🌶️

I honestly don’t know what I am doing.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Masterlist

Angst Everything I never said

Trust

Fluff When it rains in Manchester

Something like this

Strings

Smut What still burns

Unleashing Innocent

Tension

Jealousy’s claim

Series Still yours | Part one , Part two.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Genre: Smut

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Jealousy’s claim

The pub's energy had ramped up as the night wore on, the lads' voices growing louder with each round. You adjusted your fitted black top and jeans, feeling the fabric hug your curves just right—nothing over the top, but enough to catch a few glances. Mason's eyes had lingered on you earlier, dark and appreciative, before he forced himself to look away. Secret still, after all. But now, with the conversation shifting from dating tips to outright ogling, the air felt thicker, charged.

Marcus leaned forward first, his gaze sweeping over you with a wolfish grin. 'Bloody hell, you look proper fit tonight. That top's doing things, innit? If I weren't with the missus, I'd be chatting you up myself.'

The others jumped in, chuckling and nodding. Bruno whistled low. 'Yeah, mate's right. You've got that glow—whatever you're doing, keep it up. Looking like you could walk onto the pitch and distract the whole backline.'

You laughed it off, cheeks warming under the attention, but your eyes darted to Mason. He sat rigid now, pint halfway to his lips, those brown eyes narrowing as he watched the lads pile on. His jaw ticked, a subtle flex of muscle that you knew meant trouble brewing. He wanted slow, controlled, but this? This was poking the bear.

One of the newer lads, Harry—cocky from a good game last week—grinned wider, leaning across the table toward you. 'You know what? Sod it. I'm making a move. Fancy a dance later? Or we could ditch this lot and grab a drink somewhere quieter.' He winked, bold as brass, oblivious to the storm gathering beside him.

Mason's glass hit the table with a sharp clink, hard enough to make heads turn. His brown hair fell slightly over his forehead as he straightened, that easy smile gone, replaced by something feral. 'Back off, Harry. She's not interested.'

The booth went quiet for a beat, the lads exchanging glances. Bruno raised an eyebrow. 'Whoa, Mount, easy. Just banter, mate.'

But Mason wasn't having it. He slid out of the booth in one fluid motion, his hand clamping around your wrist—not rough, but firm, possessive. Those deep brown eyes locked on yours, burning with a jealousy that sent heat pooling low in your belly. 'Come on,' he muttered, voice low and edged with gravel. 'We're leaving.'

You didn't argue, heart pounding as he tugged you up and through the crowd, ignoring the catcalls and questions from the group. 'What's got into you?' Marcus shouted after, but Mason didn't look back. Outside, the cool Manchester air hit your skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire in his touch. He hailed a cab with quick efficiency, bundling you inside before giving the driver his address. The door barely shut before his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding, tongue pushing past your lips in a kiss that tasted like possession.

'Fuck slow,' he growled against your neck as the cab pulled away, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers digging into the denim. 'Not when they're looking at you like that. You're mine.'

By the time you stumbled into his house, the door slamming behind you, clothes were already half-off. He kicked it shut and pinned you against the wall, brown eyes wild, hair disheveled from your fingers raking through it. His hoodie came off in a rush, revealing the lean muscles of his chest, honed from endless training sessions. You yanked at his jeans, freeing his cock—hard and thick, veins pulsing as it sprang out.

Mason's hands were everywhere, rougher than usual, shoving your top up and over your head, bra following. He palmed your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked, then bent to suck one into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. 'Say it,' he demanded, voice muffled against your skin. 'Tell me you're mine.'

'Yours,' you breathed, arching into him as his free hand worked your jeans open, dipping inside to stroke your pussy through your panties. Already soaked, the fabric clung, and he groaned at the feel, pressing two fingers against your clit.

He dragged you to the bedroom then, shedding the rest of his clothes, his body all coiled power—athlete's build, thighs strong from sprints, abs tightening as he pushed you onto the bed. You stripped fully, legs spreading instinctively, and he crawled over you, cock dragging against your inner thigh. No teasing tonight; jealousy had stripped away the patience. He lined up and thrust in deep, filling your pussy in one hard stroke, stretching you around his length.

'Fuck, so tight,' he grunted, hips snapping forward, setting a brutal pace. The bed creaked under the force, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he pounded into you. Each thrust hit deep, his cock dragging against your walls, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. You clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails, and he loved it—head dropping to bite your shoulder, marking you.

Sweat slicked his brown hair, sticking it to his forehead as he fucked you harder, jealousy fueling every drive. 'No one else gets this,' he rasped, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit in tight circles. 'No one touches you like I do.' The pressure built fast, your pussy clenching around him, and he felt it, groaning as he slammed in deeper.

You came first, walls fluttering, soaking his cock as waves crashed over you. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside, hot cum flooding your pussy in thick pulses. He collapsed over you, breathing ragged, but even in the afterglow, his arms stayed wrapped tight—like he couldn't bear to let go.

For a moment, you lay tangled, his brown eyes softening as they met yours. 'Sorry,' he murmured, pressing a kiss to your lips. 'Lost it back there. But... yeah. Mine.' The slow pace? Tonight, it shattered. But tomorrow? Who knew.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Word count: 3.6k

Genre: Angst & Smut

—————————————————————————

Tension

The warmth of the stadium lights always felt different when you were standing beside Mason. Not because of the bright floodlights cascading over Old Trafford, but because of the easy, comfortable light he brought into your life. You’d been friends for what felt like forever, a constant in each other’s chaotic worlds. You, navigating your own demanding career, and Mason, living under the intense spotlight of professional football with Manchester United. You were his confidante, his sounding board, his escape from the incessant pressure. He was your anchor, your source of laughter, your understanding ear.

You’d share ridiculous memes over text during the day, meet for late-night takeaways when his schedule allowed, or just crash on his sofa, watching terrible reality TV until one of you fell asleep. There was a shared language, a shorthand of inside jokes and knowing glances that only the two of you understood. His arm would often rest casually around your shoulders, a gesture of pure platonic affection that you never questioned. You never had a reason to.

Then, imperceptibly, things began to shift.

It started subtly. A cancelled coffee date here, a delayed text response there. You brushed it off at first. Mason was perpetually busy, his life a whirlwind of training, travel, matches, and media duties. It was understandable. But then the cancellations became more frequent. The texts, once immediate and full of his usual rapid-fire banter, grew shorter, less enthusiastic. His voice on the phone, when he did call, held a strange edge – a hurriedness that wasn't about missing a meeting, but something else entirely.

"Hey, still good for dinner tonight?" you'd text, a casual flick of your thumbs. Hours later, a terse reply: "Nah, sorry. Too knackered. Early start tomorrow." Too knackered. He used to be too knackered to do anything but sprawl on your sofa for hours, often falling asleep with his head in your lap.

You tried to give him space, understanding that even the most extroverted people needed time to themselves. But the space started to feel like a chasm. Days bled into a week, a week into two, without a proper conversation. Your attempts to initiate plans were met with polite but firm deflections. You’d catch glimpses of him on social media, out with teammates, laughing, seemingly vibrant and full of life. It stung. A cold, sharp pang of betrayal in your chest.

“Everything alright with Mason?” your mutual friend, Chloe, asked one afternoon, catching the frown on your face as you scrolled through your phone, Mason’s last unanswered message glaring back at you. You forced a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “Yeah, just busy, I guess. You know how it is.” Chloe, however, knew you too well. “He’s been a bit quiet, hasn’t he? Even with the lads.” A flicker of hope ignited. It wasn't just you. Maybe he was genuinely going through something. You considered reaching out to him, pushing for answers, but a fragile pride held you back. If he wanted to talk, he knew where to find you. You’d always been there.

Weeks turned into a month. The silence from Mason became deafening. Your calls went straight to voicemail, your enthusiastic voice notes were met with typed, laconic replies that felt like a slap in the face. You felt abandoned, discarded. The anger simmered beneath the surface of your sadness. What had you done? Had you said something wrong? Was he upset with you? The uncertainty was a corrosive acid, eating away at the foundation of your friendship. You replayed every conversation, every interaction, searching for a clue, for a misstep, but came up empty. He was simply… gone.

You finally decided it was time to stop dwelling. You were a strong, independent person. Mason Mount, United’s golden boy, wasn't the only person in your life. You accepted an invitation from Chloe to a huge party at a swanky bar in the city centre. It was exactly what you needed: loud music, good company, and enough distractions to keep your mind from wandering back to the empty space Mason had left.

You arrived with Chloe, the bass thumping through the floor, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and the buzz of a hundred conversations. You threw yourself into it, laughing a little too loudly at Chloe’s jokes, dancing with abandon, determined to have a good time. Hours melted away, fuelled by a few too many proseccos. You were finally feeling light, almost forgetting the ache that had become a constant companion.

Then, you saw him.

He was across the crowded room, leaning against a pillar, a drink in his hand, talking to a teammate. His famous smile was on display, the one that graced billboards and magazine covers, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze, restless, swept over the room, and for a split second, it landed on you. Your breath hitched. His eyes widened, a flash of something you couldn't decipher – panic? – before he quickly averted his gaze, turning his head sharply to face his friend, suddenly animated in conversation.

Your heart plunged, then soared, then plummeted again. All the anger, the hurt, the confusion, rushed back, a tidal wave threatening to drown you. He was here. He saw you. And he was still avoiding you. Even now.

A fierce resolve hardened in your chest. Not this time. Not again. You weren’t going to let him just disappear from your life without an explanation. Not after everything.

You took a deep breath, straightened your dress, and started to walk. The crowd parted around you, the music fading into a dull thrum as your focus narrowed on the figure by the pillar. When you reached him, you didn’t hesitate. You simply placed a hand on his arm, the familiar warmth of his skin sending an unexpected jolt through you.

He flinched, turning slowly. When he saw you fully, his smile faltered, replaced by a strained, almost pained expression. “Hey,” he said, his voice a little hoarse above the din. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” You pulled your hand back, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Clearly not, since you’ve been actively avoiding me for the last month.” Your voice was sharper than you intended, laced with all the hurt you’d suppressed.

He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. “What are you talking about? I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just been busy. Training, travel, you know how it is.” The excuse was well-worn, threadbare.

You scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Busy? Mason, you’ve ghosted me. For weeks. You haven’t replied to my calls, my texts barely get a word back. And now, you see me, and you turn away. Don’t lie to me. Not you. Not ever.” Your voice cracked on the last word, the vulnerability of your pain finally breaking through your anger.

His jaw tightened. He looked genuinely uncomfortable, his gaze now fixed on your face, a tortured expression in his eyes. “Look, this isn’t the place for this,” he muttered, glancing around at the milling partygoers.

“No, it’s definitely not the place for this,” you agreed, your voice low and dangerous. “But you’ve given me no other place. So, tell me, Mason. What happened? What did I do? Why have you shut me out?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his perfect quiff momentarily ruffled. He took a deep, shaky breath, and you saw the flicker of resignation in his eyes. “You didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice barely audible. “It’s me. It’s…complicated.”

“Complicated?” You laughed, a humourless sound. “Our friendship has been the least complicated thing in my life for years. And suddenly, it’s complicated, and you can’t even be bothered to explain? That’s rich, Mason.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, a raw, desperate look in their depths. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, almost lost in the music. “Because I can’t be around you right now, okay? I can’t. Every time I see you, every time you laugh, every time you touch me… it’s unbearable.”

You stared at him, utterly bewildered. “Unbearable? What are you talking about?”

He groaned, pressing his lips together tightly. “The tension, okay? The tension. It’s driving me absolutely insane. I can barely think straight when you’re around. I feel like I’m constantly on the edge, constantly trying to control myself, trying not to… to ruin everything.”

Your mind raced, trying to process his words. Tension? Control himself? Ruin everything? A faint blush crept up your neck as a different kind of understanding began to dawn on you. No. It couldn’t be.

“Mason,” you said, your voice softer now, a tremor in it. “What are you saying?”

He met your gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity you’d never seen directed at you before. They were filled with a potent mix of desperation, desire, and fear. “I’m saying I’m falling for you,” he blurted out, the words tumbling out as if torn from him. “And not just as a friend. I want you. I’ve wanted you for weeks, for months. And I’m terrified I’m going to do something stupid, going to mess this up, going to lose you. So I tried to stay away, thinking it would pass. It hasn’t. It’s only gotten worse.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. Your breath caught in your throat. Mason Mount, your best friend, the man you’d always seen as a brother, wanted you. Sexually. A shiver traced its way down your spine, not from cold, but from a sudden, dizzying jolt of realization. All those long looks, the subtle changes in his behaviour, the way his hand lingered… you’d been utterly oblivious. But now, looking at the raw desire etched on his face, you saw it all. And an equally powerful, undeniable spark, long dormant, ignited within you.

You suddenly understood the ache he spoke of, the tightness in his jaw, the frantic darting of his eyes. Because now, you felt it too. A palpable current, crackling between you, drawing you in. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken desires, weeks of repressed emotions finally bubbling to the surface.

He was waiting, his eyes pleading, terrified of your reaction. For a moment, you just stared, your mind struggling to reconcile the Mason of old with this new, intensely desirable man standing before you. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant thrum of the music.

Then, a defiant, almost reckless thought solidified in your mind. All those weeks of pain, of confusion, of feeling inexplicably cut off. All that wasted time. All that tension, now finally acknowledged.

You took a step closer, your gaze locking with his. Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried all the weight of your newfound understanding, all the simmering heat that was now rising within you.

“So,” you said, your eyes never leaving his, a faint, dangerous smile playing on your lips. “Do something about it, Mason.”

The words hung in the air, a challenge, an invitation, a release. His eyes flared, a look of stunned disbelief, then a sudden, fierce flicker of hope and raw hunger. The air between you crackled, electric.

He didn't need to be told twice.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, his grip surprisingly firm. He didn't say a word, just dragged you through the throng of people, a man possessed. You followed, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a thrill shooting through you. You didn't know where he was going, didn't care. All you knew was that finally, finally, the agonizing distance between you was about to close.

He pulled you through a side exit, into the cool night air. The sudden silence was a shock after the thumping bass, broken only by the distant city hum and the frantic beat of your own pulse. He didn't slow down until you were at the curb, where a sleek, black car, presumably his, was waiting. He practically shoved you into the passenger seat, then jogged around to the driver’s side, fumbling with the keys.

The tension in the confined space of the car was almost unbearable, a living entity between you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, even without touching. He started the engine with a roar, then pulled away from the curb, driving with a controlled urgency that mirrored the tempest brewing inside him. You didn't speak. Your eyes were fixed on his profile, the hard line of his jaw, the tense grip on the steering wheel. He glanced at you, a quick, hungry look, then back at the road.

He didn't drive far, pulling up outside an exclusive apartment building, quieter, more private than the bustling city centre. This was his building, you realized. His haven. His place. He turned off the engine, plunging the car into silence. The air was thick with unspoken longing.

Then he reached across the console, his hand finding your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. His touch was feather-light, yet it sent shivers through you. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, searched yours. “Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, a last shred of doubt, of respect, holding him back.

You leaned into his touch, your own hand instinctively reaching for the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair there. “Yes, Mason,” you breathed out, your voice barely a wisp. “More than sure.”

That was all he needed.

He crushed his lips against yours, a desperate, urgent kiss that was nothing like the gentle pecks of friendship. This was raw, hungry, utterly consuming. His mouth moved over yours with a fierce passion, tasting of desperation and long-repressed desire. You responded instantly, your lips parting under his, allowing his tongue to tangle with yours in a dance that was both familiar and exhilaratingly new.

His hand left your face, sweeping down to your waist, pulling you roughly across the gear stick, closer, until your bodies were pressed together as much as the car allowed. He groaned into your mouth, a guttural sound that vibrated through your chest. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging gently, urging him deeper.

He broke the kiss, breathless, his forehead resting against yours. “Bedroom,” he gasped, the single word laden with a desperate plea.

You nodded, equally breathless. He pulled away, scrambling out of the car. You fumbled with your seatbelt, your hands shaking, your body alight with anticipation. He was already at your door, opening it, offering his hand. You took it, stepping out, and he didn't let go, dragging you into the cool, silent lobby, then into the elevator.

The ride up was torture. His eyes never left yours, his gaze burning, promising. You leaned against the cold metal wall, your chest rising and falling rapidly. The sexual tension was so thick you could practically taste it.

When the elevator doors finally opened, he practically pulled you out, fumbling with his keys, his hands shaking slightly. He unlocked the door, pushing it open, and then, finally, you were inside.

The apartment was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of city lights through the huge windows. He didn't bother with the lights. He just kicked the door shut behind you, then pinned you against it, his mouth reclaiming yours with a ferocity that stole your breath.

His hands were everywhere, urgent, seeking. One threaded into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slid down your back, pulling you flush against his hard body. You could feel the undeniable evidence of his desire pressing against you, and it only intensified your own.

You broke the kiss for air, both of you gasping, foreheads touching. “Mason…” you whimpered, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt.

“Tell me to stop,” he challenged, his voice husky, his eyes dark with unbridled longing.

You met his gaze, shaking your head slowly. “Never.”

With a low growl, he scooped you into his arms. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, holding on tight as he carried you through the apartment. You kissed him all the way to the bedroom, your lips never breaking contact, a passionate promise sealed with every touch.

He gently lowered you onto the soft expanse of his bed. You lay there for a moment, looking up at him, your heart pounding. He stood over you, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. He looked like a man on the brink, finally unleashing weeks of pent-up desire.

He reached for the hem of your dress, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled it up and over your head. You helped, lifting your arms, the fabric a soft whisper as it came away. You were left in your lace lingerie, feeling exposed, vulnerable, and thrillingly desired. His eyes raked over your body, a slow, appreciative gaze that made a flush creep across your skin.

Then it was his turn. You reached for his shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons. He chuckled, a low, sexy sound, and helped you, shrugging out of the garment. His sculpted torso was revealed, a testament to his athletic prowess. You reached out, your fingers tracing the firm plane of his abs, the broad expanse of his chest. He gasped, a shiver running through him at your touch.

He kicked off his shoes, then unzipped his trousers, pushing them down along with his boxers. Your gaze devoured him, a potent mix of awe and hunger swirling inside you. He was magnificent, every inch of him screaming male power and raw desire. Your eyes met, and in that moment, all hesitation vanished.

He climbed onto the bed, hovering over you, his weight supported by his arms. His gaze was heated, possessive, yet reverent. Your hands found his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, slow and deep. This wasn't just lust; this was a culmination of years of unspoken affection, a friendship transformed, ignited into something fierce and undeniable.

His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a fiery path of kisses. You arched your back, desperate for more, your hands gripping his shoulders. He tasted the hollow of your throat, then moved lower, his tongue making dizzying circles around your collarbone. A gasp escaped you as his mouth found your breast, suckling gently, sending shivers through your entire body.

You whimpered his name, the sound of it a plea. He responded, his hand sliding down your stomach, deftly finding the lace barrier of your underwear. His fingers tangled in the soft fabric, teasing, stroking, until you were writhing beneath him, desperate for his touch.

“Mason…” you breathed, your hips arching, a silent demand.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with desire. “Tell me what you want,” he rasped, his voice thick.

You looked at him, your gaze unwavering. “You,” you whispered. “All of you. Now.”

With a final groan, he shifted, positioning himself between your legs. You opened for him, your body crying out for release. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes searching yours one last time, a silent confirmation of consent, of mutual desire. You gave it to him with a hungry look and a slight nod.

Then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered you.

A gasp tore from your throat, a mixture of pain and exquisite pleasure. He was full, hot, stretching you in the most beautiful way. You gripped his back, your nails digging into his skin as he filled you completely. He paused, letting you adjust, his eyes watching your face for any sign of discomfort.

“Okay?” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You nodded, tears pricking your eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, the sheer intimacy of it. “More than okay,” you whispered back.

Then he began to move. Slowly at first, a gentle rhythm that quickly built in pace and intensity. Each thrust was deeper, harder, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You met his rhythm, bucking your hips against his, desperate for more. The sounds filled the room – the soft creak of the bed, the slick sound of skin against skin, your ragged breaths, his low grunts.

He leaned down, burying his face in your neck, his lips pressing desperate kisses there. “God, I’ve wanted you,” he breathed out, his voice raw with emotion. “So bad.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, wanting to feel every inch of him. The tension that had built between you for weeks, the unspoken longing, the agonizing avoidance – it all culminated in this explosive union. It was messy, it was passionate, it was raw, and it was everything you both needed.

The world narrowed to just the two of you, a blur of sensations, of touch and taste and sound. His thrusts became frantic, desperate, pushing you higher and higher. You felt the delicious pressure building inside you, a spiralling vortex of pleasure. You cried out his name, a broken sob of pure ecstasy as your body convulsed around him, sending you spiralling into a breathless, mind-numbing orgasm.

He groaned, a primal sound of release, his body tensing, then collapsing against yours as he found his own climax, burying himself deep inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You lay entwined, hearts pounding against each other, breaths ragged, bodies slick with sweat. The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer with tension, but with satiation, with a profound sense of peace.

He finally shifted, pulling out of you with a soft sigh, then rolling onto his side, pulling you closer until your head rested on his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tight, as if afraid you might disappear.

You listened to the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your ear, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. His fingers gently stroked your hair, a soothing, tender gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough. “For avoiding you. For everything.”

You looked up at him, your vision still a little blurry from the intensity of it all. You traced the line of his jaw with your finger. “It’s okay,” you murmured, a soft smile gracing your lips. “You know… I think it was worth the wait.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. “Yeah?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, pressing a soft kiss to his chin. “Definitely worth the wait.”

The future was uncertain, a blank canvas shimmering with possibilities. But in that moment, wrapped in Mason’s strong arms, feeling the lingering warmth of his body against yours, you knew one thing for sure: the landscape of your friendship had irrevocably changed. And though it was daunting, it was also exhilarating. This new path, paved with raw honesty and undeniable passion, felt like coming home. You closed your eyes, a content sigh escaping your lips, ready to explore whatever came next.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: You and Mason have been friends for a while.. but one night he teaches you how to take control.

—————————————————————————

Unleashing Innocent

Mason Mount had always been the steady one in their friendship. With his easy smile and that boyish charm that lit up stadiums, he was the guy everyone turned to for advice. But with her—his quiet, wide-eyed best friend since uni days—he felt something deeper, something that simmered just beneath the surface. She was innocence personified: soft curls framing her face, laughter that bubbled like champagne, and a blush that crept up her cheeks at the slightest innuendo. They'd shared late-night talks, movie marathons, and even a few awkward almost-moments, but she'd always pulled back, too shy to cross that line.

Tonight, though, everything felt different. It was a rainy evening in Manchester, the kind where the city lights blurred into a hazy glow outside his house. She'd come over after a tough week at work, seeking comfort in their familiar routine. But as they sat on his couch, her head resting on his shoulder during some mindless rom-com, Mason couldn't ignore the way her fingers traced idle patterns on his thigh. Or how her breath hitched when he shifted closer.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, turning to face her. His dark eyes searched hers, catching the flicker of uncertainty mixed with curiosity.

She nodded, biting her lip. "Yeah, just... thinking. About us. About how you've always been there, pushing me to try new things. Like that time you dragged me to that club, and I actually danced."

He chuckled, his hand covering hers on his leg. "See? You're capable of letting loose. You just need a little nudge sometimes."

Her gaze dropped to their joined hands, then back up to him. "What if I want more than a nudge? What if I want to... take control?"

The words hung in the air, bold for her, and Mason's pulse quickened. He'd fantasized about this—about peeling back her layers, showing her the fire she kept hidden. "Then take it," he murmured, his thumb stroking her palm. "I'm yours to use. No judgments, no holding back. Let me show you how."

She hesitated, her cheeks flushing that familiar pink, but there was a spark in her eyes now, determination edging out the shyness. Slowly, she leaned in, her lips brushing his in a tentative kiss. Mason let her lead, his body going still as she deepened it, her tongue slipping past his lips with surprising hunger. Her hands roamed up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as she pushed him back against the cushions.

"Like this?" she whispered against his mouth, her voice breathy.

"Exactly like that," he replied, his hands staying at his sides, giving her the reins. "Tell me what you want. Use me."

Emboldened, she straddled his lap, her skirt riding up her thighs as she settled over him. Mason's cock twitched in his jeans at the feel of her warmth pressing down, but he held back, watching her with hooded eyes. She rocked her hips experimentally, a soft gasp escaping her when she felt his growing hardness beneath her.

"God, Mason... you're already..." Her words trailed off, but she didn't stop. Instead, she ground down harder, her hands sliding under his shirt to explore the ridges of his abs, the firm planes of his chest. He was built like an athlete—lean muscle from endless training—and she reveled in it, her nails scraping lightly over his skin.

"Keep going," he encouraged, his voice rough. "Feel how hard you make me? That's all you. Take what you need."

She tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, then leaned down to kiss his neck, her teeth grazing the pulse point there. Mason groaned, his hands finally moving to grip the couch, resisting the urge to touch her. She was learning fast, her movements gaining confidence as she licked a path down his collarbone, nipping at his shoulders. When she reached his belt, her fingers fumbled for a second, but she persisted, unbuckling it with a determined tug.

"I want to see you," she said, more to herself than him, as she popped the button on his jeans and eased the zipper down. His cock sprang free, thick and straining against his boxers, and her eyes widened. Innocence lingered in that stare, but so did raw desire. She palmed him through the fabric, stroking slowly, feeling him throb under her touch.

Mason's breath came in sharp bursts. "Fuck, yes. Just like that. Don't stop."

She hooked her fingers into his waistband and pulled his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his cock completely. It stood erect, veined and flushed, the tip glistening with pre-cum. She wrapped her hand around the base, squeezing gently, then slid up to the head, her thumb circling the sensitive spot. Mason bucked involuntarily, a low moan escaping him.

"Does that feel good?" she asked, her voice gaining a sultry edge as she pumped him steadily.

"So good," he rasped. "You're a natural. Now, taste it if you want."

Her hesitation was brief. Leaning down, she flicked her tongue over the tip, lapping at the bead of pre-cum. The salty tang made her hum, and she took him into her mouth, lips stretching around his girth. She bobbed her head, taking him deeper with each pass, her hand working what she couldn't fit. Mason's fingers threaded into her hair—not guiding, just holding—as he watched her, his innocent friend transformed into this bold temptress.

"Shit, your mouth..." He trailed off, hips lifting slightly to meet her rhythm. She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, her free hand cupping his balls and massaging them lightly. The wet sounds filled the room, mingling with his groans and her muffled moans.

But she wanted more—needed to feel him inside her. Pulling back with a pop, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his cock, she stood and stripped off her top, revealing lacy bra that cupped her full breasts. Mason's eyes darkened as she unhooked it, letting them spill free, nipples hardening in the cool air.

"Touch them," she commanded softly, surprising herself with the authority in her tone. He obeyed, palms cupping her breasts, thumbs rolling her nipples until she arched into him. Then she shoved her skirt and panties down, kicking them away, leaving her bare and glistening.

Straddling him again, she positioned herself over his cock, the head nudging her slick folds. "I want you to fill me," she said, locking eyes with him. "But I'm in charge."

"All yours," he promised, voice strained.

She sank down slowly, inch by inch, her pussy stretching around his thickness. A whimper escaped her at the fullness, the way he hit every sensitive spot. Once seated, she paused, adjusting, then began to ride him—up and down, grinding her clit against his pelvis with each descent. Her hands braced on his chest for leverage, nails digging in as pleasure built.

Mason watched, mesmerized, as her breasts bounced with her movements, her face flushed with exertion and ecstasy. "You look so fucking hot like this," he growled. "Taking what you want. Harder—use me harder."

She did, picking up speed, her ass slapping against his thighs. The couch creaked under them, her moans growing louder, uninhibited. She leaned forward, capturing his lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as she fucked him relentlessly. His cock throbbed inside her, hitting deep, and she clenched around him, chasing her release.

"Mason... I'm close," she panted, her rhythm faltering.

"Come for me," he urged, one hand sneaking to her clit, rubbing circles despite her lead. "Let go."

The touch sent her over the edge. She cried out, pussy spasming around his cock as waves of orgasm crashed through her. Mason followed seconds later, thrusting up once, twice, before spilling hot cum deep inside her, filling her with each pulse.

They collapsed together, her forehead against his, breaths mingling in the aftermath. She stayed on him, his softening cock still buried in her warmth, neither wanting to break the connection.

"That was... incredible," she whispered, tracing his jaw with her finger. "I never knew I could feel like that."

He smiled, finally wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close. "You were always capable. I just wanted you to see it. And I've wanted this—wanted you—for so long. Not just as friends."

Her eyes softened, a tender smile curving her lips. "Me too. I was scared, but now... I don't want to hold back anymore. With you."

He kissed her gently, pouring all the unspoken affection into it. "Then don't. We're in this together. Friends, lovers—whatever you want to call it. As long as it's us."

As the rain pattered against the window, they held each other, the shift from friendship to something deeper sealed in the quiet intimacy of the night. For the first time, she felt truly free, and Mason knew he'd cherish teaching her that forever.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Word count: ~ 700

Genre: Fluff

————————————————————————-

Strings

It was a Tuesday. Post-training interviews. You were wrapping up with a new signing, a charming, charismatic forward who was genuinely cracking you up. You leaned against the wall, notepad forgotten, a genuine, unguarded smile plastered on your face as he recounted a hilarious anecdote from his former club.

Across the room, Mason was finishing up his own interview, but his gaze kept snagging on you. On your smile. On the way the new lad's eyes lingered on you as he spoke. Something in Mason snapped.

He walked over, his stride purposeful, a storm brewing in those usually bright blue eyes. He didn't even break stride, just reached out, his hand finding the small of your back, and he pulled. Hard. Your breath hitched as you stumbled back against him, his body a warm, solid wall.

The new signing’s smile faltered. Mason didn't even look at him. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and burning.

"Mind if I steal her for a second?" he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, a warning note for everyone but specifically aimed at the guy you'd just been laughing with.

Before you could even process what was happening, Mason was tugging you towards the nearest empty corridor, away from prying eyes, away from the hum of the training ground.

He didn't stop until your back hit the cool concrete of the wall with a soft thud. His hands came up, flanking your head, caging you in. His chest was heaving slightly, not from exertion, but from something raw and primal bubbling beneath the surface.

"What – Mason?" you whispered, suddenly feeling very small, very exposed.

"What was that, huh?" he growled, leaning in, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Smiling at him like that? Laughing like I've never heard you laugh before?"

A shiver ran down your spine. This wasn't the laid-back, charming Mason you knew. This was something else. Something dangerous.

"Mason, I was just—"

"No," he cut you off, his voice dropping to a low, guttural murmur that sent heat pooling in your stomach. "No, you weren't 'just.' You were looking at him like you look at me when we're alone. And I don't fucking like it."

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, possessive, claiming. "You think this is casual, don't you? Some little secret we share?" His eyes narrowed. "I can't stand it. Can't stand seeing anyone else look at you, touch you, talk to you like they have a right to you."

"Mason..." His intensity was overwhelming, intoxicating.

"Listen to me," he commanded, his lips brushing yours, "I don't care what we said. I don't care about the 'no strings.' Because there are strings, love. And they're wrapped so tight around my damn heart, I can barely breathe when you're not near me."

He kissed you then, hard and desperate, a kiss that devoured, that claimed, that left you breathless and trembling. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

When he finally pulled back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was a ragged whisper against your lips.

"You're mine. You hear me? Mine. Every laugh, every smile, every damn second. I'm in love with you, you idiot. And if you ever look at anyone else like that again, I swear to God I'll drag you into the nearest empty room and show you exactly who you belong to until you can't even remember your own name."

The dirty talk, the possessive grip, the raw confession – it all hit you at once. Your FWB agreement had just been obliterated, replaced by something fiercer, more demanding, and utterly, terrifyingly real.

You choked out a laugh, tears pricking your eyes. "You're an absolute menace, Mason Mount."

"Only for you," he growled, and then his lips were on yours again, sealing the deal, claiming his territory, making sure you understood, without a shadow of a doubt, that you were irrevocably, undeniably his.

[wannaseeushine]

Man of my dreams🖤

[masonmtxo]

Im a whore for this man and this man only

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Summary: You’re the new sports psychologist at Manchester United. On your first day, you get hopelessly lost — until Mason Mount stops to help. From there, a friendship begins that neither of you can quite ignore.

Word count: ~5k.

Genre: Fluff. ----------------------------------------------------------------------

Something like this

She’d been warned that Old Trafford was a maze — but she hadn’t expected this.

Corridors that all looked the same, doors that led to stairwells or storage closets, and not a single familiar face. Her badge read Dr. Y/N Y/L/N, Sports Psychology Department, but at this point, even she wasn’t sure she belonged here.

She’d been standing in the same hallway for five minutes when she heard footsteps behind her.

“Bit lost, are you?”

She turned, startled. The voice was warm, slightly teasing, and undeniably familiar — Mason Mount, in a United training top, hair still damp from a session, a towel slung around his neck. “I— yeah,” she admitted, laughing nervously. “Completely. I’m meant to find the medical wing.” He smiled, that easy, boyish grin she’d seen in interviews. “You’re miles off. C’mon, I’ll show you.” “You don’t have to—” “Trust me,” he said, walking backward a few steps, hands in his pockets. “If I leave you here, you’ll end up in the laundry room or something. Happened to me once. Still traumatised.”

That made her laugh, and just like that, the nerves in her chest loosened.

They walked side by side through the corridors, chatting about small things — her first day, his recovery from injury, the weather. His voice was easy, soft, the kind that made everything feel less intimidating. When they reached the right floor, he stopped and nodded toward the sign.

“Here you go. Medical wing, safe and sound.” “Thank you,” she said, genuinely. “You’ve just saved my first impression.” He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Glad to be of service.” And then, before she could think about it, she said, “You’re Mason Mount, right?” He chuckled. “Last time I checked, yeah.” “Sorry, I just— I should’ve led with that.” “It’s alright,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Nice to meet you, Doc.”

The nickname stuck.

It started with polite hellos in the corridor. Then coffee in the staff canteen. Then longer conversations after his individual sessions.

Mason was quieter than she expected — thoughtful, a little shy, but with a wit that came out when he relaxed. He’d ask about mindfulness, about breathing techniques, about how to switch off after a match.

She’d tell him things, too — about pressure, about the brain’s way of tricking you into doubt. He’d listen, always properly listening, head tilted, eyes fixed on her like she was saying something important.

Somewhere along the way, friendship slipped into something else.

It was in the way he’d linger after appointments, or how he’d smile whenever she laughed. How his messages started ending with “Sleep well, yeah?” and how she caught herself smiling at her phone like a teenager.

And maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just how he was.

But the way her pulse raced when he touched her arm said otherwise. Mason wasn’t used to this kind of nerves.

He could walk into Old Trafford in front of seventy thousand people without flinching, but one look at her — hair tucked behind her ear, that soft, professional smile — and his chest would twist up like it didn’t know how to breathe.

She was clever. Kind. She made him feel calm in a way nothing else did lately.

And yeah, the lads had noticed.

Every time she came into the training centre, someone would nudge him, whispering, “There’s your girlfriend, Mount.” He’d roll his eyes, blush, mumble something about professionalism — but they weren’t wrong.

He was gone for her. Properly gone.

He’d tried to tell himself to move on, that she probably didn’t see him that way, that she was just doing her job — but then she’d smile at him over her coffee cup, and his brain would short-circuit again.

By week six, the teasing reached a new level.

He was in the physio room, stretching after training, when Bruno threw a ball at his head. “Mount, you gonna ask her out or what?” He groaned. “Not this again.” “She’s fit, mate. And you’ve been moonin’ over her for weeks.” “Because she’s nice,” he muttered Luke grinned. “Nice? You talk about her like she’s a puppy. Just ask her out.”

“I’m not asking out the club psychologist,” Mason said firmly. “That’s mad.” Bruno smirked. “Then don’t get jealous when someone else does.” Mason rolled his eyes. “No one’s gonna—” “Bet you a fiver she says yes if anyone asks,” Luke said. “We’ll see how long you stay calm,” Bruno added.

He didn’t think much of it then — until later that week, when he saw Amad talking to her near the lobby.

Laughing. Her head tilted back, smiling in a way that used to be reserved for him. And that was when his stomach dropped. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But he couldn’t help it. Amad was leaning against the wall, teasing. “So, Y/N, anyone’s told you you’ve got the whole place talkin’? Mason’s been actin’ different since you showed up.”

She laughed, shy.

“Oh, really? Poor guy.”

“Just sayin’ — if he won’t ask you out, someone else will.”

Mason’s heart pounded. The words blurred. He couldn’t hear her reply — just her laugh, light and warm, and it made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t understand.

He left before they noticed him, head down, chest tight. It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. It was… confusion. Except it wasn’t. It was the realisation that he’d been stupid. That he’d waited too long, said too little. And maybe now, it was too late.

She noticed it immediately.

The next few days, he was different — distant, quieter. Shorter replies. No more coffee breaks. No more late texts.

She’d walk past him in the hallway, and he’d smile politely, but it wasn’t the same. His eyes didn’t linger anymore.

At first, she thought she’d done something wrong. Then she thought maybe he’d just lost interest. Either way, the silence started to hurt.

By the end of the week, she’d had enough.

It was raining again — fitting, really. She found him leaving the gym, hood pulled up, bag slung over his shoulder. ''Mason,'' she called.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said, walking up to him. “Did I do something?” He shook his head. “No. You didn’t.” “Then what’s going on? You barely talk to me anymore.”

He sighed, eyes closing for a moment.

“You don’t need me hanging around you all the time. You’ve got… other people.” “Other people?” He gave a small, humourless laugh. “Amad, for one.” She frowned. “Amad? He was asking about mindfulness sessions. That’s all.”

His head snapped up.

“He— what?” “Why?” she asked, crossing her arms. “What did you think was happening?” He looked away, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter.” “It obviously does,” she said softly. “Talk to me, Mase.”

The nickname broke him a little. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering, “The lads told me he was gonna ask you out. I saw you two talking and I thought— I dunno— I thought I’d missed my chance.” Her heart twisted. “You thought I’d say yes to Amad?”

He shrugged helplessly. “You were laughing. You looked happy.” She stared at him, incredulous. “Mason, you make me happy.” He froze. “You,” she said again, voice quiet but steady. “Not Marcus. Not anyone else.”

His chest rose and fell quickly, eyes searching hers like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You can’t just say that,” he whispered. “Why not?” “Because I—” He stopped, words catching on his breath. “Because I’ve been trying not to fall for you, and I’m failing miserably.”

The confession hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. Rain pattered against the concrete. Neither of them moved.

She took a slow step closer.

“Then stop trying.” His breath hitched. “You mean that?” She nodded, eyes soft. “I like you, Mason. More than I probably should.”

That was all it took.

He reached for her before he could think twice, one hand cupping her jaw, the other sliding to her waist. The kiss started tentative, unsure — but the moment she kissed him back, something inside both of them snapped into place. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, full of everything they hadn’t said for weeks.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads still pressed together, both of them were breathless. He laughed softly, voice shaking. “God, I’ve wanted to do that for ages.” She smiled. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckled, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “So… can I take you out? Properly, I mean.” “Yeah,” she whispered. “You can.” He grinned — that shy, dimpled grin that had undone her from the start. “Tomorrow?” “Tomorrow,” she said. “But for now—”

She tugged him closer, kissing him again, rain forgotten, laughter spilling between them. And for the first time since she arrived in Manchester, she didn’t feel lost at all.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Word Count: ~3.9k

Genre: Angst / Fluff

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, emotional themes, mild language.

Summary: A month after the breakup, you told Mason you were pregnant. He promised to be there — and he is. Every scan, every call, every quiet moment between games. You agreed on co-parenting, but neither of you planned on falling for each other all over again.

—————————————————————————

🌧️ Still yours

Part two: Growing with you

The first appointment was awkward. You sat in the waiting room pretending to scroll your phone, heartbeat loud in your ears. Mason sat next to you, hands clasped between his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer him a script. When the nurse called your name, you both stood up too fast. He moved to follow you, then hesitated “You want me to—?” You nodded before you could think. “Yeah. Come in.”

The room smelled like antiseptic and lavender. You lay back on the table, nerves buzzing, and Mason sat beside you, silent but close enough that you could feel his warmth. When the ultrasound tech turned the screen, the noise filled the space — a rhythmic flutter, small but certain. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” she said. Mason’s breath hitched. You looked at him, and for the first time since the breakup, he wasn’t guarded. His eyes were wet. He whispered, “That’s— that’s really ours?” You nodded. “Yeah.” He swallowed, eyes never leaving the screen. “She’s strong.” “She?” you teased, voice trembling. He smiled, shaky but real. “Just a feeling.” And you laughed, even as tears burned your eyes.

⸻

Over the next months, you built something fragile and familiar.

He came to appointments when he wasn’t training. Sometimes he’d show up at your door with groceries, claiming it was “just easier to cook at yours.” Other times he’d text from away games—Drink water. Don’t forget your vitamins. Missed the scan—send me a picture.

He never missed two in a row. It wasn’t perfect. Some days, the silence between you stretched too long. Others, you’d forget you weren’t together—like the time he built the crib and smiled at you over the half-finished frame. “You trust me with a screwdriver?” he joked. You smirked. “Barely.” He handed you one. “Then help.” And for a moment, it felt easy again. Like nothing had ever broken.

⸻

One night, halfway through your second trimester, you called him crying. “It’s nothing,” you said, voice shaky. “Just— I think I pulled something. I’m fine.” He was at your door fifteen minutes later, still in his training kit, hair damp from the shower. “You’re not fine,” he said gently. “Let me check.” You rolled your eyes but let him kneel beside the couch, his hand hovering uncertainly before settling on your belly, warm and careful. “Does it hurt here?” he asked. You shook your head. “No. It’s okay now.” He looked up at you. “Next time, call sooner. You don’t have to do this alone.” You wanted to tell him you left, that I had to learn to do it alone. Instead, you just said, “Okay.”

He stayed until you fell asleep, sitting in the armchair by the window. When you woke up hours later, he was still there — hoodie half-zipped, head tilted back, fast asleep. You didn’t wake him.

⸻

The world found out around month six.

A leaked photo, a tabloid headline, a flood of speculation. Who’s the mystery woman? Mount to be a father? You called him first. “They know.” He sighed softly through the phone. “Then we do this together.” “Mase—” “I mean it,” he said. “Let them talk. They’ll get tired. I won’t.” And he didn’t. At the next match, he kissed his wrist after scoring — right where your ultrasound photo had been folded into his sleeve pocket. You saw it on TV and cried in your kitchen.

He texted later: You saw?

You typed back: You didn’t have to.

He replied: I wanted to.

⸻

By the last trimester, his name had become a comfort again.

Every kick, every sleepless night, every doctor’s appointment — he was there in some way.

Once, when you were restless, he showed up at 11 p.m. with ice cream.

“You’re not supposed to drive this late,” you said, even as you took the tub.

He shrugged. “You said you wanted mint chocolate chip.”

You smiled, tired. “I said that three days ago.”

He grinned. “I listen slow.” You both ate from the same tub on the couch, the baby kicking like she knew the sound of his voice.

When your eyes grew heavy, he took the empty carton, covered you with a blanket, and whispered something you barely heard.

“Can’t wait to meet her.”

⸻

You didn’t plan to fall back into rhythm with him. It just happened.

The way he held doors open without thinking. The way he rested his hand on your back in crowded hallways. The way he laughed when you teased him about baby names. “I’m not naming her after a football ground,” you said one day. “Old Trafford Mount has a nice ring,” he teased. You hit his arm. “You’re ridiculous.” He grinned. “You love it.” You froze at the word, but he didn’t take it back.

⸻

At your final scan, he looked nervous.

“You okay?” you asked. He nodded. “Yeah. Just— every time, it’s more real.” You smiled. “That’s kind of the point.” He laughed softly, then grew quiet. “You’re doing amazing, you know. I don’t think I ever told you that.” “You show up. That’s enough,” you said. But he shook his head. “It’s not enough. You’ve done everything. I left when you needed me most, and you still—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “You still let me be here.” You didn’t answer. You just reached for his hand.

The baby’s heartbeat filled the room again, fast and steady. You looked at him, and this time, you didn’t look away.

⸻

That night, when he walked you to your door, he hesitated before leaving. “Can I—?” he began, then shook his head. “Never mind.” You tilted your head. “What?” He gave a nervous smile. “Just wanted to say… thank you. For letting me back in, even like this.” You smiled softly. “It’s not about letting you back in, Mase. You never really left.” He blinked, surprised, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah?” You nodded. “You were always part of this. Part of us.” He swallowed, eyes shining. “Good. Because I don’t want to miss a thing.” And when he left, you stood in the doorway, hand on your stomach, heart impossibly full.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Word Count: ~3.6k

Genre: Angst / Emotional / Second Chance Romance

Warnings: breakup, emotional vulnerability, crying, mention of mental health struggles (non-graphic), light language

Summary: He said he couldn’t do it anymore. That he wasn’t in the right place — not for football, not for love, not for you.A month later, when you find out you’re pregnant, everything changes….

————————————————————————

🌧️ Still Yours

Part one: The Breakup

Mason stood by the window with his arms crossed, the city lights fuzzed to halos on the glass. He looked like someone had turned down the saturation on him—mouth a thin line, eyes distant. The air was thick with all the words they’d said in the past week, and all the ones they were trying not to say now.

“Say something,” she whispered, because the silence felt like a fifth person in the room—louder than either of them.

“I’m saying it by not saying it.” He winced at his own sentence and rubbed at his jaw. “I’m sorry. I’m not—” He exhaled, eyes closing like he was bracing for a collision. “I’m not in the right place. Not for this. Not for you—properly.”

Her heart did that awful collapsing thing where emotion turns physical, hollowing the center out of you. “So what does that mean?” She already knew. She just needed him to hear himself.

He turned from the window and finally looked at her. She hated that he still looked like everything she loved: soft-tired eyes, a mouth that had learned her name like a prayer, a face where every emotion lived too close to the surface. “It means I can’t keep being someone who keeps disappointing you,” he said. “I’m not sleeping. I’m thinking too much. Training feels like I’m dragging my body through cement. Every game—it’s like the noise doesn’t stop in my head. You deserve someone solid. I’m not that right now.”

The ceiling light clicked in the draft, steady-unstable-steady. “I never asked you to be perfect,” she said. Her throat burned.

“That’s the thing,” he said softly, stepping closer. “You didn’t. But I can feel the gap. Between what you deserve and what I can give. And I hate that I’m making you feel small, when you’re the opposite of small. You’re… everything.”

She found a laugh somewhere, brittle and wrong. “So your solution is to make us smaller. Break it down to nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” he said, almost desperate. “It’s not. I—” He swallowed. “I love you.” It broke out of him helplessly, like it had slipped past his guard. “I love you. And I don’t know how to be good to you right now. I hate that I don’t know.”

She watched his hands, the way they opened and closed—helpless, searching for something to hold. He’d always held things gently. Coffee cups. Her neck. Hope.

“If you walk away,” she whispered, “don’t pretend you’re doing me a favor. Say you’re scared. Say you don’t know how to hold both football and me. Say it’s easier to lose one thing than to try and fail at two.”

He flinched. The rain threaded down the window in slanted lines.

“I’m scared,” he said, voice cracking for the first time. “And I don’t know how to hold both. And I would rather be the one who hurts now than be the one who keeps hurting you.”

There it was. The truth like a shard they both had to step on. She nodded once, the sharpness of it cutting wet behind her eyes. She walked to her bag, shoved the hoodie inside, zipped it quick. He didn’t move. He didn’t say don’t go. He didn’t say anything except with his posture, which said: I’ll be sorry for a very long time.

At the door, she turned back. There were a thousand goodbyes they’d rehearsed as jokes, never thinking they’d have to use them—see you on the other side of the couch war, don’t steal my charger, if you eat the last biscuit I’m calling the police. None of them worked for this moment.

“Take care of yourself, Mase,” she said finally, the syllables breaking apart like wet bread.

His mouth trembled. “You too.”

She left to the sound of the rain, and the click of the door turned the room into two separate worlds.

⸻

A month later, the sky was cruelty blue. She’d been sick three mornings in a row, chalking it up to a stomach bug and grief both being terrible roommates. Her period was late. Not unusual when your heart had been dragged through a hedge and the stress reset your entire body like a glitching computer—but then she saw the calendar squares stack up and felt the dread crawl, a measured, slow thing.

She bought a test at the pharmacy like it was contraband, head down, hoodie up. The woman at the till didn’t even look at her twice. In her bathroom she tore open the foil with shaking fingers and cheeks flushed like she’d done something wrong. The clock on her phone ticked too loudly. She stared at the stick on the sink, at the faint line that darkened as if stepping out of a shadow.

Her knees found the floor without permission.

“I’m pregnant,” she said to the quiet, and the quiet didn’t argue.

Fear thudded through her in a cold wave, then a second feeling that she couldn’t name—tenderness, maybe, or a slow, stunned awe. A life. Inside her. His and hers. The world rearranged itself in a series of sudden, dizzying clicks. Practicalities burst like popcorn: appointments, vitamins, money. The jumble meant to distract from the main question spiraling under everything.

Do I tell him?

She sat on the bathmat and cried, the kind that arrives with no sound and leaves you hollowed. Her phone buzzed with a message from her mum: Are you eating properly? She laughed a broken laugh because the universe was apparently fond of irony.

When she called her mum, the words came out small but steady. There was a silence on the other end that felt like a hand being held out across a river, then her mum said, “We’ll sort it. Whatever you decide. You’re not alone.” It cleared a space inside her for air.

She stood in the mirror later and pressed her palm over her flat stomach. “Hi,” she whispered, feeling ridiculous and not caring. “I’m scared. But I’ll be brave for you.”

She drafted a message to Mason three times and deleted it three times. Can we talk? looked too much like the opening line of a disaster. I need to tell you something felt like a threat. In the end she called, because some things needed a voice to be real.

He picked up on the second ring, the sound of traffic behind him. “Hey.” A beat. “Are you okay?”

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t tell if it was relief or pain to hear his voice and feel how it lived in her bones already. “Can you meet me? Somewhere quiet.”

Concern threaded his tone. “Yeah. Name it.”

There was a café tucked into a side street near the library, the kind with old wood tables and a bell that rang when the door opened like a memory. No one ever took photos there. They picked that one when they were them. She told him six o’clock. He said he’d be there.

⸻

He was already seated when she arrived, hoodie up, cap low, fingertips pressed to a mug he hadn’t touched. He stood when he saw her, then hesitated, as if unsure whether he had the right to meet her halfway. She sat opposite. The bell above the door rang for a couple who came in laughing, then cut off, and the room seemed to press in, waiting for their script.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” His smile was small but real. He looked tired in that way she recognized as not-sleeping and trying-not-to-think. But he looked at her like she was light in a dark room and he didn’t mean to.

“Thanks for coming.”

“I would’ve come if you’d said three a.m.” A wince. “Sorry. That sounded—”

“It’s okay.” She wrapped her hands around the water glass like it could ground her. Her mouth had gone dry. Tell him. Say it clean. Don’t make it an apology. She inhaled, the air shaky.

“I’m pregnant.”

The world narrowed to the shape of his face. He blinked once, twice, like his brain was buffering. The café sounds—milk steaming, plates clinking—went underwater, and the only thing in the room was the color draining from his cheeks and then rushing back like a tide.

“It’s yours, Mason,” she added quickly, her voice trembling but steady enough to be heard. “You’re the only person it could be.”

He froze. Silence stretched between them, fragile and absolute. Then he whispered, “Okay,” except it came out as a question and a prayer at the same time. “Okay.” His fingers tightened on the mug. He put it down carefully, like his hands were dangerous. “Are you—how are you? Are you okay?” His breathing was uneven. “Have you been to a doctor? Do you—do you know how far—”

“About five weeks,” she said, relieved and weirdly protective of his panic. “I’m okay. I—” Her throat softened unexpectedly. “I’m okay.”

He nodded too fast. “Right. Okay.” He said okay like a raft, something to hold onto so he wouldn’t tip. He swallowed. “I’m sorry that you’ve been dealing with this alone for… however long. I—Jesus.” He dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes glossing. “You told me and I’m sitting here making it about me. I’m sorry.”

“It is about you,” she said, and the truth of that was a small, complicated mercy. “It’s about both of us. I didn’t tell you so you could fix anything. I told you because it’s yours, too.”

He looked at her like he might split open. “I never stopped—” He bit the words back, jaw working. “I’m here.” He sat forward, elbows on knees, voice low enough to be a promise. “Whatever you decide. However you want to do this. I’m here. I’m not—” A breath, harsh. “I’m not walking away again.”

She believed him, even if belief hurt. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, tears pricking. “I’m terrified. One minute I think I can do this and the next minute I can barely breathe. And I—” She stared at the condensation on her glass so she wouldn’t have to watch his expression when she said it. “I still love you. That doesn’t help anything. It probably makes it worse.”

He made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. “It doesn’t make it worse for me.”

Her head snapped up. He shook his head immediately, hands up in surrender. “I’m not—I’m not asking for anything. I don’t have the right. I just—” He exhaled like it scraped his ribs on the way out. “I’ve regretted… every second. Not because I didn’t need to get my head right, but because I made you pay for it. You shouldn’t have had to.”

The bell over the door rang again and she suddenly wanted to cry for how ordinary this all was, how unreasonable to put a life-changing conversation in a room that smelled like cinnamon and disinfectant. “I don’t want to hate you,” she said, which was as close as she could get to I want you, still. “I don’t think I can.”

His mouth trembled. “Don’t try,” he said, rough. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“What do we do?” she asked. It sounded like the first line of a pact.

“We talk to a doctor. We make a plan. We tell… whoever you want to tell.” He was counting things off on his fingers like the act of naming them could build a road. “I come to appointments if you’ll have me. I’ll rearrange whatever I need to, I swear. If you don’t want me there sometimes, that’s fine, too. But I’ll be the cab you call at two in the morning or the person who sits in the waiting room so you don’t have to sit alone.” He swallowed. “If you’ll let me.”

She stared at him, and for a strange, suspended second she saw the face he’d make if he saw their baby’s heartbeat on a screen. She saw him hold a tiny hat and forget how to speak. The thought hit so hard and with such clarity that she had to look away to steady herself.

“I’ll let you,” she said eventually. The words put something into the world with weight and shape. “We’re not—” She gestured lamely, trying to encompass the ruins of them and the possibility under the ruins. “I can’t be with you right now.”

He nodded, relief and sorrow moving through him at the same time. “I know.” A beat. “I hate that I know.”

A silence fell, different from the one in his apartment—this one warmer, built of something that felt like patience and pain. He cleared his throat. “Have you eaten?” he asked, sudden, earnest. “I can—there’s toast or, I don’t know, a sandwich? You should eat.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being bossy or sweet.”

“Both?” He smiled, tiny and crooked. “Mostly terrified.”

She let out a breath that almost counted as a laugh. “Toast is fine.”

He stood too quickly, bumping his knee on the table leg, muttering sorry to the table and then to her, like he could apologize his way back to a version of himself he liked better. He ordered, returned, sat. His hands were restless on the wood until he noticed and tucked them under his thighs like a child.

“I’m going to be sick sometimes,” she heard herself saying, practicalities spilling out because they were easier than feelings. “And I’m going to be tired. And hormonal, which is just a polite way of saying I’ll cry at dog food adverts.”

“I’ll cry with you,” he said immediately. Then, softer, embarrassed by his own earnestness, “I probably will anyway.”

She looked at him then—really looked—and saw the boyishness pushed aside by a man trying to show up even with his hands shaking. The doorbell jingled. Their toast arrived, cut in triangles like they were children. He pushed the plate toward her and watched like the act of eating might set the world back on its axis.

She picked up a triangle and took a bite because he was watching and because her body needed it. Butter and salt and something almost normal. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, crumbs catching in the corner of her mouth.

His eyes softened. “We will.”

They talked about doctors and days off and how to divide telling people. He asked questions he didn’t know how to frame, hands drawing shapes he didn’t name—What do you need? How do I make this easier? Where can I stand that helps and doesn’t hurt?—and she answered as best she could, finding, to her surprise, that speaking aloud made the fear move, like stirring a pot so it wouldn’t burn.

When they stood to leave, they both reached for the bill and he said, “Please,” and she let him, because choosing battles was a kindness she could give them both.

Outside, the evening had slipped into a soft dusk that made the streetlamps look gentler than usual. The cold pinched their cheeks pink. For a moment, they stood uncertain on the pavement like actors after the stage lights go down.

“I’ll text you the appointment time,” she said.

“I’ll be there.”

She started to step back, then stopped. There was a world where she hugged him, pressed her face into the place below his collarbone that had been home. There was a world where she didn’t. They were in the latter world now.

“Thank you for coming,” she said instead.

“Thank you for telling me,” he replied. His voice thinned. “You didn’t have to. I’m… grateful you did.”

She nodded and then she moved because standing still hurt. Halfway down the street, she let herself look back. He was still there, hands in his pockets, watching her go with a face full of something that might have been hope if he dared to name it. He didn’t call out. He didn’t chase her. He just stood, small in the city, like a promise waiting to be kept.

She rounded the corner and exhaled, pressing her palm over her stomach through her coat. Scared, yes. But not alone. The fear in her chest reshaped itself into something steadier, like a bridge being built with each step.

When her phone buzzed, she glanced down. Text me when you get in? Just so I know you’re okay? — M.

She typed back before she could overthink it. Home now. Okay.

Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. Then: I’m proud of you. Followed by another, shorter message: I’ll be better. You deserve that. Both of you.

She slipped the phone into her pocket and felt the cold air sting her eyes. On some far-off pitch under floodlights, he would lace up his boots and try again. In some small heartbreak-made-ordinary kitchen, she would take her vitamins and mark a date on a calendar. Between those two lives, a thread had been tied—thin and unsteady and new.

She turned her collar up against the wind and walked toward the next thing.

[canirove]

Nottingham Forest Vs Manchester United | 01.11.2025

[macey-icy]

Benched again but he's looking good 😚

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Genre: Angst / Friends to Lovers

Word count: 2k

Summary: They’ve been best friends for years. Until one night, when she doesn’t show up.

—————————————————————————

Everything I Never Said

The night started like any other — laughter spilling through Ben’s apartment, music low, glasses clinking against the coffee table. It was the same group of friends, the same Friday night routine that had gone on for years. Only this time, she wasn’t there. Mason noticed it the second he walked in. Her seat on the couch — empty. Her usual drink — missing. The group chat had gone quiet after her last message, a casual “don’t wait up for me tonight, I might not make it.” He hadn’t thought much of it until now. But now, surrounded by everyone else, it felt wrong.

“Where’s she at?” he asked, trying to sound offhand as he dropped onto the armchair. Ella, her closest friend, looked up from her phone. “Oh, didn’t you hear? She’s on a date.” Mason’s heart stopped. “A… date?” “Yeah,” Ella said casually, scrolling again. “Some guy she met a few weeks ago. They’re trying a restaurant in the Northern Quarter.” He forced a tight smile, nodded once, and leaned back. “Right. Good for her.” Good for her. That was all he could say when everything inside him was unraveling.

The others kept talking, laughing, sharing stories. Mason tried to join in — he even laughed at something Ben said — but it didn’t reach his eyes. The image in his head wouldn’t go away: her sitting across from someone else, smiling, laughing, maybe touching his hand. He tried to shake it off, but jealousy crept in like smoke, thick and suffocating. It didn’t make sense. They were friends. That’s all they’d ever been. So why did it feel like he couldn’t breathe? By the time someone offered another round, Mason mumbled something about needing air. No one questioned it — he always disappeared early when he wasn’t in the mood to socialize.

Outside, the cool night hit him like a slap. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, no destination in mind — until his feet, somehow, led him toward her street. He told himself he wasn’t going there. He’d just… pass by. Just see if the light in her window was on. But when he turned the corner and saw her building, he stopped. And then, he sat.

Right there on the small stone step leading to her door, elbows resting on his knees, hands in his hair. He didn’t even know what he was waiting for. Maybe for her to come home. Maybe for the jealousy to fade. Maybe for his chest to stop hurting. The street was quiet — only the sound of rain beginning to fall, soft and persistent. He lost track of time. The glow of his phone said 11:42 p.m. when he finally heard footsteps. Her voice came next — soft, surprised. “Mase?” He looked up, blinking against the streetlight. She was standing a few feet away, coat pulled tight around her, hair slightly frizzy from the rain. “What are you doing here?” she asked gently, her tone half-concerned, half-confused.

She stepped closer, her eyes searching his face. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer right away. His throat felt dry, and all the words tangled together in his chest. “I heard you were on a date,” he said finally, voice low. Her brows furrowed. “Ella told you, didn’t she?” He nodded. “And… that’s why you’re here?” He swallowed hard, looking away. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just—” He exhaled, shaky. “I thought I’d be fine with it. You’re allowed to date whoever you want. You should.” “Mase—” “But I hated it,” he said suddenly, louder now. His eyes met hers, raw and restless. “I hated the idea of someone else sitting across from you. Making you laugh. Touching you. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” Her breath caught. “I tried to stay,” he went on, voice breaking. “I tried to pretend it didn’t bother me, but I couldn’t. I just… I couldn’t.”

She stared at him, raindrops gathering on her lashes. “Mason…” He shook his head, frustrated. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I’ve got no right. We’ve always been friends. That’s what we said. That’s what I told myself it was.” He looked down at the ground again, his hands trembling slightly. “But it’s not. Not for me. Not anymore.” The silence that followed was heavy — too heavy. The rain had picked up, falling harder now, soaking through his hoodie, darkening the pavement. When she spoke, her voice was soft but steady. “The date was awful.” He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She smiled faintly. “You looked like you were about to combust, so I thought you should know. He talked about himself for two hours. Didn’t ask me a single question.” A small laugh escaped him — weak but real. “Sounds like a keeper. “Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “Can’t wait for date number two.” He looked up at her then, and for the first time that night, something shifted. The tension cracked just enough for the truth to spill out. “You deserve better than that,” he said quietly. “You deserve someone who actually sees you.” She took a small step closer. “And you think that’s you?”He froze — not out of arrogance, but out of fear. Because yes, he did. He always had. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I want to be.” Something in her expression softened — the anger, the confusion, all of it melting into something gentler, sadder.

“Mase,” she whispered, “why didn’t you ever tell me?” He let out a shaky laugh. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought it would ruin everything. Because you’re my best friend, and I didn’t want to lose you.” She stared at him for a long moment, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, quietly, “You almost did.” He didn’t even realize he’d stood up until he was right in front of her, rain still falling around them. Her eyes searched his, and suddenly the world felt small — just the two of them, the sound of rain, and everything they’d left unsaid for years. “Mase,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “Yeah?” And before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned in and kissed him. It was soft at first — hesitant, almost questioning. But when he exhaled against her mouth, his hands coming up to cradle her face, the world seemed to tilt. It wasn’t perfect. Their noses bumped, her coat got caught between them, but none of it mattered. It felt real. It felt like them.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against hers. “You really shouldn’t stand in the rain like this,” she whispered. He smiled, brushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “You shouldn’t make me fall in love with you either, but here we are.” She laughed softly, tears and rain mixing on her cheeks. He hesitated for a moment before speaking again, his voice barely a murmur. “Let me take you out properly. No games, no pretending. Just me and you. Let me show you what you’re worth.” Her eyes met his — steady, certain. “You already did.”

And right there, under the rain, the friendship that had carried them for years shifted into something new — fragile, hopeful, terrifyingly beautiful. Neither of them knew what tomorrow would bring. But for the first time in a long time, Mason felt like he could breathe again.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing - Mason Mount x Reader

Summary - After a painful breakup, you run into your ex-boyfriend Mason Mount at mutual friend house party.

Warnings - Explicit sexual content, rough sex, jealousy, oral implied but not detailed.

—————————————————————————

What still burns

The bass from the music thumped through the walls of Luke Shaw's sprawling house, vibrating under your feet as you stepped inside. It had been months since the breakup with Mason Mount—months of radio silence, of scrolling through his Instagram highlights from away games and training sessions, pretending it didn't sting. Luke had invited you, swearing it would be low-key, just friends unwinding after the season. You hadn't expected him to be here.

You wove through the crowd in the living room, nursing a drink, when you felt it—that prickling awareness on the back of your neck. Turning slightly, your eyes locked with his across the room. Mason stood by the kitchen island, beer in hand, surrounded by a few teammates laughing at some inside joke. But his gaze was fixed on you, dark and unreadable, his jaw tightening as he took you in. The fitted black shirt hugged his athletic frame, sleeves rolled up to show the veins in his forearms, a reminder of all the times those arms had pinned you down.

He looked away first, but not before you saw the flicker of something raw in his eyes—hurt, anger, maybe both. You forced yourself to mingle, chatting with a couple of mutual friends, but the air felt thicker now, charged. That's when you noticed him watching again, this time as you laughed at something one of Luke's mates said, the guy leaning in a little too close, his hand brushing your arm. Mason's grip on his bottle whitened his knuckles. He set it down hard enough to draw eyes, then excused himself from his group. You pretended not to notice, but your pulse raced. Jealousy looked good on him, even if it was irrational. He had no claim on you anymore. Or so you told yourself.

The party noise started to grate after an hour—the laughter too loud, the bodies too close. You slipped away upstairs, needing a moment to breathe. The bathroom at the end of the hall was mercifully empty. You locked the door behind you, leaning against the sink, staring at your reflection. Your makeup was still intact, but your eyes betrayed the turmoil. Why did seeing him still twist you up like this?

A sharp knock rattled the door. "Occupied," you called, splashing water on your face. "Open the door. It's me." Your stomach dropped. Mason's voice, low and edged with that familiar authority. You hesitated, fingers hovering over the lock. Against your better judgment, you twisted it open. He pushed in without waiting, the door clicking shut behind him. The space felt tiny with him in it—six feet of coiled tension, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His eyes raked over you, from your tousled hair to the hem of your dress riding up your thighs. "What the hell are you doing here?" he growled, stepping closer until your back hit the sink. "Luke invited me. Same as you, I assume." You crossed your arms, trying to steady your voice, but it came out breathy. "We don't have to do this, Mason." He laughed, bitter and short. "Do what? Pretend like you weren't just letting that prick touch you down there? Laughing like nothing happened?" His hand shot out, not touching you, but caging you in, palm flat against the mirror beside your head. The scent of his cologne—woodsy, intoxicating—flooded your senses, dragging up memories you'd buried. "He's just a friend," you shot back, but the words felt weak. Heat bloomed between you, the air crackling. "You lost the right to care when you walked away."

His face twisted, eyes flashing with regret and fury. "Walked away? You think that's what happened? You shut me out, acting like I was just another notch." He leaned in, breath hot against your ear. "But I see it in your eyes. You still want this. Still mine." Before you could protest, his mouth crashed onto yours—hard, demanding, all the pent-up months pouring out in the kiss. You gasped, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed to push away. He tasted like beer and salt, his tongue invading, claiming every inch. He broke away just enough to spin you around, pressing your front against the cool porcelain sink. His body molded to your back, hips grinding into your ass, the hard length of his cock already straining against his jeans. "Look at yourself," he murmured, voice rough as he forced your chin up to the mirror. "See what you do to me? No one else gets this." Your reflection stared back, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. His free hand slid down your side, bunching your dress up over your hips, fingers digging into your thigh. "Mason... we can't—" "We can," he cut you off, nipping at your neck, teeth grazing skin hard enough to mark. "And we will. Because you belong to me. Always have."

He yanked your panties aside, calloused fingers finding your slick folds. You were soaked already, betraying every denial. He groaned against your shoulder, circling your clit with precise strokes, the kind only he knew drove you wild. "Feel that? Your pussy's weeping for me. Not for him. Me.” You whimpered, hips bucking back, the jealousy in his tone fueling the fire. He plunged two fingers inside you, curling them deep, pumping in a rhythm that made your knees buckle. The wet sounds echoed in the small room, obscene and intimate. "Say it," he demanded, thumb pressing your clit. "Tell me who you belong to." "You," you gasped, the word tearing free as pleasure coiled tight. "Fuck, Mason—yours." He withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving you aching, and you heard the zipper of his jeans. His cock sprang free, thick and hot, slapping against your ass. He teased your entrance, the head nudging your folds. "That's right," he rasped, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair to arch your back. "No one else fucks you like this."

With a single thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you full. You cried out, the burn exquisite, his girth splitting you open. He didn't give you time to adjust, pulling back only to slam in again, setting a punishing pace. Each drive of his hips slapped against your ass, his balls smacking your clit, the mirror fogging from your ragged breaths. "Mine," he grunted with every thrust, possessive and feral. His hand snaked around to rub your clit in tight circles, pushing you higher. The angle hit that spot inside you relentlessly, building the pressure until you shattered, walls clenching around his cock, milking him as you came with a muffled scream. He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, hot spurts of cum flooding you deep. He held you there, buried inside, both of you panting, the party noise a distant hum below. As he pulled out, cum trickling down your thigh, he turned you gently, eyes searching yours—still stormy, but softer now. "Don't make me chase you again," he whispered, thumb brushing your lip. You didn't answer, heart pounding with the weight of it all. The breakup's scars lingered, but in this moment, tangled and claimed, the angst felt like a promise of more chaos to come.

[anonymouslyforareason]

Pairing — Mason Mount x Reader

Word count — ~1.2k

Warnings — fluff, soft tension, realistic setting

Summary — You’ve just moved to Manchester for work and don’t really know anyone yet. A rainy morning and a crowded coffee shop lead to an unexpected connection with someone who feels strangely easy to talk to.

⸻

When It Rains in Manchester

It wasn’t supposed to rain that morning, but Manchester clearly had other plans.

You’d only lived here for a week, and already your umbrella had betrayed you — flimsy, bent, and barely surviving the walk from your flat to the tiny coffee shop tucked away on the corner of Deansgate.

The bell above the door jingled softly when you stepped inside. Warm air, the smell of roasted beans, quiet music — for a moment, it felt like you could breathe again. You were halfway through ordering when someone brushed past you, muttering a quick apology. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bump into you,” a voice said — low, warm, slightly breathless.

You turned, ready with a polite smile. The guy standing there wore a baseball cap and a grey hoodie, rain still clinging to the fabric. He smiled back, a little sheepishly, and stepped aside.“It’s fine,” you said, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “Honestly, I’m surprised anyone’s surviving this weather.” He chuckled — that quiet kind of laugh that instantly softens the moment.“Yeah, Manchester doesn’t really do sunshine. You new here?”You nodded. “Moved here last week. Still trying to figure out where everything is… and when it’s safe to trust the weather forecast.” “That’d be never,” he said, grin tugging at his lips. “You’ll learn.” You smiled. “You sound like you’ve been here a while.” “Almost three years,” he said, nodding. “Guess that makes me a local, technically.” “Then maybe I should take notes,” you teased lightly. He laughed again — and you noticed the small dimple that appeared when he did.

When your orders came up, he hesitated before speaking. “Mind if I join you? It’s kind of packed today.” You gestured to the seat across from you. “Sure.” You talked until your coffees were half gone and the rain outside had slowed to a drizzle. There was something comfortable about it — like a conversation you’d had a hundred times before, even though this was the first.“Didn’t mean to hijack your morning,” he said as you both got up to leave. “You just looked like you could use some company.”You smiled, tucking your phone into your pocket. “Do I really look that lost?” “Not lost,” he said, shaking his head. “Just new. It’s easy to spot — I used to be the same.”

Something in his tone was soft — almost familiar. You didn’t know why, but you liked the sound of it. “Well,” you said with a small grin, “if you’ve got more local tips, I’ll take them.” He smiled, holding the door open for you. “I’ve got plenty. Maybe I’ll share a few next time.” You stepped out into the damp air, warmth still lingering from the conversation. You didn’t even realize you hadn’t asked for his name — or why the thought of seeing him again made your chest feel a little lighter.

You nodded, wondering if there would be a next time. The thought made your chest feel unexpectedly lighter, even as you walked away from the café. And when you realized you hadn’t asked for his name, you felt a small flutter of regret. But the idea of seeing him again didn’t seem so impossible anymore.