[sheswritingg]

Welcome to my master list!

Here are my writing blurbs, based around Roman Reigns, Megan Thee Stallion, mostly together, sometimes apart. I've had the writing itch for forever now, and I can't wait to fill this list up. Enjoy!

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Moodboards:

megan thee stallion x pilates : 🖤

Trading places : 🖤

Alternate Universe:

Would You Mind? :🖤

College Student Meg x Football Coach Roman.

Random Drabbles:

Meg x Roman : 🖤

This one is my first baby, birthed from an idea I had in my mind. It's definitely the basis for some future ideas as well.

Prompt based:

"Really nice guy who hates only you." (Megan Thee Stallion x Roman Reigns) : 🖤

Loosely based off this prompt, as I can't imagine Roman would be that mean to a beautiful brown woman. But still, a little playful angst and some guest appearances from our favorite beauties.

Landing a gig together, and fans noticing their chemistry is way too strong. 🖤

Because how fine would he look as the leading man in one of her music videos? Loooooosely based from that prompt!

"Buying matching jewelry, clothes, etc. and just taking the "it's a symbol of our friendship" excuse to its extreme." by @novelbear (Megan Thee Stallion x Roman Reigns): 🖤

Think Grillz by Nelly and enjoy!

[sheswritingg]

megan & roman both at fanatics on the same day.

my ship is alive and well 💞

[nondelphic]

“but what if it’s bad?” babe it is bad. that’s why we’re doing arts and crafts with it

[sukifatu]

Valerie - Jey U.

all he needed was his valerie wc: 1.9k tags: obsessed but too late, language, begging, small plot twist

it’s been years since you saw that man.

that damn mullet. that damn ego.

you almost laugh to yourself watching him pace around that ring like he still eighteen and untouchable. crowd screaming his name, lights flashing, announcer hyping him up like he's god's favorite.

and you just sitting there.

front row.

legs crossed neat at the knee. posture straight. nails glossed a deep red that catch the arena lights every time you move your hand. your outfit is simple but expensive looking. quiet money. grown woman energy. you ain’t here looking thirsty. you ain’t here looking hurt.

you look healed.

and that’s what would bother him the most.

you didn’t come to see him. at least that’s what you told yourself when you bought the ticket. you came for closure. for nostalgia. for proof that the boy who once had your whole heart doesn't get it no more.

but when his music hits and he steps out?

your stomach still flips.

you hate that.

he in the ring talking slick, soaking up attention like he always did. same confidence. same smirk. same way he does that thing with his tongue when the crowd chant his name.

and for a second you don’t see the grown man.

you see senior year.

him leaning against his car after school. “you ridin’ with me or what, mama?”

you rolling your eyes but getting in anyway. “you know i am. stop asking.”

you were always there. always riding. always defending. always ten toes. everybody knew it. and he knew it too.

that’s why it hurt the way it did when he switched up.

back in the present, he bounces off the ropes and your eyes trace him before you can stop yourself. he looks bigger now. more defined. tattoos darker. money on him. fame on him.

but that ego? still loud. you sit back in your seat, crossing your legs the other way, adjusting your blazer. calm. collected.

because you learned something after you left. he never wanted you the way you wanted him. not back then.

you was too loyal. too available. too willing. you was his valerie.

the one who loved him harder than he loved himself. the one he knew would stay. so he didn’t choose you. he used you.

and when he told the whole school “we just friends,” like that night in his room, buried deep inside of you ain’t mean nothing, that’s when you realized something. you could give a boy your body.

your time.

your loyalty.

your heart.

and he’ll still act like you asked for too much.

in the ring, he laughs at something his brother says. then his eyes drift. scanning. casual.

until they land on you. and everything about him changes. his smile falters. just slightly. but you catch it. you don’t smile. you just hold his gaze. Steady. and in that moment, you see it. he remember.

he remember the way you used to look at him like he was already somebody. before the belts. before the money. before the cameras.

he remembers how you loved him when he ain’t even loved you back right.

and for the first time in years, you see that ego crack. just a little...

deep down, you were special to him. he just ain’t know how to hold something special without ruining it, and you damn sure ain’t know it back then.

in the ring, his eyes stay stuck on you a second too long. that’s all it takes. one second. gunther don’t miss nothing. he slid in behind him, arm locking around jey’s neck, dragging him down into a tight headlock. the crowd gets loud but it sounds far away to jey, like everything underwater, because he is still looking at you. like he trying to read your face. trying to see if you care. trying to see if you flinch.

“tap!” the ref yelled.

jey barely fight it. barely even try to shift his weight.

senior year. you standing in his room, sunlight cutting through the blinds while you pull your hoodie back on from the night before. “so what are we?” you asked soft, not demanding, just hopeful. he ain’t even look at you when he answered. “don’t start that.”

back to the ring. gunther crank his arm tighter. “tap!” the ref shouted again. and jey taps. just like that. the bell rings. crowd booing. commentary going crazy. but jey don’t even react. he sits there on the mat, breathing heavily, eyes scanning until they land on you again.

and you standing up. slow. clutching your purse. smoothing your blazer like this was just another night out. you don’t clap. you don’t smirk. you don’t shake your head. you just turn and walk away.

that’s when it hit him. harder than the loss. harder than the choke. you really leaving again.

his chest started rising faster. the ref tried to help him up but he brushed him off. “uce, you good?” jimmy shout from the apron. jey don’t answer. he watching you disappear up the aisle, and for the first time since high school, panic crawl up his spine.

he hopped up quick, ignoring the official trying to talk to him. “uce, where you going?” jimmy called out. but he already sliding out the ring, already pulling at the tape on his wrists, already moving.

because he ain’t losing you twice.

he catches you before you open your car door, running after you shirtless, messy mullet bouncing, grillz glinting in the moonlight.

“fuck, wait. you deadass finna leave again?” he speaks as he reaches you, breath heavy, chest still shining with sweat.

you don’t turn around at first. your fingers stay wrapped around the handle. steady.

but when you do, those big brown puppy eyes of coffee are filled with fear. real fear. something he ain’t felt in a long time.

“i ain’t come here for you, jey,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest like armor.

he runs a hand through his messy hair, frustration all over him, muscles flexing under his tribal tattoos as he paces once in front of you. “aint know all i needed was love, now that shit hard to get. i thought money was love so i ain’t had a problem wit’ it bein’ spent,” he breathed, voice cracking at the edges.

your arms slowly fall to your sides. you let out a long exhale. “jey…”

he cut you off quick, stepping closer. “nah, let me talk. you came in my life and showed me what the fuck love could be. i fucked that up.”

his voice got lower. rougher. “i ain’t never had nobody ride for me like you did. you was there before the lights, before the chains, before all this shit. you loved me when i ain’t have nothing but dreams and attitude.”

you look away, blinking slowly. “and what you do with that?”

he laugh bitterly. “i treated it like it was regular. like you was always gon’ be there.”

“because i was,” you whisper. “until i wasn’t.”

he step closer, close enough you can see the gold in his teeth when he speaks. “lettin’ you go was the best thing i coulda done for you… but the worst thing i coulda done for us.”

“you ain’t let me walk,” you shake your head. “you pushed me.”

that hit.

he swallows hard, chest rising fast. “that silence between us screams at volumes that only we knew the frequencies of, mama. every time we ain’t talk. every birthday i ain’t text. every time i saw your name and ain’t press send. that shit was loud.”

you look at him again, and he looks smaller somehow. even standing there shirtless, built, sweaty, powerful. he looked like that same boy in his senior year who didn’t know how to say i love you.

“i think about you every damn day,” he admit. “every city. every time i walk out that curtain. i look at the crowd hoping i see you. tonight i did and i ain’t even care about the match no more.”

you shake your head softly. “because you take and you take, jey. but you tasted like the beach in a kiss. sweet and salty and impossible to forget. i kept coming back even when it hurt.”

his jaw tightened.

“candy for my eyes and my veins and you run citrus,” you continue, voice trembling now. “you was addictive. and i was the only one paying the price.”

“i know,” he whispered.

he nod slowly, eyes glossy. “it was always you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “couldn’t find nobody else like you, mama. tried to replace you. tried to distract myself. ain’t none of them feel like home.”

your heart pounds in your chest.

“I can't do this forever,” you tell him, voice breaking. “my heart is fragile and i have nothing left to give.”

he steps closer, hands hovering at your waist but not touching. scared you’ll disappear if he does.

“then let me give this time,” he pleaded. “lemme fix it. lemme earn it. don’t shut the door on me again. don’t make me watch you leave twice.”

he standing there like the night done stripped him of everything but regret. shirtless, chest still shining under the parking lot lights, sweat drying slow against his skin. messy mullet falling in his face. grillz catching the moon every time his jaw clench. he looks strong everywhere else in the world. right now he just looks exposed.

“you really gon’ leave me like this?” his voice low now. not loud. not cocky. just tired.

you hold his stare, heart beating hard but your face steady. “i already did once. difference is, this time i ain’t crying about it.”

that hurt him. you see it. see the way his throat moves when he swallows.

“i ain’t never stop loving you,” he admits, voice cracking open. “i just ain’t know how to love you right.”

“and i ain’t never stop loving you either,” you say, honest but firm. “i just stopped loving you more than me.”

that silence creeped in again. thick. familiar. the kind that used to mean everything and nothing at the same time.

he takes one small step closer like he fighting the urge to grab you. “i thought i had time. thought you was always gon’ be there.”

“i was,” you reply softly. “until i wasn’t.”

his chest rose heavy. eyes glossy but he doesn't wipe them. “so that’s it? all them years just… done?”

you nod once. “i turned that pain into purpose. you turned it into memories.”

he look confused. lost.

“wait,” he says, stepping forward one last time. “fuck i’m supposed to do now?”

you pause. look over your shoulder.

calm. untouchable. glowing in a way that ain’t got nothing to do with him.

“read,” you say.

he frowned. “read what?”

you open your door, sliding into the driver seat before answering.

“my new book.”

he stares at you, confused. “what book?”

you look up at him through the open window.

“it’s called valerie.”

you don’t wait for his reaction. you close the door. engine starts smooth. headlights cut across his bare chest. for a second he just stood there, frozen, grillz dull now, ego gone.

you pull off slowly at first, then merge into the night, taillights glowing red before fading into traffic.

he still standing there when the arena doors burst open. fans rush out screaming his name. phones in the air. interviewers jogging toward him with microphones ready. security scrambling.

“jey! what happened out there?”

“jey, was that a distraction?”

but he doesn't hear any of it.

he was just staring down the road you disappeared on.

and for the first time in years, the crowd sounded small because all he ever needed was his valerie.

[tribalhoochie]

A Lyin’ Liar Who Lies | J.U

Images are not mine, credit to the owners.

Pairings: Jey Uso / OC (Suki) / Jaida Parker / OC (Nisha Fatu)

Warnings: RPF and strong language. Minors DNI!

A/N: Sooo… I have been binge watching JACK TV on YouTube and I saw this one episode that made me think of this story idea, which has brought me out of hibernation.

The house was too quiet. It always was when the road claimed him, but tonight, the silence pressed down on Nisha’s chest, heavy and suffocating like a forgotten championship belt. She was forty-three years old, and twenty of those years had been intertwined, publicly and brutally, with Joshua Fatu—the man the world roared for as Jey Uso. Their life was a paradox: a meticulously stable private world built around a wildly unstable, public career. They had two beautiful boys, teenagers now, who navigated high school and fame with a practiced ease that made Nisha fiercely proud. She had spent two decades being the anchor, the safe harbour where Joshua could shed the sweat, the adrenaline, and the persona. 

Lately, though, he wasn’t shedding the persona quickly enough. 

The signs had started subtly, like faint static on a perfect television broadcast. A sudden, deep paranoia about his phone that went beyond the usual need for privacy mandated by their life. New colognes, expensive and sharp, that smelled less like their home and more like airport duty-free shops. The way his eyes, usually so honest and tired when they met hers, now held a flicker of practiced distance—a slight hesitation, as if he were cycling through an alibi before answering a simple question like, "How was the flight?" 

She remembered the man who used to call her from dingy motel rooms at 3am just to hear her breathe. Now, the calls were brief, scheduled, and often interrupted by muffled background noises he claimed were just the crew. Nisha didn't want to be the cliché—the wrestling wife whose husband found a newer, brighter distraction on the endless, glamorous tour bus circuit. She had built her identity not just around her marriage, but around the longevity of it. Twenty years wasn’t just time; it was a fortress, fortified by loyalty, shared tragedy, and the exhaustion of raising children alone during WrestleMania season. 

But suspicion was a cancer. It started small, gnawing at the edges of sleep, until it consumed every moment of clarity. She couldn't live like this, watching him on screen, roaring "Yeet!" to millions, wondering if the passion in his eyes was reserved for the ring, or if someone else was getting the raw, real portion of Joshua that she no longer saw. 

She needed to know. The truth, no matter how catastrophic, was preferable to this corrosive doubt. 

Nisha was not a woman who frequented the sensationalist fringes of the internet, but desperation had made her a voyeur. Over the last month, tucked in bed while Joshua was supposedly in catering after a show in Tampa, she had silently watched the most effective, most brutal dispenser of marital justice online: JACK TV. 

Jack was a young man with sharp eyes, a microphone, and an unnerving efficiency in using bait—a strategically attractive person—to catch men and women in the act, filming the full fallout for millions of clicks. It was crass, horrifying, and undeniably effective. It felt like walking into a slaughterhouse, but Nisha knew her marriage was already bleeding out. 

She had fought the urge for weeks. To hire Jack was to admit that twenty years of trust was worth less than a few minutes of cold, objective digital evidence. It meant submitting her deepest, most private pain to the judgment of strangers. 

Tonight, sitting at the mahogany desk in Joshua’s home office—a room usually dedicated to tax returns and WWE contract renewals—Nisha opened the JACK TV website. The submission form was simple, almost sterile: Tell us who you suspect, where they travel, and why you can’t trust them. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She looked at the background image on the screen saver: a photo of her and Josh, tanned and grinning, taken on their honeymoon in Fiji, before the fame became monstrous, before the doubt became inevitable. She took a deep, shaky breath, the air cold inside her lungs. She started typing, the name of her husband, Joshua Fatu, appearing in the cold, black font of the screen. 

‘My husband is a professional wrestler. He travels year-round. I need to know if he is using the road to cheat.’ 

It was the hardest truth she had ever written. With one finalised, agonising click on the 'Submit' button, Nisha detached the anchor of her life and set her twenty-year marriage adrift toward the inevitable, public shipwreck of JACK TV. She leaned back, the silence of the large house now absolutely deafening. 

The afternoon sun, usually a welcome visitor in Suki’s small, meticulously organised living room, felt oppressive, spotlighting the dust motes dancing over her laptop screen. For four years, she had lived inside a comfortable illusion, built brick by careful brick by a man she knew only as Josh. 

Josh. He was dependable, funny, entirely devoted to her when he wasn't "on the road." He worked in sports entertainment—a travel-heavy gig Suki rarely questioned because Josh was adamant about separating his professional life from his personal one. It was a strategy that made sense, particularly because of the messy, drawn-out situation with his wife, Nisha. 

“It’s just paperwork now, ma,” he’d promised Suki just last week during a late-night call from Seattle. “The lawyers are finalising the division of assets. We’re done. Trust me.” 

Suki, at twenty-five, had invested everything in that trust. Four years of weekends, shared holidays, and the quiet contentment of being the primary partner. She had endured the shadow of Nisha because she believed the end was imminent. But lately, the shadow didn't feel like a past relationship; it felt like a spotlight turned onto a lie. 

Suki swallowed, the act dry and scratchy in her throat, as she navigated away from her usual timeline and dove deep into the treacherous world of wrestling fan accounts—the specific digital landscape Josh occupied but rarely discussed. She typed the dreaded name: Jey Uso. That was the name on the promotional posters, the persona that earned him a living, but to Suki, it always sounded like a stranger. 

She found the account a fan had tagged. It wasn't about him, not directly. It was a short video clip posted by a NXT performer named Jaida Parker. The video was innocuous enough on the surface: a chaotic, laughing scene backstage after a stadium show. Jaida, vibrant and loud, was recounting a road mishap. But the camera kept panning back to Josh—no, Jey. He wasn't just standing near Jaida; his arm was slung casually around her shoulders, his face turned toward hers, a deep, unguarded smile creasing his eyes. 

The caption, however, was the shard of glass that tore through Suki's composure: 

@Jaida_Parkerwwe: That’s my ride or die, always keeping the road family together. Wouldn't trade my twin for the world! #Yeet #MainEventJeyUso 

Twin. Ride or die. 

Suki knew the jargon of the wrestling business—it was a traveling circus, and close bonds formed quickly. But the intimacy in the gesture, combined with the familiarity in Jaida’s tone, was a jarring contrast to the careful distance Josh often maintained with "work friends" on public platforms. 

A sickening heat rose in Suki’s stomach. This wasn't the first time. The comments section under Jaida’s posts was peppered with heart emojis and speculation from fans asking if they were 'a thing.' Josh had dismissed those posts before as just "internet idiots starting rumours." 

But what if they weren’t rumours? What if the reason the divorce papers with Nisha had stalled repeatedly wasn't just lawyers, but a convenient smokescreen designed to keep Suki pacified while Josh pursued a new life on the road? 

Suki slammed her laptop shut, then instantly reopened it. She needed proof. She couldn't confront him based on a fan clip and a catchy hashtag. If she was wrong, she risked ruining the best relationship she’d ever had. If she was right, four years of her life had been a professionally managed lie. 

Jack had spent three days confirming the overlapping timelines. Joshua Fatu wasn't just cheating; he was running two separate, long-term relationships, maintained through dizzying travel schedules and professional paranoia. He was a champion of deception. 

Jack connected the two women via an encrypted chat, acting as the moderator of their mutual pain. The initial conversation was icy, then dissolved into a shared, cathartic rage. They developed the plan quickly. It needed to be fast, definitive, and public enough—at least to the players involved—that Joshua couldn't spin it away. 

"We need him on a neutral playing field," Jack typed. "My house," Nisha replied instantly. "It’s not neutral. It's the scene of the crime. I want him trapped in the house he paid for but abandoned." "Agreed," Suki added. "But he’s with the current flavour of the month, Jaida Parker. We have to separate the package or bring her with him." 

"The lure," Jack typed, leaning back in his chair. "He needs to think he’s headed somewhere private and official." 

The decoy was simple but effective, utilising Joshua's own paranoia about the tabloids. A burner phone, set up in advance, sent a series of encrypted texts to Joshua's personal mobile, impersonating a panicked WWE legal source.  

The text hit Joshua's phone at 1:17am. Joshua, tucked into the leather backseat of a black sedan with Jaida curled against his shoulder, felt the familiar surge of adrenaline and fear. Leak? Of what? He quickly deleted the message chain. 

"Everything okay, babe?" Jaida yawned, her eyes still heavy from the late flight and a celebratory dinner. 

"Yeah, just a last-minute change," Joshua lied smoothly, slipping his game face on. He was used to juggling emergencies. "The promotion decided the Four Seasons isn't private enough. We're heading to a secluded boutique place instead. Manager needs to brief me on some liability stuff before we check in." 

Jaida sat up, adjusting her crop top. "Oh, security theatre. Fun." 

The official driver, who had been waiting, was paid off and dismissed. Within five minutes, the decoy vehicle—a black Ford Edge registered to a third-party logistics company Jack had used before—pulled up silently. The driver, a large man named Leo who looked like he’d seen things, simply nodded. 

"Destination changed," Joshua instructed, giving the address provided in the text. "Private use only. No stops." 

"Understood, Mr. Fatu," Leo confirmed, pulling away from the arena district and heading toward the quiet, established residential neighbourhoods of the inner suburbs. Joshua settled back, his mind already spinning defence strategies. He needed to get ahead of this "leak." He stroked Jaida's hair, a performative gesture of comfort that mostly served to calm himself. 

"It’s totally unfair the way they stalk you," Jaida muttered, convinced they were battling paparazzi. 

"Comes with the territory," Joshua sighed, watching the streetlights bleed across the window. "But trust me, this new place is going to be 'ight. We’ll be completely disconnected for a few days." 

The drive took twenty minutes. The silence in the car was dense, punctuated only by the low growl of the engine and the faint, unsettling smell of clean leather. Joshua was so focused on the hypothetical security briefing that he failed to pay attention to the street names until the car slowed. They weren't on a main road leading to a high-end hotel district. They were turning onto a cul-de-sac lined with well-maintained brick colonials. 

A cold knot formed in Joshua’s stomach. This area was too familiar. The specific shade of the streetlights, the perfect, slightly too-large oak tree in the front yard of the corner house. 

"Wait, driver," Joshua said, his tone shifting from relaxed celebrity to coiled predator. "Where are we?" 

Leo didn't turn around. "This is the address provided for the meeting, sir." 

The Ford Edge idled precisely in front of Number 48. A two-story colonial—the precise house where Joshua had spent his early twenties, where he had hammered out marriage vows, where he kept his tax records, and where his oldest memories resided. This wasn't a confidential security meeting. This was a grave.  

"What the hell, Josh?" Jaida asked, confused by the sudden tension radiating from him. "Is this a private residence? Whose house is this?" 

Joshua didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the front window. The whole place was dark, but a single, focused beam of light spilled from the doorway, illuminating a precise, small square of the immaculate porch. He felt the metallic click of the door locks disengaging. "Stay in the car, Jaida," he ordered, his voice low and guttural. 

 "No, I’m coming with you. If this is a legal thing, you need someone..." 

But Joshua was already out, slamming the door shut. He didn't walk to the porch; he stalked, his posture shifting into the defensive stance he used when ambushed by fans or opponents. He reached the illuminated doorway, taking a deep, shuddering breath. 

"Yo?" he called out, the sound swallowed by the silent street. 

 The light source wasn't coming from inside the house, but from a strong flashlight placed on a small side table just past the threshold, aimed directly at the porch. And then, two figures stepped out of the shadows of the living room. 

Nisha was first. 

She hadn't changed into a dramatic dress or done her hair up. She wore the familiar, worn flannel pajamas he’d bought her three Christmases ago. Her face was devoid of color, and her eyes held a chilling emptiness he had never seen before—a space where twenty years of love used to reside. She wasn't crying. She was presiding over a funeral. 

"Hello, Joshua," Nisha said, her voice flat, emotionless, and terrifyingly calm. "Welcome home." 

Joshua froze, the blood draining from his face. "Nisha, what... what are you doing? How—" 

Then, Suki stepped out beside her. She looked electric, wearing a sharp, almost aggressive black sheath dress. Her anger was a palpable heat compared to Nisha's paralysing cold. 

"She’s doing what you should have done four years ago, Josh," Suki spat, crossing her arms tightly. "She's cleaning up your mess." 

The realisation hit Joshua with the force of a superkick. He wasn't trapped by the tabloids; he was trapped by his own victims. His mind scrambled for an exit, a lie, a distraction. 

"Suki. Nisha. Look, this isn’t what it looks like. This is insane. You two need to slow down and talk to me." 

The sound of a car door opening ripped the tension. Jaida, sensing the escalating danger, had ignored Joshua and was approaching the steps, clutching her small purse. 

 "Josh, who are these women?" Jaida demanded, her voice rising in panic. "What is going on? We were supposed to go to a hotel!" 

This was the moment Joshua often excelled at—the swift, tactical lie. But now, under the twin gaze of his past and present, the words failed him. He found himself unable to address Jaida, unable to validate her presence with a single glance. He simply looked straight ahead at the two women who shared his betrayal. Jaida stepped up onto the porch, her presence a desperate plea for inclusion. "Wait, are you talking about him? Joshua, tell them that we are together, that this is our future. Tell them we've been planning—" 

Joshua cut her off without speaking, his silence a brutal form of dismissal. He kept his eyes locked on Nisha, the twenty-year legacy overshadowing the four-year fling and the on and off hookup. 

"You wasted my twenties," Suki hissed, stepping forward slightly. Her voice broke the controlled silence. "Four years. Four years of missed opportunities, of hiding, of believing you’d leave her. I gave you the best years of my life, the ones I’ll never get back, and you stood here, in her house, and lied to me on the phone while she was upstairs sleeping." 

Nisha put a steadying hand on Suki’s shoulder, not to silence her, but to ground her. Nisha’s pain was deeper, slower, and poisoned by time. 

"Four years is a lot, Suki," Nisha murmured, finally meeting Joshua's gaze. "But twenty years, Joshua? Twenty years is a lifetime. It’s decisions. It’s retirement plans, it's choosing not to have more children because we agreed we had time. It’s the entire architecture of a future, built on the shifting sand of your lies." 

She walked toward the living room entrance, gesturing toward the interior. 

"Did you know, Joshua, that every single object in this living room, I picked out? That I chose the paint colour because you said you liked it? That this whole life was designed around your comfort?" 

Her eyes were glossy now, but still dry. She moved with dreadful purpose to a small, built-in shelving unit. She picked up the framed wedding photo and examined it, not with nostalgia, but with clinical detachment. 

"I don't know who you are, Joshua," she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time. "I don’t know if the man in this photo was a lie, or if he died slowly while you were on the road. But this," she raised the frame high, "this life, it's over." 

With a sudden, violent motion that shocked Suki and Jaida, Nisha pivoted and hurled the framed photo against the fireplace mantel. The glass shattered, echoing like a gunshot in the silent house. Joshua flinched, not from the sound, but from the realisation that this was irreversible. He had lost control completely. His career could weather bad matches and minor scandals, but this level of personal destruction was toxic. 

"Nisha, I need you to understand," he started, his voice thick with a mixture of fear and forced sincerity. "It was complicated. The travel, the pressure—" 

"Stop," Suki interjected, moving closer, her anger overriding the fear. "The pressure doesn't force your thumb to text 'I love you' to two different women in two different cities on the same day. That’s just being a lying bastard, Josh." 

Jaida, completely ignored by Joshua and confused by the sheer magnitude of the history surrounding them, desperately stepped into the fray. "Who are you to judge him? You don't know the pressures of this life! We are in love, we have a connection and—" 

"Jaida, shut up," Joshua finally spoke, but his tone was harsh, dismissive, and entirely aimed at silencing the nuisance, not protecting the partner. 

Jaida recoiled as if slapped. The lack of protection, the sudden realisation that she was just as disposable as the shattered glass, was a shock. Nisha watched this brief, brutal interaction with a cold satisfaction. It validated everything Jack had compiled and now she could be free. 

THE END. 

[tribalhoochie]

Soooo now that Jey has claimed Jaida, I’m just going to repost this.

[lilmamabeyellin]

[sheswritingg]

So many fics to catch up on, idek where to even start. 😍

[midnightmemoirsofher]

Not Just a Dance

Pairing: Jey x Black Female OC (Honey / Imani)

Summary: Honey has danced for hundreds of men, but only one ever learned her real name without asking. Night after night, Jey sits in the shadows, watching without touching, speaking without words, waiting without demanding. When he finally invites her into his world, the silence between them proves louder than any club, any crowd, any performance she has ever given. What begins as a private dance becomes a battle of restraint, ego, and hunger, where whispered confessions carry more weight than hands ever could.

Warnings: 18+ content, explicit language, sensual themes, stripping and lap dancing, intense sexual tension, possessive undertones, power dynamics rooted in mutual consent, emotional vulnerability,

The first time he walked in, Honey clocked him before he even sat down.

Men like him did not come to her side of the city unless they were looking to disappear. He moved like he was trying not to be seen, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes low, hands buried in the pockets of a hoodie that cost more than most people’s rent. No entourage. No loud laugh. No drunk swagger. Just quiet.

He took a seat in the shadowed corner near the stage, the one men avoided because it made them feel like they were being watched instead of doing the watching.

Honey watched him instead.

Her set started with the usual chaos. Bills in the air. Men yelling her name like they owned it. Hands reaching. Phones trying to record what they would never deserve to keep. She moved through it like she always did, smooth and untouchable, her body speaking a language she learned before she ever knew what love was supposed to look like.

But her eyes kept drifting back to him.

He wasn’t drinking.

Wasn’t touching.

Wasn’t even smiling.

He just watched like it mattered.

That was new.

By the third night, he requested her by name.

Honey.

The way he said it was careful, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. The DJ smirked when he nodded toward her, the other dancers already whispering because men like him didn’t pick favorites unless they were about to ruin somebody’s life.

She slid into his lap like she did with everyone else. Professional. Controlled. Close enough to smell the clean soap on his skin and the faint bite of something expensive at his throat. His hands stayed planted on his knees. His jaw flexed. His breathing hitched once, and then he locked it down like he was mad at himself for needing air.

He didn’t touch her.

He tipped her five hundred dollars.

Didn’t say a word.

Two weeks later, the other girls stopped trying to pull him to their tables.

He waited.

Every time.

Didn’t matter who was on stage, how loud the music got, how many bodies moved between them. He sat there, still as a statue, until her name came over the speakers.

The first time she held his eye contact on stage, she felt it in her knees.

Not nerves. Not fear.

Impact.

Like he saw her.

Not Honey.

Her.

She almost missed a beat.

A month in, the bouncers started clearing the space near his table without being asked. The DJ would lean into the mic with a grin and say her name the second he saw the quiet man in the hoodie take his seat. The other dancers rolled their eyes but they watched too, because everyone in that building knew something was happening and nobody could name it.

He still didn’t touch her.

He tipped heavier.

A stack of cash pressed into her palm one night that made her blink. She leaned closer out of habit, lips near his ear, ready to purr something sweet and empty.

That was when he spoke his first full sentence.

“You dance like you’re trying to escape.”

Her stomach dropped.

Nobody had ever said that to her. Men told her she was sexy. Men told her she was perfect. Men told her what they wanted to do to her. Nobody had ever looked at her like she was running.

She forgot her next move.

He noticed.

His mouth twitched like he hated that he noticed.

Three months in, Honey stopped pretending she didn’t look for him when she walked on stage. It became a ritual. Lights hit. Music dropped. Her body moved. Her eyes found him.

Always the same seat.

Always the same stillness.

Always watching like she was the only real thing in the room.

Men spent thousands trying to get her to look at them like that.

He never asked.

That was the problem.

That was the pull.

By the time the club started calling his corner Honey’s table, she knew she was in trouble.

Not because he demanded her.

Because he didn’t.

One night, a drunk regular grabbed her wrist too hard. She twisted free before the bouncer could step in, her smile still glued in place, the performance never breaking. When she reached Jey’s table for her next set, he was already standing.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

Just there.

The drunk man let go without being told.

Jey sat back down like nothing happened.

He didn’t touch her.

But his hand hovered near her thigh the entire dance, like he was reminding the room that he could.

She went home that night and stared at her reflection longer than usual.

“Girl, you stupid,” she whispered to herself. “That man ain’t special.”

Six months in, she danced differently when he was there.

Not softer.

Not sweeter.

Just more honest.

Less performance. More presence.

He noticed everything.

He always did.

And he still never touched her.

Which was exactly why she couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like if he did.

Honey knew he was there before she saw him.

It was the way the air shifted. Not quieter. Not calmer. Just focused, like a room full of noise suddenly found its center of gravity. She felt it in the middle of her set, bass rattling the stage beneath her heels, lights hot against her skin, men shouting her name like they had a right to it.

She didn’t look at him right away.

That would be too obvious.

Instead, she moved through the choreography she’d perfected over the years, every roll of her hips, every drag of her fingers along her thighs timed to the beat. Bills floated past her ankles. A hand reached too fa,r and a bouncer’s shadow moved closer. The DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers, hyping her like she was a main event instead of a woman paying rent with rhythm and skin.

But her chest felt tight.

Because she knew.

When she finally let her gaze drift to the back corner, he was already watching.

Same seat. Same hoodie. Same stillness.

Jey.

He didn’t lift a drink because he never ordered one. Didn’t lean forward like the other men. Didn’t mouth anything filthy or throw out lazy compliments. He just watched her like he was trying to memorize the way she existed, like every movement meant something he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

Honey’s mouth curved, just a little. Not for the crowd. For him.

She spun, dropped low, came back up slow enough to make the front tables lose their minds. Cheers. Whistles. Someone yelling about what they’d do if they got her alone. She ignored all of it. Her focus tunneled, heat prickling the back of her neck under the stage lights.

She crossed the stage toward his side without making it obvious. The DJ caught it and grinned, shifting the spotlight like he was in on the secret. The light followed her like a second skin, catching the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, the flex of muscle in her thighs, the confident sway that paid her bills and built her walls.

By the time she reached the edge near his table, the room felt different. Tighter. Like every move she made had weight. Like if she misstepped, the whole illusion might crack.

She sank to her knees at the edge of the stage, body swaying with the music, eyes finally locking with his.

There it was.

That impact.

He swallowed.

It was small. Anybody else would have missed it. But Honey had built a career on noticing the moments men tried to hide. His fingers flexed once against his knee. His jaw ticked. His breathing changed just enough to make her pulse jump.

He still didn’t touch her.

Didn’t reach for her ankle when she leaned close enough for him to. Didn’t slide a hand up her calf like the others tried to do every night. Didn’t test boundaries or pretend her body was public property just because she moved for money.

He just watched.

Like if he touched her, something fragile would break.

The song ended. Applause thundered. She rose, blew a kiss to the front tables, and disappeared backstage without looking at him again.

Her heart was beating too fast.

Backstage smelled like body spray, sweat, and cheap vanilla. The mirror lights buzzed. Girls adjusted lashes, counted crumpled bills, and traded gossip like currency.

“Girl, your man here,” Laila muttered from the mirror, smudging gloss over her lips.

“He ain’t my man,” Honey shot back automatically, reaching for her water bottle.

Laila snorted. “He tip like he tryna buy the building. He only comes on your nights. He don’t even look at the rest of us. That’s your man.”

Honey rolled her eyes, but her stomach flipped anyway.

She hated that Laila wasn’t entirely wrong.

When the DJ called her for floor sets, she took her time walking out. The bass was heavier now, the crowd drunker, the lights lower. The air had that late-night thickness, the kind that made people bolder and hands sloppier.

She spotted him immediately.

Still in the corner. Still waiting. Still looking at her like he hadn’t moved since she left the stage.

She approached his table slow, hips swaying, eyes locked on his like she was daring him to look away.

He didn’t.

He never did.

She turned, lowered herself into his lap like it was just another dance, just another client, just another night.

His body went rigid beneath her.

Professional. That was the rule.

But tonight, she let her weight settle a little more than usual. Let her hips move slower. Closer. Testing the line she’d drawn months ago and wondering what would happen if she smudged it.

His hands stayed on his knees.

His breath did not.

She could feel it against the back of her neck, uneven now, warm through the thin fabric between them. Her pulse kicked up in response, traitorous and curious.

She leaned down, lips near his ear, voice a velvet murmur meant for him alone.

“You always this quiet,” she whispered, “or I got you fucked up tonight?”

A pause.

Then his voice, low and rough and nothing like the silence he wore in public.

“Maybe I just don’t waste words on shit that don’t matter.”

Her pulse stuttered.

Oh.

So that’s what he sounded like when he finally let the mask slip.

She smiled against his ear, slow and dangerous, letting her breath ghost along his skin just to see if he’d react.

“Then I must matter.”

His fingers flexed again.

This time, they lifted.

Not grabbing.

Not claiming.

Just settling at her waist like he’d finally allowed himself to touch something he’d been staring at for six months.

The contact was light.

Careful.

And it hit harder than any grab ever had.

Honey’s breath caught before she could stop it.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

His thumb shifted, barely a movement, brushing the side of her waist through the fabric like he was testing whether she’d pull away.

She didn’t.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice barely there. “You the one testing me.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. The music pounded around them. Men shouted. Glass clinked. Someone laughed too loudly. But in that corner, in that tiny pocket of space between his hands and her waist, everything narrowed to heat and breath and the dangerous question neither of them was ready to answer.

Who was going to break first?

She shifted her hips once, slow and deliberate, just enough to feel him growing beneath the thin fabric of his joggers, not crossing the line but pressing right up against it.

His grip tightened.

Not stopping her.

Not encouraging her.

Just holding on like he was one wrong move away from losing control.

Honey smiled, soft where he couldn’t see it.

Yeah.

He was just as gone as she was.

The song bled into its final chorus, the bass vibrating through Honey’s thighs where they bracketed his lap, the rhythm pulsing up through her bones and settling low in her stomach. The lights shifted from deep violet to a slow pulse of gold, throwing heat across his face and catching in the dark of his eyes, making them look almost molten in the dim glow. She kept her movements measured, controlled, letting the rhythm guide the last few rolls of her hips while she felt the unmistakable heat of him hardening beneath the thin fabric of his joggers, the proof of his restraint pressing against her through layers that suddenly felt useless. Each slow grind pulled a tighter breath from him, his chest rising sharper every time she moved closer, like he was losing a fight he’d sworn to win.

Her palms pressed lightly against his shoulders for balance, the solid warmth of him grounding and dangerous all at once, and for a fleeting second, she wondered if he could feel how fast her heart was beating through the thin space between them. The gold light caught the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, and the thin stretch of her top, and his gaze dropped before he could stop it, tracing the outline of her nipples pebbled against the fabric from the cold air and the heat between them. His jaw flexed like he hated that his body reacted, like he resented the way she could undo him without even trying.

She leaned back just enough to look at him, really look this time. His jaw was tight, his lips parted like he’d forgotten to close them, his eyes locked on her mouth before dragging back up to her gaze. His hands were still at her waist, not gripping, not pushing her away, just there, warm and steady like he was grounding himself, like he needed the contact to remind himself where he was.

The music softened, the DJ letting the track breathe.

She let her hips slow, then stop, holding herself there for one suspended second that stretched too long to be part of the routine. The air between them felt thick, charged, like the room might notice if either of them breathed wrong. She could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her, uneven now, like he was fighting his own body.

Honey slid off his lap with practiced grace, heels finding the floor, hands smoothing down her thighs like she was resetting the performance she’d just blurred. The movement was automatic, muscle memory taking over even while her pulse thudded too hard in her ears.

His hands fell away reluctantly.

She turned back to him, bending just enough to be heard over the music, her curls brushing his shoulder, the scent of coconut oil and vanilla clinging to the air between them.

“Thank you, baby,” she murmured automatically, the line she gave every client, sweet and empty and safe.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t smile.

“Don’t call me that,” he said quietly.

Her brows lifted before she could stop them. “What, baby?”

His gaze held hers, steady now, voice low enough that it felt like a secret pressed between them.

“My name’s Jey.”

She already knew.

But the way he said it made it feel like an offering. Like he was placing something real in her hands and trusting her not to drop it.

Honey straightened slowly, studying him, the corners of her mouth curving in something softer than her stage smile. “You always tell your name to dancers you barely talk to?”

“Only the ones who make me forget I’m supposed to keep my hands to myself.”

Her pulse skipped.

The honesty in that should have scared her. Instead, it settled low in her stomach, warm and dangerous.

The DJ’s voice boomed from across the room, calling her for the next rotation. Someone at another table waved a stack of bills, trying to catch her attention. The club surged back into focus, loud and messy and real. Glasses clinked. Laughter cut through the bass. Perfume and sweat and spilled liquor hung heavy in the air.

She should walk away.

That was the job.

Instead, she leaned in one more time, close enough that her lips nearly brushed his ear, her breath fanning warm against his skin.

“You gonna keep sitting in that corner watching me all night,” she whispered, “or you finally gonna tell me what you want?”

She shifted against him and felt his dick jump hard beneath his joggers, thick and unmistakable against her, and a low groan dragged out of his chest before he could stop it, the sound rough enough to make her stomach flip.

Then, after a beat, he reached into his pocket and pressed a small, matte-black card into her palm.

No logo. No flourish. Just an address.

And a time.

Midnight.

Honey looked down at it, the edges sharp against her skin, then back at him. Her heart knocked once, hard.

“You inviting me somewhere, Jey?”

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist as he closed her fingers around the card, the contact brief but deliberate. The touch sent a small, electric shiver up her arm, one he didn’t miss if the tightening of his jaw meant anything.

“If you want to dance,” he said, voice rough and low, “come where you don’t have to pretend, where you can move on me without an audience and see exactly what you do to me.”

The words settled over her like heat.

The bass dropped. The crowd roared. Someone shouted her name, impatient now. The DJ laughed into the mic, teasing her for making the floor wait.

Honey stepped back, the card warm in her hand, his words warmer in her chest. She held his gaze for one beat longer than she should have, long enough to see the flicker of something raw behind his control.

For the first time in months, she walked away from his table without looking back.

Not because she wasn’t curious.

Because she was.

And that was the problem.

Because curiosity got girls like her in trouble.

And something told her Jey wasn’t the kind of man you visited once and forgot.

He was the kind you remembered in quiet moments. The kind you felt long after the music stopped. The kind who made you wonder what would happen if you stopped performing and let yourself be seen.

Honey slipped the card into her bra, close to her skin, and forced her hips to sway as she crossed the floor toward her next table.

Professional.

Always.

But for the rest of the night, every time the door opened, she found herself wondering what his house looked like.

And why he wanted her there when the lights were on

The card sat in Honey’s palm the entire night like it had weight.

Not heavy enough to slow her down.

Just enough to remind her it was there.

She danced. She smiled. She collected bills and compliments and empty promises from men who swore they’d take her somewhere better. Her body moved on autopilot, every sway and roll perfected over years of doing this under lights that never let her forget she was being watched. Hands reached. Voices slurred. Phones flashed. None of it touched her.

But her mind kept drifting.

Midnight.

An address with no name.

A man who watched as if touching her might ruin something.

A man whose voice had dropped into her ear like a secret and stayed there.

By the time her shift ended, the club had thinned to the usual late-night stragglers, the air thick with sweat and spilled liquor. Honey changed in the locker room, wiping glitter from her collarbone with a damp towel, watching the shimmer smear into her skin like it refused to let her go. She pulled on jeans that hugged her hips and a fitted black top that clung to her breasts, the fabric soft but unforgiving. She left her hair loose. Lip gloss, not lipstick. Casual, but intentional.

Not Honey.

Just a woman leaving work.

Laila leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You going?”

Honey didn’t pretend she didn’t know what she meant.

“Maybe.”

“That man look at you like he already bought you a house,” Laila said. “You be careful.”

Honey smirked, reaching for her bag. “I always am.”

But her stomach flipped anyway.

Outside, the night air was cooler, washing the club’s heat from her skin. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, keys in one hand, the black card in the other. The address stared back at her, clean and minimal, like it belonged to someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

She could go home.

Take a shower. Count her money. Sleep.

Forget him.

Instead, she typed the address into her phone.

Twenty minutes away.

The drive was quiet. The city thinned the farther she went, neon giving way to streetlamps and gated entrances. Honey rolled the window down, letting the wind push against her face, trying to clear the static in her chest. The scent of asphalt and night-blooming jasmine drifted through the car, unfamiliar and grounding.

This was stupid.

Men invited her to places all the time.

She never went.

Because men always wanted something.

Because men always thought money meant access.

But men like him didn’t ask.

They waited.

Her GPS announced the turn. A private road. Trees lined both sides like they were guarding something. The houses grew larger, farther apart, each one a statement in glass and steel and silence. No laughter spilling from open windows. No music drifting into the street. Just wealth and distance.

His address sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac.

Of course it did.

Honey parked at the curb, hands still on the wheel long after the engine cut. The house loomed in front of her, modern and sharp, all clean lines and dark windows. No lights blazing. No music leaking into the night. Just stillness.

He lived like he moved.

Controlled.

Contained.

Like every choice he made was deliberate.

She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, pressing her lips together, smoothing a hand over her hair. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her top in the cool night air, and she crossed her arms briefly before dropping them, annoyed at herself for caring.

You’re just going to talk, she told herself.

You can leave whenever you want.

She stepped out of the car.

Her heels clicked softly against the driveway as she approached the door. The sound felt too loud in the quiet neighborhood, as if it announced her to the entire street. She lifted her hand to knock, hesitated for half a second, then did it anyway.

The door opened almost immediately.

Like he’d been standing there.

Jey filled the doorway in a plain black T-shirt and sweats, no hoodie, no shadows to hide behind. Without the dim club lighting, he looked broader, warmer, real in a way that made her chest tighten. His black hair was cut into a sharp fade up top that blended clean into a mullet that fell down the back of his neck, the ends curling slightly against his collar. The front was brushed back enough to show the structure of his face, strong and deliberate, while the back softened him in a way that felt unfair. His beard was thick and black with faint gray strands threading through it, not enough to age him but enough to make him look seasoned, grounded, dangerous in a quiet way. Ink crawled down both of his arms, bold Samoan tribal patterns wrapping his biceps and forearms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his shirt and reappearing at the collar where the edge of a larger chest piece hinted at more, the kind of art that told stories without words. A faint line of tension still marked his jaw like he was holding himself together by choice.

He looked at her.

Fully.

Not the way men in the club looked, quick and greedy and shallow. His gaze moved slowly, deliberate, taking her in like he was cataloging every detail he’d only seen under colored lights. Her bare face. The curve of her mouth without stage gloss. The shape of her body in clothes meant for comfort, not performance. The outline of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. The way her chest rose a little too fast.

Honey swallowed.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“Imani.”

The name landed between them, soft and undeniable.

Her heart stuttered.

She had never told him that.

Not Honey.

Not baby.

Imani.

Her real name sounded different in his voice, like he’d been saying it in his head long before he had the right to.

She stared at him, searching for the joke, the explanation, the angle. Her pulse thudded in her throat, loud enough she was sure he could hear it.

“How you know that?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You think I’ve been watching you this long and never bothered to learn who you are?”

Something in her chest cracked, just a little. Not fear. Not anger.

Recognition.

Game changed.

She stepped inside.

The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have, the sound sealing her inside a space that felt too still, too deliberate, too aware of her presence.

Honey stood just inside the entryway, the quiet of his house pressing in around her. No music. No television murmuring in the background. No city noise leaking through the thin walls. Just space. Clean lines. Air that didn’t smell like perfume or sweat or spilled liquor.

It smelled like him.

Warm skin. Soap. Something woodsy and faint that lingered in the back of her throat and settled low in her chest.

Jey didn’t touch her. Didn’t crowd her. He stepped aside and gestured down the hall, giving her room like he was afraid sudden movement might send her running, like he knew this was the part where most men ruined everything.

“This way,” he said.

His voice sounded different here. Still low. Still rough. But it didn’t have to fight through bass and voices. It settled into the quiet like it belonged, like this house was built to hold it.

She followed.

Her heels sounded too sharp against the hardwood, each step echoing in the open space, announcing her in a way she wasn’t used to outside the stage. The hallway opened into a living room that looked like it had been assembled yesterday and not lived in since.

A couch.

A loveseat.

An armchair.

A low table with nothing on it.

No photos. No clutter. No signs of a life beyond what was necessary.

Like he had built a place to exist, not to be known.

Honey stopped in the center of the room and turned slowly, taking it in. The walls were bare. The windows were wide and dark, reflecting her back at herself instead of showing the world outside. For a second, all she saw was a woman standing in a stranger’s house with her heart beating too fast.

“You just moved in?” she asked, voice light, teasing at the edges, like she needed to put sound in the air before the silence swallowed her whole.

He leaned against the back of the armchair, watching her instead of the room. “Something like that.”

She hummed, unconvinced, letting the sound linger between them.

The silence stretched.

In the club, silence meant danger. Meant someone was about to grab, about to demand, about to remind her who they thought she was.

Here, it felt like a held breath.

She stepped closer to him, slow enough to be deliberate, her heels quiet now against the rug. He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t tell her to stop.

His eyes dragged over her body, slow and hungry, like he was measuring every inch between them and fighting the urge to close the distance and put his hands on her.

Honey circled him once, close enough that the back of her hand brushed his arm, the ink there warm beneath her skin. The contact was light, accidental if anyone asked, but she felt the way his muscle tightened under her touch.

He inhaled, sharp and controlled.

She smiled.

“You nervous?” she asked, tilting her head, curls falling over one eye.

His jaw flexed. “Should I be?”

“Depends,” she said, stepping into his space, close enough that he had to look down at her. “You the one invited me.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, locking on the clear outline of her breasts beneath the thin black top. Her nipples pressed sharply against the fabric, hard and unmistakable, the points drawing his attention like a magnet he couldn’t fight. The sight hit him low and fast, a surge of heat that made his fingers twitch at his sides with the urge to touch, to drag his palms over her curves, to feel those peaks against his mouth. His throat worked as he swallowed it back, jaw tightening as he fought the image of his lips closing around her, battled the need to pull her closer and see if she’d let him.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t trust himself to.

So she took another step, forcing him to lean back against the armchair, forcing the distance between them to disappear. Her thigh brushed his, and she felt the heat of him through his sweats, the tension coiled in his body like he was one breath away from snapping.

“Thought you wanted a dance,” she murmured, her voice softer now, less performance, more promise.

“I do,” he said, voice rougher now, lower, like it scraped up from somewhere he kept locked down. “Just… not like they get.”

The words hung between them, heavier than the air, heavier than the quiet house that seemed to be listening.

Honey held his gaze for one long beat, then stepped back, leaving cold space where her body had been.

His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach for her and didn’t know if he was allowed, like he was afraid touching her without permission would break whatever fragile thing they were building.

“Sit,” she said softly, nodding toward the armchair.

He blinked once, like he hadn’t expected to be told what to do.

Then he did it.

Lowered himself into the chair, broad shoulders tense, forearms braced on the armrests like he was holding himself in place, like he didn’t trust his own body not to follow her if she moved too far away.

Honey watched him for a moment, heat curling low in her stomach at the sight of him trying to be still, trying to behave, trying to pretend he wasn’t already affected.

“Don’t move,” she added, voice playful, dangerous, a tease wrapped in a command.

His mouth twitched.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The words sent a shiver up her spine, settling between her thighs before she could stop it.

She turned and walked down the short hallway he’d come from, hips swaying on instinct, aware of his eyes on her back, on the curve of her ass, on the way her body moved when she wasn’t performing for a crowd. She didn’t ask where she was going. Didn’t need to. The first door on the left stood slightly open, revealing a bedroom that matched the rest of the house.

Minimal.

Unclaimed.

Like no one had ever stayed long enough to leave themselves behind.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, leaning back against it for one second to steady her breath, her chest rising and falling faster than she wanted to admit.

What are you doing.

The question came and went.

She peeled off her top slowly, letting it fall to the floor. Her bra followed, unclasped with practiced fingers, releasing the weight of her full breasts into the cool air. They were heavy and round, dark nipples tightening into firm peaks as goosebumps rippled across her rich chocolate skin. She hesitated only a moment before sliding her jeans down her hips, revealing the soft curve of her waist and the peach-shaped swell of her ass, a small butterfly tattoo resting on one cheek like it had landed there just to be admired. She stepped out of the denim and left it in a careless pile, the air kissing every inch of her bare skin, cool and electric, raising a shiver that traveled up her spine and settled low in her belly. In the mirror, her lips looked plush and pink, still glossy from strawberry-scented lip gloss, the sweetness of it lingering each time she parted them to breathe.

She caught her reflection in the mirror.

Not Honey.

Just Imani.

No stage lights. No music. No men shouting her name.

Just a woman about to let someone see her without the performance.

Her pulse hammered, not with fear, but with the thrill of being seen without the stage between them.

She turned toward the door, fingers resting on the handle, breath slow, steady, deliberate.

Then she stepped back into the hallway.

Barefoot. Bare skin. Nothing to hide behind.

Jey looked up.

And forgot how to breathe.

Jey didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until she stepped back into the room.

Bare skin. Slow steps. No stage lights to soften the reality of her.

Imani.

His gaze moved over her slowly, taking her in piece by piece like he was committing her to memory. Her chocolate skin held the low light, warm and rich, every curve confident and unhidden. Her breasts shifted with each step, full and heavy, the dark peaks tightened and unmistakable, drawing his attention whether he wanted them to or not. The line of her waist narrowed before widening into the soft, round curve of her hips and ass, the small butterfly tattoo resting on one cheek like something meant for a private audience, something he suddenly wanted the right to trace with his hands, to spread open and feel the heat of, to drag moans out of her with his palms and fingers until she came apart against him.

His throat went dry.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t hide.

She walked toward him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him, like she could feel the way his control was fraying with every step she took.

Jey’s hands tightened on the armrests. His jaw locked. His chest rose slow and deep like he was trying to anchor himself to something solid, like one careless breath might make him grab her and ruin the fragile control he was barely holding onto.

Control.

He needed control.

She stopped just in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin, smell the faint sweetness of strawberry gloss every time she parted her lips. It mixed with the clean scent of his house and something warmer, something human, until the air between them felt thick enough to swallow.

“You said you wanted a dance,” she murmured.

His voice came out rough. “I did.”

She turned, slow, deliberate, giving him the full view of her back, the smooth slope of her spine, the soft flex of muscle in her thighs, before lowering herself into his lap like it was part of the job. Professional. Controlled. The way she had a hundred times before.

But nothing about this felt professional.

Her thighs bracketed his hips. Her weight settled. Her warmth surrounded him, skin to fabric, heat bleeding through the thin barrier of his sweats.

And he stayed still.

Too still.

Her hips began to move, slow at first, a teasing sway that could have passed for routine if not for the way her eyes stayed locked on his face instead of drifting for an audience. She rose slightly, turned in his lap, and let her body roll back down against him, each motion deliberate, each bend of her bare body stealing more air from his lungs. The heat of her skin, the glide of her curves, the way she arched and dipped like she knew exactly where his control was weakest had sweat breaking along his temples. He felt himself hardening beneath her, thick and undeniable, the pressure building as she moved, and he clenched his jaw like he could force his body into obedience.

His hands hovered in the air beside her waist.

Not touching.

Not yet.

She leaned down, lips near his ear, breath warm against his skin. “You paid for a dance,” she whispered. “I’m dancing.”

His fingers curled against the armrests, knuckles whitening.

Her hips rolled again, slower, deeper this time, the movement deliberate enough to blur the line between performance and something else entirely. Each slow circle pulled his hips up in reflex to meet hers before he could stop himself, the friction dragging a strained breath from his chest that he fought to swallow down.

“I’m sitting here naked in your lap and you still don’t know what to do with me,” she murmured against his ear, voice low and teasing. 

Jey’s jaw flexed hard. A rough sound scraped up his throat before he forced it back down, his control hanging by a thread.

“You think this easy for me,” he said, voice darker now, strained and honest, “having you on me like this and not putting my hands everywhere I want?”

She smiled against his ear.

That was the crack she’d been looking for.

Her grind slowed, then deepened, her body pressing closer as if testing how far she could push before he broke. Her breath brushed his neck. Her lips hovered near his skin without touching, the almost of it more dangerous than contact.

“You sitting there like you ain’t enjoying this,” she teased.

His restraint snapped just enough.

His hands rose and settled at her waist.

The contact sent a shiver through both of them, his palms warm and broad against her skin, thumbs flexing once like he was memorizing the feel of her.

“You keep moving like that,” he murmured, mouth near her ear now, his breath rougher, “you gon’ find out how much I’m enjoying it.”

Her pulse jumped, heat pooling low in her belly.

She leaned back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, mouth glossy and parted, strawberry sweetness lingering between them. “You think I’m scared?”

His thumb shifted against her waist, slow, deliberate, tracing the edge where her hip curved inward. “Nah. I think you hoping I stop being polite.”

Her breath caught, sharp and audible in the quiet room.

The air between them thickened, charged with everything they weren’t saying, with the friction of skin and fabric and restraint worn thin.

She leaned in, slow, like she was about to kiss him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t chase.

Didn’t retreat.

But his grip tightened, pulling her back toward him, his hands slipping from her waist to her inner thighs, close enough to feel the heat gathered there as he fought the urge to pull her even closer.

Their mouths hovered, breath mixing, heat building in the space between them. The world outside the room disappeared. No club. No music. No roles to play.

Just hunger.

Just ego.

Just the question neither of them would say out loud.

Who breaks first.

Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, not a kiss, just a ghost of one, soft enough to make his chest hitch.

He groaned, low and helpless, the sound dragged from somewhere deep and unguarded.

She pulled back first.

Smirking.

Jey exhaled like he’d been underwater, his chest rising hard, his control in shreds.

His hands were still at her thighs. 

He didn’t let go.

And neither of them pretended this was just a dance anymore.

The silence after the almost felt louder than anything that had come before it.

Jey’s hands were still at her thighs, heat soaked into his palms, his grip firm without being forceful. He could feel the tremor in her muscles, the subtle shift of her weight as she stayed in his lap instead of retreating. The air between them was thick with breath and restraint and everything they had not said out loud. Even the faint sound of the house settling felt intrusive, like the walls themselves were listening.

His voice came low, rough, nothing like the quiet man who sat in the corner of the club and watched the world without touching it.

“You got any idea what you do to me,” he murmured, eyes locked on her mouth, “sitting here like you ain’t dangerous?”

Her lips parted, gloss catching the light, strawberry sweet in the space between them. “Dangerous?” she echoed, soft and teasing. “I’m just dancing.”

His thumb flexed against her inner thigh, a slow, absent motion that betrayed him, the smallest shift that sent a ripple through her body. He watched her react, watched the way her breath caught, and something in his chest tightened at the realization that he could affect her too.

“Don’t play with me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You know this ain’t just dancing no more.”

Her pulse jumped at the sound of him like this. Not quiet. Not careful. Not pretending.

Vocal.

Hungry.

And only for her.

She shifted in his lap, slow enough to be deliberate, feeling the way his breath caught again, the way his chest rose under the strain of holding himself back. The movement was subtle, but the friction between them sent heat curling low in her belly, a reminder that this was no longer a performance she could control.

“You been sitting in that club for months,” she murmured, leaning close, her nose brushing his cheek. “Not touching. Not talking. Just watching. You telling me you don’t want this?”

His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. “Wanting ain’t the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He looked at her like the answer was obvious. “You.”

The word landed heavy between them, not accusation, not blame, just truth.

Her stomach flipped, heat spreading through her chest, down her spine, pooling low. She liked this side of him. The one nobody else got. The one who spoke in low confessions and rough truths instead of silence.

She liked that she was the only one who made him sound like this.

“You been quiet all this time,” she whispered. “Thought you didn’t have nothing to say.”

His gaze darkened, something fierce flickering there. “I ain’t quiet,” he said. “Ain’t nobody been worth talking to.”

That shouldn’t have felt like a touch.

But it did.

She leaned in again, closer than before, their foreheads nearly brushing. The warmth of his skin bled into hers, their breaths mingling until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. “So talk to me,” she murmured. “Tell me what you want.”

His hands tightened slightly at her thighs, thumbs pressing in just enough to make her inhale sharply, the pressure grounding and electric at the same time.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel this,” he said, voice rough with honesty. “Want you to quit acting like this just another night, another dance, another man you gon’ forget.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs, loud enough she was sure he could hear it.

Because he was right.

This wasn’t routine.

This wasn’t safe.

And she didn’t want to forget.

She let her forehead rest lightly against his, breath mingling, bodies still pressed together, the heat between them no longer something either of them tried to ignore. The contact was soft, almost tender, and it made her chest ache in a way she hadn’t expected.

“You talk big for a man still sitting there,” she whispered, a smile in her voice, trying to steady herself with teasing.

His mouth brushed the corner of her jaw, not quite a kiss, just a warning that sent a shiver down her spine. “You still here, ain’t you?”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, the first time she held on instead of performing, the first time her touch wasn’t part of an act. She felt the solid warmth of him beneath her palms, the rise and fall of his chest, the tension he carried like armor.

Mutual.

Not a transaction.

Not a show.

Just two people balanced on the edge.

He exhaled slowly, his nose brushing her cheek, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her.

“I been quiet,” he admitted, “’cause nobody else was worth breaking that for.”

Her chest tightened, the words settling deep, heavier than any touch.

The room felt smaller.

Closer.

Like the world had narrowed down to the space between their mouths and the question neither of them had answered yet.

Who breaks first.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them let go.

The quiet stretched, thick with breath and unspoken need, their bodies still pressed together, their restraint worn thin. Every second felt like a dare, like one of them would give in if the other so much as leaned a fraction closer.

And the hunger between them stopped pretending to be anything else.

 @blyffe @transparentphantomface @mwahkae  @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @jeandoll@bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl @floralistic @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675

[ruesdeluxe]

[sheswritingg]

I always get so nervous to post my writing, when the entire reason I started to write on tumblr again is because it’s such a cozy vibe and I can experiment. No judgement.

And I’m loooving reading everyone’s fics too. 💚

[elus1ve8utterfly]

Unscripted - Part 2

Summary: After their tense interview, Roman can’t get Noelle out of his head.

Warnings / MDNI (18+): Smut; Age gap; Mature themes; Solo sexual content 

Word Count: 1.3k

Credit: Dividers by @anitalenia & @cafekitsune, GIF by @dejameflorecer, photos from Pinterest

A/N: Please excuse any typos/grammatical errors. Still deciding how I feel about this writing style. As always, thank you for reading. muahh ʚɞ ᥫ᭡. 

Part 1 / Part 3 / Part 4

The door opened behind them, signaling that time was up. Roman’s chest tightened. For a moment he didn’t move. Across the table, Noelle gathered her notes with careful precision. 

Pages stacked neatly. Pen clipped to the top. Every movement controlled. Methodical. Like surgical instruments being packed away after an operation.

The thought lingered longer than it should have. Because that’s exactly what it had felt like. A dissection. Not just of the character he had spent years building. But of the man underneath it.

Roman blinked. The room came back into focus. Fluorescent lights. Too bright. Too sterile. The pale walls looked even emptier now. Strange. Minutes ago the room had felt crowded with questions. Now it felt hollow. Heavy.

He pushed himself up from the chair, his body moving slower than usual. 

“Thank you for your time,” Noelle said. Her voice was calm. Professional. Roman nodded once. Then he turned and left without another word.

Outside, the black truck waited. The chauffeur stood beside the open door, one hand resting politely on the frame. Roman ducked inside. The door shut with a soft thud. The truck pulled away.

The city moved around him. Palm trees blurred past the window. Bright storefronts. Neon signs flickering awake as evening settled over the streets. One by one the buildings disappeared into the growing darkness of night. Roman barely noticed any of it. His mind was somewhere else.

Noelle.

Every question she had asked replayed in careful sequence. Every pause. Every shift in her voice. She had moved through the interview like a searchlight sweeping across open ground. Looking for something.

He rolled his neck slowly against the leather seat. Tension cracked quietly along his spine. He thought about the way she had sat across from him. Shoulders squared. Spine straight. Unwavering beneath his scrutiny.

Most people eventually cracked under that kind of pressure. They fidgeted. Second-guessed themselves. Softened their questions. She hadn’t.

Roman had watched carefully, waiting for the moment it would happen. The hesitation. The correction. The small flicker of uncertainty. It never came.

He had tried to call her bluff.

She called his right back.

Roman’s jaw tightened at the memory.

Her voice had stayed steady. Calm. Measured. Asking the questions people whispered about in locker rooms and boardrooms, but never dared ask him to his face. Bold. Fearless. Maybe too fearless.

Where did this girl come from?

And more importantly- 

Who sent her?

The truck jerked slightly as it rolled to a stop at a red light. Roman blinked. The silence filled with  the interview replaying again in his head. One moment in particular. She had asked something sharp. Too sharp.

Then she had simply stopped talking. Waiting. Watching him. Roman remembered the tick in his jaw as he held her gaze. A weak attempt to contain the sudden confusion tightening inside his chest. Dangerous.

Hours later, Roman sat alone in his study. The house was quiet. Dark except for the soft glow of the desk lamp pooling across the surface of the oak desk. Somewhere deeper in the house, an air vent hummed softly. A low mechanical breath filling the silence.

Roman leaned back in his chair. His mind was still full of her. Images surfaced whether he invited them or not. He had tried to burn them out earlier in the night. A heavy lift in the home gym. More weight than usual. Running the treadmill until his lungs burned.

It hadn’t worked.

The pounding rhythm of his feet had done nothing to drown out the memory of her charm bracelet. The soft jingle when she lifted her hand. The delicate movement as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Roman exhaled slowly.

The curtain beside the study window drifted gently in the night breeze. He had left it cracked open earlier. Cool air slipped into the room, brushing the back of his neck. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. A quiet curse left his mouth.

What are you doing, man?

For a moment he sat there. Staring at the blank screen. Then the thought crept in again. Persistent. Unwelcome. His fingers moved across the keyboard. Quickly. Almost impatiently. As if the urge might detonate in his chest if he didn’t follow it.

Noelle.

Her name appeared in the search bar. Then her social media profiles. One after another. Roman rarely allowed himself to fall down the rabbit hole of a woman’s life. There had never been a need.

After shows, women practically lined up for a chance to speak to him. To touch him. To say they had his attention for five minutes. It had always felt hollow. Surface level. Temporary. Noelle was different.

She had looked straight through him. Most people saw the championships. The spotlight. The character he carried into arenas every week. The Tribal Chief. She hadn’t. She had looked past it. And somehow that bothered him more than it should have.

Roman opened her Instagram first. Images filled the screen. Her smile. Her posture.The confident tilt of her chin in front of cameras. His eyes drifted lower in one photo. The long line of her legs beneath a skirt that wrapped snug around them. A quiet hum left his chest.

Then a pit formed in his stomach. This was wrong. He knew better than this. Respecting women meant not reducing them to something as shallow as looks alone. And yet, here he was. But with a mind like hers…her appearance was the least interesting thing about her.

Roman closed the photo. Opened her Twitter instead. The screen filled with sharp lines of white text against black. Short thoughts. Observations. Opinions about the sports world. A glimpse inside her mind. A mind sharp enough to pierce straight through his defenses. Roman felt his pulse jump as he scrolled.

Each post carried the same tone he had heard in the interview. Confident. Analytical. Unwilling to soften the truth. He remembered the moment during the interview when her gaze had lingered on him during a long pause.

Not admiration. Not intimidation. Understanding.

That had been the moment he needed to recalibrate. I barely know this girl. Roman leaned back in his chair. But the memory of her refused to loosen its grip. The way she challenged him. The way she refused to bend under pressure the way most people eventually did.

His hand drifted unconsciously toward his waistband. He stopped. What would she think if she saw me right now? The answer came instantly.

Pathetic. Disgusting. Roman exhaled slowly through his nose.

I shouldn’t do this.

But he didn’t stop. His joggers slid down his thighs. His legs spread wider in the chair. His rough palm wrapped around the length of himself. Warm. Heavy. His hand moved slowly. Deliberately. Roman kept scrolling.

Every post reminded him how much effort she had put into that interview. The research behind every question had been obvious. Nothing careless about it. Nothing lazy. It made heat creep slowly up the back of his neck.

The curve of her grin tugged at something deep in his chest. His grip tightened. When would he see her again? Part of him didn’t want that moment to come. Because she might see more than she was supposed to. 

Might uncover the insecurities he worked so hard to bury beneath the persona the world knew.The sadness that lived quietly behind the spotlight. The darkness that sometimes slipped through his eyes, even when he was smiling.

Roman’s cock throbbed in his hand. The pressure building steadily beneath his grip.

A character could last forever.

But a man only lasted a moment in time.

Part 1 / Part 3 / Part 4

[sheswritingg]

word count: 2.1k.

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The formerly sticky bar floor was now slick with sanitized mop water, a signal there was only thirty minutes until the doors of Pickled Pigeon were to be locked. The volume of the music went from ambient bar level to let’s hurry up and get the fuck out of here in a matter of seconds. The front of the house lights dimmed as the lights towards the back brightened, alerting Courtney to rinse out five heavy duty shot glasses, shaking them dry before placing them on the bar top.

Mike, a retired collegiate offensive coordinator and Georgia native, opened up the Pickled Pigeon once the idea struck him after a few 22 oz IPAs. It didn’t take him long to find a spot just outside of GSU’s campus, attracting college students and tourists alike. Whether it was wing night, happy hour before a football game or simply a late night high app, the doors of the Pickled Pigeon began to be in constant rotation.

As Courtney reached for the room temperature bottle of 1800, she glanced up to exchange a look with her boss, her's innocent and questioning and his exasperated but in the end, he nodded. After the busy shift they’d just wrapped up, the last thing Mike cared about was his staff having a half a buzz while they closed his place down.

The liquor splashed into each shot glass as Morgan and Chrishelle busied themselves wiping tables, sweeping, organizing side plates and wing bone bowls. Tuesday meant at least two of the girls had class at 8:20 AM, and midnight was already nearing.

Megan had her back to them all, queuing up music from her phone to the Jukebox that echoed throughout the entire bar. So What by Ciara and Field Mob had the girls subtly swaying their hips, causing Megan to smile at herself at the non-verbal approval. The “fantastic four” as they were affectionally called by the bar regulars, it only took a handful of shifts for Megan to bond with her coworkers. She now looked forward to their group chat updates, the pregames at Courtney’s off campus apartment on Saturday mornings and Tuesday nights, where they all closed the bar together, counted their money, and made sure each other got home safe.

The bottom of the entrance door brushed against the floor, the sound causing all four girls to whip their head towards the front. At 9:42PM, a new table wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t ideal, either. The first thing that flashed across Megan’s brain was the homework she hadn’t even touched, due to be submitted in less than 48 hours. Inhaling sharply, a tap on her left ass cheek from Morgan had her snap out of her brief overwhelm, her gaze following her friend’s as their eyes settled on the imposing build that crossed the threshold. “Bet you’re not mad you’re the closer now, bitch.”

Mike shooed Court to put away the re-emptied shot glasses, however his demeanor relaxed when he saw who was entering the space. Two dark haired boys, who appeared to be about middle school aged and completely identical, whirled past Mike to rush into the bathroom and fight over the only unoccupied stall.

“Wash your hands!” A voice bellowed from the entrance door, exasperated and stern. A hand large enough to make the average person double take reached up to adjust a black on black GSU baseball hat, the other hand reaching out to connect with an approaching Mike. A brief hug and a few strong pats on the shoulder were used as a greeting, Mike motioning over his shoulder for Morgan to pull out a sixth shot glass. “What’s going on Coach?”

Coach Anoa’i. Former defensive linemen for Georgia State University, ACC Defensive Player of the Year for his first two years and now, Georgia State’s current Defensive Co-Coordinator. On Saturday mornings, he volunteered his afternoons to the youth football team at his boy’s school. He and Mike stood shoulder to shoulder at 6’3”, but his frame presented as if he was still an active athlete. At 42 years old, broad shoulders carried biceps that stretched the fabric of his Nike dri-fit to it’s limit. You could use his body for an anatomy display, the way every muscle protruded then flexed with every small movement he made. Loose black Nike basketball shorts fell over his lower half, compression shorts unfortunately leaving much to the imagination while massive calves were responsible for holding up his frame. The Rolex Submariner with the black dial made a quiet statement that had the girls giving each other that look, the tequila settling in their stomach cause them to break out in a fit of giggles.

Joe glanced around the place as he and Mike caught up briefly, quickly squeezing his former roommate on the shoulder. “This is my bad, brother, I know y’all tryna’ get closed up. The boys just got outta practice late, then we had to run over to —” Before getting his explanation off, Mike was shaking his head as he motioned him over to a booth placed just underneath his old college jersey, framed and signed.

Although the girls’ attention was briefly interrupted, they quickly went back to cleaning and chatting, eager to clock out and go on about their nights. Megan’s eyes lingered a moment longer. As the messy hair twins zoomed past her and slid into the booth next to their dad, she inhaled silently, mentally reminding herself any extra money was needed and appreciated. Studio time was not free, no matter how hard the niggas at the studio crushed on her. Groceries, bills, her car.. then there was Spring Break approaching in a few months. Her and Court already started coordinating bikinis.

As Megan moved from the bar to approach her last table, Mike met her halfway, handing her the shot glass that was intended for her customer. “Long, long time friend. Good guy. Whatever they get, put it on the house.” The expression he presented after was that of, and I know it’s late but you better not have an attitude when you get over there.

As Megan approached the table, he began to speak without looking up from the laminated and sticky menu. “Hey. How you doin’. Good, good. Hey, we’re just gonna grab two — three large pizzas. You boys want—” before Joe could complete his sentence, one of the twins pointed directly at the lit up games across the restaurant, which were currently being sprayed and wiped down by Courtney. “Dad! Dad, do you have five dol—“ a swift tap to the chest of his son halted his question, as Joe furrowed his brows, looking from the menu to his eldest twin. “Don’t you see I’m talkin’? You know that’s rude. You hungry or not?” The impatience evident in his tone, Megan’s demeanor softened as she quietly slid the shot glass across the table in front of him. “I can give y’all a second if y’all need it. That’s from Mike, by the way.”

It wasn’t until he heard Mike’s chuckle from behind the bar, that he realized his youngest twin’s gaze was mirroring his dad’s, and that’s when he received a chop to the chest to match his brother’s. The dim light reflected from the “M” charm that dangled from her chain, nuzzled comfortably atop her cleavage. He had to peel his eyes away from the way her apron was half-heartedly hanging over her minuscule waist, a pink rhinestoned butterfly charm hanging from her belly button, brushing against the smooth skin of her lower abdomen. Although Megan had applied her makeup hours ago before her shift, her face was still made up to perfection. Acknowledging the full shot glass with a nod, he sat up a tiny bit straighter. “We’re all good over here. Just three waters.”

The final few customers who were perched at the end of the bar filed out as three large pizzas were being removed from the oven. With only one table left in the restaurant, Court, Morgan and ‘Shelle began to pack up their things as the kitchen crew began their clean up process, their own music spilling out onto the floor. With a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure her table didn’t need refills, Megan said her goodbyes to her girls, promising to see them next week during their next shift together. She then made her way to the kitchen, Mike on her heels on the way out with two of the three pizzas. After ten minutes, two of the three pizzas were merely a memory.

As Megan swept bottle caps and crumpled up napkins into a pile in the middle of the floor, she could feel eyes boring into the small of her back. Pausing for a moment, she leaned the broom against the wall as she grabbed some empty to-go pizza boxes from the top shelf, making her way over to Joe’s table. “Y’all still good?” she questioned, the softness of her hip squishing against the empty side of their booth. The glow of the beer signs hanging above their table accented the gray hair in his beard, their eyes connecting for an extra moment. He was fine, hell yeah, but all her brain could swarm around was the amount of her homework she had at least start on, and it was getting late.

The twins slid out of the booth eagerly to run over to the game machines before they were unplugged as he shook his head in response to her question. “We’re all good over here, just the tab. I appreciate it.” Megan lingered a moment longer, her bare knee sinking into the ancient leather that coated the seat opposite him. “You don’t want it?” she questioned, motioning towards the shot glass that remained filled to the brim. Leaning over slightly, she began to clear the empty plates, piling napkins on top of miscellaneous pizza crusts.

From the angle she was above him, the brim of his hat shielded his features, not allowing her to gauge his reaction just yet. It was his voice that broke her focus, mature and gruff from years of yelling from the sidelines. “Not tonight, not that kinda night. I appreciate y’all, though. I know it’s late. Let us get out y’all hair.” Tilting his head up to look at her, he offered a tired smile. It caused the pit of her core to dip like she was on a roller coaster.

As he shifted out of the booth and to his feet, Joe took a few seconds to stretch out his body, every minor ache from the day feeling relief for those fleeting moments. The taught skin of his belly was exposed as he stretched, and Megan couldn’t help but glance, the full shot glass almost slipping from her hand in the process. He didn’t notice, pulling out his wallet as Megan stood to face him, shaking her head. “Mike said he took care of y’all tonight, so y’all good. You need anything else from me?” Joe looked from Megan over to Mike, who was behind the bar doing one final wipe down. He made a mental note to thank him, his large hand still fishing around in his black workout shorts. The sounds of his sons jamming the vintage joystick repeatedly, curse words hurling from their lips, had him inhaling a patient breath as he reached out to hand her over three fifty dollar bills, folded in half. “I appreciate it, sweetheart. Have a good night, alright? Be safe.”

With her personal items tucked under her left arm, the rest of the kitchen guys filed out of the dark restaurant behind Megan to make sure she made it to her car safely. Her body couldn’t conjure up an attitude about being at work later than normal even if she tried. On top of making $150 in the span of 35 minutes, her mind began to roll with ideas of how to make him come back and be a regular, her regular. It wasn’t guaranteed he’d tip her that amount every time, no, but she wasn’t stupid. Far from it, actually. He was interested. She could tell in the way his eyes bore into the exposed skin of her midriff as she cleaned, and how he lingered around a little longer while his kids played, even though it was a school night. A game of cat and mouse was always fun, but there was something deeper in that eye contact she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Her Coach purse and matching bookbag were settled in the passenger seat of her Chevy Malibu, keys jamming into the ignition as she flashed one more wave to Mike. Before she pulled off, her hand reached for her phone, manicured nails clacking away as she opened the Server Bae group chat, a three minute long audio message updating her girls on Mr. Late Night.

[echosdiaryhtml]

How it feels working a 9 to 5 and having too many WIPs of varying forms and genres alongside unrealistic expectations for myself as a writer yayyy xox

[sayyestoheav3nn]

his favorite girl

౨ৎ warnings: angst. lil s m u t.

౨ৎ word count: 1.8k

౨ৎ a/n: hi, idea crossed my mind last night. apologies in advance if this makes no sense, i may be a little (extremely) sleep deprived, idk. 🫠

౨ৎ divider credit: @kimjiho1

if you would like to be added to my tag list click here

This was the last time. 

It’s something Kira had told herself a million times before….the only difference being, this time she actually meant it.

From the moment Roman stepped inside her uncles tattoo shop, she knew he’d be trouble. 

She remembers that day like it was yesterday. The way his presence alone immediately commanded everyone’s attention. Or, the embarrassing memory of him chuckling seeing the flustered look on her face as he introduced himself.

Working front desk and conversing with clients was something she never even had to think twice about. That was….until he came along. Because, it seemed like every time he’d go in for another session, she’d still manage to be at a loss for words when he’d walk towards her desk. But as time went on, she noticed a shift in their friendly dynamic. 

Simple things really.

Eye contact between them that would linger longer than necessary. Moments where she’d notice his eyes trail her body when he thought she wasn't looking. Nights where he’d walk her to her car if her shift ended at the same time he was leaving. Not to mention, the countless times she’d instinctively clench her thighs at just the sound of his deep voice. 

Moments like those that quickly progressed into whatever it is they are now. 

“Fucking missed this tight ass pussy,” Kira’s mouth parted as Roman’s big calloused hand wrapped around her throat, forcing her gaze on him. “So pretty taking this dick, baby.”

She moaned as his thick cock continued to repeatedly slam into her. The way his deep strokes always managed to hit her g-spot, was probably on the top of her list regarding things she would miss most about him. Her eyes instantly shut as he started to work his free hand on her clit, her pussy now puffy and swollen due to how long they’d been going at it. “F—Fuck, Roman—” 

He smirked as his grip tightened around her neck, his thrusts now deep and deliberate as he fucked her with the pace he knew she loved, “Open your eyes, baby. I want you to look at me while I fuck you.”

“Shit, Ro, I—I can’t.”

Roman smiled as his lips hovered over her ear, “Yes you can, princess.” Kira’s moans increased as his tongue slowly swirled around her neck. His deep voice continued to mutter the filthiest things in her ear, while his dick mercilessly pounded into her.

“I always take care of you, baby…don’t I?”

“Y—Yes,” She’d be lying if she didn’t admit the man took good care of her. Spoiled even. And while, the flights, fancy gifts, along with the vacations, were something she’ll always be grateful for, the one and only thing she’s ever actually wanted from him, is something he can’t seem to give her….

Commitment.

Because while Kira was certainly his favorite, she was far from being his only. The thought alone causing a pit to form in her stomach. 

The truth was, she hated sharing him. Hated knowing she wasn’t the only one that got to feel the stretch of him. She tried so hard not to think about it, to convince herself it didn’t bother her. Nothing but futile attempts to avoid facing what she already knew. Knowing that no matter how much he claimed to care about her, didn’t negate the fact that he’d never feel for her, what she feels for him.

“D—Daddy, p-please,” Kira’s teeth grazed Roman’s shoulder as her pussy started to grind against him in a desperate attempt to match his rhythm. She despised when he did this. When he’d make her beg, denying her of the one thing he knew she wanted so badly.  

Roman grinned as his lips smashed into hers, their moans conjoined as their tongues intertwined in a sloppy and sensual kiss, “What did I tell you about being so fucking inpatient, huh?” He proceeded to spread her thighs farther apart as his pace quickened, somehow managing to fuck her deeper than before. 

“B—Baby, w-wait—”

Roman licked his bottom lip as he landed a hard smack to the side of her ass, eliciting a loud whimper, “Nah, sweetheart. You wanted to come so badly, so fucking come.”

Kira’s thighs trembled as her vision started to blur, her nails that were deeply hooked in Roman’s back, slowly made their way up to cup his face. A small wave of sadness formed in her chest as Roman’s gaze met with hers. 

Neither said a word as their eyes stayed glued to one another, she studied him carefully, almost as if she was trying to memorize this moment.

Memorize him. 

That handsome face she never got tired of seeing. The comfort she felt when his long, beautiful, hair framed over her face, just like it was doing currently. His scent that she craved and missed when she hadn’t seen him in a while. The way he filled and stretched her out like no other man could. There was no doubt sex with someone else, would never feel like this.

And that fucking stung.

“Gonna’ cum inside this pretty ass pussy, baby,” The trip he’d have to take to the pharmacy in the morning, would be worth it. So fucking worth it. There’s nothing he loved more filling her with his warm seed. The thought of it dripping out of her tight ass cunt, made his dick twitch. 

“Baby, I-I’m—”

Roman’s jaw clenched as he felt Kira on the verge on coming undone. His pace erratic as her back arched off the bed. Those pretty lips moaning his name as he fucked her, was all the motivation he needed. “Go ahead, baby. Give it to me.”

Kira cried out as pleasure radiated throughout her body. Her loud moans echoed across the hotel as she squirmed under him. Roman kissed her fervently as his dick continued to plunge in and out of her drenched hole. The way her pussy was clenching the hell out of  him, had him just as close to the finish line.  

“Fuck, baby,” Roman groaned as she placed soft kisses on his jaw and neck, her fingers nestled in his damp, loose, hair, pulling him closer as ropes of his cum began to fill her. “Shit,” his head instinctively buried in the crook of her neck as he emptied every drop inside her. Roman lips were back on hers as he slowly pulled out. 

Once his heavy pants subsided, he stood up to get the shower ready for them both. But, just as he reached the bathroom door, he noticed something was off….

She was quiet. Too quiet. It’s that exact realization that made his gaze turn back to her, only to be completely stumped by what he saw. Kira rested against the headboard, her body now wrapped in the comforter as her knees were to her chest. Her light sniffles only confirming what he thought. 

She was crying. 

Roman quickly rushed towards her, “Baby, what’s wrong?” 

Kira remained silent as she wiped at her eyes. He grabbed the chair closest to the bed, quickly seating himself directly next to her. His thumb traced circles around her knee as tried his best to wait patiently for her to open up, “Did I hurt you? Was I too r—“

“How do you do it?” She turned to face him, her watery eyes instantly landing on his.

“Do what?”

She paused, sighing as she took a deep breath. “Fuck me like I’m the only girl in the world, just to fly out and do it with someone else.”

“Kira…”

She felt the moment his demeanor shifted, the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed. His gaze no longer being on her, instead the floor. 

It’s hard to put the blame on him. Not when he was upfront from the very beginning about who he was. She was so fucking naive to think she’d be any different. That she’d be special. To believe he’d actually give a fuck about her not only when she spread her legs for him. “You said you’d always be honest with me…”

“And I have been. The same way I’ve never stopped you from—”

“Bullshit…” Kira stood up from the bed, proceeding to quickly dress herself. “You only say that because you know I don’t fuck anyone else. The few times I’ve even mentioned speaking to a man, you get pissed.” 

It was the truth and he fucking knew it. His silence only confirming it. Roman slid on his boxers and sweats, turning to face her, “If me fucking other women bothered you, why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Kira felt a weight of heaviness form on her chest as she answered, “Would you have stopped?”

He froze in silence as his eyes shut. While, his response was just as she imagined, it didn’t make it hurt any less. Her bottom lip trembled as she sat on the corner of the bed. The silence that stretched between them started to suffocate her.

“We said we’d do this as long as it made sense…” 

“Baby…”

“Whatever this is, isn’t working for me anymore, Roman…”

Roman crouched by her side, his finger gently brushing back a few strands of her hair, “Kira, I need you. Don’t do this…”

Tears rolled down her face as her voice broke. “If you need me, then why can’t I be enough for you?”

Before he could even respond, she brushed past him gathering her phone and her purse, leaving behind the multiple luxury items he gifted her. Roman grabbed her arm before she could reach the door, his eyes soft as he looked at her, pleadingly, “Please…”

Kira’s throat tightened as her sobs escaped her, she placed her palm on his chest, looking up at him for the last time. “Please don’t make this harder for me.”

Roman’s eyes shut as the grip around her arm loosened, eventually letting go. She didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back. No matter how heartbroken she felt, she knew this was inevitable. Because, the man she had fallen in love with, didn’t love her back. 

It’s only when she stood by herself in the elevator that the build-up of emotions took over. Her vision blurred as her shaky hands reached for her phone to request an Uber. One of the hardest things she’s ever had to fucking do, is choosing to walk away from him…

Hoping she’ll actually have the strength to let him go… for good.

[novelbear]

”get me out of here” - painful situationship prompts

prompt list by @novelbear

(slight cw for cursing!)

texting each other frequently one week and then almost never in the next

"do you want to go out next week?" "like on a date?" "i mean it could be...if you want it to be i don't know."

trying to not get too attached, since they don't know where the hell this is going

that slap in the face feeling when they mention someone else.

"i'm so sick of this 'will we, won't we' shit."

when you want to introduce them to someone but you have that slight hesitation before saying "they're a friend."

"you called me your friend." "was i not supposed to say that?" "you really think i'm just your friend? after these last few weeks?"

being so close to just asking them out

^ but then they pull back. because if the other really wanted to, they would have asked already, right?

carefully initiating slight intimacy (like holding hands, hugging, etc.) since they aren't quite sure how far they could go with where they are

"i'm still trying to figure things out." "you sure had a lot of things figured out when you kissed me yesterday."

"you know we need to talk." "about?" "i don't know...last night, maybe?"

others starting to think that you're dating and one awkwardly has to explain that they aren't

^ and maybe that hurts the other to no end.

"it's either we are or we aren't. i'm not some little toy you can just play with, leave, and then come back to when you're ready."

[sweetnpretty]

Roman js looks so fuckablee

[sheswritingg]

how beautiful is it to smoke a joint and come up with an entire alternative universe for Roman x Meg.

[sheswritingg]

aaaand she's almost done. almost. as in probably no where even close!