#exactly🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn��t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

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— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

[girl-lostconnection]

So..forgive me you're the first person I'm ever asking anything on Tumblr (Kinda new and I usually like to describe it like hiding in the corner and just watching everything quietly and leaving likes and I love your work) but I was thinking about your concept with 141 and reader dying and the notebook. Would there ever be a case where the others stumble upon it? Whether Price forgets (somehow) to put it away or someone's in the midst of searching for something and stumbles upon it?

Again, love your work, feel free to ignore this tho

Yeah, I think this type of readers people call “lurkers” which is cool🙂‍↕️you guys are usually the backbone of the audience, I enjoy you tremendously.

And that’s a really good question, anon!

You know what? Why not turn the heat up a little more for this pot with the frogs.

I can imagine Price not exactly forgetting it somewhere but harbouring it so close to himself that people start to notice. This specific notebook is always with him — under his armoured vest and in the front pocket of his shirts, on top of the stack of documents, edge of it peeking out of his pants pocket.

It’s always there when before he didn’t carry it with him. It’s small and simple, technically it shouldn’t rise any questions but Kyle is the first who notices it. Maybe because after your death he’s so sharply attuned to everyone else on the team, it’s practically unhealthy.

Kyle who watches John fumble with the leather bound corners of the little thing and wonders…what’s inside of it? They have been all grieving but your things have been taken by them all and shared fairly.

Simon doesn’t withhold your pictures or books with your annotations. Soap doesn’t say no when Gaz asks for one of the keychains. Kyle himself lets Simon and Johnny take one of your things each. Simon takes the big oversized T-shirt and Soap whisks away one of your hoodies, clutching it hard to himself, knuckles white with tension.

(Kyle will never admit but when he walked in on Johnny in hoodie with your name and rank on the back of it his knees buckled. For a moment a traitorous part of him thought you were there. For a moment he could breathe again)

So Price keeping something of you to himself almost felt unfair. It wasn’t, of course, no, Captain had every right to grieve and mourn in a way that made it easier for him.

But-

But Kyle missed you. Everyday and every morning he’d wake up, realisations hitting him again that you aren’t coming back. You are never coming back.

You disappeared so suddenly you were now everywhere.

The unwashed cup they couldn’t bring themselves to wash, the clothes and trinkets, the books and pictures. The notebooks.

Kyle remembers how you two played games in it, drawing X’s and O’s when debrief would get too long and your brains too sluggish to keep awake without external stimulation.

Kyle remembers you writing in them, so focused you oftentimes wouldn’t notice him getting closer until he’d plop himself down in front of you, pretending to pose. Your favourite model, wasn’t he?

Kyle remembers you smiling at him, eyes flickering to his face for a moment, your gaze so impossibly soft he feels like choking and burying himself next to you.

There is a whole life ahead. Kyle isn’t sure how to live it with a hole in this chest the size of your love.

It’s a selfish thought, maybe. Maybe he is selfish.

Maybe he should have been content with what he has been given. But he wasn’t.

So now he slips the notebook off Price’s desk when the man himself is so wrecked he can’t see straight. John’s drinking got worse after your death. Not yet enough to cause disciplinary action but enough to make them all worried.

Gaz has never seen him like that.

Why were they all lucky enough to meet you but not lucky enough to save you? Would the outcome be different if one of them went with you on that deployment? Could they save you if they knew how it ends?

Could they try?

Kyle’s fingers skim over the pages, your hoodie on him and if he pretends hard enough it almost feels like a hug. It almost feels like his body heat seeping through fabric is yours. Like you were just wearing it.

Like you didn’t leave at all.

Like you are coming back.

Kyle flips through the pages, gurgling wet laughter in his throat when he notices that you have been writing Simon’s jokes down and coming up with your own. (The “just got hospitalised due to peekaboo incident. They put me in ICU” joke almost makes Kyle choke).

Some part of him gets why Price has been guarding this specific journal so hard. Why he wasn’t letting anyone else close to it, because this right here is you.

Everything that’s left of your thoughts and feelings, of your humour and love, of your plans and scribbles.

It’s tangible proof that you were here. You lived, you loved, you thought. You were there and you were a person. Their favourite person. Their beloved one.

Maybe that’s why your small note hits him harder than he could have ever expected. A small resigned “I’m not sure I fit in. I’m not sure I’m not second…or fifth best in this case. Don’t even know if I wanna talk about it. Just plain stupid” splits Kyle’s scull open and leaves him bleeding and aching and shaking.

What…what did you mean “fifth best”? Why would you say that? What- no. Nonononono. No, it’s not fair. It’s not true, it has never been true.

Kyle feels like driving back to the cemetery and wrapping his car around the poll.

Kyle feels like clawing at the ground and sobbing-sobbing-sobbing.

Kyle feels like begging.

Please, no. Please, come back. Please, let him fix it, let him tell you the truth, let him tell you.

Kyle understands why Price was guarding the journal this fiercely. Kyle is so mad he feels like demolishing John’s office and yelling until his voice is raspy useless thing, vocal cords damaged, headache pounding inside his head and he’s burning from inside out.

Kyle looks at the page, his whole core so hollowed out you could feel an echo if you’d knocked.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do because you are gone.

Because he wants to say “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I’d be better if I knew”, he wants to say “come back and scream at me, come back demand attention, come back and hurt me in return just please please come back”.

He wants to say “I love you” in a hundred different ways, he wants to kiss it better, he wants to hold you again, he wants you back, why can’t you come back, why can’t he get you back? He will change, he will do better, he will pay attention, he’s sorry, love, he’s so sorry.

Soap finds him just blankly staring at the page and he doesn’t understand at first, concern sharpening his features like one of the razors he uses for his drawing pencils.

Johnny sinks down next to him, lips pressing to Kyle’s temple, breath panting when Gaz doesn’t respond because he can’t.

He doesn’t know what to say.

How do you live knowing you may never change what already happened? How do you keep going knowing your tenderness is decaying six feet underground, that your love is springing with flowers when they should have stayed above the ground and picked them? How do you get over it? How?

Johnny’s eyes skim over the page and Gaz can feel when the realisation sinks in, when the body next to him is getting poured full with raw ache and ice sharp panic.

Johnny asks “Gaz whose journal is that”, Johnny pleads “Mate, talk to me, where did you get it?”, Johnny whimpers “Kyle tell me it’s not theirs, Kyle please, Kyle say something”.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do other than wrap himself around Soap and hold him despite the thrashing, despite the disbelieving laughter that descends into gasping for air and clawing at his back and shoulders.

Kyle doesn’t let him get out and do something stupid, like drive to the cemetery and wrap a car around the poll and curl near your gravestone.

There is an awfully loud gulp and the journal is getting carefully taken off Kyle’s lap, Simon’s fingers long and scarred — things broken too many times to grown back straight and narrow, calloused pads of his fingers catching on the paper of the notebook.

Kyle has to drag him down to them, he has to practically kick the ground from under Ghost’s feet because the man looks like he will get the shovel and get you out of the coffin.

(Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon refused to let them bury you, how he sat with you for days, until the decomposition became evident. Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon placed a phone in your coffin despite knowing that you are not coming back. Kyle doesn’t want to think that Simon was terrified the 4 of them might bury you alive).

Ghost looks like the sky just fell on his head, crashing his spine and grinding down his nerves. Ghost looks like he wants to cry but doesn’t know how.

Ghost looks like how they all feel.

Kyle forces the man into their cuddle pile and forces his hand to wrap around Johnny, because Soap digs his fingers into them like he’s falling-falling-falling. System crashing, bomb ticking, Rome burning down.

Funny how Ghost never understood the phrase “going mad with grief”, always felt like it was a bit of dramatisation. People die every day after all, don’t they? It’s statistically impossible to never lose a single person.

Funny how Soap gets it now perfectly. The shift of tectonic plates in his brain, the rewiring of the whole system, pain so intense he might have ash for heart now.

Funny how it’s not funny at all but Gaz still laughs, face wet when Simon tightens his grip and pulls Kyle in, letting him hide his face.

Taglist: @synthe4u

[bunni-v1]

"If you bring up the way he made you feel, he shakes his head and tuts at you. It was part of the plan, of course, your jealousy was made in a controlled environment by him. He needed you to use your silly little head and come to your senses on your own! He loves you, you know that, you just had to remember on your own."

This but the reader turns (temporarily) petty, and despite knowing that they’re still loved and all, they decide to hangout with Truthless Recluse a bit more just to be petty for being left all alone with their doubts and jealousy.

If Shadow Milk is allowed his little tests thingies, i hereby declare him worthy of a certain amount of pettiness from his beloved 🙂‍↕️

EXACTLY! But I don’t think it would go very well I’m gonna be honest 💀

1) Truthless Recluse couldn’t give less of a fuck. He’s still got that inherent kindness of Pure Vanilla, but he’s more like a blank slate than anything. So yeah, go ahead and hang out with him, but he really isn’t gonna do much.

2) Shadow Milk Cookie’s Jealousy issues should NOT be underestimated. What he did was toxic, yes, and you’re 100% correct in your annoyance and anger… but he’s wayyyy more petty than you could ever be. If you’re going out of your way to make him jealous? Girl, good luck…

3) You really think you’re gonna get time to be alone with Truthless Recluse? After all that? Fat fucking chance. Shadow Milk is monitoring the two of you like a hawk, and that’s only if he isn’t also there making sure you’re behaving. If he feels you’re stepping over a boundary, he’ll quickly redirect your attention back on him. It’s not something you can resist, either. He’s so smooth and quick with it that you can’t stop him before it’s too late.

On another note, if you’re really hurt by it still after episode 8 finishes, he WILL give you a real apology. He realizes a lot of things about himself thanks to Compassionate Pure Vanilla, and one of those things is just how valuable you are to him.

It’s a rare show of vulnerability from him, but he’ll take you on a nice stroll and act all sweet on you. Then, when he feels you’ve warmed up to him enough, he’ll give you a real sorry. Well, he won’t say sorry because that’s something he’s not quite ready to do, but...

“Listen, Dolly. You know I love you more than anything in the whole world, and I know you love me too. We shouldn’t have to test each other to make sure it’s true, we should just know. I know. Can we just move on, together?”

[urno1luv]

Winter g!p puppy extremely shy in front of others but when the doors close she becomes another person 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

(breeding kink and hanging maybe...)

in public, winter is...

- a good actress

- the type to always hold your hand with both of hers, like she's scared you'll let go. her fingers barely grip, but she never pulls away first

- blushes so easily it's almost funny — even after months together, a quick kiss on the cheek will have her hiding her face in your shoulder

- always speaks quietly, like every word is just for you — "are you hungry?" or "should we leave soon?" — even if you're in the middle of a crowd

- hides behind you in unfamiliar places, clinging to your sleeve without even realizing

- shows her affection in the smallest ways — fixing your necklace, smoothing your hair, brushing her thumb over your knuckles without saying anything

- when people tease her about how soft she is with you, she just goes even redder and mumbles something under her breath but you sigh, because you know what's she's really like🤭

in private winter is...

- the second you're alone, it's like she flips a switch — still quiet, but in this slow, confident way that makes your heart race

- she loves catching you off guard — pinning you against the wall with that little smirk like she wasn't just hiding behind you two hours ago

- she'll pull you into her lap without warning, playing with the edge of your skirt like it's the most casual thing in the world

- she the type to lean in close, brush her lips against your ear, and whisper, "we're alone now, i don't have to fake anything" — knowing damn well she's making your head spin

- not loud about how possessive she is — no jealousy fits, just a hand on your thigh under the table or a lazy kiss on your neck when you're home alone, like she's reminding you exactly who you belong to

- she has this low, breathy voice she only uses when it's just the two of you — the same girl who stutters ordering food will murmur things that leave your legs shaking without breaking eye contact

- bites. not hard, not always — just little teasing nips along your jaw or your shoulder, half to mark you and half to hear the little sound you make when she does it😫

- she doesn't ask — she takes. pushes you up against the nearest surface, lips brushing against your neck, half-smirking when she hears your gasp as her cock slowly enters you😩

- pins your wrists down against the mattress, body flush against yours, whispering things in that soft, dangerous voice "look at you, already so needy for me", her hand cupping your cunt

- if you try to flip the script and take control, she'll let you — for a little while. then she'll smile all soft and sweet, push you down on the bed, and ruin you without breaking a sweat. her thick cock hitting that spot inside of you, her relentless pounding making your eyes roll with pleasure🫨

- she loves loves LOVES seeing her cum dripping out of your pussy, and she's your puppy gf, so when those two things are combined = breeding kink!

- she swears to you, in her haze of pleasure, that she'll get you pregnant, she'll give you pups, and all sorts of things like that

- she bites your neck when she's about to cum, her low, breathy little growls against your skin signifying that she's going to breed you for the 6th time that night

literally EVERYBODY thinks you're the one in charge, but the second you're alone, she's got you wrapped around her little finger, begging for more without even trying🫠

[marauders-bs]

spoiler for tgr warning!

ch6 thoughts below

ravens don't recognize federal holidays???? tf sQUARE UP

jean doesn't know his own birthday. what if i killed myself /j but cat had to ask rhemann when jean's birthday was

the moreaus didn't do anything either thEY CAN FUCKING SQUARE UP TOO I'LL CAGE FIGHT THE PARENTS TOO

"last year was their year" "yeah if you ignore everything else"

FLOOZY 4 OF JULY PARTY! HELL YEAH one more bingo square checked off 🙂‍↕️

ivan faser did what now? jere you keep picking really bad guys for this he did that in front of how many people exactly?

jeremy praise kink confirmed oh my god man get up

barkbark is fucking BACK

jean moreau i will miss your iconic lines. "stop dying your hair the bleach is rotting your brain" is rough i would kms i fear

laila "surely this won't backfire at all" dermott is my queen fuck kevin day

"family chef" get out rich boy jfc

siblings? dead brother? named noah? jeremy lore bingo square crossed off but at what cost

JEAN ASKED IF IT GETS EASIER AND JERE SAID IT DOESN'T I'M GONNA DIE. OH MY GOD

anyways. jeremy and laila are learning french 🥹🥹

HEART SURGERY?? ON BOTH SIDES??? JEAN MOREAU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH DON'T EVER CHANGE

jean really said "nah man do ur thing" i love him so much. xavier said "can we keep him" and he's 100% real for that

this is not noteworthy but i love that it's included that cody took the cheese. i would take the cheese too

cody, ananya and pat wandering off is my roman empire acc it's the little things

unintentional jerejean cheek kiss... (does this count towards my jerejean kiss bingo square? i think it does) every coherent thought left jeremy's head and he's real for it too

AGAIN?? JEREMY WHY ARE YOU FALLING ASLEEP ON ROADS. TF???? THREE OR FOUR TIMES????

adhd jeremy is canon now right guys

count for "amount of times i have said 'oh my poor sweet summer child'" so far- ...17?

[sunsburns]

wait no because trying to compete w joaquin to look the best in sams eyes? that 100% would happen.

always showing up to work early if sam needed you there, always doing things "better" than the other to be picked to go out on missions, but in reality both of you were always gonna go, sam just likes to rile you both up!!!

you and joaquin arguing is sams entertainment, but he would always call you out on how y'all should just kiss or smthn, just so you would both get out of his hair, y'all are kiss asses 🙂‍↕️

THE biggest ass kissers the world has ever fucking seen!!!

it starts with small things.

beating joaquín torres to the debriefing room first, standing at attention just a little straighter when sam walks in. being the first to volunteer for a recon mission, making sure your reports are turned in before joaquín’s—little victories, small triumphs that keep the score tilting just slightly in your favour.

and joaquín? oh, he knows what you’re doing. he feels the competition just as strongly, meeting you beat for beat, smirk for smirk. if you show up early, he shows up earlier. if you get in a well-placed quip that makes sam chuckle, joaquín makes sure to drop a comment that gets him a full laugh, a shoulder clap.

sam catches on quickly, because of course he does. he thrives off of it, if anything, watching you and joaquín try to one-up each other over the most mundane things with the kind of patience only an older brother figure can have. half the time, he doesn’t even need to pit you against each other; you do that all on your own.

but here’s the thing—you and joaquín don’t actually hate each other. if anything, there’s an underlying respect, an unspoken acknowledgment of how damn good the other is at what they do. on the field, you’re an unstoppable duo, reading each other without a word, moving in sync in a way that only comes from deep familiarity. you know each other’s strengths, weaknesses, the little things that make the other tick—and you know exactly how to push each other’s buttons, whether it’s to provoke or distract.

and sam? oh, he knows it too.

it was why he has the two of you as his second hand. he sees how well you work together, how efficient things become when you’re not locked in some petty competition. hell, sometimes he even thinks you two are kinda cute together—just too damn stubborn to admit it.

but sometimes, sam stirs the pot just for fun. like when he lets it slip that he needs a file retrieved from the archives, and suddenly, you and joaquín are racing through the hallways, elbowing each other out of the way, nearly colliding into bucky in the process. or when he casually mentions needing someone to drive him to a meeting, and next thing he knows, both of you are already in the car, fighting over who gets to drive.

“y’all are exhausting,” sam sighs one day, watching as you and joaquín argue over who got the better shot during training with isaiah. he leans back in his chair, eyes flicking between you. “why don’t you just kiss already and get out of my face?”

that shuts both of you up real quick. joaquín’s face flushes, his lips parting like he wants to argue but can’t quite find the words. you, on the other hand, scoff, rolling your eyes before looking anywhere but at him.

sam just grins, kicking his feet up onto the table. “uh-huh. that’s what i thought.”

bucky, passing by with his coffee, gives sam a long look. “aren’t you being too hard on those kids?”

“nah,” sam replies easily, smirking. “they love it.”

[eurodynamic]

Michael Bryan meeting Dorian Pavus while playing Dragon Age: Inquisition for the first time (via YouTube)

[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN for ESQUIRE KOREA & CARTIER [2024]

[rainbow-sunshine-unicorn]

#he didn’t listen to her once and almost destroyed everybody’s life #and now is like whew i gotta ask kate before i do anything. no decision small enough 👆 #god i know she walks him around on a leash 😩 (tags by @sunfortune )

(transcript from here)

[rystiel]

well that’s one way to come out i guess

[foolsocracy]

What could he have meant by this

[magenta-cat-drawingss]

"Finally, back into your arms, where I belong, safe and sound..."

[tackykachowch]

So we gathered that Jinx's braids are connected to Silco and it's very likely that he was the one who braided them. But why are they so long tho?

Here's what I think: Silco's eye injection is a daily ritual, which guarantees that they'll see each other at least once every day, even if for such a brief period of time. Braiding Jinx's hair, on the other hand, probably requires a Lot of time, so it's likely that she let it to be that long so she and Silco would have more quality time together, even if it happens less frequently.

[eru-vande]

[whosbian]

[ju-panic]

I love hearing you squirt all over yourself, especially when you know you’re supposed to stop. It so cute that you keep fucking your pussy when in reality you want it stretched out the way you deserve. 😚