and secretly placing his hand on your thigh. You smiled and blushed at him.

"Did you miss me as much as I missed you?" He cooed, gently drawing circles with his fingers just inches from your heat. You bit your lip and nodded. "Hey, Matt. Could you stop hitting on my little sister in front of me?" Your brother asked nonchalantly. "No. Look at how much she likes it," Matt sneered at him, and your brother kicked him under the table.

It was a small price to pay in order to watch how embarrassed and flustered you'd get around him.

It was around this time that the waitress returned with your steaming hot breakfast. The smell of maple syrup and bacon wafted through the air, and you each thanked her as she placed your plates in front of you all. There were a few moments of silence while everyone dug into their meals.

You felt Matt's hand that was resting on the inside of your thigh as he started hiking up your sparkly pink dress and inching towards your pussy. Your eyes widened, and you slowly looked over towards Matt as he casually pulled your panties to the side.

He shot a subtle smirk in your direction as he slipped a finger between your folds, gently stroking up and down and just barely grazing your clit. You bit down on your lip to suppress a whimper. With one hand between your legs and the other gripping his fork, he nodded at your brother while he recounted his least favorite teacher his first semester of his freshman year of college.

"Hopefully, you don't get him next year, sis. Basically had to teach myself trigonometry because he refused to dumb down the information. Pretentious bastard," your brother mumbled under his breath. "Yeah, and he was a real hard-ass for no reason," Matt added, gesturing with his fork while he rubbed your sensitive button underneath the table.

"Just because you never showed up to class doesn't mean every single one of your teachers is a hard-ass, Matt," your brother snarked at him. Matt chuckled at your brother's comment while he inserted a finger into your drooling hole as you were taking a sip of your coffee.

You inhaled sharply, sputtering on your hot drink and nearly spitting it out onto the table. "You good?" Your brother asked you, and you nodded while you placed your mug back down with a trembling hand. "Lay off the coffee. You're shaking," he pointed out before cutting into his steak.

Matt slowly thrust his finger into you while you tried to remain as composed as possible. You loved the feeling of him moving in and out of you while your brother was across from you, unaware of what the two of you were up to on the other side of the booth.

Thankfully, after a few more minutes, your brother excused himself to use the bathroom, and he walked away without paying any mind to what Matt's fingers were doing under the table.

The second he disappeared around the corner, Matt grabbed ahold of your leg and rested it on his knee to open you up further. He spread your lips and stared down at your wet, juicy cunt. "Such a pretty pink pussy you have," Matt admired, hungrily wetting his lips.

He lined two of his fingers up with your entrance and started fucking you hard and fast with them under the table. "If the waitress or your brother start coming this way, be a good girl and let me know. I don't think this will take very long, though," he whispered, seductively smiling at you.

A few strangled moans escaped your lips as you gripped the edge of the table. "Good girl. You're so wet," Matt softly commented as his digits slipped in and out of you with ease. You could feel your stomach dropping, your core tightening, and your whole body quivering as Matt brought you to the quickest climax you'd had in your life.

There was something about the risky factor and the publicity of it all that sent you plummeting over the edge while Matt passionately finger-fucked you.

"That's it. Cum all over my fingers. Come on, sweet thing. I know you can do it," he urged you. His praise sent a current of pleasure through you while you started rhythmically clenching around his digits, your hips bucking as he finished you off.

"Good girl," he lustfully commended you as your jaw fell open and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He pumped in and out, slowing down his pace as your orgasm concluded. A wave of tranquility washed over you, and Matt gave you a mischevious smile as he pulled his fingers from your slick hole that were covered in shiny layer of your juices.

"Mmm," he hummed as he stuck them in his mouth and licked them clean, cherishing your flavor. "I can't get enough of you," he whispered as you pulled your legs shut again, smoothing out your dress, and going back to eating your food as your brother came into view from around the corner on his way back from the bathroom.

You almost couldn't believe you'd let Matt do that to you in such a high-risk situation, but you fucking loved the rush you got from it, and Matt could tell due to how quickly you came.

When your brother returned to the table, you could feel how flushed your face must have looked as your brother's eyes traveled between you and his best friend. Matt couldn't hide the guilty smirk from his face, but he tried to cover it with his hand as he propped his elbow up on the table.

He got a sort of sick satisfaction out of sneaking around with his best friend's little sister right in front of his face. The only problem was that he was too smug and arrogant for his own good, and his God complex would quickly have him falling from good graces if he wasn't careful.

"You guys are acting weird today," he commented, narrowing his gaze. "If one of you did something to my food while I was gone, you're both dead," he laughed, skeptically looking at you and the boy beside you.

"Nah, nothing like that. Don't worry about it," Matt replied in a conceited tone. "If you're playing some kind of prank on me, I'm gonna figure it out, Sturniolo," your brother responded, laughing and pointing at him with his fork.

You sat uncomfortably in your soaking wet panties, silently finishing your coffee, unable to look at either one of them. Your heart was still beating quickly, and you were still trying to subtly call your breath back to you. Luckily, the subject changed, and the boys started talking about something unrelated.

You couldn't bring yourself to add to the conversation, so you listened quietly while you picked at your french toast and eggs, trying to draw as little attention to yourself as possible.

You couldn't keep your eyes off Matt the whole ride home, studying his profile and swooning every time he turned around to wink at you or lick his lips while he peered between your legs. Every silent exchange between the two of you felt like a little secret that only the two of you were privy to.

You liked concealing the sexual nature of your relationship with Matt. As far as everyone else around you knew, he was just your brother's best friend. However, behind closed doors (and under the table in empty diners), he was the manifestation of your fantasies, the embodiment of your wildest wet dream, and the boy who had popped your cherry.

All you could think about was the next time you'd get to be alone with him. Behind his hauntingly beautiful blue eyes, he was wondering the same about you, daydreaming about the next time he could fill you with his cock.

part three here ❣️

taglist: @thepubeburgler @realqueenofpepsi @mattsredgaphoodie @purpledreamertyphoon @moosegirl96 @bsturnzmtts @sturniolo-girl @theyluvme-2315 @jassturn @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @jaysturniolo @sturniolosweetheart33 @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @luvhsien @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @babysturniolo @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx @sturniolocharms @mickelodeon-2003 @sigmarizzler1 @chrislova

[garoujo]

✩ ˛˚ . WAKING UP WITH THEM feat. 𝓙𝓤𝓙𝓤𝓣𝓢𝓤 𝓚𝓐𝓘𝓢𝓔𝓝!

ஜ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ characters: gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, fushiguro megumi + itadori yuuji

warnings! none, fluff ♡ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ note! hi it’s been so long + i just got a sudden urge to write with the new season + all! life has been super cray but hopefully i get to do some more jjk again ueueue! back to my roots <3

✩ ˛˚ . GOJO SATORU

it was almost a mission getting up next to gojo, or more so having to actually get out of bed when you have your overgrown clingy boyfriend wrapped around you.

his breathing is soft, the rise and fall of his chest is steady and despite the way the light barely breaks into the room you can see the way his lashes still rest along his cheeks.

now’s your chance, you think to yourself as you ease gojo’s arm from where he’s got it draped over your waist — gently as to not jolt him awake as you push yourself closer to the edge of the bed. you gently swing your legs over the edge, but just as you go to push yourself up you hear the slow, drowsy drawl of a man who’s definitely not about to let you do that.

“oh, what’s this? i don’t think so, sweet thing.” your snowy haired boyfriend grunts as his arms take their previous place around your waist from behind, tighter this time before you’re pulled back into his chest with such an ease you almost squeak. you barely heard him move and the speed he always seems to despite the early hours still makes your head feel dizzy.

“you wouldn’t leave me cold would you? where’s your heart?” gojo teases but you note that he’s warm when he’s pushing himself into the crook of your neck, letting his lips graze along the skin there as he chuckles at the way you shudder at the touch. he knows you’re pouting, your little mission not so successful—but he still thinks it’s adorable the way you melt back into him regardless.. like you were secretly hoping for the loss.

“you were literally asleep a second ago.” your words are accompanied by a playful pinch at his cheek before his large palms graze under your shirt, squeezing at your waist as he pulls away to give you a tilted look. his sleepy smirk is in place as it stretches wide before he leans into to press a quick kiss against your lips, then another against your cheek that lingers.

“oh yeah? but i thought i was still in a dream, sweet girl.” crystalline eyes pull back to look over you, mapping out your features like gojo hasn’t already committed them to memory. but you think it’s unfair how handsome he seems to look in the mornings, especially when you’re trying to resist the way he makes you want to give in to his request to stay in bed a little longer.

“yeah yeah, just get up already.”

“nuh ugh, you’ve not even given me my good morning kiss yet. how will i survive the day, hm?”

✩ ˛˚ . GETO SUGURU

you need to get up, geto knows when your alarm goes off for the third time even though it was the first that woke him. “i know you’re awake, pretty girl.” he hums against your temple, but you’re still pressed up into him and every attempt to shake you gently awake has you inching yourself closer to his chest rather than to the edge of the bed.

“come on.” his words are accompanied by the smooth trace of his hands along the curve of your spine and you think it’s a little contradictory, the way he’s making you melt even more into him despite the way it’s supposed to be waking you up instead.

“sugu, but i’m tired.” a kiss to your forehead and a squeeze of his hand at your hips and you hear geto chuckle as he pulls back to look at you — his dark hair still messily framing his features as he pushes himself up.

“yeah? you seemed to be sleeping well when you were snoring.” he teases even as one arm still wraps around you and pulls you into him anyway. chuckling, long and low when you grumble before nuzzling into the crook of his neck to press butterfly kisses along his skin.

“i don’t snore.” you reply before you find yourself lost in him, geto always smelled good, so good you wanted to wrap yourself in him like the blanket you wrap yourself in at night. you hear him hum at your words; like he’s not quite convinced before he’s reaching over you to tap at the alarm, again.

“but we really need to get up.” he sighs but somehow manages to keep you still pressed against him as he sits up, letting you curl up against his chest as the first cold press of morning air rolls over your shoulders while he stretches.

you look up at him with drowsy features but it seems to warm you from the inside out when you notice he’s already staring, a smirk in place before he’s pinching once at your cheek and kissing your lips when they jut out into a pout.

“hey, don’t gimme that look after all of those alarms, pretty girl.”

✩ ˛˚ . NANAMI KENTO

waking up with nanami was easy, or more so being woken up by him. he was always up early, waking you up with a sweet kiss against your cheek, followed by another against your temple. his coffee still lingers on his lips but you think it’s familiar, like it makes the first stretch of the day come a little easier when hes resting over you.

“morning, sweetheart.” his voice is a low drawl but he knows you’ll probably still be in bed by the time he leaves. but you know you’ll walk into the kitchen to sliced fruit on the table and your slippers will be waiting in their place over the edge — perfectly positioned for you to slide into because he knows the floor is a little colder in the morning.

“morning, kento.” your voice is cute, barely audible but nanami’s still close enough to hear it as he lets his palm push gently down the curve of your shoulder — squeezing at the skin affectionately. your eyes are barely open, but you can still feel the way he tucks the comforter over you, sighing softly before he pulls back.

“do you want me to bring in dinner?” he asks, you’re barely awake but he still waits for an answer. a little nod follows and he smiles to himself when you subconsciously roll onto his side of the bed, seeking out the small remainder of the warmth he’d left behind although you’d still rather he be next to you instead.

“then i won’t be late, i have dinner plans now after all.” nanami pulls back to take another sip of his coffee but you still seem to find the consciousness to reach out to grab at the cuff of his shirt. a drowsy blink up at him and he knows he can’t deny you when he’s leaning over you again, leaving you with another few kisses that find him having to smooth down his shirt and hair again afterwards.

✩ ˛˚ . FUSHIGURO MEGUMI

you think it’s charming, the way megumi is already looking at you as you wake, blinking blearily at your dark haired boyfriend as he gives you a content sort of look. you blink again, stretching slightly before you roll onto your side, edging yourself closer before you speak. “were you watching me sleep?”

your question is still drawled as you tease him, barely awake but you can still see the way it makes him jolt slightly — like he’s been caught in a daze as the tips of his ears sting with a blush. “no” but his reply is too quick, followed by a tsk while he’s suddenly looking everywhere but at you with a pout on his lips that only seems to lure you closer.

you giggle as you press yourself into megumi’s side, humming at the grumpy expression on his face because you still think it’s cute the way he lets you climb all over him. “what? i think it’s cute.” he softens at that, slightly as his eyes dart quickly to look at you before they’re gone again.

you let the silence settle for a few moments before you feel his arm reach to wrap gently around your waist, securing you against him before he clears his throat to finally say something. but his gaze remains on the ceiling. “i wasn’t staring..” he begins before he gives you another quick look, “.. you, you just made a sound, i was checking on you.”

you hum at megumi’s little excuse as your press your cheek into his shoulder, failing to hide the way your lips are starting to stretch into a grin that he notices before his brows furrow slightly. “hm? you looked happy about it.” you tease again and you feel his fingers squeeze at your waist slightly as he breathes out a long sigh and curls you closer.

“shutup.”

✩ ˛˚ . ITADORI YUUJI

on the rare occasions itadori seemed to wake up before you, you were never far behind — mostly because he couldn’t seem to wait too long without you. so you always seemed to find yourself woken up by a few messy kisses, pressed quickly into your cheeks, then your neck, then your nose until you’re pushing him away playfully at the way they tickle your skin.

“yuuji! i’m awake..” you huff out as your overgrown boyfriend leans his weight over you, like a giant puppy licking his owner awake in the morning as he sends you a bright grin. you always thought it was cute how pretty he still seemed to be in the mornings, even when his hair is messy and it’s barely 8am— there’s still a soft sort of glow in his eyes when they meet yours.

“morning!” itadori replies, his voice is lower than normal but he still handles you softly despite how tightly he wants to wrap you in his arms. but he was warm, sort of like sunshine and you think you quite enjoy the moments when you get to wake up under the sun.

“do you wanna get breakfast?” you ask softly and you swear you feel your boyfriend squeeze you tighter at that. but your arms wrap around him and he doesn’t think anything is gonna be as good as the feeling of you against his chest right now.

“five more minutes, babe. i wanna cuddle a little longer.” itadori’s words are muffled when he speaks them into your skin, continuing where he left off on his onslaught of kisses as he peppers them across your features. across your cheeks, along your jawline and down your neck until he’s pressing you into your pillows and groaning when you scratch your fingers through his hair.

but you accept, even though in five more minutes you know it’ll be ten.

© 2023 GAROUJO. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.

[dimonds456]

Hope you feel better soon ♥️♥️

(I think this is in relation to the dreams post?)

Thanks. I'm good now, that was just a weeeeeird experience. Like, you know how nightmares can actually wake you up sometimes? It was like that, except I think it was pure anxiety that woke me up. Once I proved to myself that the dream didn't actually happen, I was able to calm back down. I'm good now ^^;

[cl0udy3]

𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐄

loser!ellie williams x fem!reader mostly smut cw: phone sex, dirty talk, uhmmm some other stuff that is nsfw idk the terms wc: 2030 a/n: honestly just needed to get this out of my system i have so much more to write but im so busy with class i hate everyhting (reader is purple, ellie is pink) requested backstory blurb: ✮

Ellie’s already halfway there. Sweats pushed low, tank top twisted, cheeks flushed, and her free hand tangled in her sheets. Her other one’s still between her legs, slow and desperate, like dragging herself through molasses.

She shouldn’t call. She knows she shouldn’t. But she does.

The phone rings twice before you pick up, cheerful as ever.

“Hey, Els! What's up?”

Ellie exhales hard, squeezing her eyes shut like it’ll help. Your voice alone makes her twitch.

“Nothing’, just… wanted to hear you.” “Aww. That’s cute.”

Your voice is warm, light. You don’t suspect a thing. She doesn’t deserve you. She also doesn’t care, not right now at least.

“So anyway—I had the weirdest dream last night. You were in it actually.”

Ellie bites down on her knuckle to keep from groaning aloud.

“We were in, like, this giant-ass mall that turned into a water park halfway through. You  were riding this inflatable duck down a slide, but then you were like, “we have to go steal F1 cars,” and we broke into this underground showroom and—are you laughing?”

Ellie is laughing. Sort of. More like exhaling sharply through clenched teeth while her fingers circle her clit, slow and hot.

“No–uh—I’m just… listening.”

“Anyways. When I woke up I was like, ‘why would Ellie be on a duck floatie?’ Like, you’re so serious all the time. It was funny.”

She swears she’s gonna lose it.

“Keep going,” she mumbles, voice low and strained. “Okay! So, I also went to the mall today—I got a couple new bras and some underwear. They had those lace ones again, you know? Like the ones I wore last week that I told you—about the ones that ride up a little? Yeah, I got those in… I think yellow, red, pink, black, white, and navy if I remember correctly.”

Ellie’s hips twitch. She actually whimpers.

“Ellie? You good?” “Mhm. Perfect. Just… keep talking.” “So then I found these pajamas that are like—so soft, you have no idea. They’re like buttery or something. I wish you could feel them. I might wear them tomorrow, or maybe the new tank I got—oh! It’s like, super cropped. Kinda short, shows off my belly a bit. Might be too cold for it though…”

She’s gonna die. She’s gonna die on the phone to the sound of your voice, talking about stupid pajamas and bras and Ellie is soaking through her boxers like a goddamn teenager.

Ellie is gripping the phone like a lifeline, thighs twitching, stomach tensing, barely holding back the pathetic little noises threatening to slip out. Her fingers move slow, teasing herself, dragging out the ache because she wants this to last—wants to keep hearing you talk like you aren’t killing her.

You keep talking, your voice bright and animated, and Ellie can hear the click of your nails on the phone and the rustle of your bed as you shift under the covers. She imagines you twirling the cord around your finger as you continue, completely unaware of what you’re doing to her.

“Ellie?”

Her breath stutters. Too loud. That one was too loud.

“You good? You sound kinda—out of breath?”

She clenches her jaw, forcing herself to breath normal, but it’s so fucking hard when you’re still going—still talking—filling her ear with your voice, saying the stupidest things but somehow making it sound filthy.

“M’fine,” she rasps, swallowing thick. “Just—keep talking.”

She hears you huff a little laugh, clueless, completely unaware that Ellie’s got two fingers deep inside herself, biting her lip so hard it hurts.

“Okay, okay! Bossy much?”

Ellie’s eyes flutter shut.

“So anyways—I also got these new jeans. They fit so good, like all snug on my ass, but I don’t know if I wanna wear them yet because they’re kinda stuff, y’know? Maybe I should break them in first. Oh! And I also found this old band tee in a thrift shop, but it’s kinda thin so my bra shows through. Is that cute or is it too much?”

Ellie barely hears the question. She’s too busy pressing her palm down, fingers curling, breath hitching hard.

She lets out a sharp, uncontrolled sigh.

You go quiet.

“Ellie?”

She freezes. 

“Are you okay?”

She almost drops the phone.

Her brain short-circuits. Her body is screaming. She’s too close, too fucking close—she needs to finish but she also needs to not get caught.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, just—tired.” “You sure?”

Ellie wants to die.

“Mhm.” “...You sound weird.”

She forces out a laugh. Too forced.

“Nah, dude, I’m good. Just—keep going.” “Mmm… I don’t know… Something’s off with you.”

Her stomach twists.

“Are you—” You pause. “...Are you sick?”

Ellie wheezes. 

Jesus Christ.

She’s getting off to the sound of your voice and you’re over there wondering if she’s running a fever.

She’s never been more embarrassed in her life. 

At this point, she was fucked. LIke, really fucked.

Like, halfway to an orgasm and you think she’s got the flu kind of fucked.

“Sick?” Ellie croaks, trying to force herself back to normal, but her voice is wrecked, all strained and breathless and—fuck, fuck, fuck. “Nah, man, I’m—I’m fine.” “Are you sure?”

You sounded genuinely concerned.

Ellie could throw herself into a wall.

She’s got two fingers deep inside herself, hand shaking, stomach tight, so fucking close, and here you are, probably pouting, thinking she’s got a sore throat or something.

“Mhm,” she grits out, forcing her voice even. “Totally fine. Just—keep talking.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Ellie’s heart fucking stops.

“...Ellie.”

Oh, god.

“Are you—” You stop. Then, slowly: “...What are you doing?”

Her whole body seizes.

Her fingers go still.

Heat crawls up her neck, floods her face, sets her whole fucking body on fire.

She should hang up. Throw her phone across the room. Lie and say she fell asleep. Something. Anything.

But she doesn’t.

Because she’s a fucking idiot.

“N—Nothing,” she stammers. Too fast. Too guilty.

And you? You know. She can hear it in your silence.

“Ellie,” you say again, softer this time.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Curls in on herself. Feels her stomach tighten because fuck, even just hearing you say her name like that—

“Are you—” You exhale, slow. “Are you touching yourself?”

Ellie chokes. Actually fucking chokes. 

Her hand jerks away so fast she nearly pulls something.

“What? No—no, dude, I—” She cuts herself off, dragging a hand down her face.

Her body is screaming. Her thighs are still shaking. Her fingers are soaked.

She’s so screwed.

“Ellie.”

Your voice is different now. Not teasing. Not laughing. Just—curious. Maybe even interested.

Ellie swallows hard.

“Keep going.”

Her brain stalls and for a moment she thinks she might’ve imagined it.

“What?” “I–I said… keep going.”

Silence.

Not from you—you’re breathing shallow and steady, like you’re waiting for her to say something. But Ellie’s mind goes blank. Everything in her short-circuiting. She’s half-sure she died and this is purgatory—somewhere between heaven and hell, wrapped in your voice.

Her heart stutters.

“You—” She swallows, throat bone-dry. “You’re serious?” “I mean…” You hesitate. A breath. “You already started, right?”

Ellie exhales hard through her nose, dragging her palm across her mouth. She’s stunned. Embarrassed. But also? Incredibly turned on.

“You’re gonna kill me,” she mutters, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “Not if I get there first.”

The line goes quiet again.

Ellie’s fingers drift back down, slower this time, like testing the waters again. She’s still soaked. Still aching. And now she knows you’re there with her, listening.

“Okay,” she says, voice low. “But if I die, it’s on you.” “Deal.”

Her hand slips under the waistband of her boxers, breath hitching as she touches herself again—slow and deliberate now, no longer hiding. The sound of your breathing crackling through the line only pushes her further.

“Still wearing those stupid pajamas?” she asks, voice rough around the edges. “Mhm. The soft ones.”

Ellie’s eyes flutter shut. She bites her lip.

“And nothing underneath?” “...Wouldn’t you like to know.” “C’mon.” Her voice dips slightly lower. “Humor me.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, and the way it curls through the phone makes Ellie clench around her fingers.

“Fine,” you say. “Just the top. No bra. No panties.”

Ellie groans. She can’t help it this time. It spills out of her like a secret, ragged and real.

“Fuck. You’re evil.” “You started it.”

She pumps her fingers slowly, building the pressure again, letting your voice carry her right to the edge.

“You’re gonna tell me exactly what you’re doing, Els.”

Ellie shivers.

“Yeah?” she murmurs. “You wanna hear all of it?” “Every single second.”

Her breath shakes as her hips roll forward, chasing the friction.

“Okay,” she says, teeth sinking into her lip. “I’m… on my back. Legs spread. Fingering myself to your voice. Thinking about those lace panties. The yellow ones. How they’d look on you.”

You inhale sharply on the other end. 

“Ellie—” “Yeah?” “I’m—” You falter for a second. “I’m touching myself too.”

Ellie’s whole body jolts, like you flipped a switch in her spine.

“Jesus christ,” she whispers.

Her pace picks up—slippery, hot, the pressure unbearable now. She imagines your hand between her legs, the rise and fall of your chest, your lips parted just barely as you bite back the same kind of sounds she’s making.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” she gasps. “You,” you say instantly. “Your mouth. Your hands. The way you talk when you’re all worked up.”

Ellie moans into the receiver, low and shaky.

You hesitate—but only for a second. Your breath hitches, just loud enough for Ellie to hear it.

“The way you’d take your time with me,” you murmur. “Like I’m something to savor.”

Ellie’s eyes flutter shut. Her fingers move faster, wetter now, her other hand fisting the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered.

“Fuck,” she groans, jaw tight. “Keep talking. Please.” “I think about your hands on my thighs,” you whisper. “How rough they’d feel, how careful you’d be at first—until you’re not. Until you can’t help yourself.”

Ellie whimpers—actually whimpers—like the image is too much, like it sinks right into her chest and burns through her ribs.

“I’d be so wet for you,” you go on, voice shaking now. “Like I am right now. I’d let you taste me, let you take your time, until I’m begging—until I can’t even remember my name.”

Ellie’s breathing stutters. She’s so close her vision’s going white around the edges.

“You sound so good,” she rasps. “Wish I could hear you in person—wish I could see you.”

You moan, soft and desperate.

“I’m close, Els.” “Me too,” she chokes. “Fuck, keep going—please—don’t stop.” “Want you inside me,” you whisper, needy and ruined. “Want you to fuck me until I can’t think straight—want your fingers, your mouth, anything—everything—I’d take it all.”

Ellie comes hard.

Her whole body locks up, pleasure slicing through her like a live wire. Her legs tremble, her back arches, and she cries out your name into the phone, breathless and broken and absolutely gone.

And then she hears you—your own orgasm chasing hers, your voice all soft gasps and hitched breaths and her name falling from your lips like a prayer.

It’s silent after.

Just the sound of your breathing. Hers. The static warmth of the phone line connecting you both like some fragile, invisible thread.

Ellie laughs quietly, hoarse and giddy.

“That was…” she starts, then lets it trail off, too dazed to even finish the thought. “Yeah,” you say, just as breathless. “That was.”

A pause.

“Hey, Els?” “Yeah?” “Next time you call me like that…” A smile in your voice. “Don’t wait so long to tell me what you want.”

Ellie grins, cheeks still flushed, heart still racing.

“Next time,” she promises. “You’re picking up in person.”

lalala pls enjoy i love all of you

[angelsuecult]

perfect places | s. crosby

warnings: none? maybe some language

summary: Sidney ends up helping you through the overwhelming world that is hockey gear what was once a shopping trip for your daughter leaves you with something more.

request: Would you be able to write a Sidney Crosby x mom!reader story? Like how she has a kid that maybe is on a little league hockey team and the Penguins go to like a practice or something to help out. Or maybe she out shopping for hockey gear for her kid because they want to do hockey and need the gear? She could maybe looking at equipment and looks a little lost and her comes over and helps.

word count: 9.3k

a/n: back with another for you guys! i hope you enjoy it and once again original requester please don't hesitate to reach out if you hate it or anything! requests remain open and i'm hoping to get a few more out this week!

—

You woke up to tiny feet climbing onto your bed. Not just climbing—launching, full-body flopping, elbow-first into your ribs like it was a wrestling match and she had a score to settle. You’d meant to wake up before her today, but apparently five-year-olds don’t care about alarms, or bones, or sleep-deprived parents.

“Mom,” she whispered, even though she was nose-to-nose with you. “Mommy. You awake?”

“I am now,” you groaned, half-laughing as you peeled one eye open. Her little curls were wild and pointing in five directions, cheeks flushed from sleep, a faint pillow line creasing one of them. She looked like a cartoon character and an angel at the same time.

“I had a dream I scored five goals.”

You blinked at her. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup. And they gave me a trophy and then—then everyone chanted my name. And guess what?”

“What?”

“They were chanting ‘the pink rocket.’”

You blinked again, slower this time. “The pink rocket?”

She nodded, dead serious. “That’s my hockey name.”

“Well,” you said, shifting to sit up and gather her into your lap, “I don’t know how many pink things they make for hockey but I guess we’re about to find out, huh?”

She gasped. “You’re going today? To get my stuff?”

You kissed her cheek, already halfway dragging both of you out from under the covers. “Yup. After I drop you off. I’ll go right after.”

She cheered and clapped, and then ran full-speed out of the bedroom with a yell of, “I gotta find my pink water bottle! I need it if I’m gonna be a rocket!”

Your apartment was small but cozy, lived-in. Art made of crayon and washable markers adorned the fridge, and a pair of tiny sneakers were tucked sideways by the door no matter how many times you straightened them. You got her dressed while she told you all about what a good hockey player does—“they skate fast and they don’t fall unless they do it on purpose”—and you helped tame her curls into two pigtails.

The morning ended up a mess of cereal crumbs, mismatched socks, and one very determined five-year-old girl who had insisted on packing her own backpack. You didn’t have the heart to repack it after she proudly zipped it up and hugged it to her chest like a treasure chest full of secrets—though you’d caught a glimpse of a doll leg, a half-used glue stick, and what looked suspiciously like the lid to your coffee thermos.

The car ride to school was full of questions you only half-knew how to answer.

“Do you think I’ll need a helmet? What if it has a visor like the cool ones? Can I pick pink tape for the stick? Do you know how to tie skates? Do you think I’ll be able to do the spinny move like the girl in the video?”

You answered what you could. 

Once you parked outside her school, she kicked her feet impatiently in the backseat while you unbuckled her. The air still had that early fall bite to it—sunny but not warm, brisk enough that you zipped your jacket up halfway as you lifted her from her booster seat. She was a little ball of energy this morning, bouncing as her sneakers hit the sidewalk, her little hand grabbing yours like always, sticky from syrup and too-warm from excitement.

“Okay, let’s go, let’s go,” she said, hopping down. You held her hand all the way up the sidewalk, her backpack bouncing behind her.

At the doors, she turned to you suddenly, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Don’t forget my hockey stuff!”

You cupped her cheeks. “I won’t, baby. I’m going straight to the store after this, I promise.”

Her whole face lit up like you'd just told her she could have candy for dinner. “You’re gonna go right now?”

“Mm-hmm. As soon as you go inside.”

“Look for pink things!” she reminded you. “Pink helmet. Pink gloves. And if they don’t have pink, purple is okay. So you can see me when I skate. ‘S important”

“Pink. Purple. Got it. Anything else?”

She thought hard. “Something that makes me go zoom.”

You smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You bent down and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her nose, and she giggled so hard she snorted. Then she hugged you like she always did—tight and with her whole tiny body, fists balled in your jacket.

“Bye, Mommy. Love you big like the whole sky.”

Your chest ached in that soft, warm way. “I love you even bigger lovebug.”

She let go and ran into her classroom, waving once over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd of other small kids with big dreams.

You were about to turn when a familiar voice called, “Morning!”

You looked up to see Miss Lillian, the teacher’s aide, walking toward you. She was in her usual bright-colored sweater and skirt combo, clipboard in hand, warm eyes squinting in the sunlight.

“Hey, good morning,” you said, smiling.

“I just had to catch you,” she said, pausing at your side. “Your daughter has not stopped talking about hockey since yesterday. I think we’ve heard every version of her ‘pink rocket’ speech. Twice.”

You groaned playfully. “Oh no. She’s gotten to you too.”

“Oh, it’s adorable,” Lillian laughed. “She told Mr. Peters that she’s gonna be the best skater—even though she’s never been on the ice. She said it with her chest. Like a tiny little boss.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, she’s got that confidence thing down.”

“I wish I had half of it. But really—she’s just so excited. It’s really sweet to see. And you know,” Lillian nudged your arm gently, “not every parent supports that kind of dream. It’s amazing that you’re doing this with her.”

That made you pause.

“I mean… I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted. “I’ve never even watched a full game of hockey. But she lit up when she saw those kids playing on the street. Then she tried it herself and came home covered in bruises but still smiling. And then she said ice hockey would be safer,” you added, rolling your eyes, “which I’m pretty sure is a lie.”

Lillian laughed. “That’s some logic, huh?”

“I guess I figured, if it makes her this happy…” You trailed off. “Well, we’ll try it. If it’s not for her, we’ll sell the gear or donate it.”

“I think you’re doing great,” Lillian said. “She talks about you all the time, by the way. Always telling the class how her mom can do anything. That you’re like a superhero.”

That gave you pause in a way nothing else had.

You cleared your throat and smiled. “Well. Don’t tell her I can’t tie skates.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

The two of you said goodbye, and you headed back to your car, heart fuller than it had been twenty minutes ago. The day was just starting, and already you felt like you’d run an emotional marathon. Now, you just had to survive your trip to the hockey store without looking like a complete idiot.

You climbed into the car and started the engine, your mental list already forming—helmet, stick, gloves... was there padding? Skates, obviously. Was there a difference between practice gear and game gear? Did five-year-olds even have games?

After drop-off and a fresh wave of mom-guilt turned motivation, you sat in the driver’s seat of your SUV and Googled: hockey gear for five-year-old Pittsburgh. You stared at the results, rubbed your forehead, and tapped the one that had the most stars and looked the least intimidating.

It was barely 9 a.m. when you pulled into the outdoor shopping complex, the kind of place with cobblestone walkways, faux streetlamps, and fountains that tried to make you forget you were in a strip mall. It was a little too early for it to be crowded yet, and the parking lot was mostly empty except for a few other weekday wanderers—retirees, moms with strollers, maybe someone ducking out of work. When you pulled in, wedging yourself between a massive black pickup truck and what looked like a teenage boy’s first car—dented, bumper stickered, windows covered in sports decals. 

You killed the engine and sat back for a second, staring out the windshield like maybe someone was going to pop out and tell you exactly what kind of skates you needed to buy for a five-year-old who claimed her destiny was to be the pink rocket.

But no one came. Just the pigeons. One strutted past the front of your car like he owned the place.

You stepped out into the cool morning air, shouldered your bag, and told yourself: You’ve done scarier things. Like kindergarten registration. And that one ER visit when she swallowed a Barbie shoe.

Pretzel first.

The pretzel stand was exactly where you remembered it, sandwiched between the upscale candle store and a clothing store that made too-expensive clothes. You ordered a hot soft pretzel with extra salt and a small lemonade, then stood off to the side of the kiosk while you ate, people-watching like it was a competitive sport.

Then you wandered for a bit, peeking into a few small shops near the entrance. A kids’ boutique caught your eye—wall-to-wall sports-themed onesies and toddler sweatpants. You picked up a pair of fuzzy black-and-gold leggings with tiny hockey sticks on them and held them up to your chest with a grin.

“She’d love these,” you murmured aloud, imagining her in them with her pink boots and that crooked little smile she gave when she felt cute.

You took your time. That was part of the luxury of the day: no schedule, no appointments, no other human being asking you to wipe something sticky. Just this.

“Okay,” you said out loud as you stepped back onto the walkway and stared down the main stretch of stores. “Let’s do this.”

The gear shop was tucked at the end of the row, right before a smoothie place. It didn’t look intimidating from the outside—just a wide front with a logo in clean, white lettering. But the second you stepped inside, it was clear: this place meant business.

You gave yourself a pep talk as you zipped your jacket higher. You’re a mom. You birthed a whole child. You’ve survived teething. You can survive shopping for hockey gear.

It was big. Bigger than you expected. Ceiling fans turned slowly above rows of merchandise. Hockey sticks were stacked upright like rows of bamboo, lining one side of the shop. Helmets, skates, and pads were displayed like military gear. You let your eyes drift over the walls, which were covered in team memorabilia. Penguins jerseys in every variation, from current players to legends. You recognized Crosby’s #87 and Malkin’s #71 without even needing to check the names. Your kid had already pointed them out on YouTube clips. There was a whole display in the corner dedicated to Mario Lemieux, complete with a signed photo and a stick in a glass case.

You made a noise in your throat. “Okay… wow.”

There were two adults behind the front counter, both looking mid-thirties—one was chatting with the other, who was scrolling something on a tablet. Nearby, two teenagers stood kind of awkwardly by a wall of gloves and elbow pads, looking like they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves.

First, you took a lap around the store. Not straight to the gear. That felt too overwhelming. Instead, you let yourself drift through the aisles, fingers brushing along soft sweatshirts and team scarves, scanning everything slowly. A few shoppers milled around, mostly adults—probably parents or weekend league players. A couple of them wore Penguins jackets like they were uniforms, heads down, hyper-focused.

You wandered through the adult section, noting sizes and prices, grateful you weren’t here for full pads or whatever gear adult men needed. Some of the gloves looked like medieval armor.

You passed the stick wall—intimidating and enormous—and casually avoided the skates. Not yet. Not today. You weren’t emotionally stable enough for that.

Okay. Helmet, skates, pads... stick. Gloves? Socks? What the hell do kids wear under this stuff? Pink. Sparkly. Maybe a bag? Definitely a water bottle? Did kids her age even wear mouthguards?

Eventually, you made your way to the kids’ section, tucked just beyond the display of goalie masks. You stopped short when you saw it.

Little jerseys. So many of them.

Little shirts, toddler-sized jerseys, beanies so small they could fit a doll. You stopped and ran your fingers over one of the sweatshirts on a low rack—it was gray with a soft fleece lining and a Penguins logo in a bubbly font across the front. You thumbed through them slowly, smiling to yourself as you passed Crosby, Malkin, Rust. And then—

“Oh my god,” you whispered, pulling out a Letang #58.

Your daughter had randomly pointed to Letang’s photo once and declared him her favorite because “his hair is like a princess.” The jersey was youth small. A little big, maybe, but she could grow into it.

You added it to your arm. Then picked up a black Penguins t-shirt with a glittery logo. Then a matching beanie, soft and warm and clearly made for kids who’d lose it within a week. She’d probably lose it too. You’d buy another. That was the cycle.

You stood there, your arm full of black and gold and fleece and tiny dreams, and just… took a breath.

You could picture her wearing this stuff. Picture her squealing when she saw it. Picture her running around the apartment pretending to be “the pink rocket,” yelling “GOAL!” at full volume and slapping invisible high-fives.

With the clothes over your arm you wandered deeper into the section, avoiding the gear wall for now. You weren't ready for shin guards and blade sizes. Not yet. First, let your brain ease into it. Maybe find something pink. Maybe a miracle.

A teenager behind you coughed into his elbow and said—loud enough to clearly be meant for your ears—“Uh, the youth sticks are along that back wall… if you need help with sizes or anything.”

You turned slightly, caught off guard, and smiled. “Thanks.”

He nodded like he’d done his part and resumed awkwardly re-aligning a row of mouthguards.

You wandered back toward the front counter. The older man looked up and offered a quick nod as you approached. “You find everything okay?”

You gave him a sheepish little smile. “Sort of. I was wondering if someone could help me with... the actual gear part?” You adjusted your grip on the sweatshirt and jersey. “My daughter’s attempting to start playing hockey. She’s five. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

That got a chuckle out of the person beside him. “We get that a lot,” she said, friendly enough. “You’re gonna want to check out the back left corner—youth gear section. We’ve got starter kits, different levels, and some sizing charts posted on the wall. One of the kids can help you if you need it.”

You glanced over your shoulder toward the two teenagers. One of them now had a helmet on sideways and was quoting something that sounded like a bad sports movie. You turned back. “Cool. I’ll... go take a look first.”

“Yell if you need us,” the man added, already turning back to the computer in front of him.

So you headed toward the corner of the store they’d mentioned.

And when you got there...

You stared.

Oh god.

It was just... a wall of black and white. Rows of identical looking gear—tiny shoulder pads that looked like robot armor, pants with layers of foam and plastic, shelves stacked with helmets that all looked vaguely like something you’d see in a futuristic prison. Not a speck of pink or sparkle in sight. Not even a pop of color.

Where were the pink things?

You hovered by the start of the wall for a moment, scanning everything. It felt a bit like wandering into an IKEA when you only needed batteries. You were overwhelmed already, and you hadn’t even touched a stick yet.

You picked up one of the smallest helmets, turning it over in your hands. Inside it was lined with foam, and there were sizing stickers all around the rim. You read one out loud under your breath. “Youth small. Fits 19 to 20.25 inches... okay.”

You had no idea what your daughter’s head circumference was.

You set it back down. Picked up a different one. Looked almost identical. Set it back down.

There were starter kits in bags, sure—some marked. You couldn’t remember what brand your friend had told you to look for when your daughter first brought up the idea of playing hockey. Something with an animal name? Maybe a bird? 

You spent the next twenty minutes slowly picking up items, flipping them over, putting them down, walking in small circles around the same display. At some point you realized you’d been holding a single elbow pad for five full minutes, just sort of rubbing your thumb over the seam like it would give you answers.

You picked things up, tried to guess sizes based on your daughter’s height and width (which wasn’t much of either), and gently put things back down when you realized you had no clue what the difference was between “youth small” and “toddler medium.” Every few minutes, you’d pull out your phone to look something up—How tight should youth hockey skates fit? What’s a cage versus a shield?—but the answers just made you more confused.

You found a pair of pink laces and held them like a victory trophy. One point for Mom.

You were squatting awkwardly by the gloves, holding one up to your own hand and trying to eyeball it, when someone walked past you and reached for a goalie mask off the rack above.

It took you a second to register how silly that was.

Because he was, like... a full-grown man. And that was a tiny-ass goalie mask.

You blinked, looked down at the mask in his hands, then back at him.

You turned your head slightly, curiosity piqued, and said without much thought, “I don’t know that that’ll fit you... but I’m definitely not an expert.”

The man turned, just a little, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His voice was low, a little gravelly but warm. “Not for me. One of my teammate’s kids. I’m just the delivery guy today.”

“Ah,” you nodded, feeling your cheeks go warm. “I figured. Unless you were shrinking, and no one told us.”

He chuckled, glancing down at the tiny mask again. “Not yet, but never say never.���

He glanced at the gloves in your hand. “You doing gear shopping too?”

You nodded, eyes scanning the mask in his hand before flicking back to him. “Yeah. Trying. I’ve been here almost an hour and all I’ve really figured out is that everything is black and white and confusing as hell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It’s a lot when you’re just starting.”

You smiled, shifting the items in your arms, the jersey slipping and nearly falling. You caught it against your side.

He nodded toward it. “Good choice. That’s a popular one.”

You looked at the name again. “Yeah? Honestly, I heard her mention him once and it was because she liked his hair, so.”

He smiled again—this time with something a little more amused behind it. “Well, you’re in Pittsburgh, so yeah. Letang’s kind of a big deal. And he’s got great hair,” then offered his hand. “Sid, by the way.”

You reached out to shake his hand, your brain stuttering for half a second. Sid. Sid. Unassuming dark blue tee with faded black jeans. Penguins cap. Goalie mask for a teammate’s kid.

Wait a second.

“I’m... Y/N,” you said, still shaking his hand.

His smile lingered, and there was a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of recognition in your eyes as the dots started connecting.

You didn’t say anything though. You didn’t blurt it out or ask for a picture or grill him with questions.

You just smiled.

“Well,” you said softly, “If you have any rookie shopping tips, I’m all ears. Because right now, I think I’m buying two left gloves and possibly an elbow pad meant for a squirrel.”

Sid chuckled, stepping a little closer, a comfortable distance, easy and unpressured. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got so far,” eyeing the pile in your arms like it was an unsolvable riddle, “why don’t we start from the top—literally. Helmet, shoulder pads, gloves, all that. Then work our way down.”

You shifted your items to one arm, then gave him a helpless glance. “Lead the way, Captain.”

That earned you another one of his quiet laughs. You followed him a few steps to the wall lined with youth helmets, most of them black, though a couple had red or blue detailing. The sizes were printed along the shelf edge—Youth Small, Youth Medium—and behind each, a row of boxed helmets waiting for homes.

“She’s how old?” he asked, already crouching to one of the lower shelves.

“Just turned five in March. She’s about... say, three-foot-eight? Thirty-eight pounds. She’s got this mess of curly hair, so the helmet can’t be too tight. But also—safety.”

He chuckled, glancing up at you. “Right, no decapitations. Got it.”

You snorted. “I’d like to keep her head attached, yeah.”

Sid picked up a small helmet and turned it over in his hands, fingers checking the inside padding. He handed it to you. “This one’s a good brand. Solid protection. Comes with the cage too, which is what she’ll need. Some of them don’t, so make sure it’s included if you go with a different one.”

You nodded slowly, already overwhelmed again. “Okay, yeah, that looks... safe?”

He grinned. “Very safe. Want to write it down?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You know,” he said, standing up and dusting his palms off like this was an outdoor project. “In your notes app. Like an old person. ‘One helmet, small, comes with cage.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Are you always this charming, or is it just for flustered moms trying to buy sports gear?”

“Flustered moms are my specialty,” he said dryly, but his smile gave him away.

Still, you pulled out your phone and opened the notes app, muttering under your breath. “Helmet, small, with a cage, don’t let Sid pick on you.”

He leaned over, trying to peek at your screen. “Did you really just write that?”

You snapped the phone shut. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You moved on together, stopping at the shoulder pads next. He pulled a small pair off the rack and held it up in front of you.

“These’ll probably fit,” he said. “She’s little, but these are adjustable. You want the shoulder cups to line up obviously, but the important part is the chest plate—it should sit flat, not hanging off her.”

You nodded slowly, inspecting the pads like they were alien technology.

“And this is—what? For... falling?”

“Contact,” he said, grinning. “And yeah, falling too. Shoulder bumps, accidental checks. It keeps her chest protected if she takes a puck or a stick. Not that five-year-olds are slinging clappers yet.”

You blinked. “Slinging what now?”

He clarified. “Slapshots.”

You stared.

“Hard shots,” he clarified.

“Oh. See, you should just say that,” you said, squinting at the pads. “Why does everything in this sport sound like a 1950s insult?”

He laughed—this one louder than the others, deep and honest—and you found yourself smiling just from the sound of it.

“Okay, what’s next, smartass?” you asked.

He guided you through gloves next, letting you try a pair on so you could get a feel for the stiffness. “New ones are tough to move in,” he explained, “but they’ll break in after a few practices. You want her fingers to reach the tips, not swimming in there. And if you’re stuck between two sizes, go up. You can’t grow into small gear.”

You made another note in your phone and then paused. “Is this the part where I have to pick a stick?”

Sid turned to the bin of youth sticks and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s the fun one.”

“Oh god.”

“No pressure,” he said. “It’s only the most important part.”

You gave him a look. “Really?”

He grinned. “No. Kind of. Sort of. But not at five.”

You sighed dramatically. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He stepped up beside you as you both peered down into the barrel of sticks, most of them barely reaching your waist.

“Does she shoot left or right?”

You frowned. “She writes with her right hand, brushes her teeth with it. But she kicks soccer balls with her left foot sometimes. Does that help?”

He winced. “Only a little.”

You watched him pick up one, then two different sticks, holding them out and comparing them against each other like a bartender choosing between bottles of wine.

“This one’s left,” he said, handing it to you. “More kids start left, even if they’re right-handed. It’s weird.”

You turned the stick over, testing the grip.

“Let her try both when you get home,” he added. “Don’t cut it until you know which one she prefers.”

“Cut it?”

He nodded. “You’ll probably need to trim a few inches. It should hit between her chin and nose when she’s in skates. Too long and she won’t be able to handle it.”

Your head was spinning again. “I’m writing that down.”

“Good call, Old Lady Notes.”

You flipped him off lightly without looking up from your phone.

You followed Sid over to the youth skates, where he walked you through sizing—tight but not painful, with room to wiggle toes—and pointed out which brands had better ankle support.

“This is a lot,” you said eventually, “Like... a lot.”

He smiled softly. “It is. But it gets easier.”

You nodded, watching him now more than the skates. “Did your parents do this for you?”

He leaned against the shelf beside you. “Yeah. My dad mostly. But my mom did her fair share of sitting in freezing rinks with coffee and a blanket.”

You smiled. “I should probably start investing in hand warmers now.”

“Oh, definitely.”

You let the silence sit for a moment before he glanced at the stuff in your arms again and pointed at the Letang jersey.

“Good pick,” he said. “But if you want your daughter to win games…”

You looked up at him, catching the little smirk on his face.

“Oh no.”

He shrugged, not even pretending to be modest. “I dunno. She might have better luck with a Crosby jersey. Not like I’m a professional or anything.”

You stared at him. “Cocky much?”

He chuckled. “What? I’m just saying.”

“You’re just saying you’re better than Letang?”

He tilted his head. “Tanger’s great.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just better.”

You laughed, full and loud, startling one of the teenagers walking past. “Okay, alright. I guess if I had to pick a role model, the guy personally helping me fit elbow pads isn’t the worst choice.”

“I do what I can,” he said with a wink.

You gave him a half-playful sigh and picked up the Letang jersey again. Then slowly, without looking at him, added a Crosby one to the pile. Two jerseys, she’ll be excited regardless. 

He didn’t say anything, just smiled a little to himself and helped you find the right size.

“You’re either really prepared,” he said, lips twitching, “or she’s about to be the best-dressed five-year-old in the entire league.”

You grinned. “Look, if she’s gonna throw elbows, she may as well look cute doing it.”

“Bulked up in pink elbow pads,” he said thoughtfully. “Terrifying.”

“Exactly.”

You made your way toward the checkout counter, arms full, the jerseys, sweatshirt, t-shirt, a beanie—and the mini stick Sidney insisted every hockey kid needed, sat on top like a cherry on a very expensive sundae, mentally ticking off the grocery list you still had to tackle after this. Apples, chicken, string cheese, enough pasta to keep your tiny enforcer fueled or pre-fueled. 

Sid followed a few steps behind, still holding the youth goalie mask you’d caught him with earlier. You glanced at it again now, curiosity tugging.

You smiled and nodded toward the youth goalie mask he was still holding, white and pristine and blank. “So, mystery solved yet? What’s that for?”

He held it up a little, letting it catch the light. “It’s for my godson. His birthday’s next month. He’s obsessed with goalies. Gonna get it customized—mask, pads, the whole nine yards.”

You raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s a pretty cool gift.”

Sid shrugged like it was nothing. “He’s a good kid. Deserves something cool.”

“You getting his name painted on it or something?” you asked, genuinely curious now.

“Thinking about it. His favorite goalie was Lundqvist, but he keeps pretending to be Fleury when he plays in the driveway. So maybe something between the two. We’ll see.”

You grinned at that, setting your items down gently on the counter as the clerk started scanning. “That’s sweet.”

He gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Trying. He’s already better in net than I am, so I gotta keep my rep somehow.”

You laughed. The older man behind the counter gave you a friendly nod as he started ringing up the items.

He hesitated for a second like he might say more, then cleared his throat. “Hey—have you ever heard of the Little Penguins program?”

You paused. “The what?”

“Little Penguins,” he repeated. “It’s this thing we run through the team. We usually do Winters but we added Fall on there too. Kids can sign up and get a full set of gear for free—well, technically a deposit, but you get it back—and they do learn-to-skate stuff, drills, scrimmages. They get to practice on the ice, even skate with a couple of us players.”

Your mouth parted slightly. “Wait—like with the Penguins Penguins?”

He nodded. “Yeah, the big guys. Usually a few of us show up. Just for fun, nothing formal. But it’s a good way for the kids to dip their toes in without it being overwhelming. Especially for parents who are still learning the ropes.”

You blinked. “That… actually sounds amazing. Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”

“Marketing’s not our strong suit,” he said with a crooked smile. “I think the sign-ups start late summer. July-ish.”

You imagined your daughter, pink helmet and jersey, oversized gloves bouncing at her sides, skating across the ice next to Penguins players like it was a totally normal Tuesday. “Okay, yeah. That’s... wow. I’ll definitely think about that.”

He smiled again, and it hit you that he was genuinely pleased you seemed interested. “You should. It’s fun. And your daughter sounds like the kind of kid who’d love it.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “It actually does sound like something she’d love. I mean, if there’s juice boxes involved, I’m sold.”

He grinned. “I’ll make sure they have the pink ones.”

“You better,” you said. “But yeah. She would lose her mind.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, lightly bumping your elbow with his.

“Just the apparel today?” The cashier asked.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at Sid. “Apparently I need to go home and take measurements. Like an adult.”

Sid turned to the cashier with a grin. “She’s doing her homework. Proud of her.”

You swatted his arm lightly, but he just laughed and leaned casually against the edge of the counter.

As the man scanned the Crosby jersey—Sid gave a soft, smug hmm at the sound—as if he hadn’t practically forced you to grab it.

The cashier handed you a long receipt and bagged up your stuff, folding the jerseys carefully. You thanked them, then turned back to Sid one last time, tucking your phone back into your coat pocket.

“Well. I should let you get back to your godfatherly duties. And I’ve got to go buy protein-rich snacks for a child who thinks hockey is a personality trait now.”

He laughed. “You’ve got a good one on your hands.”

“I do,” you said, feeling your chest warm a little. “Thanks again, by the way. For the help. Seriously. You saved me from panic-buying a full adult-size goalie kit.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said, then added, “Hey—if you end up signing her up for Little Penguins, I’ll probably be there. Come say hi.”

Your hand tightened slightly on the bag handles. “Yeah. I just might.”

He gave you a little nod, “Keep me posted. If she joins the Little Pens, I wanna know.”

“I will,” you said, turning toward the door. “If she scores her first goal, I’ll even make her point to the sky and say it’s for you.”

Sid smiled, shifting the goalie mask to his other hand. “Hey, if she ends up falling in love with the game, I’d say this was a good use of a Saturday.”

You nodded.

You watched him for a second—just a second—then shook your head to yourself with a soft laugh and headed out into the parking lot, the automatic doors sliding shut behind you with a whoosh.

You had groceries to buy. You had gear to organize. You had a daughter to tell about “this thing called Little Penguins.”

A Few Months Later…

The rink was loud with the echo of blades scraping over ice, muffled thumps from little bodies falling down, and the hum of excited chatter from proud parents in the stands. The bleachers were fuller than you expected them to be this early on a Saturday morning—coffee cups cradled like precious gems, toddlers bundled in puffer coats and fleece hats, a chorus of “that’s my baby!” and “get up, you got it!” rippling through the space like music.

You sat midway up the stands, leaned forward with your elbows on your knees and your hands clasped under your chin, barely blinking as you tracked your little girl zooming across the ice in her baby pink skates—the ones you’d debated splurging on, only to be guilted into by her lip-quivering pout and an impassioned speech about how “pink skates make you faster.”

Apparently, she wasn’t wrong.

She was a blur of movement and energy, her tiny helmet bouncing slightly with every stride. Her white jersey was too big on her, practically swallowing her whole, with “Crosby” emblazoned across the back—his number 87 stitched proudly under it. Pink tape spiraled down the length of her stick, the edges fraying just a little from the constant use. It was a vision, the kind that made your chest squeeze so tightly it felt like your heart might burst from sheer joy.

You were smiling like an idiot as she collided softly with another kid, both of them toppling over like penguin-shaped dominoes.

A dad sitting nearby chuckled, following your line of sight. “Yours in the pink skates?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Yep. That’s my maniac.”

“She’s got good instincts. Keeps her head up, even when she’s down,” he said with a grin, nudging his own daughter, who was munching Goldfish crackers next to him.

“She’s obsessed,” you said with a little laugh, eyes never leaving the ice. “This morning she woke me up at 6:10—on the dot—in full gear. Elbow pads over her pajamas. Helmet on backwards.”

The dad laughed. “They don’t just fall in love. They jump in head first.”

“Tell me about it. I think I have about twelve hours of footage just from driveway practices,” you said, tapping your phone like proof.

Down on the ice, your daughter had popped back up, brushing the snow off of herself with those padded gloves that made her hands look like marshmallows. She took a wobbly step forward, then another. A coach—tall, in full gear himself—skated past and gave her an encouraging tap on the helmet. She giggled and tried to chase him, only to crash into the boards.

You winced a little, but she scrambled back up, laughing. Unfazed. Just like always.

“Did you grow up around hockey?” the dad asked, sipping from his thermos.

You shook your head. “No, not even a little. This whole world is new to me. First time I walked into a gear shop, I almost cried. It was like IKEA, but colder and meaner.”

“Ah. One of those,” he said knowingly. “So how’d she get into it?”

You smiled a little to yourself, watching her now attempt to scoop a puck with the toe of her stick like she was playing field hockey.

“It started with street hockey,” you said softly. “Some neighborhood kids were playing, and she just... joined in. She didn’t even ask. Just ran over and jumped into the game like she was born for it.”

“I know the type,” he said with a grin. “Future captain.”

You smiled at that—because part of you believed it. Knew it, even.

“Yeah,” you said. “Future something.”

A cheer erupted from the crowd as one of the kids—somehow—managed to score on one of the adult coaches in net. The coach fell dramatically backward, arms spread wide like he’d been defeated in battle. 

It was cold and it smelled like coffee and the unmistakable sweetness of childhood. The coaches were endlessly patient, calling out encouragement and clapping for every kid, no matter how awkward or uncoordinated they were. One coach—Sid, you realized—was crouched low near the boards now, tying the laces of a tiny skater who looked like she was upset or tired.

You watched him a moment, that same calm energy radiating off him that he’d had in the shop months ago. No helmet, just a cap pulled low over his hair. Still recognizable, though—especially to the row of moms sitting a little too upright on the lower bleachers, their giggles loud enough to rise above the noise of the rink.

You’d never said anything to your daughter about who he was. You liked keeping it simple. To her, he was just Coach. Of course, she knows him. But here he's just a nice guy who high-fived her when she got her skates on the right feet and always knew when she needed an extra push on the back.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you checked it quickly. A message from your best friend:

“How’s my niece doing?? Any goals?? Any falls??”

You snapped a quick picture—her mid-laugh, head thrown back—and sent it back with a caption:

“Living her best life.”

You tucked your phone away and leaned forward again, watching as your daughter bent her knees the way they’d shown her, arms stiff out in front, tongue sticking out in concentration. She was taking it all in—every second of it. From the cool air on her cheeks to the slap of the puck to the roar of imaginary crowds in her head.

There was something sacred in watching your kid find the thing they loved. Like watching a door open inside them you didn’t even know was there. Every spill, every grin, every wild, uncoordinated movement across the ice—each one carved that love deeper into her bones.

You clapped and cheered when she completed a clumsy turn, just barely staying upright. She turned toward your seat in the stands and grinned, giving you two very exaggerated thumbs up. Then she fell on her ass again.

You laughed, hand to your heart.

The mom next to you leaned over. “First season?”

“Yeah,” you said. “First everything.”

“Well, you’re in for it now,” she said, sipping from her thermos with a knowing smile. “There’s no going back once they get a taste of the ice.”

You looked down at your daughter—scraping her way back to her feet, cheeks flushed, still smiling—and you knew it was true.

There was no going back.

And you didn’t want to.

After nearly three hours of watching your daughter, it was over. The hallway just outside the locker room was chaos in a very specific, beautiful way—kids peeling off helmets and elbow pads, trailing behind coaches or sprinting toward waiting parents, little voices bouncing off the walls, squealing about scoring, or falling, or “that time Coach tripped on his own skate.” Everyone was coach apparently.

You’d waited in the designated spot outside until one of the assistants—some fresh-faced guy in a Penguins jacket—gave the okay for parents to head in.

“Y’all can head in now,” he said, stepping aside and trying not to get knocked over by a tornado of five-year-olds dragging their gear bags behind them.

Inside, the locker room was warm and bright, lined with benches and low cubbies that were already stuffed with half-shed gloves, little skates, jackets, and about seven different water bottles. The buzz of post-practice chatter filled the air instantly, like someone had turned the volume knob all the way up.

You barely had time to take it in before a flash of pink barreled toward you.

“MOMMMYYYYY!”

There she was. Wild curls matted from the helmet, cheeks flushed with effort, teeth bared in a wide grin as she ran, half-hopping in her skates, arms wide.

You bent down just in time to catch her.

“There you are, Speed Racer,” you grinned, crouching down and opening your arms as she barrelled into you. Her gear clunked against your chest—chest protector and all—but you didn’t care. You hugged her like you hadn’t just been watching her be wild on the ice.

“I FELL SIX TIMES!” she squealed, voice muffled against your shirt.

You ran a hand over her head, feeling the heat radiating from her scalp. “You fell six times and you still have that big ol’ smile on your face? Must’ve been a good time.”

“It was the funnest ever,” she said seriously, stepping back and immediately beginning to unfasten her chest protector with a kind of frenzied determination. “And guess what! Owen and me were on the same team, and I touched the puck with my stick! Like for real this time! I didn’t miss!”

You helped peel the Velcro from her shoulders, gently tugging the damp, slightly stinky gear off while she babbled on.

“Toootally touched it. Owen saw. Right, Owen?!”

A little boy with dark hair and dark eyes, Owen, turned toward you, a toothy grin spread across his face. His front teeth were at war—one was missing, the other wobbly and hanging on for dear life.

“Hi,” he said confidently.

“Hi, Owen,” you greeted, giving him a warm smile. “I hear you two had fun today.”

“We’re on the same team,” he said proudly, pointing to his white practice jersey. “White team’s faster than the black one.”

Your daughter nodded vigorously. “We’re the fastest. Way faster.”

“I believe it,” you nodded solemnly, ruffling her sweat-damp curls as you zipped the top layer of her jacket. “You guys looked awesome out there.”

“They were, weren’t they?” a voice chimed in to your right. Owen’s mom, dressed in a puffer vest over a Penguins hoodie, smiled as she peeled her son’s gloves off one by one. “Owen hasn’t stopped talking about it since he got off the ice.”

You smiled back, instantly comforted by the friendliness in her tone. “Mine either. I’m pretty sure she’s still skating in her head.”

“She’s adorable,” the mom said. “Pink skates and pink tape? That’s iconic.”

“She had to be pink,” you said, laughing softly. “Apparently, pink makes you faster.”

Owen's mom grinned. “Hey, she might be onto something.”

You all shared a laugh as the room buzzed louder—parents helping their kids wriggle out of gear, skate guards being snapped on, water bottles getting passed around. Owen sat down next to your daughter on the bench, pulling a juice box out of his small backpack. “We made up a game,” he told you while trying to stab the straw through the plastic film.

Your girl nodded. “You pretend the puck is a bumblebee and you gotta squash it with your stick before it stings someone.”

“That sounds very advanced,” you said seriously.

“We’re gonna play it next time too,” she added. “Owen said he’s really good at squashing bees.”

Owen nodded matter-of-factly, still struggling with the straw.

Owen’s mom bent down to help him, chuckling as she did. “He’s been trying to squash bees with sticks since he was three. I’m just glad he’s finally doing it on the ice and not in our backyard.”

You grinned and reached into your own bag to grab your daughter’s snack. She immediately tore into the applesauce pouch like she’d been starved for days, then leaned against your side, still warm from all her movement.

“They looked so cute skating next to each other,” Owen’s mom added with a soft smile. “I was telling my husband—it almost looked like a little date out there.”

You laughed at that. “I think they’ve bonded over their mutual chaos.”

She leaned in a little and lowered her voice. “He told me in the tunnel that he thinks your daughter’s hair is ‘like gold spaghetti.’”

You choked on your sip of coffee, covering your mouth. “Gold spaghetti?”

She nodded, snickering. “Crush territory. I’m calling it.”

You smiled, heart melting a little, and pulled your phone out from your coat pocket. “Alright, if they’re officially best friends-slash-future-spouses, we need a picture.”

Both kids were now on their snacks, Owen with his juice box and your girl halfway through a granola bar, crumbs smeared around her mouth. You lined them up on the bench—gear still half-on, cheeks still flushed—and snapped a picture.

It was absurdly cute.

“Alright, say cheese,” you said. “Or… say Penguins!”

“PENGUINS!” they both shouted.

Click.

You took a few more, some with funny faces, some with your daughter attempting to put her arm around Owen’s shoulders and nearly knocking his juice out of his hand. You were pretty sure your camera roll had hit triple digits by now, but you didn’t care.

Eventually, your daughter leaned into you again, resting her sticky hand on your leg. “Mama,” she said quietly. “I’m thirsty.”

You glanced down. “Didn’t you bring your water bottle?”

She blinked up at you sheepishly. “I left it on the bench. Where I sit. I think.”

“Oh no,” you said, sighing gently. “You silly goose.”

“I forgot!” she insisted, holding her hands up like that’d fix it. “Thirst to death mama.”

You reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Alright, okay. I’ll go grab it. Can you hang here for a sec?”

She nodded. “I’ll stay with Owen.”

You turned toward his mom. “Mind keeping an eye on her real quick? I’ll be back in like a minute.”

“Of course,” she said warmly. “Take your time. These two are thick as thieves already.”

You smiled and stood, patting your daughter’s helmet-less head. “Be good,” you said.

“Always,” she grinned, already halfway through a whispered joke with Owen that involved a fart noise and something about the Zamboni.

You made your way out of the locker room, weaving around kids and parents and piles of equipment. The hallway was quieter. You passed by a few of the coaching staff and volunteers still lingering around, one of them wheeling a cart of extra equipment back toward storage.

You shifted your weight awkwardly near the tunnel toward the bench, one arm wrapped around yourself for warmth. You weren’t totally sure if you were allowed to just stroll out there in regular shoes. Like—was that frowned upon? A total rookie parent move?

Your eyes scanned the hallway for someone official-looking. After a few seconds, a man in a staff jacket with a clipboard walked past. You stepped forward quickly.

“Hi! Sorry—excuse me?”

He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

“Um, I was wondering—my daughter left her water bottle out there on the bench,” you explained, nodding toward the rink. “It’s pink and glittery—shocking, I know—and it has a little flower keychain on the handle. Would it be possible for someone to grab it for me? I don’t wanna like... destroy the sanctity of the bench in my street shoes.”

The guy smiled, already turning to wave someone down. “Yeah, no problem. Hang tight. I’ll send one of the volunteers out.”

“Thank you, seriously.”

You leaned back against the wall, tugging your sweater sleeves down over your hands as you watched the lingering players on the ice, most of them part of the older age group now, finishing their drills. Some were still skating slow laps while a couple of the younger assistant coaches stood near the blue line laughing about something. You weren’t really paying attention—your mind was still back in the locker room with your daughter’s flushed cheeks and dramatics about “thirsting to death.”

Then you heard it.

“Called it. I thought that was your daughter out there.”

The voice, familiar in a way that shouldn’t have made your stomach do what it just did, made your head turn to the right.

Sidney.

You blinked once. Then again.

He was walking toward you casually, jersey still on but his skates had been swapped out for black Adidas slides and socks. His hair was damp, curls starting to appear at the ends, and he looked warm—flushed in the cheeks, a little sweaty, and way too comfortable for how good he looked.

You exhaled in something that bordered on a scoff. “What gave it away?”

He leaned a shoulder against the wall next to you, arms crossed as his eyes swept over the rink like he was still mentally coaching. “Let’s see... pink skates, pink laces, pink tape on the stick… Don’t think I forgot, Y/N.”

You grinned. “Wow, real detective work there.”

He smirked, slow and knowing, and turned to look at you instead. “Also? She’s got your eyes. It was game over after that.”

You looked away briefly, caught off guard by the way he said it—not teasing, not in passing. Just simple. Honest. The words made your chest tighten a little, in that soft, fluttery kind of way.

“She had the best time,” you said, your voice softening. “She’s been buzzing since we walked in this morning. Like... shaking with excitement.”

He smiled again, this time a little wider. “That’s what we want. Fun first.”

“She even made a friend,” you added. “Owen. They’re practically a duo now. He’s five. Missing a front tooth. Very committed to calling the puck ‘zoomy.’”

He chuckled under his breath, glancing down like he was picturing it. “Owen’s a good kid. He’s one of my favorites.”

“Wow. Already playing favorites?”

Sid shrugged. “Perks of being Coach Sidney. I can pretend I don’t, but come on—kid called me ‘Sir Puck’ once. I’m only human.”

You snorted.

There was a small lull between you, just a beat or two where you stood side-by-side, both facing the ice as the zamboni started circling again. His arm brushed yours once when he shifted his stance, just barely. The warmth of him so close made your skin feel hyper-aware, like it was begging for more contact.

“She, uh...” you started, glancing at him. “She left her water bottle on the bench. Swears she’s going to ‘thirst to death’ if I don’t bring it back.”

Sid raised an eyebrow. “Thirst to death? That serious, huh?”

You nodded solemnly. “She’s dramatic. I don’t know where she gets it from.”

“I’m shocked,” he deadpanned.

You shot him a side-eye, lips twitching. “Anyway, I asked one of the staff to grab it, but I think they forgot about me. Been standing here like a total newbie.”

“You want me to grab it?”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

He was already pushing off the wall, waving a hand dismissively. “Yeah. I’ll be back in a sec. Pink glitter, right? With a flower keychain?”

“Yeah,” you said, still a little surprised. “That’s the one. Can’t miss it.”

He gave you a quick smirk. “Got it. I’m trained in the art of spotting glitter.”

You laughed, watching as he jogged down the short corridor, and stepped onto the bench in his slides like it was nothing. You bit your lip, just a little, arms crossed again as you watched him scan the bench, crouch, and retrieve the bottle from where it had rolled a few inches under one of the seats.

He came jogging back a minute later, bottle in hand, holding it up like a trophy.

“Coach of the Year,” he said with a grin, handing it over.

You took it gratefully. “Seriously. If there was a trophy, you’d be winning it.”

“You’re gonna make her think I’m her favorite now,” he said, mock-conspiratorial.

“She already called you ‘the guy with the funny whistle,’” you said, twisting the cap to check the water level. “So you’re basically a celebrity.”

“She’s not wrong,” he said, leaning back against the wall again. “It’s a very specific whistle. I’ve trained myself.”

You looked at him—really looked—and shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re such a dork.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, tone low, amused. “But you’re smiling.”

There was a small pause after that—comfortable, but charged. A beat where neither of you spoke, but you could feel the static in the air, the unspoken familiarity that had somehow built over a single strange meeting. The gear shop.

“I’m guessing those notes I made you take all those months ago at the gear shop came in handy, huh?”

You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway. “Don’t remind me. I think I have PTSD from that trip. But yeah—God, they helped so much. I never would’ve figured out which stick flex to get her without your help. Or those elbow pads that didn’t slide down every two seconds.”

“You were so overwhelmed,” he teased. “Like I was speaking another language.”

“Because you were,” you fired back. “Half of it was just acronyms. I still don’t know what CCM stands for.”

“Honestly?” he leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially, “I don’t think anyone does. We just pretend.”

You laughed again, head tipping back. His eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, like he was cataloguing every shift in your expression, every laugh line he could coax out of you.

“How’d the goalie mask go?” you asked, shifting gears, “for your godson?”

“Great,” he said, and you noticed how his whole face softened when he talked about the kid. “He loved it. Said it made him look like a Transformer. His words, not mine.”

“That’s basically the highest praise possible.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “He even slept with it beside his bed the first night. His mom texted me a picture.”

“That’s adorable.”

He glanced toward the rink doors, then back at you. “So… did you have fun?”

You lifted a shoulder, smiling again. “Oh yeah. Nothing more fun than watching my kid wipe out every five minutes while I try to pretend I’m not dying inside.”

His head tilted, a laugh bubbling up from him. “You looked like you were holding it together okay.”

“I was faking it,” you said. “But thanks.”

“Pretty well, I’d say.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back toward the hallway leading to the locker room. “Only ‘cause you saved me from a water bottle emergency.”

“I’ll see you around?” he asked, but there was something tentative in the way he said it, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to hope.

You slowly turned to face him once again. “Yeah. You will.”

He smiled, something softer than before—less teasing, more sincere.

And then his voice came again. A little more certain. A little bolder.

“Actually—hold on.”

You stopped.

He was standing straighter now, hands in his pockets, one foot shifting over the other like even he wasn’t sure he was really doing this until the words were already coming out of his mouth.

“Would you wanna get a coffee sometime?” he asked. “Or... whatever. Something not surrounded by five-year-olds and hockey tape.”

You stared at him for a second, surprised—though you weren’t sure why. Maybe because he said it so... sincerely. Not flirty. Not presumptuous. Just... hopeful.

You found yourself smiling again.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice low. “I’d like that.”

—

[keirareidss]

dumb - s.r

♡ summary: literally just sub!spencer smut pairing: spencer reid x mean!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI,sub!spencer, overstimulation, tiny bit of hair pulling, pretty much pure smut with no plot a/n: I fear I didn't write as much dumbification as I intended wc: 1.0k

Spencer was not above begging for what he wanted when it came to you. And he had been begging. For the last 30 minutes. You were sitting at your desk working on your laptop and Spencer had been feeling needy since he woke up from his post-work nap in your bed.

He'd been dreaming about you, more specifically, you sucking his cock and degrading him. He'd never admit it but it always turned him on when you would say demeaning little things to him during sex. You weren't wrong when you told him his brain turned off when you touched his dick. It was what he was craving now.

"Please? Please, angel, I need you." He was bent over, arms wrapped around your shoulders, murmuring into your neck as you typed away on your laptop.

"I'm busy, Spence." You hummed, not taking your eyes off the screen.

"You've been working all day." He whined.

"That's typically how work goes." You chuckled.

"Please." You sighed, raising a hand to card through his hair. You closed your laptop and Spencer stood up in anticipation. You got out of your chair, facing him.

"Spencer. I was trying to work." You scolded and he shrunk into himself, like a child getting reprimanded by his mother.

"I'm sorry. I just-"

"I know. You need me, don't you baby?" He nods, wringing his hands. You stepped closer to him, leaning up to press a kiss onto his lips. Your hands find his waist and you push him backwards, manhandling him until the back of his knees hit the couch. You shove him onto it and climb onto his lap. He looks up at you with his wide puppy-dog eyes, his hands on your hips, yours moving to pull down his sweatpants.

"I never asked you how your nap was."

"It was- it was fine. I had a dream about you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm." He whimpered when your hand went into his pants, palming his cock. "We, uh, we were in my bed and, um- you- ah!" He moaned in the middle of his sentence when your hand slipped into his boxers, grabbing his cock. "You were giving me a- a blowjob." He mumbles it quietly, embarrassed.

"Is that all?" You ask.

"Uh huh." He hums, his voice high pitched and squeaky.

"No, that's not all, is it? Come on, use that big brain of yours. Tell me what else." You said mockingly. He just moaned in response. "Aw, so horny you can't speak, huh?"

"Ngh!" He whimpered when you fingered his slit.

"Does that feel good, Spence? Was it worth taking me away from my work?" He let his head fall back against the couch as he moaned again. You tsked your tongue at him. "My poor dumb baby, just wanna cum, right?" He nodded frantically as he felt himself getting closer the more you stroked him.

"Mm, ah- I'm gonna- I need to-" Your hand suddenly left his leaking cock and he whined. "Wha- why'd you stop?" He asked.

"Well I didn't say you could come yet, did I?" He shook his head slightly. "Right. Not so stupid after all."

"Please, please I need to- I need to cum, please." He begged.

"Do you think you deserve to?" You didn't get a verbal response from Spencer, just a needy gaze in his watery brown eyes. "Well? Come on, think, babe." You tapped his temple.

"N-no?"

"That's right. So sit there like a good boy until I say you can come." You take his cock in your hand again, stroking slowly, using his own pre-cum as lube. He whimpered and whined as you fondled him slow enough to drive him crazy. Spencer's chest heaved and he eyes started watering. "Why are you crying, Spence?"

"Feels so good." He stammered, a tear falling down his flushed cheek. You chuckled, reaching up to wipe it away. You leaned down to kiss his pretty pouty lips and he whined into your mouth.

When you pulled your hand away for the third time before he could finish, Spencer grabbed your wrist.

"Please, please, I can't take it anymore. Please, please, please-" You shut him up with a kiss before stripping yourself of your shorts and underwear. You pulled his pants down more until you could lower yourself onto his red, twitching dick. He gasped, the stimulation intensely overwhelming for him. Tears of pleasure were streaming down his face now as he moaned and whimpered while your hips moved slowly.

"Poor baby. So overstimulated, aren't you?" You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, making him whine. "Do you want to cum for me?" He nodded, lifting his head from the back of the couch to look up at you with pleading eyes.

"Yes, please, I wanna cum, please." He begged.

"Okay, honey, let go." He cums at your words, his orgasm rocking through him, making his entire body tremble. You kept rocking your hips, moving faster to bring your orgasm on quicker. Spencer whimpered loudly, jerking underneath you. "Hang on, pretty boy, I'm almost there." He's gasping by the time you come, coming a second time with you. His vision nearly goes white as his head drops back. When he comes to, you're brushing your hands through his hair, your eyes on his face. "Are you back, again? I thought you passed out, baby." You gave him a small smile.

"I'm okay." He mumbles and you press a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm gonna pull off of you, okay? Are you ready?" He hums, nodding his heavy head. You raise yourself off of his cock slowly, his hips jerking as he whines. "It's alright." You move to sit next to him, and his head drops to your lap. "Aw, Spencer. Feel better?"

"Mhm." He nuzzles into you as you pet his hair. He dozes off in your lap and you give up on the idea of going back to work because you have your boyfriend in your lap, and what could be better?

[desturns]

──── favorite position. m.s.

part one

warnings. some grinding, tickling session, major pussy behavior

a/n. bye i decided to make a pt two to this randomly, but this might just be a little series with only three parts sooo... this is fun!!

୨ৎ

matt didn't attempt to move once. after you had fallen back to sleep and somehow melted into him even more than before, it was like he died and went to heaven about fifty times. how else would he have been so lucky to have this angel sleeping right in his lap, practically straddling him as your head rested on his shoulder? it was everything he'd dreamed of and more.

of course, his brothers weren't very angelic when it came to their teasing.

“i’m just sayin’, kid, maybe it's time to actually do something instead of sittin’ back like a bitch—”

“chris, hey! he's not a bitch… he's a pussy, there's a difference.”

“oh, wow, thanks for the help, nick,” matt sarcastically replied as he simply rolled his eyes, no longer focusing on the game as they all just talked. he noticed you wiggled slightly, but didn't think much of it.

“just the truth, bro. only pussies have their crush—” “—not my crush—” “—sleep on their laps without making a move. y’know, not while they're asleep, but y'had the opportunity to do something when she woke up.”

“she was tired and was gonna get off me, me asking her to stay was me making my move.”

“damn, matty, your moves are weak then.”

“shut up, chris.”

“i’m just sayin’, matt. when the opportunity presents itself, y'can't be a pussy and back out. get her, dude.”

again, he felt you move against him and at first, he wasn't going to question it. maybe you were just having an intense dream or you were stirring around on his lap to get more comfortable. that seemed obvious, right? but it wasn't until he felt your hips roll against his thigh that matt thought to himself, okay, a little strange, but whatever.

and then it happened again. and then once more. now being both incredibly confused and slightly curious, he pulled his head back enough to look at your face, and it was no surprise when he saw you were still soundly asleep. both your eyes were closed and for a second, you looked like the perfect essence of peacefulness.

and then it happened again, this time a bit more firmly, and your eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, followed by the smallest whine. matt was positive if he was still entertaining chris and nick, he wouldn't have even been able to hear it.

oh.

oh.

so you were having an intense dream

it all clicked right there for matt. his eyes widened a bit and his body tensed up, and he could practically feel the blood rushing to his dick. in his defense, nothing could've prepared him for this. here you were, the girl he's been secretly pining after for months, having a wet dream right on top of him, your body subconsciously grinding against him for some relief. yeah, he knew getting hard at the scene was probably extremely wrong and disrespectful in many ways, but he just couldn't help it.

he could no longer hear chris or nick teasing him about his poor flirting skills or even pay attention to the trio on the screen about to kill him because before he knew it, you were rocking your hips again. he bit his bottom lip in order to suppress a groan as his brain was currently racking up ways to get out of this situation. at least before you woke up and it got really awkward.

“matt, hello? y'there?” in that moment, he didn't really want to be.

“y-yeah, um, i’m here, uh,” he stumbled over his words for a second, his hand leaving his controller and moving to your hip, softly holding it so he could get the courage to stop you and toss you onto his bed. okay, maybe not toss, but to stop you definitely. “actually guys, um, i-i’m gonna get off, ‘kay?”

“kid, we’re in the middle of a game right now, are you serious?”

“yes, chris, ’m serious.” was all matt responded with before leaving the discord call, his hand still firmly on your hip as you occasionally rocked your hips, his other working fast to exit out of everything on his pc.

the dim light from the monitor plus the sound of your shorts rubbing against his sweats was starting to become a bit too much for him. matt wasn't dumb, any longer and his dick would be rock hard and then that'll definitely be awkward if you woke up. so, with much restraint and strength and now holding onto both of your hips, he stiffed your movements, bringing you to a stop. he couldn't just get up, he wasn't that strong. plus, matt was a bit nervous he'd drop you before he could even reach the bed despite it being a foot away.

he could feel your body trying to protest the halt, your hands around his waist tightening slightly, more little whines escaping your mouth and matt honestly wanted to die right then and there. of course, the first time he gets you like this, you're not even conscious of it, and there was no way he'd take advantage of you. not like this.

he was going to do it the right way.

suddenly, your body stopped and matt could feel you tense up.

now, to say you were horribly mortified was an understatement. when matt stopped you in real time, it was like your dream came crashing down. the mysterious faceless man in it stopped his ministrations and you were so incredibly pent up, so pent up that your body refused to find solace in sleep any longer. it didn't take an idiot to figure out what the hell happened, especially when you woke up with soaked panties sticking to your folds and matt's hands on your hips. did you…? no. surely not. right? no, there's no way.

but it was hard to deny when you could now feel matt's dick through his sweats and suddenly, you were shooting your head up from his shoulder, no longer tired. “oh my god, matt! i am so– i'm sorry!” you were speaking with a raspy voice, both from the ridiculous amount of exhaustion and humiliation you just experienced.

he quickly shook his head, trying to hide his flustered expression while also finding the strength to take his hands off you. it’ll come eventually, he was sure. “no, no, i-i mean, it happens, right? you're cool, it’s fine!”

“i can't believe i did that, matty, i am so sorry!” you shrieked again and hid your face in your hands, shaking your head at yourself. you were sure your cheeks were now tomato red and, with the way his hands were on your hips, it was getting worse.

matt stared at you as you tried to shield yourself from his gaze, trying to save yourself from the embarrassment. he thought it was downright adorable, the way you got all flushed and shy. he knew it was for good reason, and he so badly wanted to tell you that it truly was okay, that he didn't even mind. but something held him back and instead of making a move, or charm you into having him ease that ache of yours, he chose the safest route.

and maybe he just wanted to see you smile again.

he took one last moment to look at you perched on his lap, all self-conscious now and guarded up before slowly moving his hands from your hips to your sides. you were confused when you felt his hands move, but before you could even question it, his fingers were tickling the most sensitive part he knew would get to you. your hands immediately moved from your face, moving to try and grab him to stop as laughs and giggles left your lips.

your predicament of getting yourself off on his thigh was momentarily forgotten, now focused on getting him to stop making you squirm in a new way.

“s-st-stop, m-matt!” was all you could express as you flailed on top of him, your face burning itself in his shoulder.

there it was. he could see your lips stretched wide across your face, your smile making him forget about his own arousal as he continued to make you laugh. “not until you promise to stop actin’ embarrassed about it,” he chuckled, the teasing tone in his voice making your stomach flip.

“i-it-it's an emb-barassing thing!” you tried to defend yourself through the forced involuntary giggles that were escaping you. as he tickled you, you slowly but gently began to fall off his lap and onto the floor, but that didn't stop him.

“it is, but it's normal!” he rolled his eyes, his hands now moving under your arms and to the back of your neck. god, who needed grinding and sex when just the sight of you rolling around in laughter was enough to get him off then and there. “y/n, babe, i promise— i don't care. i’d just prefer that next time, you're conscious for it.”

his words made your brain freeze. ‘babe’. ‘if next time, you were conscious for it’. next time? he wanted there to be a next time? you tapped his arm twice, the silent but serious “enough” signal the two of you created and he took the hint almost immediately, his hands leaving your body in an instant as he looked down at you.

you were on your back on the floor, all flushed, chest heaving and your hair sprawled out beneath you. you looked gorgeous. and matt was glad he didn't follow any of his brothers advice. and as you looked up at him, you didn't know what to say. thankfully, matt didn't waste time before continuing, his voice now a bit unsure and hesitant as he realized what the hell he just said.

“i mean, y’know, if y’want to. i wouldn't want to make things weird between us or ruin things or make you, um–y’know what? forget i said anything, actually–do y’need some pajamas or anything, wanna go in the living room—”

“matt,” you cut him off once you caught your own breath, a small smile now on your face. “stop worrying. next time, i’ll definitely be conscious for it.”

it was if you took your fist and physically hit his stomach. he thought he was being too straight forward, but knowing that you were agreeing, that you seemed into it... it was doing things for him.

as you got up from the floor and moved to the living room, as matt's brain caught up with the intense beating of his heart and as he ignored the countless texts from chris asking “what the hell was going on up there”—there was a silent understanding.

and that was good enough for matt.