#i’ve been curating a life i’m in love with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

p0orbaby · 17 days ago

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A Tide of Tender Mercies

summary: oh, no, i think i’m in love with you

warning: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (alexia receiving), some angst, reader being stubborn af

a/n: thank you to @muffinpink02 for helping navigate the sexy part ! also i’ve deffo repeated some bits but i cannot for the life of me be bothered to sort it out

word count: 7k

The chalet is…well, perfect. It’s the kind of perfect that only comes from meticulous planning, obsessive list-making, and a kind of restrained indulgence that most people would never understand. Set high above a tiny Swiss village known for its fondue and twenty-something millionaires, it sits against a backdrop of mountains sharp enough to slice the clouds. The exterior is severe, almost aggressively minimalistic: crisp white stucco, blackened wood shutters, and glass doors that could double as showroom installations. The effect is daunting, beautiful, and—if you’re being honest—a bit over-the-top. You chose it, naturally, because it’s the type of place where “just a fling” can occur without a single hint of domesticity.

Inside, everything is pristine, hand-selected, curated to within an inch of its life. You were adamant that the linens be Egyptian cotton, but not the gaudy kind; they’re 800-thread count, light enough to seem insubstantial but woven to feel solid, unyielding. They’re arranged in clinical folds on the bed, starched and pressed in a way that suggests they’re almost afraid to be touched. You’ll mess them up later, but for now, they’re an artwork of restraint.

And then there are the wines, selected with the sort of care that would make a sommelier weep. It’s silly, of course—Alexia doesn’t normally drink during the season, so she will hardly glance at the labels, but you’ve assembled an array that hints at depth nonetheless. An entire wall of Swiss Chasselas, a few rare vintages from Bordeaux, and an stupidly expensive pinot noir that tastes like dirt but cost enough to suggest you know what you’re doing. The idea is that if she gives in to something sophisticated, she’ll find it here. If she doesn’t, you’ll find her something else. Something that says you’ve thought of everything. Which, of course, you have.

The whole thing has a sort of perverse charm, really, how every detail has been obsessively pre-arranged to ensure that she knows you’re not in this for anything serious. And yet, here you are, flying her across Europe to the kind of setting people book for anniversaries and life-altering proposals.

There’s a sort of humour in it, if you’re willing to look. You even laugh to yourself, laying out the spa towels in the bathroom—too thick, too plush, a little too “I love you”—knowing full well she won’t notice them. She’ll think of them as “towels,” and if she does notice, it’ll be because she needs a new one. But that’s fine. It’s all part of the performance, all part of the thing you’ve constructed around this chalet, around her arrival, around the notion that this is—what? Casual? Fun? Whatever word fits it neatly enough to deny what you’re feeling.

And then there are the candles. Oh, God, the candles. You tried to keep them simple, restrained, the kind of scents that evoke a distant memory rather than a specific moment. Sandalwood, bergamot, a flicker of pine; nothing too floral, nothing that says “romance,” but hints of something just familiar enough to feel safe. You even toyed with the idea of an unscented option, just in case the pine felt too… suggestive. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve learned to lean into it, to control it, to package it neatly. If it’s planned, then it’s deliberate, and if it’s deliberate, then it’s just for fun.

“Why all this?” you imagine her saying, eyebrows raised, maybe laughing as she notices the excessive stock of Swiss chocolates in the cabinet. You have them lined up in neat rows, the artisan kind—no corner-shop Toblerone here—and each one is individually wrapped in foil that gleams in the dim kitchen light. You picture her rolling her eyes at the small mountain of truffle boxes, asking if you’ve stocked up for a wedding. And you, of course, would shrug it off, offering some deadpan line about Swiss tourism. Or a joke about Swiss efficiency. Or something suitably bland that keeps the tone right where you want it—on the edge of humour, a step away from real. You’ve prepared for every reaction, really. Which is pointless, because she hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s the first time she’s been here. The place is new, purchased after a very well-timed therapy session that conveniently rebranded “self-indulgence” as “self-care.” The therapist’s exact words were “If you want to be your best self, find the spaces that let you breathe.” And you took that literally, flying up here for private viewings until this place caught your eye. Well, maybe not your eye. But it was one of those rare places that looked exactly like the pictures, maybe better, and it had the kind of aesthetic that screams “I need nothing from you” while begging for a sense of purpose. You bought it almost instantly.

And now, after weeks of fine-tuning, she’ll be here soon. You catch yourself arranging the books on the side table, pausing over which titles to leave out—a mix of philosophy and modern fiction that says “I read but don’t take it too seriously.” You laugh to yourself at the pretension of it, yet you leave the carefully selected titles exactly as they are.

It’s silly, really, because the goal here is detachment, the freedom to keep things light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that as you straighten the pillows on the sofa for the second time, catching your own eye in the polished mirror that hangs in the foyer.

“You’re being weird,” you say out loud, imagining her walking in, that quick smile flashing, eyebrows raised in a way that says, “Is this all for me?” You picture her laughing, maybe rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. But you have an answer for that too, prepared in advance, a casual shrug.

“Just a little atmosphere,” you’ll say, as if it’s nothing.

You check your watch. Thirty-two minutes until Alexia arrives. Thirty-two minutes to double-check that every single minutely considered, utterly detached detail says, I couldn’t care less—or, more precisely, I care in exactly the right amount of less. Because she needs to know that this is nothing. That this trip to an over-the-top chalet overlooking a town mostly inhabited by 19-year-olds in cashmere is simply an exercise in relaxation, togetherness, a concept you’re fairly sure you’re allergic to.

She doesn’t know it yet, but you bought the place partly to show her. Partly to remind her, subtly, that she could disappear tomorrow and you’d still have this. Because that’s the problem with Alexia, isn’t it? She’s not really yours. She’s something you can enjoy, display even, but never own. The complete opposite of the real estate you’ve added to your collection. You stand there, glass in hand, the Lagavulin you’ve graciously poured yourself warming your fingers through the crystal, staring out at the Alps with the vague thought that an obscene number of people have had their ashes scattered here, somewhere along this ridgeline. It’s an unsettling idea you rather enjoy.

She texts, something about a delay on the tarmac, and you stare at the message for a beat too long, analysing the exact wording like you’re looking for hidden subtext. As if there could be subtext in the word “delayed.”

A casual fling, you remind yourself, should never be complicated by subtext.

To pass the time, you scan the kitchen once again. The coffee is fresh-ground, of course, from a bag that cost as much as an entire year’s supply from anywhere normal. It’s pre-portioned in tiny glass canisters your assistant found online that look like vintage apothecary jars. The labels are printed in Helvetica Neue because you once read that it’s a ‘subtly superior’ font. Ridiculous. But also, it’s perfect. There’s also a miniature mountain of imported Spanish oranges on the counter, carefully arranged in a hammered copper bowl you don’t remember buying. You could make mimosas, you think, if you didn’t know she’ll insist on starting with a protein shake instead.

You put a bottle of Alpine mineral water in the fridge just for her, chilled to the exact 4.4°C she prefers. Yes, it’s an oddly specific temperature preference. No, she didn’t tell you directly. You overheard her mention it once, offhand, to someone else. Which is exactly why you’re bound to a polite indifference if she asks why it’s there. It’s simply what the fridge was set to. Nothing personal.

Just the thought of her walking in has you adjusting your posture as if she’s already watching. Alexia doesn’t miss a single detail. Once, she commented on the way you have a tendency to pull your sleeves over your hands. You haven’t done it since. Now, you check that every piece of clothing you’ve chosen is deliberately, carelessly oversized—but only to the point that still reads as flattering.

Then, at last, you hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. You scurry to watch from the window as she steps out of the car you sent, and she’s immediately caught in that glacial alpine light, her features so stark and defined that it’s almost cinematic. There’s a sharp thrill—one you won’t admit to yourself—in seeing her here, framed against this scene like she’s the final piece in some high-budget film. The coat she’s wearing is slightly too large, lending her a relaxed, indifferent air, as if she’d picked up the first thing she saw on her way out the door. Effortless, in that way that would feel studied on anyone else.

You stand back from the window just before she glances up, retreating into the comfort of shadows. Timing is everything. You’ve thought this through, down to each calculated second. It’s critical, after all, that she finds you not watching, but instead lingering at a perfect remove, preferably with a slight air of distraction. You’re aiming for a kind of aloofness, as if her arrival is the least interesting event of the day.

She’s about to ring the bell when you move, deliberately slow, to the door, letting it swing open just as she raises her hand. There’s a brief, barely perceptible pause as her eyes meet yours, a spark of something unspoken passing between you both before she raises an eyebrow, a look that hovers between amusement and challenge.

“Missed me?” she asks, dryly, though there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. She’s close now, close enough that you can catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, something dark and woody and just the right side of familiar.

You tilt your head, giving her a slow once-over, and shrug. “Not especially,” you say, voice low, careful to keep the tone perfectly flat. But you let your gaze linger just a second too long on her collarbone, barely visible where her coat has slipped slightly, enough to make her catch it, her mouth curling up at the edge. It’s a deliberate game, one you’ve both played a hundred times, each move rehearsed, practised to the point of art.

She’s barely through the door when you feel it—that unmistakable tension, thickening the air between you. It’s almost tangible, a static hum just beneath the surface of polite conversation, something that pulls at you like gravity. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something you’re not quite willing to name, because if you wait too long, the feeling will settle into something more familiar. Something too close to comfort, which is the last thing you want.

She doesn’t seem to notice it, of course, her mind likely on dinner plans or the slow crawl of the evening. You, however, are already teetering at the edge of patience, every nerve just slightly too aware of her. She walks in, drops her bag by the door with a casual grace that feels almost too natural, like she’s done this a hundred times, like she could do this forever if you asked her to. And you wonder if you’d even want that—something so predictably domestic, the quiet comfort of a routine. No. You want her in ways that defy that kind of simplicity, in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

You watch her from the corner of your eye as she takes in the room. Her eyes linger on the minimal, curated details you agonised over: the leather-bound books you never plan to read, the art on the walls meant to suggest a taste for something more sophisticated than it is. She’s oblivious, seemingly caught up in the novelty of the place, and that’s exactly what you intended. She can’t know how meticulously you set the scene, how every pillow and chair is positioned with an almost obsessive precision. All she has to do is be here. You’ll take care of the rest.

There’s a slow, unhurried quality to her movements, an ease that’s infuriating because it’s so at odds with the pulse of urgency rising in you. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel with a soft, idle curiosity. Her fingers trace over the edge of a photograph you don’t remember putting there, something abstract and distant, chosen for the way it says absolutely nothing about you. It’s maddening, really, the way she lingers in the space, claiming it without meaning to, as if her very presence could overwrite the hours you spent constructing it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she says, her voice light, unaware of the way it cuts through the silence with a sharpness that’s almost physical. There’s a half-smile on her face, something unreadable that you can’t quite shake off.

You shrug, adopting an air of disinterest you’ve perfected over the years. “Thought you’d appreciate the change of scenery”

She raises an eyebrow, still oblivious, her focus now on the bust of Venus of Arles by the window. For a second, you want to laugh at the madness of it, how she’s here, right in front of you, while you’re clawing at the edges of your own restraint.

But she’s still gazing around, her fingers brushing the edge of a table as if she has all the time in the world. As if she doesn’t know what you’re holding back. You take a slow breath, exhale, feel the tension coil tighter inside, and think that if you let this linger for even another second, you’ll start to resent the calmness of it, the quiet rhythm that feels too much like waiting. Like settling into something you’re not prepared to face.

“Wine?” You ask in a futile attempt to keep things just this side of civilised. The offer hangs in the air, a thin layer of normalcy that feels like it could snap at any moment, but she only nods, glancing over with a slight smile, one corner of her mouth lifting in that way that’s halfway between polite interest and something more.

“Sure,” she says, her voice smooth, without a hint of awareness. “You pick”

You turn to the wine rack with an exaggerated casualness, scanning bottles you chose with this exact moment in mind. You could explain the notes of every vintage, how each one was picked not because it pairs with any particular food—because let’s face it, dinner’s not exactly on your mind—but because it suggests a kind of sophistication, a subtlety. You choose a bottle of red, something full-bodied and just slightly bitter, almost as if in silent commentary on the situation. You pour, slowly, setting the glass down in front of her with a kind of precision that’s both reverent and clinical. She reaches for it, her fingers grazing the stem, the gesture infuriatingly graceful.

The first sip seems to surprise her. “Good choice,” she murmurs, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the glass.

The silence stretches on just a moment too long, the air thick with something that isn’t quite tension, more like a coiled spring just waiting for one of you to press down. You feel it building as she shifts, glancing around the room, and suddenly, you realise she’s working up to something. There’s a certain deliberateness in the way she moves, a careful consideration in her stare, and you know—know—she didn’t come all this way just to admire the decor.

“Look,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, carrying a weight that tells you she’s not talking about the view. “I’ve been thinking—”

But you can’t—won’t—let her finish. Not when you know exactly what she’s about to say. You cut her off, leaning forward, your tone light, easy, deliberately dismissive. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to talk, Alexia”

She freezes, mid-sentence, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, a blend of surprise and—annoyance, maybe? But she masks it quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I thought you’d appreciate me being… honest,” she says slowly, as though testing the waters, watching you carefully.

“Honest? That’s what we’re calling it?” You let a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, a practiced expression, something designed to be just detached enough to hold everything at arm’s length. “Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your deflection, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Better than what? Talking?”

Talking. The word hangs in the air, innocent, innocuous, yet loaded in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to. You shift, taking another sip of wine, letting the liquid burn down, hoping it’ll smother the way her eyes feel like they're peeling away all your practiced layers. It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, but the feeling creeping in now is something else, something you’re not used to. It feels inconvenient. Like an itch you can’t reach.

You try to fire back, something witty, something cool, but the words catch in your throat, your mind scraping empty. It’s frustrating, the way she’s caught you off guard, how she’s unraveled your carefully crafted reserve without even trying. You reach for your glass again, swirling the wine, stalling for time, anything to avoid that knowing look in her eyes.

But then it dawns on you, like a spark catching flame—there’s still one thing left to do to regain control. Something you can do that would put you back in charge, bring this uncomfortable vulnerability back into something physical, where you excel. You set your glass down, slowly, purposefully, letting the silence stretch taut between you both.

She watches you with that smirk, that trace of challenge, as if daring you to break this moment of stillness.

“Come here,” you say, low and steady, injecting just enough command to leave no room for debate.

“No”

She says it so simply, so carelessly, that for a moment you’re almost convinced you misheard her. It’s infuriating, really, that one little word has the power to throw you so entirely. Your pulse stumbles, and you feel the ground slipping from under you, just enough to catch you off guard.

“Alexia.” You give her a look that’s intended to be definitive, final, but it lands with all the power of a weak threat. Her smirk widens into a full, infuriating smile, the one that says she’s entirely aware of the effect she’s having on you.

“Just hear me out,” she says, with a kind of softness that’s more unnerving than you’d like. “You’re doing that thing. The thing where you turn everything into—” She pauses, gesturing vaguely with her hand, searching for the right word, “—into some kind of performance”

It’s an odd, unnerving feeling, this loss of footing. Normally, you’d have a witty reply ready, something cutting or clever, but instead, you feel like she’s stripped you bare, left you standing there with nothing but honesty, and you hate it.

“So now you’re the expert?” you reply, finally finding your voice, though it sounds sharper than you meant. “Since when do you—”

“Since I started actually falling for you,” she says, cutting you off, her voice low but clear. It’s not even particularly dramatic, the way she says it, and somehow that’s worse. Like she’s not trying to turn it into anything, not expecting any kind of reaction—just stating it as a fact.

You feel a flush rise to your face, and you mask it with another sip of wine, a hasty attempt to cover up the sudden jolt in your chest. She waits, just watches you with that maddening calm, as if giving you all the time in the world to come up with some kind of response.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid and unfamiliar. You feel the urge to laugh, to make light of it, anything to disperse this feeling building between you, something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“You don��t have to make this into… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing between you. “Let’s not get sentimental”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms, looking impossibly patient. “I told you I’m just trying to be honest. I thought that was allowed”

“Honest,” you repeat, as though the word itself is foreign. And maybe it is. Honesty has never been the thing you reach for. Honesty is for people who can afford to look foolish, who don’t mind slipping, stumbling a little. Honesty is… unnecessary. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s got you so rattled now.

You set your glass down, more forcefully than intended, and close the distance between you with a deliberate slowness, a silence that says everything you aren’t willing to say out loud. She watches you, unmoving, waiting, that infuriating patience of hers still intact.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “If youre falling for me, fucking show me”

Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement mixed with something warmer, something that makes you feel like you’re the one being dissected here. It’s maddening, really, how effortlessly she manages to get under your skin, slip past all those careful layers. And yet you’re already reaching for her, pulling her closer, desperate to change the pace, to turn this moment into something you can control.

There’s a split second where neither of you move, holding the charged silence like it might be the only thread of control left. And then it snaps. You reach for her, not gently, fingers curling around her wrist with enough force that she has no choice but to be pulled in. Her smirk flickers, only slightly, and there’s something about the momentary surprise in her eyes that makes your grip tighten further, anchoring yourself as much as her. It’s a flash of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of bravado, one you’re keen to shatter.

You pull her toward you, and the air shifts, that faint hint of uncertainty cracking into something far messier. Your hand finds its way to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a kind of reckless precision, not even aware of how tightly you’re holding on. You don’t waste time; you’re not even sure there’s time to waste. And as soon as you lean in, catching her mouth with a kiss that’s anything but tentative, you feel her resistance melt, her lips parting under yours with a roughness that’s almost defiant.

She meets you with equal force, as if each clash of mouths, each bruising press of skin, is a way to gain back her own control, and you revel in it, the give-and-take that feels as calculated as it is chaotic. Your hand slips to her jaw, holding her there, your thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth with a kind of ferocity that toes the line between possessive and desperate. You know it’s not going to be gentle; there’s a part of you that doesn’t want it to be.

You’re moving backwards, feeling the edge of the marble island press into your spine, but it doesn’t matter. She’s everywhere, her hands gripping the fabric of your shirt, blunt nails scraping against your skin as if she’s staking a claim, as if she’s finally caught on to the pace you’ve been trying to set and decided to match it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Her words slip out like a slow, deliberate knife cutting through the air between you. The tone, sharp, unfamiliar, though has been the soundtrack to your late-night thoughts. It’s almost as if she knows, like she’s caught you in the act of something that’s always been just below the surface. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, eyes darting between your face and the space between you two, as if trying to read the faintest tremor in your expression. It’s always a game with her, always a step too far.

Yes.

“No,” you manage, your voice betraying you—cracked, thin, like a lie too rehearsed. The words come out wrong, but they come out anyway, forced through a tightening chest.

The moment stretches, each second fracturing, bending and folding into itself. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a shadow—everything slips just out of reach, and the harder you try to grasp it, the more it seems to twist away, leaving nothing but the sensation of your own breath hitching in your throat. You fucking hate this. You hate the way her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, as if trying to remind you of your place, of the expectations that have always followed you both like a silent, mocking echo.

No, you don’t hate her.

Fuck. You love her.

The thought is an ugly, dissonant thing, a weight that doesn’t settle easily, like a slow-moving tide pulling you under. The water’s cold. You can’t feel the bottom. You don’t know which way is up, and the only thing you do know is that, somewhere along the line, you’ve let yourself drown.

Your pulse is almost deafening in your ears, hammering in time with your desperate need for air. There’s something about the way she stands before you—still and deliberate, eyes trained on yours—that makes the room feel smaller, closer. You think you can hear her thoughts. Feel them. It’s maddening, how much she seems to know you, how she’s always known the way you bend. How much she’s learned to manipulate that bend, until you almost forget what it’s like to be anything but this: a response.

You swallow. The taste of her is lingering on your lips, sweet and bitter all at once, like a bad memory. How many times has this happened? You don’t know anymore. The last time feels as far away as the first time—when she leaned in, the weight of her body an invisible promise. But tonight, there’s something different. It’s in the way she watches you, cold, calculating, her fingers still gripping the edges of your shirt, the only real connection between you two in the moment.

She inhales slowly, the rhythm deliberate, like she’s listening to a song you can’t hear. The silence is suffocating.

“You’re lying,” she says, low and accusing, with just enough venom to make you flinch. There’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, something fleeting, something knowing. You want to reach out, to take her in your hands and pull her close, but the distance between you both feels like a universe. The space feels like a reflection of everything that’s wrong with you: the empty conversations, the meaningless gestures, the ache that’s always there, just beneath the skin. It’s maddening, this tension.

And yet…

You want her. Fuck, you need her. You don’t know if it’s because you love her or because she knows how to make you feel more alive than anything else. She’s become your addiction, your fire, the only thing you can’t quit.

Another shift in the air. Another breath from her, shallow and calculated. It’s not a question anymore, not a challenge—it’s an affirmation. She knows, and you know, too.

You close your eyes for a moment, just long enough to lose yourself in the fleeting memory of something that almost felt like peace. The sound of her voice, the taste of her, the way she touched you. It’s all a blur, a disjointed collection of moments tied together by one inescapable truth: you’ll never be able to walk away.

Not this time.

When your eyes open again, she’s still standing there, eyes not leaving yours, studying you. Everything feels slowed down, almost too slow. Like time is bending around her, twisting the seconds into something thick, sticky. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but it holds you in place, an anchor, a force. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, the dull tap of your own pulse in your ears.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You don’t need to.

Her fingers slide along your chest, trailing down in that same slow, infuriating pace, until they settle on the edge of your shirt again, the same place they started. She doesn’t look away, her lips curving upward in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s like she’s trying to decide whether you want to hurt her or fuck her. And the problem is, you’re not sure you can tell the difference anymore.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like that might keep you steady, like that might stop you from doing the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

Loving something. Someone. Loving Alexia.

“What are you so afraid of?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost gentle, and it’s the softness of it that makes you unravel completely.

You don’t think—you can’t. One second you’re standing there trying to convince yourself you still have your palms wrapped around this situation, and the next they’re on her, pulling her in with a force that’s almost cruel. Your mouth finds hers, hard and unrelenting, and she gasps into the kiss, her fingers clutching at your shirt, wrinkling the silk, as if you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

She tastes like spearmint gum and coffee. You imagine her shivering as she steps off the plane, teeth chattering in the wind, and too polite to mention it. But your driver notices, you pay him to notice, so before her luggage is out of the cargo, a café con leche is being pressed into her gloved hands.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. It’s a collision, hard and unrelenting, her mouth crashing into yours with a force that feels like defiance, like she’s daring you to stop pretending. To stop holding yourself together so tightly you’re liable to snap.

Your hands are already on her, pulling her close, so close it feels claustrophobic, but you can’t stop. You can’t make yourself pull away because then you’d have to look at her, really look at her, and confront the unbearable softness in her eyes. You’d have to hear her voice again, saying the one thing you’ve been trying to ignore since she first murmured it like a needle under your skin:

“What are you so afraid of?”

What you’re afraid of is this. Her. The way she’s stripped you bare with no effort at all, no grand gestures or declarations. She’s unravelling you with the weight of her presence, with the simple fact of her being, and you hate it almost as much as you crave it.

Your teeth scrape against her lower lip, harder than you mean to, and she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her nails dig into your shoulders, gripping onto you while you take your rightful place at the helm of this godforsaken dance.

And she’s letting you. Letting you press her against the edge of the table, her legs bumping into the thick, varnished oak. The table was handmade by some artisan you don’t remember the name of, its surface polished to a high gloss that reflects the warm light overhead. You’d spent weeks agonising over the purchase, debating wood grains and finishes with a level of scrutiny that felt absurd even at the time. It’s the kind of thing people like you do when they’re too scared to focus on what matters.

But now it’s just a table. A thing in the way, a thing that’s caught between you and her.

Her jeans catch on the wood as you push her back, and the sound is sharp, cutting through the fog in your head. You hesitate for half a second, your hands hovering at her hips, fingers brushing the cool metal of her belt buckle.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, her voice low and breathless. It’s not a reproach—it’s almost amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in your head, and it’s ridiculous to her that you’re trying to wrestle this into something it’s not.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you say, and it’s true. Or it’s a lie. You don’t know anymore, and you don’t care.

The belt comes undone with a soft clink, the leather sliding through the loops of her jeans in one smooth motion. You let it fall to the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile lost beneath the ragged breaths you’re both taking. Your hands are shaking slightly as you undo the button on her jeans, the metal cold against your fingertips.

She doesn’t help you. Doesn’t lift her hips, doesn’t make it easier. She just watches you, her gaze steady and unwavering, like she’s daring you to keep going.

And you do.

You yank the denim down her thighs, your movements jerky, almost frantic, and it’s not until the fabric crumples on the floor that you realise your hands are still trembling. She notices too, her lips twitching into that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, something that cuts right through you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and the words make something inside you snap.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one swift, unceremonious motion. The damp lace clings for a moment before it slides free, pooling at her knees before hitting the floor. You don’t stop to think. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the doubt that’s been clawing at you since this started.

Her scent hits you first, heady and intoxicating, and for a moment you freeze, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. But then she moves—just slightly, her hips tilting forward in an unspoken plea—and it’s all the permission you need.

You press your mouth to her, your tongue sliding through her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that pulls a broken sound from her throat. Her taste is sharp, almost sweet, and it floods your senses in a way that makes you dizzy. Her thighs close around your head instinctively, caging you in, and you let out a low, involuntary groan against her skin.

“Fuck—” Her voice is high and breathy, her fingers digging into your scalp now, hard enough to sting. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You don’t. You press deeper, your tongue finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circling it with a precision you didn’t know you had. She jerks against you, her body arching off the table, and you use the opportunity to slide your hands up her thighs, holding her steady.

The table creaks beneath her, the sound of the wood groaning under her weight mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth against her. It’s filthy and raw, every sense overwhelmed, and you’re not sure if you’re doing this to prove a point or because you can’t bear to stop. Maybe it’s both.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and you want to mark it, to leave evidence of this all over her skin, but you can’t pull away. Not when she’s gasping your name, her voice breaking like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.

You slide a finger into her, slow at first, just enough to make her hips stutter against your mouth. She’s tight, impossibly so, and you feel her clench around you as you add a second finger, curling them just right. Her moan is loud, sharp, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

“God, you—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, and it sends a twisted sense of satisfaction through you. You focus on her clit again, your tongue moving in quick, precise circles as your fingers work her open, the slick heat of her making it almost too easy.

Her legs tremble around you, and you can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. You don’t let up, don’t give her a second to recover, pressing her higher and higher until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs clamping tight around your head as she rides out her orgasm, and you keep going, drawing it out as long as you can until she’s pushing weakly at your shoulders.

“Enough,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, and you finally pull back, your lips and chin wet with her.

You look up at her, and she’s a mess—her hair sticking to her damp forehead, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

Then, slowly, she reaches for you, her hands shaking as she grabs at your jumper and pulls you up to meet her. Her kiss is rough and desperate, her teeth catching on your lower lip, and you realise she’s not done.

Her hands don’t go for your own clothes like you’d expected. Instead, they move to your thighs, her grip firm and commanding, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, she’s lifting you. The sudden change knocks the air out of your lungs, and you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, locking you against her. The motion is seamless, like she’s done this before—or like she’s always known she could.

You try to tell yourself you hate how easy it feels, but you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands find her shoulders, her jaw, her hair—anything to ground yourself, but nothing works. You’re still dizzy, still untethered, even as her lips crash against yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing controlled. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip, her tongue pushes into your mouth like she’s trying to devour you, and you let her because for once you don’t want to think about what comes next.

She’s walking, you realise belatedly, the steady rhythm of her steps making your body rock against hers. It’s disorienting, the way she carries you so easily, like your weight is nothing, like you’re the fragile thing here.

You kiss her harder to prove you’re not, nipping at her lip until she growls low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through you and pulls a small, involuntary moan from your lips. Her hands tighten on you, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and it sends a sharp thrill up your spine.

The hallway blurs around you, the world narrowing until it’s just her—her mouth on yours, her hands gripping you like she’ll never let go, her body impossibly solid against yours.

When she finally kicks the door open and lays you down on the bed, it feels like surrender. Not hers. Yours.

You don’t realise how tightly you’ve been clinging to her until she pulls back, your fingers still knotted in the collar of her shirt. The fabric wrinkles between your hands, and for a moment you just stare at each other, the room charged with something you don’t have the words to name.

Her eyes are dark, searching, but there’s no smugness, no trace of victory there. Instead, there’s something softer, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and steady, and it undoes you more than anything else she’s done tonight.

It’s too much. The weight of her words, the way she says them like a promise, like she means it. Your chest tightens, and you shake your head, your fingers releasing her collar to press against her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.

But she doesn’t let you push her away completely. Her hands slide up your sides, gentle now, her touch a sharp contrast to the bruising grip she had on you moments ago. She’s watching you, waiting, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

You hate her for it. You hate her because she’s right.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracks, barely audible, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to,” she says simply, and the honesty in her tone is unbearable.

You want to argue, to fight, to push her away, but your body doesn’t move. You just lay there, your chest heaving, your hands trembling against her. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

Because this isn’t about sex anymore.

It’s about her, and the way she looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. It’s about the way your body feels like it’s breaking apart under the weight of it, like you’re finally being seen for what you are—what you’ve always been.

A liar. A coward. Someone too afraid to let go, too afraid to feel, too afraid to love.

Her lips brush yours again, soft this time, barely there, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not enough to drown in. Not yet. But it’s close.

“Let me in,” she whispers, and it’s not a command. It’s an offering.

You close your eyes, and for the first time, you don’t resist.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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harrylights · 2 years ago

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#i’m just :(#i’ve managed to keep this site a well curated alcove of love and safety and happiness and it sucks that sm people i respected have like #so much bitterness in their hearts and a willful desire to misunderstand ppl #i can’t get over that post saying that he OWES it to ‘the gays’ to come out #that fr just makes me so sad to see confirmation that ppl think that way #ik i shouldn’t let it affect me this much but this month has been rough and it doesn’t seem to take much to ruffle me these days #and like #he is just such a constant source of joy and love like #idc if he never comes out publicly #like that does not affect my life #he still represents being oneself unapologetically and with love #and that’s all that rly matters to me at the end of the day #that’s part of what makes me admire him sm #even if he was straight i’d feel the same way but you have to be a fucking idiot to think that at this point i’m sorry #but again it doesn’t!!!!! matter!!!!!!!!!!#ppl’s private lives are theirs to do w as they please and god knows harry barely has any privacy any more #i wish ppl would just go to therapy instead of shitting on someone who is a ray of fucking sunshine and happiness to so many people #ugh #guess i’ll just go listen to ALBUM OF THE YEAR and maybe cry a bit and work on my harry drawing and maybe i’ll calm down #i hope ppl smarten up soon tho fuck

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caitified · 2 months ago

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wag life

caitlin clark x reader

warnings:none

caitlin clark wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when she moved to indiana. the city was new, the team was different, and for the first time in a while, she found herself in an unfamiliar place where everything felt… temporary. it wasn’t like iowa, where she’d been rooted for so long. but she was ready for the challenge—both on and off the court.

what she didn’t expect, though, was you.

the first time she saw you was at a community event shortly after she moved. you stood out to her immediately, not just because you were stunning, but because of the way you moved through the room with an effortless kind of confidence. you were younger, about three years her junior, but you held your own, charming everyone around you. caitlin was intrigued before she even realized it, her eyes following you across the room.

you were talking to a small group of people, your laughter carrying across the room, and caitlin couldn’t help but smile to herself. she wasn’t usually shy, especially when it came to meeting new people, but something about you made her hesitate. you had a presence that drew people in, and she wasn’t quite sure how to approach you without seeming out of place.

just as she was about to turn away and head to another part of the event, you caught her looking. you smiled, your eyes lighting up as recognition crossed your face.

“you’re caitlin clark,” you said, walking over to her, your voice confident and friendly.

caitlin smiled, a little taken aback by how easy you made it to start a conversation. “guilty,” she replied, her tone playful. “you know me?”

you laughed softly. “of course. who doesn’t know caitlin clark?” there was a teasing edge to your voice, but caitlin could tell you were sincere. “i’m a big fan. and i’ve been following your move here.”

caitlin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “oh yeah? so, what do you think of indiana?”

you smiled, shrugging a little. “it’s home. you’ll get used to it. we’ve got good people here.” there was something warm and reassuring about the way you said it, and caitlin found herself wanting to know more.

over the course of the night, the two of you fell into easy conversation. caitlin learned that you were a bit of a social media sensation—a famous influencer who had built a following through your fashion sense and your passion for sports. you talked about how much you loved attending games, how you always made sure to support your favorite athletes. you were younger, but there was a maturity about you that caitlin admired.

“i have a feeling i’ll be seeing you at a lot of games,” caitlin teased, taking a sip of her drink as the two of you stood near the bar.

you grinned, not missing a beat. “you can count on it. i’ll be front and center, cheering you on in the best outfits you’ve ever seen.”

caitlin chuckled, already feeling a pull toward you. there was something easy about being around you, and it wasn’t just because you were a fan. it was the way you seemed to understand her, even in the short time you’d spent together.

by the end of the night, caitlin found herself wanting more. so, as the event was winding down, she took a chance.

“hey,” she said softly, her tone more serious now. “would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? i’d love to keep this conversation going… without the crowd.”

you smiled, your eyes bright as you nodded. “i’d love that.”

from that dinner, things moved quickly. you and caitlin fell into an easy rhythm, your lives beginning to intertwine in ways that neither of you had expected. you made it clear early on how much you supported her—showing up to her games, wearing her jerseys, and posting about her on social media. but it was more than that. you didn’t just show up because of her fame. you showed up because you believed in her.

every time caitlin looked up in the stands, there you were—smiling, cheering her on, decked out in carefully curated outfits that matched the team colors or had some subtle nod to her. the fans loved you for it. they loved how devoted you were to caitlin, how you seemed to bring a new energy to her games. and caitlin loved it too.

you became known as the ultimate wag—always supporting caitlin in the most fashionable way possible, your relationship slowly becoming public as people began to notice just how often you were by her side. it wasn’t long before fans started calling you caitlin’s biggest supporter, and they adored the way you were unapologetically proud of her.

but it wasn’t just about the public displays of support. it was the quiet moments that meant the most to caitlin. the way you’d be there for her after a tough game, offering her comfort without saying too much. the way you understood the pressure she was under, always knowing when to push her and when to give her space.

one night, after a particularly grueling game, caitlin found herself in your apartment, exhausted but happy to be with you. you were curled up on the couch together, your head resting on her shoulder as you scrolled through your phone, probably looking at the photos you’d posted from the game.

“i don’t know how you do it,” caitlin said, her voice soft as she watched you.

“do what?” you asked, looking up at her.

“keep up with all this,” caitlin replied, gesturing to your phone and the whirlwind of attention that always seemed to follow you. “you’re constantly in the spotlight, and yet… you still make time for me.”

you smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “because you’re worth it,” you said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “and besides, i like supporting you. you make it easy.”

caitlin felt her heart swell at your words. you weren’t just her girlfriend—you were her biggest fan, her partner in everything. she pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“i don’t think i could do this without you,” she admitted quietly.

you looked up at her, your expression soft but full of affection. “good thing you’ll never have to.”

please keep the requests coming. i love your ideas! thanks for all of the support

#caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark #wnba imagine #wnba x reader #iowa wbb #indiana fever

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onepieceisreeeeaaalll · 2 months ago

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HOW THEY EAT

Hey! I wanted to add another piece of kinktober content even if I’m not doing the daily challenge. I’ve recently had more free time so I’ve been writing again. I plan on putting up more SFW content and drabbles soon, but I’m admittedly having way too much fun writing smut lol.

CHARACTERS: Law, Zoro, and Sanji

CW: NSFW!! Afab reader x Character; manhandling with Zoro; mention of overstimulation; (sort of) dom Law and dom Zoro

Only did a little bit of proof-reading so I might edit as I go. Enjoy!

Edited for redundancies.

———————————————

LAW - Deliberate

Law is a man who takes his time. His whole life has been so fast-paced, urgent and exhausting in its own right. So, when it comes to pleasuring his woman, Law is insistent in the fact that he wants to take his time. After all, the best things in life are savored, right?

Mussed black hair is all you can see just barely peeking over your breasts, his head snug between your legs. His lips trail and nip over your inner thighs, sucking and leaving small red and purple marks in their wake. With every small, wanton sigh and gasp that leaves you, Law knows he’s doing a good job. Praise is his love language, after all, though he'd never admit that.

His breath ghosts delicately over the lips of your pussy, puffs of air that come between kitten licks against your skin. He savors the descent, relishing in every little noise and twitch of your body. It’s not until you’re practically whining for more contact that he finally kisses at your needy, aching clit. The movement is testing, always careful to see just how much you want him. If he decides you don’t want him enough, he’ll return his attention back to your thighs. Those occasions when you aren’t ready, he’ll bite at your stomach and thighs until you’re a panting, tortured mess. The majority of the time, though, he’s fairly practiced at getting you there with ease. So, after kissing at your clit, he’ll lick a delicate strip along your slit with the tip of his tongue.

It’s when he hears you breathe a curse under your breath, or moan his name softly, that he’ll formally dig into the bountiful feast before him. Strong hands hold your thighs apart with a firm, needy grip.

One thing about Law is that he really knows how to use his tongue. Sharp, cutting remarks somehow translate to the way it curls and laps over you in the bedroom. He is incredibly skilled and always intentional with it. With a flat tongue, he’ll begin where he thinks best to get you aroused, that beautiful bundle of nerves that sits atop your anatomy. He loves this point of contact, using his tongue to slowly circle your clit with the tip of his tongue before flattening it to stimulate it up and down, side to side. It’s slow, deliberate, and meant to very carefully curate specific responses from you. Eventually, if you’re twitching and begging for more, he’ll keep licking and sucking at his own pace to try and draw as much pleasure from you as possible.

If this wasn’t enough, when he’s trying to build you up, he’ll use that tongue of his to speak the filthiest, most possessive things possible against your flesh.

”Mmm…fuck, (y/n). Tastes so good for me…all mine.” He’ll mumble after retracting his tongue, the breath over your cunt driving you crazy.

If you whine or complain about the break in contact, he’ll just smirk, his eyes tearing away from his meal to look up at you. Law's eyes are always dark with pupils blown out from lust. The look alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

”Look at you, so impatient. So goddamn needy.” Law smirks, “And so loud. What did I say about keeping quiet? You’re gonna have to try harder than that. Or should I just stop, since you can’t follow a simple rule?”

When you shake your head quickly in response, trying to prove that you’ll be good - you’ll be patient, quiet. He lets out a small hum against your cunt. He’ll click his tongue almost teasingly, as if trying to use the sound alone to drive you crazy. He loves when you become a desperate, pleading mess. There’s nothing more beautiful to him.

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like that.” He'll pause, moving his tongue to trace slowly back and forth over your clitoris. “Be a good girl and keep that mouth shut.”

It’s when his tongue moves lower, lapping to tease at your entrance before sliding tantalizingly slow up to your clit that he really has his fun. Once again, Law takes his time between these two locations - it’s about the journey, not the destination. Not that you agree, of course, but he wants to show you how much better things are his way.

He'll continue like this, moving back and forth between teasing your entrance and your clit. It's almost like a game to him to see how slow he can go before you're absolutely a keening, sweaty, panting mess. Law will chuckle to himself, sending vibrations through your flesh. Once again, this is intentional, just as everything is. This man knows what he's doing and he lives for the thrill of seeing what he’s done to you. It’s his own way of marking you - reminding you that no one else has this power over you. Just Law.

When he's finally had his fun, that's when he'll finally satiate both of your growing need to see you orgasm. Using his tongue, he'll quicken the pace of his movements, entering your aching pussy and rubbing his nose into your clit. He eats with a new sense of determination with the sole intention of getting you off. If he decides you're being too loud, he won't bother to vocally reprimand you again, instead opting to reach up and shove his fingers into your mouth. If you suck on them, he'll reward you with a groan and a strip of his tongue to your clit.

Law won’t stop until he's pulled at least two orgasms from you. It's only when his dick is throbbing painfully against his pants that he'll finally relent, kissing up your body and positioning himself to fuck you stupid.

———————————————

ZORO - Hungry

Zoro is the kind of man who eats his meal like he's been starving for weeks. It doesn't matter how long it's been since he's last eaten you out. To him, it's seemingly never enough. The swordsman is insatiable and you damn well know that when he wants something, he gets it. If you don’t give it to him, he’ll take it. Not that you’re complaining.

“Get on the bed. Now.”

It's not a request. It's a demand.

If he's had a hard day, he's been known to launch you onto the bed himself with a searing, rough kiss. Nothing about this man is gentle, not even the way he is with you. Zoro likes to manhandle, though he’ll always be careful enough to not hurt you. He just has a lot of pent up energy and is more than willing to show you just how much he wants you, pushing beyond his stoicism to make his desires known. He’ll never use words to tell you that he likes to eat you out, but he doesn’t have to. Zoro is a man of action and it shows.

Sometimes he won't even wait until you're fully undressed. Zoro will drag you to the edge of the bed and hook his strong arms under your thighs to pull you close. He'll begin licking you over your panties with a flat tongue, the smell of your arousal elicits grunts and groans from him. When the fabric is so wet from the combination of your slick and his saliva, he'll finally pull them aside or rip them off to remove any barriers. If there are a few words that can best describe Zoro when it comes to oral, it's impatient, greedy, and voracious.

His tongue immediately delves into your folds and licks at your entrance. He'll move his tongue up to your clit in aggressive, hungry laps before sucking on your labia. No flesh goes untouched by him. Zoro isn't one to half-ass anything he really cares about and your pleasure is no exception. When he begins to eat you, he'll go full-throttle. He's a disciplined man - he has to be in order to meet his goal of becoming the world’s greatest swordsman. When it comes to you, though, there's no sign of restraint. Zoro doesn't just eat, he consumes.

Zoro is messy. Saliva will mix with your juices on his cheeks, his nose, and drip down his chin. He doesn't care about staying clean, he can deal with it later. For now, all he can focus on is the ambrosial sight before him and the pretty sounds coming from your lips. God, he loves the way you sound. The noises alone are enough to make him double his efforts as a reward for how good you’re reacting to him. In fact, if he doesn't think you're being loud enough, he might reach a hand up to slide over your stomach to your chest, fondling a breast and pulling at your nipple. He's also been known to pull you further off the bed, using his strength to hold you up just so he can have access to slap your ass. Every yelp or whine from you results in a groan from him that vibrates over your folds.

He will return every noise you make ten-fold. He’s typically pretty quiet outside of the bedroom, but when it comes to sex, he doesn’t hold back. He wants everyone to hear how good he’s making you feel and how good you’re making him feel. It’s his way of showing off, the possessive and gloating mean-streak showing. Zoro will groan loudly against you, grunting and slurping in order to make sure you know just how much he’s loving every second of eating you out.

Zoro loves to tongue-fuck you more than anything. He’s gotten into the habit of bringing a thumb around to focus on your clitoris while he reaches as deep as he can. To him, it’s one of the most arousing, sensual things he’s ever experienced. Feeling your soft, velvet walls constricting against the muscle of his tongue is downright erotic to him in every sense of the word. Sometimes, he'll pull out just to dirty talk to you, though most of the time, he's too focused on the task at hand. The times he talks dirty, though, his voice is gruff and low. He gets drunk on pussy the same way he does saké.

“So tight for me already. Guess I'm not fucking you enough.” He'll mumble, placing kisses against you before diving right back in. He doesn't even care if you respond, all he wants is to continue his meal.

All the while, his calloused thumb is working over your clit with a renewed sense of urgency. He's not gentle, but he’s careful enough to make sure the feeling isn’t too overwhelming or painful. His digit will move back and forth, sometimes up and down depending on his mood, pressing at a moderately fast rate. When he feels like you aren't reacting the way he wants, he'll press against the delicate bundle slightly harder but at a slower, agonizing pace. He's also a fan of tracing his tongue back up to make sure it's wet enough for his thumb to glide over you with ease.

He won't even bother counting the orgasms he pulls from you - he'll eat until he's full. When he's finally satisfied, when you're an absolute babbling wreck above him, he'll finally pull away to take his cock out in preparation for a very, very long night. Zoro always leaves a clean plate.

———————————————

SANJI - Dedicated

The curly-browed cook has always appreciated a good culinary experience. When it comes to your pussy, though, it's almost ritualistic the way he consumes. Like any good cook, he doesn't just eat, he tastes. There's a sort of reverence that comes from Sanji's handling of you, as if he's a lowly servant worshipping some kind of ancient goddess. If you asked him about it, he'd tell you exactly that - he's appreciating the body of someone who he doesn't deserve. If you tell him that he does deserve you, he won't have it. To him, you're so beautiful and above him that its not even quantifiable.

Sanji wants you to be comfortable, laid out on the bed and already undressed. He'll start at your ankles, slowly kissing up your legs to appreciate every inch of your lower body. He'll take his time, whispering compliments against your skin as he runs his hands along your calves and thighs. Sometimes he'll take the time to massage you, but this depends on how patient he is. After a particularly long day, he'll settle for cutting to the usual routine, though he'll never skip the legs. Sanji is a legs man, through and through.

“Mon coeur, so perfect…you're so soft.” He'll murmur, his lips ghosting soft trails over your knee. “I can't wait to make you come, angel.”

Sanji will fluctuate between using his tongue and his lips on his slow ascension towards your pussy. He can already feel you shaking for him, and if you complain, he'll laugh softly against your skin and apologize. After all, he's not cruel. He knows exactly what you're wanting and he's not one to let his woman suffer and beg.

He'll gently run his hands over your thighs before kissing over the lips of your cunt. Sanji treats your pussy lips the same way he treats the lips of your face - the kisses are gentle, heated, and intense. His gaze will never leave yours. He wants to look at you while he goes down on you if for nothing more than to see those beautiful eyes looking down at him.

When he finishes his gentle ministrations, he'll take his time licking long strips over your slit with a flat tongue, lingering on your clit where he'll dig in side to side with the tip of his tongue. He loves the way you moan, the soft sighs that leave you, and he'll smile easily against your flesh.

Sanji likes to taste every part of you he can. He'll lick and gently suck at your clit, your labia, and of course your entrance. He'll circle around the entrance, bringing his tongue back up gently to your clit. He likes to taste everywhere he can, to savor the rich aroma that comes from your pussy. He'll fluctuate between licking and kissing at you, continuing to whisper praises.

“You're so amazing, so gorgeous…so delicious.” He'll say before diving his tongue into your entrance, moaning into your skin. His hands will run up and down your thighs, holding them apart gently so that they don't close over his head. He's a fan of your thighs closing around his head, but he likes to wait until he's made you orgasm before he lets it happen. It's like a reward for his efforts.

One of his favorite ways to drag an orgasm out of you is to pull his tongue from your entrance, licking and sucking at your clit gently while fingering you. Sanji is very good with his hands. He’s a chef, after all. He’ll ease one finger into you at a time, focusing on the way you tighten around them. When he feels you pulse or flutter in that very specific way that tells him you’re close, he’ll curl his fingers and tease at your g-spot. When you do come, he’ll bring his tongue back down to your entrance and pull his fingers out, lapping at the pooling liquid. Sanji swears nothing tastes better than your pussy when you come.

Sanji doesn't eat with the intention of getting his own pleasure afterwards, though he'll palm himself as he works to ease the tension in his pants. He especially likes it if he can feel your leg or foot brush against his erection. He swears that he can come just from the sight and feeling of you finishing on his tongue. It's an addiction that he's developed, and he's not sure if he can ever fuck you properly without eating you out first. Your pleasure matters to him and it's shown in the way he effortlessly moves his tongue across your folds.

Sanji will bring you to orgasm as long as you'll let him. He doesn't want to hurt or overstimulate you, but he'll go seemingly for hours if you'll let him. When you've finally had enough, tugging on his hair as your signal, he'll kiss up your thighs and stomach until he reaches up to your face. He'll let you suck your juices from his tongue and lips, a small smile lighting up his face.

“What do you think, beautiful? Tastes good, right?”

Sanji always cares about your opinion of his work, whether it be cooking or the way he pleasures you.

#one piece #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #sanji x reader #zoro x reader #black leg sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa smut #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #one piece smut #one piece lemon #kinktober

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

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Code of Conduct 5

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss has a difficult time keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work.

Characters: Steve Rogers, this reader is known as Rosie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Mr. Rogers leaves without saying a word. His face is pale as his hand opens and closes in a fist at his side and he strides past your desk. You watch after him, thinking for a moment that you should follow. No, he has to sort this out on his own. You’ve already done too much.

You go through his calendar and cancel his only other meeting. You don’t think that’s going to happen.

It’s strange sitting there alone. Mr. Rogers comes and goes often but not know when he’ll be back puts you on edge. An hour passes then another. You spend your lunch outside in the sunshine then come back in to the stale office air.

Your phone rings and you answer. You’re surprised when Rogers’ voice comes from the speaker. You expected it to be Dizzie for some reason. She’s been awfully quiet today.

“She changed the locks,” he croaks.

There’s static on the line and thrum that’s so loud it nearly drowns him out.

“Sir?” You sit up straight.

“Peggy. She locked me out. I don’t... I don’t know what to do. I’ve just been sitting here in my car...” his voice is a dull murmur.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers. Is that—can she do that? Can you call your lawyer? The police?”

“Police told me to call the lawyer. Lawyer says it’s gonna take a while so... yeah.”

“I’m so so sorry,” you touch your cheek. “I can’t even imagine... that’s horrible.”

“Yeah, I mean, who would leave you, Rosie? No, that’d be crazy.” He sniffles, “guess I deserve this. I worked so much, all so I could give her the life she wanted but it turns out I worked just enough to drive her away.”

“Sir,” you utter.

“Guess I could go to a hotel. I mean, might as well spend the money before I have alimony to pay,” he laughs crisply. “Bucky’s not picking up. I thought maybe I could stay there but... just because my life is falling apart doesn’t mean he needs to pick up the pieces.”

He sounds so broken it makes your heart rend. Something about his cadence also worries you. He doesn’t sound healthy.

“Sir, where are you?”

You realise then what that noise is. Water.

“By the bridge. The water looks cold.”

You swallow and stand up. “I’ll come to you, alright?”

“Rosie? Why...”

“Just, it’s okay, sir, I’ll be there. Is that Collingswood Bridge? I love the flowers there.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he answers.

“Alright, I’m on my way okay, so let’s stay on the phone.”

“Rosie, why do you sound so upset?”

“I’m not upset. I just think you need a friend so I’m coming. Did you want me to message Mr. Barnes as well.”

“I told you, he’s too busy for me,” he mopes.

“But just in case--”

“Oh, woah!” He exclaims.

“Sir, what--”

“Nothing, nothing, I just... this bridge is so high up.”

You tamp down your worry and take a breath, “sir, I canceled your meetings. Oh, did I tell you, they’re opening a new donut place downstairs too! I know your favourite is the one with the sprinkles.”

“You remember,” he says softly.

“Of course, sir,” you assure him.

You keep chattering about nothing in particular as you swipe up your bag and race out of the office. You try not let him hear you panting as you rush down to catch a cab. You mute the phone to tell the driver to head to the bridge then get back on the line.

The conversation rolls on as you don’t let Rogers stop talking. You get out with a hasty thanks and tip to the driver. You rush down the bridge without looking ahead and only after you’re halfway down do you see your boss sitting on the railing. Holy moly.

You slow and walk up to him slowly, letting out quiet mhm’s and uh huhs and you grab onto his forearm. He flinches and you tug on him. You won’t be able to stop him from going over if he slips but you didn’t want to just call out to him and give him a warning.

“Rose!” He looks at you and lowers his phone. “How’d you get here?”

“Mr. Rogers, please, will you get off the railing?” You ask softly.

He stares at you then looks out at the water. He laughs and turns to hang his legs over the inside of the bridge. “Sure, Rosie. Were you worried?”

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, sir,” you cling to him until he’s on his feet. He glances down at you grip and you finally let go.

“I’m good. I’m great, now that you’re here. Did you find me a room yet?” He asks.

You wince. You’ve been on the phone this whole time. When does he think you did that?

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Of course, of course,” his eyes are red from tears, his cheeks pallid and streaked.

“Um, I’m sorry, everything’s booked up,” you say, “how about you come to my place? You can stay on my couch. Just for tonight.”

“Really?” His brow wrinkles, “you’d do that for me?”

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. You don’t think leaving him alone right now would be smart. Nor could you forgive yourself if anything happened. “It’s fine. My place is just a bit small.”

“Mm, I don’t mind,” he smiles and pushes his shoulders up in a shiver as a breeze blows across the water. “It’s cold out here.”

“It is, sir,” you agree. “Where did you park?”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #au #bad bosses #code of conduct #drabble #mcu #marvel #avengers #captain america

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bunnwich · 7 months ago

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It's Supposed to Be Fun

(a letter to my friends in the twst fandom)

I've been wanting to make this post for a while and these thoughts may seem scattered but I’m gonna try to express them.

Lately, I have seen many friends and moots that either are leaving the fandom or feel guilty over not having posted in a while or losing interest in twst. On the other side, I also have friends being harassed.

This a reminder to remember why you joined this community to begin with. I know that keeping up with the fast-moving pace of fandom and comparing ourselves to others, can skew our perspective on these things.

It’s supposed to be fun.

Why do we post art or write? Sure, partly for recognition, there's no denying that. But, why do we create, I mean really? For enjoyment. Not for others, not to be “popular” FOR JOY.

So, whether you’re dealing with people critiquing you or feeling guilty about not creating. My question is this: Why waste so much of your time on something that makes you miserable?

Did it stop being fun? Why? Haters? Loss of interest?

To my friends who feel guilty for not creating and not sure if they lost interest in twst:

Don’t feel guilty. At one time, the creation of your twst content was natural. It's what you did for fun with friends or for yourself. Revisit that mindset and think - if creating twst content now will bring that same joy it did before.

If the answer is no, then maybe it’s time to pivot. It’s okay for interests to fade. It doesn’t mean that time, memories, or the friends you made are lost. Connect with your friends, we will understand! We still love you! It's not a race there's no time limit, just pick up were you want to. Draw fanart of old events or OCs.

To my friends who have been harassed:

I say this with sincerity…. People who harass others over fictional characters are fucking losers.

Like… There’s no other eloquent way to encapsulate it. I’m starting to not care for the reason anymore - If you harass or be shady to others over a ship or fictional character. CONGRATS! YOU ARE A LOSER.

We all join fandoms as a hobby, for fun. We’re all just kids in the sandbox playing pretend again… and if you are the type of person to go up just to “kick the doll out of someone’s hand" or make commentary on how “their way of playing is wrong." You’re a loser. I have a life outside of twst, we all do. Someone saying my ship is wrong or cringe is just so laughable to me. We have to make fun of these people more for being so goddamn lame.

Imagine being so unhappy that when you see someone having fun you HAVE to comment on it. By all means, if it gets you through the day...talk shit to close friends or even post about it on your own blog. (THAT WAS ALWAYS ALLOWED.) Don't bother creators directly. Don't be a loser. I sure see tolerance leave people’s bodies when they see a fandom opinion they don't like. (And this is coming from someone who has lots of opinions on these things! But that's why I always put the disclaimers that, hey this is just MY opinion.)

Discussion is one thing, unhelpful comments are another. We shouldn’t give these people the time of day. Curate your online space. Yes, when you post things online you are subjecting yourself to scrutiny. But, we as creators need to stop letting these people have power over us. Period. We do this for free!! FOR FUN. The best thing you can do is create shamelessly.

Delete weird replies, block whoever you need to do to rid yourself of these people who have nothing better to do. Keep your peace. It’s supposed to be for fun. You don’t owe anyone a response.

The twst fandom is like a little family to me and I guess I feel protective over the people in it? I have made many friends and memories because I joined it. And even dispite a handful of the negative experiences (AKA: A couple of “losers" that I’ve had to deal with.) I’ll always look fondly back on this time.

The key for me has always been to just…create for myself. I originally made bunnwich for me and one friend to make fun little arts about our Yuu’s and now I get to have lots of friends to share it with! I’ve transitioned from an OC blog to probably more of an Oc x Canon blog…but I don’t care tbh. I just…draw what I feel like. I know there are people who probably dislike me for that or feel strange about my content and that’s fine. I’m still gonna keep drawing it, loser.

And I just want you guys to do the same, twst or not.

I can’t forget that all my followers and friends are a bonus, if I had never joined tumblr I’d still be drawing the silly shit I draw in peace. And while yes, I do want to grow as an artist and sell more merch and keep growing... I can’t forget my initial excitement for this silly little game. I like to talk about it. I like to write about it. It inspires me.

It’s supposed to be fun. Please remember that. I know it can be discouraging to have others being shitty to you. Or going through a creative drought. But, try not to let this stop you from creating what you love.

#Anyways just had to get this out #feel free to ignore #I love you guys alot and idk if this is helpful but I hate to see you guys upset #ren speaks🌱#twst

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multi-fandomfuckboy · 5 months ago

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Stranger Than Fiction

Part 28: Games

Billy Hargrove x Reader (Slowburn)

Part 1,... (Masterlist)...Part 28, Part 29 (Coming Soon)...

AN: lol I'm back on my bullshit. Word Count: 3,874 Warnings: allusions to abuse

It’s a short ride. Neither of you speak, allowing the music to fill the space between you. It’s comfortable. You listen to each song as the cassette plays through the specific mix curated by its maker. Max had shown you a few of these ‘mixtapes' Billy had made the day you waited with her. You don’t fully understand how he’s able to get each song to seamlessly blend into the next despite the variation in artists and rhythms.

Then a song comes on that grabs your attention. It’s the same loud tune, a guitar continuously strumming along with the beat of drums and bass. The thing that stands out to you are the lyrics.

“People think I’m insane, because I’m frowning all the time… I need someone to show me the things in life that I can’t find I can’t see the things that make true happiness, I must be blind.”

“Who sings this?” You ask, glancing sidelong at Billy.

“Black Sabbath.” He tells you, keeping his eyes ahead. “It’s one of their older songs but it still holds up.” He explains pulling to a stop in front of his house. When he moves to cut the engine your hand reflexively grabs his wrist, stopping him.

“Wait. I want to hear the rest.” You tell him, using your other hand to turn up the volume. Billy doesn’t fight you, watching you in silence as you listen to the rest of the song.

“Make a joke and I will sigh And you will laugh and I will cry Happiness I cannot feel And love to me is so unreal… I tell you to enjoy life I wish I could, but it’s too late”

Your heart gives an uncomfortable squeeze for a beat as the song ends. There is a tense moment before the next song begins where you notice Billy's pulse under your fingertips. You don’t know why you're squeezing Billy’s wrist so tightly. You slowly uncurl your fingers, sitting back in your seat. The lyrics bounce around in your mind as you sit there. Billy finally cuts the engine, ending the music as well.

“You okay?” Billy finally asks, lifting a brow. You nod.

“Yea, it’s just weird. How something can sound so loud and angry but under it all it’s actually really sad.” You explain. “Like a cry for help.” Billy’s lips quirk up slightly.

“Maybe that’s what they were going for?” He says. “Music is just another way to tell a story. I’m surprised you’re not more into it.” He tells you, moving to exit the car. “If you thought that was good I’ll have to show you some Bon Jovi.” He goes on as you follow him out of the car and up the steps towards the house. “I’m assuming you have no idea who that is.” Billy says with a smirk.

“Yea yea, save it. Max already thinks I’ve been living under a rock for the past 17 years.” You reply with an eye roll. Billy huffs a laugh.

“That little shit wouldn’t know dick about music if it weren’t for me.” He says, pulling out his keys. His words are harsh but there is no heat to them.

“Well this is a first.” You quip as he unlocks and opens the front door, stepping to the side to let you enter first. “A whole different experience than coming in though the window.” You joke, stepping into the house.

“We can always go around back if you’d feel more comfortable.” He jokes back, following you in. You take a moment to really look around as Billy closes and bolts the door behind you. You’ve never been in this part of the house, only glimpsing at it through windows. It’s not a large space and it’s clear that 4 people occupy the small domicile. Bits and pieces of everyones lives are scattered around.

“I think I’m good.” You reply. You notice that there is a clear clash in interior design through the house. The free weights contrast with the decorative rug under them. Beer cans stacked next to decorative shell decor on the mantle. Someone had tried to make this house a home, but there was something off. It felt like two personalities were struggling to mesh into a comfortable middle, it was unstable, chaotic.

Billy moves around you to lead you deeper into the house but before you can move any further Max’s voice calls from her room.

“Billy, I need to go to the arcade! Where did you-oh.” She stops short seeing you in the living room. For some reason it feels like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, a pit of anxiety taking root in your stomach.

“Hey Max.” You greet, giving her a half wave. She just watches you skeptically. Her narrowed eyes dart between you and Billy.

“What’s your malfunction?” Billy snaps after the silence lasts a moment longer than is comfortable.

“Are you two dating?” Max asks bluntly.

“What?!” Both you and Billy ask in unison. You share a confused glance before turning back to Max. Your face heats exponentially.

“Mind your own business you little shit.” Billy bites at the same time you try to explain.

“He’s tutoring me in history.” A smirk, eerily similar to Billy’s, spreads across Max’s face.

“Is that what they call it these days?” She asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, a taunting lift in her brow.

“If you want a ride, I would shut the hell up.” Billy says sternly, narrowing his eyes at the redhead.

“Jeez, learn how to take a joke.” Max huffs with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She ducks back into her room, leaving you and Billy in the living room. Billy just shakes his head, clenching his jaw as he heads for his room.

“I swear if her attitude gets any worse Neil is going to lose his shit.” He mumbles, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Be ready in 20 minutes!” He yells after her. The only confirmation that she heard him comes in the form of a dramatic groan.

“That’s how all kids are at that age. I was so argumentative my mom and I didn’t have a pleasant interaction for weeks at a time, and don’t get me started on Hopper. I’m pretty sure I took years off his life with my attitude.” You chuckle fondly at the memory of your painful growing years.

“Sometimes being a kid isn’t a good enough excuse.” Billy replies calmly. Your stomach twists uncomfortably remembering how Neil had looked at his own son that night not so long ago.

“Neil and Susan are in Indianapolis Christmas shopping, so I’m playing chauffeur for the day.” Billy explains, entering his room and heading straight for the bed, flopping down on it.

“I don’t mind helping watch her.” You offer without much thought. You hover in the doorway, suddenly nervous about being in his room alone with him. It’s not like you had never been in his room alone before, you spent many nights sitting across from him on the bed pouring over history lessons, keeping your voices low to not wake anyone else in the house. But something about being here in the daylight, not sneaking around, it makes your stomach swirl. You glance around, his room looks the same as it always does. Bed half made, cigarette butts stamped out in the ashtray next to the cassettes on the nightstand. You do notice that there is now a small dent in the wall next to the mirror, but you can’t be sure that it wasn’t always there.

“Neil would kick my ass if he knew I pawned my responsibility off on you.” Billy explains, propping himself up on his elbow to see you. You absentmindedly skim your fingers over the outside of the doorframe.

“It’s not ‘pawning’ them off on me. We would do it together.” You reason with him. Your fingers catch on something cold and metal on the outside of the doorframe. Leaning back to glance at what you’re touching you see the latch of a lock. Glancing at the outer side of the door you see the other half of the latch. Something cold prickles down your spine.

This isn’t just a teenager wanting privacy, the way this latch is set up, it would function to lock the door from the outside. Why would anyone need that? Your mind struggles to make sense of it.

“He wouldn’t see it that way.” He tells you flatly.

“Then don’t tell him.” You say simply, stepping fully into the room. “I’ll help you out today and I’ll be gone by the time they get home. “ you explain, sitting gently on the edge of the bed next to his legs. “Just like when we painted the porch.” You remind him. You watch something dance behind his eyes at the memory from this summer that feels like a hundred years ago. “Consider it part of my tutoring payment. I know the food isn’t a fair trade.” You insist. When he finally nods, giving in, you have to smile.

“Fine. But only because the idea of dealing with a prepubescent she-devil by myself makes me want to stick needles in my brain… and leaving her alone is not an option.” He tells you, sitting up next to you. His thigh presses against yours, and the proximity sends sparks over your nerves.

Remembering the promise you made yourself before leaving home you try to scoot away to put some distance between your bodies. Billy notices the movement immediately.

“Oh sorry, am I making you nervous?” He asks, leaning in even closer, one of his arms going behind your back. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you can feel him if you lean back even slightly. You struggle to hold his gaze.

“No.” You say simply, not trusting your voice to say more without shaking.

“You sure?” He asks, lifting a brow. You feel him lean in even closer, you swear you can feel the heat coming off of him. You force yourself to hold his gaze and remain still, fighting the urge to pull away. Like a game of personal space chicken.

“I’m fine.” You practically whisper, your voice sounding too loud with how close he is. When he chuckles you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. His eyes shift between yours. You can see the flecks of green in his sky blue iris. Your breath mingles with his and you smell his last cigarette mixed with spearmint gum. You swallow thickly, gritting your teeth together in defiance.

“You can tell me if you’re not.” Billy insists, his voice just as soft. He’s flirting but you can hear the seriousness laced in his tone. He’s making sure you know he’ll stop, if you ask. Something about that knowledge eases the panic in you. Shifting slightly you tilt your chin up, watching him the way he always looks at you.

“I’m okay.” You say more confidently. You see his adams apple bob as he swallows, his eyes seeming to darken. His gaze flickers to your parted lips so quickly you think you imagined it. Your mouth suddenly goes dry, your stomach flipping at the memory of what his lips felt like against you-

“Right, that’s what ‘not dating’ looks like.” Max’s voice calls loudly from the doorway. You feel like a bucket of ice water has just been poured over your head as you pull away from Billy. Embarrassment floods through you as Billy leaps from the bed lunging towards the door.

“Fuck off!” He yells, slamming the door closed.

“I still need a ride!” Max yells from outside the door, pounding on it for emphasis. Billy’s shoulders are tense as he stands with his back to you, his arms braced against the door. You see him take a deep breath, then another, bowing his head as he lowers his arms, slightly adjusting the waistband of his jeans.

“You sure you want in on this shit show?” He asks, turning to lean back against the door. Max pounds on the door again, shaking its frame. You manage a dry laugh, trying to shove all the mortifying shame you feel into the back of your mind.

“Oh this is nothing. Try telling Mike Wheeler a campaign needs to end early. Kid turns into a gremlin.” You tell him, pushing yourself off the bed. Billy lifts a brow.

“I’m more surprised that you know what a gremlin is.” He admits teasingly. You roll your eyes.

“I do have a life outside of this room you know.” You tell him. You won’t admit that the only reason you know the plot of gremlins is because Steve insisted on catching you up on all the big hits you had missed while you were in the hospital, not that you had actually seen it in theaters.

Billy watches you approach with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Come on Hargrove, put on a brave face. I hear they can smell fear.” You joke, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to be late!” Max yells, pounding harder.

“Be my guest Loca, I always knew you had a death wish.” Billy says with a smirk. Your heart pounds at the memory of your first meeting. It feels like a million years ago, like you were an entirely different person, and looking at Billy’s confident smirk, the teasing glint in his eyes, you wonder if he’s a different person now too.

Without another word, Billy whips open the door to reveal a very agitated Max.

“Finally!” She exclaims, turning on her heel striding towards the front door, her bag already slung over her shoulder. Billy shoots you a look over his shoulder before following after her.

“Hey, Max?” You call, slipping in front of Billy to catch up to her. She only glances at you, still heading for the door. “Do you mind if I tag along to the arcade?” You ask. Your words cause her to halt, turning to face you with the full force of her scrutinizing glare. You feel Billy come to a stop behind you, her eyes dart to him before returning to you.

“Did he ask you to babysit me?” She asks indignantly.

“No!” You say, throwing your hands up. “I just thought you could teach me some stuff. I’m not very good and I hear you kick the boys' butts on a regular basis.” You explain, hoping it comes off as genuine. She studies you for another beat, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of allowing you to come with her. Finally, she shrugs.

“Fine. But don’t try to talk to me while I’m playing. It throws me off.” She instructs, turning for the door. When her back is turned you quickly give Billy an enthusiastic thumbs up, earning another eye roll.

The three of you climb into the car, Billy turning the volume up to his usual bone shaking level as he whips out of his spot, speeding down the road. It’s a short ride into town, especially with how Billy drives. When he comes to a stop outside the arcade you climb out, pulling the seat forward to allow Max out.

“I’ll meet you in there.” you tell her. Needing no explanation, Max jogs to the doors slipping into the dimly lit building. You can see the boys' bikes already lined up outside. “You coming?” you ask Billy, leaning back into the car.

“Hell no. I can babysit just fine from here. You couldn’t pay me to go into that dork pit.” He scoffs. You roll your eyes at his stubbornness.

“Oh come on, tough guy. Where is your sense of adventure and whimsy.” you ask, only receiving an unimpressed look in return.

“Whimsy?” He asks, his lip curling at the word.

“I’ll buy you a coke.” you offer, hoping that bribery will soften his resolve. Billy’s lips press into a firm line, you can see his jaw tick as he grinds his teeth.

“Fine.” he says after a moment. “But I have to run an errand real quick.” He tells you. Thinking this is some kind of trick to get out of coming in, you narrow your eyes.

“You promise to come in when you get back?” you ask, extending your pinky to him. He lifts a brow, a dry laugh escaping him.

“What are you 12?” He asks. When you don’t show any signs of joking he heaves a sigh, linking his pinky with yours. “Fine, yes. I promise I’ll come back and watch you be terrible at dig dug, dork.” He promises with a teasing smirk.

“Good.” you smile, letting his pinky go and stepping back. “And I’m not that bad.” you clarify, closing the door and allowing him to pull away from the curb.

It turns out that you ARE that bad.

Max allows you to take the first turn, even offering you pointers, but by the end of your third turn she takes over explaining that she can’t stand watching you throw away quarters like that. You’re a sorry excuse for a gamer, your brain having trouble communicating quickly enough with your hands on the controls. It’s alright though, you have more fun watching Max and the boys take turns trying to beat each other's scores.

The longer you observe the group of adolescents the more you note the change in dynamic among them. Max and Lucus are openly interested in each other but don’t seem to know how to navigate this new realm of relationship. Mike appears distracted, constantly glancing at his watch. You assume he’s anxious to see El. You know that Hopper has started allowing the two to hang out at the cabin and though you’ve pushed for El to have more social time, Hopper's old habits die hard. His paranoia is persistent. You can’t say that you don’t understand where he’s coming from.

Dustin and Will seem more irritated than anything with the new shift in priorities within the group.

After roughly 30 minutes of watching Max wipe the floor with the boys scores, you venture to the opposite side of the arcade. You want to give the group space but also stay close enough to keep an eye on them. You scan the games, searching for one that you can play without too much instruction. Ms. Pac-Man seems to be simple enough, and it’s located in a spot that allows you to watch your group bounce from game to game.

Inserting your first quarter you begin the game. You’re able to keep up at first, but when the ghosts start to speed up you can't seem to evade them quick enough. After your 4th quarter your pride is stinging.

“Fuck…” you curse to yourself as once again you are cornered by the little red ghost. Before you can insert another quarter, you feel someone approaching from your left, coming too close to just be passing by, tensing your hand itches to lash out but you stop yourself when you realize who it is.

“Hey.” Keiths’ monotone voice greets you. You know him from school, and to your knowledge the two of you had never actually spoken to each other.

“Hi Keith.” you reply politely. You aren’t sure why he’s approaching you. You know that he works here so possibly you were doing something wrong. “What’s up?” you ask. Kieth seems to swallow past something in his struggle to speak.

“I see you around sometimes.” he tells you, unable to meet your eyes. You don’t know what to say to that.

“Yea, I babysit so I come in to keep an eye on my kids sometimes.” you tell him.

“That’s cool.” he mumbles “You know I could help you with some of the games if you want. Are you alone today?” He asks. You know he doesn't mean for it to sound as creepy as it does but you can’t help your slight cringe.

“No, I’m actually with-” you move to gesture towards Max but are cut off when Billy appears next to you, casually draping an arm over your shoulders.

“Me.” He finishes for you, keeping his eyes on Keith who looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“O-oh, cool.” Keith manages to mumble, taking a step back. “Nevermind then” he manages to get out, obviously resisting the urge to turn and run. Understandable with the way Billy is glaring daggers at him.

“I’ll see you around.” you offer Keith a kind smile. He only nods sheepishly before retreating further into the arcade. Sighing, you swat at Billy’s side, causing him to drop his arm from your shoulder with a chuckle.

“What was that for?” he asks, doing his best to look genuinely confused. You see right through it to the self satisfaction he's really feeling.

“Did you have to mad dog him? He was just saying ‘Hi’.” you tell him. Billy scoffs, moving to lean against the game.

“Yea, right.” He says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You didn’t see how he’s been eyeing you, trying to work up the courage to come ‘say hi’.” he tells you, throwing air quotes around your words.

“And how long were you watching that?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. Billy shakes his head, his curls falling across his forehead.

“You’re missing the point.” He tells you, deflecting the question.

“What point is that?” You ask, shaking your head as you dig a quarter out of your pocket and lean over to place it into the game. When you straighten up Billy has taken a step into your space. You could take a step back to give yourself some room, but you don't. You stand your ground, tilting your head up to meet his stare head on.

“The point is that you’re playing a game you don’t know the rules of and guys like that-” he jerks his chin in the direction Keith had run off. “Will take advantage of that.” he tells you, his voice low. You know he’s too close. That you should take a step back. That the way he’s looking down at you is too personal. That either one of you could close the distance between you with a breath.

“I’m not really good at games.” you admit, feeling the heat rushing to your face. Still you can’t seem to look away. Billy’s sharp gaze seems to soften slightly at your admission.

“I know…” He says softly, his eyes shifting between yours. “I just watched you die 4 times and not even make it past the first level of Pac-man.” He says, his teasing smirk overtaking all the gentleness that had once been in his eyes. Finally, you pull back shocked.

“You stalker!” you accuse, Billy just chuckles turning to face the game. “And I was multitasking.” you try to defend your abysmal performance, gesturing to the group now huddled around galaga.

“Sure, sure. Let me show you how it’s done.” he says confidently, starting the queued up game.

“Hey! That was my quarter!” You protest. Billy only chuckles again.

“I’ll get the next one, crazy.” he tells you, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.

AN: sorry this took so long... again!

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aceoflove · 6 months ago

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The Bookshop of his Dreams - Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

He wasn't like the rest of the daggers, always chasing the next hookup. Robert "Bob" Floyd wants to find a girl and settle down, and now that he is permanently stationed at Top Gun, maybe he can.

Fluff, 848 words

A/N: I'm a little rusty, so apologies if it isn't the best <3

Bob never considered himself a social butterfly, as he would rather read than go out to a bar on a roundy Friday night after work with his teammates, being left alone when they all find someone to take home. Even though he had been back at Top Gun for 3 months, being a back seater for Pheonix, he never really left the base, minus some small errands. After Maverick announced that the Dagger Squad will be a permanent fixture in San Diego, he could finally breath, knowing that he could get attached to his squadron and the town he has been living in. The military was always moving him around, as a top WSO, but a part of him wished he could settle down, stay in one place for a while and maybe find a girl, and hopefully this was his chance.

The clouds drifted over the sun and the rain began to pour, his feet hitting the ground at a steady place before the little bell above the door rings. He makes it inside a quaint bookshop, owned by a local family from what he had read. He was on his way over there, to find sanctuary for his aching heart when it started to bucket, drenching him to the bones.

“It’s really coming down out there, isn’t it?”

A soft voice drifts from behind the counter, a contrast to the sharp pitter patter of rain bouncing off of the shop fronts windows. Bob turns, spotting the person who spoke to him. The store was empty apart from the worker behind the counter. She was pretty, truly his type looks wise. A timid smile is plastered on both of their faces as he nods.

“Honestly it came out of nowhere. It was so peaceful on the walk over here until just now.”

A chuckle escapes her lips as she nods, her gaze drawn to the window where raindrops were racing down to the bottom. He was drawn to her eyes, her distracted nature endearing, he can’t help the smile creeping up on his face. She shakes out of it and looks back at him. “Sorry! Feel free to look around and if you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask.”

The comfort of the shop truly drew him in, the plethora of books adorning the shelves making him want to buy out the whole store (Although he doesn’t need to get any more books, his shelves were overflowing with poetry books, and any book that captured his interest). Each step brought him further into the atmosphere, each step bringing him into the enchantment of the fairytale in his mind. The shelves carved out of wood, the details making it feel like the shelves belonged in a cottage.

He can’t help but smile at how the book looks so amazing, the collection precise and diverse, curated with many interests in mind.

He comes back a few more times over the next month, getting closer to her, learning her interests, favourite books, and how the shop was her whole world.

His mind wanders back to the loneliness in his heart, how he wishes he could settle down, and have his own library, his wife curled up with a book, nestled into his side as his attention is taken away from his own book to her face. How her face lights up at certain parts and how he can’t help the love in his eyes.

Her face changes, warping into a different face from the one that was stuck in his mind. Her face turned up. He cannot think about this.

Bob was standing outside the bookstore, trying to work up the nerve to walk back in there after thinking of her for a week, his mind running in circles with different daydreams of what like would be like with her by his side, finally having the life he wished for.

Once again, the store welcomes him in, the warmth embracing him and her smile making him melt once more. “How’s my favourite customer?”

“Better now I’m back here.”

‘Now that I’ve seen you.’ The words were on the tip of his tongue, his heart pounding out of his chest as he flushed a little, heading back into the shelves he was familiar with now, as he could walk around there with his eyes closed.

The mind still wanders, seeing her at the front counter reading another book, flipping through the pages, most likely for a review from the shop. He could imagine her at his kitchen counter, reading and annotating while he cooked them dinner. Bob allows his mind to come back down to earth and he looks through the books once more, grabbing a few from the shelves, admiring the blurbs and the cover design. He makes his way to the front counter, back to the woman who captured his attention.

“Ooo! I love this book!”

She picks up one of them, scanning them for purchase. Her eyes lit up, his heart filled with warmth, an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his chest, and he knew.

‘I’m screwed.’

#bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd one shot #top gun bob #tgm

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btswithluv13 · 9 days ago

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Two Friends

bestfriend!Jungkook x fem!Reader

[fluff, angst, ongoing series]

teaser: Friends, just for now?

warnings: alcohol, language, infidelity (kinda?)

recommended songs: Sparks - Coldplay // Night Bus - Gabrielle Alpin // Clementine - Wet

Note: I have been sitting on this for a while and originally wanted this to be a one-shot. It’s heavily heavily inspired by Love, Rosie so please be warned, it’s going to be angsty. Not sure how many chapters this will be but I have Chapter 2 ready to go after some editing and Chapter 3 in the works soooo, please look forward to it :D

Chapter 1 - A Toast to the Bride and Groom

wc: 920

You've dreamt about this day, fantasized about it even. The wedding hall was beautifully decorated with carefully curated and meticulously placed flowers and soft warm lights illuminating the space. You take a minute to look around taking everything in and thinking how surreal this all feels. The pianist starts to play a melodious song making the atmosphere even more romantic. In just a few moments, everything's going to be different. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to control your nerves.

Jungkook stood by the altar waiting. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with his hair slicked back. It’s so different from his usual casual attire but still he is as handsome as ever. He looked nervous as he started scanning through the crowd. His eyes land on you and his expression eases as you offer him a gentle smile. You’ve always been each other’s safe place.

You can't help but think about how much you and him have grown. It feels like yesterday when you and him met in middle school. You remember how he looked with his bangs covering his doe like eyes and how much he hated it when people would take notice.

You both kept to yourselves and so you hadn’t really talked to him before until some dumb kids started messing with you causing you to trip and drop the things you were carrying. Of course, Jungkook happened to be there at the right time. You thought he’d join in on teasing but instead, he silently helped you pick up your things and from then on you decided he was someone who had to be in your life.

You were happy… at least that’s what you tell yourself as The Wedding March starts to play and the bride makes her way to the altar to join Jungkook. There's a pang in your heart as you think about how things could've been.

In another life it would've been you standing beside him. It would've been you he was looking at with stars in his eyes, saying his vows and declaring his love to. Except it isn't and you thought you made peace with it. You told yourself It would be alright, at least Jungkook would still be in your life. At least, his soon-to-be-wife was nice... You tell yourself you'd be fine, you’d repeat it to yourself again and again until it would be true.

The ceremony goes by in a blur and it was finally time for the speeches. Of course you were going to speak, it’s your best friend’s wedding. Just get through it, it'll all be over soon. Your grip on the mic tightens as you prepare. There's a lump in your throat now and you try your best to swallow it down along with all the brimming emotions.

“Good evening everyone… first of all congratulations to both of you!” You tried your best to sound cheerful, your smile not quite meeting your eyes. “For those who don’t know me, I’m ___ and I’ve known Jungkook all my life and because I’ve known him all my life I feel compelled to warn you all. Please don't let Jungkook grab a hold of the mic! He will not stop singing, trust me I learned this the hard way.” Earning a light laugh from the audience and a playful glare from Jungkook, you continue.

“I am so lucky to get to know someone who shines as bright as Jungkook and everyone who has had the chance to bask in his light would know just how special he is. I’ve always thought that Jungkook’s bowl grew to hold more capacity throughout the years but it turns out, I underestimated just how much it would take to fill it…”

You look at him fully now, both your gazes unwavering. “and so as I have come to learn just how much kindness and love his heart has to give, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to give it back. I will always support you and your decisions. I love you, Jungkook.” There’s an expression on his face now that you can’t quite read. You wonder if you’re overdoing it, if the audience can sense the storm of emotions brewing inside you and the true intentions of your words… your feelings. You clear your throat.

“...like a sister loves a brother and so I'm glad he has you now,” Glancing at his wife. “To fill in his bowl.” Your voice falters a bit and not trusting your composure you end the speech by giving a toast to the bride and the groom. The crowd gives an applause and you see Jungkook mouth you a thank you as he wipes a lone tear from his face. You nod at him, tears also threatening to spill but you hold it in. It's done. The hardest part of this night was over and you feel the tension in your body ease up a bit.

The night continues on with festivities and you decide to step outside for some fresh air. The moon's glow accompanies you as you reflect on what you were feeling. You've dreamt about this day, fantasized about it even… but that's the problem about dreaming, it's never going to be your reality if you don't act upon it. You love Jungkook and if you were brave enough maybe things would’ve been different. You come to the conclusion that sometimes loving someone means loving them enough to let them go. You'll be alright, you think this time, it's true.

#jeon jeongguk #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts scenarios #bts fic #bts imagines #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts angst #jungkook x you #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook

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ash5monster01 · 2 months ago

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hiiii !! I just wanted to say your writing is just brilliant, and I love your DPS works 😊 I was wondering if you could maybe do a Neil x fem!reader, with smut ? Only if u want to ofc and thank u!!! i hope u never stop posting xx

The Hot Doc

Pairing: older!Neil Perry x FemReader

Warnings: 18+, smut, p in v, no use of protection, mentions of suicide, language, dirty talk, random hookup, setting is a hospital, reader is a doctor

Summary: Being a traveling Doctor meant meeting many new surgeons but on your latest visit, one happens to catch your eye.

word count: 2.4k

Masterlist

You’re quite sure you’re losing your mind. You had done this a hundred times, travel from hospital to hospital describing a new technique you had created. A safer way to perform an extremely invasive surgery. Every presentation was the same with the same looking Doctors listening quietly. That is until today when a certain doe eyed Doctor wears a mischievous look instead of curiosity. It makes you stumble over your words more than once, a smug smile on his face like he knows he’s the reason.

“If you have any questions or are interested in learning more I’ll be around the hospital all day” you inform the crowd and in true hospital staff passion, no one applauds or flashes a smile as they stand and return to work. All except for one you’re trying hard to ignore as you pack up your research.

“Quite the presentation you have there” the sultry voice startles you, eyes bewildered as you look to see he still wears the same smug smile he had on before.

“Thank you” you grant him, head nodding even if what he had said wasn’t entirely a compliment.

“I’m Dr. Perry, head of cardio here” he gestures around the room but you know he means the hospital. Of course he was a heart surgeon.

“If that’s so, why did you sit through my 50 minute presentation about brain surgery?” you question, arms crossing as you watch him stand from his seat and start for the front of the room.

“I had read an article about you a few months ago. The female that changed the way we operate. Your researching was incredible and the picture not so bad too” he grins at you, a teasing smile as he brings up the very article you had cut and framed in your office back home. To think it had flattered him before you had even stepped foot here.

“That’s very kind of you Dr. Perry. I’m glad you found an interest as well, even if it’s not your speciality” you tell him and he nods once, eyes still washing over you like he’s trying to memorize every detail now that you’re here in person.

“No need to thank me, no reason to when I’ve taken more interest in you than the contents of the article itself” his honesty is admirable and you’re unable to fight the heavy blush that creeps across your cheeks. It’s then you realize the look he had been giving you the entire time was one of lust.

“I’m flattered Dr. Perry, truly” you tell him, suddenly unable to look into his eyes and he smiles as he leans against the table that holds your research. A large hand reaching out and lifting your chin to face him.

“Please, call me Neil” he requests and you gulp at the sound of his name. Something so simple for a handsome man like this. The look in his eyes showing he had lived quite the life up until this very moment. It’s the very look that has heat pooling in your stomach and knees pressing together.

“Okay Neil” you nod, smiling softly at him and Neil has to look away a moment, trying to calm his heart. He had never taken interest in a woman like you before. When he realized he had to accept this life curated for him the last thing he thought he would do is fall for someone who clearly enjoyed it. Who had made this life path for themselves. Falling for a girl who was also a Doctor felt like he was officially leaving behind the life he once wanted for himself.

“I’m not trying to be too forward but can I take you to dinner?” he suddenly asks and you chuckle, finding it took barely anything from him at all the develop a need for him as well. Since when were you easily so wrecked for a man.

“I’d love too, I really really would, but my flight leaves at seven. You only have me for at least another five hours” something flashes behind his eyes at your words, the suggestion your comment had portrayed despite not meaning too.

“Then I’m gonna be a little more forward. I’d really like to kiss you, preferably before my five hours are up” he says and you smile, adoring how a handsome and smart doctor like himself had become infatuated with you just from your talent and a half terrible picture of you. A picture that made you cringe out of all they could’ve used and he had instead fallen for you hundreds of miles away.

“How long do I have you Doctor?” you ask, knowing more than likely he had a few surgeries scheduled on the board. As much as it would turn you on to see him perform one you also figured what the hell did you have to lose. In five hours you’d be in another state, this hospital just another on the list. It really had been a long time and as long as he was free you were hoping to take advantage of it.

“Two hours until my next surgery, I’m technically supposed to be getting some rest in an on call room” he answers, eyeing the time on his watch and wishing he could freeze it so he could spend all of it with you.

“Care if I join you?” the suggestion makes his eyebrows jump in surprise, not expecting his blatant flirting and forwardness to actually get him what he had wanted. He’d never doubt Charlie and his tactics ever again.

“How much rest would I be getting?” he asks and it’s your turn to be too forward, a devious smile crossing your face as you grasp the side of his white coat.

“None” you tell him and he’s standing straight up in a second, collecting your things and hand falling into your own as he leads you out of the auditorium. He’d be a fool to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. So you follow along, heart thrumming from how confidently he leads you to somewhere more private.

Once in the on call room Neil scans the hallway, making sure no one saw before shutting to door and clicking the lock. It’s small, only two bunk beds and a window with a black out curtain, but for spontaneity it would work. When Neil sets down your stuff you can’t help but feel your nerves spark as his eyes drink you in. Finally alone and in private and you’d have to follow through on exactly what you had just suggested. Which meant standing your ground as he stepped closer and closer.

“You sure you want to do this?-” but your lips meeting his own and arms wrapping around his neck answers the question. Large hands land on your back, holding you close as he relishes in the feeling of your lips on his. You smell delightful and when your tongue darts past his lips, deems you taste even better. It’s better than he had imagined it when he first read your article, and even more than when he imagined it again when he heard you’d be coming here.

“Just so you know, this is out of character for me” you inform him as his lips begin to trail down your neck, your hands making quick work of shoving the white coat off his form and starting for the buttons on his shirt.

“Me too” he tells you, voice muffled in your neck but you can still hear the honesty vibrate into your skin. So you keep at the buttons while his own hands finds the zipper on the back of your dress. He pulls it down slowly, kissing more and more of your shoulder as the fabric is loosened around you. When you finish with the last button you allow the dress to drop, leaving you in the mismatched bra and panties you had put on this morning. If you had known you’d meet a hot doctor you might’ve thought ahead about that.

“Jesus even better than I imagined” he says, shrugging his own shirt off his shoulder and tie in the process. His broad and bare chest is on display, he isn’t covered in muscles but toned in a way that matters and that’s when your eyes catch the scare along his left pec. Slowly you reach out, fingers brushing over it softly.

“What’s this?” you curiously ask, eyebrows furrowed and real worry written across your face. Neil’s hand grasps your wrist, pressing your palm flat over where his heart beats.

“The only time I failed a heart” and realization dawns on you, a small gasp falling from your lips. Slowly he drags your hand up his chest, to his shoulder, then to the side of his head. “Had it been here I never would’ve become a heart surgeon”

“Oh God Neil, I’m so sorry” you tell him but he just smiles, long moved on from the mistakes of his past. If he had been successful in taking his own life all those years ago he never would’ve met you. Ironically enough had he gone for the head it would’ve been your surgery that could’ve saved him.

“It’s okay, I had just grazed my heart. A surgeon saved me and when my Dad was still adamant I go to school I knew exactly what to do” his smile isn’t genuine and you know a boy who dreamed of something else is still trapped in there. Yet he also doesn’t need to revisit the same conversation he probably had a hundred times before. Instead he needed a distraction and that’s why you kiss him.

Neil kisses back feverishly, loving that he hadn’t scared you off with his honestly. Instead you hold his head in your hands and kiss him in a way to say it’s okay life didn’t turn out for him. That he was still here with you and that had to be just as good. So he will take this moment and lock it in his heart forever. Smiling against your lips when your hands unbuckle his belt just as his own find the clasp of your bra. It’s a flurry of discarded clothing until your bare form is pressed against his own and he’s laying you on the twin bed.

“You’re so beautiful” he tells you, lips traveling down your chest and to your breasts. You whine when his lips latch around your nipple, his free hand groping your other breast and sliding down until it meets the heat between your legs. You feel him hum against you when he discovers how wet you already are.

“Mhm Neil” you whimper, you orgasm already building as his mouth switches between your breasts, fingers toying with your bundle of nerves. When his lips meet your own again he shoves a finger inside of you. You moan into his mouth and suddenly he’s harder than before, more turned on than he’s ever been in his life.

“What do you want baby?” he asks as he shoves another finger in, stretching you out and deliciously gliding against your walls. You flutter around him and he smiles again as he pumps his fingers in and out, desperate to be inside of you.

You don’t answer him and instead grip the base of his cock. It’s his turn to whine, not expecting the touch as you squeeze him lightly. He tries hard not to grind into your hand as you glide further and further up till you meet his tip. Angry and red and leaking with pre-cum. You needed him inside of you. Which is why you widen your legs, guiding him to where he brushes against your folds. He winces, trying his best to not finish before he even gets to feel what it’s like inside of you.

“Fuck me Neil” you tell him and he doesn’t waste a second, hands slipping out of your pussy, replacing it with the tip of his cock that instantly glistens from how wet you are. He drags himself through your folds, once, twice, and then the third pushes into you slowly.

You grip his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin as he sinks further and further inside. It seems it’ll never end then suddenly he’s flush against you, the tip of his cock nudging that perfect spot. You moan out as he waits for you to adjust. Pretty soon you’re nodding, indicating he needs to move. He pulls out halfway before plunging in again. The sensation has you seeing stars and once Neil finds his rhythm you’re done for. You cling against him as he rams into you over and over again. It seems as if your eyes have rolled to the back of your head. His lips are everywhere and the sensation is better than any you had experienced before.

It’s when his hand finds your clit, rubbing quickly, do you feel your orgasm wash over you with no warning. You clamp down on him tightly and his hips stutter, realizing what he’s just done. He fucks you through it, trying hard to last until you squeeze him just right again and he’s finishing as well. You smile wide as he continues to fuck you until he can’t anymore. Falling against you gently and not quite ready to pull out yet.

“Well that was new” you say after a moment, a soft smile covering your lips and Neil smiles back, kissing you gently.

“I hope I wasn’t too forward?” he asks and you snort out a laugh, unwillingly clenching around him again that makes him tense up. He just kisses you again anyway.

“I’d say you did everything right” you tell him and he smiles, noticing this is the happiest he had been in a very very long time.

“I hope I made it memorable for you?” he grins again, that same smug look back on his face and you push some of his brunette hair away so you can see him better. Close enough to finally see the happy and lively boy that lives within him.

“What did you want to be instead of a Doctor?” you ask and he smiles, hand falling on top of your own. The one that cradles his face like you don’t ever want to let him go.

“An actor, I was good too” he tells you and you smile, kissing him gently and keeping your forehead pressed against his own.

“I know I leave tonight but maybe I can call you from my next destination, get to know you better?” you suggest and he smiles so wide he’s certain his own heart is too. Thrumming against your skin and feeling close to someone for the first time in a long time.

“I’d like that a lot”

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