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traveler-at-heart · 17 days ago

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You get one wife

Summary: Wanda's not so happy when she finds out your colleague calls you her "work wife"

A/N: Happy bday, @a-cat-on-titan! Thank you for being such a cool, amazing friend and for always giving me great fic ideas <3

PS - whoever guesses the reference on the title gets a cookie ;)

Wanda’s used to getting what she wants.

From her time as a junior editor and all the way to releasing her own fashion line, she’s had her charm and wit to help.

You were the exception, only at first.

It was supposed to be a sales meeting, to pitch and close the biggest deal of your entire career. Wanda, on the other hand, had decided the minute she laid eyes on you that she was going to make you hers.

Flattery and charm couldn’t win you over, not when she had all the money in the world to date whoever she wanted. You assumed it was just a game to her, to see how much she could string you along before breaking your heart and leaving your quarterly commission dangerously low.

If she insisted on reviewing the financial proposal face to face, you went to work and kept it professional. Even when she smiled at you, and tried to steer the conversation away from work and on to more personal topics.

Especifically, your dating life.

“I don’t mix business and pleasure, Miss Maximoff” you had said once.

It only made her want you more.

And truth be told? During all those conversations, the back and forth, negotiating and preparing a contract to sign, you had fallen for her.

When she asked you to come over after hours to approve the final offer, you pretended it was totally normal.

You sat in front of her, and watched as she signed with a smile.

“Now, can I take you out on a proper date?” she said.

“Well…”

“What is it?” she tilted her head. She had seen the way you acted around her, and Wanda knew you felt something too.

“If people think I slept with you to get this deal… my career is over”

“But you didn’t”

“Miss Maximoff” you walked around her desk, leaning against the edge. Your skirt hiked up only a little, but it was enough to distract Wanda. “It’s not about what happened. It’s about what people will believe”

“Ok, so consider it gone. I will rip this apart. You’re done” she took the contract, ready to set it on fire or throw it out the window.

“Hey, that’s a big commission” you smiled, taking it away from her before she backed out of the deal. “Like any great salesperson, I happen to have a counteroffer. And I think you’ll want to hear it”

“Fine. But you have five minutes” she finally stood up, standing between your legs. It was driving her crazy, having you so close, both physically and metaphorically; because this was the final stretch and she was expecting a big reward in the end.

Wanda wanted all of you.

“I close this deal” you started to say, sighing when you felt lips on your jaw. Your hand wrapped around her wrist, squeezing as she bit the spot behind your ear. “I cash my commission. And then I quit”

“You quit? Want to be my sugar baby?” she asked, hands pushing your skirt up.

“No. I already have another job. Better salary, manager position. I thought this through, Wanda. That’s why I was taking as long as I did” you wrapped your legs around her middle, pulling her closer. “So, how does my offer sound?”

“You’re taking a two week break between jobs. And you’re going to Paris with me” she said, holding your chin in place.

“I can work with that. Handshake on it?” you offered your hand, and Wanda chuckled, inching closer to you.

“I have other ideas to seal the deal, detka”

And you did. Right on her desk until your legs gave out.

—

It was everything Wanda had dreamed of, and even more.

Now, a year and a half later, you were newlyweds, living in a beautiful house outside of the bustling city.

It is the perfect escape from work, responsibilities, and the constant harrassment from the press, wanting to know the details of Wanda’s private life. Turns out, if you dress celebrities, you’re bound to become one.

Aside from a few sightings here and there, your relationship and marriage had been kept as a secret and you were more than happy to stay that way.

Wanda thought she was happy with that too.

And then she noticed her.

It all started one afternoon, as you were busy making dinner and she reviewed some designs. Once she was done with work (or too tired to keep it up) she went to find you in the kitchen, cornering you between her body and the counter.

“Food’s almost ready” you say, hands going to her shoulders, rubbing the tension away. She’s always slouching.

“How long? We can pass time in some other ways” her hands move to cup your ass, and you let out a breathless laugh, though it turns into a moan when you feel her lips against that spot behind your ear that always makes you weak.

It could have been the perfect rendevousz, right in the middle of your new kitchen, but your phone keeps buzzing.

“Work” you mutter between breaths, forgetting about it when Wanda kneels, pulling your denim shorts and underwear down, your arousal exposed.

Too busy with her head between your legs, you barely register the constant buzzing, throwing the phone across the room.

This is your day off, and you are determined to come in Wanda’s mouth. Which happens not long after, your chest heaving and her face glistening as she climbs back to let you have a taste from her lips.

It could have been fine, but right in the middle of dinner, the phone buzzes again.

“Work?” Wanda says as you scroll through your texts. Which was weird, because you emailed or Slacked everyone.

“Yeah. Sorry” you set it down again, resumig the episode of I love Lucy Wanda had chosen for the night.

It bothers your wife, but she tries to keep it to herself. The company you currently work for grew massively in the last few months, which meant more people to manage, more work and more headaches. Even if your career wasn’t as glamorous as Wanda’s, it was important to you, and she supported that.

As much as she’d like to support you in other ways (namely, financially) so she could have you all to herself 24/7.

But then again, your phone buzzes as you get ready for bed. Wanda’s already done with her routine, and she can’t help but look at your screen.

Sasha: Anything for my work wife, LOL!

Sasha: Sweet dreams ;)

Wanda was expecting you to notice as soon as you settle in bed, but her poker face must have been better than she thought. Because you just kiss her cheek, say goodnight and turn off your side of the lights.

But Wanda doesn’t move, so you turn back around and give her a look.

“Baby?”

“Who is Sasha?”

“Darling” you sigh, kissing your early night goodbye.

“Work wife? Really?” she snaps. Now she does look pissed, but the thing is, you never take it seriously. Because you know she’s not mad at you. She’s mad at whoever dares to think they have a chance with you.

“Look, she’s new. From marketing, you know how it is between our departments. I honestly don’t like the whole work wife things because, boundaries. But she’s new and I guess just trying to fit in?”

“I will kill her”

“Now that would be really inconvenient because we’re in the middle of Q3 and that would set me back big time” you straddle her lap, smiling when she frowns. Nothing will ease her mind except one thing.

And honestly? You’re fine with that.

“I am yours, Wanda Maximoff. No one else’s. Ok?”

“Promise?”

“Swear. Now…” you take your shirt off, and finally, the puppy eyes stop, her gaze clouded by lust. “Why don’t you show me how much you own me, baby?”

—

“Hey, wifey”

Your coworker greets you, and you have to control your stupid smile from remembering how Wanda had her way with you this morning.

You really don’t want to talk to HR.

“Heya” you say, straightening up in your chair. “What’s up?”

“Well, I was wondering if…”

“Hey, these are for you” Leroy, the guy at the front desk suddenly knocks on your office door. He’s having trouble with the huge flower arrangement, and you stand up quickly, helping him. “Sorry, there’s more. Tulips… and daisies”

By the time he’s done, your desk and couch are overflowing with flowers.

Sasha interrupts the moment a second later, sneezing loudly.

“Sorry, allergies” she says. “I better go before all this pollen kills me”

“Yeah, if you need anything, I guess you can Slack me!” you say, hoping her allergies are nothing serious.

And of course, you know who’s behind this.

“Hello, moyá lyubóv'” Wanda says, sounding a lot happier than she did last night.

“I got the flowers and I love them, thank you. If it makes you happy, she’s allergic to them so I won’t have anyone calling me work wife around for the day”

“Really? Well, good to know. I’m sending flowers to you every week, then”

“Wanda” you laugh, knowing she’ll do it.

“I love you”

“I love you too, even when you act crazy”

—

Crazy was just the start. The sound of a text coming through set off a Pavlovian response for Wanda. She practically pounced on you everytime you got a message, as if it was a button to jump start her jealous streak.

“Baby, this isn’t even her, it’s a scam message” you moaned against her lips one morning, her fingers sinking in your cunt until you forgot your own name.

But now, she’s on a work trip. It’s only two days, that you can’t afford to take because it’s the last week of the month, and the last chance to close out all the deals left.

You weren’t surprised when Leroy dropped another flower arrangement in your desk.

“You dating a florist?” Sasha jokes, not daring to come in.

“Well, she does like colors and style” you reply.

Only a handful of people in the office know you are married, though the identity of your spouse is a mystery. The only lead they could work on was the picture you kept in your desk, but Wanda was wearing sunglasses and not facing the camera, kissing your cheek as you laughed.

“When we close this deal, we should go out and celebrate” Sasha says.

“Yeah, might be good for team morale”

“Oh, I meant…”

Thankfully, your potential customers finally join the call. And of course, Sasha has to take it in her own office, as your space is a hazzard for her. You’re the first to present, knowing your way around the sales pitch and the conditions of the contract.

You finish your presentation, handing it over to Sasha. She thanks you with a big smile and a lot more excitement than necessary for a sales meeting.

And then, your phone pings. It seems like Wanda’s not the only one conditioned to get horny off a notification.

You hold on tighter to the pen in your hand, knowing who’s messaging you.

Wands: I’m coming back tonight. Got you a little surprise ;)

Y/N: more flowers?

You’re aware that you’re smiling while Sasha speaks, and you hope to god she doesn’t think it’s because of her.

And then, your actual wife sends you the last thing you’re expecting. A picture in front of the mirror, Wanda naked except for the harness and a crystal strap hanging sensually from her hips.

The cherry on top? There’s a fucking flower pattern in the dildo.

You let out a laugh, but disguise it as a cough, legs squeezing together at the anticipation of what’s to come.

Y/N: Killer cock, darling

—

A few weeks went by, and things started to settle again. Wanda was busy with work, which gave her little time to worry over your self proclaimed work spouse.

It took one text to change everything.

Sasha: All ready. You should wear that white top for preso. You look stunning in it <3

Wanda knew which top she meant. It was the one you rarely wore, because one tricky movement and part of your cleavage was on full display.

That’s fine. Wanda can give this slut something to oggle at, other than your breasts.

You’re not even out of the shower when Wanda’s discarding your towel, hands on your breasts, pinching your nipples.

“Baby?” you say, and you’re not sure what is it you’re asking. All you know is Wanda’s pushing you against the bed, head between your legs and licking your cunt like there’s no tomorrow.

Her movements are slow, and you know what that means. Wanda wants to edge you until you’re begging.

Which happens pretty quickly, after she leaves you hanging two times, teeth scrapping against your clit.

“Please, Wanda. Baby, just make me come, ok? I’ll do anything” you almost cry. It’s too early, you haven’t had your coffee and your hot, possessive wife is denying you the release you desperately need.

“Anything?” she tilts her head, in that way that tells you she’s up to no good. But you’re too desperate, so you nod frantically, promising that yes, you’ll do anything as long as she lets you come.

Instead of returning between your legs, she goes on top of you, her arms caging you in while her leg rubs against your center.

“You’re so fucking desperate, hump my leg and do it yourself”

She knows exactly which buttons to push, because the words only turn you on more, and you do as she says. As your movements become more frantic, Wanda sinks her teeth in the flesh of your breasts, marking you everywhere she can.

Pain and pleasure mix as you finally come, letting out a strangled moan against her shoulder. She doesn’t stop marking you, even after you slump in bed, too tired to move.

“I have a presentation today” you say, out of breath.

“I know” Wanda nods, smiling.

“You left me looking like a vampire attacked me” you accuse, not needing to look in the mirror to imagine what you look like.

Fuck, it’s going to take extra time to cover the hickeys.

Once you find the will to move, Wanda follows you close behind, pulling out the cause of all this mess from your closet.

“Wanda”

“You said you’d do anything if I let you come” she reminds you. “Wear this. And your engagement ring”

“Baby” you say, but stop the minute she gives you an icy look.

You’re pretty sure everyone in the office is staring, even if you tried your best to cover the hickeys. Or, it might be the giant engagement ring that Wanda got you, the diamond so big you swear it makes your hand heavier.

Honestly, you consider it a success when you only stutter once during your presentation, but then you lean forward to pass a file towards Sasha, and you know she’s not only getting a good look at your boobs, but also at all the marks your wife left on you.

“Shit” she drops the file and you’re quicker than her, left hand going to pick it up. “That’s… a huge ring”

“Uh, yeah…”

What else is there to say?

Yeah, if you keep calling me work wife I’m pretty sure my actual wife will get here and fuck me in front of the entire office.

But again, you really don’t want to talk to HR.

Thankfully, the meeting ends, and you go back to your office, locking the door for good measure.

It’s going to be a long day.

—

“All packed?” Wanda says, and you nod. “Ok, I’ll leave you at your office and then pick you up after lunch”

“Yes, darling”

Finally, after an exhausting month, you get to take a few days off. Wanda was more than happy to plan a mini holiday, and all you had to do was swear that your phone would be off for the entire time.

Though, considering how she gets when you get a text… you’re thinking about using it to spur her on.

“Alright, see you later” you smile, but look confused when Wanda gets out of the car, walking with you. “Baby?”

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the office”

“Wanda” you begin to say, but then her lips are on yours, tongue pushing until you submit to her, allowing her to explore your mouth.

“It’s fine. What do you think I’ll do? Slap her?”

“Maybe, yeah”

“I just want to walk with you, detka” she says, but you know it’s a lie. Still, you walk into the elevator, pressing the button to the fourth floor.

“After you” she gestures to the door.

“You gonna walk me all the way to my office?”

“Maybe” she smiles and you roll your eyes, knowing it’s no use to argue with her.

“There, I’m all set” you say, opening your laptop and kissing Wanda’s cheek. “See you in a bit”

“Ok, my love” she nods, but makes no effort to move.

And you know that look.

It’s trouble.

For you, and for anyone who dares walk into your office. Because before you know it, Wanda’s pushing you against your desk, hands cupping your ass as you sink your nails in her arms.

“I’m so getting fired” you sigh, fearing someone will see you.

“Afraid you’ll have to find a new work wife?”

“Wanda” you scoff, but she bits down your lip. Hard.

“Say my name, darling. Remember who owns you, yes?”

“Yes” you sigh against her mouth.

You swear to God, if it wasn’t for Sasha, you’d be bent over the fucking desk, Wanda pounding into you until your legs gave out.

But she does walk in, blushing madly, as you break apart. Wanda glares at her for a second, before changing her entire demeanor to a charming smile.

“Well, my darling wife. I’ll pick you up in a bit”

“Yes, baby”

“Oop, your lipstick’s all smudged” she laughs.

You wanna remind her it's her fault, but you know better.

If you want to spend the entire holiday getting fucked in the best way possible, you have to be a nice girl for Wanda.

With a final kiss, she walks past your coworker, who you’re sure will never EVER call you “work wife” again.

“Was that… Wanda Maximoff?” she says, jaw on the floor. “You’re married to Wanda Maximoff?”

“Yeap. The one and only”

“What is it like? I mean, isn’t she super rich?” the woman is still in shock. You just snort out a laugh.

“Yeah, she is. I guess that makes me super rich too. And what is she like? Well, Sasha. She doesn’t like to share. At all”

In case you didn’t make it clear that day, Wanda sends you back from your holiday with a new set of hickeys.

And this time? You don’t even cover them up.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n

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pucksandpower · 10 months ago

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Don’t Judge a Book by Its Cover

Toto Wolff x Reader

Summary: a wealthy older man with a starry-eyed younger woman — it’s a tale as old as time and a scene the saleswoman has seen countless times before … or is it?

The showroom gleams under harsh fluorescent lights, every surface polished to a mirror finish. Cars, sleek and expensive, are lined up like jewels in a case. The hum of quiet conversation fills the space, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the soft clink of champagne glasses.

It’s another day at the auto show, and the saleswoman, tall and sharp-eyed, watches it all with a thin veneer of polite disinterest. She’s been here long enough to know who’s serious and who’s just here to gawk.

She spots them before they even step into her section. The man is hard to miss — tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of commanding presence that makes people step aside without even realizing it. His suit is tailored to perfection, probably costs more than her monthly salary.

And then there’s the girl — no, the woman — beside him. You’re much younger, that’s clear. You look out of place, wide-eyed and excited like a kid in a candy store, dressed in something trendy but understated, a deliberate contrast to the man’s sophistication.

The saleswoman’s eyes narrow as she watches you both approach. She’s seen this before — older man, younger woman, the kind of relationship that’s all too common in these circles. She doesn’t have to guess who’s footing the bill here.

“They’re all stunning,” you say, your voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd as you walk beside the man. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Take your time,” the man says, his voice low, accented, and rich with an authority that’s clearly second nature to him. He’s smiling at you, and there’s a warmth there that the saleswoman finds almost disarming. Almost.

She steps forward, her professional smile firmly in place, and approaches the two of you. “Good afternoon,” she says, her tone perfectly neutral, though there’s an edge to it, just enough to make her feel superior in this little interaction. “Is there anything in particular you’re interested in today?”

You look up at the man, a slight question in your eyes, as if asking for permission to speak. The saleswoman notices this, of course, and it only confirms what she already thinks.

“The Porsche 911 S/T,” you say, your voice gaining a little confidence as you look back at her. “It’s — wow, it’s incredible.”

The saleswoman allows herself a small, condescending smile. Of course, you’d go for something flashy like that. “A beautiful choice,” she says smoothly. “Though it’s not currently available for sale. It’s more of a display model for now.”

You look disappointed, but before you can say anything, the man steps in. “Is that so?” He asks, his tone polite but firm. “And when will it be available?”

“Not for a few months, I’m afraid,” she replies, keeping her smile in place even as she feels a flicker of unease at the intensity in his eyes. “But we can certainly take your information and let you know the moment it is.”

You’re distracted by another car nearby — a sleek, silver Audi R8 — and the man follows your gaze. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says to the saleswoman, already moving toward the car that has caught your attention. She watches him go, a tightness forming in her chest.

You’re bending slightly, peering into the Audi’s interior, running your fingers over the smooth leather seats. The man is right behind you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back, a gesture that’s both protective and possessive.

“What do you think of this one?” He asks, leaning in close, his breath warm against your ear. You smile, and it’s a real smile, the kind that makes your whole face light up.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, your voice soft, almost reverent. “But I think I’m still in love with the Porsche.”

He chuckles, and the sound is deep, genuine. “You have good taste.”

The saleswoman doesn’t hear what you say next, but she sees the way you look up at him, like he’s the only person in the room. She almost rolls her eyes. Of course, you’re infatuated. Who wouldn’t be, with a man like that?

But there’s something else, something in the way he looks at you that makes her pause. There’s affection there, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s something deeper, more complicated.

He straightens up, leaving you to admire the Audi, and makes his way back to the saleswoman. She steels herself, ready to resume the dance of negotiation, but his next words take her by surprise.

“I want to buy the Porsche for my partner,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

She blinks, momentarily thrown. “As I mentioned earlier, sir, it’s not for sale at the moment. But we can-”

“You misunderstand,” he interrupts, his eyes locking onto hers with a quiet intensity. “I’m not asking if it’s for sale. I’m telling you I want to buy it.”

The saleswoman feels a prickle of irritation, but she keeps her expression neutral. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr …”

“Wolff,” he says, his voice steady. “Toto Wolff.”

The name rings a bell, and she stiffens slightly. Of course, she’s heard of him. Everyone in this business has. But she’s not about to let him walk all over her just because he’s some big shot.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolff, but even for you, the car isn’t available. It’s a prototype, and it won’t be released for sale until-”

He cuts her off with a low laugh, and there’s something almost dangerous in the sound. “For me,” he says slowly, as if explaining something very simple to a child, “they’ll make it available.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but the words die in her throat. There’s a look in his eyes that makes it clear this isn’t a man who’s used to hearing the word no. And she realizes, with a sinking feeling, that he’s right. If Toto Wolff wants that car, he’s going to get it.

The saleswoman swallows hard, her professional composure beginning to crack around the edges. “I’ll need to speak with my manager,” she says finally, her voice losing some of its earlier confidence.

“Please do,” he replies smoothly, his gaze flicking back to where you’re still admiring the Audi, completely unaware of the tension playing out behind you.

She turns on her heel, making her way to the back office with quick, clipped steps. The nerve of him, she thinks, but even as she seethes, she knows what the outcome will be. No one says no to someone like Toto Wolff.

As she waits for her manager to confirm the inevitable, she casts a glance through the glass wall of the office, watching you and him from a distance. You’re laughing at something he’s said, your hand resting on his arm, and for a moment, the saleswoman feels a strange, unwelcome pang of something close to envy.

It’s not just the money or the power that he has — though there’s plenty of that — it’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters. Like he would move mountains just to see you smile.

The manager finally appears, a mix of excitement and nerves on his face as he hurries over to speak with Toto. The saleswoman stays back, watching as they exchange words, her earlier confidence completely drained. She knows what’s coming, and sure enough, after a few minutes, the manager gestures for her to come forward.

“Mr. Wolff,” the manager says, his tone obsequious, “we’d be more than happy to arrange the purchase of the Porsche for you. It’s not something we typically do, but in your case, we can make an exception.”

Toto gives a small nod, as if this is exactly what he expected. “Good,” he says, then glances over at you, still absorbed in the Audi. “I’ll take care of the details later. For now, I’d prefer if my partner remains unaware of the purchase.”

The manager nods quickly. “Of course, of course. Discretion is our priority.”

The saleswoman feels a fresh wave of irritation as the manager all but trips over himself to please Toto. But what bothers her even more is the realization that she was wrong. This isn’t a simple sugar relationship, despite what she first thought. There’s something real here, something that makes her uncomfortable in ways she can’t quite put into words.

As Toto walks back over to you, the manager gives the saleswoman a sharp look, silently instructing her to follow his lead. She pastes on her best smile, swallowing her pride, and follows after him.

You don’t notice the shift in the atmosphere when Toto returns to your side. You’re too engrossed in the car, asking him questions about its specs and design, your enthusiasm infectious. The saleswoman watches the two of you interact, trying to reconcile the easy, genuine affection she sees with her initial assumptions.

“So,” Toto says, leaning in a little closer to you, “if you could choose any car here, which one would it be?”

You bite your lip, clearly torn, but finally, you sigh. “I know it’s silly, but I keep coming back to the Porsche. It’s just … it’s perfect.”

His smile widens, and the saleswoman feels a pang of something she refuses to name. “Then the Porsche it is,” he says softly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You laugh, a little embarrassed. "Toto, you can't just buy it because I like it. It's not even for sale."

He chuckles, a warm, deep sound that makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room. “You’d be surprised what’s possible.”

The saleswoman shifts uncomfortably, watching as Toto brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a moment too long to be purely casual. You smile up at him, oblivious to everything except the man in front of you.

She clears her throat, forcing herself back into the conversation. “Actually, we can make arrangements for the Porsche. If you’d like, we can finalize the details and set up delivery.”

You blink, surprised. “Really? But I thought-”

Toto smiles, squeezing your hand gently. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

Your eyes widen, and for a moment, you’re speechless. Then you throw your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest as you mumble a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

The saleswoman watches, the professional smile on her face feeling more like a grimace now. She doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand you or him, but she knows she was wrong.

You pull back, looking up at Toto with a softness in your eyes that’s almost too much to bear. “I don’t even know what to say,” you whisper.

“Just be happy,” he murmurs back, his voice tender in a way that makes the saleswoman want to look away.

And for a moment, she does. She turns her gaze to the gleaming cars, the reflections of the showroom lights bouncing off their polished surfaces. When she looks back, you’re both still there, lost in each other, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.

The saleswoman feels a strange, hollow emptiness settle in her chest as she turns to finalize the sale, realizing that perhaps, despite everything, this wasn’t about money or power at all.

Perhaps it was just about love.

***

The estate in Oxfordshire is nothing short of palatial, its sprawling grounds stretching out in every direction, bordered by neatly trimmed hedges and ancient oaks. The driveway is long and winding, leading up to a mansion that looks like it could have been lifted straight out of a Jane Austen novel — grand, elegant, with an air of timeless sophistication.

The saleswoman sits in the passenger seat of the delivery truck, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her jacket. She’s never been nervous about a delivery before, but then again, she’s never delivered to someone like Toto Wolff before.

Beside her, the driver is humming along to a tune on the radio, completely at ease as they turn onto the estate’s private road. She glances at the rearview mirror, catching sight of the Porsche 911 S/T, pristine and gleaming, with an oversized red bow affixed to the roof. It looks absurd, she thinks, a toy fit for a princess.

It takes several minutes to reach the front of the house, the tires crunching softly over the gravel. The saleswoman feels a knot tighten in her stomach as they pull to a stop.

She’s here to oversee the delivery, to make sure everything goes smoothly, but part of her wonders if this is all a colossal waste of time. Surely, she could’ve sent someone else. But she’d insisted on coming herself—perhaps out of some twisted sense of curiosity, or maybe it was just her bruised pride.

The driver cuts the engine, and there’s a brief moment of silence before the door to the mansion opens. Toto steps out first, his movements unhurried, as if he’s in no rush at all. And then you appear beside him, your hand lightly resting on his arm as you walk out together.

“Here we go,” the driver mutters, giving her a nod before he hops out to start the unloading process.

The saleswoman takes a deep breath, composing herself before she steps out of the truck. Her heels sink slightly into the gravel as she approaches, her professional smile back in place. Toto greets her with a nod, his expression unreadable, while you give her a warm, if somewhat shy, smile.

“I hope the drive wasn’t too difficult,” Toto says, his voice smooth and polite, but there’s a hint of something more behind his words. An expectation that everything will, of course, be perfect.

“Not at all, Mr. Wolff,” the saleswoman replies quickly, her smile tightening. “It was a pleasure, really.”

You step forward, your eyes wide with excitement as you look past her to the truck. “Is it …” you ask, your voice filled with a mix of disbelief and anticipation.

The driver is already lowering the truck’s ramp, and as the Porsche comes into view, you let out a small gasp. “It’s beautiful,” you whisper, taking a step closer, your hand still clutching Toto’s arm. “I can’t believe it’s really here.”

Toto watches you with a soft smile, the kind of smile that the saleswoman has started to recognize as reserved only for you. “I told you it would be,” he says quietly, as if this moment is just as special for him as it is for you.

The saleswoman clears her throat, drawing their attention back to her. “We took extra care during the transport,” she says, trying to regain some control over the situation. “Everything is exactly as it was when it left the showroom.”

“Thank you,” Toto says, but his focus is already back on you as you approach the car, your fingers brushing over the sleek lines of the Porsche as if you’re afraid it might disappear if you touch it too firmly.

You circle the car slowly, taking it all in, and for a moment, the saleswoman feels like an intruder in this private moment. She watches as you turn back to Toto, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “I don’t even know what to say,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

He steps closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “I just want you to be happy.”

The saleswoman averts her gaze, the tenderness of the moment making her uncomfortable. She’s seen plenty of couples over the years, but there’s something about the way you and Toto interact that feels … different.

It’s not just the age difference, though that’s part of it. It’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the most precious thing in the world, and the way you look at him, like he’s your anchor in a storm.

The driver interrupts her thoughts as he finishes unloading the car. “All done here,” he says cheerfully, handing the keys over to Toto with a grin. “She’s all yours.”

Toto takes the keys with a nod of thanks, but instead of pocketing them, he holds them out to you. “Would you like to take her for a spin?”

Your eyes widen, and you laugh, a light, joyful sound that echoes in the evening air. “Now? I haven’t even driven a car like this before!”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he replies, his tone teasing yet encouraging. “And I trust you completely.”

You hesitate for a moment, glancing at the car and then back at Toto. The saleswoman can see the internal debate playing out on your face — excitement warring with nervousness. But then, with a deep breath, you take the keys from him, your fingers brushing against his as you do.

“Okay,” you say, your voice firming with determination. “Let’s do it.”

The saleswoman watches as you climb into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors and running your hands over the steering wheel like you’re trying to familiarize yourself with every inch of the car. Toto takes the passenger seat beside you, and for a brief moment, the saleswoman catches a glimpse of his hand resting on your knee, a gesture that’s both reassuring and intimate.

She’s pulled out of her thoughts when the driver nudges her, motioning toward the truck. “We should get going,” he says, glancing over at the car. “Looks like they’ve got everything under control.”

But the saleswoman doesn’t move. She’s rooted to the spot, watching as you and Toto pull away from the estate, the Porsche purring softly as it glides down the driveway. There’s something about the scene that feels almost cinematic, like she’s watching a moment that she’s not supposed to be a part of.

The car disappears around a bend in the road, and the saleswoman finally exhales, not realizing she’s been holding her breath. She turns back to the driver, who’s looking at her with mild curiosity.

“Everything okay?” He asks, cocking his head to the side.

She forces a smile, pushing down the strange mix of emotions churning in her chest. “Yeah,” she says, though the word feels hollow. “Everything’s fine.”

They load back into the truck, the engine roaring to life as they begin the long drive back to the showroom. The saleswoman stares out the window, her thoughts racing, replaying the scene over and over in her mind.

She tries to tell herself that it’s just another delivery, just another rich couple flaunting their wealth. But no matter how hard she tries, she can’t shake the image of the way Toto looked at you, like you were his entire world.

The driver’s voice cuts through her thoughts as he asks, “So, you think they’re the real deal?”

She turns to look at him, frowning slightly. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. “I mean, a guy like him, a girl like her … you think it’s more than just the money?”

The saleswoman hesitates, her fingers curling around the edge of her seat. She wants to dismiss it, to laugh it off and say that of course it’s just about the money. But the words stick in her throat, refusing to come out.

“Yeah,” she finally says, her voice quieter than she intended. “I think it is.”

The driver nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer, and they fall into silence once more. But the saleswoman can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted, that this delivery has left her with more questions than answers.

As they drive away from the estate, the sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the road. The saleswoman stares at them, lost in thought, wondering what it must feel like to be loved the way Toto loves you.

She knows she’ll never have an answer to that question, but as the truck rumbles down the road, she can’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — there’s more to life than the things she’s always taken for granted.

And for the first time in a long time, she finds herself longing for something she can’t quite put into words.

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sopastro444 · 3 months ago

Text

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲

Paid readings here

——————∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘——————

According to derivative Astrology, this works because the 7th house shows your future spouse, and the 10th house shows someone’s career. If you count ten houses starting from the 7th, you land on the 4th house. That’s why your 4th house can describe your future partner’s job and reputation.

Aries in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is likely a self-starter, someone who takes bold risks and thrives in competitive environments. They're known for their leadership, directness, and ability to initiate projects.

Careers may involve action, leadership, or danger: entrepreneurship, the military, emergency services, sports, surgery, or tech start-ups.

They may have a reputation for being brave, intense, or impulsive.

Taurus in the 4th House:

Your future spouse values security, consistency, and luxury. They likely work in a field that allows them to build wealth slowly and steadily. Stability is their strength.

Careers may include finance, banking, luxury goods, real estate, design, art, or hospitality.

They may be known for their patience, reliability, and refined taste.

Gemini in the 4th House:

Your spouse is quick-thinking, curious, and versatile. Their work likely involves communication, writing, multitasking, or networking.

They may work in media, journalism, education, tech, marketing, publishing, or sales.

They are known for being witty, social, and mentally agile, with a constantly evolving career.

Cancer in the 4th House:

Your spouse may have a nurturing, protective, and intuitive energy. Their career is often connected to care, emotions, and home-related matters.

They may work in counseling, medicine, education, childcare, food, social work, or real estate.

They’re seen as compassionate, private, and emotionally intelligent, but may have public mood shifts or protectiveness over their career.

Leo in the 4th House:

Your spouse is likely charismatic, confident, and drawn to creative or high-profile careers. They want to be admired and make a bold statement in their profession.

Careers may include entertainment, fashion, performance, leadership, branding, or entrepreneurship.

They’re known for their presence, ambition, and desire for recognition.

Virgo in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is precise, practical, and hardworking. Their career is focused on service, healing, or intellectual analysis.

They may be in healthcare, education, editing, science, research, tech, or administration.

They are perceived as reliable, intelligent, and reserved, with a need to perfect everything they do.

Libra in the 4th House:

Your spouse may be elegant, diplomatic, and image-conscious. Their career could center around beauty, harmony, justice, or social balance.

Potential careers: law, design, art, fashion, mediation, event planning, or public relations.

They are known for charm, grace, and the ability to maintain peace and aesthetics in any environment.

Scorpio in the 4th House:

Your spouse is intense, private, and powerful. Their career likely involves transformation, crisis, or depth psychology.

They may work in finance, therapy, investigation, psychology, forensics, or energy work.

They are known for mystery, depth, and emotional control in their professional life. A powerful but often hidden presence.

Sagittarius in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is optimistic, adventurous, and driven by truth and freedom. Their career likely involves travel, philosophy, teaching, or exploration.

They may be educators, travelers, authors, spiritual leaders, philosophers, or involved in international work.

They're seen as wise, inspiring, and sometimes restless or idealistic.

Capricorn in the 4th House:

Your spouse is career-focused, disciplined, and ambitious. Their work often revolves around status, authority, structure, or legacy.

They may be executives, politicians, lawyers, architects, surgeons, or corporate leaders.

They’re known as responsible, hard-working, and serious in their public role. They likely mature into success later in life.

Aquarius in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is unconventional, innovative, and forward-thinking. Their career is likely progressive, humanitarian, or tech-oriented.

They may work in science, tech, activism, innovation, astrology, or community work.

They're seen as eccentric, intellectual, and socially aware, often ahead of their time.

Pisces in the 4th House:

Your spouse is dreamy, artistic, or spiritual. Their career may involve healing, creativity, or emotional depth.

Fields may include music, film, art, spirituality, therapy, charity work, or ocean/marine-related fields.

They’re known for their sensitivity, compassion, and mystique. Their path may be fluid or nontraditional.

#astro notes #astro observations #astrology #manifestation #tarot #love #astro community #mercury #venus #astro memes #4th house #love langauges #love language #marriage #future spouse

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teaboot · 2 months ago

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My friend and I are going into gr 12 next year while both living in unsavoury households (not abusive per se, but not pleasant to be in either). Do you have any tips for stuff to do next year while prepping to try to leave home?

Start looking for cheap rentals together around two to four months-ish before move-out. If you trust each other and work local then that’s perfect because you’ll potentially have a roommate already down to buddy up with.

After you graduate and start working, stay home as long as you can to save up. It sucks ass, but having a cash cushion will help- I think I had maybe 4 months of my half of the rent to fall back on when I moved in with my roomie, and that kept things comfortable. Less and it would have been much more stress than it was.

Make a list of what supplies you’ll need to live comfortably. There’s no rush on this, as you can easily start once you DO move out, or just wing it, but it’s fun and useful and will give you something to look forward to.

Talk to school counsellor s about getting work experience or doing volunteer work. A lot of offices can gently introduce you to the work force- specifically places willing to hire first-timers- and even if volunteer work doesn’t pay, it’s a great way to network and meet people who may be willing to pay cash for odd jobs, or have relatives looking to hire, and with the whole “kids don’t have work ethic” thing every older generation seems to buy into, being somebody who shows up and works hard is a good start for a professional reputation.

Whatever you make financially, put 15 to 20 percent of it immediately into a savings account and DO NOT TOUCH IT. Do NOT. I started mine in case I suddenly wound up homeless and it has since grown to the point where I could easily pay for a car repair or an extra month of rent if something catastrophic happened. (When I was the only child of a single mom she taught me that one early).

Consider checking out yard sales or picking up unwanted dishes and appliances from folks who don’t need them anymore. Again, go thrifting- not at Value Village if you can avoid it, as prices have inflated insanely, but little weird-smelling cluttered places where you can get a blender for five dollars. I don’t believe in spending money on things I don’t LOVE, and for a full year living solo I was quite comfortable in the kitchen with just a wok, a spatula, spoon fork knife, a bowl, and a cup.

If people want to buy you gifts for special occasions, I would usually ask for towels and wool socks. I think for maybe two or three years each of my parents would get me 1-2 towels in my preferred colour so by the time I moved out I had a full set. (I love good towels).

Start sorting the stuff in your room you plan to hold on to forever and what you want to donate, gift, or throw away. You have no IDEA how much crap you have until you gotta shove it into a minivan.

A Costco card is a golden gift from the lord and u should consider buying one. There is no comfort to a newly-rehoused young adult like a flat of instant noodles and a king-sized mattress bag of crap napkins.

Have fun with it. Plan a Pinterest board. Dream a little. No matter where you live, even if it’s a shithole and you hate it, you can CHOOSE to make it home. Because home is anywhere. Anywhere can be that place for you. I promise. The only places I ever lived that were truly insufferable were places I shared with people determined not to put the work in- because “why would I bother making this place nice when I hate it here?”. I’ve made a home for myself in the woods, inna shack, in an abandoned attic with no running water, in the shitbox behind a crack den, in an old guy’s basement- you can do it. You won’t just be okay, you’ll be happy.

Try not to worry too much. It’s not easy, but it’ll be easier than you worry it might be.

#Askboot

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gamesetattach · 6 months ago

Text

On the Record

Jannik Sinner x Reader A well liked personality in the tennis world, reader is one the favored sports commentators. Her interviews always make headlines for all the right reasons—the people love to watch her crack all their favorite players... especially Jannik Sinner because, I mean, the poor boy seems to just shatter. Honestly. Somewhere in time, this was an 800 word blurb... And now it's nearly 8,000. Not sure when that happened. This just became a tennis player personality study at some point, tbh

---

You weren’t just another sports commentator—you’d quickly made a name for yourself in your short career in the tennis world. The networks and the fans loved you, and so did the players. Your approach was the kind where players actually liked talking, one that made post-match interviews feel less like an obligation and more like an easy conversation. You had built a reputation for striking the perfect balance—professional and sharp, but always with just the right amount of humor to put players at ease.

It wasn’t uncommon for your analyses and your interviews to be clipped and spread, tennis fans enjoyed your commentary and admired how effortlessly you got athletes to open up. You asked questions that felt fresh, steering clear of the usual clichés that players had answered a hundred times before. You could tease them just enough to get a smile, knew when to pull back, when to lean in. And many of the players responded more than favorably to that.

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you.

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

"Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked.

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after.

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus.

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players.

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be.

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor.

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic.

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer.

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout.

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything.

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight.

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around.

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name…

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.”

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort.

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win.

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand.

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head.

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh.

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.”

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered, "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Three and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally.

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudged toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—nearly four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion.

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached out, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile.

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case—”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer.

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did.

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help but fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck.

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words still on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth.

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct. An undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch.

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance at him when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it.

It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite.

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation?

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

K , kisses xx

#jannik sinner #jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner blurb #jannik sinner one-shot #jannik sinner fanart #jannik sinner smut #atp tour x reader #tennis #tennis fic #jannik sinner fluff #Jack Draper x reader #GameSetAttach #jannik sinner one shot

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crowsofdarkness · 8 months ago

Text

Bucky Barnes

All of my works are intended for ages eighteen years or older since most of them are smut. MDNI.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY, TRANSLATE, STEAL, OR POST MY WORK ANYWHERE.

REQUESTS FOR BUCKY ARE CLOSED.

UPDATED ON 08/16/2025

Arranged: Reader would do anything to make her parents happy and that included agreeing to an arranged marriage. She never expected it to be to one of New York's most feared Mob Boss: Bucky Barnes. He is anything but loving towards Reader however when her parents are mysteriously killed, Bucky makes it his mission to find out who were at fault. And in the process, ends up coming close to losing Reader.-COMPLETE

Moment Of Weakness- Reader is the assistant to New York's most feared mob boss, James Buchanan Barnes. He had the picture-perfect life: status in the mob, friends, and beautiful wife. So why can't he keep his mind and eyes off of reader?- COMPLETE

Soldat: Agent Y/N has worked alongside Steve Rogers at SHIELD for some time all while keeping a dark secret from everyone. Until one day that darkness faces her head on and she's forced to make a choice. Continue fighting alongside Captain America? Or find her home once again with Soldat?-COMPLETE

Dorogaya(Sequel to Soldat): It has been a few years since Bucky and Reader went into hiding. Just when they thought they were slowly building a life together, the past comes back with a vengeance.-COMPLETE

Vaz Prizrak(Finale in Soldat Series)- Bucky and Reader have been in their own solace while in Wakanda for years. They were finally happy to create the life they wanted and deserved. That was until a new foe came along to dust it all away-COMPLETE

Who Are You?: The Winter Soldier x Agent Fallen x The Crow: Agent Fallen was looking for a ghost, her ghost. With direct orders to shoot on sight to anyone who stands in her way, she soon finds herself at a crossroads when facing another ghost. The Crow. As they work together to find The Winter Soldier, Fallen and Eric Draven have to also work out their complicated relationship with each other. ON HOLD.

Time: Bucky Barnes x Reader- Your relationship with Bucky could withstand anything, even time itself. ON HOLD

Fallen: Bucky Barnes x Fallen Angel! Female Reader- The new Avengers recruit has many secrets, one of which Bucky is desperate to discover. COMPLETE

Soldiers: The Winter Soldier a.k.a Bucky Barnes x Hydra!Female Agent: Voin and Soldat were Hydra's greatest weapons. As they become close, Voin is burdened by the weight of being the one who causes Soldat his worst pain. ON HOLD.

Teach Me: Bucky Barnes X Female!Reader- You're a little inexperienced when it comes to sex, so Bucky offers to help give you a few pointers. It was supposed to be strictly professional, no feelings attached. Yeah, right.-ON GOING

Memory Lane: Widowed! Single Dad! Bucky Barnes x Female Neighbor!Reader-Your car being stolen, your apartment being broken into, and you being fired from your job were at the top of the list of things going wrong with your life. Needing a fresh start somewhere new, you ask for a sign on what to do. You then find an open magazine on the floor showcasing a house for sale a few hours away in a quiet neighborhood called Memory Lane. So, you pack up your entire life ready to start over and focus on yourself, not expecting to fall for your new next door neighbor. Bucky's wife died eight months ago, leaving him behind with their four year old daughter, Olive. Life as not only a widow but a single dad was hard, something he was trying to figure out on his own, but he would do it for his daughter. He made a promise to his wife that he would never fall in love again because she was his soulmate. But when someone moves in next door, Bucky finds it harder to keep that promise.-ON GOING

The Void: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x BlackWidow!Enhanced!Reader- Hydra used her as a weapon, then, becoming one of the original widows, Zima was ready to live the rest of her days in hiding. When someone from her Red Room past comes looking to cash in on a favor, she has no choice but to strap up to face this new enemy threatening New York. Even if one of the people asking for her help was the one who trained her in Hydra, the one whom she swore she would kill the next time she saw him.The Winter Soldier.The only problem? Bucky doesn't remember her.-ON GOING.

Your Camera Roll Dating Bucky Barnes: ONE |

Day at the fair that ends in a motorcycle ride

Wedding Day

NSFW Pictures: ONE |

Christmas Surprise

Mask Kink

Bucky Has A Nightmare

Cock Warming

Beach Day

Winter Solider Makes You Ride His Knife

A Smutty Night With Bucky

Smut With 1940's Bucky

Hide and Fuck

Bucky Can't Sleep Next To You Anymore

Computer Chair Smut

Bucky Realizes He's In Love

Soldat Was Sent To Destroy You

Birthday Smut

Thigh Riding

Bucky Wakes You Up On Your Birthday

"Just Neighbors" with Bucky

Bucky Can't Keep His Hands Off Of You

Bucky In The Void-Part One | Part Two | Part Three-coming soon

Soldat Brands You

Dark!Bucky Helps Unleash Something Inside of You

Bucky Says He Loves You for the First Time

Thunderbolts!Bucky Reminds You Who You Belong To

Congressmen Barnes

Bucky Taking Care Of You While You're On Your Period

Bucky Touches Himself At The Thought Of You

Dark!Bucky Licks Your Tears

Soulmates: Growing up, reader had been told stories about how you would dream your soulmates memories, something you never believed in. That was until someone new moves in next door and nightmares plague you every night.

Truth: A next door neighbor bound with secrets; one of which nearly breaks you from the inside out.

Besplatno: Bucky needed to make sure he was free from Soldat before continuing on his life with his dorogaya.[Takes place inbetween my series Dorogaya and Vaz Prizrak]

Aftercare

Bucky Talks You Through It

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes x you #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x you #the winter soldier imagines #bucky barnes camera roll #bucky barnes fics #bucky barnes fanfiction

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indepthpokemonheadcanons · 9 months ago

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10 Tips for Starting Pokémon Training as an Adult

It's never too late to become a pokémon trainer. That's what people say. But if you're anything like I was, you probably think that's a load of rubbish.

When I took up the hobby, aged 31 and working 9-to-5, I didn't see how I could ever fit in with - or catch up to - the people who'd been training pokémon since they were kids. It's not easy! But it would've been much easier with the right advice.

So whether you're trying to get back into an old hobby, or you're a total fletchling, here are the ten tips I wish I'd known before getting into pokémon training as an adult.

Look to shelters for the perfect partner pokémon. People make a big deal about growing up alongside a pokémon, but raising one from young takes time, money, and energy that you may not have. Most kid trainers can only manage it because mum and dad take care of the boring stuff (like buying feed, taking them for check-ups, and hosing them down when they run headlong into a bog). Shelters are heaving with rescue pokémon, many of which will have been previously owned by trainers, so they'll be a lot easier for a beginner to work with. On top of that, you'll be giving a pokémon a new home, which is vitally important.

Trainer cards are for you, too! This can seem like an obvious one, but I've met so many adult trainers who never even thought to get a card. Even if you're not planning to take on the League, trainer cards still get you great discounts on goods, Gym entry fees, and (weirdly) some restaurants and tourist attractions. You won't get your card for free the way that most kids can, but the cost is very reasonable.

Make use of night classes. Most Gyms, both official and unofficial offer discounted training sessions from 8pm onwards to capture the older market. They're a great pick if you work full-time and they're generally much quieter than the day sessions. The one downside is that the Gym Leader rarely attends, but the other tutors are usually pretty good - and they'll be less busy than the Leader, so more able to offer personalised advice.

You can take on the Gym Challenge without travelling. If you're busy studying, working, or raising children (or all three, god forbid!), you probably won't have the spare time to trek around the region battling Gym Leaders. However, with a bit of planning, you don't need to. Most Gyms take match bookings up to 6 months in advance, which means you can plan trips well in advance for when you have the time to travel out. Pop-up Gyms are also becoming increasingly common, where Gym Leaders will visit other cities for a few days at a time, run some workshops, and reach out to challengers in the local area. These can be busy and oversubscribed, but they're a potential option if you can't travel far.

Unless you've practiced it, don't throw your pokéballs into battle! Yes, it's what the professionals do, and they look effortlessly cool doing it. But it's not as easy as it appears. If you try it, you will end up hurling your pokéball out of the ring, and you'll have to awkwardly shuffle after it to get it back. There's nothing like that to kill your confidence before a match. Gym tutors can teach you how to throw pokéballs like a pro, but until you've mastered it, stick to just clicking the eject button.

Keep it simple, keep it Silph. If you're new to training, or you've returned to the hobby after a long time away, you'll be dumbfounded by the range of pokéballs on sale in general stores. Take deep breaths and try not to panic. Some of the differences are purely cosmetic, some only matter if you plan to be out catching pokémon, and others are just ways to get money out of you (I promise, you don't need Bluetooth-enabled pokéballs, or ones that claim to measure your pokémon's heart rate and stress levels). When in doubt, stick with Silph's classic long-life pokéballs. They cost a pretty penny, but trust me - their quality, longevity, and ease of use is unmatched.

Spend quality time with your pokémon. If you're completely new to raising pokémon, it's easy to dedicate most of your hours together to training. Remember to take breaks, for both your sakes. Spending time on fun, non-competitive activities will deepen your bond with your pokémon and bring you more in sync with each other. Brush their fur, take them for walks, let them watch you cook. It's okay to keep your pokémon in pokéballs, especially if you've got limited space at home, but experts recommend that they spend no more than 8 hours confined at a time.

If you're a returning trainer, remember that your partner pokémon might not be as keen to resume the hobby as you are. After a few years away, some pokémon lose their zeal for competition entirely. It can be tough to imagine battling alongside other pokémon, especially if you and your buddies go way back, but try to see it as a positive. It's a chance to forge new partnerships and try out new battle styles.

Learn from your fellow trainers, no matter their age. If you're an adult beginner, you'll definitely feel out of place next to all the young'uns taking on the Gym Challenge. Swallow your discomfort and ask them to battle! Kids are always up for a match, and they've got a wild, unselfconscious way of battling that you can learn a lot from. Just be prepared to lose a lot. And try not to gloat too much when you finally win against that annoying kid who wears all his Gym badges on his coat. (There's always one).

Know that you're not alone. It's definitely easier to get into pokémon training as a child, but that doesn't mean it's not worth doing later in life. Lots of successful trainers didn't start their careers until adulthood; Wulfric, from the Kalosian League, only got into battling when his young daughter did. Hassel, of the Paldean Elite Four, has written extensively about the difficulties of returning to dragon taming after spending over a decade in another career. Take inspiration from those who have come before you, and remember that you have as much right to this hobby as anyone.

#pokémon #pokémon headcanons #indepthpokémonheadcanons #pkmn #indepthpkmnheadcanons #indepthpokemonheadcanons #pokemon headcanons #I wanted to write another faux-buzzfeed article #this one goes out to the ageing pokmeon fans (i.e. me)#we can still become trainers! just bc we aren't 10 anymore that doesn't mean pokemon isn't for us #I love how I had the idea that hassel got back into training as an adult #and then I went to his bulbapedia page and found out that's basically canon. bc he went away to pursue a music career #love when canon bends to my headcanons

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3liza · 10 months ago

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i mean the truth is that we do not need and should not have all this stupid plastic clutter in or houses. no one should be producing or selling this shit. everyone make your own merchandise and charge a living hourly wage to sell it 🤷 sorry to be so simplistic about this but it's one of the results of the lack of class unity specifically in the means of production-owning creative class, who is not mentioned or dealt with by the core Marxist texts as far as I know (i asked about this earlier on here, did marx ever address in his analysis people like, for example, a professional photographer who owns a camera ans prints his own dagguereotypes? or a portrait painter or idk, independent milliner or seamstress? these people all own the means of production and do not employ anyone, and the answer from better educated people than I was that no, Marx didn't mention them), I'm not well read on this at all, there is just a big void where leftist analysis of what modern economists call "the creative class"

I'm getting off topic. my point is make your own keychains in your kitchen. it's actually not hard. you can even mass produce (on a small scale) little plastic crap if you want, with resin and a UV lamp, or a 3d printer, or a laser cutter and acrylic sheets (or just use balsa wood damn, at least its biodegradable and less tacky).

all this stuff is available to little creators AND there are hundreds of people who already own these machines who will take work for you and produce your designs. you just have to actually find them and know them and email them. that's what I mean about the class unity issue with creatives. we have no large scale union, we have no large scale class consciousness, and we're all sending our orders for little plastic crap to sweatshops instead of emailing a guy with a laser cutter in his garage and saying "hey Keith can I get uhhhhhhhhhhh 50 laser cut keychains of this twerking Diggler design I made, like how much would that cost" and he's like sure here's the work and materials cost and tbh it's always always less than i think it's going to be. you just have to do some basic arithmetic and then order shipping, and I hate order fulfillment with my life but you can actually pay or barter with someone to do that for you too. learn to delegate and then factor that into your unit cost. this is basic shit every commercial creator needs to know. they should teach you this in art school but they dont

don't give me crap about "I can't afford a laser cutter" either because I just told you to email Keith. and all these machines get sold secondhand when a manufacturer or hobbyist needs to upgrade. i got a color laser printer perfect for making zines and wheatpastes and shipping labels from a retired lesbian on capital hill for $75 and it was still full of ink. my friend gave me her 20 year old canon dslr because she just didn't need it and didn't want to bother selling it. it works fine because I spent the time finding the right drivers and shit for my computer. and card readers exist. Craigslist. Facebook marketplace. nextdoor sales section. eBay. everyone always forgets eBay. eBay lets you save searches and will email you when it finds a guy selling his vinyl plotter in your city with local pickup. I'm serious

#long post #pro doom strats #leather embossing is another one #risograph prints #woodblock prints #rubber prints #etchings even #silicon molds for sculpey or resin or clay #local pottery studios #local photography studios #professional art printers with giclee printers!#ive used all these techniques to make merch #none of them are difficult or out of reach its just EASIER and adverised more to order shit from china #oh my god i forgot button presses #ALSO WE NEED A UNION AND STANDARDIZED HOURLY WAGES BTW #TIRED OF THIS BICKERING ABOUT PRICE UNDERCUTTING

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chaoscreaturewrites · 4 months ago

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Call of duty, ghost, birthday, cute meet

The perfect gift

Summary:Price's wife gets Ghost the perfect birthday gift, and a date.

WC:1.1k

Ghost's birthday is coming up, he's always so hard to buy gifts for but Price's wife magically gets it right every time so they go out to find him something.

Price's wife recently went to a pottery night with her friends and saw so many cute things she wanted to buy, so she takes Price there hoping to find something for Ghost and herself.

They walk around enjoying the gallery then head to see the items for sale. So far nothing for Ghost until they see an artist putting out new cups for sale. They both know it's the perfect gift when they see the oversized tea cup, it's deep blue with gold details, it looks like it had just come off some royal British high tea table.

A complaint Price has heard over and over from Ghost is how his hands are just too big for standard tea cups, the handle too dainty he feels like he'll snap it with one grip. So Price knows this is the perfect cup for him, it's everything a teacup should but just sized up for his lieutenant and the handle looks much sturdier as well.

He stands back while his wife talks with the artist who is delighted for a sale and the ladies sweet compliments. His wife disappears Into the women's studio chatting away, apparently she'll gift wrap it for them to, perfect.

While they are busy he looks around and finds something for his wife, another cute statue for her display wall. Usually the items on that wall are things he brings from missions around the world but he saw her eyeing this.

He comes back just in time and they head home with the perfect gift for his tea loving lieutenant. On the ride home his wife raves about the artist and how the work in her studio Is amazing, how the cups are for making a living, how she's so cute and single. He wonders how she learned that last fact, but his wife is a better interrogator than most professionals and she does it all without you even knowing.

She left out one detail from their conversation, how she quickly talked up Simon. And how her quick pitch worked resulting in the nice lady slipping her business card in the bag with her number on the back. So this year Simon will be getting a beautiful cup and hopefully a date.

This isn't the first time Price's wife has tried to set up Simon, so over the years she's honed her pitch, hopeful one day he'll find someone to fill his home and give him a warm welcome after a rough misson. She's seen the state of the boys come back, some tires worse than others but Simon there's already darkness in him so when it's also surrounding him he can get stuck in it and he needs a warm light.

She has acted as that warm light many times, cooking the boys a big feast and having them all over for dinner to lighten their spirits and fill their bellies, but Simon needs someone, he needs a light stuck by his side to clear away his clouds.

[Ghost's birthday]

He never used to like birthdays until Price's wife started throwing them for all the guys. She knows he doesn't want it to be a big deal so she keeps it simple, a nice home cooked meal, gifts and drinks with the guys after.

The meal was delicious, they are all stuffed as they sit in the living room for gifts. Soap goes first handing over something he obviously wrapped himself, he opens up the oddly shaped package and finds a 3 pack of pocket sized WD40 and a candle the scent of gasoline. Gaz gifts him a chocolate grenade and another switch blade for his collection.

Next Price's wife hands over a bag, he wonders what's in it since she's practically been littering the whole time waiting for her turn.

He carefully unwrapping the tissue paper and finds a beautiful tea cup and it fits his hand perfectly. He's never seen anything like this a real tea cup for his gaint size and a handle sturdy enough he could actually use. This will be the shinning star among his cupboard. Just drinking from this will lighten his day. He thanks Price and his wife the best he can. He spends a few solid minutes just staring at the cup, cataloging ever detail.

As he's re-wrapping it he notes a card in the bottom of the bag. He's thrilled to know where he can get more cups because just having one will make his other cups look sad. He goes to put the card in his wallet when he notes the number handwritten on the back.

“ what's this?”

“ it's the number of the cute lady who made the cup”

Over the years he's gotten many numbers slipped to him by Price's wife but this is the first time he's actually thought about calling and not just for another cup. No, he wants to meet the person who made this, wants to see their other work, maybe he'll even ask her out, maybe.

[ 2 years later]

His cupboard is now full of elegant and eclectic tea cups all hand made by the Lil bird who's now sleep in his bed.

2 years ago he went to her studio and met her, and that was it at first sight he was hooked. The flutter of her voice, the sparkel of her eyes, her round cheeks, hair up in a messy bun, hands covers in clay and a few spots smeared on her face. He walked in while she was working, doing something he now knows is called throwing on the wheel. Even though he interrupted her, she enthusiastically chatted with him about the cup he got and her work and that day they planned their first date.

Now they have been together 2 years and each time he comes home he gets that same feeling he did when he walked into her studio for you first time.

Also check out my cod master list and see if you'd like to be tagged for any future works for specific characters

#writeblr #chaos creature writes #writers on tumblr #fanfic #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #call of duty fluff #call of duty fic

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wndaswife · 1 year ago

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it’s your privilege | taylor sloane & fem!reader

Taylor can’t help herself from teasing you. She often thinks it’s a form of cuteness aggression.

Word count: 4270

Tags | MDNI: smut, fluff, masturbation, cunnilingus, strap-ons, light choking, brief hair-pulling, a lot of teasing, light/sorta degradation, praise (taylor was feeling generous), dom!taylor sloane

“You were awfully quiet tonight,” you heard Taylor say from the washroom. You looked up from your phone and saw her rubbing in her facial serum in the mirror with the tips of her fingers.

You set your phone face down on the pillow beside you, sitting up and tucking your hands under your thighs. “Yeah, I know. I just didn’t feel much like talking with everyone.”

After some moments of silence while you watched Taylor finish up her nighttime routine, her eyes met yours through the mirror. She smiled at the sight of your softened expression once your eyes met, a glint of mischief mirrored through her reflection.

Taylor liked that she was able to make you so soft, that all she had to do was tease you a little or even just meet your eyes to make you feel better than anyone else could.

She thought you were so cute and sensitive and so obsessed with her.

Turning the washroom light off and closing the door behind her, she approached you sitting with your legs hanging from the bed. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and you removed your hands from under your thighs to support her as she took a seat sideways on your lap.

“Diana was curious about that earthenware pot you made for me when she saw it in the kitchen,” Taylor said, absently running her hand up your chest as her eyes ran over your face, her pinky and ring finger pressing gently into the soft flesh of your left breast. “She asked if you were selling any more like it.”

When you and Taylor were first seeing each other, she invited you over for dinner once and you found out that she was an incredible cook. She’s always had the passion for cooking, she told you, but her busy schedule never made much room for shopping for gourmet ingredients, much less the time it took to cook intricate dishes just for one.

From that, you learned two things: Taylor was an amazing fucking cook, and secondly, that she had a big heart, seeing little purpose in cooking so beautifully if she seldom had anyone to share her food with.

“I noticed that she kind of kept looking over at me,” you said, absently rubbing Taylor’s thigh with the palm of your hand. “I think she wanted to have a conversation so I kept moving around so she’d have to keep talking her way through different people to get to me.”

“She’s such a bitch,” Taylor huffed in irritation, tucking her hand under your shirt and rubbing the pads of her fingers against your stomach. “I tell her it’s not for sale and she has to go and talk to you like she didn’t believe me.”

You laughed with your head tipped back slightly and Taylor’s frown relaxed. She liked that you didn’t take her socialisation and professional life as seriously as she did.

“What did you tell her after she asked if it was for sale?” you asked.

“I told her you made it specially for me the night you invited me over for dinner to ask me to be your girlfriend.” Taylor grinned and hugged you close with her arm still around your shoulders, recalling the beloved memory.

You had shown Taylor the pot after you had dinner together. But you hadn’t even wrapped it in a bow or anything, so Taylor didn’t know it was a gift until you told her, and she didn’t know you had made the whole damn thing until you told her that too.

It just looked so perfect and beautiful. She hadn’t ever been given a gift like that before, let alone any made for her because someone thought she was an amazing cook.

“That still didn’t shoo her off of wanting me to make her one, huh?” you said, an arm wrapping securely around Taylor’s waist to ensure she didn’t slip as she adjusted herself on your lap.

“So glad my girlfriend hates socialising with any other living breathing human being besides me,” she teased, batting her eyelashes at you.

Taylor stood from your lap and reached down to lift your leg up, guiding you backwards onto the bed.

“Not true,” you defended.

“Yeah? Name one other person but me who isn’t your immediate family that you’d genuinely love to have a conversation lasting over an hour with — in, like, some empty padded room.” She climbed onto the bed on all fours, advancing on top of you, but not before pulling the waistband of your pyjama pants down and nipping at your hip playfully.

You started playing with some of her sprawled out hair where your fingertips could reach as you laid beneath her while she slowly ascended your body like a snake, tugging your shirt upwards and kissing and biting gently at your stomach. “I really like that woman at the bakery just outside of Joshua Tree.”

Taylor breathed out sharply through her nose as if to laugh dryly, and you felt it just between your ribcage. “The one that always gives you an extra cheese danish when you go, but hardly even talks to me when I go?”

“Yeah, her.”

“That’s really sweet — the only other person you can tolerate socially is someone who hates me.” She secured your hips between her knees and hovered over your face with an elbow by your head, an impish smile on her lips.

She leaned down and nipped at the tip of your nose. “Wrong answer,” she said.

“What was the right answer?” you implored, moving your hands up her smooth thighs, tucking them beneath her slip before moving up further and resting your hands on her hips.

“You shouldn’t have disagreed with me in the first place,” she teased, the prettiest grin spreading across her face, bare of makeup.

She sighed superficially as if disappointed and lifted herself up to sit between your hips, below your lower stomach. She ran her hands up your clothed stomach and chest as if pondering something absently.

With her bottom lip stuck out a little in a pout, she said, “And I was really in the mood to make you feel good tonight, baby; I thought you just look so cute with your hair up.”

“I guess we’ll both have to go to bed unsatisfied.”

Taylor laughed and moved her hand up your chest, the tips of her fingers very nearly brushing against your nipple beneath your shirt and sending a dull wave of unsatiated desire through your body; she always knew which buttons to press.

“Who’s both?” she asked.

She leaned down so she was hovering above you again and you expected her to say something, so you watched her lips. They parted and your eyes flickered up to hers, watching as they fluttered shut.

You quickly looked down between your hips and saw Taylor tucking her hand beneath her pink satin slip.

When you looked back up, her lips were pulled back into a slight grin as she watched your cheeks flush and your eyes dart around. She started to slowly roll her hips forward so she could use your body to push the back of her hand against.

You tried to interrupt her and wiggle out from underneath her — you wanted to be able to touch her too. “Tay-”

“Don’t move,” she all but whimpered from beyond clenched teeth. “You’ll ruin it, and I won’t be able to get off.”

There was no way she was as turned on as she was making it seem, and she knew you knew that too; she was teasing you, and letting you know she wasn’t going to let you touch her at all.

She tucked her hand beneath your head and lifted you while your elbow moved back so you could sit yourself up. Her hand, now cradling the back of your head, led your lips to her neck, and Taylor sighed when you began kissing down the smooth, warm expanse of her skin. Her hand began to pick up speed, her wrist moving quickly against your lower stomach.

“I love you, Taylor,” you murmured against her throat.

You felt the vibrations of her satisfied hum against your lips. “I love…” she sighed out, then slid her hand around your head to take hold of the lower half of your face, pulling you away from her neck to meet your eyes, “having your mouth on my cunt.”

Taylor liked to push you as far as she could; when you were horny, she could get away with any amount of teasing as long as it brought you closer to being able to please her.

“Beg to eat me out.”

“Please.” You immediately begged. “Please,” you repeated, and moved yourself up onto both elbows. “I wanna make you feel good, Taylor. Please let me eat you out. Please, I wanna make you come. I wanna taste you.”

Her hand slid out from between your bodies and she parted your lips, sliding her thumb into your mouth and pushing your lower jaw down to open your mouth. Then she slid two fingers in, rather pleased to watch as your lips immediately wrapped around her.

You circled your tongue around her fingers, sucking with your lips as you swallowed.

“Do you like that?” she asked, looking down at you, her wavy blonde hair slipping from behind her ears and brushing against your cheeks.

When you nodded, she asked, “Is that all you wanted? Shall we go to bed now?”

“No,” you immediately protested, her fingers still in your mouth.

Green eyes dissected your expression with unparalleled focus, drinking in how you looked so desperate and flushed and overwhelmed.

But it always made you feel so warm when Taylor’s eyes ran over your face in the tender way that only she could do, even when she was trying to only tease; her eyes would run over the trembling of your soft lips and over your delicate eyelids, how your tongue peeked over your bottom teeth and how your eyes darted side to side to capture both of her own.

She removed her fingers from your mouth and kissed you, her fingers dipping into your hair to cup your cheek and rub the pads of her fingers into the side of your head softly.

The both of you moved and she parted from your lips so your head rested on your pillows and Taylor could hold onto the headboard for balance. She repositioned herself on top of you.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” she asked, looking down at you as both her knees laid beside your head.

You kissed her inner thighs and ran the palm of your hands up the back of her legs before groping her ass. “Thank you,” you told her sincerely.

She smiled, satisfied, and pulled her panties to the side, revealing her wet cunt.

You nearly started crying real tears when she lowered herself down onto your face, your tongue parting her pussy and your lips immediately wrapping around her. Her flavour spread through your mouth and your hands moved up to take hold of her hips and bring her weight further down onto you.

She let out a long, relieved groan as if she had been waiting for you to eat her out for as long as you had been, though she had made you beg for so long.

Her hips rolled forward and back in a gentle swaying rhythm, letting your tongue explore her, delve through her soft folds, in and out of her opening, tasting how she felt just and only ever for you.

Taylor was careful not to move so much lest she become unaware of each and every way your tongue moved against her, for she wanted to feel every inch of how you worshipped and loved her, tasting her slowly with a hunger only she could satiate.

In the meantime your hands explored her body, your thumbs running up her obliques and with a flat palm, how her stomach rose and fell with each of her quickened breaths. She took hold of your wrist and moved it up to her breast, her moan enthusiastic and prolonged when you pinched her nipple between two fingers.

You could feel her begin to pick up speed, and your other hand supported her hips, groping the side of her ass securely. She took hold of the headboard with one hand on your head, encouraging you, petting you.

“Make me come, Y/N,” she told you, and you pleased her in the way you knew she loved, in the way you held back when you knew all she wanted at first was just to feel you love her slowly and without any intention of bringing her to orgasm just yet.

For some years when Taylor was younger, she did ballet.

You knew nothing about ballet or any form of dancing, but you sometimes thought you could see traces of her time as a ballerina in Taylor’s everyday life. For example, she had great posture, and you always thought she moved so elegantly. Her steps were extraordinarily light, and sometimes she snuck up on you when she entered a room.

When Taylor came above you, you always watched with rapt attention the way her back arched, the way her gracefully-moving hips came to a staggered halt, twitching as she released above you. She threw her head back and groaned, the angle of her jaw trailing down smooth and sharp to the corner of her earlobe, exposing the expanse of her pale neck and the shadowed contours of her throat and clavicle.

When Taylor reached her orgasm, she looked like how she did all the time — beautiful, and like she had been rehearsing for audiences the way her eyes squeezed shut and how her pink lips parted, and the way she moaned and called your name and squeezed her thighs securely around your head.

A trembling thigh lifted and released you from beneath her so she could sit herself down beside your shoulder, laying her head back against the headboard and catching her breath for a moment.

You turned and wrapped your arm around her thighs, kissing the side of her hip. She laid a hand on your head and brushed your hair out of your face.

After a moment, Taylor leaned down and whispered into your ear, “Close your eyes.” She pressed a kiss between your eyebrows and you felt her slip off of the bed, and you listened as she walked a few metres away.

A few moments later, you felt the bed dipping by your ankles and, though tempted, you kept your eyes shut until Taylor climbed atop of you again so her face was at the same level as yours.

“Open your eyes,” she said, then pressed her hips forward against yours to rub her solid length against your upper thigh.

Before you had time to react, Taylor met your lips with hers, kissing you with fervour as she began to pull your shorts and underwear down. You squirmed beneath her, adjusting your legs and hips as much as possible so she could remove your clothes without disconnecting from your lips.

She rubbed her strap against your cunt, and you heard her make a satisfied noise when she felt how slick and ready you were against the transparent blue silicone.

Your hips bucked upwards and Taylor immediately pressed a hand down onto your left hip and forced your ass flat back down onto the back.

She lifted your shirt above your head and you watched as your chest was covered in her long wavy blonde hair. Your nipples hardened when her hair brushed against your breasts.

Taylor massaged one of your breasts with her palm, the other running up and down your side soothingly as she sucked at your hardened nipple. She switched breasts and you wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her securely against your body and feeling the comfort of her weight against you.

She reached down and began rubbing the length of her strap against your cunt, moaning into your mouth then parting from your lips so you could watch her expression twist into that of desire as she bit her bottom lip and looked down at you scrutinizingly.

Cracking under her pressure, you squeezed her around the waist and forced your hips upwards, pleading, “Taylor, please, I can’t wait. I want–”

“Watch your tone with me,” she reprimanded, pressing the heel of her hand against your hip harsher and forcing your hips back down. “It’s a privilege to be touched by me.”

You nodded in agreement, shutting your mouth and meeting her eyes obediently.

“Repeat it,” she told you.

Without even a beat of hesitation, you repeated, “It’s a privilege to be touched by you.”

“That’s right, Y/N,” she cooed. “You only get to feel good when I have enough time to entertain you. Your pleasure will never come before mine.”

Her stare softened at your obedient nod and your focused stare as you hung onto her every word. “Turn around,” she then said. “You know how cute I think you sound when you have your face pressed into the pillows.”

She lifted herself from you momentarily to allow you space to turn onto your stomach, and you were soon cocooned by Taylor’s body from behind.

Brushing your hair from your shoulder so she could whisper against the side of your head, Taylor’s lips pressed against your ear as her cock prodded at your opening. “You’ve been such a good girl,” she said before taking hold of your hips with both hands and pulling your ass up against her.

You arched your back and allowed her to pull you onto her cock slowly, and Taylor continued speaking by your ear as she entered you slowly. “You’re so tight,” she said.

There was a certain way Taylor liked to fuck you, and she knew you loved it. She was purposeful and delicate as her hips pulled back and thrusted forward, but right around when your cunt had taken about half of her strap, she’d buck her hips forward sharply and enter you with a firm impact so her hips slapped against your ass. She timed it perfectly each time, treating you delicately as she moved in and out of you then meeting your ass with a snap of her hips.

She was filled with so much satisfaction, her ego reaching heights as she listened to your soft whimpers and whines while you gripped onto the sheets and begged for her; you weren’t specific when you asked for more, but Taylor knew that, mostly, you were just asking for her.

“I think you’re so cute when you act all shy,” she said through her soft pants. “I think you’re so gentle and soft-spoken, blushing when you get complimented by strangers, stuttering when you speak.”

She took a handful of your ass and groped your breast with her other hand, tugging sharply at your nipple. “It makes me so wet when you’re like that. You always act so shy — even when you’re taking my cock six inches into your tight cunt.”

She released your breast and wrapped a hand around your neck, arching you up and allowing her to bite down on your neck, trailing soon-to-be dark bruises up to just below your jawline.

Soft moans and whimpers muffled by her hand wrapped around your neck only urged Taylor to fuck you harder. She fucked you with more effort, groaning breathily into your ear. Her other hand wrapped around your hip and she lifted your ass up, letting go of your neck to slide a pillow under your hips.

Taylor lifted herself onto her knees and placed both hands on your hips, pulling your ass back against her in time with when she thrusted forward, her hips meeting your ass with a sharp slap each time.

From across the room to the left of the bed by the bedroom door, her attention was caught by the mirror. She reached down and took a handful of your hair gently, turning your head and making you face the mirror.

She watched as your eyes met hers through your reflection and she felt herself grin watching how at her mercy you were, bent over and arched with your face pressed against the pillows and your hair in her tightened hand.

“Don’t I look good fucking you, baby?” she panted, grinning down at you, her other hand gripping at your waist and pulling you back against her.

“You look beautiful, Taylor,” you conceded adoringly.

“Look at how beautiful we look together. You’re so gorgeous, Y/N.” She leaned down so her body cocooned your back and she buried her face in your hair, both hands now grasping at your ass and hips harshly.

Taylor’s body meshed in perfect sync with yours, her long wavy hair spilling down her smooth back, her skin glistening with sweat, the black harness fastened around her hips. She reached her arm around and met your clit with her fingers, massaging against you in circles while she kissed your back.

“I love you, Y/N,” she said against your shoulder. “Come for me.”

You were the sweetest thing when you came, all whimpers and cries for her, always reaching for her to feel her close to you. She let go of your left hip and interlaced her hand with yours.

Taylor kissed your neck softly, listening closely as your breath caught in your throat then released. She slowed her thrusts and stopped playing with your clit, her other hand moving to rub up and down your side soothingly.

You started catching your breath and Taylor moved her lips further up to kiss beneath your jaw where it was warmest.

“I love you,” Taylor murmured.

“I love you too,” you replied tiredly with a long, satisfied exhale.

She helped you put your shirt back on because you were tired, then slid your underwear back on too and kissed her way up your thighs. She unfastened her harness then quickly brushed her hair in the mirror again before joining you back in bed. She turned the nightstand lamp off and got under the sheets with you.

With your eyes closed and your body facing Taylor’s, she watched you silently as you dozed with her arm tucked under her head.

Taylor was aware how shallow and, frankly, aimless much of her life was. She was successful in her career and successful amongst her peers — but all of it, for what? It wasn’t enough for her to do what she did without anything real.

You were the ground under her feet and the most special thing in her life — you made her life real, and you made her special.

Even in college she always knew at the back of her mind that she didn’t have what other people had; everyone else had supportive families and friends they’d known since high school and partners who loved them.

Taylor grew up with parents who were just as arrogant and abusive as they were rich, and a brother who grew up to be just like them. She didn’t quite know what to do when she knew that she wasn’t interested in the people she was friends with because it wasn’t ever like she had anyone else to talk with.

People who weren’t like the friends she didn’t care about weren’t interested in talking with someone like her.

When she moved to Los Angeles after graduation, she wanted to make new friends. She was going into entrepreneurship — however the fuck anyone defined that — but she had enough money to make mistakes and start something new.

In spite of that, she ended up in the exact same place as she was all of college — with people she wished she could grow out of and doing shit she couldn’t see herself doing forever.

Frankly, Taylor thought she was fucked up.

Maybe it was in her genes.

Nicky turned out just like their parents, after all, and maybe there was only just so far that she could make it on her own without giving up and resorting to living off of her parents’ money with no ambition and no plans for anything real.

But then she met you, and she wanted you like she’s never wanted anything else.

You were so creative and sensitive and smart, and it didn’t seem like you hated her. She took her time with you and tried not to scare you away, but no amount of careful effort could change the way she was.

But if there was any fateful reason she ended up in Los Angeles, it was for you.

When you told Taylor you were interested in her, you gave her the only real and special thing she’s ever looked forward to in her life.

Everything she did only ever made sense because of you. After meeting you, it just seemed like everything made sense for the very first time.

The only real things in her life all revolved around you — a shared home, a lover, a best friend, a future, a real life with someone who really loved her and put her before anything else.

Plus, if you really loved her as much as you always said, then maybe she wasn’t as fucked up as she thought she was. Even she started to make sense.

“Don’t ever leave me,” she whispered to you, then smiled as she watched you continue to sleep peacefully.

You looked the most beautiful when you didn’t know she was watching.

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