#there are so so many good games out there

[ilium-ilia]

simon riley x fem!reader | drabble | intersecting lines | morbid thoughts | death and the macabre | erotic morbidity? | blood kink taken to the extreme | two sides of the same coin can never look in one direction, but that won't stop them from devouring each other whole anyway

You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night—his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

[zephyrchama]

A thin line of table salt adorned the floor in front of your bedroom. You stood behind it and stared at the demons outside of your doorway. They were staring at the salt.

Leviathan laughed. It reminded him of a low-level defense from a tower defense game. "Is that supposed to keep us out? lol."

"Yeah. I think it's working," you said.

Satan put a hand on his hip. As far as he could tell, it was plain old table salt. No magical properties whatsoever. "How so?"

"Well, none of you are crossing it. Clearly, it's having some kind of effect."

Mammon balked. "Obviously, it's because we're respectin' your privacy!" He stood closest to the line, wanting to cross it most of all.

"You're respecting my privacy by... standing right outside my door?"

Mammon opened his mouth to counter, only to come up with nothing. He stood there with his fists clenched. The feather on his belt swayed as he tapped a foot impatiently, causing the nearest salt to shift a little.

The noise annoyed Asmodeus. "Mammon, go walk through the salt."

"Why me!?"

"This is ridiculous." Lucifer crossed his arms. "Clean this up. I don't even want to know how this will damage the floors if you leave it."

"It's not even doing anything," Satan pointed out.

"If it's not doing anything, then one of you should cross it," you suggested.

"Why don't you come out to us?" Belphegor proposed. "There's only one of you, seems more fair."

"Yeah!" Asmodeus took a step away from the salt, careful not to get any on his shoes, and raised his hands. "You can run into my arms if you'd like. I'll be sure to catch you."

Their stubbornness astounded you. "Or... You guys can just admit you don't want to cross this salt."

"It's regular salt." Beelzebub knew exactly what the substance was as soon as he laid eyes on it. Plus, the smell was unmistakable. His claim was irrefutable.

"Yes, exactly. Thank you, Beel. I've seen you eat it many times." You had even taken the bag from the shared kitchen.

"Did you try walking over it?" Leviathan asked. "How are we supposed to cross it if you won't?"

"I don't need to. I'm in my room."

"You should come to our room," Belphegor offered. He was getting tired of standing around.

"Come out this instant," Lucifer ordered.

You thought about it for a whopping two seconds. "I think I'm good. I'll be in my room. If any of you need me, feel free to come in."

You retreated back inside with the rest of the half-empty salt bag. The brothers stared at you with a mix of impatience and disbelief until the wall blocked you from view.

[inseobts]

Fake Proposal

in a way or another, accidentally or not, they end up making fake proposals...

characters: luffy, zoro, sanji, ace, law and shanks

a/n: put my whole heart for the shanks one and now I feel lonely af lmao

words count: around 0.6k - 1.9k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Monkey D. Luffy:

The smell of grilled fish and sizzling meats fills the air as you and Luffy settle into your seats at a bustling restaurant by the shore. The place is packed, laughter and chatter surrounding you as waiters move between tables carrying plates stacked high with food.

Luffy is already bouncing in his chair, eyes darting between different dishes on the menu. He’s practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oi, look at this!” He shoves the menu in your face, pointing at a special section “‘Lovebird Feast’, free dessert for nearly married couples! That’s awesome! I want it!!”

You snort, pushing the menu back down “You’d fake a whole marriage just for free food?”

Luffy tilts his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world “Duh! Free food’s free food! It's always the most delicious.”

Before you can protest, he’s already turning to the nearest waiter, waving them down enthusiastically, “Hey! We want the lovebird thingy!”

The waiter, a woman with a kind smile, gasps in excitement “Oh! How wonderful! Congratulations, you two!”

You open your mouth to correct her “Stop Luffy, we’re not—“ but Luffy is already jumping ahead.

“Shishishi! We aren’t yet but I’ll do it right now!”

Wait what?!

He suddenly slides out of his chair and drops onto one knee in front of you. The entire restaurant seems to hush. A few heads turn. Somewhere in the back, a musician starts playing soft romantic music.

Oh. Oh no.

Luffy grabs your hand, grinning up at you like he’s having the time of his life “Y/N! We’ve been on so many adventures together, and you always give me food, and you’re really fun to be around!” His grip tightens “So, do you want to marry me?”

The restaurant erupts. People cheer, clapping and whistling like this is the most romantic thing they’ve ever seen.

Your face burns.

This idiot! He didn’t even try to make it sound real!

Still, two can play at this game.

You bring a hand to your chest, gasping dramatically “Luffy, I—I don’t know what to say!” You blink rapidly, pretending to fight back tears “This is so sudden! But...” You clasp his hands in yours, shaking them for extra effect “Yes! A thousand times yes!”

The cheering gets louder. Someone throws flower petals over you. The musician in the back picks up the tempo.

Luffy beams, bouncing to his feet “AWESOME! Now where’s the food?”

The waiter, practically swooning, claps her hands together “Right away, sir! And don’t worry, your Lovebird Feast comes with our cutest personalised decorations, so give us a moment and we’ll get it to you”

Luffy turns to you, grinning ear to ear “See? Told ya it’d work!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying so hard not to laugh “You’re impossible.”

A few minutes later, your table is overflowing with steaming plates of grilled seafood, buttery rolls, and a massive chocolate cake that says Congratulations, Lovebirds! in fancy frosting and two small drawings of your caricatures with hearts around them.

Luffy digs in immediately, stuffing his face with meat and laughing between bites “Man, this was such a good idea! Maybe we should do it again at another restaurant!”

You snort, shaking your head “What, you gonna propose to me at every place we eat now?”

He swallows a mouthful of food and grins “Maybe! You’d say yes every time, right?”

Your heart stumbles over itself for a second, but you quickly recover “Only if there’s free food involved, I guess.”

Luffy laughs, shoving another piece of cake into his mouth “Then it’s a deal!”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling. Even if it was fake, and even if he only did it for the food…

You kinda wouldn’t mind hearing him say those words again.

Maybe for real, next time.

You’re now on your way back to the ship and just thinking about telling everyone what happened makes you laugh.

“What are you laughin at?” Luffy asks while bouncing his own belly.

“Sanji’s gonna hate us when we’ll tell him what we did to get free food…” you laugh more.

Luffy suddenly stops and you turn to see what’s going on with him. Only to see him trying to mimic Sanji’s face and expression, “Food isn’t a game!! And why did you use my y/n for your stupid plan?!?”.

You start laughing so hard that your stomach starts to hurt.

“Let’s make a bet Y/N… I bet he’s gonna say the exact same words I said just now” he says putting his hand in front of you.

“Mmh okay. I bet he’s going to say something like ‘How dare you propose to Y/N before me!!!’”

Luffy smiles and “That’s a good one. What do you want if ya win?”

Oh, now this is a hard question… What do you want?

Then an idea pop up in your mind.

“If I win I’ll be the captain for one day!” You say smiling proudly at your own mind, imagining already the things you could do and make Luffy do as his Captain.

“Shishishi, that’s a good one. Okay. But if I win… we’re gonna get a real ring your size for the next time!” His eyes close as his smile widens even more, “So? Deal?”

You heart start beating so fast that you’re bearing breathing.

Why?

Why does he want a ring?

And why is he planning on proposing again?

Then you snap out of your thoughts as you hear his laugh again. You look at his hand in front of you, waiting to be shaken.

“Deal…” you say as you now shake his hand.

Back to the Thousand Sunny the first thing Luffy does is looking for Sanji and tell him everything that happened, excluding the bet part of course.

He even mimicked the expressions the waiters and waitresses had while he was proposing.

Then, after a moment of shock and as you were anticipating, Sanji finally speaks “Mon Dieu , food isn’t a game, idiot! And why did you use my precious Y/N for your dumb game…”

“Oh, you lost Y/N. Now we’ll get a ring!!” Luffy smiles at you, ignoring the way Sanji stopped his desperate act just to look at him like he murdered someone.

You blush hard, not being able to even say a word.

“WHAT RING NOW? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? Y/N STOP LAUGHING, THE IDIOT IS BEING SERIOUS!!”

Sanji keeps trying to stop both you and Luffy, but honestly?

You wouldn’t mind getting proposed again, and who knows maybe with the ring it will feel real.

And you don’t mind it at all.

── .✦ Roronoa Zoro:

Zoro knew coming here was a mistake.

The restaurant is way too fancy for his taste, golden chandeliers, white tablecloths, expensive plates that look like they belong in a museum. The portions are tiny, the waiters have that I’m better than you attitude, and worst of all… Sanji recommended it.

You, however, are having a great time.

You sip your drink, smiling at the romantic ambiance, while Zoro sulks across from you, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“This place is nice” you hum.

Zoro scoffs “Tch. Feels like a prison.”

You roll your eyes, about to retort, when his fork suddenly slips off the table. With a sigh, Zoro pushes his chair back and kneels down to grab it.

And that’s when it happens.

A loud gasp echoes through the restaurant.

The soft clinking of silverware stops. Conversations halt. The waiter carrying a tray of wine nearly drops it.

Zoro freezes, fork in hand.

“…What the hell?” he mutters.

You glance around and immediately see the problem. The entire restaurant is staring at him, some people are covering their mouths, others are tearing up, and the woman at the table next to you whispers excitedly to her date “omg look, he’s proposing!”

They think he’s proposing...

Your lips twitch. Oh, this is gold.

Zoro must realize it too, because he slowly looks up at you, processing the situation. The restaurant waits with bated breath. You see the exact moment he decides to roll with it.

Still kneeling, he sighs dramatically and reaches for your hand instead of his fork.

“Guess there’s no backing out now” he says flatly.

A chorus of awws sweeps through the restaurant. Someone sniffles.

You bite your lip, holding back laughter. If Zoro’s gonna pull this, you might as well make him suffer.

So, with your most dramatic expression, you gasp, bringing a hand to your chest “Zoro! Is this—” You choke up for effect “Is this really happening?”

Zoro glares at you, silently daring you to push further.

You do.

You blink rapidly, pretending to fight back tears “I—I never thought this day would come!” You squeeze his hand, voice trembling “Ever since I first saw you, I knew—” You pause, just to let the anticipation build “that you were the love of my life!”

A woman two tables down bursts into tears.

Zoro’s jaw tightens. His ears are definitely red now. But he won’t let you win so easily.

He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck “Yeah… you know, it’s been real annoying, carrying this ring around for so long.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, he did NOT just—

The restaurant collectively gasps again. Even the chef peeks out from the kitchen.

Zoro still doesn’t have a ring, so the bastard reaches over, plucks a tiny onion ring off his plate, and slides it onto your finger.

“There,” he says, smirking “You happy now?”

You nearly choke on air.

The restaurant erupts. Cheers. Clapping. Someone throws flower petals. A waiter rushes forward with champagne.

You need to end this. Fast.

So, with all the enthusiasm of a dramatic soap opera heroine, you throw yourself into Zoro’s arms, hugging him tightly.

“YES! A MILLION TIMES YES!”

The place loses it. Some guy at the bar is sobbing. The waiter brings out a massive cake with Congratulations! written in fancy chocolate drizzle. The restaurant manager himself personally congratulates you.

You and Zoro finally lock eyes, both of you struggling to keep a straight face.

Still holding you, he leans down, voice low enough for only you to hear.

“You are so dead after this” he mutters.

You grin “Worth it.”

Zoro sighs, but there’s amusement in his expression. He still hasn’t let go of your waist, and for a second, the noise around you fades, the restaurant blurring into the background.

His thumb brushes against your hip.

“You really wanna sell this?” he murmurs.

You raise a brow “What are you—”

And then he kisses you.

It’s quick, barely more than a brush of lips, but it still shuts you up completely. Your breath catches as the warmth of him lingers, his grip firm and steady as if grounding himself.

Then he pulls back, smirking at your stunned expression “Figured we had to make it convincing.”

The crowd loses it again. Someone pops open a bottle of wine. The cheering is deafening.

Zoro slides back into his seat, reaching for his drink like nothing happened, while you just stare at him. Your face is burning, your heart racing.

Did he... did he really just...

“Oi,” he calls, snapping you out of your thoughts. He nods toward your plate “Eat. We scammed our way into this food, might as well enjoy it.”

You pick up your fork numbly, still processing.

Later that night, walking back to the Sunny, still slightly tipsy from the free champagne, Zoro shakes his head, chuckling.

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you still went along with it” you tease.

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking “Yeah, well… guess I’d propose to you eventually anyway.”

You trip.

Zoro catches you easily, steadying you with a firm grip, and when he helps you up, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away.

Your heart does something stupid.

“…You serious?” you murmur.

Zoro just smirks, squeezing your hand and giving you a quick peck on your lips before letting go.

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see, idiot.”

── .✦ Sanji:

Sunlight spills over the ocean, turning the water into shimmering gold as the sea breeze carries the scent of freshly baked pastries. The café you and Sanji are at is charming, small round tables with white tablecloths, elegant teacups, and a dessert display so tempting even you had to stop and admire it before sitting down.

Sanji, as always, is in his element. He leans back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, looking completely at ease as he watches the waves roll in. He’s been extra flirty today, not that it’s anything new, but there’s something almost mischievous about his smile as he rests his chin on his hand, eyes locked on you.

“You look stunning today, mon amour.”

You snort, sipping your drink “You’ve said that three times already.”

“And I’ll say it a hundred more if it makes you smile” he replies smoothly, winking.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the way your lips twitch upward. Hopeless flirt.

A waiter suddenly approaches your table, setting down a small menu “Would you two be interested in our Eternal Love Special? It comes with a complimentary dessert for newly engaged couples.”

Sanji’s brows lift, and immediately, you see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

You raise a hand, ready to shut this down “Oh, we’re not—”

Sanji reaches across the table and gently takes your hand in his, cutting you off completely.

“Ma chérie” he sighs, looking at you with the softest, most heartfelt expression you’ve ever seen “I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to do this.”

Then he quickly turns to the waiter “Thank you, I took it as a sign to finally do what I was planning for months now”

Your brain short-circuits.

Wait. WAIT.

The waiter gasps. The couple at the next table stops mid-bite. A hush falls over the café as all eyes turn to the two of you.

You know Sanji. You know this is fake. But the way he’s looking at you, the warmth in his eyes, the way his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand, it feels real.

You swallow hard “Sanji—”

He stands up, gracefully stepping around the table before lowering himself onto one knee. The sunlight catches his golden hair, framing him like something out of a damn romance novel.

“From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were special,” he says, voice smooth as silk “Your laughter is my favorite melody, your kindness is my greatest treasure, and every day with you is sweeter than the finest dessert.”

Someone sniffs. You don’t dare look away, afraid your own face might betray you.

Sanji reaches into his pocket, and for a horrifying second, you think he might actually have a ring... He pulls out a thin silver napkin ring from the table setting.

The café erupts into cheers. Someone claps. A woman dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. The waiter looks about two seconds away from fainting.

Sanji takes your hand, slipping the napkin ring onto your finger with such tenderness that your heart physically aches.

“Tell me, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, but with an edge of something more “Will you make me the happiest man in the world?”

You could end this now. Laugh it off, tell everyone it’s fake, and move on.

…But where’s the fun in that?

You inhale sharply, pressing a hand to your chest like you just can’t believe this is happening “Sanji, I—” You let your voice waver for dramatic effect “Of course! Yes!”

The café erupts. Cheers, applause, a waiter brings out a fancy chocolate cake with “Congratulations, Lovebirds!” written in delicate script.

Sanji presses a lingering kiss to the back of your hand before rising to his feet. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear.

“You play dirty, sweetheart” he murmurs.

You smirk up at him “Right back at you.”

The two of you sit back down, and while Sanji smoothly dives into his slice of cake, you… you can’t stop staring at him. Your heart is still racing. He’s been teasing you for so long, but this felt different.

And maybe the little gleam in his eyes says he knows it too.

Sanji casually picks up his fork, cutting into his cake as if he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell in the middle of the café. But there’s something different about the way he looks at you now, a quiet intensity behind his smirk.

You, on the other hand, are trying your best to keep your composure, but your heart is still fluttering uncontrollably. That was not part of the act, you think, biting your lip.

“So,” you begin, trying to regain some semblance of control over your thoughts, “you think I’ll just say ‘yes’ to a napkin ring?”

Sanji grins like a cat who’s just gotten the cream “Only if you’re truly as smitten with me as I am with you,” he teases, his voice dripping with charm “Was that not the most romantic proposal you’ve ever heard?”

You blink at him. That damn smirk. It’s hard to keep a straight face when he’s so pleased with himself.

“Romantic?” You arch an eyebrow, playing along “More like cheesy, Sanji. I mean, come on... napkin ring? Really?”

He chuckles, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear “It’s not the ring that matters, my dear. It’s the gesture.” He winks, leaning back in his chair, looking completely smug now that the moment has passed “Besides, I’m sure I’ll get you a real one soon enough. Once I find the perfect one.”

You blink at him again, still processing how he just seamlessly went from a joke proposal to something that feels strangely serious. Did he mean it?

Before you can dwell on it too much, the waiter returns with another plate, this time with a much larger piece of cake.

Sanji’s eyes light up “Ah, my favorite!” He takes the plate and picks up his fork, but before taking a bite, he looks at you again, that same intensity in his gaze.

“So,” he says, his voice suddenly more quiet, more sincere “did you like it? The proposal, I mean. I know it was a little… unorthodox.”

You’re caught off guard by the seriousness of his tone. He’s not teasing you now, not putting on that flirty act he does so well. His gaze is soft, like he’s searching for your answer, his expression almost vulnerable.

You bite your lip, fighting back the heat creeping up your neck “I...” You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to say. You want to tease him, but there’s something there in his eyes “It was… unexpected” you finally say, your voice softening “But… sweet, I guess.”

Sanji’s lips curl into a grin again, but this time, it’s gentler, less playful and more genuine. “You know, you’re the only woman I’d do something this stupid for.” He leans closer, his voice dropping even lower, his breath warm against your ear “So, maybe... just maybe, you know... when the time is right, I’ll actually make it real.”

Your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches in your throat. You can’t tell if he’s joking or if this is one of his moments of sincerity. But then, the way his hand brushes against yours as he pulls back from the table feels like something more.

You stare at him, and he meets your gaze, his blue eyes twinkling with something you can’t quite place.

Before you can say anything, Sanji’s finger gently taps the napkin ring on your finger, the little silver band now feeling strangely significant “Just wait,” he says softly, “the real proposal will be a thousand times more romantic. And you’ll be the one telling me yes.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the thought, knowing he’s both serious and playful, making you realize that, despite all the teasing and drama, he does mean it. And maybe, just maybe, you’re a little bit more excited about the idea than you want to admit.

“You better keep that promise, chef” you reply softly, your voice almost teasing, but with a genuine undercurrent that you both recognize.

Sanji leans back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself “I’ll hold you to it, mon amour. You’ll see. I’m a man of my word.”

And as the two of you continue eating, the quiet intimacy that lingers between you both speaks volumes. Even if the proposal was a joke, the feelings beneath it were anything but a joke.

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

The crew is in the midst of celebrating their latest victory, mugs of rum and plates of food scattered across the long table. Everyone is laughing and teasing each other, the air thick with camaraderie and joy. Ace is leaning against the railing, surrounded by his crew, his usual playful energy filling the space.

You’re off to the side, chatting quietly with Marco, enjoying the rare peace amidst the rowdy celebration.

“Looks like everyone’s having a good time” you say, smiling as you watch the crew’s antics.

“Yeah,” Marco replies, “they definitely need moments like this. It’s been a while since we’ve had a reason to really celebrate.” He glances at you, a soft smile on his lips.

Meanwhile, Ace is leaning over the table, listening to the crew, and you notice the mischievous glint in his eyes as he exchanges a few words with Thatch. The two of them laugh, and you can see Ace’s trademark grin forming.

Suddenly, someone’s voice rises above the others, slurring slightly from the alcohol “Hey, Ace!” he shouts, clearly a little tipsy “I dare you to do something! You’re always pulling pranks, it’s your turn!”

Ace smirks and looks over at them, his eyes flicking to the rest of the crew who eagerly start egging him on “What do you have in mind?” he asks, leaning in as if he’s genuinely curious.

The others grin at each other, clearly having had too many drinks “I dare you to propose to Y/N, right now!”

The crew erupts into laughter, clearly loving the idea. You’re still talking to Marco and don’t hear it, unaware of the dare.

You turn around, confused, just as Ace, with his usual confidence, strides over to you. His eyes lock onto yours, and his smirk widens, his posture already dramatic as he drops to one knee in front of you.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice loud and theatrical, “will you marry me?”

The entire crew gasps and then bursts into laughter. You freeze, completely caught off guard.

For a split second your heart skips a beat, but then you notice the glint in his eyes. He’s teasing. It’s the same playful look he always has when he’s messing with someone.

You swallow hard, trying to laugh it off “Ace, what are you—”

But before you can finish your sentence, Ace stands up quickly, his grin widening as he grabs your shoulder and laughs loudly “Haha, come on! I’m just kidding! You know me!”

The crew, still in fits of laughter, cheers him on, but your heart sinks. You feel embarrassed, and the sudden realization hits you hard. You knew it was just another one of his jokes but for some reason, this one stings more than the others. You’re left standing there, staring at him, feeling both foolish and hurt.

“Ace…” you start, your voice quiet and suddenly trembling with a mixture of anger and something deeper. You can’t put your finger on it, but it feels like your heart’s being pulled in two directions.

Ace notices the change in your tone and looks at you, the playful glint in his eyes dimming for a moment as if he’s unsure of what’s happening “Hey, come on. It was just for fun, right?” He chuckles, brushing it off, but there’s something in his voice now, a hint of unease that wasn’t there before.

You force a smile “Yeah, sure, just for fun” you say, but your voice cracks slightly. You quickly turn away from him, walking off toward the edge of the ship, away from the crew and the laughter. You don’t want to face anyone right now, not Ace, not anyone.

Ace calls after you, but you don’t look back. You can feel his gaze on your back, but you don’t know if you’re ready to face the playful tone that always comes with his jokes. You’re hurt, and you can’t tell if it’s because you really thought he was serious for a moment or because it felt like he didn’t take your feelings into account.

The sound of the crew’s laughter is still behind you, but it feels distant now. You rest your hands on the cold metal of the ship’s railing, staring out at the dark, endless sea, trying to breathe through the hurt.

“Hey,” Ace’s voice suddenly cuts through the night air. You hadn’t realized he was following you. His playful tone gone, replaced by something softer, maybe even regretful “I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to.”

You shake your head, not turning to face him “It’s fine, Ace. Just... just go back to the crew. I don’t want to make a scene.”

There’s a long silence, and you can feel him standing behind you, still close, but not daring to push further. You can hear the deep sigh he lets out.

“You know I mess around a lot, right?” Ace says quietly, after a beat “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

Ace seems to sense your hesitation, and he steps a little closer.

“I was just having fun with the guys,” he continues, his voice low, almost apologetic now “I didn’t think it would upset you. I’m sorry. If you want to talk about it… I’m here.”

You take a deep breath, trying to push back the frustration that’s built up in you. You hate how vulnerable you feel, too exposed. But you can’t let him see that, not right now.

“I just need some space” you reply quietly.

There’s another long pause before you hear him step back and you finally allow yourself to breathe a little easier. Ace doesn’t push you any further. You hear his footsteps retreat, but you know he’s still watching you, waiting, just in case you need him.

You know Ace didn’t mean to hurt you. You know he’s always been like this reckless, playful, always laughing things off. But tonight, it felt different.

Why did it bother me so much?

You hear footsteps behind you again, slower this time, more hesitant. You sigh “Ace, I said I needed some space—”

“It’s not Ace.”

You turn and find Marco standing there, arms crossed.

“You okay?” he asks, but his sharp eyes tell you he already knows the answer.

You manage a small, tired smile “Do I look okay?”

Marco huffs a soft laugh “Not really.” He steps beside you, leaning against the railing. For a moment, the two of you just stand there in silence.

Finally, he speaks again “Ace is an idiot.”

You let out a surprised laugh, though it’s weaker than usual “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

Marco tilts his head slightly, watching you “But he’s not heartless” he continues “He cares about you more than he probably realizes. And right now, he’s sitting over there, looking like a kicked puppy because he knows he messed up.”

Your fingers tighten on the railing “I know he didn’t mean to hurt me, Marco. But…” You hesitate, feeling vulnerable “I guess it just stung more than I expected. He laughed it off like it was nothing.”

Marco hums in understanding “Because to him, it was just a joke. But to you… it wasn’t.”

You don’t reply, but you know he’s right. Even if you hadn’t admitted it to yourself before, a small part of you had wanted it to be real.

Marco pushes off the railing and pats your shoulder lightly “You don’t have to talk to him yet if you don’t want to. But if you do…” He glances toward the other side of the ship, where Ace is sitting on a barrel, staring down at his drink, barely touching it. His usual carefree energy is gone “He’s waiting.”

You hesitate. A part of you still wants to be mad. But another part, the part that cares too much, wants to hear what more he has to say.

With a deep breath, you push off the railing and make your way toward him.

Ace notices you immediately, his head snapping up, eyes widening slightly. He doesn’t grin this time, doesn’t make a joke. He just watches you cautiously, like he’s bracing himself.

You stop a few steps away “Hey.”

Ace exhales, setting his drink down “Hey...” He looks uncertain, which is rare for him “Can I...” He hesitates “Can I talk to you?”

You nod and sit down on the crate across from him. He looks relieved but still fidgety, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

After a long pause, he finally speaks “I didn’t think, okay?” His voice is quieter than usual, missing its usual cocky edge “I didn’t think about how it would feel for you. I was just messing around with the crew, and when they dared me, I just… went with it. I didn’t mean for it to be a joke at your expense.”

You cross your arms “Then why did you laugh it off like that?”

Ace winces slightly “Because… I panicked.”

That catches you off guard “Panicked?”

He lets out a slow breath and runs a hand through his messy black hair “Yeah. Because for a second, when I was kneeling there, looking at you, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore” He pauses, his voice dropping lower “And that scared the hell out of me.”

He looks at your confused face, and for once, there’s no teasing in his eyes. Just raw honesty.

“I mean…” He rubs his face, frustrated with himself “I mean that maybe it wasn’t just a joke to me, either.”

The world seems to tilt slightly. Your breath catches, and you stare at him, trying to process his words.

Ace sighs, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees “I don’t know how to say this the right way. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing. But you—” He exhales sharply “You matter to me. More than I probably let on. And when I saw how upset you were, I realized that I really, really don’t want to lose you.”

You swallow thickly, your emotions all tangled up “Ace…”

He leans back, giving you a small, hesitant smile “I won’t joke about something like that again. I swear. But…” He rubs the back of his neck “If—if I ever did propose… I’d want it to be real.”

For a long moment, you don’t speak. You’re still mad. Still hurt. But beneath all of that, there’s a warmth spreading through your chest, something dangerously close to hope.

Finally, you shake your head and stand up. Ace tenses, as if expecting you to walk away again.

Instead, you go closer. And before you can overthink it, you grab the front of his shirt and tug him down into a kiss.

Ace freezes for a second, caught completely off guard. But then he melts into it, his hands finding your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. The kiss is slow, uncertain at first, but then it deepens, warm, real, full of everything you haven’t been able to put into words.

When you finally pull away, Ace blinks at you, completely dazed “...Whoa.”

You smirk, your heart still racing “No jokes this time?”

He grins, breathless “No jokes.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway “Good.”

Ace watches you for a moment, then his grin softens into something more genuine “So… does this mean you forgive me?”

You pretend to think about it “Hmm. I dunno. Maybe you should actually try proposing for real and see how I feel.”

His eyes widen, and you laugh at the way he suddenly looks flustered. But the warmth in his expression tells you that maybe, just maybe, that day isn’t as far off as you once thought.

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

The ballroom is suffocating in its elegance, gold chandeliers, velvet curtains, and nobles dressed in the finest silks. Conversations flow with laughter, political gossip, and expensive wine. You navigate the crowd effortlessly, your arm looped around Law’s as the two of you blend in among the guests.

This is just another mission.

Your goal this time is to gather intel on the underground auction happening later tonight. And to do so, you have to pretend to be a wealthy couple and gain access to informations. Tonight you are Law’s fiancée.

“You’re tense” Law murmurs beside you, barely moving his lips.

You glare up at him, keeping a pleasant smile for the guests “Maybe because I’m still processing how I went from ‘crewmate’ to ‘fake fiancée.’”

He hums “Would you rather be my wife?”

You elbow him discreetly, and he chuckles under his breath.

“Ah, you're Torao, right?” a nobleman approaches with a warm smile and glass in hand, but Law suddently snorts at the name already planning on getting revenge to however was supposed to arrange a fake name for him... you try your best to not laugh “And who is this stunning young woman?”

Before you can even open your mouth, Law speaks smoothly.

“My fiancée”

You freeze for just a fraction of a second, but you recover quickly, forcing a demure smile as the nobleman’s eyes widen in delight.

“Oh, my! I had no idea you were engaged! Congratulations!”

More nobles turn their attention toward you both, excited murmurs rippling through the crowd. You barely resist the urge to shoot Law a look, because you figured he’d introduce you as a partner or companion, but fiancée? That just complicate things.

You manage to slip away after a few more introdutions, excusing yourself to get a drink and some air. Meanwhile, Law stays behind, sipping his wine in silence.

That’s when an older noblewoman leans in conspiratorially.

“You know,” she hums, swirling her drink, “I couldn’t help but notice something peculiar.”

Law barely reacts “Oh?”

She grins “She’s not wearing a ring.”

His fingers tighten subtly around his glass.

Another noble nods “Yes, rather unusual for an engagement, don’t you think?”

A dozen responses flash through Law’s mind, he could say something like it’s being resized, or that you don’t like wearing jewelry. But instead, for reasons even he doesn’t fully understand, the words that come out are, “I have a ring.”

The noblewoman’s eyes sparkle “Oh? Then why isn’t she wearing it?”

Law exhales through his nose “I was planning to propose soon.”

The group of nobles collectively gasps.

“Tonight?!”

Law immediately regrets his words.

“Oh, how romantic!” one woman gushes “You must do it here!”

Law resists the urge to teleport himself out of this conversation, but when he turns, he sees you making your way back, completely oblivious to the trap he just walked into. And something shifts inside him, because in his pocket, there is a ring. Your exact size.

He never planned to use it. He doesn’t even fully understand why he bought it in the first place. Maybe it was impulse, or maybe it was something deeper, something he refuses to acknowledge.

But now he stands. The room falls silent.

You slow your steps, eyes flicking to him in confusion “What...”

And then he kneels.

Your heart stops.

The nobles erupt into cheers.

Law looks up at you as he pulls out the ring.

Your breath catches.

Why is he doing this? Why does he have that?

Law exhales, his voice quieter now, just for you.

“y/n,” he says, his fingers brushing against yours, “marry me.”

There’s no teasing in his tone. No playfulness. Just Law, holding your hand, holding a ring he never intended to actually reveal, and looking at you like he means every single word.

The entire ballroom is silent, every noble watching with excitement. Somewhere in the distance, someone murmurs about how romantic this is, but all you can hear is the rushing in your ears, the unsteady rhythm of your breathing... because Law is holding a ring. Your exact size. And for he looks like he actually means it.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

Law exhales softly, gaze unreadable. His fingers ghost over yours as he holds the ring between them, and you swear you feel a slight tremor.

“Uhm... say yes” he murmurs, voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Your breath catches “What?”

His fingers tighten around your hand, almost imperceptibly “Say yes...” he repeats, softer this time.

You swallow hard. You know this is a performance. Something must have happened while you weren't there and he's doing all this to keep up the cover and complete the mission. But something in the way he’s looking at you, so calm, so sure, makes your throat tighten.

You force yourself to move, to push away the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume you.

“…Yes.”

The second the word leaves your lips, the room erupts. Cheers, applause, laughters, as the nobles celebrate.

Law stands smoothly, still holding your hand, and in one fluid motion, he slides the ring onto your finger.

A perfect fit.

Your chest tightens.

Why do you have this? you want to ask. Why do you have my size? Why does this feel real?

But instead, you let him pull you closer, his fingers resting lightly against your waist as someone shouts “The kiss! You have to seal it with a kiss!”

Your stomach flips violently. You glance up at Law, expecting him to show hesitation, annoyance... anything.

But his expression remains unreadable.

He exhales quietly, as if resigning himself to what comes next. Then, in one smooth movement, he cups your face, his calloused fingers brushing against your jaw.

His lips press against yours as the world blurs.

It’s soft at first, gentle, the perfect display for an adoring fiancé. But then his fingers slide into your hair, pulling you a fraction closer, and something shifts.

The air between you crackles, the warmth of his body pressing into yours. Your fingers clutch at his suit, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

It doesn’t feel fake, not even for a second, and that breaks you.

When he finally pulls away, the crowd is ecstatic, clapping and cheering. You barely register them.

Law leans in, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice just for you.

You’re not. Not even close. But you have to force a smirk, masking the confusion, the longing, the ache in your chest.

“You’re a better actor than I thought” you whisper, trying to sound teasing, but it comes out unsteady.

His lips twitch slightly in almost a smirk.

And then, just as he turns to lead you away, his voice drops to a whisper.

“Am I acting?”

Your breath catches.

But before you can even process his words, he’s already pulling you through the crowd, his fingers brushing against yours.

“Come on,” he says “We still have a mission to finish.”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

The ring on your finger feels heavier than it should, and now you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to take it off.

── .✦ Shanks:

The Red-Haired Pirates are celebrating their recent success, the air filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking mugs, and music. You and Shanks are at the center of it all, the crew’s favorite couple. You’ve been together for a while now, everyone around you knows how close you two are. The bond you share is evident, whether you’re laughing together, sharing a drink, or pulling off your signature “fake proposal” routine at taverns to get free food.

Today was no different. You’d pulled off yet another hilarious fake proposal at a local tavern with Shanks dramatically getting down on one knee and you playing the blushing fiancée, and everyone else had completely fallen for it. The whole crew had watched from the sidelines, laughing at the reaction of other people around. You and Shanks had left the tavern with free drinks and a standing ovation, and now you’re back on the ship, basking in the afterglow of your latest successful scam.

The crew is still laughing, recalling the events from earlier.

“That was too good,” Yasopp says, slapping his knee as he chuckles “I swear, you two are getting better at this with every try.”

“Yeah, honestly, I almost thought it was real” Benn Beckman adds, leaning back in his chair.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile “You guys are terrible” you tease, nudging Shanks playfully.

Shanks simply grins casually leaning against the railing of the ship as the crew continues to tease the two of you about your newer “engagement”. His eyes are full of mischief, the same spark you’ve always loved. But there’s something different tonight, they seem a little more serious, almost like he’s thinking about something far beyond the joke.

“You know...” Shanks starts, his voice quieter than usual, drawing your attention. The rest of the crew falls into a hushed silence, sensing something is about to shift “Maybe one day, we should do it for real.”

You blink, staring at him “What?” you ask, not sure if he’s still joking or if something else is going on.

Shanks smirks, but there’s a certain vulnerability in his gaze now that makes your heart skip a beat “I mean it. What would you say if I asked you for real one day? Like, if I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

For a moment, everything around you goes still. The sounds of the crew’s laughter fade, and it’s just you and Shanks, standing there. You can see the sincerity in his eyes, something deeper than the usual playful teasing.

You feel a flutter in your chest as you meet his gaze, your breath catching in your throat. It’s clear he’s not messing around anymore.

“You really want to know?” you ask softly, your voice a little unsteady.

Shanks doesn’t break eye contact, his expression soft but steady “Yeah, I do.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. For a heartbeat, everything feels heavier... your emotions swirling as you take in the meaning behind his words. Then you smile, a warm, genuine smile. You take a deep breath, knowing what this means “Then ask me, and find out.”

Shanks’ lips curl into a gentle, tender smile, and for a moment, you think maybe he’s going to kiss you right then and there. But instead, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“I’ll make you notice right away when it’s for real,” he says, his words full of affection “You’ll be so surprised when I’ll do it, you won’t even know what hit you.”

You laugh softly, a mix of emotions rushing through you “I can’t wait...” you say, your voice light but with a hint of excitement.

Without another word, Shanks pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you as he presses his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss. You melt into it, the taste of his lips familiar and comforting, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world fades away.

The crew is watching you two, stunned into silence at first, but then the cheers start.

“Get a room!” Lucky Roux shouts with a laugh, and the rest of the crew joins in, clapping.

You pull back slightly, your forehead resting against Shanks’ as you both smile at the crew’s reaction. He gives you a playful wink, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“I’ll take that as a yes” he says softly, his grin full of mischief again.

“Yeah,” you reply with a smile, still feeling the warmth of his kiss on your lips “I kinda spoilered you my answer.”

The crew continues to laugh and tease, but you and Shanks know this moment is real. It might not have been an official proposal yet, but you both understand that when the time is right, he’ll ask, and you’ll say yes. For now, though, you’ll just enjoy this moment with him, the love between you two shining brighter than anything else.

And as the crew celebrates, you and Shanks share another kiss, a promise of what’s to come.

Shanks barely pulls away from your lips before a familiar glint of mischief sparks in his eyes. The crew is still laughing and whistling, throwing jabs about how disgustingly in love the two of you are, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head.

You know that look.

Before you can react, Shanks suddenly drops to one knee again, right there on the deck, holding out his empty hand like he’s presenting a ring.

“Alright, alright! Since the moment is so perfect... Y/N, will you make me the happiest pirate alive and marry me? For real this time?” His voice is exaggerated, his expression overly dramatic as he bats his lashes up at you.

The crew erupts, laughing and cheering like this is the best show they’ve ever seen. Some of them start slamming their mugs, chanting, “SAY YES! SAY YES!” Lucky Roux even tosses a handful of peanuts in the air like they’re flower petals.

Shanks is still kneeling, hand outstretched “Well?” he asks, tilting his head with a teasing grin “Are you gonna break my heart in front of my beloved crew, Y/N?”

You let out a dramatic sigh and step closer, leaning down just enough to flick his forehead.

The exaggerated thunk makes the crew howl with laughter.

Shanks rocks back like you’ve physically struck him, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded “Rejected… just like that?” he gasps, looking up at you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen “You didn’t even consider it? Not even for a second?”

You shake your head, grinning “Oh, shut up. If I say yes to every proposal of yours, we’d be married a hundred times over by now. I can’t accept two in just one day.”

The crew explodes into laughter again, slamming their mugs together, completely losing it over the ridiculousness of it all.

“I think this is the first time Shanks has ever been turned down,” Yasopp says, wiping tears from his eyes “Somebody write this down, it’s history in the making!”

Shanks, still on one knee, sighs dramatically before looking up at you with a lopsided grin “Guess I’ll just have to try again some other day”

There’s something in the way he says it, something in the way his gaze lingers on yours, that makes your chest tighten.

And then, without warning, he rises to his feet and takes your hand.

You raise an eyebrow, confused, but he just smiles as he pulls you in closer “What are you—?”

“Dancing” he answers simply.

There’s no music playing, just the sound of the crew’s laughter and the gentle crash of the waves against the ship. But that doesn’t stop him.

Shanks starts to sway, leading you effortlessly into a slow dance, like the two of you are at some grand ballroom instead of the deck of a pirate ship, surrounded by a bunch of rowdy, drunken idiots.

The crew quiets slightly, watching in amusement. But then you hear Yasopp groan “Oh, come on. Really?”

“Oi, we’re in the middle of a celebration, not a honeymoon!” someone else calls out.

“Get a room, this time for real!” Lucky Roux laughs.

But you barely hear them.

Because you’re looking at Shanks, and he’s looking at you.

And suddenly, it doesn’t matter that there’s no music, or that your idiot pirate family is teasing you both in the background. It doesn’t matter that this started as a joke, or that moments ago, he was on one knee in the most ridiculous, over-the-top fake proposal.

Because right now, the way he’s holding you, one hand in yours, the other resting on your waist, feels so natural. So right.

You let yourself melt into him, following his lead as the two of you continue to sway in the middle of the chaos.

“You’re ridiculous” you murmur, but your voice is soft, affectionate.

Shanks smirks “And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head “Yeah,” you whisper “I am.”

His grip on you tightens just slightly, and his expression softens “Perfect.”

Then, grinning, Shanks playfully lowers you backward while holding you, like in a dramatic dance move. Catching you completely off guard. You gasp, clutching at his coat, and the crew loses their minds.

“ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!” Yasopp groans “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! If you're not going into a room then I am!”

The crew bursts into laughter, some covering their eyes, others raising their drinks in amusement.

Shanks, still grinning like a fool, pulls you back up and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“You really are the love of my life, y’know that?” he murmurs.

Your heart skips a beat.

You smile, reaching up to brush a few strands of red hair away from his face “Yeah,” you whisper “I know.”

And as the crew continues their antics around you, you realize that this is the best moment of your life.

[winterthebeau]

Well, a central processor or CPU's core count is basically how many channels it has to do tasks in, and the gigahertz number is how fast each core is and how much work it can do (generally you don't want it to be less than 1.5 GHz).

RAM is the temporary memory that your computer uses to store information about the tasks it is currently doing, and nowadays you want at least 16 GB of RAM. You should buy ram made by crucial samsung, or the manufacturer of your motherboard (MSI, ASUS, AS Rock).

A graphics processor or GPU is a more complicated to explain, but generally the Nvidia 1080 TI, 1660, 3080 TI, and 4070 TI are good value GPUs, with the 1080 being the weakest of the list and ok for general use, and the 4070 being the most powerful and thf best for gaming (TI is short for titanium, which means it's more powerful than it's non-TI counterpart of the same number). Ypu generally want to buy a GPU with at least 6 gb of dedicated video RAM if you are going to play modern AAA games or Minecraft.

With storage, you generally want at least 1 TB for a personal computer that you will be using often and storing personal files on. Hard-disk drives (HDDs) are the cheapest, but are also the slowest and the most delicate. The spinning magnetic plate inside the drive will almost always break if the computer is accidentally dropped. HDDs are also more prone to data corruption than solid state drives. Nowadays, you should probably avoid using HDDs for personal computers. Solid state drives (SSDs) use a different storage method that is much more physically durable and much less prone to corruption. It stores the data on microchips that have no moving parts and are much too complicated for me to explain. SSDs are much faster than HDDs, and are very nice to have it you're going to play modern games or if you're planning on moving around large files. Even if you are only using the computer for documents and presentations, the difference in speed is noticable. A SATA SSD uses the same connector technology as an HDD, and is very bulky. SATA SSDs are the cheapest option for SSDs, but are also slower than NVMe SSDs. SATA SSDs much easier to install into a computer, and are much more portable than NVMe SSDs. They're a solid option for every use case. When you're buying a SATA SSD, make ABSOLUTELY sure you're buying it from a reputable seller, because SATA SSD scams are very common. M.2 NVMe SSDs have unbelievably fast data transfer speeds, and are best for modern AAA games and high-definition video editing and exporting. I have a pair of 2 TB NVMe SSDs in my PC, but even I will admit that is excessive. Data transfer speeds matter a lot to me. I would recommend only buying one M.2 NVMe SSD, if any. M.2 SSDs require special mounting screws, and have to be affixed into a special slot on your motherboard.

When it comes to motherboards, I don't have very much knowledge, but I know that AS Rock, MSI, and Gigabyte all make great desktop PC motherboards.

For cooling systems, you need to be sure that the cooler you buy is compatible with your CPU (GPUs already have built in air cooling). I would strongly recommend sticking to air cooling, because water cooling requires a lot of maintenance and there is always a chance it will leak onto your components.

With a power supply, you first need to ensure that the power supply you choose can keep up with the wattage demands of your GPU, CPU, motherboard chipset and cooling system. You also NEED to buy a power supply from a proven and reputable brand, since those things handle hundreds of watts constantly. Good brands include Be Quiet!, Cooler master and MSI. Cheap, no-name power supplies have been known to explode, burn themselves out, or catch on fire. It's either 1. buy a good power supply or 2. risk owing millions to your landlord in damages. I hope this information helps someone! Sorry I wrote so much, I didn't realize how much I had to say. If anyone wants to add anything, feel free to.

why is shopping for computer shit so difficult like what the hell is 40 cunt thread chip 3000 processor with 32 florps of borps and a z12 yummy biscuits graphics drive 400102XXDRZ like ok um will it run my programmes

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐛 & 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜

prequel to juno

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: someone asked about this and honestly thank you so much for doing that, i love the idea and have been obsessing over it for weeks now. hope this does the first part justice (also i couldn’t figure out which filter i used on the first fic’s header and now this one pisses me off bc it looks different 😔)

also, i’m totally in love with this dynamic. i might keep writing oneshots about these two specifically because damn 😭 i can’t let them go

summary: college!au, fuckboy!nat and reader trying to get her to commit

warnings: smut, tipsy sex, implied dubcon (very brief, not between reader and nat), exhibitionism, unprotected sex, cheating but not really, vomiting (mentioned)—not sure if there’s anything else, but lmk if you find something so i can add it

word count: 18.5k (ik it’s long and i apologize for that but i promise it’s worth it if i may say so myself)

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

The basketball hits you in the back of your head.

It's not the most painful thing to ever happen to you, but the impact is enough to make you stumble. A dull ache shoots through your skull and you turn around, glaring at whoever the offender is.

Red hair, basketball jersey, hands lifted in silent apology before you can even say anything. Natasha's been walking behind you for about five minutes now and, unbeknownst to you, she's been staring a little too much. Staring hard.

Short white skirt, baby pink lacy top, high heels — it's enough to make her lose her train of thought. Paired with the sun framing your body, the sight is lethal.

It's also enough to make her forget about Clint. Once he'd realized she's staring, he knocked the ball out of her hands and sent it flying.

All she wanted to do was check out whoever's walking in front of her. Suddenly, she has to deal with an angry, no less gorgeous girl staring her down.

Her thoughts falter. Her witty self is gone. All that remains is a mushy brain and the urge to somehow turn things around.

"Say something", you demand, rubbing the sore spot on the back of your head.

"...His fault, not mine."

You tilt your head, briefly glancing at her jersey. Natasha Romanoff — you know her. Not intimately, just in passing. You exchanged names once, during Welcome Week. You’ve seen her in bars, been to some of her basketball games. Usually, she's tangled up with some other girl.

Natasha picks up the ball again. She holds it out to you, almost like a peace offering. Your lips twitch and you lower your hand from your head.

"You ever play?", she asks.

You snort. "I don't think my high heels are gym approved."

"High heels or not, I think you'd look pretty good on the court." She leans in, voice dropping to a murmur. "Or against the lockers. Pick your poison."

Next to her, Clint rolls his eyes. He's seen her do this way too many times before. Find a girl, flirt with her, take her home. Then, complain about a hangover and a phone that's getting blown up with messages and voicemails. All it leads to is another girl who got ghosted by Natasha Romanoff.

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. You're familiar enough with her reputation and, truthfully, you like to protect your peace. No need for more drama, right?

But the sweat glistens on her biceps — she must've finished basketball practice not too long ago. Loose strands of red hair curl in the moist heat. Green eyes twinkle. You look away, at the parking lot stretching out next to you. Painfully uninteresting, but you're trying to keep your thoughts from wandering into dangerous territory.

"You're going to the cafeteria?", you ask, finally glancing at her again. Pull yourself together.

"Mhm", she says, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with one hand. "You, too?"

"No." You tilt your head, smiling sweetly. You step back and lift your hand, waving. "Have fun!"

You turn and walk towards the main entrance, skirt swishing and heels clicking against the pavement.

All Natasha can do is stare, eyebrows raised. The basketball drops and rolls away, causing Clint to curse and chase after it, but she's still staring. Only when he returns and punches her arm does she turn around.

"What?"

"You’re not serious."

"Oh, come on. That was harmless."

"That?" He wheezes, tucking the ball under his arm. "With you, it's never harmless."

Natasha lets out a dismissive sound, but her eyes have tracked you again. She's used to girls falling into her lap, not them walking away without so much as glancing back at her.

Nothing about this is, or will be, harmless.

. . .

Natasha's not the type to spend her Fridays studying, but she has no choice. That is, if the prospect of studying includes running into someone who seems to be avoiding her.

The lighting inside the library is dim. Pages rustle, keyboards click, people murmur softly. It smells like old books and the coffee you brought along in your thermos.

On the table in front of you, you've got a real setup — laptop, books, some notes, a few pens. You're distracted, which is good. You don't notice the people entering the library, don't notice the students making a little too much noise. This way, you can study more efficiently.

You also don't notice when Natasha walks in, but she notices you. All it takes is one glance in your direction, and suddenly, she's on her way to your table.

She slides into the seat across from you and stretches out. Her legs bump into yours. When you look up, she grins faintly and crosses her arms behind her head.

"You lost?", you mumble, directing your attention toward the laptop in front of you again.

"I'm right where I want to be."

"Doubt that."

Natasha steals one of your pens and twirls it between her fingers. She stays quiet for a moment, watching you, taking you in. Oversized sweater, off-shoulder. Lacy bralette peeking out from underneath. Hair half-up, slightly messy, and a delicate necklace around your neck.

You look up and your eyes meet. You tilt your head.

"Looks like you're staying."

"Am I not allowed to?"

"As long as you left your basketball at home", you say, reaching for a marker, "it's fine."

"I told you that wasn't me", she points out, stealing the marker from you. She flicks off the cap and draws a crescent on one of your notes. You look up, eyebrows raised and lips pressed together to keep them from twitching. She shrugs. "Matches your necklace."

"I almost got a concussion", you say, grabbing the marker again. "And you were right behind me. So I'll assume it was you."

"That's odd", she says. "Girls usually don't get concussions when I'm behind them."

You scoff, tucking some hair behind your ear. Natasha hums and leans in, arms crossed on top of the table. Her eyes are a deeper green now, courtesy of the dimmer light inside the library, but they shimmer just as much.

You shake your head and shift in your chair, fingers tapping against the book in front of you. "You're here to study or piss me off?"

"A bit of both. Multitasking, you know." She tilts her chair slightly, balancing it on its back two legs, making herself comfortable.

You're still not sure what she wants from you, but you have your assumptions. You know who she is. Everyone does. Star athlete, newest captain of the university's basketball team, current record holder of hooking up with the most girls. At least that's what everyone says about her.

You're certain they have a point, though. You're witnessing it with your own eyes. Natasha Romanoff is a flirt, a fuckboy, and you're her latest victim.

"I'm here to study", you point out.

"I can see that."

"And you...?"

"Keeping you company."

"Who's saying I want company?"

Natasha shrugs. "You haven't made me leave yet."

You sigh, conceding, then lower your eyes again. You skim the vocabulary list of French in front of you. If you'd paid more attention last semester, you maybe wouldn't be struggling as much now.

Natasha leans in, glancing at the vocabulary as well. Se doucher, s'habiller, être d'accord — she glances at you, at the slightly bored look on your face, and taps your arm with a pen. You look at her.

"Ton français est déjà pas mal", she whispers, "mais j'aimerais bien entendre comment tu gémis dans cette langue."

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks before you can stop it.

There's no way she just asked you to moan in French.

"You're way too fucking bold for your own good."

"Yeah?" She hums, getting up from her chair. She walks around the table and you turn your head to keep her eyes on her, but suddenly, her mouth is right next to your ear. "I've found that it works."

You look up, slowly, until your eyes are boring into hers. Her mouth is inches away from yours, heat radiating from her plush lips. Then, your eyes dart lower. You stare at them.

She notices. Of course she does.

A smirk forms on her face. Small, barely noticeable, but irresistible. It convinces you that maybe two can play this game.

"Alors", you mumble, "fais-moi gémir."

Natasha pauses, surprise crossing her features. But then you're packing up — stacking books and papers, putting your laptop into your backpack — and she almost puts her hand on your arm.

"You were being serious?"

"Hm?" You look up, head tilted and glossy lips shimmering. You shake your head. "Oh, no. I'm going home."

"This is the second time you're doing this."

You sling the backpack over your shoulder and glance at her. "Pretty sure it's not the last time, either."

She shifts on her feet, jaw clenched and hands tucked into the pockets of her sweatpants. Before you can leave, she quickly steps in front of you.

"There's this party", she says. "Next week. Pietro's place. Perfect spot for you to reject me a third time."

"Pietro?", you ask, raising your eyebrows.

"One of the Maximoff twins."

"Right." You nod. "Sounds lame."

"It won't be", she insists. "Just...come by. Have a beer. Maybe you know a few French party tricks?"

You exhale, trying to stop yourself from smiling. It's a lost cause, though, and the way your face seems to soften gives Natasha whiplash.

"We'll see", you say, brushing past her. "Guess you'll just have to keep an eye out for me."

"Okay", she mumbles.

You pause, arms wrapped around the books you're holding to your chest. You look at her one last time, then you step out of the library.

. . .

A steep staircase and dim lighting don't pair well.

One hand sliding along the railing attached to the wall to keep yourself from falling, you're slowly making your way down the stairs and into the basement. As soon as you've stepped inside, the stench hits you.

Air thick with smoke, smelling like vodka and sweat. Weed and cheap perfumes, pizza and something not unlike the sourness of vomit. You scrunch up your nose and glance at your friends.

Everything is exactly how you expected it would be. Neon LED strips, worn couches, a dying potted plant in the corner. The bass from the speakers is rattling the walls. Someone's rolling a joint on the coffee table.

In your tiny corset top and silk skirt, you definitely feel a little out of place. Then, you spot her.

Grey hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, basketball shorts, a bottle of beer in her hand. She laughs at something Clint says, then tips back her head to take a sip. As she's moving her lips from the bottle's mouth, she quirks her eyes in your direction.

What comes next seems to be the longest hour of your life.

60 minutes of tiptoeing around each other, of glancing across the room, of trying to distract yourself. You're tense, you both are, you're tipsy, and every time you try to focus on something else it fails horribly — which is exactly why a game of 'spin the bottle' is both a blessing and a curse. Looking at the expression on Carol's face, though, you feel like Natasha may have meddled in this.

You gather on the couches. You sit on the armrest, one leg crossed over the other, and watch Natasha as she sits down on the floor right across from you.

The bottle spins a few times, but you barely pay any attention. That is, until it's your turn.

You spin the bottle. You watch it almost land on Natasha, but then it stops too soon. Before you know it, you're kissing one of Clint's friends.

You're tipsy enough to not care too much, but Natasha's lips form a thin line. She lifts her bottle to her mouth and takes a swig.

The game continues. More kisses, some resembling pecks and others turning into full make out-sessions.

Suddenly, it's your turn again. You spin the bottle, watch it closely — and it lands on Natasha.

First, there's a beat of silence. Someone whistles. Heart racing, you clear your throat and put aside your drink. You get up, approach her, and end up in her lap. Her hands come up to rest on your waist.

"Not rejecting me this time?", she murmurs, looking at your mouth. Your lipgloss has been tempting her all night.

"Third time's a charm", you reply, running your hands along her jaw and up into her hair. Silky red locks, smooth between your fingers.

Natasha exhales quietly. She leans in, closing the distance and pressing her lips to yours.

It's controlled at first. Nothing but a firm press of lips. Beer and weed, lipgloss and strawberries.

Bass that's making the floor thrum. Warm hands and plush lips. You feel her heat against you. Natasha, dazed and undone, pulls you closer until your body is flush with hers.

Her hands sneak higher, fingertips grazing the hem of your top. Your fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie. Your lips part, and so do hers, and her grip on your sides tightens.

Your thighs are snug around her middle. Her hands move lower, to the part beneath your ass, and grasp at the soft flesh there.

Suddenly, it's desperate. You're tipsy enough to be bold, so you deepen the kiss further and further. Natasha goes along with it, because why shouldn't she? — This is what's she's been wanting for weeks at this point.

At some point, you're forced to remember you aren't alone. You pull away, breathless and flushed, need growing inside your buzzing body. Natasha stares back at you, breathing heavily, her shorts uncomfortably tight. You see a muscle in her jaw tick.

Swollen lips tingle, kiss bitten and slick with her taste. Her fingers twitch against your sides, the suppressed urge to get up and drag you away apparent.

There's no need to say it out loud. You both know you're getting out of there, and you're doing it together.

You get off her lap and sit back down in your spot. She keeps looking at you, her knees tucked against her chest to hide the issue the kiss left her with.

You last five minutes. You shift, glance at her, let your eyes sweep over your friends. Having decided you're done waiting, you get up and disappear in the hallway. Natasha's eyes track you down, then she scrambles off the floor and shoves her beer into Clint's hands.

"Don't wait up", she says, already chasing after your retreating figure.

You glance over your shoulder as you're going up the stairs. Sure enough, Natasha's following close behind.

You start pushing open doors. Bathroom? Occupied. Living room? No way. Anyone could walk in on you.

One of the bedrooms is empty. Judging by the looks of it, it belongs to Pietro. Messy desk, unmade bed, empty bottles on the nightstand. At this point, though, you really don't care.

You hear the door close and turn around. A few seconds later, you're tangled up with her. Hands roam your body impatiently, lips move in sync with yours. You try to walk her backwards, maybe push her against the wall, but she hoists you up by your thighs and carries you to the bed.

You're too tipsy to consider whether this can end well, but you're also horny enough that you wouldn't worry even if you were sober.

Natasha is almost sober — two bottles of beer don't have much of an impact on her at this point —, but she doesn't care, either. You've been on her mind for weeks. You've been that dirty little fantasy she jerked off to, that one girl that somehow managed to catch her attention in a room full of others. This is something she needs.

She spins around and sits down with you in her lap. You pull away for a second, only to tug at her hoodie. She peels it off, revealing a fitted tank underneath. Muscles taut, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hands reach for your corset top, fumbling with the stubborn fabric.

"Fucking- how do you get this off?"

"Try being less rough", you mumble, smiling, and use your finger to tip her chin up. You kiss her. Her tongue sweeps past your lips.

The corset top comes off, and Natasha moves you onto your back. She tugs down her shorts just enough to get what she wants.

All it takes is one look at her, and you instantly realize this will hurt. You knew she's big — you felt it sitting on her lap. But looking at her now, hard as a rock and flushed and pulsing, your tipsy brain starts to grasp that making her fit will be a challenge.

"You'll be fine", she promises, having noticed you staring. She rolls on a condom and crawls on top of you. Her lips meet yours and she guides herself into place.

You moan into her mouth. Her hips roll against yours, easing it into you inch by inch. It stretches you out. You're soaked, but getting her fully inside you still proves to be difficult.

She keeps her eyes glued to your face, watching every little reaction as she buries herself in your swollen cunt. Your thighs wrap around her waist, trembling, and she bottoms out.

"Doing so good", she pants. She pulls away to bury her face against your neck. She starts moving her hips, fucking her throbbing cock into you. You mewl and whine, manicured nails raking down her muscular back. "Wanted this for so long."

"Yeah?" You moan, nails digging into her skin. Your hips rock against hers. The bed shakes underneath you.

Gripping your waist tightly, she pulls out and thrusts back into you. It's enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

"Yeah", she grunts, placing open-mouthed kisses along your neck. "Wanted you so bad."

Your eyes flutter shut. You lift your hips, meeting each of her thrusts. The orgasm builds up, and you come around her cock.

In the morning, you're up first. Sunlight is filtering through the curtains, the air smells like sex and sweat.

You roll over and see Natasha, still asleep and one arm behind her head. The other is tucked under your body. Once the fog in your head has cleared up, you realize you've just added yourself to her list of disposable one night stands.

'Not that serious.' That's the words she says whenever she's questioned about her hookup habits. Now you're part of that, as well.

You sit up slightly and pause. When she stays asleep, you slip out from underneath the covers and pad through the room. You grab your skirt, your underwear, and put your clothes on.

"Y/N?", she mutters, rubbing her eyes. You look at her as you stand there, slipping your high heel on. "You leaving?"

"It's not that serious, right?", you say.

You grab your purse and Natasha leans on her elbow, studying you. In the early morning light, with your hair messy and your lipstick smudged, you look even more tempting. If she was different, she'd beg you to stay. She'd try to make more mornings like this one happen. Maybe she'd even see if there could be more than sex to this.

But that's not who she is, or at least that's what she tells herself. Still, she clears her throat and shrugs, almost awkwardly.

"Not staying for breakfast?"

"Not today", you say, hand on the doorknob. "See you around?"

"Sure", she mumbles. The door falls shut behind you. Any chance at getting you back into bed with her is gone — for now, at least.

Natasha exhales slowly and sinks into the mattress again. She stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched and one hand fisting the bedsheets. She doesn't know why she's so frustrated. You said it yourself: 'not that serious'. Nothing is ever serious with Natasha.

After a few minutes of silent sulking, she decides it's the lack of sleep that's got her acting like this.

. . .

Natasha doesn't chase.

She tells herself that multiple times — usually when you make fun of her for getting clingy, or soft. When she asks for your number, when she starts texting you late at night. When the hookups become more frequent.

It's still just sex, but something more begins to build. Friendship, affection. Something that feels like love but can't be — or that's what you both tell yourselves.

When you get a text one evening, you expect it to be another booty call. You've been hooking up for a while now, and not a day goes by where you don't see each other.

It's not an invitation to come have sex, though. You look at your phone and raise your eyebrows.

Natasha: please tell me you

know how to take

care of a kitten — 8.37 pm

Natasha: Y/N im

begging you — 8.38 pm

*image attached*

You: what the fuck — 8.40 pm

Natasha: COME OVER — 8.40 pm

The sight you get when walking into her dorm is ridiculous in the best way possible. Natasha — all muscles and basketball shorts — and a little kitten clawing at her hoodie.

It turns out that Natasha, leaving the court after practice, heard something meow pathetically. At first, she wanted to leave — it was pouring rain, and she was tired, and truthfully, she can't take in every stray she runs into.

Then, she saw the kitten. Tiny, partially hidden in a bush, its fur soaked. It meowed again.

She tried to walk away. A few minutes later, she was stuffing the tiny thing into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.

"Aw, so cute", you coo, sitting down next to her. "I guess the kitten's cute, too."

She shoots you a glare, but the effect is destroyed by the little feline trying to catch one of her drawstrings. "You could try helping."

"No fun in that." You reach for Natasha's hands and start adjusting them. That little bit of contact is enough to send heat into her cheeks. "It's still wet. You need to dry it."

"I tried! It bit me."

"Yes, yes", you mumble, grabbing a random towel and silently praying it isn't full of sweat or other gnarly bodily fluids. "It fits in your palm, but it's so scary."

"It has knives for hands."

You dry the kitten off together. Once that's done, you show her how to hold it. But then, it knocks.

"Randy here", someone calls. Your resident advisor.

"Wait, let me-"

"No!" Natasha, panicking, grabs the kitten. All you can do is stare, stunned, as she yanks down her hoodie to stuff it inside. The poor creature lets out a pitiful mew, and your eyes widen in horror.

"Natasha!", you hiss.

"Shut up!" She grips the front of her hoodie when the kitten meows again, as if she can physically will it into silence.

You give her a bewildered look. Then, you remember.

Randy hates cats for multiple reasons. Mild allergies, bad encounters when he was a kid, general lack of fondness toward other living beings. Pets aren't allowed in the dorms, either way — but he'll even shoo the strays away. He's awkward, but he's not a pushover. If he finds out about this, he'll rat you out.

Another knock. More impatient this time.

"Uh, guys? It's Randy! Open up?"

"A minute", you call back, smoothing down your hair. Natasha is wrestling with the kitten inside her hoodie. She winces when it buries its claws in her chest.

Cheeks flushed and expression somewhat schooled, you make it to the door and open it. Randy stares at you. Clearly, he expected someone else.

"You", he says.

"Me."

"This is Romanoff's dorm, though."

You step aside just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her. You glance over your shoulder as well. When you see her flushed face and the wiggling hoodie prison, you quickly block his view again.

"What do you need?"

Behind you, you hear a muffled mew.

"Just wanted to pop by", he says, looking over your shoulder again. You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, chin lifted in silent defiance.

"We're studying", you lie. "So please leave?"

Another mew. Natasha is fidgeting, trying to keep the kitten and her hoodie in place. She could swear she's never sweated this much in her entire life. Her fingers shake as she gently adjusts the kitten.

This is the first time everything between you begins to feel different. You're not sure what it is — the absurdity of hiding a kitten? The panicked looks she keeps shooting at you? Her softer side, so unlike what she's shown you so far? —, but you feel yourself slipping into a dangerous situation.

Falling in love with Natasha can't end well.

Randy frowns and shifts, his head tilting. You scoot to the side, silently cursing his nosiness.

"I got a test tomorrow, Randy."

"Yes, just-"

"No", you say firmly, heart thundering with a mix of anxiety and thrill. He sighs. "Whatever it is, just come by tomorrow. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."

He gives you one last skeptical look, then steps back. You shut the door and turn around only to see Natasha barely holding back laughter. She's still shaking, the kitten finally pushing its head through the neckline of her hoodie. A tiny paw presses against her collarbone and your stomach flips.

Not the cocky athlete. Not the shameless flirt. Just a girl in her dorm, a girl you're starting to like more and more, freaking out over a kitten.

You cross the room before you know it. Hands cupping her face, heart rabbiting with exhilaration, you lean in and kiss her deeply.

It's the first crack that appears in your just friends-facade.

. . .

Most people expect the casual stuff to be less complicated than actual relationships.

In many cases, that's true. In others, it absolutely isn't.

The emotional intimacy is there, but there's no commitment. Neither of you has the right to get jealous, but it happens anyway. There are expectations, but there are no labels. Either of you could walk out at any given moment.

It's thrilling. It's terrifying. It makes every hookup, every kiss, feel like something worth chasing.

Then, you fight. Usually, it's nothing serious, but it sucks anyway. It creates this odd push-and-pull, this combination of cursing each other out only to end up in bed together. It leads to jealousy plays and spikes of irritation, sleepless nights and desperate text messages resulting from being lonely and horny.

This time, it started when Natasha flirted with someone at a bar. You were there with a couple of friends, and when you turned around to order another cocktail, a girl had approached her. Suddenly, you caught her flirting shamelessly.

It wasn't what made you fly off the handle, though. The nudes in her phone, hours after you'd had sex in her dorm, were.

Not that serious, she said. We're just hooking up. Casual, you know. I wasn't even interested in her.

You kept yelling, anyway. She glared at you, but it wasn't too intimidating. You know she's scared of you, for some reason, so you kept bawling her out. The night ended with you blocking her.

Almost a week later, you're still ignoring her. You're pissed, and it'll stay like that until she apologizes, so you keep her number blocked and your bed empty.

Wanda is the one who drags you to a sorority party. Mainly because she likes one of the girls there, but also because she thinks you need to get out of your dorm and find a rebound. Plus, the theme is 'movie characters', and she can't miss that.

The word rebound makes you frown, though.

"It wouldn't be a rebound", you tell her. "We never dated. No wounds I need to distract myself from."

"Y/N, honey, that girl always leaves a wound."

Maybe she has a point. Trusting her judgment, you end up going to that party. You step into the room, and the first person who looks at you is none other than Natasha.

She sees your costume and forgets how to function. A green, short dress, shimmering wings on your back, makeup flawless. Ballet flats with pompons on the toes.

Tinkerbell. Short and sweet — very on point.

Her thoughts are a mess. No way. She did this on purpose. To ruin my night. What if I ruin her, instead?

Fuck, I need to sit down.

Her hand tightens around the beer bottle. Her jaw clenches as she grinds her molars.

But you? You're barely paying attention to her. You're smiling already, talking to Wanda about everything and anything — some concert, the kitten she took in — while Natasha is losing her mind. You're sipping drinks, chatting with people, laughing.

You step closer to some guy in a Joker-costume. He leans in, mumbling, and you giggle. He reaches out to tuck some hair behind your ear.

It's barely something, but Natasha feels like she's witnessing a war crime.

She downs one more shot, her brain fuzzy, and then gets up. You feel her hand on your back, pushing you away from the guy. You're too surprised to react properly.

"She's not interested", she snaps when he tries to stop her.

"Since when do you speak for me?"

"Shut up", she mutters, wrapping her arm around your waist.

You stare at her, frowning. Is she drunk?

Maybe. Not necessarily. She could be completely sober and still act like an idiot.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to talk to you tonight, you know."

"Sure", she grunts. "That's why you're dressed like this. To piss me off."

You stop and tear yourself away from her embrace. She pauses, blinking.

"Not everything I do is for you!", you snap. "And I'm tired of you acting like it is!"

"Then why are you dressed like that?", she barks.

You glare at her, your back against the wall. She's walked you into some hallway — secluded, dark, but close enough to the party so you can still hear the music. The ground is vibrating, shaking beneath Natasha's feet, and her head spins with a mixture of anger and want.

Your costume isn't helping. The short dress, the sparkling material, the smooth skin of your thighs. Now she's not only drunk and pissed, but can also feel herself harden and twitch in her camo pants.

"Are you kidding? I'm dressed like this because I look good!"

"Obviously", she retorts, stepping forward. The dog tag around her neck dangles in front of you, her alcohol-warm breath fanning your mouth. "You always do."

Her hand comes up to press against the wall beside your head. You look up at her, expression forcibly blank. She leans in closer, breathing heavily. Her lips almost touch yours, but you push your hand against her chest.

"You're drunk", you say.

"I'd want you even if I was sober."

"You don't get to say that", you hiss. "Not after what you did."

"And what did you do?", she says, fingers curling and fist pressing harder against the wall. "I saw you, you know. With that clown over there. What do you even want from him?"

You stare at her, both of you out of breath. Something about this situation is turning you on — how close she is, how she smells like that one cologne you love on her. How you're alone, bodies inches apart. How her hips twitch, and her eyes both search and avoid yours. How, despite it all, she's actually jealous.

"It's just casual, right?", you murmur.

Natasha furrows her eyebrows. Her lips curl into a faint smirk. "That's something you worry about?"

"No."

"Liar."

You shove her. She stumbles closer anyway, grabbing your face and kissing you.

Teeth clash, bodies intertwine against the wall. Your hands grasp at the material of her tank top. Your back hits the wall, again and again, and her hands move to fumble with your dress. She bunches it up around your hips, her fingers quickly finding the front of your lace panties. She groans when she feels how wet you are.

"Who'd you wear these for?", she pants against your neck.

Your hips buckle into her touch, chasing friction. She rubs against you through the thin fabric. You moan and Natasha sees stars.

"Fuck- fuck, Nat-"

"Stop talking", she gasps, pulling you into another kiss. Her fingers nudge past the fabric and slide against slick heat. She works you open, filling the hallway with quiet squelching sounds.

Her fingers fuck into you. You moan, back arching, and reach between you to fumble with the zipper of her pants. You yank the fabric down enough to let her cock spring free. Pink-tipped and veins throbbing, oozing precum.

Natasha's breathing stutters when she feels your hand around her cock. You stroke her, slowly at first, and her head drops against your shoulders. Her fingers are still inside of you, but the movements become more irregular.

"Shit", she whines, burying her face against your neck. You smear precum down her length, lubricating it. Her fingers curl inside you and you almost let go.

She pulls away and tears her pants down. Not willing to waste any time, she squeezes your thighs together and pushes her cock between them. She fucks herself with your plush thighs, the shaft just barely grazing your clit, precum making your skin slick.

Beads of sweat roll down her temple. You stare at her, equally lightheaded and mesmerized.

Finally, she hikes up your thigh and aligns herself with you. She thrusts in, deep, and both of you moan.

Wet, hot, tight. Natasha's losing her mind.

"Tinkerbell, huh?", she pants, snapping her hips forward.

"Yeah", you moan, meeting each of her thrusts. She laughs roughly, pressing her lips to your neck. "Bet you've never fucked a fairy before."

"Can't say I've had the pleasure." She grunts against your neck, then lifts her mouth to your ear. The coil in your stomach tightens. "Wanna cum inside you."

Not thinking straight, you nod frantically. You grab the chain around her neck, keeping her close. Her cock throbs hotly inside you, and your clit is so swollen that it hurts each time her skin rubs against it.

She couldn't stop if she wanted to. She's so deep, so close, chasing it, and your soft moans and whines aren't making it any easier for her, either. Hot spurts of cum shoot into you, your own orgasm milking out every drop as your walls tighten around her.

Natasha sags against you, spent. Her cock twitches inside of you, a white and sticky fluid dripping down your thighs, and you exhale shakily. The noises from the party — muffled music, voices, the bass — takes you back to reality. Back to the dark hallway, the fight, the fact you just had sex without even considering you could be walked in on.

You're sticky, overstimulated. Dizziness is setting in. The music thumps, but it's nothing compared to your pounding heart. Natasha breathes against your neck, her arms still keeping you trapped against the wall, and you finally push her away.

"You still need to apologize."

"I just made you come", she says.

"You really think that's a smart answer right now?"

"No, but-", she says, but you shove her off and the words die on her tongue. She frowns, opening her mouth again, but then it shuts when she sees her cum drip down your thighs. She stares, her half-erect cock twitching once more.

"Don't even think about it", you say, glaring and straighten your dress. "Apologize, or I'm leaving."

"There's nothing to apologize for", she says after a few seconds of silence. She pulls up her boxers and cargo pants and zips up again. "We're not official."

Just like that, you regret everything that happened in the past ten minutes. You regret ever getting to know the feeling of her finishing inside you, of ever thinking things could change. You regret thinking you could be the odd one out, the one who makes her change.

You don't say anything. You step back, using your hands to remove most of the cum sticking to your thighs, and walk away.

Natasha's heart races as she watches your figure disappear. She doesn't chase. And yet, she runs after you.

She catches your wrist just as you're about to leave the house. She spins you around and pulls you into her arms, kissing you.

You want to shove her away. You want to let this go. You should let it go.

An hour later, you unblock her number.

. . .

Popcorn, soda and a horror movie at a flashback cinema.

It was Natasha's idea. She was the one who came up with it, thinking it'd be nice to see you squirm. Maybe you'd clutch her arm, hide your face against her shoulder, make her feel needed. Though, she obviously couldn't tell you that.

You couldn't say no, even if a part of your brain kept telling you to. Two hours, spent in a dark room, hearts racing and bodies too close to ignore the heat burning between you.

You were right. It is dark, and intimate, and you notice her stretch and put her arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes. Way too cliche.

Her breath fans your ear. Her thumb slips under the shoulder strap of your top. She teases the skin there, listening closely to see if you'll react in any way.

You don't. But then, her free hand pushes up the hem of your top to touch your stomach. Fingers travel higher, graze the lacy bra, and then dip underneath the fabric.

In front of you, you watch Krueger kill Glen. A Nightmare on Elm Street — a classic, one that'd probably leave you with at least a week worth of sleepless nights, but you're barely able to focus.

Natasha cups your breast. Her thumb rolls over the nipple, flicking it, tugging at it, until it's pebbled against her touch.

Then, you feel her mouth on your neck. Her tongue darts out and licks a stripe over your throat.

Your thighs press together in a hopeless attempt at keeping the wetness at bay, but it's no use. You shift in your seat, hoping no one will notice.

On-screen, it's a bloodbath. Between your legs, it's like a dam broke.

"Scared yet?", she mumbles, twisting and rolling the bud until it's raw and almost painfully sensitive.

"Watch the damn movie", you hiss through gritted teeth.

"I've watched it twice", she says dismissively.

You'd ask why she picked it. You don't have to, though. It's obvious — she did it so she could feel you up under the cover of darkness.

You don't fully understand why. You could do this in either of your dorms. You'd have more privacy, more time. You wouldn't risk being caught and getting banned from this cinema.

It's a nice cinema, though. The speakers are loud enough to cover up the moans that escape you.

Your hands grasp the armrests, nails digging into soft fabric. Natasha keeps trailing kisses all over your neck, wet and open-mouthed, and your hips shift desperately.

Fingers curl. You're trying to keep yourself from grabbing her stupid hand and pushing it between your legs yourself.

In the end, you don't have to do that. Her hand comes up from underneath your shirt again. You feel it inside your panties.

Your thighs spread just a little bit. Just enough to allow her fingers to gather wetness before thrusting into you. Your hips nearly jerk off the seat.

She thumbs your clit. Her fingers piston into you, setting a fast, relentless pace.

"Got plans for spring break?", she mumbles, like she isn't fucking you stupid inside a movie theater right now. Like her fingers aren't drenched with your slick. Like she isn't about to rip through her own sweatpants.

You almost laugh, but then her fingers curl just right. You whine, hand jerking and knocking over your popcorn. Natasha gives a breathless chuckle against your neck.

"Taking that as a 'no'", she muses, voice a whisper, and pulls out only to thrust back in. Your hips buckle. "How's Miami sound, baby?"

"Fuck."

"You a fan?", she mumbles. "All our friends are going. Tony said he'd get us a surprise."

Your vision blurs. Your lower belly tightens, heat shooting into it. The pleasure builds up, relentless and overwhelming, and your hips wiggle in the seat.

People are being murdered brutally on-screen. Blood, screams, booming speakers.

The real horror? She pulls out.

The emptiness hits you suddenly. You gasp quietly, feeling the pleasure shift into an aching, throbbing sensation. For a moment, you consider shoving your hand between your legs just to get it over with.

"I'll fucking kill you", you hiss, grabbing her slick hand. "Finish that."

"I'm not a fan of exhibitionism."

"Want to end up like that guy on the screen?"

She snorts quietly and sinks back into her seat, not making a move to help you out.

You shift, again and again, the movement giving you some much needed friction. But it's not nearly enough, and before you know it, your hand is pushing past your underwear.

Natasha watches, wide-eyed, as your hand starts to move. Something about it makes blood shoot into her lower half.

"Jesus Christ", she practically moans, her hand flying down to press against the bulge in her sweatpants.

She watches you squirm in your seat, soaking your own fingers because she left you desperate. Your hips roll up into your hand, chasing that high, and when it finally comes, the noises that escape you are enough to make thick ropes of milky cum shoot into Natasha's boxers.

She wasn't even touched properly. Watching you was enough.

The aftermath is a mess. Both of you wrecked, panting, her boxers drenched and your thighs sticky.

You feel her warm breath against your ear.

"So, Miami?"

. . .

The entire campus — no, the entire city — knows Tony Stark is extra.

Still, you don't expect him to pull up with an entire bus the day you're going to Miami for spring break.

"It's like The Magic School Bus", you say.

Natasha's got her arm around your shoulders. You're both leaning against the wall in front of your dorms, the early morning sun blinding you. You lift your hand to protect your eyes.

The people around you, groggy from waking up at 6am, are rubbing their faces. Oversized hoodies and disposable coffee cups galore, none of you too sure whether this is worth it. It feels more like a school trip than spring break.

"Would love to see him in a Mrs. Frizzle getup", she mumbles.

Clint, standing in front of you, snickers. He's got his arms around his girlfriend. You eye his outfit, which consists of a Hawaii shirt and khaki shorts, and are silently glad Natasha decided to go with something less obnoxious.

Steve grunts as he closes the luggage compartment. A total of 15 people are going to Miami, and he had to haul every suitcase and duffel bag into the bus.

"Done? Took you long enough", Tony says, arms crossed. He nods at the bus. "Come on."

"20 hours", Natasha mutters, walking into the bus with you. You find two seats in the middle and sit down. "I'm going to lose it."

"They're taking turns driving. You can literally sleep the whole way there. You'll be fine."

She grunts and plops into the space next to the window. You sit down and she pulls you closer, hand slipping under your top and resting on your stomach. Smooth, warm skin, her fingers drawing circles.

Your friends are staring. You know they are. It's not everyday that they see Natasha cozying up with someone like this.

A 20-hour bus ride is long enough already, but time really starts to drag when you're spending it next to the person you can never quite figure out.

Hour 1. You talk, quietly, and share earbuds.

Hour 2. Tony apparently managed to find one of the few buses nearby that have a/c. You shiver, Natasha notices, and suddenly, you're wearing her hoodie. You breathe in her scent.

Hour 4. Bored and tired, you both stretch out your legs and accidentally nudge each other. She doesn't pull back, it turns into a mindless little game of footsies, and your feet tangle.

Hour 5. You fall asleep. You didn't mean for that to happen — but she's warm against you, and her hoodie's soft, and a sip of the vodka she brought along knocked you right out.

Hour 7. You wake up, slowly, to find out the seat next to yours is empty.

"Where's Nat?", you ask sleepily.

"Taking a leak", Clint calls from the driver's seat. Wanda turns toward you, a knowing look on her face. You roll your eyes.

A minute later, she's back. She slides into the seat next to you, arm immediately resting over the backrests of the seats, and hands you a little flower. You twirl it between your fingers, studying it, and Natasha gets that dreaded warm feeling in her stomach again.

"Hope this didn't hurt your credit score."

"Be grateful."

"I am."

Her lips press against your cheek before she can stop herself. Everyone stares, and Natasha mutters something about you 'just having fun.' Her words sting.

Hour 9. Golden hour. The playlist is slower, the bus quieter. Her fingers tap an absentminded rhythm against your thigh.

Hour 14. Sleep-deprived and travel-weary, the idiocy is hitting you at full force.

Natasha pulls you into her lap, hands roaming your middle. You curl into her, grinning stupidly. She smiles against your neck and drags her lips higher up, kissing your earlobe. Her tongue darts out, just barely touching the shell of your ear. You laugh, and the others stir in their sleep.

You both freeze for a moment. When everyone stays quiet, she shifts you in her lap until her mouth can press against yours.

Hour 19. You're two hours away from your destination. You're way too honest and tired to keep the walls up. Hands intertwine, breaths mingle. You're sprawled out on the seats, squished together, but you don't mind.

"You ever think about leaving?"

"Leaving?", you murmur.

"Yeah. Just leaving. No plans, no destination. No...bullshit."

You're not sure why she's asking you, of all people.

Hour 21. You finally arrive at the hotel. You each have separate rooms, but it's 5am, and you're exhausted and needy, and Natasha ends up in your bed. Head on her chest, you fall asleep.

. . .

Just friends, you've told the others. Just having fun, you know.

Friends — but you're not kidding anyone.

You spent the first day in Miami sleeping. In your hotel room, on the balcony, and now, on the beach. You're on a lounger, a beach umbrella protecting you from the UV rays. Her face is planted between your boobs, her hand resting on your ass with her fingers under the fabric of your bikini.

You're not alone. Your friends are everywhere around you, either napping or suntanning, drinking cocktails or swimming. You're not sure whether this is what spring break is supposed to be like, but it's nice. Peaceful, slow, quiet.

Natasha grunts in her sleep, nodding her head to push her face further into the plush heat of your body. Your arms wrap around her head.

So much to do, so many things to see — yet it still feels like she'd rather be wrapped around you than anything else.

You see Tony return with a bag of food. Your hand trails down her spine, an attempt to gently coax her into wakefulness.

"What?", she mutters, fingers curling.

"Stark brought cheeseburgers."

"Don't care. Let me sleep."

"I'm hungry."

Natasha looks up, eyes bleary. You smile faintly when you notice the light sunburn on her cheeks.

"I want food", you add.

She stares at you, eyebrows furrowed. Then she sighs and sits up, raking one hand through her hair. It's curled at the ends from the saltwater, with little grains of sand in it. She gets up like going to grab you some food is the most obvious thing to do.

You lean back, watching her. You're so lost in thoughts that you almost don't notice Daisy poking your side. Your head turns.

"What?"

"Her? Really?"

You shift, looking away again. "What about her?"

She shrugs, but silently, she immediately comes up with an entire list of reasons. At the top — the fact that Natasha's slept with basically every girl on campus and hasn't had a relationship last longer than a week so far. It's happened to her as well, but there's no way she'll tell you that.

"Nothing", she says evasively. "She's just got this whole...dumb and poetic-thing going on. Like, she has no clue what the fuck she's saying, but it sounds good anyway."

Natasha, crouched down in front of the greasy paper bag, grabs two burgers. Your head lolls to the side and you almost sigh when she looks up and puts her jawline on full display. It's too easy to want her, even if you maybe shouldn't.

"She's not dumb", you say, glancing at Daisy again. You hesitate. "But she's not poetic either. I mean, that sex joke she made yesterday?"

"You laughed, though."

"Huh?"

"You laughed", she repeats. You give her a deadpan look. "Seriously. You laugh at all her jokes."

You scoff, shaking your head. Internally, though, you're wondering whether she's right.

You watch Natasha return, two burgers and a soda in her hands. You scoot forward and she plops down behind you, letting you sit between her legs. Daisy doesn't say anything, but the look on her face is telling enough.

. . .

Logs and branches in various stages of burning, smoke curling into the air, sparks drifting upward. Embers glow, stars sparkle mirthfully, tequila burns your throat.

You're sitting on blankets, feet buried in the sand, and watch the bonfire. Natasha's next to you, roasting marshmallows and sipping tequila. You nudge her when she puts the bottle a little too close to the fire.

"Careful there."

"I am", she mumbles, looking at you. Her eyes roam all over your face, drinking in every feature. She has no idea how mesmerized she looks. She has no idea how helpless she looks. She's tipsy, and she's warm, and she's in love. The thought would scare her, but her brain isn't capable of much more than staring at you and keeping her awake.

If she had to choose between the two, she'd pick the former.

People are dancing, swaying around the bonfire. Music is playing on portable speakers. Her hand finds yours. Suddenly, you're stumbling through the sand.

"Hey, my marshmallow!"

"Screw that", she says, turning to pull you in close. There's that stupid little smile on her face, the one that makes you gravitate towards her. She leans in, hot breath fanning your lips. You tilt your head.

Hands smooth down your sides, the fabric of your bodycon dress silky under her palms. She leans in, nose almost touching yours.

"Bet you wanna", she mumbles, drunk and testing her limits. You roll your eyes, but don't pull away. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"Like this is funny."

"It is funny", you say. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you even closer. "You're ridiculous."

She scoffs, hands sliding down your sides. Hooking her thumbs under the hem of your dress, she starts bunching it up around your thighs. You swat at her hand.

"Not here", you say, glancing at your friends. Another knowing look from Wanda. You flip her off.

Natasha doesn't respond. Her head dips into the crook of your neck, peppering the perfumed skin with kisses. Wet, warm, worshipping. She's smitten and drunk and hard, and the ocean is right nearby, and if she tries enough...

"No."

She groans, her fingertips digging into your thighs. She presses against you, already straining against the fabric of her shorts.

"They're not even watching."

"They are", you insist. "You're the one who keeps telling them we're friends, anyway. So let's not go overboard."

Another noise of disapproval. She's drunk, and you're soft and warm, and she'd probably fuck you right here in the sand if given the opportunity.

Also, enough guys have been staring at you all night. She wants to give them something to stare.

You pull back and cup her face. You look right into her eyes. Her heart skips a beat. She's a goner.

Now everyone is staring. This time, neither of you notices.

(Because even drunk, she knows it's you.)

. . .

It's rare that you and Natasha part during that week in Miami, but it does happen.

She's at the bar, you're in your hotel room. She's ordering drinks, you're making sure your hair looks nice. She's chatting up some girl, you're twisting and turning in front of the mirror to see every angle of your body.

Natasha doesn't even know how it started. All she remembers is waking up alone, the memories of last night fresh in her mind.

A beach concert. You, in front of her, complaining about not being able to see. In hindsight, she knows you must've been exaggerating; in that moment, however, she didn't care. She grabbed you and hoisted you onto her shoulders.

People stared. Her shoulders felt like the top of the world. When you slid down, she didn't let go.

A few hours later, at 4 in the morning. You, tipsy, in her lap. Strong arms wrapped around your middle. A heart that beat a little too fast.

It's overcompensation. She's desperate to prove to herself that what she has with you still isn't anything serious, but she knows that's ridiculous. Looking at the girl in front of her — tiny bikini, full lips, messy eyebrows — she feels nothing. Just months ago, she would've done everything in her power to get her to sleep with her.

Now? Static. Boredom. Emptiness. It's frustrating and it's terrifying.

The girl leans in. She brushes her fingers along Natasha's bicep, down to her forearm and to her wrist.

Natasha swallows, trying to focus. Much to her dismay, she can't remember a single trick. She feels like she doesn't even know how to flirt anymore.

Then, you walk past. Black strapless bikini, a net wrap around your waist, tan lines on your shoulders. You walk past, barely noticing them, but Natasha jumps up and pretty much dumps the girl she was talking to.

You don't pay her any attention. It only makes things worse.

You round a corner, and Natasha puts her hands on your waist. You turn your head to look at her.

"I thought you had somewhere else to be."

Her thoughts falter. Then, she shakes her head.

"Nowhere else", she promises, kissing the back of your neck. "Where you going?"

"The pool", you say, adjusting the tote bag you've got slung over your shoulder. You weave through the crowds of half-naked people.

An hour later, you're both in the water. You haven't forgotten about her flirting at the bar, but she has. The second you walked by, that other girl was off her mind.

You're in the water, a drink in your hand and Natasha standing behind you with one arm circled around your waist. Her fingers slip under the strap of your bikini top, and she pulls at it to let it snap back. You glare at her, but she just smirks.

You're surrounded by your friends. Wanda is sitting on the edge of the saltwater pool, a cocktail in hand. Clint is snoring on one of the loungers. Sam jumps in headfirst, making Wanda squeal when she gets splashed with water.

Natasha leans in, lips against your wet shoulder. Water glistens on your skin. Hours pass, and the sun dips lower. Everything is washed in orange and gold. You're facing her now, arms wrapped around her middle. She runs her hand up your back and gently tugs at the clasp of your bikini, but this time, she doesn't let it snap. She just holds it.

You're staring. You both are. She's in way too deep.

The group asks whether you want to go to some club. You agree and go back to the hotel the change.

It's just the two of you now, hands brushing and skin sun-kissed, barely clothed. You both prefer this, but neither of you says it out loud. You step into the elevator, only in swimwear and with your hair damp and smelling like saltwater. Natasha so close, skin still damp from the pool.

The numbers on the panel tick. She watches your reflection in the elevator's mirror. You catch her eye and tilt your head. She pushes her hands into the pockets of her swimming trunks and looks away.

"You okay?"

"Fine", she mumbles. She's not one to get scared easily, but she's terrified.

You hum, unconvinced, but don't press further. It dings, the elevator doors slide open, and you step out. Natasha trails after you, noticing way too much. The strap of your tote bag sliding off your shoulder shouldn't be important. The water drops rolling down your spine shouldn't be important.

You shouldn't be important. This started as a fantasy, a hookup. Nothing that should've lasted more than a night or two. And yet, here she is. Not walking past your hotel room to get to her own, but stepping in right after you.

Inside, it's cool from the air-conditioning. Natasha plops down on your bed, hands tucked under her head and legs stretched out. She watches you as you dry your hair with a towel, and your eyes meet. It's quiet, way too quiet, and you clear your throat.

"We're leaving in ten", you remind her.

"We have to?", she asks. You glance at her, already in front of the mirror and changing into a dress. She swallows.

"You told them we'd go."

"Changed my mind."

"Well, I didn't." You adjust the straps of your bra. "What, you want to miss out on a night in Miami?"

"We have other nights."

You slip into a dress, but internally, you've slammed your foot down on the brakes. Natasha shifts on the bed, turning her head to look at the ceiling instead. You watch her through the mirror, something inside you twisting. You're not sure you want to leave, either.

"You okay?", you ask quietly.

Her head lolls to the side. "I'm good."

You hesitate. "We don't have to go, you know."

"It's fine. We said we would."

"I mean it." You pad to the bed and sit down beside her. She rolls onto her side, her hand trailing over crisp white bedsheets and coming up to rest on your thigh. "We'll order room service."

"No more cheeseburgers", she says.

You smile faintly. Tony has been in charge of getting everyone food a few times too many.

"No", you say, brushing some hair away from her face. "Anything else."

She hums. She glances at your face, then averts her eyes. Her head tips forward and her lips press against your knee. You reach out absentmindedly, running your fingers through her damp hair.

"Don't tell me you're tired", you mumble, smiling.

"Not tired enough", she says. She tugs at the hem of your dress. "So we're not going?"

You sigh. "Apparently not. Why?"

"May as well take this off."

You laugh, swatting at her hand. It's no use, though — she grabs you, pulls you down with her, keeps you trapped with her arms. You squirm.

"That's the real reason, huh?!"

"Maybe", she concedes, grinning. She kisses you, her hands moving to bunch up the fabric of your dress around your thighs. Hands roam bare skin, slowly, memorizing it. She pulls away and presses her lips to your shoulder, then her eyes drift.

For a moment, she just stares.

You nudge her.

"Natasha."

She blinks, meeting your eyes. Right — keep moving.

You're not used to her being this slow. Hands seem to move in slow motion. Lips drag across skin. Her nose brushes against yours.

The dress comes off and is tossed aside. You roll on top of her, feeling how warm and damp from the pool she still is.

"I should've gotten you a towel", you mumble, cupping her face. "You'll get a cold, with the a/c on."

Natasha just smiles. She tucks you against her body, forehead leaning against yours, and reaches into her swimming trunks. Hand around her length, she lazily palms herself before starting to pump herself to full mast. Not that much is missing, anyway.

"I'll be fine", she replies.

Her lips brush against your forehead. She keeps her hand around herself, but doesn't rush it. Her movements are lazy, unhurried. For the first time ever, you feel like your time isn't limited. It's a nice feeling. Maybe you'll let yourself get used to it.

She tugs off the swimming trunks, the fabric clinging to her skin. Finally, she rolls on a condom. Nudges your thighs apart, moves one to rest over her hip.

"Come here", she mumbles, one hand cupping the back of your head. "Let me feel you."

The head of her cock taps against your entrance, teasing you. You do have all the time in the world.

A breathless little moan escapes you. Her skin is cool from the a/c, with an undercurrent of heat beneath it. You press closer, making her strokes deeper. Her hips roll into yours, her arm stays wrapped around your waist. You meet every thrust, eyes slipping closed.

"Fuck", you breathe.

"You're good, baby."

Defined abs flex with every roll of her hips. You tug her closer, even deeper, and she grips your hip in an effort to stop herself from rutting into you mindlessly.

Your hand slips between your bodies. Your thumb finds your clit, swollen already, and circles it. Breathless little sounds escape you.

Natasha moans. She kisses you, traces your spine with her thumb, gently presses you down into the mattress. It's lazy, soft, and you've found a steady rhythm that works for you.

You're slick with arousal, but pulling out and rocking back in is still a challenge for her. Natasha grabs your thigh and pushes your knee to your chest, opening you up more. You whine and break the kiss, mouths inches away as you both breathe heavily.

"Not gonna last long at this rate."

"We got all night", she pants, thrusting her throbbing tip against something deep — so deep it makes it your hips stutter. "You got plenty of time to last long."

She's in so deep she barely has to pull back. She just grinds in deeper, cursing under her breath whenever you clench around her. Her cock is swollen, aching and twitching, and she can feel herself get closer to the edge as well.

Your hips jerk off the mattress when she rotates them with her hands. She laugh, voice rough, and kisses your throat.

"Yeah?"

You nod, clutching her biceps. "Right there-"

"You got it, baby. You got me."

Another roll of her hips. The pleasure builds, making all your nerve endings tingle with the approaching orgasm.

Breathy pants against your neck. A hand maps out your side, your thigh. Groans in response to whimpers, the sun outside disappearing from the horizon. A hotel room, darkened by the lack of sun and cold from the air conditioning.

The heat increases. She starts pounding into you, her nose nuzzling your neck. More kisses.

"I'm close."

"Me too."

"Wanna cum in you."

Your mind jumps back to the first time you did that. Back at the sorority party, after you'd had that fight. You remember the feeling, and a part of you craves it, but you also know you got incredibly lucky back then.

"Don't want to be a mom yet", you say, words punctured by little grunts.

Natasha whines at the mere thought. She loses rhythm before you do, her thrusts becoming sloppy and desperate.

She comes first — hard. You feel the way the condom swells when she spills into it. You feel her throb, feel the continuous twitching against your walls. It pushes you over the edge as well.

Thighs trembling and hips rutting, you moan. Natasha catches your mouth, swallowing every sound, and keeps rolling her hips until you stop.

Her hips twitch. She's wrecked, but there's no way she's pulling out. She kisses your collarbone instead, dazed and spent.

"Nat", you mumble, aftershocks coursing through you. "I'm full."

"Fuck", she pants. Her head drops forward and her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. "Feel so good."

"Better than the club."

"Agreed."

You spend hours like this. Intertwined on your bed, in the shower, over the table. When you finally decide to call it a day, Natasha's too tired to think properly.

Her face is tucked against your side. Her hand is on the inside of your thigh. She nudges your ribs with her nose.

Two words make everything better and worse.

"You're different."

. . .

Things go both up- and downhill. Sometimes, everything seems perfect. She kisses you in front of others, tipsy and clingy. She sleeps in your bed. She washes the salt out of your hair and kisses the underside of your thighs.

Red lipstick on her shirt colors, her nails painted with your favorite nail polish. Risky snaps and smelling like your perfume. Secretive kisses, messy kisses that end in spit-slicked lips, smiling into kisses before pulling away just to hear you whine.

She loves every second. Every second of it terrifies her, but she loves it.

She doesn't know why she ends up ruining it.

There's something that feels way too serious about waking up under you every morning. About how defensive she gets. How she uses sunscreen to draw shapes on your back. Your friends teasing her isn't helping, either.

It's harmless at first. It hurts, but it's harmless.

She disappears at a party. You have no idea where she goes, or what she's doing. When she returns, she doesn't tell you anything.

She's always been touchy, and that hasn't changed. Her hand ends up on someone's thigh. Her arm rests over someone's shoulder. You try your best to ignore it.

Then, the text messages. They light up her screen at night, flashing names you don't recognize. Natasha grabs her phone and flips it over. You scoot away from her.

She ignores the people who text her, but she doesn't tell them to stop, and she doesn't block them, either.

During another party, she's without you. It's rare that this happens, and she knows it. But the others know it, too.

"Single again?", Tony asks, handing her a vodka shot. She rolls her eyes but doesn't respond, instead knocking back the shot. "Where's your girl?"

She rubs her eyes. They're tearing up from the alcohol. "Seriously, shut up."

"No, I mean it. Where's Y/N?"

"Maybe they broke up", someone adds unhelpfully.

"Can't break up if you were never dating in the first place."

"Were you dating? I mean, with your track record..."

Natasha averts her eyes, jaw tense. She leans against the wall and starts counting the cigarette butts on the ground. But she's panicking, and she doesn't get far.

"Come on", Clint says, nudging her. He has no idea just how much damage his words are about to cause. "You can tell us, you know. We'd love to know if someone finally got you to dip your toes in the monogamy-pond."

She has two options.

One: admit she's all in with you.

(Not happening. She hasn't even been able to admit that to you, or herself.)

Two: prove that nothing's changed.

(How the fuck is she supposed to manage that?)

Natasha drags a hand down her face. She feels hot all over, her cheeks tingling, her fingers numb. She steps away. They all start talking at the same time, a chorus of we weren't being serious and come on and take a joke, man.

She edges past a small group of men and bumps into some girl. Natasha barely pays her any attention, but the girl's eyes linger. She watches her slide onto a barstool and order a shot from the bartender.

She downs a shot, then another. The girl watches her for a while, then she sits down next to her. Natasha glances at her, barely reacting.

Sun-kissed skin, glowing. Wavy blonde hair. Red dress, barely-there and accenting every curve. Exactly the kind of girl she used to go for.

Glossy lips tug into a smile. She touches her bicep and runs her fingers down to her forearm.

"Alone here?", she asks quietly. Her head tilts. Natasha curses silently when the simple mannerism reminds her of you.

"Nobody else around me, is there?"

"I suppose not." The girl leans in. Her breath is sweet and fruity, with notes of alcohol woven into it. "Oh. But now there is."

Natasha smiles reluctantly. The girl is flirting, and she's about to let it happen. This is her opportunity to prove she's still herself, prove that nothing's too serious yet.

Too many shots. Too much alcohol, even for Natasha. She's not someone who likes to feed into stereotypes, but she's Russian, and she's been drinking for way too long. She can hold her alcohol — still, she ends up drunk and with some girl in her lap.

Natasha doesn't even know her name. She comes up with the genius idea to call her Blondie.

More alcohol. Suddenly, she feels unfamiliar lips press against hers. Ignoring the nauseating feeling of guilt in her stomach, she kisses her back harder. Her tongue gets sucked into the girl's mouth, hands squeeze and roam her biceps.

"Wanna get out of here?"

Natasha, drunk but still able to think, hesitates. Blondie cups her jaw.

"Getting shy on me?", she teases. That hits her right where it shouldn't.

They get up. They stumble to the hotel. They burst into the room.

Lips clash, hands unbuckle a belt. She hardens slightly, but it's nowhere close to what you manage to do to her. Blondie starts peppering her jaw with kisses, and her hand dips under the waistband of her boxers. Natasha's head is spinning, drowning in panic and vodka.

She wants to tell herself this doesn't mean anything. That this just proves she's still herself. But she knows the truth.

She feels her hand around her half-erect cock. She grabs her wrist.

"Wait", she says, swallowing. "I don't-"

The girl pouts. "I thought you wanted this."

Natasha shakes her head. Does she want this? No. Does she know what she wants, though? She's not sure.

She looks away. The girl starts moving her hand inside her boxers. Natasha's stomach turns.

The door clicks open.

For a moment, all you can do is stare. You don't even process it at first. It's too surreal. Natasha wouldn't do this. She's known for sleeping around, but those last few months couldn't have been in vain.

And yet, the air smells like alcohol and sweat. Natasha and some girl are half-naked, and they're clearly in the middle of something you don't want to know about. Hand still in her boxers, wrapped around her, touching what you had in your mouth just hours ago.

Your heart stops, then slams against your ribs. First, you feel nothing — then it's just pure anger. The other girl glances at you, lazily, and you'd love to do some serious damage with that chair to your right.

Natasha, immediately sobering up, curses and pushes the girl away. You're out of the door already, storming down the hallway. You hear footsteps behind you, and you change your mind about taking the elevator. Instead, you take a turn and rush down the stairs.

"Y/N, wait! Fuck-"

You shake your head, running faster. She's close behind.

You make it into the lobby. Natasha's running, shoving people aside. Her heart is racing, and for the first time ever, she feels like she truly fucked up.

She's done similar stuff before. Slept with girls only to ignore them literal hours after, ghost people, lie and cheat and hurt the ones around her. It feels different now. Worse.

Finally, she makes it. She reaches for your wrist, fingertips grazing your skin, but you whip around and pull away.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"Please, please just listen-"

"Listen? I'm supposed to listen? Go on then, explain!"

Natasha stops in her tracks. She starts babbling, face flushed and hands shaking. You're still in the lobby, and people are looking at you weird, but you block them out. You block everything out, everything except the hot, boiling feeling of disappointment in your veins.

You knew it from the beginning — falling in love with Natasha can't end well. Here you are now, four months later, and you realize just how right you were.

"Look, I- I regret this, okay?", she says, desperately, pathetically. "I didn't want it to happen. I just- I drank, I drank too much, and she was right there, and I was terrified-"

You let out a bitter, hurt laugh. "Oh, you regret it? Well, that changes things. I'm sorry for assuming."

"No, baby, I mean it", she says, eyes pleading, and grabs your hand. You draw back as if singed by her touch. "Please."

"No", you say. You can feel the moisture forming in your eyes, the tears way too close. "No. Seriously. Fuck you."

"Y/N..."

"You're so full of yourself", you spit, stepping back. She steps forward again, but you rebuff her attempt once more. "You really think you're worth any of this? That any sane person will keep playing this game for you?"

Her face falls. She shakes her head, trying to pretend like your words didn't cut to the bone.

"You're not worth it", you say. "You're not worth any of it."

Natasha has to agree. All she can do is watch as you leave.

. . .

You ignore her. You block her. You stay away from her.

And still, somehow, she's everywhere.

On campus, at parties, outside the library. In basketball shorts and hoodies, an iced tea or black coffee in hand. Apologies lay on her tongue, ready and waiting to be served to you, but you're not in the mood to listen to any of them.

Natasha knows she's being pathetic. She's gone from 'the girl who doesn't chase' to 'the girl who's sadder to look at than a blind puppy'. She used to get any girl she wanted, no matter who, but now, the one girl she likes can't even bear to look at her.

She's aware you don't want to hear it, but she keeps trying, anyway. In the hallways, when you're on the way to class (you start regretting ever telling her where your seminars take place), in the cafeteria (which you start to avoid going to), in the parking lot.

"Can we talk?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care."

"Y/N, please."

You whip around. "Can you quit that?!"

Natasha freezes, hands lifted. Your chest twists at the sight — almost half a year ago, not too far away from where you're standing right now. A basketball and a girl that was a little too cocky. If you'd known, would you've still taken that same route? Or would you have taken a detour?

"I'm sorry", she repeats, more quietly. "I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make it better. But I miss you, and I'm sorry, and..."

And what?, she thinks. And please take me back? And I've never been this miserable over anyone before? And I love you?

She still can't say any of it out loud. She just rubs the back of her neck and shifts on her feet.

You stare at her, waiting, not saying a word. You're letting her sweat because she deserves it. You're letting her hope that you might forgive her.

Then, you turn around. You leave abruptly, not even bothering to give her the satisfaction of a response. Natasha stands there, staring, before finally reacting.

"It wasn't that serious, anyway!"

You flinch. Just barely, but she notices anyway, and her blood runs cold. She can't fathom why she'd even say that — all of this is her fault.

You leave. Again.

. . .

It's midnight when something hits your window.

You're in bed, not doing much. Staring at the ceiling, scrolling through whatever social media app your finger clicks on first, trying to somehow fall asleep.

It's quiet, aside from the rain outside. It's been storming for hours at this point, but the heavy downpour has turned into a slightly gentler hissing.

Then, a thump against your window disrupts the near-silence.

You sit up with a start to look at it. Faint cracks have appeared in the glass, forming a suspiciously circular shape. You hesitate for a second — god knows who's throwing shit at your dorm window in the middle of the night. This is New York, after all. Tons of crazy people running around, even on campus. Maybe it'd be safer not to check.

Then, it hits you. You blink, slowly, before getting up and padding to the window. You open it and look down only to find out it's Natasha. She's standing there, basketball in hand and bottom lip briefly tugged between her teeth, her clothes and hair soaked from the rain.

"Can we talk?", she pleads.

You stare at her. You step back and close the window.

The second you're back on your bed, Natasha exhales in frustration. She's panicking, rubbing her face and clenching her jaw. She has to do this, though. She has to get you to talk to her.

She lifts her hands and aims again. The ball flies through the air and slams against the window again — this time, too hard.

Glass shatters, a basketball shooting straight into your room. You stare at it in disbelief, too shocked to react, before finally jumping up. You grab the first thing you find, which is a half-empty vodka bottle, and step in front of the window to hurl it at her.

Her eyes widen and she barely dodges it. It shatters on the pavement, clear liquid spraying.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!", you yell, grabbing the next object. Another bottle, this time a plastic one. She curses when it hits her shoulder.

"Y/N, please-"

"No!" You search your desk frantically. You grab one of your old French books. Natasha jumps aside.

"Jesus Christ! Can we not make this a pattern?"

"Oh, you're sick of patterns?", you yell. You see a pair of scissors and immediately know what to do. You return to the window, basketball and scissors in hand, and her jaw slackens. "That's funny!"

"Wait", she says, scrubbing her hand down her face. "That thing's damn expensive."

You glare at her, breathing heavily. "That's your priority right now?"

"I'm not saying that, but I do care about it-"

The blade stabs into the rubber. Air hisses. The ball deflates in your hands, and you toss it in front of her feet. Natasha winces.

"That was a limited edition, babe."

"I don't fucking care!"

Natasha looks up. For the first time all night, you feel something close to guilt. She's drenched, defeated, water dripping from her hair and down her face. Her hoodie is completely soaked, and her expression is absolutely wrecked. She's so unlike the cocky girl that hit on you not too long ago that she's almost unrecognizable.

In that moment, you hate her. Still, she's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters.

"Tell me how to fix it", she pleads. "Just tell me what to do."

You glare at her, still out of breath. The anger is making your blood boil, hotly and thickly.

"Get your ass upstairs", you hiss. "NOW."

Natasha looks like she just short-circuited. She's frozen in place, blinking up at you through the rain, water drops catching in her eyelashes. Slowly, she grabs her deflated basketball and starts moving to the front door of the building.

Wet sneakers squeak, her steps heavy. She walks up the stairs and finds your dorm — stickers on the door, ranging from Strawberry Shortcake and Tinkerbell to a lipstick kiss print and a heart with the words 'try me' inside. She hesitates before knocking.

The door opens. She slips into your room, clutching that stupid shell of a ball like it'll save her. You slam the door shut.

Your room is too you. She used to love it, in a way. Pink blankets, vanilla candles, lipstick marks left on your desk from that time she had you bent over it.

She turns around and her thoughts falter. A flimsy blue babydoll dress, lacy and short. Your thighs are on full display, distracting her a little too much.

Why did you have to wear this? How is she going to focus?

"And?", you prompt.

"Uh...", she says dumbly. She's staring, and she's not able to stop. "I, uhm..."

Natasha's soaking wet, freezing and humiliated. She came here to patch things up with you. And now, her biggest problem is that she wants to bury her face between your thighs.

It's too late when she drags her gaze back up. You've caught her staring.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me! You're still thinking with your dick?!"

"No, I-"

Her back thuds against the wall and she winces, but no complaints come from her. She's aware that she deserves this, so she doesn't fight back.

You shove her, again and again, letting her body hit the wall. She's bigger than you, towering over you, strong enough to grab you and haul you across the room. Yet, you've got the upper hand.

"Say something, you coward!"

You need her to react at this point. You need the silence to stop, need her to do anything else but stand there and take your rage like a kicked puppy.

Silence. Barely a reaction. You fist the front of her soaked hoodie and shake her. Your heart is thumping against your chest.

"You had a ton to say when you were hitting on me!", you shout. "Now you'll just stand there?"

She nods weakly. It's enough to make your chest burn as the desperation flares again. She can't be that indifferent.

Tears burn in your eyes, hot and stinging. You continue to shove her, keeping this one-sided fight alive. Because that's what it is — one-sided. It has to be when your counterpart is acting like a damn vegetable.

"Fucking fight me, Natasha!"

An order, or a plea. You're not sure.

She stares at you, gaze trailing to your lips. She shouldn't be thinking about kissing you, or about taking off your dress and keeping it slip to the floor. She should stay rational. If she does something dumb, she's done for. She—

"So we're not hooking up, I guess."

Oh.

Eyes wide, heart stopping for just a split second. Oh, she's dead.

If you were mad before, you're livid now. You slam her against the wall, making her let out an 'oof' for the first time since this started. It's not just a spat, it's a full blown fight. The worst one you'd ever have, if you think about it.

Your fists thunder against her chest, then you grip her hoodie again.

"I'll kill you, you fucking bastard!"

The back of her head hits the wall. She grunts, finally grabbing your wrists. But her grip is as gentle as possible, considering you immediately try to break free from her grasp.

"Hey", she says, out of breath and pleading. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"Seems to be a common theme with you!", you hiss, tears gathering in your eyes. "Fuck- let go!"

"Only if we talk!"

"Let go!"

She shakes her head. You struggle against her grip, twisting your wrists and kicking and fighting, then the tears break free. You sob, the noises tainted with frustration, and thrash against her.

"I hate you", you sob out. The words hit her right in the chest, like gunshots and needles all at once. "You led me on for half a year, and for what?"

"I wasn't leading you on", she promises, desperate to fix things. But god, it's hard to fix something you think has already shattered. "Please believe me. I just- fuck, I'm bad at this."

You shake your head, breathless and sobbing and furious, and slam your arms against her. "Stop talking! Fuck, just- just-"

Natasha's heart is beating so fast she thinks it'll jump right through her chest. Not a good idea. She's pretty positive that if that happened, you'd grab and squish it until it bursts like a balloon.

"Please hear me out", she begs. "Just for a moment. Fuck, Y/N, I- I-"

You sob, fists managing to hit her chest once more.

"You what?"

"I love you."

You freeze. There aren't many things you're certain of when it comes to her. Everything feels like an illusion, like something that could change tomorrow.

What you are sure of, though, is that she's never said these three words to anyone.

The question now, though, is whether this is an illusion as well. Whether she's trying to find a way out of this by telling you another lie.

"You think I believe anything you say?", you sob, the tears coming harder.

"I mean it", she says, squeezing your wrists and rubbing her thumb across your skin. Her eyes search your face frantically, trying to see if you'll listen for at least a second. "I love you, and it's fucking terrifying, but I do, I love you, and- fuck, I'm not used to this."

You shake your head, unwilling to let her words cut too deep. But they do, they cut, and not only to the bone but through the bone.

"If you loved me, you wouldn't have done that. You wouldn't have slept with someone else, you- you wouldn't have made me stay just friends."

She decides not to comment that, technically, she was about to sleep with someone but didn't go through with it. You're not hitting her anymore, but if she dared voicing that thought, you'd probably straight-up murder her just like you did her poor basketball.

"Because I'm not used to any of this", she says, voice quieter. "I've never been in an actual relationship, Y/N. I don't do that. I sleep with girls and move on. I don't- I don't just fall in love. But I fell in love with you, and I'm too fucking stupid to act right."

You stare at her, breathing heavily and swallowing. She sounds sincere. You feel like an idiot for thinking that, but fuck, she sounds like she means it. And that is the worst part.

You're certain this might end up killing you eventually. But your lips press against hers just as suddenly as she appeared in your life.

You kiss her. Hard, desperate, furious. Natasha, stunned, hesitates before putting her hands on your waist. You cup her face, grabbing it, and tug her closer.

Your lips slam against hers, again and again. You walk backwards. Natasha, confused and hardening amid all of this chaos, follows obediently.

You suck on her tongue. She exhales, shuddering against you. Her hands tighten around your waist.

You push your hand into her shorts. She pauses, startled.

"Fuck me", you say. "Do something right."

"Y/N, you-" Natasha cuts herself off, breathing heavily. Then she's all over you, pushing you down on the bed, kissing and sucking on your neck, teeth scraping against skin. Hands under her damp hoodie, nails raking down her back and drawing blood. Her breath stutters, her face is pressed against your neck.

She wants to fix this, fix whatever's left of you. Return to what you had and make it better this time.

She kisses down your throat and reaches your chest. Latching onto your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, her hands push your legs apart.

Lacy underwear comes off. Her fingers are cold against your slick heat, making them slide in easily. She sucks on your boob, leaving a wet stain on the delicate fabric. Your back arches.

You grind against her, head thrown back. "Not like this", you pant. "Get on the bed."

"What?"

"You heard me." You sit up, grabbing the front of her hoodie. "Come on, asshole."

Natasha doesn't let anyone boss her around. But it's you, and she's done enough damage, so she scoots off you and lays down. You lean over her, your hair creating a curtain around your faces, and kiss her. Your hands trail down her front, right to her shorts. You pull them down just enough to be able to straddle her cock, easing it into you and stretching you out.

You roll your hips against hers, the tears having dried on your cheeks. You stare down at her, both of you out of breath, and fist the damp fabric of her hoodie.

The bed creaks beneath you. Cold gusts of wind enter the room through the broken window. She feels the same — throbbing, filling you entirely, her hips thrusting off the bed — but something's off.

You push the feeling aside and bob up and down, moaning quietly, your breasts bouncing with every movement. Natasha watches you, both mesmerized and worried. The fight was intense. You were sobbing, thrashing — for good reason. But now, you're riding her like a you've forgotten about everything.

She opens her mouth, wanting to say something. You grip her hoodie tighter.

"Don't."

"Y/N, are you-"

"Don't make it worse."

She keeps her mouth shut. She grips your waist instead, fucks up into you, letting you take what you need.

Is this what you need?

It used to be. You're not sure anymore.

A few more thrusts. Natasha thumbs your clit. Watches you fall apart for a second time that night. Comes when you do. You ride it out, pulsing around her, feeling her hot seed spill into you. Three, four spurts, heavy and filling you up.

You shudder, thighs sticky, and lift your hips to make her pull out. Coldness surrounds what was once enveloped in tight heat. Natasha wishes she could make you sit back down, but she's not in the position to ask for anything anymore.

You roll off her and lay down on your back. Shoulder to shoulder, your feet right next to the middle of her calves. You're right next to each other, but there may has well have been hundreds of miles between you.

She hesitates before glancing at you. Your eyes are staring up at the ceiling, face blank, distant.

Her fingers brush your hand. You don't pull away. She intertwines them with yours.

"Nat?"

Your voice startles her, makes her breath hitch. She closes her eyes. "Yeah?"

"You should go."

Despite having anticipated this, her heart drops. It takes her a bit to get out of her frozen state and sit up. Part of her thinks like she'll never feel this again, so she just sits there for a moment.

The various shades of lipstick on your nightstand. The high heels next to your closet. The fucking shards on the floor.

You, in bed, refusing to look at her.

She gets to her feet and falters. This can't be it, but this is it. At least that's what it feels like.

Natasha leaves her deflated basketball where she left it, right near the door. She puts her hand on the doorknob, twists it, and steps out.

This isn't it. It can't be. She'll make sure of that. But for now, all she can do is leave you alone for once.

You look up when you feel her linger. She's watching you, her body already half-concealed by the door. Then, her mouth opens.

"It was serious", she mumbles. "It never wasn't."

The door shuts.

. . .

You and Natasha ending up in the same place is a coincidence.

You were just trying to distract yourself, and Natasha got dragged here by Stark. Clint would kill him if he knew — he's been trying to keep her away from basically every girl in existence. Tony, on the other hand, believes she just needs to get laid.

She's told him that that's the last thing she needs. That that's what got her into this mess. But he doesn't listen. He's very convinced she just needs to 'act like herself again.'

"That one."

"No."

He turns, then points the mouth of his beer bottle at a girl with blue hair. "That one. Dyed hair, meaning she's probably unstable, meaning-"

She kicks his ankle. "Stop being a pig."

He whips around, looking offended. It's a show, though. It always is. "Excuse me? May I remind you of that girl in sophomore year? When you made up that story because she-"

"Okay, okay. Got it, I'm a hypocrite. Now stop trying to hook me up!"

He smiles, eyes sweeping across the room as he tries to find another victim. "You're sure? Give me five and I'll find someone with daddy issues."

Natasha sighs, knocking back a tequila shot. It burns, but not in a pleasant way. Whatever bar Tony dragged her into — the alcohol they serve is cheap, the lights flicker, and it smells like something rotten. But, according to him, it's the least pricey one in the area. Which shouldn't be an issue, considering he's rich and likes to splurge, but for some reason, he enjoys the low quality booze more.

He keeps pointing out various girls. 'Insecure. I can tell by the way she adjusts her dress.' 'Got dumped. Look how she keeps checking her phone.' 'Hey, a slut. Your soulmate!'

She almost rams her elbow into his side. Then, she spots you.

It's been almost two weeks since that night in your dorm. Two weeks of little to no sleep, of resisting the urge to apologize again, of regretting every tiny thing that happened since that night in Miami.

You haven't been doing better. You've been trying to move on, but it's hard. Moving on from someone who feels like home is like trying to move mountains.

There you are now, sipping cocktails and listening to some guy go on and on about something. He's been buying you drink after drink, and truthfully, you've been going along. Getting drunk isn't the worst thing you can think of in that moment.

Natasha blinks and rubs her eyes. Her heart is beating faster, rabbiting in her chest like it's trying to escape and run toward you.

"Oh. Oh, no. Not again."

She turns, frowning. "What?"

Tony gestures in your direction. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Okay, man."

"Seriously. Better find a new heart to rip apart."

She grits her teeth, clutching the shot glass in her hand. You're still oblivious about her being in the same room as you. Although, you seem to be oblivious about pretty much everything else, too.

She's seen the look on your face a bunch of times before. Too many times to not realize. You're drunk.

And the guy next to you? Still talking, still flirting, still pushing drinks in your direction. Still hovering.

You sway. He touches your side, right where your ribcage is, and tries to pull you aside. Natasha snaps.

Shoving her way through the crowd, she's by your side before Tony can tear away his eyes from some strawberry blonde girl. She moves next to you, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and essentially nudging the guy's hand off.

"What the fuck, dude?"

"Take a hike", she barks. "Can't you see she's drunk?"

He scoffs. "She's only had, like, a couple drinks."

"She looks like she's about to pass out!"

"Nat?"

She glances at you, startled and worried. "Hey, baby. You good?"

You look at her lazily, eyes squinted and head spinning. "You're here."

"Yeah", she murmurs, softening.

Whoever that guy was — it takes one look at the two of you to realize that his little plan won't work out. He clenches his jaw and walks off, fuming silently. He'd fight her if he didn't recognize her face. Of course it's Romanoff.

"I'm dizzy."

"Let me get you out of here", she says, looking for your jacket. It's not even May yet, and the nights are cold. She finds it and tries to get you to put it on. When that doesn't work, she wraps it around your shoulders. "Still can't hold your alcohol, I see."

"Fuck you", you mutter. But you're drunk and safe and warm, and for once, you don't mean what you said.

Natasha rolls her eyes and helps you up. She turns around, and thats all it takes — you trip and crash into the bar, knocking over a glass of wine.

"Hey!"

"Oh, hush", Natasha says, shooting a glare at the upset girl and steadying you. "That shit's cheap as hell, anyway."

"Burns, too", you add, grasping the front of her letter jacket.

She smiles faintly, your arm over her shoulders, and leads you outside. She has to bend over a little since she's taller, but she doesn't really care.

The night is cold, and the way to your dorm is longer than it should be. When she's on her own, it takes two minutes. With a drunk you by her side, however, it takes fifteen.

You stumble. You curse her out. You throw up into a hedge.

Going up the stairs is easy. Getting you into your dorm, however, is not. You're on the floor, one hand grasping the metal rods of the railing behind you, and ignore Natasha's attempts to coax you into your room.

"Get inside."

"No."

"Y/N."

"I'm tired."

"Your bed is right there."

Eventually, she just grabs you and hoists you over her shoulder.

Pajamas, water, bed. She sits down, hesitates before tucking you in. You stare at her, still not sobered up.

Wet eyelashes — did you cry? She didn't see you cry —, oversized shirt, smudged lipstick. A mess if she's ever seen one, and you're usually so put together.

"You should sleep", she starts. Your eyes flutter shut. "You need anything, before I leave?"

"You know damn well", you mumble, face half-buried in your pillow. She swallows.

"Painkillers?", she asks, ignoring what you said. "For the hangover. A bucket, maybe?"

"Don't do that."

Natasha exhales, slowly. She rubs the back of her neck and glances at your window. At least that's fixed now. Everything else still seems to be in shambles. Even if she tried to pick the shards up, they'd cut delicate skin and draw blood.

"What?", she asks reluctantly. Absolutely no part of her wants to know the answer, yet she can't help but ask.

"Don't act like you care."

She opens her mouth, but you've passed out already. Guilt churns in her stomach, but there's no way to get rid of it. She can't apologize — you're asleep. And even if you weren't, you probably wouldn't listen.

No apologies, then. Instead, she cleans up after you. Puts aside your dress, your high heels. Orders coconut water and bananas from some local convenience store that delivers this late at night (good for hangovers, apparently, at least according to the internet) and tucks you in.

. . .

There's no trace from her when you wake up. Just a note next to some groceries, saying: good for your hangover.

It takes you a moment to remember last night. You're disoriented, hungover, and the entire room seems to be spinning. Once the memories have fought their way through the mess in your head, you freeze. Everything seems to go silent, even the birds and cars outside.

A guy, putting his hands on you. Alcohol. Natasha. At the bar, in the street, in your dorm. Touching you without actually touching you.

Now, she's gone. No trace from her, except for a random stalk of bananas and a bottle of coconut water.

You stare at it, unsure. You unscrew the bottle and take a sip. Not bad.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you grab your phone to check it. No message from her, but Daisy sent you a picture of a flyer for the basketball game later that night.

Daisy: you coming? — 8.21am

You: forget it — 8.59am

Daisy: not a question anymore.

you're coming to the game — 9.00am

You: im really not — 9.00am

Daisy: school spirit or something

like that. you can't avoid her for the

rest of the semester — 9.01am

Unfortunately, she has a point. You fight it at first, but you know you have to go. Not for Natasha. Not so you can fix what's broken (though 'broken' is one hell of an understatement at this point).

You'll go. You'll watch. You'll leave. Maybe that'll help you leave things behind.

When you enter the university's gymnasium, you feel her friends' eyes on you. Not too long ago, your friend groups had mixed and mingled — Carol and Wanda, Sam and Daisy, Tony and Bruce. Now, they barely talk. Neither of you made them take sides, but it happened anyway. Everyone else seemed to split when you broke up, too. Though, it wasn't really a breakup.

You slip through small crowds of people, following Wanda and Daisy to a row of empty seats. It's loud already, with some pre-game playlist playing and everyone talking loudly. People throw popcorn, yell, laugh. It's rare that you feel out of place, but this time, you do.

"You really dolled yourself up", Daisy says, handing you a coke. "Is that lace?"

You glance down, realizing the neckline of your top is a little too low. You quickly adjust it. "I threw on the first thing I saw."

"Uh-huh."

"I can still leave", you hiss. She smiles and nudges you.

"Not yet", she mumbles, right as the teams walk onto the court. You follow her gaze and feel your heart speed up. "There we go."

Natasha. In her jersey, hair pulled back into a low bun, green eyes flickering across the stands nervously. It doesn't take long until she spots you. You both freeze, and the entire gymnasium may as well have noticed.

Nobody noticed, of course, except for Daisy and Wanda. They're all caught up in themselves. To you, it still feels like they did, because nobody else matters in that moment. It's you and her, and everything else is a blur.

Daisy doesn't dare say anything. She saw the look on your face, and she's not risking anything. Because even if she knows your relationship with Natasha was a whirlwind — it was still the most genuine thing she'd seen you get involved in.

Natasha averts her eyes. Knowing you still came here is both the worst and best thing in the world.

Carol, also on the team, noticed this little moment between you. She pats her back and tells her to come warm up.

The game starts. Natasha's team wins possession.

You stay in your seat, watching her. She's playing aggressive today, you can see that. Scoring hoops, pushing past defenders, blocking shots.

She's on top of her game today, and you refuse to acknowledge why.

Then, she runs across the court. She gets fouled, hard, and slips. You jump up right when she slams onto the court, a low thud echoing through the suddenly silent hall. But she bounces up like it's nothing.

"You looked worried there."

"She fell", you mumble, arms crossed over your chest. Daisy raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.

Halftime. Natasha's team is slightly behind, with the other team leading at 30-32. She makes her way to the bench and grabs her water bottle. She looks distracted at first, absentminded, but then she finds your face in the stands and you realize what exactly is distracting her.

Maybe it should've been obvious. Maybe part of you doesn't want to believe it, though.

You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. Daisy goes silent next to you, Wanda tilts her head curiously. You finally lower your eyes and fidget with the seam of your skirt.

The second half begins, and Natasha's team catches up as quickly as it loses the lead again.

You're actually frustrated for her. You watch the way her jaw tightens, how she briefly rubs her eyebrows, how she rolls her shoulders. It's a tough game, and even worse?: something's at stake. She's got something to prove.

She's getting more aggressive as the seconds pass, even forces a foul. When someone throws a cheap elbow while she's guarding someone and the referee doesn't call it, she loses it.

Your eyes widen as she gets in the referees face, snapping at him and gesturing with one hand. He tries to calm her down, but it seems futile. There are multiple things stressing her out, and there's only so much she can take. Your stomach twists at the sight, because despite everything that happened, her frustration still seems to be yours.

Eventually, she backs off and jogs back onto the court. Looking up, she searches for you. You nod, tentatively and your heart pounding, and she lowers her head and exhales.

One minute left before the game ends. The score is tied.

It's electric now — the players are sprinting, the ball is a blur. Natasha runs, dribbles, hesitates. She finds your face in the crowd, glancing at you for just a fraction of a second, and then jumps and swishes it through the net.

The gym erupts, the buzzer sounds. She doesn't hear any of it.

Her team is celebrating, and so are the people in the stands. Someone shakes and opens a bottle of beer to spray others with it, everyone is yelling, the cheers are so loud you feel like your eardrums are in genuine danger.

Natasha isn't celebrating. She's walking towards the stands, nervously wiping her hands on her shorts.

Whether this is a good idea or not, she doesn't know. But it's too late now. She's right there, right in front of you, only a row of people separating you from her. Out of breath, sweaty, adrenaline crashing. You stare at her, unsure, and watch her grab the bottom of her jersey.

She pulls it over her head and tosses it in your direction. You don't catch it — it hits your chest and falls into your lap.

You look at her, hesitating. Is she being serious?

She is. She stands there, staring at you, still trying to catch her breath. It's an impossible task, with the way you're looking at her.

Swallowing, she turns around. Daisy nudges you, and you finally grip the stupid jersey. It's still warm, smelling like sweat and cologne.

Natasha walks away, soles squeaking quietly on vinyl ground. She glances at you over her shoulder, briefly, but it's enough.

She looks away. You jump up.

You shove people aside and hop down the rows in front of you, reaching the court. You're practically sprinting at this point, desperate to reach her before she gets to the locker room.

You grab her, spin her around, kiss her so hard she almost stumbles. She groans, but it shifts into a soft whimper. She drops the bottle she was holding and grips your waist.

Around you, people are still cheering, still celebrating. But this is the real victory.

You deepen the kiss, drag your fingers through the damp baby hairs at the back of her neck. Her lips are salty, addictive, her body thrumming against yours.

Natasha tastes something sweet, fizzy, matching the way her stomach tingles. You're here, choosing her in front of everyone, and god, it feels good.

Time slows down. She inhales against your lips, sharply, her fingers digging into your skin. You get on your tiptoes, allowing her to stand a bit straighter. You pull away just enough to take a breath, and she makes a quiet noise of protest.

By the time you part, your lips are swollen and slick. Natasha's looking at you like you hung the damn moon, like you're the reason her heart is slamming against her ribs. Which you kind of are.

"You- I-"

You manage a smile, your fingers still playing with her baby hairs. How often does she get nervous? Once in a blue moon.

"You did good", you mumble, studying her. She swallows thickly. "Finally."

"I'm so sorry", she mumbles, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you against her. Your feet leave the ground. "I'm so fucking sorry. Fuck. It was all a mistake. I..."

You don't let her finish. You kiss her, again and again, until the tension slowly disappears from her shoulders. She pulls away and buries her face in your neck. It's not the basketball game that's leaving her shaking — it's you.

"You're a moron."

"Mhm." Her lips press against your shoulder.

"An idiot. An absolute buffoon."

"That's fair."

You pull away again, still clutching her jersey in your hand. Natasha gives it a quick little nod, and it looks so ridiculously shy you can't help but laugh.

"Say it", you tease, cupping her cheek. She frowns. "Come on. You're a big girl, aren't you?"

A deep breath in, then out. Her eyes sweep across your surroundings, making sure no one's listening.

"Put that on", she finally mumbles. "It's yours now. I'm yours."

You press another kiss to her cheek, then step away and put on her jersey. Your jersey, actually. Sweaty and damp, smelling like her.

Natasha smiles softly. She fidgets, shifts, then grabs your hand.

"We never had an actual first date, you know."

You hum. She's right. You hooked up, and then continued hooking up. There was never anything that even resembled an official date.

"What're you saying?"

"You, me." She squeezes your hand. "Maybe a nice restaurant? Or takeout? We can have a picnic. I don't know, I don't usually do this."

You want to say no at first. Not because you don't want to, but because the after game-celebration is in full swing. The entire team is talking about going to a bar.

But then you realize that Natasha hasn't spared them a single glance since the buzzer announced the end of the game. She's been here, with you, looking at you, asking you out on a date.

The fuckboy athlete who keeps everyone at an arm's length, now actually taking something seriously.

You kiss her, already leading her out of the gym.

"Yes. But no cheeseburgers."

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @esposadejoyhuerta

[yungistiny]

birthday boy

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which yeosang probably should of told you and his roommate he was going to do a live

warning: everyone can hear you, dom yunho, unprotected sex, deep throating, spanking, choking, established relationship

pairing: idol yunho x afab reader

genre: smut

word count: 900

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It’s Yunho’s birthday. They just finished their finale concert of this tour and Yeosang decided sitting in the living room while you and his roommate celebrated would be fine. So, he started a live to thank atinys for all their support, everything was going great until the first sound echoed.

It was a low, deep moan that clearly belonged to Yunho. Yeosang blanched, eyes wide and quickly he covered it up by saying Yunho was yawning. “He must be tired, it’s been a long last few days.” And though Yeosang had overheard you and Yunho many times, atinys were non the wiser.

The second time, Yeosang felt his face flush, because international fans were now in the chat making jokes, jokes that weren’t exactly jokes, not that they were aware. “I asked San and Mingi if they wanted to do a gameplay of a horror game together, Mingi said no.” He was desperate to deter the fans attention.

It’s not like he could just abruptly stop the live because that might arise real suspicions. But Yunho was getting louder and so were you, both of your moans mixing, dancing together in echoes from down the hall and Yeosang wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay live before he would have to make up an excuse, lie.

And Yunho was only loud, especially loud that night, because you were taking him so good. Gifting him for his birthday so well. His dick buried as far down your throat as it could go, you laying at the end of his bed, head hanging off the end where he stood.

His hands were everywhere as he thrusted, fucking your mouth almost as good as he would fuck your cunt. Yunho gripped your throat, thumb tracing over the center, a deep, rumbling moan leaving him.

He knew Yeosang had to of been hearing them, unaware that his roommate was live for thousands of atinys at that very moment as he finally pulled his dick from your mouth, the stretch of him down your throat gone making you cough a little.

“Only way I’m cumming is in this pussy.” Yunho was grabbing you, turning you over, fingers tapping at your aching cunt as you pushed yourself up on your knees and elbows. A loud whine of Yunho’s name left you when he lined himself up, one big hand gripping your hip, smoothing it down your ass before spanking you.

The noise echoed and Yunho smirked before plunging, thrusting into you until he was as far as he could get, until he was touching that spot that had you whimpering and crying out. Then he was relentless. Pounding into you, fucking you into his mattress, another spank against your ass before he leaned over you, hot trail of his tongue and kisses up your spine before he got to your ear. “I want you loud, let the whole building hear you.”

You gasped when his hands snuck around, gripping your throat, pulling you up until your back was flushed against his chest, his other arm wrapping around you, holding you tightly as he continued to thrust up into you, your walls clenching him, words incoherent and moans and cries loud.

Yeosang knew the second he heard you practically scream Yunho’s name, that it was too late. He felt his heart fall to the bottom of his ass and he saw a text message notification from Wooyoung who had been watching his live.

woo: EVERYONE CAN HEAR THEM TURN IT OFF OHMYGOD

Then another text from San

sannie: yunho sounds like he’s fucking y/n into next week SHUT IT OFF

“Well, I’m tired, we have a small schedule tomorrow, it’s a secret.” He was lying. They had no schedule but he had to come up with something, something else to keep atinys from the fact that Yunho was fucking his girlfriend, very loudly mind you. “Goodnight.” Yeosang ended the live and groaned.

“Fuck….. I’m…” You could feel your orgasm rising, glad Yunho was holding you up otherwise you’d probably collapse. “Come for me, make a mess for the birthday boy.” Yunho tilted your head back with the hand he still had on your throat, staring down at you, holding your gaze as you came, a scream of his name on your lips as he chased his own release.

Yunho growled, deep in his chest as his thrust became sloppy, you shaking in his hold as you came again, liquid desperate to spray from your cunt, splashing instead with every last thrust until your boyfriend came with the loudest moan you ever heard from him, your name loud on his tongue as he filled you completely full.

Yeosang hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch, perfect view of the hallway that led to his and Yunho’s bedrooms, when his roommate suddenly appeared. “Seriously?” He exclaimed because Yunho was naked, no shame whatsoever as he had been on the way to the bathroom.

Yunho froze, jumping slightly at Yeosang’s outburst, his ears turning red. “Have you been sitting there the entire time?” He at least thought Yeosang was in his own bedroom. “I was trying to do a live for atinys until the two of you oh so rudely interrupted me.”

Yunho’s eyes widened, there’s no way. Surely they weren’t heard on livestream? No. They couldn’t have been. Shit! Why didn’t Yeosang say he was going to do a live?

“Congratulations, birthday boy.”Yeosang stood up, gripping his phone in his hand as he walked past Yunho towards his own bedroom.

“Atinys know you’re not a virgin.”

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permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world

[subbmissivesuccubus]

Pent up

Summary: Your relationship with Kenma was going strong but for some reason, he hadn’t made the moves on you to instigate sex. Frustrated by your introverted boyfriends behavior, you went to sleep in a skimpy outfit to seduce him, not realising that his self control was barely hanging on by a thread at this point~

A/n: Another Patreon fic. Shoutout to all of my Haikyuu fans <3 My personal favorite is Ushijima teehee. Anyways, enjoy!

MY PATREON; COMMISSIONS; MASTERLIST;

You knew Kenma was an introvert. It was one of the reasons you loved him.

He’d prefer to stay inside his home, playing his games and building his career as a streamer as opposed to the other people of the same age who’d rather go out and party until they’re black out drunk. Hell, the reason you met Kenma in the first place was because Kuroo dragged him out of the house and into a bar after a week straight of gaming and streaming. You were working as the bartender and for some reason, this recluse young man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here interested you more than the many men who were trying to flirt with you.

You managed to slip him your number and luckily for you, he seemed to have noticed you as well. To this day, despite your relationship only being a month long at this point, Kenma is forever grateful that Kuroo dragged him out that night. Not that he’d ever admit that to his friend of course.

And you were grateful too. Working as a bartender and constantly being surrounded by booming music and even louder people was a lot at times and Kenma was a wonderful person to be with as he instantly calmed you down. His soft voice, calming personality and introverted behaviour meant that the two of you can spend the day indoors, order takeout, cuddle on the couch to watch a movie and consider it to be one of the best dates you could have.

But with the good comes the bad and sometimes…you wonder if Kenma likes his games more than you. Sure, you have a good time perched on his lap while he plays but it isn’t as fun when he’s screaming into the mike that the other player should kill themselves and that they’re a waste of oxygen. And yes, you love playing games with him but he either takes it easy on you or destroys you- no in between.

And while you love his passion for video games and streaming…

It is also the reason why the two of you haven’t gone past kissing.

You huffed in frustration as you collapsed onto the bed- Kenma’s empty bed. You were staying the night as you tend to do and despite him having his girlfriend over, Kenma was neck deep into the new Genshin update and told you to go ahead and sleep if you were tired. It was a long day at the bar and all you wanted was a good dicking down to relieve some of the stress. Hell- at this point you’ll give him a blowjob to alleviate some tension. You frowned as you hugged his pillow to your chest, your insecurities getting the best of you.

Maybe…you just have no sex appeal?

Wasn’t the stereotype that gamer boys were sex starved and desperate? So why does it feel like the other way around?! Sure, you could go and ask him, maybe talk to him and figure out his stance on the sex situation but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You wanted him to desire you. You want him to seek you. You wanted him to make the move.

…Unless your patience runs thin.

Which is why you forged an- albeit simple- plan. Stay in bed wearing his t-shirt and a pair of shorts. You weren’t blind. You caught Kenma’s eyes wandering and those eyes so often landed on your behind. You even bent over purposefully in front of him a few times, hoping he’d take the hint and atleast give you a squeeze but…nothing. Hopefully, seeing you in bed, wearing his clothes with skimpy bottoms would nudge him into doing something more.

…Is this what being desperate was?

With a sigh, your put Kenma’s pillow back on the bed before snuggling into yours, browsing your phone a bit and feeling your brain going numb at the endless scrolling and random content before eventually, it dropped out of your hands and sleep took over.

~~~~~

Oh man.

Now that is a sight.

Kenma gulped as he saw you lie on his bed, your position doing nothing to quell the desire and thirst he had for you. The moonlight seeping in through the curtains illuminated your figure, casting a white glow over you. Dressed in a pair of booty shorts and his t-shirt, with a leg hiked up on the bed, making the shorts ride up a bit and show off the sweet roundness of your behind and-

He hissed as he looked down, his cock already starting to harden and bulge slightly against his pants.

God, he wanted to fuck you so badly.

Everytime you’re on his lap while he games, he’s grateful that his disastrous team-mates make him so angry he forgets about his lust. And while you play games together, he has to always keep a pillow over his crotch because the sweet sounds you make when frustrated make him wonder if you’d make those same noises as he pounds his cock into your sweet pussy-

He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts as he gently slid into bed behind you, getting comfortable. He wanted you. He wanted you so badly that he was worried he’d scare you off if he said or did anything. He knew how sleazy men could be, especially the ones you have to deal with on a regular basis and he didn’t want to be the same as them.

Which is why he waited. Why he was patient and didn’t say or ask for anything more than a passionate make out session. He wanted to prove to you that he was with you for more than just sex! But…it was tough. It also didn’t help that he was far too nervous and shy to actually express his desires out loud. It was selfish but he was kind of waiting for you to bring it up and the second you’d express any desire, he’d pounce.

With a pout, he snuggled up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and spooning you. He sighed in content at the feeling of your soft, warm body against him, fitting against him like a glove. He took in a deep breath as he snuggled his face against your neck, taking in your scent that he loved so much before placing a kiss against your skin. He couldn’t help but smirk as he continued to mouth at your neck as little noises left your lips, occasionally going up to your ear and giving it a gentle lick or a nibble, wanting to coax more of those noises out of you.

But his smirk eventually dropped when you started moving. He bit down a gasp as his teasing caused you to writhe a bit in your sleep and bring your legs down together, which led to you accidentally pushing your hips back and grinding your ass against his crotch.

God…that ass.

Kenma gulped as he looked down, cursing his body for being so weak as he felt his dick start to harden again but this time, he couldn’t really blame himself. Your perfect, peachy, bubble butt was now squished against him, those shorts leaving little to the imagination. Your ample flesh was morphed a bit due to the contact and the movement made the shorts cling tighter to you and ride up between your cheeks. His eyes widened as he took in the sight, your ass basically spilling out for him to ogle at and…oh…it was riding up so much they were starting to look like panties-

“Fuck-“ Kenma gasped out as you moved back against him some more, causing his erection to slide between your asscheeks. It looked so lewd; he didn’t know how to handle it. He knew he should get up and go take care of it in private but…he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was a weak man for his beautiful girlfriend.

He gently placed his hand on your hip, fingers brushing against the fabric of your shorts as his body moved on instinct, giving you an experimental thrust from behind. He bit his lower lip to stop himself from moaning, the blood rushing to his face at the sensation of his clothed cock rubbing against your perfect, perfect ass. The thoughts swarming in his head were nothing short of perverted. He just wanted to rip those shorts off of you and give your bubble butt a spank- a bite- to shove his face between those cheeks and make you cum on his tongue- to grope and squeeze and kiss and lick and-

Kenma was dry humping you now, overtaken by his lust and desire. He should stop – but he couldn’t! It just felt so good feeling you against him, his weakness to your perfect body making him feel dizzy. Ever so gently, his hand started to slide down your hip, gliding over the fabric of his t-shirt before reaching your behind. His hand hovered over your butt, Kenma taking a gulp as he was just about to touch you-

“Mmph- K-Kenma?”

The man gasped, eyes widening and his hand instantly snatching itself away as he looked up at you, your face turned towards him and eyes blinking at him, slowly waking up.

“Hey- uh- I- this-“ Kenma sputtered, unable to think of anything to say and feeling like he was a kid who was caught with their hand stuck in the cookie jar. But even if he didn’t say anything, you were quick to figure things out.

You tried not to smile as you felt something hard press against your ass. Your plan worked!

“…What are you doing?” you asked, now wide awake as you raised an eyebrow. Kenma’s mouth opened and closed a few times, words failing him before he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to- I-“

“It’s okay.” You said, leaning back enough to kiss his cheek, “I don’t mind at all. In fact…” you reached you hand back to grasp his wrist, bringing it down back to your ass. The man hissed as you placed his hand on your cheek, instinctively squeezing it and letting out a groan as your flesh spilled between his fingers. He growled as he started groping you more incessantly, even giving your butt a gentle yet sharp spank which made you let out a gasp.

You purred in delight, the feeling of Kenma’s hand on you causing your whole body to heat up. You popped your hips back, still grinding against him even as he copped a feel. Your bodies were practically stuck together, the two of you grinding and moaning into the quiet air. You turned your head a bit more to look at your lover and you were overtaken by how pretty he was.

Kenma was always a natural beauty and often times you thought he looked prettier than you did. And that theory was only supported more by his pleasure enjoying expression. Eyebrows furrowed, his cheeks a soft red, his baby pink lips parted to let out little pants and gasps, his long, dual coloured hair fanning out messily but it still looked so good-

“What are you- hah- looking at.”

You blinked as you were snapped back into reality, Kenma’s eyes on you as the two of you made eye contact. “You.” You answered honestly, a hand coming back to cup his cheek, “I like this look on you.” “And what look is that?” “Needy and desperate~”

Kenma scoffed, pausing his grinding for a second and your body shivered as you saw his eyes darken a bit in real time. He was looking at you like you were prey, his previous attitude overpowered by something more feral.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

You gasped as your position was suddenly shifted. Still lying on the bed together, Kenma grasped you by the shoulders and turned you around, making you face him. With ease, he grabbed one leg and hooked it over his hip, the same hand going down and giving your ass a harder slap, making you squeal. His other hand slid underneath you and looped to your lower back, using that to press you tighter against him. You barely got a word in before Kenma smashed your lips together, your eyes widening at the sudden behaviour before they fluttered closed at the familiar sensation.

His lips parted your expertly, his tongue sliding into your mouth with practices ease. You gasped into the kiss as he continued to grope your stinging ass, this time feeling his erection…press right against your crotch. You mewled as he started grinding against you again, moving his own hips while simultaneously pulling you against him, causing his hardness to grind against your pussy even harder.

“Dressing like this- mmwah- seducing me with your body- hah- you want this just as badly, don’t you?” Kenma asked between kisses. You mewled and nodded against him, your hands fisting his shirt as your body tingled with pleasure, feeling your pussy grow wetter at each thrust, his clothed erection grinding against your clit.

“Kenma-aah.” You panted you, “I want…I want-“

“Me too.” Kenma said, reading your mind easily as he bumped his forehead against yours, “I want you.”

“Then shall we…” you trailed off, your hand slowly moving down and settling at the hem of his sweatpants, waiting for his consent. He did the same to you, his hand leaving your ass to thumb at the elastic of your shorts, desire evident in his eyes.

“Please.” He said.

The two of you whisked off each other’s clothes- well- as much as you could as you were far too desperate to get to each other as opposed to getting completely naked. So Kenma threw your shorts over his shoulder while you simply pulled his pants down enough for his cock to spring out at full attention. Your minds were a mix of excitement and shame, the reality of the situation hitting hard as you stared at each other’s privates for the first time.

This was finally happening. Lying on your sides, staring into each other’s eyes.

“Wo-hah.” You gasped, slowly wrapping your hand around Kenma’s length, loving the way he shivered at your touch, “You’re really…pent up, huh?”

“Y-Yeah.” He groaned out, cock twitching in your hands as his gaze was focused on the sweetness between your legs, “And I see you’re the same.”

“Ah!” you squealed as he slid his hand gently against your cunt, the man grateful that you chose to not wear panties. You heard him chuckle as he got in contact with your wetness, his fingers gently sliding up and down your slit to collect your juices. Occasionally, he’d roll your clit in circles, making your legs twitch at he paid attention to your sensitive nub.

“Fuck…want to eat you out.” He whispered, making your face turn an even brighter shade of red. Just picturing it…Kenma between your legs…his long hair in your hands as you direct his face to your cunt…him looking up at you with his striking, catlike eyes as he opens his mouth and takes a greedy lick of-

“S-Slow down! I don’t want to cum yet.”

“Ah! S-Sorry.” You squeaked, taking your hand off of his cock, not even realising that your hand started to jerk him off on instinct. “You’re good at that.” Your boyfriend said with a gulp, his fingers still teasing your pussy, making it increasingly hard to focus, “But all that grinding has got me really pent up and…I don’t want to cum in your hand.”

“W-Where do you wanna cum then?” you asked, already knowing the answer. He simply huffed before he slid a fingers inside of you, taking your breath away. You clung onto him, once again gripping his shirt tightly as he shoved his finger knuckle deep inside you. You squeezed your thighs together on instinct but that did nothing to deter the man, Kenma even sliding a second finger inside you.

“Look at that…so ready and eager for me.” He purred; the room filled with the schluck schluck schlck sound of his fingers stretching your pussy open. You whimpered and shoved your face against his chest, your hips trembling as his long, talented fingers explored your insides. You probably had the games to thank for his talented fingers, his many hours fiddling with a controller helping him to finger fuck you perfectly.

“Kenmaaaa!” you whined, “Can we just- ah yes- I want you.”

“So desperate for me.” He teased but thankfully, he carefully pulled his fingers out. You couldn’t even retort as Kenma got your leg back up to hook onto his hip, leaving more room to really slam into your pussy. You held onto his shoulders, shivering as you felt him press his tip against your entrance. With a nod from you, your breath caught in your throat as Kenma slowly started to push in.

“Ah! Fuuuuck!” he groaned, closing his eyes as he was overtaken by the sensation of his cock sliding inside you. Your pussy hole was so tiny and cute but parted for him so obediently even as he slid inch after inch inside you. You whimpered against him so adorably, your mouth open and panting, clinging onto him like your life depended on it. Slowly…slowly…deeper…deeper… “There so go~” Kenma purred once he was balls deep inside you, his tip pressing against the hard yet gooey entrance to your cervix, “Good girl.”

“S-So deee-hah-deep.” You whined, feeling like the air had been pushed out of your lungs, “This position makes it so- hah- w-wait- Kenma!”

“Sorry baby-“ Kenma growled, his hand gripping your thigh tightly as he gave a few light thrusts, his head spinning from the pleasure, “I can’t wait. You okay? Does it- hah- does it hurt?”

“I-It’s okay,” you reassured, pulling back a bit from his chest to kiss him, “Keep going.”

With a nod, Kenma kissed you again, tongue first as his hips fucked into you. Your moans were swallowed as his cock slid in and out of you deliciously, each slide in bumping against your womb, just begging for more. You could feel your juices drip off of you and stain the mattress underneath, not even caring about the mess.

Kenma was in heaven. Waiting for so long was worth it in the end. He groaned and panted, pulling away from the kiss to breathe, his head spinning. Your pussy clamped down around him deliciously, sucking the life out of his cock. He dreamed about this and yet, those dreams didn’t come close to how this intimacy felt.

His fingers dug into the fat of your thighs harder, both of you practically breathing each other’s air as you fucked. His balls clapped against you as he thrust, chasing his pleasure and wondering what he did to deserve you. He felt his dick somehow harden even more when he saw you fumbling with your shirt. With a grunt, clearly frustrated that you had to adjust your weight enough to maneuver the fabric, you got your shirt to lift up to your chin, flashing Kenma your bare tits.

Without a second thought, the man bent down and latched onto one with his lips, a loud, pornographic moan leaving his mouth as he started sucking on your nipple. How could he forget to lavish his favourite girls? The noises leaving your lips were heavenly, you wrapping your arms around his head and pressing him tight against you, the sensation of him messily coating your hard nipple with his saliva making your whole body tremble. He’d lick at your bud a few times, giving it teasing flicks before taking it in, sucking on it harshly. With a few nibbles and toe-curling sucks, you found yourself being driven to orgasm faster than you ever had before.

“I’m gonna- gonna-“ you mewled, trying not to whine in disappointment when Kenma detached himself from your breast to speak.

“Me too baby.” He panted, giving your nipple a kiss, “Together. Let’s cum together!”

Plapp plap plap plap

The sticky lewd sound of him fucking into you was all you could heart, almost drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat, feeling like it was beating in your ears. Kenma went back to your nipple, suckling on it greedily, eyebrows furrowed as he too reached the edge. His hips lost their rhythm, instead thrusting quickly and deeper, chasing that high that he was so, so close to touching. Arms wrapped around each other, it only took a minute before you climaxed.

With a shrill scream, you reached orgasm, your head tossed back and body shivering like a leaf as pleasure rushed over you. Like a wave crashing on top of your body, your pussy gushed happily, your toes curling and your fingers fisting his hair as you trembled from the force of your orgasm. You were so high off of your own pleasure that you didn’t register Kenma swearing as he pulled out of you quickly. He jerked off his cock as he instantly came as well, his seed splashing against you, staining your abdomen and tummy in his sticky white cum.

The man panted, feeling dizzy as he milked himself, hand tugging at his sensitive member and watching as ropes of cum left his tip only to paint you. Man…he wanted to cum inside you so badly but the two of you hadn’t had that conversation yet. It would be a real dick move to stuff you silly with his cum during your first time together.

Little did he know, you would have loved nothing more.

“Hah…fuck…” you panted, slowly getting back to reality, his cum feeling deliciously warm and sticky against you.

“Yeah…” Kenma panted, just as dizzy from pleasure as you were. You leaned towards you and gave your chest a few kisses before he paused and cheekily took a nipple back into his mouth. Your squeal made him chuckle against you, your hand slapping at his back weakly before he pulled away.

“…Round 2?” you asked, a twinkle in your eye.

“…Round 2.” Kenma agreed, grabbing your shoulders before pushing you down to lie on your back, swiftly settling between your spread legs.

~~~~~

[lexirosewrites]

Day 16: Pack Isolation Sickness

for @stmarchmm

Steve has never felt more at home than at a concert.

Ever since he was old enough to hitch a ride to Indy and sneak into places with a passable fake ID, he’s been drawn to live music however he can find it.

He’s not even very picky about the genre.

Of course, he has his favorite bands and singers, as most people do. A small collection of songs and artists who make him feel a little less alone in the world.

As a male omega (something that’s drawn mostly negative attention since he was old enough to present), Steve’s alone a lot.

His parents weren’t around much prior to his “unfortunate presentation,” but now they only pop in to take holiday family photos and pretend they’re good parents.

Then it’s back to some tropical island or big city where they can live the life they actually want.

Without a disappointing son.

So yeah, it’s been rough the last few years for Steve.

No real family or pack. Most of his friends stopped answering his calls when he lost his popularity or refused to sleep with them.

He’s a loner, but not by choice.

This is how he finally discovers the wonders of metal music.

Steve had overheard some geeky freshmen discussing a metal concert happening at the shitty bar in town that night.

The Hideout is notorious for not carding very well. His fake will be fine, even if half the town knows the Harrington’s omega son is only eighteen.

His interest is piqued.

A band called ‘Corroded Coffin’ is supposed to be playing. A group of local musicians who have the regular Tuesday night spot.

Steve’s there an hour early, charming his way past the scrutinizing gaze of the bouncer with a sweet smile and batted eyelashes. It usually works for him.

He then finds a barstool to wait on.

It’s a little warm in the bar, so much so that even the dim lights start feeling too bright.

Steve has felt on the edge of a cold for a while now. Never quite sick enough to call himself truly ill, but never quite feeling like himself either.

An occasional cough or runny nose. Minor things. Tolerable.

None of that is enough to keep him from the music. If he’s ill, then music is the cure to all his ailments.

There’s nothing in the world that can’t be remedied with a good rhythm and a catchy melody.

By the time Corroded Coffin is ready to start playing, Steve’s grown slightly impatient.

He’s almost bouncing in his shoes, antsy to move and dance and enjoy the music that’s beginning to come from the band on the tiny stage.

Steve notices right away that the members aren’t old enough to be here at The Hideout either. Primarily because they’re also students at Hawkins High.

Gareth, Jeff, Doug, and Eddie Munson.

He’s not had much interaction with any of them beyond watching Tommy pick on them, back when they used to be friends.

But he knows Eddie is the leader of his little group of freaks.

Steve’s fairly sure they all play some demon game too.

He may not be a part of any social groups any more, but Steve still hears gossip from others.

There’s also the matter of Eddie getting up on lunch tables and giving long, flashy, noisy speeches to the whole school about forced conformity and the repression of omegas in society.

For a while, he’s fairly sure everyone believed Eddie himself to be an omega (albeit, a nontraditional one) because of how he openly opposes strict secondary gender roles.

But that rumor was quickly cleared up by a fight between Jason and Eddie wherein alpha fangs came out.

He seems like an okay guy, if a bit strange.

Still, Steve knows enough about his own prior reputation to know he probably shouldn’t stick around for the show.

And yet.

The music keeps his feet planted firmly towards the front edge of the stage, filling his ears with booming riffs and drums.

It’s an addiction, the music.

Something powerful he takes many hits of, but it never seems to fully take the edge off, no matter how much he gets.

Steve stays for the whole set, eyes closed and head banging along with the drunks who’ve stumbled in off the street for liquor and a show.

When it finally stops, it’s hard to believe he’s been listening for almost an hour straight.

‘Getting lost in the music’ is an understatement for the way he feels.

As soon as the show is done, Steve’s energy is zapped. His legs feel suddenly weak and his heart is pounding away too fast.

The cold is catching up to him, leaving him with profound exhaustion and emptiness in its place.

Like maybe he’ll never feel normal or happy again.

A feeling of doom and despair washes over Steve. It’s not new, but it is miserable.

“Harrington?”

He blinks open his eyes.

When had he even closed them?

Steve attempts to straighten up and stop leaning against the nearest brick wall for support.

Eddie Munson is staring him down with a look of open confusion and hidden skepticism, as if maybe he’s mistaken about Steve’s identity in the dark bar.

“Munson,” he states with a shaky nod.

“Why are you here?” Eddie asks plainly.

It’s not a surprising question. This isn’t one of Steve’s usual joints, but apparently it is Eddie and his alpha friends’.

“I came for the music,” Steve answers truthfully.

“Our music?” Gareth joins in.

He nods, turning his body in the direction of the exit. ‘King Steve’ is long gone, but not everybody has allowed his past to stay there.

A group of four potentially hostile alphas staring Steve down isn’t the best idea, even if they haven’t given him a reason to bolt out of the place yet.

“Yeah, I heard you guys were good.”

He isn’t sure what else to reveal, but he still doesn’t feel well and this conversation is weird.

“We are,” Doug states, squinted gaze locked onto Steve like he’s the one who could be a threat.

As if he isn’t an omega facing four alphas.

“Right. I’ll— uh, just be going now,” Steve explains, trying to push by Eddie with no luck.

As soon as the older alpha puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him, Steve’s legs give out and he’s on the dirty bar floor.

“Whoa, what the hell? Are you okay?” Eddie asks, bending down to help him.

If only he could melt into the floor now. But Eddie’s arms are so nice wrapped around his waist and assisting him to stand. The alpha then leads him backstage, to what appears to be a green room of sorts.

It’s filled with musical equipment, but at least there’s a couch where he can sit.

Eddie sits right next to him, tucking Steve under his arm and holding him close.

“It appears the rumors are true then. King Steve really has no pack.”

The words aren’t said in a cruel manner, but it still breaks his heart a little to be reminded.

“What do you know about it?”

Eddie hums thoughtfully.

“Enough to realize you’re having a wicked case of isolation sickness and you’re gonna drop any minute now if we don’t take care of you properly,” Eddie replies, gesturing towards the rest of his band of friends until they’re all surrounding Steve.

“Why are you doing this?”

He’s openly crying now.

Jeff gives him a sad smile, rubbing his wrist against Steve’s neck gently.

“Because we know what it’s like to have our own pack look out for us. Whatever the hell happened with your old friends, we can’t leave an omega vulnerable like this. We’ll take care of you, Steve.”

Gareth takes hold of his hand.

Doug ruffles his hair, leaving a scent on the top of his head.

All of the Corroded Coffin boys are making sure Steve has physical contact and plenty of scents on him, assuring that his inner omega knows he has a pack around him.

It works fast, the combination of touches and instincts.

He hardly notices Eddie kissing his temple and murmuring sweet words to him about what a good omega he is until his body starts to feel like his own again.

"You're alright, Steve. Your alphas are gonna protect you, sweetheart."

"I really did like your music," he admits quietly.

The boys all chuckle at him, but not in an unkind way.

"Well, you're welcome to tag along to our shows anytime. You can be our first real groupie," Doug jokes.

Steve smiles at that.

It would be nice to have friends again. And it's not like he's got other places to be anyway.

"I'd like that."

Eddie gives his shoulder a squeeze and Steve leans right into the touch, laying his head on the alpha's shoulder in return.

All of the Corroded Coffin members are being so nice to him, even though he doesn't deserve it.

But the pull to be near Eddie is even stronger.

"What do you think about coming back to my place tonight, Stevie? The boys and I were planning on knocking back a few of my Uncle Wayne's beers and watching a sci-fi movie."

He nuzzles his face closer into Eddie's neck, using the action to nod his agreement to the proposed idea.

It takes a combination of efforts to get Steve safely onto Eddie's back so he can carry him out to his van (they also have to reassure the bartender that he's not being kidnapped).

But by the time they make it to Eddie's trailer, the alpha has mentally readied a ten step courting plan to implement on Steve.

[speechless-illusions]

I kept seeing people on Tiktok saying "Suzanne ended Hayffie" "I'm proud I never shipped them" and even trying to flip the narrative and bring the age difference discourse and the "she met him when he was a minor!!" cards to try and make the ship become "problematic" and tie it to the recent "ship police/purity" witch hunt (ironic, after reading a whole book about the dangers of propaganda) so other people turn to hate it now.

And I'm so surprised because to me, an avid Hayffie shipper since day 1 (more than a decade in this ship, I won't get off now or never), Hayffie has never been so validated as with this book. Suzanne has given us SO MUCH CONTENT.

The makeup case scene? Her putting flowers on Haymitch's shirt? Both are very intimate scenes to me. Her being the last one she saw before entering the arena (her eyes being the last thing he focused on before going into that hell) AND first friendly one to see after he got out? Her making sure he knew that even after how the Capitol portrayed him, she believed he was a good person? Her making sure to check on him during the whole time he was in those capitol parties (and we know what depravities the capitol people made victors do. She maybe was checking noone did anything to him)? I even saw a comment on a Hayffie edit saying that in how grey Haymitch's life turned after his games, Effie was there every birthday of his after that, wearing rainbow colored clothes and trying to bring a positive attitude...

YOU CAN'T TELL ME SUZANNE DIDN'T PURPOSELY GIVE US ALL THIS CONTENT OF THEM

I'll admit I was a bit sad after seeing no mention of her in the epilogue and seeing so many people saying the "goose mate for life" thing completely invalidated them. And then I stumbled upon a comment here on Tumblr that made me go investigate and...

It turns out the "Goose mate for life" means once goose choose a partner, they'll be with that parner until one of them dies, then have a long mourning period, but then CAN and sometimes DO find a new partner after all of that.

I CAN'T THINK SUZANNE DIDN'T KNOW THIS. AND I'M THRIVING AT THE IMPLICATIONS

All I hope, and want to believe, is that this book, just as how Haymitch tells his story to Peeta and Katniss, is finally his way to reconcile with everything and with Lenore, to finally let go of the feelings of regret and guilt. And realise he can have someone by his side to help him cross this world before he finally gets reunited with her again in the other. I believe Effie is that person to him and I'll always still do.

P.S. Knowing most of Effie's development and their relationship sparkled from the movies and not the original books I can't help but pray the director of the SOTR movie has something prepared for us... Maybe if the put the epilogue in the movie, we'll see Effie with Haymitch there 👀

[nwarrior777]

Good post, but have smth to add

Bad news but very good ones too. Ai users stole and will steal graphic from good interesting art (which is sucks), but they will not be able to take away the core of art. And core of art is not good skill

Training skill in art process is not most important part of being artist. Everyone for some reason is obsessive over idea to train skill forever, even not questioning it

"I draw, it means i just need to run to perfection forever!" - what style do you draw, what do you even think as perfection. Renaissance paintings - okkay, why? why do you like renaissance paintings? do you like it even, or you think it's cool cause art teacher says so. if you like it - why. why this, and not like 1000+ other styles. why focus is on style even. do you know what those renaissance paintings about? or do you think it's just cool style makes them cool and these paintings don't have anything more in. do you know history behind it, country, context?

do you know something about art aside it looks? aside it looking good?

because - ai definitely will steal that, the look, the graphic, completelly. it sucks, yeah.

but good news - art is so so so much more than good skill and ai will not be able to steal that

ai already can make "stories" and narratives. but who use it and for what? companies, for money sucking. evil politicians for their evil sht.

and what good art is always about? no, i am not asking how it looks. what good art is about?

good, interesting art is *always* about fight with that. not always literally - not all good interesting art is epic story about epic good fighting evil epicly, but good interesting art is always about freedom, love, care, strive for that.

you literally can't make good interesting ai thing as capitalist, esp big capitalist company. because all that makes art good and interesting, well, aside from look - it is going against it. good interesting art is riot, it's queer, it's anti capitalism, it's feminism, it's gay, it's trans, it's against racism, it's against evil. it's about riot, hope, love, fighting, experiment. it's about thoughts about reality. even if it doesn't look like it, if you see interesting thing, it's about it, but it has layer of events and plot to cover metaphors and message, cause it's art, it's poetic. And good interesting art can have many forms, endless forms of that: it born in minds of oppressed people, discriminated people, people who Saw Sht, people who love freedom, and loved art, who savior in hard times was Art. so they can Think, they can make context into thoughts into Anti Evil Message, wrapped in so many ways of say this message poetically. From kid's little poem about Tiger who broke the cage and run to freedom ("yes, YES, the tiger is out" tumblr legendary post) to complex game which is hitting so deep and personal, at the same time so wide to human soul, that you can relate to it being from any part of the world looking sadly at very specific-real-world-references architecture locations where you probably never was, and crying because the game say you and seagull have something in common (disco elysium)

and what ai "art" used for? casino and gacha games and casino and gacha features on apps, like that trash rewards in bank apps, to make you spend more money. or ads. or other money sucking sht

or, well, they try to make films.

do you think these films are good and interesting? some interesting reflexia on historical events we are in? some interesting thoughts, from author experience, which cut their soul and they want to share? some queer- ok it's funny even to continue, of course no. it's just money sucking of course. i've seen ai films announces - it's some sht based on tiktok meme. yk, to get as many kids as possible to theatres and get tons of money. and they use ai cause meme will vanish week after, and if to make it, yk, by hands, it would take years.

do you see my point

so yeah. ai will steal graphic. it's sucks. "haha it's ugly and have mistakes!" - capitalists will fix it soon. do you remember first ai things? i do, because it was scary time to spent in internet - i thought i am having strokes sometimes from it's look, being very vaguelly fluid and "dreamy". now it looks like, well, usual art or photo. "it can't have layers!" - it will be able soon. they will steall all graphic things. layers, quality, all styles, everything

it sucks and people who have resources to fight this fighting, big regards to them

but it's important sometimes to hear some words, not only win cases agains ai can be win. calming thought or understanding things is win too

art is not about style. art has so much more in. art is about something. it is good word in screenshot of op post - "invaluable". Values - ai will not be able to steal it. if you have values in your art - they will not be able to steal it. they will not be able to steal your Heart. and if you artist - it's probably your life. they will not be able to steal values of your life, The Your life-fight. even if they steal your graphic.

(writing this as someone who artwork will be probably stolen btw, because i worked in start up in accessibility field, but turned out the project was a cover for the main guy to get big money and make big business and all ethic thing he said was lie. and yes maybe they will steal my art - but they will not actually. they can imitate style i can do. but a) i can do endless variety of styles b) my art is not about style, not about graphic. my art is about being art representative activist, that's why i leaved the project immediately after i knew truth. another point, btw, why it's important to have your art goal - it will be impossible to manipulate you to stay or come to awful things like that. like, why do you think i am not working on disney or some game studio which makes genshin-gacha-like games? not even trying to get there and staying away is choice.)

ai, the instrument of capitalism, instrument of evil, can't "create" something with values being anti-capitalistic and anti-evil. ai "art" is not art - it's capitalism money sucking instrument

i saw post recently, saying "if you don't understand why you draw, what you draw, how, what next, just sht up and draw" which is common thing for artist. being afraid to even question the very important, actually, questions. and it needs to be asked in our times most importantly

ask yourself why you draw, what you draw. what you telling with your art. it's hard question. but it needs answer. and it doesn't needs to be philosophy degree answer. "to relax", " to have fun ", " to tell my expirience", "it's activism, i help in [ ] field by my art", " it's rebelion", "it's experiment", " i draw cute things to give people safe chill space in hard times " etc

find your goal of art, your answer of why, what it's about. because "it's about endlessly train skill" - well, it was sad even before ai (all those artists who were saying that they hate their art and it's ugly.. or were saying it about art of *others*) but now it's. kind of even more sad. esp even if you don't know or question or have direction of what you actually train, *what* style, just looking on endless white artists "advices", told millions time the same, about how to make shadings on realistic cube by pensill, a oh and by the waay look at these sponsored pensils he has to show you, cool pensils buy (do you see the point here?). some woodwork, or some interesting skills can be focus-trained yeah. but it's always "i train this skill for-". for keeping ancient tradition alive. for making epic furry costumes and making people happy, giving them unique opportunety, unique look, unique expirience

making unique art graphic is, unfortunately, stolen goal now. sometimes technobros says it's same as photo invention - no, it isn't same (photography is new mechanism and photo is not merged all world paintings together, it's different chemical procces, it's new media, not drawing even). but, to artists - i think it was one similar thing about it, about impact of invention of photo to art: new understanding of what is art

before photo art was mostly about capturing reality as it is, the style were mostly kinda-realistic (if to talk about western art and not about paleo period, it is smth different). then, we had photo - *new* capturing reality instrument, new media. it was progress, it busted art forward, opened new direction for styles, artists asked "can art be *something else* - not about capturing reality?". (by the way, actually stealing was and is a thing. but it wasn't about inventing photo - artist were stealing from each other. western one stealing from african and asian is whole big thing. but i didn't hear technobro saying smth about andy warhol stealing art features which made him famous from japanese female artist Yayoi Kusama, so it's for another post). look for "...isms" by Sam Phillips. It calls "isms" cause its something like encyclopedia about contemporary&modern art, about many styles and "isms" (cubism, impressionism, expresionism, suprematism, etc) which came after 1800'th to around 2000-+, then book was written. and, it's a lot of isms let's say, and i think it only take gallery art, not deeping in internet art or intersections of art and other media, like animation or theatre

we had diverse styles and "what it is about" - every style is not actually about graphic. graphic of art is instrument of it message - capturing reality; getting your feelings about thing to canvas, your impression of what you expirienced (impressionism); getting your emotions and feelings from your soul to canvas, expressing yourself (expressionism); what if color can be the focus of artwork itself, without image or characters or backgrounds? (suprematism); what if it's possible to take object and get it's purpose away and change to another purpose? (ready-made); is it possible to create image on canvas without actually creating an image on it? (whatever the thing of lucho fontano and his ripped by knife canvaces is called and answer is yes).

art was about diverse of styles and experiments, yeah. but, in the core, still - it was always about strive to freedom of experiment, capturing something important for author, in the core art is "what it is about and what for" answer of The author

and now capitalism stole graphic from art

so yes, - graphic is stolen from art by capitalism. evil always steal, it's only that it does. but they can't steal core of good interesting art - it's value, it's messages, it's author. it can't create Love. yes they can pretend - but, if you see money sucking happening to some rich wallet, it's cover. pretending. evil can't create true Love. they will just create gacha casino and other money sucking things wrapping it in good-looking "art" and "well written" text

so find something more in your art, than graphic. find something more in your words, than good grammar. and, i am sure you have it if you creator of Love. just don't be afraid to ask yourself why you do this, why you choosing it as your life thing.

cause in our times you can't left big choices of your life unanswered. if you don't have your answer on your purpose of life - companies will answer it for you and your life purpose will be to serve them. and it's saddest thing to give them such Life thing as art, such powerful thing, for that

This machine kills AI

[yandere-daydreams]

exhibit #4 - tickling.

an installment of the freak shit march gallery showcase.

pairing: yandere!dick grayson x reader (dc).

length: 1.6k.

warnings: non/con touching, mentions of kidnapping, explicit disregard of consent, tickling, prolonged captivity, and obsessive/delusional behavior. dead dove: do not eat.

You weren’t entirely sure how you ended up in this position.

Being held in an underground facility for an indeterminable amount of time, you were starting to grapple with. It helped to think of it as a kind of witness protection program – the city’s ever-expanding network of criminals wanted you dead and buried, Gotham’s most prolific gang of vigilantes wanted you alive and able to provide testimony at an upcoming trial, and the best place to keep you in the meantime was one of the many tucked-away safe-havens they apparently had, where only the damp chill and occasional lost sewer rat would be able to find you. It wasn’t that bad. Your temporary living space was more similar to a high-end apartment than a war bunker, and someone was almost always around to keep you company (even if you could survive without the taller, angsty-er Robin’s board games).  If there’d been a few more windows, you might’ve been able to get used to it. You were still looking forward to getting home, of course, but you knew why you were here.

How you’d ended up tucked against Nightwing’s chest, his arms locked around your midriff and his face buried in the back of your shoulder was… less comprehensible.

‘Bonding time’, he called it. There was a movie playing in the background – some b-rated flick meant to make you scream and flinch and melt further into him – and he’d cornered you in the bedroom, insisted that both of you would be more than comfortable on your twin-sized mattress. Of all the bats, he was the most determined to treat you more like a little sibling than an endangered civilian. Part of it (most of it, even) was guilt. He’d been the one to find you in the back of that big, white van; the one to suggest putting you into hiding to the others. Of course he wanted to make you feel comfortable. If you didn’t, he would be the reason why.

You just wished his bids for your forgiveness were a little less tactile.

The leading lady let out a cartoonishly high-pitched scream as the killer’s axe broke through the ridiculously thin door of her bathroom, and you felt Nightwing’s hand flatten against your stomach, prepared for you to startle and shrink, ready to draw you closer at the first sign of a reaction. It took everything you had not to roll your eyes. A shirt that read ‘Sorry I got you sort of kidnapped, please tell me I’m a good hero!’ would’ve been more subtle.

Sighing, you started to push yourself up. He was quick to stop you, of course, drawing back without loosening his grip. “Going somewhere?”

“Mhm. I just need to—” A half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat on your bedside table, an untouched glass of water next to it. You could say you needed to use the bathroom, but you’d already used that excuse, too. Less than ten minutes ago, in fact. “—stretch my legs. I’ll be back in a second.”

He hummed, one of his hands falling to your side, where your oversized shirt had ridden up to expose skin. “If you’re feeling restless, you can say so. I’ll talk to B about moving some gym equipment in – let you burn off some steam while I’m gone.” He paused, laughed. “Or I could be your personal trainer. Promise I’ll go easy on you n’ everything.”

Your tense smile faltered. Great.Then he’d have yet another reason to put his hands on you. “Mr. Nightwing, sir, I’m really just—”

“I’ve told you,” he cut in, tone light and saccharine and so incredibly grating. “You can call me Dick.”

“I really don’t think I should know your real—”

“I don’t mind. It’s only fair, since I know yours.”

“That’s different.” It really wasn’t. You hadn’t wanted him to know yours, either. “I’m sorry, but I really just need a couple of minutes to—”

Again, you tried to pull away, and again, he stopped you. This time, though, the effort was hasty, sloppy, and his fingertips brushed against the tender skin just above your hip in just the wrong way. Before you could swallow it back, an airy giggling slipped past your lips – more reflex than anything. Immediately, you stopped moving, and Dick did the same – his hand clamping down around your waist.

You tried to speak, but he was faster, his delight blatant enough to be audible. “You’re ticklish?”

“I’m not.” And then, more defensively, “It hurts and I hate it.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t let you go, either. His hold on you shifted, one arm wrapping around your diaphragm while skirting his freehand along your lower stomach, his touch nearly too light to be felt. Your reaction was instantaneous, humiliatingly so. A crooked smile, a fractured laugh followed shortly by an awkward, painful wheezing sound. You threw your elbow into his chest, but he ignored you, only nuzzling into the nape of your neck. “Yeah, I can tell how much you hate it.”

He was practically dripping with that self-congratulatory, faux-sympathetic confidence. You grit your teeth, biting back a comment about Gotham’s heroes and their faulty sense of mortality, but it was a waste of breath. He was already moving onto his next target – the inside of your thighs, clamped shut as soon as his hand started veering in that direction. That didn’t matter. All it took was the pads of his fingertips grazing over that hyper-sensitive junction for you to lose your composure, kicking out blindly as you coughed up a sound that swung closer to death gasps than laughter.

Dick didn’t seem to mind. When he laughed, it was light, chiming, genuine. He propped his chin on your shoulder, watching your expression as his hands moved over your stomach, your sides, your midriff. “It’s cute,” he muttered, only half-focused on what he was saying. Most of his attention was dedicated to touching you, tickling you, making sure you didn’t have time to breath in-between thrashing fits – let alone resist. “And it’s good to see you lighten up. I don’t think you’ve smiled since the day we met.” Your recollection was swift, spotty. Darkness, adrenaline, terror, and then, relief, light, a smiling face. You couldn’t remember anything beyond that, not beyond what’d been told to you later on. You couldn’t remember whether you’d been happy to find yourself in Dick’s arms, or devastated that you were still being held at all. “You could afford to let your guard down a little, you know. It’s not like any bad guys are gonna be able to find you here – not with me looking out for you.”

 “I don’t—” It was awful, not being able to spit out a coherent string of words without your own dysfunctional body cutting you off. It was awful, knowing he wouldn’t listen even if you could. “I’m not afraid of any—”

“Of course you aren’t. Not when I’m here to keep you safe.” His voice had taken on a strange drawl, blurring around the edges. You felt him shift against your back, his hands leaving your body for one merciful second before finding your shoulders and jerking you onto your back, the motion forceful enough to knock the air out of your lungs. You were never going to get used to it; the freakish strength, the inhuman speed, the bizarre flexibility that meant he was on top of you long before you’d had the chance to catch your breath. His knees dug into the mattress on either side of your waist, his hips slotted against yours. Against your will, you felt something stiff and warm press into your lower stomach, and choose not to put a name to it.

Your chest throbbed, like it was at risk of splitting open. Your body ached, too little oxygen in too many placed, and it took you seconds to remember how to make any sound other than short, pitchy whines. Dick took it all in from above, only partially cast in shadow. Unlike the others, he never wore his mask around you – something about ‘letting his guard down’ or ‘proving you can trust him’, you were sure. Still, you wished he cared more about his secret identity. Even blank anonymity would’ve been better than being able to make out the deep, scarlet blush spread over his cheeks as he loomed over you, to recognize the raggedness of his own breathing and force yourself not to acknowledge why he seemed so strained.

“You’re not smiling.” It was true. You weren’t. Your expression had fallen into a distinct, pathetic grimace – only a touch less strained than the alternative. “Are you going to fix that, or do you need my help?”

In your own defense, you tried. You did your best to force it, to contort your lips into something that could pass for an easy smile, but whatever mangled offering you managed to pull together wasn’t up to Dick’s standards. He sighed, bowing his head and raising his hands. For a brief, terrible second, you pictured his fingers curled around your throat, your body convulsing as you suffocated, but his intentions were elsewhere. The hem of your shirt was caught and drawn up to your chin, far past anything that could ever be considered appropriate. You felt his fingertips drag over the curve of your rip cage once, twice before it kicked in – a searing, full-body laugh tearing out of your chest while you thrashed, your back arching and your hips inadvertently crashing against his. Immediately, Dick buckled – falling against you, hiding his face in your shirt. A second later, you felt something damp start to soak into your shorts, so hot it could’ve burnt.

The minutes passed, but Dick didn’t move, content to keep his body pressed into yours. Teary-eyed and dizzy, you let your head roll to the side, staring blankly at the television just as the credits started to roll.

At least he couldn’t keep you here forever, right?

[himasgod]

Can I request a leona x reader where the reader is like really smart in a out of the box why like the reader can throw him off in chess or something (sorry I’m really bad at explaining stuff I hope you have a good day/night :])

Leona x Reader

Where he can't beat you at chess

Where you are the only person who has ever been able to compete with him at chess, the only person who has ever truly captured his attention.

I used to know how to play chess but when I was little, I've forgotten it now so I couldn't describe the moves very well sorry 😿 but I hope you like it!

Under the awning in Savanaclaw, a group of students watched with growing amazement the chess game unfolding between Leona and you.

Leona, with an expression of absolute confidence, rested one arm on the back of his chair as he analyzed the board. From the start of the game, he had tried to play with his usual tactics: aggressive moves, baiting, and ambushing. However, every move he made was dismantled by you with an ease that irritated and amused him in equal measure.

"Tch, I've never seen anyone play like that," he murmured, resting his chin on his hand and squinting at the new position of your pieces.

"I'm playing with you, Leona, I'm not really playing chess." you replied with a smile, moving a piece.

The spectators let out a murmur of surprise. Jack, who was also watching the game, frowned.

"What does it mean, not playing chess?" he whispered.

Leona clicked his tongue and gave a crooked smile.

"Hah. Don't tell me you're manipulating the game on purpose."

"Technically, no," you said, your expression amused. "But I know how you think. I'm not looking to win the traditional way. I'm playing in a way that makes you doubt, confuse you, and force you to change your style. Basically, I'm making you frustrate yourself."

Leona rested an elbow on the table and covered his mouth with his hand, hiding a husky laugh.

"Interesting."

The murmurs among the students intensified. Everyone knew Leona was a born strategist, someone who used his intellect more than his brute force, and that very few people could even match him in a mind game. But here you were, not only dismantling his strategy, but also pushing him out of his comfort zone.

With a heavy exhalation, Leona moved a piece.

"Fine. If you want to play with me and not chess, then I'll adapt."

The tension in the air increased. Leona had accepted your challenge, and although it seemed like the game was merely a contest of wits, you both knew it went much deeper. It was a battle of perceptions. A fight seeing who of you were the most intelligent.

And, for the first time in a long time, Leona felt someone could match him at his own game.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd found someone worthy of his attention.

The next few plays grew more intense.

Leona completely abandoned his carefree attitude and began analyzing you with those sharp predatory eyes that made many tremble under his gaze. But you just smiled back, unperturbed, enjoying his change of attitude.

"You know," he murmured, crossing his fingers under his chin as he studied the board, "you're quite annoying."

"Thanks, I try hard," you replied with a smile.

Leona let out a low growl, as if he couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or amused by your attitude. Then he made an unexpected move, one that seemed like a trap, but actually hid a deeper strategy.

This time, it was you who narrowed your eyes. You recognized the change: Leona was no longer testing you, he was taking you seriously. And that, somehow, made you smile.

The end of the game came with an unexpected draw. Not because either of you could win, but because both of you, at some point, had decided ypu didn't want the game to end yet.

"Oh, tie," you said, leaning back on the table with a satisfied expression.

Leona held your gaze for a moment, and then, with an almost imperceptible gesture, his tail swished lazily to the side.

"Let's play another game," he suggested with a half-smile. "But this time, without spectators."

The students around you let out surprised gasps, but Leona didn't even pay attention to them. He only had eyes for you.

"Oh, you want a rematch?" you mocked, leaning slightly toward him.

"Hah. Call it what you want," he murmured, resting an elbow on the table and looking at you with a different intensity. "But I have a feeling I won't get tired of playing with you."

So, having scared the others off with Ruggie's help, as night fell, you spent a few more hours playing, with neither of you giving in to the choice of winning or losing.

Neither of you wanted to end that game.

So Leona ended up yawning, showing his large teeth and raising his eyebrow at the board again, saying, "So I guess we'll have to continue tomorrow. Don't go running away, herbivore."

"Run away? Why would I? You couldn't even beat me. It seems you're running away like a cat with its tail between its legs."

Leona gave a lazy smile before yawning again.

"You've got a lot of nerve, herbivore. No one dares to talk to me like that."

"No one dared to challenge you in chess either, and look at us, we've been playing for hours."

Leona got up to go to his room, but not before turning around, analyzing you with his green eyes and letting out a lazy smile

"Get ready for tomorrow, because this time I'm really going to beat you. I'm going to devour you, herbivore."

"Whatever you say, scaredy-cat."

And with a wide smile, you returned to Ramshackle, dreaming of the next hundred plays you would make against Leona just to hear his concentrated growls or his eyes fixed on you.

[rosy-hollow]

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ╰┈➤ @lillycore ⦂ OH OH, since you’re requests are open, can I request high school au with sukuna (established relationship) where he asks reader out to prom and what they’d do there? 》 ✐ᝰ UHM YES?? I LOVE YOU THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE HEHEH

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ

If you ranked Sukuna Ryomen on a list of the classiest men alive, he’d be dead last.

You knew that when you started dating him. Hell, you’d been together for two years now, so if his lack of finesse bothered you, you wouldn’t have stuck around this long.

Which is why you weren’t even surprised when, in the middle of some random conversation, he just told you that you’d be going to senior prom together—like it was already a given. No asking, no buildup, just a casual declaration.

Because in his mind?

It was a given.

It was just a stupid dance, anyway. No need to make a big deal out of it.

Right?

God, he was so wrong.

Now, standing outside your door, waiting to pick you up, Sukuna feels something entirely foreign settle in his chest.

Nerves.

It’s almost pathetic, how anxious he is. Not even during high-pressure games does his heart race like this. At least then, he’s in his element.

This? This is uncharted territory.

Loving someone—hell, even dating someone—always seemed like something that happened in theory. Something that happened to other people.

But he didn’t just love someone.

He was in love with you.

So utterly and completely in love that the very idea of being without you makes him feel like a dead man walking.

You, with your pretty face and knowing smiles. The way your laugh makes his heart do annoying things. Your witty comebacks, your sharp tongue.

You make him feel alive.

And ironically, the second the door swings open—his heart stops.

You are breathtaking.

To be fair, you always are, but—god.

"Holy shit."

He doesn’t even realize he’s said it aloud until you giggle, stepping forward and shutting the door behind you.

Sukuna suddenly feels very grateful you insisted on matching outfits, because with the way you look right now—he’d be damned if you looked like anything but his.

Just the thought makes his feel strange - a good strange - inside.

You’re his.

And he’s yours.

“I… wow,” he mutters gruffly.

You hum, stepping closer, tilting your head in amusement. Teasing him.

“Is that a good ‘wow’ or a bad ‘wow,’ ‘Kuna?”

A large, warm palm finds the small of your back, pulling you in, his lips brushing over yours.

“Definitely good,” he murmurs, before pressing his lips against yours—the first of many tonight.

Some might call you a miracle worker for convincing Sukuna to actually drive to the venue. Because if he had it his way? You’d be heading straight back to his place, where he could have you all to himself.

It’s cute, honestly. The way he grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing stopping him from devouring you whole. Like if he so much as looks at you for too long, he’ll lose whatever shred of self-control he has left.

You, on the other hand, have no such limitations, happily being the passenger royalty you are.

So you drink him in—the way the streetlights cast shadows across his sharp features, how insanely handsome he looks in his suit.

You were just as whipped as he was.

Just... better at hiding it.

When you arrive, the entrance is already packed with familiar faces, student IDs in hand, waiting to be let in.

Sukuna steps out first, then, to your delight, makes his way around the car to open your door for you.

You giggle at his rare act of chivalry, taking his outstretched hand.

Inside, the venue is stunning—twinkling lights, lavish décor. You definitely have to congratulate your friend on the prom committee for a job well done.

Sukuna, however, could not give less of a shit.

Because while you’re admiring the decorations, he’s admiring you.

The soft, awed expression on your face is worth more than any stupid floral arrangement.

When you glance back at him, his eyes are warm—softer than they ever are in public.

You smile, leaning in to kiss him again, and he happily obliges, though it takes everything in him not to pull you flush against him and forget the whole damn dance.

When you pull away though, there’s a mischievous glint in your eye.

Oh no.

“‘Kuna~?” you draw out, sing-song.

He groans. He’s screwed.

“Will you dance with me?”

Sukuna just stares at you blankly.

“Fuck no.”

“Pleeeeease?”

Oh, fuck you and your stupid puppy eyes and your perfect face and your perfect everything—he can’t say no to you.

And that’s how he finds himself standing in the middle of the dance floor, awkwardly shuffling while you happily bop along to the music, grinning like this is the best night of your life.

It goes on like this for a while—your poor, hulking boyfriend completely out of his element, staying only because he loves you.

Then—suddenly—the music shifts.

The bass-heavy beats fade, replaced with something slower, softer.

Sukuna’s eyes widen slightly as yours light up.

You step toward him, all soft smiles and adoration.

You bow teasingly. “May I have this dance?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. But there’s no real bite. “Ain’t I the one who’s supposed'ta ask ya that?”

You hum as he tugs you closer, his arms encircling your waist, your own draping around his neck. “Maybe… but I like to keep you on your toes.”

He lets out a rare, genuine laugh before kissing you again—deep, slow, tender.

He rests his forehead against yours, voice lower now, softer.

“That you do.”

Your eyes shine, drinking in the way he looks at you.

“And unfortunately for you,” you tease gently, “I always will.”

Sukuna snorts.

“You’re a little shit.”

But you both know he doesn’t mean it.

A/N: AHHHHHHHHHH (that's it, that's all I have to say)

[she-took-the-heartland]

There are two very different but tangentially connected topics I've been thinking about: Covey lineage and homophobia in District 12.

We learn in TBoSaS that there are six remaining Covey members. There are three Baird cousins: Lucy Gray, Maude Ivory, and Barb Azure. There are two Clade brothers: Billy Taupe and Clerk Carmine. And there is the adopted Tam Amber.

Lenore Dove is confirmed to be a Baird whose mother died in chilbirth. When Haymitch finds the Covey graveyard, Lenore Dove's grave is next to Lucy Gray's and Maude Ivory's. This seems to imply Maude Ivory was Lenore Dove's mother.

"Clerk Carmine and her other uncle, Tam Amber, have raised her since her ma died in childbirth, seeing her pa's always been something of a mystery. They're not blood kin, her being a Baird, but the Covey look out for their own."

-SotR, pg. 8

From SotR pg 371 and 372

Since TBoSaS was released, it's been speculated that Katniss was descended from the Covey. So it isn't at all surprising to find that Burdock was also a Baird. Given that Lucy Gray is long missing/dead, and Maude Ivory is likely Lenore Dove's decesed mother, that leaves Barb Azure to be Burdock's mother.

"She [Lenore Dove] wasn't one of Burdock's Everdeen cousins, but I knew she had some distant ones on his ma's side."

-SotR, pg. 7

I remembered that in TBoSaS, Barb Azure is mentioned to have been dating another woman.

""She [Barb Azure] just started seeing a gal down the road," confided Lucy Gray when they were out of earshot of the house. "Probably glad to have the place to themselves for the day.""

-TBoSaS, pg. 430

This got me thinking more about homophobia in Panem, and I gathered as many references to queer relationships as I could find throughout the series.

In TBoSaS, we have the Barb Azure wlw reference which seemed to be socially acceptable in that time. Also in TBoSas, Coriolanus brings up a gay couple from the Capitol and does not express their relationship to be taboo:

"They had come to see Pluribus Bell, an aging man with lemon-tinted spectacles and a white powdered wig that fell to his waist. He and his partner, Cyrus, a musician, owned the shattered club and now made do by trafficking goods from its back alley."

-TBoSaS, pg. 32

It seems likely in the early history of the Panem, homophobia was not an issue in the Capitol or the Districts.

However, a few quotes from Katniss in Catching Fire and Haymitch in SotR lead me to believe at some point, homophobia was used to control District citizens specifically.

"That's when she revealed that he'd [Clerk Carmine] been together some thirty years with the fellow in town who replaces busted windows. They have to keep it quiet because loving differently can get you harassed by the Peacekeepers, fired from jobs, arrested even."

-SotR, pg. 13

By the 20th hunger games, 10 years after Barb Azure was seemingly openly dating a woman, Clerk Carmine had to keep his relationship with a man secret.

But there's no evidence that Capitol citizens are punished for same-gender relationships. It's hardly mentioned in the original trilogy, but it is implied that when Finnick was forced into prostitution with rich people from the Capitol, it wasn't just women who were paying for him.

"But ever since he [Finnick Odair] turned sixteen, he's spent his time at the Games being dogged by those desperately in love with him. No one retains his favor for long. He can go through four or five in his annual visit. Old or young, lovely or plain, rich or very rich, he'll keep them company and take their extravagant gifts..."

-Catching Fire, pg. 209

It's sad, but I think Suzanne Collins added these details to show that restricting the freedom to love who you want is another way of controlling the Districts. They are given freedom to choose who they want to marry... as long as that person is someone they can reproduce with to make more children for the hunger games.

Perhaps Barb Azure was bi, or more tragically, perhaps she was forced to assimilate, to marry an Everdeen man and have children. She always seemed to be the Covey member most tied to duty and responsibility.

[starxanemone]

꩜ⴰ ࣪˖ BLLK LOVE LANGUAGE HEADCANONS

itoshi sae & nagi seishirou

⸻ in which i'll be rating their love language on a scale of 1-10 based on my understanding of their personality + include the type of person they'd be compatible with.

⸻ [ part ii. isagi yoichi & itoshi rin ] [ part iii. bachira meguru & noel noa ]

ITOSHI SAE

ACTS OF SERVICE: 8/10. His love language is definitely acts of service. The best way he can show that he cares for you is by helping you out with practical things that you actually have trouble with. Too many groceries in your hands? He'll carry them. Need help grabbing an object from the other side of the room when you're busy with something? He's walking over and handing it to you. I feel like he'd do all those willingly so long as you don't make them feel like demands.

WORDS OF AFFIRMATION: 3/10. Not too big on words of affirmation (I mean, come on. Look at his relationship with his brother). He wouldn't be the best person to receive emotional comfort from and he might even accidentally hurt you with his words, but he's the best person to approach if you want an actual, objective perspective that can aid you in forming a solution or a decision to your predicaments. He just has the emotional intelligence of a rock.

PHYSICAL TOUCH: 2/10. Not into physical touch either. I feel like the most he'd give you is a head pat especially if he comes to grow fond of you. It's tough to break down the cold exterior of his because he's probably pretty a little cold on the inside as well. You'd have to be the one to initiate and let him warm up to the idea of physical touch.

QUALITY TIME: 6/10. If he really likes you, he wouldn't mind spending time with you, although only up to a certain extent. He looks like the type of person to have incredibly low social battery and he'd probably want personal space after hanging out for the entire day. The best way to prolong quality time with him is either (1) you watch him train or train with him or (2) you hang out together doing quiet and calm things together like purchasing groceries, or going with him to pay bills, or getting his passport renewed.

GIFT GIVING: 8/10. He's not too big on super affectionate stuff, but giving gifts is a good way to show that you care without being overly affectionate. He's probably into gifting you practical things like monthly calendars, vitamins, or anti-radiation glasses if you're in front of a screen a lot. Hell, he'd probably even buy you shoelaces if he notices that yours were starting to look wonky.

COMPATIBLE WITH: someone who's emotionally intelligent and is able to read between the lines. He's closed off and almost incapable of telling other people how he feels, so he'd best be suited for someone who doesn't get hurt too easily and someone who can see him for who he is by understanding his behavior. Personality-wise, I think he'd suit an ambivert. Someone who is capable of being outgoing to push him slightly out of his comfort zone and let him experience "life," but also someone who likes to energize by doing indoor stuff.

NAGI SEISHIROU

ACTS OF SERVICE: 2/10. Guys... this guy has zero energy for anything other than soccer or games. I doubt that he would actively go out of his way to help anyone out with anything considering how he's very preoccupied with himself and his very limited number of interests. In order to get him to help you, you'd be the one to urge him and actually tell him whether you need help with something. Still, I think he'd do the most minimal things like holding the corner of a table if you were grabbing something that fell off the floor.

WORDS OF AFFIRMATION: 6/10. He'd probably be the type of person to reassure you unintentionally. You could be worrying about something in the future and might rant to him about it, but his response would a confused head tilt and saying something like "doesn't seem like that'll happen though... just do x and y like you always do" which you could either perceive as (a) he's trivializing your problems or (b) he has complete faith in you and your abilities. Also, if he grows fond of you, he's not afraid to call you out on actions that might hurt yourself.

Exhibit A: Chigiri almost injuring himself in the Episode Nagi manga in their match against karasu's team. I think it was sweet how concerned he sounded when he thought that Chigiri might break his leg.

PHYSICAL TOUCH: 6/10. I don't think he minds too much and he probably won't recoil if you initiate because he doesn't want to go through the trouble of doing anything at all. He probably doesn't want to argue over something as minimal as hugging and he might even find some forms of physical touch to be comfortable. It depends on what it is and how much work he actually has to put into it, but he likely won't even bother to move away unless you're attempting to hold his hands while he's playing or something.

QUALITY TIME: 6/10. He's an introvert and he seems like the type to want to recharge from hanging out with someone. He might go into hiding like hanging out in the school's rooftop or some obscure place, but if you're able to spot him, he probably won't move away. I think that this guy's space should be respected, but at the same time you'd have to pull him out from time to time so that he doesn't isolate himself too much.

GIFT GIVING: 0/10. Sorry, but this guy is extremely preoccupied with himself. He likely doesn't receive gifts from people and so he also likely doesn't give them either. The most you could consider a gift is if you play games and he sends you coins, equipment, or whatever you need if you're on the same team. Outside of games, though? The idea of giving someone a gift probably doesn't even cross his mind.

COMPATIBLE WITH: someone who is more dominant and assertive. You won't be able to get anything out of this guy unless you tell him that you want something. He's suitable for someone who's able to set boundaries and is able to pull him out of his unhealthy habits such as not eating properly, isolating himself frequently, etc. but also still be able to give him space as he needs. You'd also need to be patient because of his zero energy and nonchalance.

who do y'all want me to do next? : ]

[returnofeternity]

Thoughts for being adult shauna's streamer!gf?

im a hardcore twitch frog so im always thinking about streamer!reader who's famous enough to have irl stans + who's dating a yellowjacket because i feel like there's a lot to work with....

for example, going to the gas station with shauna and someone happens to recognize you and shauna's already ready to fight because they've been staring for a while and she just assumes they're some crazed yellowjackets fan. she's got her mouth open to tell them off when she hears "excuse me" from behind but they immediately start gushing about you 😭 soo embarrassing having to explain to your 42 year old girlfriend that you stream for a living....

she's prolly a little apprehensive about it at first but she's willing to accept your lifestyle <3

now that you're finally out about being a streamer, you start bringing it up more and asking if you can film vlogs around her and stream at her house :3 she knew you were a gamer but she didn't know you were secretly streaming all those nights. you also definitely got dating rumors because she'd randomly pop in and tell you to stop banging the desk so loud because she's about to go to sleep and chat kept asking who she was lmfao

filming vlogs with her!! she allows it but doesn't really like to be in them. the first video you revealed her in was a complete accident also. before, you'd usually hold the camera yourself and try to keep her out of frame, but you needed her to hold it one time and her old ass accidentally flipped the camera 😭 you kept it in and also asked if you could show her first and she agreed because how many people could possibly watch you? surely not around 600...

she hates how you clutter the living room with all your games and wires -__- i know she's stepping on game cases all day and grumbling to herself "no, it's okay, i'll clean up your mess, don't worry." while you're in the living room snacking on something 😭

thinking of shauna going through all the effort to make a twitch account just to tell you to be quiet because you're screaming too loud in your streaming room 😭

honestly....i think she'd love to do bits with you... begging and begging her to join a co-op game with you just for a bit and shauna using her British voice for it LMFAO. you have to test it out first because she does Not know how to join....bits where you have her barge in off-screen and say something crazy..

using your streaming money to take her on vacations (also for tax write offs...) and treating her right. maybe meeting up with streaming buddies and introducing her as your girlfriend ^.^ finally getting out of wiskayok and just enjoying each others company while spoiling her like she deserves.

i know she suggests games for you to play too because she doesn't know what the fuck among us is, why don't you play the good shit like tetris or minesweeper?!!