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mallory524 · 20 hours ago

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going out

bob x reader

pictures from pinterest

summary- You and Bob finally spend some time together one morning, but you find yourself rushing to defend him when he gets overwhelmed and people aren’t kind to him.

word count- 1,691

warnings- THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, fluff, pining, just a little language, hand holding, stranger being rude to bob :(

notes- the thunderbolts live in the watchtower (previously the avengers towers) because that’s what the post credit scene made it seem like and if I’m wrong I don’t care because I love the idea of them all being roomies :)

Although things hadn’t gone as expected, they are plenty of perks that come with being the New Avengers. The group hangs out together in the Watchtower all the time, none of you have to hide in the shadows anymore, and all the other accompanying “hero” perks. Helping the city by reversing the Void damage thrust the Thunderbolts into the spotlight, which typically just meant being waved to on the streets, and a lot of being told “your money’s no good here” with a big smile when you go out to eat.

Although the group fights a lot, there’s an unspoken understanding that you’re a real team now. More and more often the bickering is playful rather than actually malicious. At risk of sounding sentimental, real bonds are being made. Of course none of you would ever admit that out loud. Except maybe Alexei.

Bob’s enjoying his new life, too. Probably. You assume. He’s still a quiet guy, and sometimes he opts to stay in and read when you all go out for lunch or something. He’s still working through a lot, but everyone else is too, so you know to give him space. It’s clear to all of you that he’s slowly getting a bit more comfortable here with every passing day.

One cold morning, while everyone is sleeping in, you hear rustling and muttering in the other room. You throw on a robe and silently walk into the other room to investigate. Bob’s on the ground picking a bunch of papers up, and he whips his head around when he hears your footsteps.

“Sorry, I accidentally knocked all of Bucky’s things over. I’ve got it”, he says as you sit down next to him and help anyway. For a split second your fingers brush, but he pulls away, almost instinctively. You’d noticed that physical touch in general didn’t seem to bother him that much, but little soft moments like that make him nervous.

He’s gotten a bit of a handle on accidentally showing people memories they didn’t want to see, but maybe he’s nervous that he’d do it again without meaning to.

“Hey, have you had anything to eat yet?”, you say quietly, trying not to wake anyone else up. He shakes his head.

“Do you want to get something? There’s a coffee place I go to a lot. They have little pastries and stuff, too, if any of that sounds appetizing...”

He thinks about it for a second, and then smiles and nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Inside the coffee shop, it’s cozy and warm. You take off your large sweater, and your phone falls out of the pocket and onto the floor, and both you and Bob reach down for it at the same time. Your hands brush again and he nervously pulls away again. You lean in a little closer and speak quietly. “Bob if you’re worried about-”

“No no, I’m not- it’s not that. That’s under control. I’m just… it’s nothing”. He’s clearly having trouble expressing himself, and he doesn’t seem to want to, so you shake your head and smile politely.

“Hey man, don’t worry about it.” You get a smile in return, which is always nice to see. Bob has a nice smile. It’s so sweet and warm… you can’t deny it any longer. Bob is really cute.

He felt the same way about you, but he’s way too scared to tell you something like that. He’s already jittery enough every time your hands touch…

He really likes being around you. He’s just too shy to ask you to spend time with him, so he’s thrilled that you asked him.

You start to order your usual drink, and Bob gets in the line next to you. The girl taking your order remembers you from the last time you were there, so you talk to her for a little. She’s really sweet! The guy taking Bob’s order is not.

You go to the station with the straws and napkins, and you quietly watch Bob try to order. You realize you didn’t really ask him if he was ready to order, and now he’s at the front of this line trying to figure out what he wants. Bob’s starting to stammer a little and this barista guy is cutting him no slack.

“I’m sorry I don’t know what I’m going to get, I’m thinking…”

“Sounds like something you should’ve figured out before you got to the front of the line”, he says, scoffing a little.

“Yeah you’re right, it was just really fast and-” Bob looks down and shuffles his feet a bit.

“You know there’s people behind you.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m just… um…” Bob trails off, and you can tell that the idea of holding up the line and making all these people wait for him is only making this worse. He’s nervously laughing to try to keep it light, but you can also see him fiddling with the ends of his sleeves while squinting to read the small writing on the menu. You feel your heart break a little just watching him.

“Dude if you seriously can’t figure it out maybe you could get out of line”

Just as Bob is about to step away, you decide you’re not going to watch this anymore and you step up next to him.

“Hey do you know who the hell you’re talking to?”, you say in a hushed, almost professional tone with your arms crossed. “You’re talking to someone who helped save everyone here like a month ago.”

The guy’s eyes widen with realization. “I am so sorry, I forgot, you’re those guys. I was out of town but I saw you on the news-”

“Yeah that’s us. But that doesn’t even matter, you shouldn’t be treating any of your customers like this. Do you do this to everyone? Does your manager know that? Sorry not everyone can read that crazy small print on your menu-”

You continue for a little while, and Bob takes a tiny step backwards so he can be out of your way. This is a side to you that Bob hadn’t really seen. Sure, you bicker with Walker and Ava all the time, and he’s seen how well you can fight of course, (you even had to briefly fight him that one time), but in your everyday lives, you’re always so kind and patient with him. You’re nice to people who come up to you on the street and ask for a picture, and you’re nice to strangers who are rude to you, and you’re nice to the Thunderbolts most of the time, so it’s weird for Bob to see you actually go off on someone like that… and it’s all to defend him?? Strangely, it’s one of the sweetest things someone’s done for him in a while.

“- and you’re lucky I’m speaking quietly. I could be a whole lot louder and I could make a big scene but for your sake I’ll-” but you stop talking when you hear Bob clear his throat.

“I think I know what I want to order now”

“Go ahead”, you say with a little smile as you step out of the way. Bob tells his order to the terrified young man who keeps looking at you like he’s expecting you to lunge at him.

Another barista, who doesn’t realize what just happened, recognizes the two of you and walks up to let you know that it’s all on the house. It’s hard for you and Bob to keep from giggling just a little bit.

After you get your drinks and the muffin Bob ordered, you step back outside and start walking down the street together, enjoying your food and drinks.

“Thanks. You really didn’t have to do all that. I wasn’t ready, I should’ve been ready before I got up there.”

“No, no don’t worry about that. That’s my fault, I didn’t give you any time to read the menu and figure out what you wanted. Besides, that guy was just rude. That’ll teach him to mess with the New Avengers, am I right?” and Bob chuckles quietly.

“Yeah, I don’t really know if I deserve any credit for helping save everyone when I kinda caused all of that in the first place…”

“Hey, you know that’s not your fault”, you say in a softer tone. “You didn’t do any of that on purpose”

“Yeah I know.”

A car then loudly backfires, startling both of you. Bob stops walking and grabs your hand. When he sees that it’s fine and nothing’s wrong, he’s a little embarrassed.

“Sorry I didn’t…” Bob smiles at you awkwardly and trails off. He’s about to let go when you shake your head and gently squeeze his hand. “I’m always a bit jumpy, too, don’t worry about it.”

The two of you continue walking, and you notice that he’s not letting go of your hand, now that he knows you’re fine with it. Maybe he would’ve done that a while ago if he knew you wouldn’t mind…

You walk in very comfortable silence all the way back to the tower, refusing to let go of one another’s hands. Bob feels like he can’t. Like if he let go it might never happen again. He does decide to break the silence, though.

“Y/n, I had a good time” he says as he takes another big sip of his iced coffee. “Thanks for asking me to go out with you. Well, not like go out with you but you know like, coffee and this walk and stuff”.

“Well thank you for joining me. We should do this more”, you say, smiling warmly at him. Just then, you reach the tower. Walker’s heading out, and Bucky’s right behind him. The two of you immediately let go of each other’s hands, but Walker looks at you both a little funny. “Hey guys…”

“Hey”, you say in unison, acting natural as you walk into the elevator and start to laugh a little once the doors close.

“No Bucky I swear they were holding hands. It was so weird”

“I think you’re seeing things, John”

#bob x reader #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderlbolts spoilers #thunderbolts #thunderbolts x reader #lewis pullman #lewis pullman x reader #bob x gn!reader

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baby-yongbok · 2 days ago

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"Let Me Make You a Mommy"

SKZ Maknae Line x Reader

⤷ Smut | drabbles/hard thoughts

⤷ WC - 1.7k [total]

⤷ CW - breeding kink, rough sex, creampie, degradation, praise, teasing, unprotected sex,

⤷ A/N: It's Maknae Line Time! ... Somehow Seungmin and Innie's ended up being the longest ... anyway, I hope you enjoy♡

Hyung Line | ⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Han

He's a mess above you, hair damp with sweat, mouth parted, hands gripping the backs of your knees to keep you spread open for him. The headboard slams against the wall with every thrust, the bed creaking like it’s begging for mercy. But he doesn't slow down. He can’t even fathom the thought of stopping.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he groans, voice cracking as he slams in deep again. “You feel so good, baby. So tight. So wet—shit, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

You’re already half-gone, body rocking with every thrust, barely able to keep your eyes open with how hard he’s taking you. Han fucks you like he’s made for it and you take it like it’s all you know how to do. It’s carnal how he presses you open, fucking a whimper out of your throat every time his hips slam home, like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out—like he won’t stop until your cunt forgets anyone who isn’t him.

He leans down suddenly, forearms bracketing your head, hips still pounding into you without pause. His forehead rests against yours and he moans—loud—like your body’s dragging the truth out of him.

Then he says it.

“Let me make you a mommy.”

Your whole body locks up. His doesn’t. He slams into you harder.

“You want that?” he pants, words slurred and frantic. “Want me to fill you up? Fuck a baby into you?”

“Ji—”

“Bet you’d look so good,” he growls, eyes blown wide, totally wrecked. “Walking around full. Round. Dripping with me.”

You whimper, and that sound breaks him—he starts babbling, so close, completely unhinged.

“Wanna see you take it. All of it. Wanna come so deep you leak for hours. Wanna ruin you—fuck, wanna keep you like this.”

He kisses you sloppily—teeth, tongue, need—and then pulls back just enough to watch your face.

“Gonna give it to you, okay?” he gasps. “Gonna come inside you like you were made for it.”

One more thrust. One more shattered moan.

And then he’s spilling into you—loud, twitching, clutching you like he needs to anchor himself to survive it.

He doesn’t stop moving, just slower now, grinding into you like he wants to make sure every drop stays.

“Shit,” he breathes, blinking hard, chest heaving. “I meant that. Every word.”

And you know he did—because Jisung never says what he doesn’t mean. Especially not when he’s this gone.

Felix

He moans when you pull him in deeper—legs wrapped around his waist, nails scraping down his back. His body is flushed and slick with sweat, golden skin glowing in the dim light as he thrusts into you, slow at first, savoring the drag.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, voice low, eyes locked on yours. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You tighten around him and his breath catches, hips faltering just a bit.

“You’re everything,” he says, like a prayer. “Don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

His hands cradle your face as he fucks you, tender and steady, like he can’t believe he gets to have you like this.

But then your fingers slide into his hair—tug just a little—and the sound he makes isn’t soft. It’s raw. And suddenly his pace changes. Faster. Deeper. More desperate.

“I want—” he gasps, cutting himself off with a groan. “I want something.”

“Tell me.”

He hesitates. Thrusts hard once, and again, and then—

“Let me make you a mommy.”

The words come out breathless. Shaky. Like he’s been holding them in.

You blink up at him, stunned, and his face breaks into this wrecked, needy expression.

“I think about it,” he pants, fucking you harder now, voice dropping into something rough and gritty, close to a growl. “Think about coming inside you. Filling you up. Watching you swell with me.”

You moan—loud—and his grip tightens.

“You’d be so beautiful,” he says, voice cracking. “You already are. But like that? Mine?”

His rhythm starts to lose its smoothness—hips snapping with less control, mouth parted, breath caught on every thrust.

“I’ll be good,” he whimpers, forehead falling to your shoulder. “I’ll take care of you. Everything. Just let me do this. Let me give you something.”

He comes with a cry muffled against your skin—body trembling, cock buried deep as he spills into you. He doesn’t move for a while, just stays pressed against you, breathing hard, whispering soft nothings into your shoulder.

And then, when he finally pulls back to look at you—eyes dark, voice barely audible—

“I want all of you. Always have.”

Seungmin

“Look at you,” Seungmin mutters, voice like hot iron cutting through the haze as he drags his cock slow and deep. “Already cockdumb and I’ve barely even started.”

Your hands are fisting the sheets. Back arched. Lips parted as he keeps you there—legs wide, hips tilted just how he wants them. The way he fucks you is deliberate. Precise. Like every thrust has a goal.

You try to say his name, but all that comes out is a broken whimper.

He leans down until his forehead is brushing yours, hips still rolling in maddening rhythm. “So good for me,” he breathes. “Take me so well. Always do.”

And then he goes still. Deep inside you. Not moving.

His hand curls under your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“You want everything from me, don’t you?” he says, voice low and sharp. “You want me to fuck you full. Fill you up until it sticks.”

You can barely breathe.

His thumb brushes your bottom lip as his cock twitches inside you.

“Let me make you a mommy.”

You gasp. The way he says it—like he’s offering a crown and daring you not to kneel for it.

“I bet you think about it,” he whispers. “I know you do, I do too, all the time. Watching you swell with me. With us.”

Your body clenches around him involuntarily.

He groans, low in his throat—and then it all shifts into something heavier. What comes next is pure fire behind the eyes.

“Say it back.”

You blink, breath shuddering.

His voice drops. “You heard me. Say it. Say you want me to make you a mommy.”

“Seungmin—”

“Uh-uh” He thrusts once, sharp and deep, and you cry out. That was a warning. “Say it.”

You’re shaking, heart pounding, every nerve ending lit up like a live wire—and he’s watching all of it, waiting. Not letting you look away.

“Say it, baby,” he murmurs, voice dangerously soft. “Or I’ll stop right now.”

You don’t even think.

“Make me a mommy.”

He goes still again. Eyes dark. Breathing hard.

“Again,” he rasps.

“Please, Seungmin—make me a mommy.”

And then he’s gone. All restraint snaps as he drives into you with brutal precision, fucking you like he’s trying to etch himself into your DNA.

“Good girl,” he grits. “So fucking good for me.”

You can’t think. You’re crying his name, legs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders as he fills you deep, deep, deeper, like he’s trying to give you every drop he has.

And when he comes—buried inside, panting against your skin—he says it again, this time like a promise:

“We’ll make it real. Just say when.”

Jeongin

You’re testing him—and you both know it.

Feet in his lap, short skirt riding up your thighs, head tilted like you’re innocent. But your smirk says otherwise.

“I don’t know if you could handle me,” you tease, swirling your wine glass, legs slowly parting as he watches, sharp-eyed and far too quiet.

Jeongin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t bite back. He just shifts—broad shoulders rolling, a slow smirk rising like a storm behind his eyes.

“I don’t want to handle you,” he says low, fingers dragging up your shin. “I want to ruin you.”

You blink. The air thickens.

He sets your glass aside, pushes your legs open with a firm hand and leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “I know that’s what you really want too, isn’t it?”

He moves you, you barely register it until your hips are in the air, ass up for him and he pries your legs apart. You moan, gripping the couch cushions like they’ll save you.

“You want it?” he growls, fingers digging into your waist like he’s deciding how rough he wants to get. “You want me to fuck you stupid?”

You look back at him, just barely—biting back a smile, biting back a moan. “You’ve been talking a lot, Jeongin,” you pant. “Still waiting for you to actually do it.”

That’s all it takes.

His eyes go dark, pupils blown, and he’s on you before you can blink.

He flips up your skirt and you yelp when his hand comes down in a harsh slap that makes you jolt. You feel him moving, you can hear the clinking of his belt then the drag of his zipper.

“You keep teasing like you’re not desperate for this,” he says, cock pressing right at your entrance, thick and pulsing. “But I can feel how ready you are. All wet, waiting for me to fill you up.”

“Jeongin—”

“You want it?” he growls. “You want me to breed you?” He slips in easily, groaning at just how ready you are to be torn apart.

You whimper—pathetic and honest.

One hand snaps to your throat, wrapping his fingers around and dragging you up against him, your back to his chest and the breath knocked out of you as he buries himself.

“Still waiting?” he sneers against your jaw. “You’ve got a smart mouth for someone already shaking.”

Your previous bratitude fades the second he thrusts, hard and slow—obscene.

“You’re gonna be sorry you said that,” he whispers, tightening his grip just enough to make your pulse stutter. “Or is this what you wanted?” You whimper.

He’s fucking you like a threat. Every drag of his hips a punishment—every thrust precise, overwhelming, relentless. His hand slips between your legs, thumb circling your clit like he knows just how to end you. And he does—tears slipping from your eyes as your body tightens around him.

“Let me make you a mommy.”

Your pulse stutters.

His mouth finds your throat. He kisses slow—possessive.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hisses, “And you’re not gonna spill a fucking drop.”

You don’t answer—you can’t. But the way your hips buck and your fingers claw at his forearms says enough. He spills into you with a guttural curse, eyes locked on yours like he’s never letting you go.

And he won’t. Not now. Not when you’re his.

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karmicmortal · 2 days ago

Note

Wife!reader who's thinking of a divorce and obsessed sunghoon who makes sure she has no way out by babytrapping her

content warnings husband!sunghoon, toxic relationship, toxic!sunghoon, manipulation, coercion, unprotected sex, breeding, baby trapping, aged up (28)

don’t like it? don’t read it!

sunghoon was not taking the separation well. the two of you have been married for just under three years and it was already falling apart in front of him. you’d been arguing a lot lately, always on edge, and it began to take a toll on both of you. it just seemed like you couldn’t find a middle ground and it was frustrating. but he never wanted you to leave.

he watched helplessly as you packed some of your things, preparing to leave and stay elsewhere. god knows where. if it’s not with him, he doesn’t care and it’s not good enough. you told him that it would only be for a little while. just long enough to sort yourselves out. then you’d be back in his arms and your marriage would be back to normal.

it’s been a month and you still hadn’t come back. the house felt empty. the house the two of you decided to buy together in hopes of growing old together and raising a family in it. he often tried reaching out to you, calling and texting, desperate to win you back, but nothing seemed to be working. you always ignored his attempts to contact you.

yesterday he received a text from you. it was a simple, earth-shattering text.

you: i’ll be coming by tomorrow to collect more of my things.

collecting more of your things? sunghoon couldn’t allow that. if you’re getting more things, taking them away instead of coming back to him, that can only mean one thing.

he made sure he called off from work the next day. he wanted to be there when you showed up so he could convince you to stay with him. even if he had to get on his knees and beg you. when you married him, you made a vow to stay with him through thick and thin, for better or for worse, and he was going to make sure you upheld that. there’s no way he was going to let you leave him.

you were surprised to see sunghoon when you walked into the house. the last time you saw him in person was the day you left. that was after a big fight, so really, the last time you saw sunghoon was when he was angry. when sunghoon is angry, he can be harsh and vicious, which is why you decided that it would be best to leave. but much unlike those moments, now he looks different. regretful? resigned? just wordlessly looking at you as you cautiously stepped foot into the house.

neither of you say anything. you slip your shoes off, putting on your slippers that were right where you left them a month ago, and begin to make your way to your bedroom. sunghoon doesn’t follow you immediately, but he eventually makes his way into the room as well. he finds you having pulled out a suitcase from the back of your closet, laying it out on the floor, waiting for you to fill it with more of your clothes.

you try to ignore his stare. you can feel him watching your every move. he’s stood by the doorframe, watching closely, tracking your movement with his eyes, still not speaking. then he moves. he walks toward you and begins pulling your items out of your luggage. each neatly folded top, dress, every pair of pants and even your panties that you had placed in there was pulled out and thrown haphazardly to the side. some landing on the floor, on the nightstand on your side of the bed, on the bed itself — it didn’t matter.

“what are you doing, sunghoon?” it’s the first time he’s heard your voice in a month. and that almost makes him start crying.

he drops to his knees, crawling toward you and reaching out. his hands grip the backs of your thighs as he pulls you closer to him, resting his head on your stomach. “please,” he begs. “don’t do this. stop…don’t go.”

you sigh and try to take a step back. sunghoon sniffles.

“i love you,” he tries again.

a mix of a laugh and a scoff slips past your lips. “you love me?” he nods. “it sure didn’t feel like it that day. or all of the times before it that we fought. is that what you call love?”

he shakes his head, looking up at you from his position on his knees. “i’m sorry, please. i love you. i really do. i don’t want this — i can’t live without you.” you made eye contact with him but quickly looked away. he was looking at you with pleading eyes, the same eyes you fell in love with many years ago. if you looked at him, you’re sure that you would fold, which is the opposite of what you intended to do. “we’re supposed to be team and work through our problems together. we were going to start trying for a family. do you really want to start over now?”

that hits a nerve. you were initially very excited to have all of the talks with sunghoon about starting a family. planning everything, from when you were going to stop taking your birth control to whether you want a boy or a girl first and what you’d name them. then, you guess, the stress of planning began to take a toll on the both of you and you guys became more irritable. which led to more fights than ever before. most of which started on sunghoon’s side, so you’re not sure why he’s bringing that up now. he was the one that would lash out at you when you asked him for just a few minutes of his time. just a quickie in hopes that it would knock you up. so for him to bring up the fact that you wanted a family so casually like this…you can’t help but feel betrayed. and angry.

“are you serious right now?” your voice was thickly laced with venom, much different than the usual soft tone you’d speak to your husband with. “of course i don’t want to start over! i wanted to be with you forever. wanted to carry your babies and raise them in a happy family! you’re the one who took that away from me because you never wanted to try!”

tears cloud your eyes and a tension begins to choke you. “sure, maybe i was a little pushy about it. i’ll admit that. but is it so wrong for a wife to want to have her husband’s child? is it so wrong to think we were on the same page because you said so? if you didn’t want to have kids with me, sunghoon, you could’ve just said so.”

“i do want to have kids with you, baby.” he squeezes the backs of your thighs again, trailing his hands up the curvature of your ass to finally rest on your lower back. “i want to get you pregnant so badly. i was just worried about the future…this is a big change, but i’m ready. i promise. we can work this out and have the family we always wanted.”

sunghoon begins to press kisses to your lower stomach, so dangerously close to your pelvis that you take a shaky breath. you weren’t wearing anything elaborate, just a regular tee you’d stolen from sunghoon long ago when you were just dating and a flimsy pair of leggings that were see-through when you bend over, so you can feel his breath and kisses through the fabric. you try to push sunghoon away, but he presses closer to your body. his hands that were on your lower back begin to pull the shirt up, exposing your skin to him. “you’d be so pretty pregnant, carrying my baby in your belly. i can’t lose you. don’t want another man to have you. i’ll do anything to fix my mistake.”

though you tried to fight it, you find yourself letting sunghoon guide you to the bed. the same queen sized bed you used to share, cuddling and talking for hours about your plans for the future. he doesn’t waste any time pulling your leggings and panties down, taking in the sight of you finally with him after what feels like forever.

“such a pretty pussy. already so wet for me,” he kisses right on your mound, purposely not getting as close to your clit as you want him. “like always.”

you told yourself that it was just going to be one time. this was your break-up sex and you’d still leave him in the morning while he’s sleeping, maybe leave a note telling him that you just can’t do this anymore. but as sunghoon pushes his thick cock into your soaked cunt, moaning about how you take him so well and he’ll fuck you as many times as he needs to until you’re pregnant with his baby so you can’t leave him, the thought leaves your mind as quickly as it entered.

#enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enha smut #enha hard hours #enha hard thoughts #enha x reader #enha x you #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon smut #© karmicmortal

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mahmoudahmed60 · 3 days ago

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How I Took a Luxury Trip for Less Than a Weekly Grocery Bill

When I told my friends I was planning a luxury getaway to Bali — complete with a private villa, spa treatments, sunset cruises, and Michelin-level dining — they were thrilled for me.

But when I told them the total cost was less than what I spend on groceries in a week? They didn’t believe me.

Yes, you read that right.

For under $150 , I experienced a high-end vacation that felt like a dream come true.

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The truth is, luxury travel doesn’t always have to mean luxury prices. With smart planning, insider tips, and the right travel partner , anyone can enjoy the finer things in life — without breaking the bank.

And guess what?

I found that perfect travel partner — and it changed everything.

✈️ 1. Timing Is Everything

I chose to travel during the off-season. Prices drop significantly on flights, hotels, and even tours during these times. Not only did I save money, but I also got to enjoy destinations without the crowds.

🏨 2. Hidden Gems Over Famous Brands

Instead of booking at overpriced five-star resorts, I discovered boutique accommodations that offered the same level of comfort and service — often with personal touches that made the experience unforgettable.

💡 3. The Real Game-Changer: A Company That Cares About You

This is where the real magic happened.

I used TripCom to plan my trip — a company that truly understands how to deliver luxury experiences at unbeatable prices . Their team of travel experts helped me find exclusive deals, unique local experiences, and premium packages that gave me that VIP feeling — all while staying within an incredibly tight budget.

They don’t just offer trips — they offer dreams made real , with prices that seem too good to be true… until you try them yourself.

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🧳 What I Got For Under $150

✅ Round-trip international flight (yes, really)

✅ Private beachfront villa with infinity pool

✅ Daily breakfast at a top-rated café

✅ Two guided tours (rice terraces & cultural temples)

✅ A full-day spa package

✅ Sunset dinner cruise

All of this, and I still had enough change left over to buy souvenirs and donate to a local conservation project.

💬 Final Thoughts

Traveling the world doesn’t have to be expensive — especially when you’re working with a company that offers the best deals in the market , with prices that no other competitor can match.

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Credits to @Hakusi_Katei from X/Twitter

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bitchy-craft · 2 days ago

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PICK A CARD: Uplifting messages from your spirit guides

Hello and welcome to this pick a card! In here I will give you some uplifting messages from your spirit guides. I hope you guys enjoy and find this interesting!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

The extended version of this reading is found on my Patreon, the link of which is here.

Pile 1:

There is no one in the world who is as funny and intelligent as you.

People who complain about your personality simply have none of their own.

It is okay to be upset and to be influenced by others’ their words, even if they’re nonsense.

You are going to make it very far in life, we can see it all.

You need to give yourself more credit because you’ve grown so much over the years, god knows why you don’t see it yet.

Slow progress is still progress; no one shoots up and continues to do so for the rest of their lives.

You’ve survived so many bad days so far, it is proof that you are strong and resilient.

It is okay to rest and not be productive every single day. You are no machine.

You are allowed to be proud of yourself for things others might consider normal or unimpressive; they’re impressive for you.

You’ve got a softness the world needs, but at the same time a softness that is too good for this world.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 2:

You do not owe anyone an explanation about your (mental) health.

Crying and feeling emotions don’t make you weak, it makes you real.

Your progress doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s, you are unique so you have unique progress.

Just because you are struggling doesn’t mean you are failing.

You’re allowed to start over as much as you want; eventually you’ll get it.

You make a difference in people’s lives; you help people enjoy life.

You are too much of a perfectionist, be kind to yourself.

It’s okay if you aren’t who you were before, everyone grows and changes. You get shaped by experiences, and the older you get the more you have.

There is still light and hope inside of you; you’re not gone yet, you’re still fighting in there. Keep going.

You don’t have to be productive in order to be of value.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 3:

You don’t owe anyone a version of you that makes them comfortable if it isn’t authentically you.

It’s not all in your head; you’re onto something.

You’re more powerful than you think, stop doubting yourself.

Being soft in a hard world is brave.

You don’t need permission to take care of yourself and listen to your body; do what you need to do.

It is okay to want more. One can be grateful but still wish for more than the bare minimum.

You weren’t made to please everyone around you.

Not all energies are meant to align; sometimes you just don’t get along with others for no reason, and that is alright.

It’s okay to change your mind; it is normal and natural.

You’re not annoying for reassurance, it is human. Voice your needs.

extended reading > paid readings

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chuxmy · 1 day ago

Note

advice 4 i beg 💗💗💗💗💗

Advice.. IV

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You‘re forced to visit the boss

Warnings: Mild angst, threats

A/N: upss 🤭

☜ Prev

You had barely slept since that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the flicker of Seongje’s face livid, protective, blood smeared knuckles trembling not from fear, but fury. You still felt the ghost of his arms around you, the way his jaw had locked when he whispered, “No one touches you.”

But peace never lasts long in this world not when the Union was involved.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t end there.

You were walking back from a bookstore when the first shadow fell behind you. At first, you thought it was just a passerby until the second one stepped out in front of you.

You turned around, heart thudding.

Two boys. Older. Union. You recognized them one of them had been in that alley. The other was new. The moment your eyes met, the one in front smirked like he knew a secret you didn’t.

“You thought that was the end of it?” he said.

You took a step back, glancing around the nearly empty street. “I’m just going home.”

“Not yet you’re not,” the first one said. “Boss wants to see you.”

You hesitated. “I didn’t do anything.”

He grabbed your arm not hard, not gentle either. “Doesn’t matter. You’re part of something now.”

You tried to jerk free. “Let me go.”

They didn’t.

By the time you reached the bowling alley, your legs were weak.

The place has dim lights, music thudding faintly, the occasional crash of pins. But they didn’t take you to the lanes.

They took you through the back door, down a narrow hallway, and into that room. Na Baekjin’s room.

It smelled like cold smoke and old wood.

He was already sitting in the leather booth in the corner, his legs crossed, spinning a ring slowly on one finger. A soda can sat untouched on the table. His expression was unreadable. Calm. Dangerous.

“Close the door,” he said.

They did.

Then you were alone with him.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched you. Studied you like something under glass.

“So,” he said finally, his voice almost amused. “You’re the girl.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Baekjin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The one Seongje fought over.”

You said nothing.

He tilted his head. “You know how many years I’ve known him? Since before he could throw a punch. And not once, not once have I seen him lay out one of our own over anything personal.”

Your throat went dry.

“I don’t care who you are,” Baekjin said, voice tightening. “But you caused problems. That guy he beat? He’s not some random. He answers to me. And now I’ve got half the boys questioning if Seongje’s loyalty is slipping.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. “He was protecting me. They hit me.”

“I know,” Baekjin said smoothly. “I saw the footage.”

You froze.

He leaned back, stretching his arm across the seat. “We record the exits near the alley. Saw you stumble in, saw what they did. Saw what he did to them.”

You couldn’t breathe for a moment.

“But see, here’s the thing,” he continued, casual. “I don’t like it when my guys step out of line. And I don’t like secrets in my territory. So you’re gonna tell me the truth now.”

Silence.

“Are you with him?” he asked flatly.

You didn’t speak.

“You don’t answer, I take it as yes.”

You met his eyes finally, your voice shaking. “What does it matter?”

Baekjin stood.

He walked over slowly, deliberately, until he was in front of you.

“I don’t care about your little romance,” he said. “What I do care about is control. Respect. And the fact that he risked both for a girl no one knew existed? That’s not good for anyone.”

You held your chin high, even as your stomach twisted. “If you’re going to do something to me, just do it.”

Baekjin looked almost impressed. “You’ve got teeth.”

“I don’t scare easy.”

“That’s cute,” he said, stepping away. “But fear isn’t the point. This is a message.”

“To who?”

“To him.”

The door opened behind you.

You turned and there he was.

Seongje.

Breathing hard. Like he’d run the whole way. His eyes locked on you instantly, and the second he saw you in that room, something in his expression snapped.

“Get away from her,” he said, stepping forward.

Baekjin held up a hand. “Relax. She’s fine. I just wanted a talk.”

“You sent your dogs after her.”

“I told them to bring her, not drag her.”

“She’s not part of this,” Seongje growled.

“She is now. You made her part of it when you spilled blood over her.”

Seongje’s fist clenched at his side.

You stepped toward him. “I’m okay. I promise.”

But when he looked at you, really looked at you his face twisted with something deeper. Not just rage.

Guilt.

“Don’t come near her again,” he said to Baekjin. “Don’t send anyone. Don’t talk to her. Or I’ll burn this whole place down.”

Baekjin looked at him. “That’s cute. You threatening me over a girl?”

Seongje didn’t blink. “She’s not just a girl.”

And when he walked out with you, his hand brushed yours not in front of them, not fully, but enough that you knew.

He wasn’t going to hide it anymore.

#weak hero class 1 #weak hero class two #geum seongje x reader #seongje geum #seongje geum x reader #geum seong je #geum seongje #seong je geum #weak hero class 2 #weak hero season 2 #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class one

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syoddeye · 1 day ago

Text

deep end

price x transmasc!reader | 7.9k | AO3

cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.

There’s something to be said for the kind of work that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours—a modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. That’s more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof you’re getting by.

This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, that’s a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.

You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. It’s too big, like everything else you’re wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.

You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace.

It’s satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming.

So, you don’t hear Mr. Price the first time.

“You with me, lad?”

The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctively—poised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.

Both of you exhale at once.

He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.”

“I gathered.”

You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. “Was there, uh, something you needed, sir?”

His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadn’t said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.

You don’t know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, it’s through the windows.

This is your first time at his place, and you’re still formulating an assessment.

You don’t know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. There’s a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.

And, obviously, a pool.

What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the owner’s name.

Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.

Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I asked if you needed water.”

Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isn’t really about concern. You’ve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?

Knew it, you think bitterly.

“No thank you, sir.”

His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens.

“Suit yourself.”

He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.

You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.

Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.

You can’t read his face from this distance—but you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.

You must’ve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.

It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. It’s clear he lives alone, and doesn’t host.

Far be it for you to question easy money.

It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, there’s no need to see or speak to him at all.

For a couple weeks, it’s simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.

Then he starts appearing poolside.

At first, you assume it’s a fluke. That he’s forgotten you’re scheduled.

He’s the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If he’s startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesn’t show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.

But then it happens again. And again.

Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.

You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortable—well, more comfortable, given it is his house—and watches. Or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.

He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If he’s retired or working from home. If he’s ever worked a day in his life.

It changes things.

The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the pool’s edge.

You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, he’s not looking. You can’t shake it anyway—the sense of being observed, possibly admired.

That’s when the shame creeps in.

What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?

This is just a job.

You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. It’s mortifying. To even imagine that a man like him—older, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the week—would be watching you. You. You’re not special. You’re a line item on an invoice. Background noise.

The thought that you’ve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.

You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.

But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.

Your first real conversation, you’re in trouble.

“You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Price’s fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.

“What kept you?”

You’re sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last client’s shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.

A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who don’t remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.

Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. “Traffic.”

He cocks a brow. “Traffic got you worked up?”

“Yes,” you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.

When you return, he’s still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, he’s too close, and you’re boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. It’s toothsome. Heady on the tongue.

You form an apology—you can’t afford to lose business—but he doesn’t raise his voice.

“Whatever’s actually put you in a mood, you won’t be takin’ it out on my property.” He ducks his head to chase your eyes and you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. “We clear?”

The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting wood—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. “Good lad.”

The words hit a nerve you didn’t know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dog’s hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.

“And you better not slack just because you’re behind.”

“I won’t, sir.”

He lets you pass, and follows when you do. It’s a struggle to not trip over your own feet.

This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles.

Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder.

He appears asleep—utterly still—until the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.

You snap back to the task at hand.

A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.

On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve.

Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if you’ve met anyone lately.

Or are you all work, no play?

You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.

(It’s not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)

But you’d already blabbed. Confessed.

Mr. Price.

John.

Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.

He’s a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, you’d walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motion—water rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmer’s tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And it’s hard to guess his age. He’s fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.

It isn’t until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long you’ve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. There’s no walking it back.

And when they ask—flat-out—if you’d fuck him, you can’t lie.

That gets them going.

“Do you think he’s—?”

You cut them off. “No. No way.”

Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.

With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.

You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but it’s no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want.

The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:

Whiskey.

The weather turns fast one afternoon.

It starts with the trill of Mr. Price’s phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.

Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.

You watch it spiral away helplessly.

Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.

Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. You’re more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.

You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.

Then, from across the lawn—“Inside!”

Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.

You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.

Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.

The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.

You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.

“I, uh, tried to—”

“You’re dripping,” he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.

You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.

“I’ll get you a towel. Shoes off.” He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. “Stay put.”

Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. You’ve never been inside a client’s home before.

A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.

A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky.

You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.

Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, he’s holding a shirt out.

Does he seriously think—

“Go on. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that.”

A laugh putters out. You shake your head. “You can’t—I can’t take that, sir.”

His chin dips. “You’re not taking anything. You’re borrowing. C’mon. Shirt off, son.”

An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.

“Can’t I change in the–”

He scoffs dismissively. “I’m not moppin’ up a trail. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Transparent, anyway.”

Nothing I haven’t seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but they’re recognizable. Obvious in their purpose.

He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.

Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. It’s fucked—whatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily you’re letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where it’ll lead, if he’ll eat you whole or what. Another can’t stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.

One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but Mr. Price is staring.

Maybe your scars haven’t faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.

The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. It’s loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.

Price clears his throat. “Better. Bottoms, now.”

If your cheeks weren’t already warm, they’re scorching now.

“Sir.”

He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. “C’mon, these’ll do if you tie the string.”

“There’s no need!”

“You’d rather make more of a mess on my floor?”

You hold your ground, waiting for an indication he’ll back off, but he doesn’t. An unevenly matched game of chicken and you’re losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.

With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think you’ve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.

“Steady.”

You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out.

You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.

And then he’s up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t just—

“Back in a jiff.”

This is where your curiosity’s led you.

Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.

How ridiculous you must look.

Do you think he’s—?

Well.

You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldn’t survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.

You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, they’re larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills.

Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.

“Some rain. Didn’t expect it, did you?”

You almost ask which part—the rain, or the forced striptease?

Instead, you mutter, “No, Mr. Price.”

“Think you can call me John now.”

Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesn’t cook much himself—so if you don’t like it, s’not his fault—and arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.

You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.

He’s unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. He’s retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and then—vague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.

“But enough about me. Want to know more about you.”

You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that he’s serious. He’s being polite, you reason. A man like him—he doesn’t really want to know. You’re a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Says the kid with his own company.”

Fair play.

You relent. Share little things. Where you’re from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when they’re short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.

“Sounds like you have your hands full.”

You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. “I keep busy.”

He hums. “You do alright on your own?”

The question is light, but it lands heavy. It’s simple, benign—but it isn’t neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like he’s casting a line, hoping you’ll give something up.

Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.

You shrug, keeping it light. “I manage.”

When the rain finally stops, you’re overdue, and itching to escape Mr. Price—John’s—attention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.

He meets you at the van once it’s packed.

“Be seeing you, kid.”

“Yeah,” you nod once. “Thanks again, John.”

You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet it’d feel like a brand elsewhere.

At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.

You don’t remember the rest of the drive home.

It’s only after you’ve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits you—your uniform’s still in John’s laundry.

Shit.

You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to.

Having rung ahead, he’s expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.

You’re already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they must’ve shrunk in the wash—until you pull on the shirt. It’s been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.

You consider going back, but your schedule’s packed, and the day runs away from you.

When you see him next, he beats you to it.

“Fits better, doesn’t it?” John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.

“Yes, but did you—?”

“Eyeball the size?” He grins. “Not bad, eh? I’ve got a good tailor.”

It’s not like you can undo it and you’re not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper.

A wordless dismissal. Back to work.

With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesn’t cover it—you’re strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.

Sleep’s not happening, not like this.

You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The air’s balmy, sticking in your lungs.

You’re not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of it’s sweat, sure, but the rest—that’s your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.

You let your imagination take the reins.

Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.

Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. It’s obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.

He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own aren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what he’d say is.

He’d ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.

His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.

Good boy.

You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didn’t even get far enough to slip them inside.

You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and you’re too far gone to care about the mess.

Sleep takes you like that—sticky and spent.

The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.

You can’t look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.

It’s divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.

John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like there’s much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.

He moves his legs for you to sit as if there aren’t three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.

A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.

The impulse grips you so intensely, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and you’re waving him through as if they don’t matter.

You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.

His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.

“Cheeky.” he murmurs.

A good little pet sitting at their master’s feet.

Your head spins.

You’re convinced now. There’s a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims.

A gravity all its own.

A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.

Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system check—the kind of job that’ll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands it’s last minute.

Says he’ll make it worth your while.

For the hundredth time, you’re unable to turn him down.

You tell yourself it’s the money, but that’s only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.

Nothing helps your nerves. You can’t stop thinking about eating from John’s hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the bar—the cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet what’s only gotten louder.

It’s all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.

John greets you at the gate.

“Glad to see you.”

He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.

“Hosting a mate’s retirement party. Suspect his kids’ll want to swim.” He continues on about the details, but you’re stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.

You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everything’s the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you don’t want to name.

There’s no real reason you should be here.

No real work to do.

But he’s bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.

You’re kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the pool’s pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.

“Don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John says.

You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. “Everything alright?” You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.

His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. “You look warm,” he taps one to your chin. “Come on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?”

You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.

At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.

“Better?”

“Loads,” you say, hoarse.

He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.

You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. You’re greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.

You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.

He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isn’t the throbbing pulse between your legs.

John doesn’t bother asking if you’re hungry, or if you’ll stay for dinner.

Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. You’re in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and you’ll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and you’ll do it all over again next week.

Then smoke hits the air.

John’s at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife that’s tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.

You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.

Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didn’t agree to stay, that you shouldn’t stay—but that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.

By the time the food’s ready, you’re ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.

After washing up, you peek at your phone.

“Stop that,” he scolds. “I know exactly how long I’ve got you for.”

And he does—he keeps you through golden hour.

Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. You’re boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.

John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.

You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Can I have some?” you ask.

“Don’t think you’d like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.”

“Not true,” you sit up. “I’ve got a bottle of that at home.”

That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.

He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, don’t take too much, let it roll. Savor it.

It burns, but it’s smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.

“Good?” he asks.

You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.

John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close you’ve drifted.

“Well,” you murmur, easing upright. “This has been–well, I should...”

“That it?” he asks. “Off the clock now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but, I should go, since–”

“Yeah?” he smooths a hand up your thigh. “Aren’t you the boss?”

Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. “Aren’t you?”

It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.

His face blanks. Then, very quietly, “Careful.”

Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. “I am so sorry, sir. That was—that was over the line. I didn’t mean—”

Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for it—for the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.

But he moves.

The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, you’re hauled straight into his lap.

He’s kissing you.

“John–” you gasp against his mouth.

Devouring you.

His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low sound—part growl, part groan.

You try to breathe through it, to think, but it’s useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until you’re straddling him, knees framing his hips.

The lounger creaks.

“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to make that face again.”

“What face? A-again?” you moan, dizzy.

“That one,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. “Like you’d let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.”

You shudder. He feels it—laughs under his breath.

His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You want this, hm?” he asks.

You nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decision’s final.

You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.

“There’s a good boy, fuckin’ good boy.”

A head rush in two ways. The pulse of John’s cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.

Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.

He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.

He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But it’s not that. It’s the way he looks at you. He means every word. That’s what’s undoing.

He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesn’t stop you. In fact—

“Go on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.”

There’s not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You can’t do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for John—a line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.

John doesn’t give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it away—then his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat.

He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.

While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.

“Perfect.”

His bed could eat yours for breakfast.

That’s your first thought when John eases you into it.

Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. He’s got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere.

His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.

He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.

“You’ve been driving me fucking mad,” he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. “Teasin’ me for weeks.”

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you gasp. “You—you made me—during the storm—”

“Never made you do a damn thing,” he grunts, tugging at your waistband. “Did I? Didn’t make you wear my clothes. Didn’t force you to eat my food.”

He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and there’s no hiding it. He finds you wet—slick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.

“Christ,” he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. “Don’t need to force a thing.”

John’s touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.

He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.

“This alright?”

You nod, helpless.

“Speak.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, John.”

He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.

You’re right there—right on the edge—when he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.

“John,” you whimper, tilting up.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.

“Please, please—”

“Know what you need,” He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when you’re completely exposed. “Fuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,” he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. “Another time, baby. Don’t worry.”

You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. It’s a touch too soon, but you don’t stop him.

Don’t think you could. Not sure if you’d want to.

Soon enough, you’re tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. You’re trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmed—barely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.

Just a job, you told yourself, and now you’re crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob once—high and cracked—and he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.

“That’s it, sweet boy. Let it out.”

You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. You’re not sure what you’re crying for anymore—relief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.

Again, he stops short of letting you come.

You’re too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.

Then he’s pressing in.

It’s almost unceremonious—the weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling over—white-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.

John’s belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until he’s flush.

“Oh–oh fuck, John,” you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.

“You’re alright.”

He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.

Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.

“Kept this waiting, didn’t I? Sweet boy, such a mess.”

He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole.

“Please,” you try to buck against him, but it’s impossible to move.

“Greedy,” He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.

He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.

“You begged for this,” he growls. “So you’re gonna let me.”

It’s not so much permission as surrender—inevitable, all-consuming. You don’t allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.

The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.

“John, I-I’m gonna…” you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it.”

Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.

The rest blurs—distant. Muffled.

A guttural sound, John’s fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips.

Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You can’t see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.

It’s a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesn’t matter.

It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.

You don’t fight him when he tucks you into his side. It’s far too hot to be this entangled in each other’s arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when you’re so sated.

He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but you’re already gone. Pulled under.

In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back.

His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until there’s no room, until you’re just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.

Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.

“Shouldn’t you be decorating or something?”

He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. “Hm? Wha’s that now?”

“The party,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.

John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.

“What party?”

#price x reader #john price x reader #x transmasc reader #for me and my trans+nb friends #the formatting better work this time

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chryso-poeia · 1 day ago

Text

The light, alone, will not comfort you or liberate you / the same darkness that you fear: is also in you, expressed differently, to a different degree or suppressed differently. None of us are harmless, none of us are entertainment centers for others, none of us need permission to be who we are. Some of the most powerful people on earth are absolute scum, but they got to where they are because of their belief and readiness to take what is theirs. So, you’re not perfect either, that would make life too boring and people, too stiff, if they always feared mistakes, even though i’ve also had major issues with that too. Only i’m relentless in gaining insight. Confidence like that is about internal permission.

Realness flows. the difference is how principled you are. But similar to said ’scums of the earth’, you get to take what you want for yourself and claim your right to own yourself and your space. You get to forgive and forgive yourself delusionally, until you are only ever freer. This edge can seem dangerous, or even immoral, but it holds the freedom that a lot of people look for. This is your experience. Learn to laugh at it, even when it’s cruel. You are still here, you better use that body, that mind, that heart, that fucking passion. Ignite, fucking ignite!

Even when it would have felt villanous or bad to give yourself the fucking permission to just be, without needing to have opinions on everything, or be a shining beacon of morality or righteousness. Conversely, if you dislike/hate someone or something, own it, your feelings are yours, this is the ownership. Own your shame, own yourself fully, scream it out. And If you’re sensitive, that sensitivity should be directed to yourself, for yourself. Not wasted on those that can’t hold space for you. You are the only one that can carry you and your weight, dear. You know you, like god. Let your nervous system rest, get it out of you though, it’s very important to express and connect to others.

What you attempt to control, controls you. Own the shadow, proclaim it is you. What’s looking back at you says ”I protect who i am, in order to afford being all that i am. I am soft but i am vicious.”

This idea of your part as savior, was not pre-written. But you experience this life, and you cannot deny the profoundity in front of you, so well as protecting your right to live it as you please. If they can’t swallow the delicious playful lightness of your authenticity, you don’t have to be around for when they vomit it up. They can say that you caused it, when they don’t have your agency or understanding. The understanding that says ”I can get the fuck up outta their way if we don’t vibe, without needing to let them know that, because i am confident in me.”

Whether i try to make you not judge me or not, doesn’t matter, you’ll judge me anyway and i can’t control that, especially when i’m not present:’so judge me. Show me your pain by how you fear me, because you don’t understand, love yourself first, not my job. But if i seem merciless, it’s because i needed that mercy. If i am merciful, it’s a byproduct of me having been merciful to myself FIRST.

I’m talking about integration. About holding space for the illusion of contradiction, when really, light feeds darkness and vice versa. Neither one would function without the other. If you can’t hold this contradiction; atleast to some degree: you will be controlled by others and to a greater degree, the world.

And then.. eventually, the narratives can fade and what’s left is the painfully human aspect of how connected we are, how similar we are, what a mess this is and what we can make of it, playfully, how we seek love, how we are afraid and how we can meet each other… as we cry out for help in so many veiled ways, a loving energy can emerge in that meeting. It could be loving. Either way, we’re all adorable as we try to shield ourselves from others that mean us no harm.

Fear is weaponized ignorance and contradiction. Bring presence, bring healing, bring understanding, bring mercy, bring trust. You can dance with it, dance with fear, dance with all of it. It already is an inexplicable cosmic dance, move with it.

The light in the dark.

#my writing

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itsnesss · 1 day ago

Note

hiii :)

could i pretty please request Kimi Antonelli x fem reader where they're dating and get into a silly fight over something small and reader gets just slightly petty and does stuff like breaking spaghetti in front of him, ordering pizzas for dinner but they all have pineapple on them, basically everything italians consider sacrilege and Kimi just sits in silent italian rage cause he knows a reaction is exactly what reader wants

just a silly couples argument that somehow breaks out into an all-out war

thank you xx

𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐦 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | you and kimi have a playful fight over food. he stays calm, but you know he’s secretly fuming

warnings | playful arguments, food-related humor, light teasing and petty behavior, silly and lighthearted tone

word count | 1.0 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

It all starts over something silly. Something so small that it’s not even worth arguing about. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself… right before you argue about it anyway.

“You said if I cooked, you’d wash the dishes,” Kimi reminds you from the kitchen, with that tone somewhere between irritated and condescending that ignites you more than the oven.

“And I washed the breakfast dishes. It’s not my fault you cook like you’re feeding the entire paddock,” you respond from the couch, not even bothering to turn to look at him. Your voice is sweet, but with venom.

“Non è lo stesso. It was three plates. Now there are twenty. This isn’t a restaurant, tesoro.”

Your eyebrow arches. You glance at him over the back of the couch, pretending to be innocent. He gives you a look that clearly means “I’m not playing.” You just smile. Because of course you’re not playing… but you’re definitely winning.

The silence that follows is tense, but almost fun. Kimi returns to his tomato sauce as if he’s a scientist in his lab. Meanwhile, you start plotting your next move.

And then you see it: the package of spaghetti in the pantry. It almost calls your name. A completely malicious idea forms in your mind. And you can’t resist.

You get up calmly, as if you have no evil intentions. You walk over to the pantry and pull out the package, holding it in front of you. Kimi watches you with suspicion. You don’t say anything. You just look at him… and then…

CRACK!

You break the spaghetti in half.

Kimi freezes. The spoon he had in his hand falls into the bowl with a soft clink. His eyes fixate on the broken pasta as if he just witnessed a murder.

“You didn’t…” he whispers.

“What? It cooks faster this way,” you respond with a small smile, throwing the broken pieces into the boiling water like nothing’s happening.

He says nothing. He just slowly turns around, with the expression of someone praying internally not to explode.

And you know it hurts him. Of course, you know.

But it doesn’t end there.

The next day, you decide cooking is too much effort. Better order pizza. When Kimi asks what kind you ordered, you smile sweetly.

“Surprise.”

When they arrive, you open the first box and set it on the table. Then the second. Then the third. And all of them, absolutely all of them, have a generous layer of pineapple.

Kimi sits in front of the boxes, staring at them in silence, and doesn’t say anything. Not a sigh, not an insult. Just that gesture of his that you know so well: clenched jaw, slightly furrowed brows, eyes fixed on nothingness.

The Italian silence is deafening.

And you, on the verge of laughing, take a dramatic bite of a slice and say, “Mmm… pineapple with cheese is delicious, don’t you think?”

You know he’s about to lose his composure. You know that deep down, an ancient voice inside him is screaming “traditrice!” and that he’s doing everything he can not to get up from the table and scream at the universe.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows that’s exactly what you want.

The next morning is suspiciously calm.

Too calm.

Kimi doesn’t say anything when he wakes up. He doesn’t frown. He doesn’t mention the sacrilegious pizzas or the pasta broken like it’s glass. He just gets up, kisses your cheek, and murmurs a soft “bongiorno” as if everything is fine.

And honestly, that scares you.

Because an angry Kimi talks. An offended Kimi protests. But this Kimi… this elegant silence with a mysterious smile and suspicious calm… that’s the Kimi planning his revenge.

You decide to ignore it.

But by noon, the first signs begin.

You walk into the kitchen and see that he’s already made lunch.

“You cooked?” you ask with a mix of distrust and tenderness.

“Certo. I thought you deserved a… special meal,” he says with an angelic smile.

You sit at the table, a little wary. It smells good. Too good. You take a bite.

It tastes… bad.

Something’s off. Salt? Sugar? Both?

You look at him. He just takes his glass of water and drinks it slowly, provocatively.

“What did you put in this?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Love. And a pinch of divine justice,” he answers with total calm.

You put your fork down.

“Are you seriously getting back at me with pasta?”

“I’m just balancing the universe, amore. Karma exists. And so do horrible sauces.

You don’t know if you’re more indignant or impressed.

Later, when you take a shower, you hear noises in the kitchen. When you come out, the air smells like… cheese? Herbs?

And there he is.

Kimi stands in front of the oven, taking a steaming tray out. The dish looks incredible. Pasta al forno, made with a delicacy that melts your soul.

“And this?”

“It’s for me.”

“And for me?”

He gives you a cold look… theatrically cold.

“You have pineapple.”

He opens the fridge and shows you a perfectly intact box of Hawaiian pizza, with a label that reads “For culinary traitors.”

You suppress a laugh. He walks over, without losing his dignified air, and whispers in your ear:

“Never underestimate the Italian pride. Especially in the kitchen.

But then, just when you’re about to give in, when you’re about to say “okay, enough,” he leans in and kisses your cheek.

“Although… I have to admit, seeing you bite that pizza with pineapple and pretend you didn’t expect my reaction was adorable,” he murmurs, softly, as if it slipped out.

You turn, pretending to be offended, but he grabs you by the waist and lifts you easily, making his laugh resonate against your neck while you scream in laughter:

“Put me down, Antonelli!!”

“Admit that parmesan is better than pineapple and I’ll do it!”

“Never!”

“Traditrice!” he says dramatically.

#🖇️ kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli x you #kimi antonelli one shot #kimi antonelli imagine #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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dantes-jacket · 1 day ago

Text

Wanna take a peak

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #5!! You walk in on Dante naked, and he’s cocky about it (I mean who wouldn’t when you’re built like a Greek god) anyways this gets a little heated towards then end, oh and obviously nudity lol. This was so fun to write

There’s only a handful of times you’re ever running in a full sprint. Sadly today is one of them because you’re running late to work. Not that your boss would care, Dante is super chilled and laid back. Most of the time when you get to Devil May Cry the man is still sleeping.

Today was Friday and you wanted to surprise him with a box of different strawberry treats for working so hard this week. He’s had a lot of missions back to back and barely had a second to even breathe. He had no mission lined up today so you knew today would be a perfect day to surprise him.

You look down at your watch mid sprint to see it saying 9:45, shit you promised him you’d be there at 9 to answer any calls. You turn the corner and see the shop in all its glory. You sprint the last hundred yards and stop right in front of the door. You try to catch your breath and fix your messy hair before walking in.

You open the door and head in. The shop is dark meaning Dante is still sleeping and didn’t open up shop. You set your things down on his desk then go turn on the lights and flick on the infamous sign. You walk back over to grab the box of pastries to put them in the kitchen.

You flick on the light in the kitchen to see where you are going. Dante loves to raid his fridge after missions so he always leaves his stuff on the ground in here and the last thing you need to do is trip on some demonic thing. As the light flickers on you hear a groan.

You quickly look around to see Dante standing behind the fridge door that is open. “Ugh turn those off.”

“Good morning Dante.”

He looks over at you and you watch the tiredness wipe from his system. He looks really happy and excited to see you. “Hey! You’re early, thought you were going to be here at 9.”

“It’s 10 now, so I’m actually late.”

“Oh you sleep in too?”

“No.” You show the box to him and open it up, “I stopped and got you some different strawberry pastries to surprise you. They are a little reward for the long hard week you had.”

He lightens up even more and slams the fridge close which was covering which makes you see everything. Dante is completely naked. With no shame. You’re so shocked you don’t even move. Your eyes run over his body. His muscles are so sketched that he looks like a Greek god has sculpted him.

He’s got a trail of white and silver hair leading down to… your breath hitches when you see it. His dick is thick and long. No wonder why he acts so cocky, he actually has the asset to back it up. Then you realize you’ve been staring.

You cover your eyes and screech, “DANTE!”

“What?” He grabs the box from you and obviously takes a bite of one of the pastries because he’s moans. “Man this is so fucking good.”

“WHERE ARE YOUR CLOTHES!?!”

He swallows another bite, “Oh yeah guess I forgot to put something on after my shower.”

You spin around so you can open your eyes. “How do you forget to put something on? What if someone else came in and saw you?”

The thought of someone else seeing him in all his glory makes you burn with jealousy. You two aren’t together but you’d like to say you are close. That does help the delusional part of your brain for justifying you liking your boss.

You didn’t hear him come up behind you after setting the box down on the counter. You feel a warm hand wrap around your waist and pulls you back into a warm embrace.

Dante has you lined up with his thigh so his uncovered dick doesn’t touch you. He’s already getting a hard on after you ogling him. He doesn’t need to explain to you why he’s hard so he’s making it easier for the both of you. He leans down and whispers deeply into your ear, “Are you jealous?”

Your face heats up and you definitely know your blush is reaching your ears. You also 100% know Dante can see it. You push yourself out of his hold, “As if! Just go put some clothes on.”

You keep your face hidden from him while you walk back to the office. Dante chuckles to himself, “Man thought we were finally going to get somewhere that time.”

You stand at his desk and try to sort through all the different reports he has on his desk. It’s hard to focus because all that comes to mind is his perfect body. Any time you blink or you close your eyes you’re blessed again with seeing his body. It sends a warmth to your core. You try to push those feelings aside and focus.

You let an annoyed sigh out and drop the papers back on his desk. How the hell are you suppose to focus today? It’s going to be a very long day.

You see two arms get placed around you on the desk and a warmth at your back again. He snuck up on you again! How did you let that happen? Now you gotta figure out how to get out of this, even though you don’t really want to.

“What’s wrong?” A deep voice rings in your ear again.

Playing it off and not telling him that his perfect body is the only thing in your head now, you talk about work. “I’m just confused on how to organize all these reports. Morrison is picky and the last thing I want is to be yelled at by him.”

Dante puts his chin on your head and mumbles, “I can help.”

He grabs different reports and skims over them. “Okay so if the report has more to it and actually has useful information put it in this pile,” he points to the pile on the right. “If it’s basically useless put it in this pile,” while pointing to the left side now.

You nod and grab more reports. You and Dante stay in this position while sorting them. It only makes you more antsy. You want to feel that body against yours, you want him to- you shake your head to snap you out of your thoughts again.

“What’s wrong?” Dante asks again.

You play it off once more, “Uh I’m confused on this one. Not sure where it should go.”

Dante lightly takes the report from your hands and skims it. “Eh don’t know either. I’ll just put it in the keep pile.”

“Okay. Better him yelling at you than me,” you laugh.

Dante leans closer to you and basically engulfs you with his body, “I hope you know I’d never let him yell at you. I’d protect you from anything.”

His words are so sweet, basically everything you want him to say. This only adds to your need of having him though. This time you give in. You lean back against him, “I know and I appreciate it.”

You look up and him and he’s already looking down at you. There’s a silence between you two, each waiting for the other to do or say something. You both slowly lean in until the front door swings open and slams against the wall.

You jump out of his hold and look at the customer. It’s a woman wearing a very revealing outfit. She’s looking straight at Dante, maybe they know each other?

“Dante!”

You didn’t know Dante was looking straight at you when you jumped away and didn’t even look at who came in. At the call of his name he looks to see who is calling him and he just rolls his eyes. Not this chick again.

“Hi Miss. Have another demon I need to take care of?”

“No, I came here to see youuuu.” She slowly struts over trying to pop her hips out. Oh so that’s what she is doing here. She wants Dante. It makes your blood boil but you can’t help but applaud her confidence.

“Why?” Dante says disinterestedly.

“I need to repay you for helping me.” She walks over and stands toe to toe with him not caring for his personal space. “How about dinner?”

“No thanks.”

She doesn’t stop instead she places her hand on his chest and run it down his pec and towards his abs, “Oh so we can’t just skip the foreplay.”

Your throat feels dry, how can she just walk in and suggest this? You reach for the random water bottle on Dante’s desk and take a big sip to try and help the lump forming in your throat.

Dante doesn’t let her touch him for long, he smacks her hand away and steps back. “Not interested. The only girl that can see me naked is her,” and points to you.

You choke on the water you just swallowed. You finish hacking up a lung and look at the man who is smirking.

The lady moves to stand in your direction to try and block Dante from looking at you. “Look at me! I’m much prettier, I can actually give you a fun night-“

“Get out.”

“Huh?”

“I said, get out. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“I don’t understand-“

“Don’t you ever talk bad about her again. You’ll never amount to her. Now get the fuck out of my shop.” Dante says in the most threatening voice you’ve ever heard him use.

At the tone of his voice the lady quickly makes her way out of the shop and slams the door on her way out. You watch the door and laugh, “Well that was something. She really had guts-“

You’re cut off by two hands on your face and the feeling of soft lips on yours. Dante’s kissing you…. DANTE IS KISSING YOU!?!

Once it clicks in your head that he’s kissing you, you eagerly return the kiss. It started off soft and slow but now it’s getting more heated and clash of teeth and tongues.

Dante pushes you against the wall and starts to kiss down your neck, “Thank god she left, been waiting to do this.” He continues to suck at your neck drawing out little moans from you.

You place your hands on his chest, “Dante-“

He unattached himself from your neck and looks back up at you. “What is it baby?”

“More please.”

He smirks, “Now you wanna take a peak?”

You flush at his comment and hide yourself in his chest. Dante lets out a deep laugh and holds you close. You two stand there hugging until the phone starts ringing. You try to break out of the hug so you can answer it but Dante won’t let you budge.

“I gotta answer the phone, let go for a second.”

“No can do. Today we are off and we are going to spent the entire day in my bed.”

The phone stops ringing once it does Dante steps away from the hug and closes Devil May Cry. He walks back to you and throws you over his shoulder, carrying you like a sack of potatoes.

“Dante, put me down!” You try to yell but it ends up just coming out as a laugh instead.

Dante joins you in the laughing and simply stating, “No, you and I got a date in my bed. Let’s make it fun.”

#dante x reader #dante sparda x reader

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okaylikeschaewon · 3 hours ago

Text

Chapter 10: Choices

~6k words, male reader, smut

“I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?” Sakura yawned, rubbing her eyes.

“Kkura I’m fucking scared.”

She took one proper look at you and that was enough to let the drowsiness instantly fade from her face. The fact that it was the break of dawn and that she had just rolled out of bed a moment earlier seemingly no longer mattered. Shrugging her shoulders to protect herself from the cold, Sakura shut the door behind her and stepped out into the crisp morning air, pulling her robe tight around her body.

“What happened?” she asked softly, her beautiful, round eyes widened. Her expression was warm, despite the chilly morning air.

“What if she doesn’t take it well?” you asked, your breath catching in the cold and your teeth clattering.

“Let’s slow down for a second,” Sakura began shivering. “But first, can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.”

“Uh…”

“Oh, right,” Sakura frowned. “Car?”

“That works,” you agreed, turning around and leading Sakura towards where you parked.

Sakura got into the passenger seat as you turned on the car.

“Much better,” Sakura shivered, holding her hands up to the vents as you started blasting the heat. “Alright, now do you want to explain what you’re talking about?”

“I slept on it, like you said,” you began anxiously. “I can’t shake my head around… I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Sakura sighed, her eyes shimmering with compassion. Her gaze was soft and understanding, radiating a soothing energy that promised there would be no judgment on her end.

“You’re going to need to clarify who you’re talking about.”

“Sorry. It’s Zuha. I can’t get that girl out of my head. I swear ever since she confessed, I’ve felt something inside me that I just haven’t been able to shake.”

“Then I guess you have your answer.”

“Isn’t it fucked up though?” you raised your voice unintentionally, nearly shouting at the girl without even realizing it. “Sorry, I just mean like, for Chaewon, I feel awful. I still really love her, I think, but I think I also have feelings for Kazuha? I don’t know, nothing makes sense to me anymore, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m not here to tell you what’s right and wrong,” Sakura replied calmly. “I love both of those girls with all of my heart.”

“And I still have a lot of love for both of them.”

“But you can’t see both of them romantically,” Sakura smiled gently. “There’s no real nice way to put it, you have to pick one.”

“It just feels wrong,” you let out an exasperated sigh. “Why can’t I just have them both?”

“It’s one thing to sleep with both of them, but it’s another to have feelings for both,” Sakura chuckled. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it would be fair to either girl if you tried keeping both.”

It sucked to hear, even if for just a moment you tried to trick yourself into thinking it would be possible. “You’re right, I know, it just blows.”

“And I’m not telling you which one you should pick, that’s your decision,” Sakura continued. “Lucky you, by the way, in the grand scheme of things there are worse choices to be left with.”

“I know, I’m making my own life difficult.”

“I’m not saying it’s an easy choice.”

“But I have to make it.”

“Yeah, you do,” Sakura pursed her lips as her expression bled empathy. “They both really like you, more than you probably know.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

“My bad,” Sakura chuckled before her expression turned more serious. “If it makes you feel better, I know better than anyone that you’ll do right by Chaewon even if you decide to move onto Kazuha.”

Better than anyone. Something about that comment didn’t exactly sit right with you, and immediately you figured something was wrong.

“Sakura?” you gave her a look of confusion as you fixated on that one line.

“I’m fine,” her voice cracked as she quickly turned away from you to look out the passenger side window.

“I… are you…” your voice trailed off, and it was like there was a rock in your throat. All of a sudden you couldn’t speak, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You reached out for Sakura’s shoulder with your hand.

“I said I’m fine,” she repeated firmly, pulling her shoulder away from your touch, still staring out the window. “Just… give me a second, please.”

“Sure, let me know,” you leaned back slowly.

This couldn’t be much further from what you expected the conversation would be like. It all happened too fast, you were still trying to comprehend how it turned into this. You kept your gaze fixated on Sakura’s back, confused and worried about her, forgetting about your own dilemma for the moment.

She brought one of her hands up to her face, presumably wiping her eyes with the cuff of her robe, followed by a couple of silent sobs. Her body trembled just enough for you to notice, as if she was still outside in the cold, but the car was as warm as it could be. She let out one final sniffle, shrugging her shoulders as she took a deep breath and turned back to face you.

“Sorry about that,” she stated, her beautiful round eyes stained scarlet. “As I was saying-”

“Sakura,” you cut in, barely hearing your own voice over your thumping heart. “Are you okay?”

A shaky exhale escaped her lips as her brow furrowed. Her lip began to tremble, and her eyelids began blinking rapidly. She nodded, unable to find her voice.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Sakura laughed as a couple of tears flew down her face. “About how pathetic I am? How it takes one mention of our past to send me down a fucking rabbit hole all night?”

“What are you talking about? You’re not pathetic-”

“Aren’t I?” she shouted, her voice unstable and shaky, each syllable wavering and threatening collapse. “I bet you didn’t think about it at all after we stopped talking last night.”

“Of course I did,” you responded unconvincingly, fully aware that she knew you were lying.

“Yeah? Did you also spend all night looking at pictures? Pictures that I refused to delete? Even though I told myself I would?” Sakura snapped back. “That’s what I thought.”

It was tough to hear and you were admittedly at a loss for words, staring at Sakura as she was on the verge of fresh tears. It hurt so unbelievably bad to see her like this. You’ve known this girl for years and seeing her in this state was a rare occurrence, but it was so fucking difficult whenever it happened. You hated it. You hated every second of what was happening in this car.

“I’m fine,” Sakura choked, still struggling to get the words out. “Being reminded last night just really had me thinking about those days.”

“I’m sorry-”

“It took me a really long time to forgive you,” Sakura confessed, ignoring your apology. “Like, a really fucking long time.”

“I had no idea-”

“I once told Zuha I was going to murder you in your sleep.”

“Oh,” you raised your eyebrows. “Understandable, very reasonable.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Sakura scoffed. “What you did was… honestly it’s been long enough, I’m going to say it. What you did was fucked up.”

“Excuse me? We both agreed to end things when we ended them,” you finally found your voice and defended yourself. “How can you put all the blame on me like that?”

“You’re right, we both agreed,” Sakura retaliated with her voice full of rage. “I’m talking about the reason you gave and what you did right after.”

“You mean-”

“Yes you fucking asshole,” Sakura interjected. “Do you have any idea how much that hurt me? And it’s not like she knew a thing, I made sure to never tell her, because it wasn’t her fault, she didn’t deserve to have that in her mind.”

“I didn’t plan for things to happen the way they did, you know this. It just… things just happened the way they did, no one could have seen it coming.”

“I. Fucking. Know,” Sakura sighed with exasperation, frustratingly agreeing as if she knew she had no other option. “Of course I fucking know, I’m the one who basically…” she sighed deeper with heavy pent up frustration behind her before adding in a nearly-silent whisper. “But it still really hurt.”

“I’m really sorry Kkura, I-”

“Never thought about it? Had no idea? Why would you? You had a pretty girl obsessed with you while all I had was fucking nothing, nothing but the pleasure of watching you replace me in less than… however long it was. I don’t even give a fuck about that part, it’s just the reason you gave me.”

She was right, to a degree. It’s not that you hadn’t thought about it, but you clearly did not realize how much you put her through, or perhaps you were just too much of a dickhead to care. She deserved better, and it took you far too long to realize this, you hurt the girl who was there for you far more than you ever could have known.

“Kkura-”

“Alright, fine, maybe I did care about that part as well, maybe I felt like what we had wasn’t very special if you could replace me that quickly. I don’t know, but I could have overlooked it,” Sakura kept going, not letting you get a word in. “Really it’s probably my fault, I could have said no when you asked me that night, I could have just ignored your text, never set you up on that date.”

“That’s not fair at all, no one could have ever predicted that night to turn into what it did. Chaewon wasn’t even in the picture at that point. It wasn’t even supposed to be her, you know this, things just kinda fell into place after.”

“Obviously I do, I set it up,” Sakura snapped at you. “And we both know damn well how I don’t have it in me to ignore you like that, but I probably should have.”

“Sakura, I know I hurt you,” you began as you chose your next words carefully. “But you know my first date with Chaewon was before the announcement, right? I had no idea she was going to debut again, she didn’t tell me until way later.”

“Even if you knew, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but it still matters,” you replied softly. “The reason I gave you was genuine, and I don’t think I would have gone forward with Chaewon had I known about the group. You believe me, right?”

She paused for a moment to think about what you said. “Yeah, I do, and honestly I don’t really blame you, I know I don’t,” Sakura replied, her voice losing the anger and being replaced with a touch of dejection - one that stung much more than when she was yelling at you. “I get it, I saw the way you looked at her. It was clear as day you were madly in love with her, and you two were just so perfect together.”

“That must have made it even harder on you,” you muttered, your vision starting to blur. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sakura replied bluntly. “How could I be upset? Chaewon was happier than I had ever seen her. I was happy for her. Of course I was. It’s not her fault.”

Words once again escaped your brain.

“As mad as I was, I was also secretly happy for you as well,” Sakura confessed with a smile stained with melancholy. “It may sound stupid, but even though we didn’t work out, deep down I still wanted to see you happy. Oh, who am I fucking kidding, it wasn’t that deep down. I wanted you to be happy, even when you hurt me. Pathetic as fuck, right?”

“And I also want to see you happy, does that make me pathetic too?” you replied, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands. “I hope you know I really mean that, I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. And my reason wasn’t bullshit, I swear I really felt that way, I just wasn’t expecting that whole thing to unfold the way it did.”

“I know, I don’t think either of us expected it, I didn’t even know it was an option,” Sakura mumbled quietly under her breath. “I promise I never held it against Chaewon.”

“Just against me.”

“Only at the start,” Sakura laughed softly as the tears finally spilled. “You know how I said I know you’d do right by Chaewon? Yeah, as much as you hurt me, there’s a reason I didn’t actually murder you in your sleep.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know, but sometimes things happen,” Sakura smiled faintly, her eyes glistening as she fought the losing battle against the wave of emotion threatening to break through. “Seeing how happy you made Chaewon made it a lot easier for me to forgive you.”

Just like that, tears also began flowing down your face in a way you couldn’t control.

“That… wasn’t supposed to be…” Sakura stammered quickly.

“Sakura I’m so-” you choked up before finishing your thought.

“It’s okay,” Sakura whispered, leaning over and wrapping you up in her arms. “I promise it’s okay. I’m here with you.”

It took you a few moments - squeezing Sakura tenderly - before you were able to compose yourself again. You let go of her slowly and another wave of warmth shot through your body when you saw her face tear-soaked.

“It’s all behind us now,” Sakura said softly. “Just like I was able to forgive you, I’m confident Chaewon will, too.”

“Does that mean you think she’ll be mad at me?”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” Sakura quickly backtracked. “This situation is different.”

“Isn’t this one worse?” you asked nervously. “Fuck, Sakura I don’t know anymore, maybe this is all a mistake.”

“I don’t think you should doubt yourself, just listen to what your heart’s telling you. It’s also kinda too late to back out now, think about Zuha.”

“You really think so?”

“I don’t see a better option, but it’s definitely complicated,” Sakura replied nervously. “Just be thoughtful when it’s time to tell Chaewon, if you’re mean to her, maybe I will have to murder you in your sleep.”

“Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” you half-smiled. “But let’s be honest, we both know I could never hurt that girl on purpose, ever.”

“You probably thought that about… actually let’s not go there again,” Sakura returned your smile half-heartedly. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

“I really hope you’re right.”

“Fingers crossed,” Sakura chuckled, wiping her face clean as she opened the door.

The two of you stepped into the brisk air once more. You walked around your car to Sakura who was waiting for you. Without speaking a single word, the two of you embraced in a tight hug, properly this time.

“Thank you,” you mumbled into her shoulder, the coldness of the morning being completely replaced by the warmth of Sakura’s hug.

“Good luck with everything, I’m always here for you if I can help with anything,” Sakura whispered back before letting go of you and shooting you a nervous glance. “When do you plan on talking to them?”

The talk with Sakura ended up creeping just a bit of doubt into your decision, but your mind was still set. You knew, as much as you didn’t want to do it, this conversation had to happen at some point soon because the longer you waited the worse it would become. With that in mind, you returned Sakura’s nervous expression with a look of determination.

“Right now.”

—

“Hey,” you whispered, peeking your head through the door to see if she was awake.

“Oh! I thought it was Kkura,” Kazuha blurted out as she looked up from her phone. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I came to see you, actually,” you answered while opening the door a bit more. “Mind if I come in?”

“Oh, uh, yeah of course,” she replied, sitting up in her bed and putting her phone aside. “Come, sit. What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Kazuha raised an eyebrow at you as if you were an idiot. “I pieced together that much,” she giggled softly. “Did you not sleep well? Your eyes are a bit red.”

“Oh no that’s just-”

“You don’t have pinkeye do you?” Kazuha leaned back away from you. “I really don’t want to wear an eye patch, not during promos.”

“No, Zuha, it’s not pinkeye,” you smiled meekly.

“Okay good!” she giggled again, leaning back in and cuddling up next to you before quickly pulling away in fear. “Uh, sorry, that was… I probably shouldn’t do stuff like that right now with the whole… sorry…”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” you scooted closer to her as her face turned a shade light pink. “Forget everything else for a moment, because things are a bit complicated, but just listen to me. I like you, Zuha. A lot.”

“Oh,” Kazuha blushed even harder. “T-Thank you? I also like you, a lot.”

“I want to make you my girlfriend.”

“What?” Kazuha began blinking rapidly as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “But what about-”

“I told you, please just for a moment forget everything else, we’ll figure that stuff out,” you cut her off. “Just tell me, would you like that?”

Kazuha pondered your words. Unknown to you, her heart was beating harder than it ever has before. “I… I would…” she muttered before smiling brightly at you with her eyes twinkling. “Yes, I would.”

Just like that, you knew you made the correct choice. The way she looked at you, the way you felt right now, everything was perfect. You wanted nothing more in life than this girl sitting next to you, that precious smile and those pure eyes. Your insides were burning up in a warmth of comfort and love that you didn’t know you felt towards this girl, all of a sudden it just came rushing in. That gnawing sensation you’ve had inside you ever since her confession, it finally made sense.

Unfortunately, the feeling only lasted for a fleeting moment before reality came crashing in and Chaewon popped into your mind again.

“What’s wrong?” Kazuha looked concerned as she immediately noticed your shift. She pulled you into her arms, just like Sakura did earlier. “I guess we need to address the elephant in the room.”

“How am I supposed to tell her?” you whispered, pulling away from Kazuha slowly. “I want this, I really do, but I don’t want to hurt Chaewon.”

“And I don’t either,” Kazuha agreed as worry filled her expression. “Should we talk to her together?”

“You think that’s better? It’s a bit of a unique situation, I don’t really know what to do.”

“I don’t either,” Kazuha smiled softly. “You’d be my first relationship, remember?”

“I guess we’ll be traversing some uncharted territory together,” you smiled back at her before leaning in.

Without thinking, you kissed her. As soon as your lips touched, you froze, regretting and realizing this probably wasn’t the right time - but then you felt Kazuha kiss back. You let her take control as she ended up on top of you, her lips pressed softly against yours.

“Zuha,” you whispered into her mouth.

“You asked me to forget everything else, just for a moment,” she whispered back before kissing you again. “Can we really forget it all, please?”

“You mean?”

“Yes,” she gasped as she sat up and began taking off her shorts. “Can we?”

Your mind went a bit hazy as you thought back to the other night. The memories of how good Kazuha felt flooded into your brain.

“Fuck it,” you also began lowering your pants before you flipped Kazuha onto her back and spread her legs.

“Is this wrong?” she asked, looking up at you with her hair framing her face as if she was some sort of angel laying there beneath you.

“Probably,” you shrugged as you pulled her underwear to the side. “We could stop, we don’t have to do this right now.”

“No!” her voice cracked, immediately followed by an intense red glow of her cheeks. “I just mean… uh…”

“Don’t explain, I understand,” you smiled down at her as you lined yourself up. “Whatever happens in this room this morning, it’s between us and only us, let’s agree to put everything else on pause, alright?”

“I’d like that,” Kazuha nodded at you before spreading her legs a bit wider. “Go slow?”

“Let me know,” you whispered back as you pressed yourself forward carefully. You leaned in close, slipped your hands under Kazuha’s body, and pressed your mouth to her neck, kissing it softly as she flexed her body. “Try to relax, if you can.”

“It’s really fucking tight,” Kazuha whispered, arching her back.

“Should I stop?”

Kazuha hesitated, taking a couple deep breaths before speaking. “No, not yet, just… just slowly…”

“Okay,” you moved up a bit and began lifting Kazuha’s shirt up.

She helped you take it off, exposing her perky tits, letting a sweet moan escape her lips as you pressed your mouth to her chest.

“Oh that’s nice,” she whispered as you started moving your hips. “Good, but still really tight.”

“Hold on,” you moved your hips back and pulled out. “How about we slow down even more?”

Kazuha bit her lip. “I’m sorry, for some reason I’m more nervous this time.”

“It’s okay,” you smiled reassuringly while bringing your fingers between her legs. With delicate and deliberate movements, you tried your best to ease her nerves, slowly pressing where she was most sensitive. “We can take our time, or we can try again another time, it’s up to you.”

“How about a different position?” Kazuha suggested as she pressed her fingers down on top of yours and pressed them down a bit harder. “But this feels nice.”

“Yeah? Should we just keep doing this?” you asked before leaning into her again and kissing her collarbone.

“This feels really nice,” Kazuha moaned softly as she pressed her fingers even harder, guiding your hand around her pussy.

Your fingers began sliding easier as time passed. The gentle sound of wetness, accompanied by Kazuha’s eyes shutting and her features softening, put you into a state of ease. It was working, and you didn’t want to stop. You had her entire body relaxing, you could almost see each and every fiber of Kazuha’s toned muscles relax.

She began moaning in a musical-like tone, one that screamed class and innocence with just a touch of naughty. It fit her so well, that pretty - unbelievably pretty - face. Even as she scrunched up her expression, she just looked so fucking pretty. You could stare at her all day.

While this was going on, the pressure building up in your cock was becoming too much. You couldn’t help but start stroking yourself to the view, trying to relax your own body as Kazuha began squirming beneath your fingers. It took a lot of self control, you knew that you could finish in just moments if you let yourself go, but right now you were more concerned with how Kazuha felt.

“You’re so beautiful,” you muttered softly under your breath as Kazuha’s body began trembling. He moans crescendoed, that beautiful voice of hers piercing your ears, but despite the increase in pitch, she stayed quiet. Elegant, in a way, even as she started cumming on your fingers, the epitome of grace and tenderness.

“I want it,” Kazuha moaned, fluttering her eyes open as she let go of your hand.

“What were you thinking? You wanna try being on top again?”

“No,” Kazuha smiled before pulling you closer. “Just like this, I want to see you, to kiss you. Is that fine?”

“Absolutely,” you gasped as Kazuha spread her legs a bit wider for you and took hold of your cock. She gave you a couple of soft strokes before rubbing her thumb against your tip, pressing against the little glob of precum. “That sounds perfect.”

With your cock in hand, you slid forward between her legs, pressing your tip against her entrance.

“Come on,” Kazuha replied while spreading herself even more, showing off her flexibility. “I need this.”

“So do I,” you muttered as you eased your cock into her pussy.

This time was a million times better than last time. She was still perfectly tight, but her pussy accepted your cock beautifully. The warmth and snugness hugged your cock like a blanket, bringing you unmatched comfort and sensation. She had the most ideal pussy.

She was like a flower, her soft and delicate curves moist to your touch. There was this warmth, this allure, that kept you captivated. You were entranced by Kazuha’s body, so much so that you felt this irresistible urge of greediness within you.

As carefully as you could, you grabbed Kazuha’s neck from behind and began kissing her deeply. Once you started, you pressed your thumb against her clit, making little circles along her skin. Your tongue slipped past her lips, gently intertwining and mixing against hers, while you worked her entire body.

“You feel so good,” you whispered as you leaned away from the kiss.

“Give it to me,” Kazuha pleaded with her eyes wide. “Please.”

So you picked up the tempo, pushing your hips harder, pressing your cock deeper. You slowly broke down that layer of delicateness that you viewed Kazuha through - her expression was basically begging for it. The more you fucked Kazuha, the harder you went, and the better it felt.

At this point, your thrusts had lost almost all degrees of tenderness, and both your hands had found their way to Kazuha’s hips. She took it well, bracing herself as you pressed your fingers into her skin and slammed your cock against her pussy. She showed no signs of anything other than raw pleasure as she took your cock over and over.

If she felt good, you felt fucking amazing. You lightened the grip you had on her hips as you slowed down your thrusting. This wasn’t a moment you wanted to rush, but you could only slow down so much - your body wouldn’t let you stop completely, it was out of your control. Still, you made do, sliding your hands up Kazuha’s body and giving her tits a few little squeezes. Her body was fucking amazing.

It didn’t take long for you to realize that you were too close to hold back. Despite your best efforts, it was already too late, so you took hold of Kazuha’s hips once more, pushing down on Kazuha’s body and shoving your cock into her as hard and fast as you could. Kazuha’s moans filled your ears as she shut her eyes and arched her back beneath you.

She looked so fucking good right now, even as your vision was going blurry. You held on for just a bit longer, fighting back any fatigue as your cock throbbed harder than ever. Her warm pussy felt better than heaven in this moment, and with a couple of final thrusts and grunts, you began launching your cum deep inside her pussy.

“Zuha,” you grunted a final time as your body gave up, collapsing onto her.

The next few moments had you in a trance as you let your cock pulse inside Kazuha’s warmth as she wrapped her arms around your body, rubbing your back softly.

“You feel so good,” Kazuha whispered against your ear. “Oh fuck, you feel so damn good, cum for me, fill me up.”

Such gentle words when delivered through her voice, but she was driving you insane right now. You almost felt paralyzed inside her as your cock just kept on spilling cum again and again, the pulsing felt like it went forever. It took so much strength for you to finally, carefully ease yourself out of Kazuha’s body. Even lifting yourself up off her was a task.

“Fuck, that’s a lot,” you mumbled as you pulled out, leaving your cum spilling between Kazuha’s legs as you reached for some tissues. “One second.”

“Wow,” Kazuha muttered as she gently rubbed herself, spreading your cum around, playing with it between her fingers. “That was something.”

“Something good or something not good?” you asked as you sat back down on the bed next to her.

“Something amazing,” Kazuha smiled softly. “But also a bit inappropriate.”

“If it makes you feel better, Chaewon technically wanted me to do this,” you carefully wiped her inner thighs clean before tossing the tissues away. “Although it still feels a bit wrong.”

“Oh,” Kazuha turned her head away from you.

“Not you, that felt amazing,” you quickly pulled her into your arms for a hug before grabbing her by both shoulders and staring tenderly into her eyes. “Zuha, let there be no confusion, that was fucking perfect.”

“Right, sorry, I guess I’m still just a bit…” her voice tapered off as she looked up at you and gave you a weak smile.

“You’re. Perfect. And. Amazing,” you whispered, kissing her neck between each word. “It’s totally natural to be a bit-”

“Sensitive?” Kazuha finished your sentence. “Because I am, I’ll admit it.”

“And that’s completely okay. What I said was stupidly phrased. I’m sorry,” you wrapped an arm tightly around Kazuha’s shoulders, pulling her to sit next to you, and leaned against her head. “Things are just messy, but we'll figure it out. Together.”

“I hope so,” Kazuha sighed softly. Her hand began exploring your thigh, inching towards your shaft slowly until she gently caressed it with her fingertips. “I wish there was some sort of way that we could do this without all the mess.”

“Zuha, you know it doesn’t work like that.”

“I know,” her voice faded softly and she unwrapped your arm from her shoulder, leaning away from you and turning towards you. “Okay, this might sound stupid since you call me Zuha all the time, but I loved that. This time it felt… different?”

“I’m glad,” you smiled as a wave of warmth flooded your body. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly,” you kissed the top of her head. “But one thing - do not call me daddy.”

“Oh no I could never,” Kazuha agreed quickly, sounding completely put off just by the thought of it as she rested her head against your body again. “I guess we should probably talk about boundaries and stuff at some point.”

“We have a lot to talk about, but maybe we should wait until…”

“Until after you talk to Chaewon?”

“Yeah, I think,” you replied as your mind drifted into thought, trying to figure out how to go about things, gently stroking Kazuha’s hair. “Hey, I thought you said we should both talk to her together?”

“Well, I think you got it, I don’t know what I’d say.”

“I don’t even know what I’m going to say,” you sighed. “Zuha, do you think this might cause problems with the group dynamic?”

“Truthfully? At first, yeah, I did,” Kazuha answered quietly. “But then I got to thinking.”

There was a pause, a bit longer than you expected. Kazuha lifted and turned herself slightly so that she could look up at you.

“And?” you encouraged her to continue as the anticipation grew.

“Promise you’ll keep this between us?”

“I promise.”

“I’m serious, you can’t tell anyone.”

“Zuha, yes, I know. Not a soul.”

“Alright,” she bit her lip nervously. “I think there might have been a bit of… something… between Sakura and Chaewon at the very beginning.”

“Oh?” you waited for her to continue as you thought back to what Sakura told you in the car earlier.

“Look, I met them a bit after everyone else, but I could tell there was some sort of… resentment? I don’t exactly know, and maybe it was just because we were all getting to know each other.”

“Well, most of you were.”

“So you see what I’m saying?” Kazuha pursed her lips. “Chaewon and Sakura barely talked. I never understood it since they knew each other already, but then, seemingly overnight, the two of them became closer than ever. I don’t know if the others ever noticed it.”

“Chaewon never gave me details, but I sort of know around when this happened,” you explained. “She told me she spent a night with Sakura, and I didn’t really ask questions.”

“Right. Anyway, the reason I brought this up is because I really think no matter how the conversation with her goes, as a group we’ll get through things, we always do.”

Her words were reassuring at least, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit better. “Thank you, really.”

Then, you leaned in, but before you could kiss her, Kazuha lunged up towards you and pressed her lips against yours, catching you a bit by surprise. She kissed you aggressively until you fell onto your back with her on top of you. It felt like this kiss would go on forever, and maybe it would have if it weren’t for the knock on the door.

“I don’t know what’s going on in there, but I really need to get ready!” Sakura's voice came through the door.

---

A/N:

I posted a poll and based on the first day responses, Dating Seraphs was in the lead. Ask and you shall receive!

The Kazuha arc continues! Maybe? Probably? I guess next chapter will have more answers. The talk with Chaewon, the history with Sakura, sex with Kazuha, there's so much to cover in the next few chapters! Also, there's a cameo appearance coming soon that I can't imagine anyone will be able to guess because I don't know if I've ever talked about this idol, but we'll see how popular she is among my readers (ex-izone member). I'll give this chapter at least a few days to marinate before my next post.

Based on how things are going in my writing world and the initial responses to that poll, Dating Seraphs needs attention. My next post will probably either be Debauchery p2 or something in the roommates universe, followed by Dating Seraphs ch11, and then most likely I'll give Twice some love and post an update to that story. Of course, this is subject to change!

Feedback, requests, messages, comments, asks, whatever you feel like sending, feel free. I'm a bit more active these days with writing stuff, but just please be considerate if you're going to send something. I've gotten a few questionable DMs recently. Use common sense!

#kpop smut #smut #kpop fanfic #male reader #le sserafim smut #kazuha #kazuha smut

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chaoticneutralnpc · 2 days ago

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I just reblogged this, but I needed to come back to this, because this silly post actually made me tear up.

Because this is actually what my schedule has looked like the past week, down to the majority of the day spend doing sudokus. I’ve felt stuck, frustrated by my inability to do anything I actually need or want to do and everything else you would expect.

But on top of everything, the biggest struggle is feeling like an experience only I have had. Feeling like I am going through something that no one can understand, let alone empathise with. And that’s not a feeling without basis. I can’t count the number of times I’ve cried in front of people, and had them not know how to react because I don’t have an answer to “what was wrong” that doesn’t take at least an hour to half-explain. Or say “I’ve been struggling doing anything”, and have people not understand what that actually means.

And maybe OP was exaggerating, but even just reading the comments and hearing relateable jokes about experiences that I thought just couldn’t be relatable to anyone anymore was suprisingly meaningful.

It’s crazy to think 20 years ago, I would have no way of knowing that.

sorry man im all booked

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ronanlynchusurper · 3 days ago

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blue sargent is the type of person to weaponise driving slow as a passive aggressive tool on asshole drivers. they start tailgating her or beeping unnecessarily to go faster when she’s going the right speed and she slows down even further.

#and just once I want ronan to be unkowingly behind her car being the asshole and becomes victim to it #I will add that I think if henessey gets tailgated she would speed up then when they don’t stop jump on the breaks so they have to pay #or maybe none of them would do any of this idk I just think a lot about fictional characters when I drive apparently #blue sargent #the raven cycle #ronan lynch #henessey #apparently tailgating doesn’t mean driving too close to someone outside of aus is this true tell me I’m wrong it’s such a good word

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inseobts · 2 days ago

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Fire in Our Hearts

portgas d. ace x fem!reader

after a painful breakup ace and you are forced to face everything unsaid — in a night of anger, longing, and love that neither of you can walk away from.

a/n: second attempt at writing smut, and second failure lmao sorry

words count: 2.3k

tags: no graphic body part descriptions, breakup, jealousy, argument, mild smut (it's just spicy), angst to fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sun burns high over the Moby Dick, but the air between you and Ace is heavier than a storm.

“You never listen to me” you snap, arms tight around yourself.

Ace stands there, frowning “I don’t need you telling me how to live my life.”

You feel your heart break a little “I’m not trying to control you! I just want you to be careful!”

Ace scoffs, turning his head like he can’t even look at you and that hurts more than anything.

You take a shaky breath, then say the words you can’t take back “Then you’re better off without me. So you can do whatever the hell you want.”

Ace freezes. You wait for him to say something. Anything.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there, silent.

Your chest tightens painfully. You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Fine,” you say, voice cracking “Have it your way.”

You turn and walk away and Ace doesn’t follow.

And just like that, it’s over.

A week later…

The ship docks at a lively island. Whitebeard gives everyone a day off to party. You wish you could stay in your room, but Marco pulls you out by the arm.

“Come on, you’ll feel better after a few drinks” he says.

You don’t argue. You’re too tired to argue.

The tavern is packed, music loud and messy. The crew drinks and laughs, filling the place with noise. You sit at a corner table, nursing a drink, trying not to look at Ace. Trying and failing.

He’s across the room, leaning back in his chair, relaxed. Too relaxed.

That’s when you see two girls, pretty and smiling, slide into the seats beside him. They giggle, touching his arm, whispering in his ear.

And Ace... let them do it.

He smiles a little, says something you can’t hear. One of the girls leans closer, brushing her chest against him.

Your stomach twists.

You slam your drink down harder than you mean to. Some beer splashes over the edge.

Thatch whistles low beside you “Ouch. Looks like he’s moving on fast.”

You glare at him. Thatch raises his hands like he’s innocent.

You can’t stay here. Not another second.

You get up fast, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Without a word, you push through the crowd and stumble out the door.

The cold night air hits you hard. You breathe in deep, trying to stop the burning in your chest.

“Stupid,” you whisper “I’m so stupid.”

You wipe your eyes quickly. You’re halfway back to the ship when you hear footsteps behind you.

You spin around.

Ace.

He’s jogging after you, face serious.

“What do you want?” you snap, voice sharp.

Ace stops a few feet away, breathing hard “We need to talk.”

You cross your arms “Oh, now you want to talk?”

He frowns “You just ran out! What was I supposed to do?”

You laugh bitterly “Maybe not flirt with the first girl who smiled at you!”

“I wasn’t flirting!”

“Oh yeah? Looked like you were having fun!”

Ace steps closer, eyes burning “You were the one who said we’re better off apart! You’re the one who walked away!”

You feel your whole body shaking.

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt!” you shout “It killed me, Ace! And you just—you just sat there! Like you didn’t care!”

Ace opens his mouth, then closes it. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, voice low “I didn’t want to lose you. I just… froze.”

You glare at him, breathing hard “Well. You lost me anyway.”

The space between you is full of all the things you didn’t say. All the things you should have said.

Ace takes another step closer. You don’t move away.

“You think I don’t miss you?” he says, voice rough “Every damn day?”

You feel the tears threaten to spill again. But you don’t look away.

“And you think I don’t miss you?” you whisper.

For a long second, neither of you speak. The night is too quiet. Your heart pounds loud in your ears.

Ace’s hand twitches at his side.

You know if he touches you now, you’ll break... but you really want him to.

You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, heart hammering in your chest.

“You don’t get it, Ace!” you yell, voice cracking “You don’t get how much it hurt! You acted like I meant nothing! Like you didn’t even care if I left!”

Ace’s jaw tightens “That’s not true—”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?!” you shout, louder this time “Why didn’t you chase after me, Ace?!”

Your voice shakes, broken “You’re supposed to fight for the people you love!”

Ace looks like you just punched him in the gut.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Then he crosses the space between you in two fast steps.

You’re about to yell again, to push him away, to scream everything you’ve been holding in but Ace grabs your face in his hands and crashes his mouth onto yours.

You gasp, stiff for a moment, shocked.

Then you melt against him.

The kiss is rough, desperate, full of all the anger and love you couldn’t say in words. His hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, closer, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You clutch at his shirt, fists twisting in the fabric, holding onto him like you’re drowning.

Ace groans low in his throat, deepening the kiss. His lips are hot and wild against yours, like he’s trying to pour all his feelings into you at once.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, faces inches apart.

Ace leans his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice wrecked “I’m so damn sorry.”

Tears blur your eyes, but you smile a little, shaky “You’re such an idiot.”

He chuckles, broken and soft “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. If you’ll still have me.”

You don’t answer, you just kiss him again, harder this time.

He lifts you up without warning, making you yelp against his mouth. You wrap your legs around his waist, clinging to him like you’ll never let go again.

Ace carries you, half-stumbling, back toward the ship. Neither of you cares who sees. The crew’s probably still too drunk to notice anyway.

He doesn’t even make it to your room. He pushes you up against the first wall he finds, kissing you like he’s starving.

Your hands fumble at his open shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. His skin is burning hot under your touch, like he’s made of fire.

Ace groans again, mouth trailing down your neck, teeth scraping lightly at your skin.

“God, I missed you” he breathes against your throat.

You grip his hair, pulling his head up to look at you “Then show me.”

His eyes darken, full of heat and something deeper, something that feels a lot like love.

Ace kisses you again, slower this time, but just as hungry. His hands roam your body, careful and rough all at once.

You lose yourself in him.

In his touch.

In his heat.

In him.

“Fuck” Ace breathes against your mouth. His hands move lower, squeezing your ass, lifting you up without warning.

You gasp and wrap your legs around his waist, locking yourself to him. You can feel him, hard against you, even through your clothes.

Your hands fumble at the few buttons left of his shirt, pushing it fully off his shoulders. His skin is hot, burning under your fingers.

You run your hands over his chest, nails scraping lightly. Ace shivers under your touch, eyes dark and wild.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs “Off. Now.”

You lift your arms and let him yank it over your head. The cool night air kisses your skin, but Ace’s hands are warmer. His palms slide up your sides, thumbs brushing over your breasts through your bra, making you shudder.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful” he whispers, voice rough like gravel.

You kiss him again, messy and hungry. Ace’s mouth trails down your neck, licking and biting, leaving marks he knows you’ll see later.

“Need you,” he groans against your skin “Need you so bad.”

You clutch his hair, dragging his head back up to kiss you again.

“Then take me” you whisper.

That’s all he needs.

Ace pins you harder against the wall, one hand slipping down between your bodies, his fingers brush over your panties, pressing just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You whimper into his mouth.

Ace chuckles darkly “So needy.”

Now you shove his pants down too, hands greedy. His skin is hot everywhere. When you finally touch him properly, Ace groans so deep it vibrates against your chest.

He kisses you again, desperate, messy, almost too much.

Almost.

Ace pauses, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Tell me you want this” he says, voice shaking.

You look him straight in the eyes “I want you, Ace. Always.”

With a low growl, he pushes into you, filling you all at once. You both moan at the feeling.

It’s messy, rushed, raw... years of love and pain and need crashing together.

Ace moves fast, hips snapping against yours, hands holding you like you’re his whole world. You bury your face in his neck, biting down to muffle your cries.

When you finally fall apart in his arms, crying out his name, Ace follows right after, holding you so tight it almost hurts.

But you don’t care. You never want him to let go again.

You don’t know how long you stay wrapped around each other against the wall.

Time blurs. Your body is weak, trembling, but you don’t care. You only feel his skin against yours, his arms around you, his breath warm on your neck.

He sets you down gently, like you’re something precious.

You cling to his shoulders a second longer, legs shaky. Ace kisses your forehead, soft and slow, so different from the way he kissed you before.

“Come here” he murmurs.

He scoops you up again, carrying you bridal. You bury your face against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat pounding fast under your ear.

Ace carries you up to your shared room on the ship.

He kicks the door open with his foot, laughing softly when you squeak in surprise.

“Relax” he says, voice teasing but full of love.

He lays you down on the bed carefully, following you down, covering your body with his.

You shiver, even though you’re not cold.

Ace notices. He grabs a blanket, pulling it over both of you before wrapping his arms tight around you again.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You just breathe together in the dark, feeling each other’s warmth.

Then, quietly, Ace speaks “I’m sorry.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes.

He looks wrecked, like he’s scared you’ll leave again.

You touch his face gently “I’m sorry too.”

Ace leans into your hand, kissing your palm. Then he says it... so soft you almost don’t hear.

“I love you.”

Your heart stutters.

You blink up at him. His cheeks are pink, his eyes shining like he’s terrified and hopeful all at once.

You smile, a real one this time.

“I love you too, Ace.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it forever. Then he kisses you again, slow and deep, hands sliding up and down your back under the blanket.

“Never leaving you again,” he mumbles against your lips “Even if you try to kick me out.”

You giggle, nuzzling closer “Good. ’Cause I’m not letting you go either.”

Ace grins, that wide, stupid smile you fell in love with.

He tucks your head under his chin and hugs you tighter. You feel his whole body relax against yours, like he’s finally home.

You drift off to sleep in his arms, warm, safe, and loved.

For the first time in what feels like forever, everything is right again.

The sun slips through the curtains, warm and soft.

You groan, trying to roll over but you can’t move.

Ace has you trapped, one heavy arm around your waist, one leg thrown over yours, face buried in your neck. He’s snoring softly, breath tickling your skin.

You squirm a little “Ace… let me go, it’s hot.”

“No,” he mumbles, voice hoarse with sleep “Mine.”

You laugh under your breath, heart full. You poke his cheek “We need to get up. The crew’s gonna notice.”

Ace groans dramatically “Let them.”

He tightens his arms around you like a giant, overgrown koala.

You sigh, smiling. You’re not really trying to escape anyway.

There’s a loud bang against the door.

“Oi, lovebirds!” Thatch shouts from outside “You alive in there, or did you die from all the action last night?”

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Ace groans louder and buries his face deeper against you.

“Go away!” he yells toward the door, voice muffled against your neck.

Another bang.

“We’re takin’ bets if you both can even walk after what you did!” Marco’s voice adds, laughing.

Your face burns hot. You shove your head under the blanket, groaning.

Ace chuckles low against you, his hand sneaking under your shirt again, teasing circles into your hip.

“They’re just jealous” he murmurs.

You peek out from the blanket, raising an eyebrow “Jealous of what?”

Ace smirks lazily, looking like the smug bastard he is.

“Because I’ve got the most beautiful girl in the world… and she’s all mine.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to melt, but you can’t stop smiling.

Another loud bang.

“Seriously! Breakfast’s getting cold! Unless you two are planning to eat each other instead—”

“WE’RE COMING!” you yell back, red-faced.

Ace snickers, clearly very pleased with himself.

You grab a pillow and smack him in the face with it. But even then, he just grins wider, grabbing you around the waist again, dragging you down into the bed with him.

“Five more minutes,” he begs, voice soft against your ear “Please.”

You sigh dramatically, but you don’t move.

Maybe five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe forever wouldn’t either.

215 notes · View notes

natsaffection · 5 hours ago

Text

Not like the stories. | N.R

BasketballPlayer!Natasha x Cheerleader!Reader

Everyone says Natasha Romanoff is a heartbreaker, cold, careless, and dangerous. A player who leaves a trail of broken girls behind her and never looks back. But when she catches your eye across a crowded place and starts to unravel everything you thought you knew, you realize the stories might not be the full truth. Because beneath the reputation and the swagger is someone quieter. Softer. Someone who sees you in a way no one else ever has, and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Warnings: girls being sexualized, none for now

Word count: 2,7k

A/n: First off..!- I don’t even know how many parts there will be. 🍾 But, I like the chemistry…feels oddly familiar.

It was too early in the school year for everything to already feel so loud.

The cafeteria was packed, students flooding the long tables like they hadn’t seen each other in decades instead of just three months. Back-to-school energy vibrated through the walls, locker doors slamming, trays clattering, laughter bubbling from every direction. It was all background noise, really, but to you, it might as well have been static. Your focus was drifting..Again.

“…and Coach said if we don’t hit the new formation by Friday, we’re running suicides until our thighs fall off..” Lexie was saying, twirling her smoothie straw with a dramatic sigh.

You sat at the edge of the cheer table, chin propped on your hand, trying to listen. You really were. But your mind kept pulling you elsewhere, like a stubborn tide.

“I think it’s cute when our thighs fall off.” another girl, Jessie giggled, nudging Lexie. “Mine are finally getting somewhere.”

“Ugh!” Lexie rolled her eyes. “You don’t count. Your body’s already perfect. Right, you? Back me up.”

You hummed vaguely in agreement, your eyes drifting, again, across the cafeteria. You didn’t mean to look. You told yourself you were just spacing out. Just observing. That it was muscle memory, nothing intentional. But there she was.

Natasha Romanoff.

Like gravity, she pulled focus. Your gaze settled on her automatically. She was surrounded, as usual, her basketball teammates crowding around their end of the room, the unofficial royal court of the school’s social hierarchy. Even sitting still, Natasha looked like she was mid-motion. Like she was seconds away from doing something sharp and beautiful and impossible. Her posture was casual but loose-limbed with strength, one leg slung over the other, fingers spinning a pen between them like it was part of her.

The coppery sheen of her hair glinted under the overhead lights, pulled back into one of those effortlessly messy buns that looked like it took two seconds and somehow made her look hotter than half the girls in school who tried for hours. Her face was unreadable, cool, composed, only breaking into smirks when someone cracked a joke. But even then, there was something distant about it. Something guarded.

God, she was…something. You didn’t have words for it. You never had. You’d noticed Natasha before, obviously. Everyone had. You couldn’t not. It wasn’t just the way she played ball, though that was impressive enough. It was the way she moved through the world like nothing and no one could touch her. Always five steps ahead, like she already knew what you were going to say, what you wanted from her.

And yeah…people wanted.

Girls in every hallway cornered her with nervous smiles and flirtatious eyes. Some bold. Some shy. Some daring to hope they’d be the one to get through whatever armor Natasha wore like second skin. And for a minute? Sometimes they did. They’d hold her attention long enough to think they mattered.

Until they didn’t. Because that was the thing about her, she never stayed. You had heard the stories. Everyone had. You’d seen the aftermath. There were always whispers. Always rumors. Never confirmations. Natasha didn’t explain herself. She didn’t need to.

And yet, still…girls kept falling. Like moths to flame, even knowing they’d burn. You weren’t like them. You weren’t. Except… your eyes were still on her.

Something twisted in your chest, part ache, part irritation. Because you knew. You knew the truth about Natasha. You knew she was reckless with people’s hearts. You knew she didn’t do relationships, or feelings, or slow Sunday mornings. Natasha was fast and wild and dangerous.

So why were you still looking? And why..why was Natasha suddenly looking back? Your eyes met across the room. It was fleeting. Barely a moment. But in that half-second, Natasha’s stare settled like a spark in your lungs. Like she’d been expecting you to look all along.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Hell no.” Lexie muttered beside you, voice low and sharp, snapping you back to the moment. “Don’t even think about it.”

You blinked, guilt rushing to your face like a slap. “I, what?”

“You were staring. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Please.” Lexie leaned in, serious now. Her usual teasing tone gone. “Look. I love you. But you’re not getting caught in the Romanoff tornado. No way.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard. “I’m not caught in anything.”

Lexie gave you a look, one of those older-sister, you’re-fooling-yourself stares. “She’ll eat you alive.” she said flatly. “She does it to everyone. She reels you in, makes you feel seen, makes you feel like you’re the one. And then she leaves. Always.”

You stayed quiet andLexie sighed. “She’s not the girl who holds your hand at parties. Or slow dances in the gym. She’s the girl who kisses you in the locker room and forgets your name by the weekend.”

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the words wouldn’t come. Because maybe Lexie was right. Maybe she knew better. Maybe it was obvious, from the outside, that Natasha Romanoff was the last kind of person you should want..

The rest of the school day crawled by in fragments. You barely remembered what was said in your last two classes, something about essay deadlines, something about group projects. None of it stuck. Your head was full of glitter, choreography counts, and Natasha Romanoff’s eyes. That half-second in the cafeteria had rewired something in your brain, and no amount of blinking could undo it.

By the time the final bell rang, the school practically exploded into motion. Students rushed to lockers, pulling out face paint, noise sticks, jerseys. Someone blasted music from a speaker they weren’t supposed to have, and no one told them to stop. The energy was buzzing, tonight was the first home game of the season, and people were treating it like a national holiday.

You changed in the locker room with the rest of the squad, tying your laces tight and fixing your hair twice. You didn’t ask yourself why you cared so much about how you looked tonight. You already knew..

Bass thumped from the speakers high above the bleachers, the music shaking the court like thunder. Students jumped and screamed in their school colors, stomping in sync until the whole gym felt alive. Lights flashed in bursts. Smoke machines puffed clouds from the corners of the court, catching in the spotlights. The cheerleaders had already done their pre-game tunnel formation, lining the entrance with pom-poms and cheers, but now the real show was about to begin.

The announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker:

“Aaaand now..yoooour Blackridge Panthers!!”

The crowd exploded. From the locker room tunnel, Natasha sprinted out first, her teammates charging behind her like a wave. She leapt into the air and landed hard, sneakers squealing against the court, pumping her fist into the air. The crowd roared louder. This was her world. Her element. The place where she didn’t have to be anyone but herself.

She high-fived Steve, bumped shoulders with Maria, spun the ball on her finger, all while grinning like fire was in her veins. This wasn’t about reputation or rumors or girls whispering in hallways. This was about winning. About playing.

From the sidelines, you watched, heart hammering at the sheer presence of her. There was no denying it: Natasha on the court was…different. Wild, electric, herself in a way you hadn’t seen anywhere else. Not in the cafeteria, not in the halls. This wasn’t the smooth-talking, rule-breaking girl people warned you about. This was someone else, someone with fire in her blood and nothing to prove to anyone but herself.

The buzzer blared. Tipoff.

From the start, Natasha was locked in. She called every switch, read every screen before it even formed, passed with precision, and drove to the basket like the ball belonged to her. The game was fast, physical. Shouts echoed. Sneakers scraped. Bodies slammed. But Natasha didn’t blink.

She was in it, and then, the whistle. Timeout. Second quarter. The Panthers were up, but barely.

Natasha jogged to the bench, grabbing a towel, slick with sweat. Her chest heaved as the coach pulled them into a tight circle. His voice barked sharp commands over the chaos, drawing on the whiteboard with furious speed. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, forcing herself to stay locked in. She needed to listen. Every point counted. Every second mattered.

And then..The music changed. The cheerleaders ran onto the court, forming their intermission line. The crowd cheered. And somewhere in all the movement, Natasha’s eyes lifted, just for a second-And there you were.

Dancing in the front, your smile wide, eyes glittering under the lights, hair catching in the spinning glow of the gym. You were flipping, turning, nailing every count, and Natasha watched like she couldn’t not. Her chest tightened. She tried to look away. She really did, but it was like trying to breathe underwater.

You looked so damn happy out there. So alive. It made something deep inside Natasha ache, made her forget the sweat on her forehead, the ache in her arms, the pressure in the room. She forgot the play-

A hard slap landed on the back of her head. She turned, and saw Steve giving her a pointed look. “Eyes here, Nat.” he said under his breath, nudging her with his elbow.

Natasha exhaled through her nose, forcing her head back down. “Thanks.” she murmured, almost embarrassed. He nodded once and looked back at the coach.

Natasha scrubbed her towel over her face and tried to clear her head. Focus. This was the game. She couldn’t afford to get caught up in…whatever this was.

But as the cheerleaders finished their routine and the crowd roared again, she knew the damage was done..You had already gotten under her skin. And the worst part? Natasha didn’t even want you out.

The second half was war. The gym was an open flame, crowd screaming, shoes squeaking, bodies crashing, whistles blaring, but inside the chaos, Natasha was still.

Focused and locked in. The visiting team had found their rhythm, and the Panthers were barely holding on. Every basket was answered, every steal returned. It wasn’t just physical now, it was personal. Natasha could feel it in her bones. The sting of every missed shot, the roar of every cheer that wasn’t for them.

Her jersey clung to her skin, soaked in sweat, ponytail damp at the back of her neck. Her thighs ached from pushing harder, her lungs burned. But she didn’t care. This was hers. This was what she lived for.

Final timeout. Tie game. Seconds left on the clock. The coach barked out the last play, sweat dotting his brow as he pointed at the diagram. Steve would pass to Maya. Maya would fake left, swing back right. Natasha would be open at the arc.

It was risky. But Natasha was already nodding. She stood up, bouncing on her toes, chest heaving.

“Let’s finish this.” she said, voice low but steady. The whistle blew. The ball was back in play.

Five seconds.

Natasha moved like instinct, sharp and cutting. She darted to the top of the key, hands out. Maya passed clean. The ball slapped into her palms.

Four seconds.

A defender lunged, Natasha pivoted, stepped back behind the line.

Three.

She breathed in.

Two.

She jumped, and the ball left her hands. You felt your heart freeze the second the ball left Natasha’s hands. The air had gone still. The sound had vanished.

When it hit, when the net snapped, your scream joined the others before you could stop it. You jumped, yelled, clapped, louder than you meant to, your voice lost in the storm. But your eyes never left Natasha. Not for a second.

The gym exploded right after you. Screams shot through the air like fireworks, the bleachers shook with pounding feet, and suddenly Natasha was swarmed. Her teammates tackled her from all sides, Maria yelling in her ear, Steve throwing an arm around her neck, someone lifting her off the floor. And then, through the chaos, through the wild, tangled joy..Natasha looked at you.

Your eyes met like a wire pulled tight. Your breath caught. Your smile faded, just a little. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. But Natasha, just as quickly..looked away. Like it burned.

The locker room was humid with sweat, cologne, and the sharp sting of victory. Everyone was still riding the high of the win, talking loud, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Jerseys were half-pulled off, towels hung low around waists, and someone had turned up a speaker in the corner playing some bass-heavy track that rattled the benches.

Natasha sat at the end of the row, one foot propped up on the bench, her head bowed as she slowly unwrapped her wrist tape. Her pulse was only just coming down. The buzz of adrenaline still hummed in her fingertips, the taste of the last shot still lingering in the back of her throat. Around her, the team was loud, looser now. The game was over. The bravado was back.

“Yo.” one of the forwards, Matt called across the locker room. “Tell me I wasn’t the only one who saw the blonde in the front row of the cheer line. The one with the white bow?”

“Dude..” another laughed, “everyone saw her. Those shorts should be illegal.”

Natasha didn’t react. Not yet, but then came the shift. “What about Romanoff’s girl, though?”

That name. That tone..She didn’t look up, but her jaw twitched.

“You mean Y/n?” Matt grinned. A few heads turned. Smirks spread. “She’d let you do anything.” He made a slow, lewd gesture with his hips, subtle but unmistakable, like it wasn’t the first time they’d joked like this. One hand against the locker, the other at his waistband. More laughter.

“Come on, Romanoff. You’ve got the in. She wants it.”

“You could fold her in half and she’d say thank you..” Matt added with a low laugh, voice husky from the game. “Hell, I would.”

That was it. Natasha’s head snapped up. The look in her eyes stopped three people mid-breath. The laughter died out in patches. Not from fear. From confusion. She hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to. Her stare was enough.

One hand landed gently on her shoulder, grounding her. His voice was low, just for her. “Don’t.”

Natasha didn’t take her eyes off the guy across the row, the one who’d said that last part. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the bench.

“He doesn’t mean it.” Steve added. “He’s just talking shit.”

“He keeps talking, I’ll make him swallow his teeth.” Natasha muttered, her voice low and flat.

Steve leaned in closer. “Not worth it.”

Natasha exhaled slowly through her nose, tension coiled in every muscle like a loaded spring.

“Look.” Steve said, a little quieter, “I get it. I do. But if she means anything to you, you’ve gotta stop pretending she’s just another girl.”

Natasha blinked, like the words slapped her harder than the comments. Steve gave a small shrug. “You keep hesitating..” Steve continued, voice barely above the music. “And one of these assholes is gonna try it for real. And you’re gonna hate yourself for letting it happen.”

That hit. Hard. Natasha didn’t move. But her jaw flexed, and for the first time that night, her face cracked. Not with anger. With something else. A decision starting to form. Steve stood, patting her once. “She’s not a game. And you’re not like them.”

The gym was still echoing with celebration, but Natasha had already stepped out into the cool night air. She exhaled slowly, sweat still drying on her skin, the back of her neck damp beneath her hoodie. Her motorcycle sat where she’d left it, parked in the corner of the lot under a crooked lamppost, half in shadow. She slung one leg over the seat, fingers gripping the keys, ready to start the engine.

You keep hesitating..and one of these assholes is gonna try it for real.

She cursed under her breath. Fingers drumming once against the gas tank..And that’s when she saw you.

Stepping out from the side doors of the gym with Lexie at your side, both of you chatting under the glow of the overhead lights. You had changed out of your cheer gear into jeans and a soft hoodie, hair still pulled back, face flushed and pretty from the heat of the night. You were laughing quietly, head tilted slightly, arms wrapped around yourself.

Natasha’s heart stuttered. She was just about to look away, just about to turn the key and forget it-when she saw him.

Matt. He’d exited from the same side doors, slowing his stride as his eyes trailed lazily in the same direction. Natasha saw the shift in his posture. The way his gaze lingered too long. The way his smirk tugged at the side of his mouth like he was already running a script in his head.

And that was it. Natasha’s heart kicked like it was trying to break free from her ribs. She pulled her leg off the bike in one smooth motion, leaving everything as it was, keys in the ignition, gym bag slung across the seat. No hesitation. No plan. Just instinct.

She walked fast, her boots hitting pavement with quiet force. Lexie saw her first. “Oh, hell no.” she muttered under her breath, elbowing you lightly. “Problem incoming.”

You turned, confused. “What?”

Lexie kept her voice low. “Romanoff. Behind us. Coming this way.”

Your stomach dropped

Oh god. Was this it? Was Natasha about to ask me to go home with her? After the game, the eye contact, the ride out of the locker room..this was where it happened in the stories. The moment the girl got caught, pulled into something she wouldn’t be able to-

But it was too late. Natasha was already close, her stride slow and casual now, hands in the front pocket of her hoodie like she hadn’t just made a life-or-death decision one minutes ago.

��Hey..” Natasha said, her voice low, calm, almost too neutral.

Lexie squared her shoulders. “What do you want?”

Natasha kept her tone low and calm. “Just wanted to talk. That’s all.”

Lexie squinted. “Is that what you tell all the girls before-”

“Lex.” you cut in quietly. “It’s okay.”

Lexie looked ready to argue, but her bus appeared down the street, tires grinding against the pavement.

“Fuck..” she muttered. “Of course. Now.” She looked at you, worry creasing her brow. “You want me to stay? I can stay.”

You hesitated. Heart in your throat. “I’ll be okay.” you said, softly. “Go.”

Lexie cursed again under her breath, then pointed two fingers at Natasha. “If you so much as breathe wrong near her-”

“I know.” Natasha said softly.

Lexie gave you one last glance and jogged toward the bus.

“So…” you began, stuffing your hands into the sleeves of your hoodie, “I’m just heading home.”

“Walking?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s like a thirty-minute walk.”

Natasha blinked. “Alone?”

You shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “Not tonight.” Before you could ask, Natasha added, “Let me drive you.”

You hesitated. Your mind was screaming again, this is it, this is when she asks if I wanna come over, when she tries to be charming and seductive and get me to bed.

Still, you asked, “You mean…on your bike?”

Natasha nodded. “It’s not a problem.”

“I..don’t have a helmet..” you tried, already searching for a polite excuse to back out.

“I always carry an extra.”

Of course you do, you thought. For the rotation.. But Natasha’s eyes weren’t flirty, or smug. They were…careful.

So you nodded, and followed her to the bike. It gleamed under the light, black and lean, humming with quiet power. You stopped a few feet short.

“It’s bigger than I expected.” you said, and immediately regretted it. “The bike..! I meant the bike..”

Natasha’s mouth twitched,just a tiny smile. She didn’t tease you.

“I’ll go slow.” she said instead. She opened the side compartment and pulled out a matte black helmet. “Here. Let me.”

You held still as Natasha stepped close, lifting the helmet gently. Her fingers brushed your cheek as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before sliding the helmet down. The strap clicked softly beneath your chin.

“You okay?” Natasha asked, voice low, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, heartbeat hammering. “Yeah. Just..never done this before.”

Natasha held your gaze. “You’ll be safe.”

Then she straddled the bike and leaned it slightly to one side, holding it steady. “Climb on. Swing your right leg over.”

You did, slowly, fingers gripping Natasha’s shoulders for balance. You settled behind her, the leather seat warm from the engine, legs tucked in close.

Natasha reached back, lightly placing her hands on your thighs. “Scoot in. You’ll feel more stable.”

You moved closer, arms hesitating at Natasha’s waist. “When I turn, lean with me. I’ll tell you when.” Natasha said over her shoulder, her voice softer than before.

“o-okay.”

You tightened your grip, and the engine growled to life beneath you, and Natasha drove slower than she normally would, much slower. Careful with every shift. She gave you warnings softly through the helmet radio. “Left turn coming. Hold on.”

You pressed your forehead lightly to Natasha’s shoulder, trying to breathe through the adrenaline. Not just from the ride. From the proximity..From the her.

“You okay back there?” Natasha’s voice buzzed in your helmet.

“Yeah.” you said. “More than okay.”

“You’re not freezing?”

“No. You’re kinda warm..” you admitted, blushing instantly.

Natasha chuckled softly. “It’s the adrenaline.”

They stopped at a red light, the hum of the engine low beneath them. That’s when Natasha spotted the glowing yellow sign.

“Wanna stop for ice cream?”

You blinked, startled. “You want to stop for ice cream right now?”

“You said you’ve never been on a bike.” Natasha replied. “Thought I’d give you the full experience.”

You smiled as Natasha ordered two vanilla cones and paid. You sat at the edge of the parking lot on the bike, cones in hand, music humming from the speakers overhead. For a while, you didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “You were…really good tonight.” you said. “I mean, the shot? That was insane.”

Natasha’s voice softened. “Thanks.”

“Like, game-winning, heart-attack, scream-out-loud insane.”

“Hey..” Natasha added, “you weren’t exactly subtle out there either.”

You grinned. “What do you mean?”

“You lit up the court.”

“Oh god..” you groaned. “You were watching.”

“Hard not to.”

You didn’t answer. You just held your ice tighter.

You both finished your ice cream quietly. It was easier, now. The tension had thinned a little, melted under the soft streetlights, the sugar, and the way Natasha had let herself be there, not as the girl with a reputation, but just a girl who’d wanted a reason to sit next to someone. No pressure. No expectation.

After a few quiet laughs and a mutual agreement that soft-serve somehow tasted better at night, Natasha flicked the keys in her hand and nodded to the bike.

“Ready to head home?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

The ride this time was different. No adrenaline. No performance. Just cool wind brushing over your cheeks and the subtle rumble of the bike beneath you.

Natasha didn’t say much. But when she did, it was soft, gentle, for your comfort.

“Small curve coming up. Lean with me a little.”

You obeyed instinctively, gripping Natasha’s waist tighter.

A minute later, “Bump ahead. Just hold on.”

Natasha slowed for every turn. Every crack in the road. She drove like you were something precious and breakable, something to protect. And you sat behind her, heart slowly unraveling.

You didn’t know how to feel. Part of you was still wound up tight, trying to prepare a way to say no. Just in case. You mentally rehearsed polite excuses.

“I have early practice tomorrow.”

“My parents are still up.”

“I’m not ready.”

But before you could even settle on which one sounded the most casual, you looked up and saw the corner of your street.

“Right here.” you said quickly, tapping Natasha’s side. Natasha nodded once and pulled over.

The engine cut, the sudden silence making your breath catch in your throat. Natasha stepped off the bike smoothly and reached out a hand, steadying it with one arm while offering the other to you.

“Take your time.” she murmured.

You climbed down a little awkwardly, and Natasha’s hand stayed lightly on your hip, helping until your boots hit the pavement. Then the hand dropped. Respectfully. Like it had never been there at all.

And just as you opened your mouth to finally deliver the awkward goodbye-

“Thanks.” Natasha said quietly, cutting in. “For the talk. And the company.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Natasha smiled a little, but there was something knowing behind her eyes.

“You can text your friend now.” she added softly. “Tell her you made it home. Safe and unseduced.”

Your cheeks burned. “I..wait, no..God.”

Natasha laughed once, low and warm.

“I’m sorry.” you blurted. “I just..I really thought you were going to ask to come inside. For, you know..sex.”

The word felt huge in your mouth. Natasha didn’t flinch. Just raised her eyebrows a little. “I get that a lot.” she said gently. “But I’m not..always like that.”

You looked down, embarrassed. “It’s just what people say. I guess I assumed, I’m really sorry..” you whispered. “I just didn’t know what to expect.”

“I get it.” Natasha said with a small shrug. “I know what they say. And I’ve let some of it be true..But not tonight, and for the record, I liked this version better.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

Natasha took a small step back toward her bike. “Good night, Y/n.”

“Good night, Natasha.”

She stood there in the driveway, helmet in one hand, and gave you one last look, quiet, unreadable, but kind. Then she turned the engine over and pulled away, tires humming softly as she disappeared into the night.

And you, still standing on your lawn, felt like the ground under you had changed in ways you hadn’t even begun to understand.

Because Natasha Romanoff had just made you feel more seen in twenty minutes than anyone had in twenty years.

And..without ever laying a hand on you.

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