#Abrupt movement
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Cerebral Palsy - Athetoid
Cerebral Palsy â Athetoid What is Athetoid Cerebral Palsy? Athetoid cerebral palsy (also known as âdyskinetic cerebral palsyâ) is a movement disorder caused by damage to the developing brain. Children with athetoid CP fluctuate between hypertonia and hypotonia. Hypertonia is used to describe unusually high muscle tone, which creates stiffness and tension in the muscles. Hypotonia is used toâŠ
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i need to fix a thing about the machine that has been fucked up all day, but i KNOW i will hurt my hand if i do. and i cant ask any of the big strong men around for help bc they also know they would hurt their hand if they did. life is so haaaaaaaaaard
#ooc#shut up manu#the machine requires a blood sacrifice#by which i mean an abrupt movement with a lot of force that makes it really hard not to cut urself on it
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I think my favorite thing about Spiderman is whenever they have them act like a spider. Like the only way to explain this is the scene when Andrew's Spiderman is tracking the lizard and using the vibrations on the webs and how he jolts to focus on each new one as a real spider would with prey in its web.
Like this is super funny and endearing to me cause like yeah, Spider-man is a man before he's a spider but there are moments when it's implied the mutation give him spider-like traits or behaviors and it's hilarious to me
#or whenever he makes sudden and abrupt movements on the webs and shit#its so funny cause like its so quick and off putting to see a grown man scurry on a wall like that#like the spider people hating mint or citrus like certain spiders do and just having to deal with that as a part of their life now#across the spiderverse#atsv#spiderman#spiderverse#this is also about how certain spidermen crawl on walls cause some just crawl like a dude and then some contort like a spider#and its just interesting to see how some carry their body language like a spider cause its pointed out some villians just find Spider-man a#concept off putting
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this genuinely pops up in my head at least once a week it's been months he just lives there now
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IM FEELING SO VINDICATED RN SHADOW POWERSLIDES!!! see okay iâm reviewing some of my shth gameplay footage for reasons and in a cutscene heâs skating fast and then slides to a stop. this is important and notable to me because a sliding stop (most commonly referred to as a powerslide but theres also quite a few other stops) is an inline skating technique thatâs completely impossible to do on roller skates. MEANING for absolute certain shadowâs movement is based off inline skating in at very least shth, and more broadly any media that has shadow using a powerslide!!
#HE ROLLERBLADES NOT ROLLER SKATES FR!!!#right like i knew this but quad skating and inline skating can look very similar#and the animations arenât always the most accurate#so thereâs been a margin of doubt in my mind to account for a lack of clarity#but a movement technique thatâs fully impossible on one proves it!!!#rambles#action sport posting#gotta comb through footage to see if this holds true in other stuff#if you know of any footage of shadow skating and coming to an abrupt stop please send it my way lol
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satoruâs punishments đđ¶
gojo satoru who focuses his infinity around his already-meaty cock so youâre unable to sink that pretty pussy down on him.
satoru is naturally one to discipline, considering his profession as a teacher. he knows clearly whatâs right from wrong, and wonât let you off the hook as if youâre one of his students. you think itâs unfair, but if you were to think that gojo satoru cared so much about your incessant little opinions, youâd be called dumb.
your soppy cunt prods against his protected tip, urging your body lower to sheath his fat girth inside, but to no avail.
âsatoru,â you mewl, âi said âm sorry. really r-really sorry.â
âhm.â he shrugs, one hand cupping your soft butt, and the other around the edge of your waist. his fake efforts to help you when heâs the one preventing you from pleasure is ironic, and it makes you an unspoken amount of angry.
but your anger is overwhelmed by your carnal desires from the sight of him alone, and the only thing floating through your pretty little mind is to get this cock in you.
âpleaseâ let meââ
âno.â
he glides your slick cunt across the faux protection, grinding you down so harshly, spreading your sensitive lips and pressing against your clit so harshly it almost hurts. âyâdonât deserve it, you brat.â
âi dâ i do, satoru. d-donât say that !â
he canât deny how your sweet little mewls and begs for cock get him uncomfortably hard, wanting nothing more than to feel your chubby walls flesh to flesh with his cock. but he knows youâll never learn, knows that youâll be just as bad if he lets you off. even if itâs just this once.
âsatoruââ
his wet cock slips from under you, falling against his pelvis and plapping against his tummy. you take the chance to lower yourself, rubbing your sore cunt on the smooth length of his cock.
you rock your hips ever so gently, grinding down on visible, but untouchable veins decorating his gorgeous cock. youâre eager to get your cunt off, but ensure your boyfriend doesnât grow any angrier.
gojo undeniably grinds up just as desperately against your cunt, listening to the tuneful melody your sweet pussy plays for him. short pants leave his dewy lips, holding your chubby hips down firmly and setting his own pace. âshit. brat.â
he loves the look of panic in your eyes when his hips come to a slow, and soon to a stop, leaving you to mindlessly grind on his cock alone. your crying clit tingles from everything thatâs led up to this moment.
butâ
âdid i say you could do that ?â
your movements come to an abrupt stop when his hands splay across your hot thighs, holding you down tight against his pelvis.
âb-but, you were also grindinââ
âyeah, i was. did i say you could ?â he spits, voice laced with poisonous venom that silences you immediately. his eyes are intimidating, not an ounce of forgiveness or pity lays within them.
ânot good. what to do with you ?â
he tugs you off his hip, switching your position so that youâre soon under him.
and for the first time, his bare cock slaps against your puffy lips, and nudges at your raw clit. you moan with inexpectance, the mere feel of his cock slapping against your raw cunt nearly has you cumming.
âs a shame yâdonât know how to act right. câmere.â he motions, pressing down on your shivering shoulder, âcome ân suck your cock rights back.â
#was an idea / draft from soooo long ago#but i just couldnât finish the draft so i rewrote everythjngâŠ#i wish dis execution was better but i couldnât wait to post dis </3#jjk#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#gojo smut#gojo jjk#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru smut#gojo x reader#jjk gojo#gojou satoru x reader#gojo satoru#satoru gojo#jujutsu gojo#gojo x you#gojo x y/n#satoru x reader#satoru x you#satoru smut#drabbles ââ
Ëâ
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dont come at chris kuntz like that tf
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The Lord's Favorite CH.3
Synopsis: âAnd there you were, lying underneath the terrifying king, a man of immense power and ruthless intent, who would watch the world burn on a whim.â
prev â â next
âcontent: trueform!Sukuna x f! reader, nsfw, mild language, voyeurism, sukuna has two cocks, pure smut, gentle sukuna
âwc: 2.2k
âa/n: please the messages Iâve been getting from this series have been so unhinged?? I love it
âI believe your presence is precisely what I crave.â
And you swear your brain ceases to function. When you regain awareness, you find yourself against the black silken sheets of Ryomen Sukunaâs enormous bed. The air is thick with the scent of incense, and the dim light from flickering candles casts long shadows across the room. And there you were, lying underneath the terrifying king, a man of immense power and ruthless intent, who would watch the world burn on a whim.
He looks down at you, two of his strong arms gripping your hips, the rough pads of his fingers digging painfully into your flesh. Your gaze flickers down to his body, taking in the sight of his rippling muscles, flexing with each subtle movement. His broad chest rises and falls at a steady pace, a stark contrast to the thunderous beating of your own heart. His crimson eyes hold a possessiveness, the gaze of a predator stalking its prey, intense and unyielding.
Ryomen Sukuna was alreadyterrifying fully clothed, but his naked form elicited a different fear in you altogether. Two thick cocks stood proud and eager. You try to take in every detail, thick veins running up the sides, flushed angry red tips dripping pre-cum down his monstrous shaft. Your breath catches in your throat, all of your saliva drying up as you force a swallow. His lips curl into a smile that sends shivers down your spine. He lowers his head to your ear, his breath searingly hot against your skin.
âYou are aware I do not like waiting.â He growls.
âW⊠what would you like me to do My Lord?â The uncertainty in your tone is evident. He pulls back slightly, his gaze piercing through you with a mixture of disbelief and dark amusement.
Yes, you were younger than the other women in the castle, most of whom had come to serve after being widowed or hardened by life. But he assumed youâd had some knowledge. He had no need for concubines with no experience, anyone else who would dare enter his chambers without it would be swiftly dealt with. âTraining petsâ was of no interest to him. But he couldnât seem to ignore the way his cocks twitched at the thought of being the one who would ruin you. With a swift, almost effortless motion, his four powerful arms shift your position. Within the span of a heartbeat, he flips you over so that you find yourself straddling him, the change in position startlingly abrupt.
Youâre momentarily paralyzed, a jolt of panic surging through you. What exactly were you supposed to do now? Theoretically, you knew what was expected, the steps that were supposed to follow, but⊠how?
àŒșââââââââââââââàŒ»
On occasion, you found yourself wide awake during the night, the sound of the bed frame creaking and exaggerated moans muffled through the door connecting your room to Sukunaâs. Of course, Curiosity, that dangerous and ever-present impulse, got the better of youâand you innocently pressed your ear to the door. And of course, your eyes found their way to a convenient crack in the dark mahogany.
âYou should be ashamed, spying on your kingâ
You cursed yourself as you watched him. He laid on the bed, a womanâwho youâd seen enter his chambers multiple times was bouncing up and down on his length. Crying out as her hands rested atop his broad chest. Two arms guided her hips and the other two rested behind his head. Her loud moans of pleasure, a stark contrast between his low grunts. Your hand clasps over your mouth, suppressing your gasps as your own hand reached under your nightgown.
The sounds of skin slapping, squelching, and the womanâs theatrical wails acted as cover to your own quiet moans. As it continues Ryomen's head suddenly turns to the side, eye locking directly onto the door. A menacing smile spreads across his lips. Your blood runs cold as you make direct eye contact with your lord.
You cease your movements, tiptoeing back to your bed. Squeezing your thighs together, to desperately cool the unbearable heat.
âMyâŠ. lord⊠what are you looking at?â She gasps in between thrusts. You only hear a slap before covering your ears and praying it was just coincidence his eyes fell on that part of the room.
And from his lack of mention, you thought you had gotten away with it.
àŒșââââââââââââââàŒ»
And now you sit between his two muscular legs, the same way you saw that woman do. Staring down his two thick members. A shaky hand wraps around one, unable to grip him fully. A soft moan escapes his lips as you feel his cock twitch under your touch. You begin to pump slowly, your movements hesitant.Â
âDonât..act so coy, I know youâve seen this before.â And your heart drops in your stomach. You search for an excuse, a denial, but they all die in your throat. He only grins in response, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. One arm reaches behind your head, gently pushing your face mere inches away from his throbbing length. Your eyes flicker up to him then back down to his angry red tip, after a deep shaky breath you gather some spit in your mouth allowing it to flow onto him. He groans at the sensation, hand gripping your hair tightly.Â
You loll your tongue out, smearing the spit and pre-cum around his tip. Your other hand wraps around as well. Sukuna growls as your mouth engulfs him, tongue swirling around his head. He pushes your head down slowly, your mouth stretching at his size. Tears well up in your eyes as he hits the back of your esophagus, sinful gagging noises emanate from your throat. He hums amused.
âThis view suits youâŠâ He chuckles lowly as his hands guide your head up and down his shaft. He sets the pace, before letting go of your head. You look up at him through your fluttering eyelashes, the tears pooling in your eyes. Sukuna lies against the plush pillow, hands giving attention to his aching second cock. His breath hitches as his hips buck up, his length pushing even deeper into your throat. A sudden feeling of choking causes you to come up for air, coughing as oxygen finally enters your lungs again. A wave of embarrassment washes over you.Â
How pathetic you must look to your king, not even able to provide him with pleasure.
Ryomen grabs your waist, pulling you back under him. His eyes, darken as he pushes his body closer to you. A low thunderous rumble reverberates from his throat as his spit-soaked length finds friction against your stomach. You feel your own arousal pool between your legs as you are overwhelmed with a dangerous mix of fear and desire.
His lips capture yours in a rough kiss, sharp teeth baring down on your bottom lip as his tongue explores your mouth. Your soft moans are swallowed by him as his strong hands roam your naked body. He parts from the kiss, a trail of spit still connecting you two. He looks upon your panting form, without a second thought diving into your neck nipping and sucking at the delicate skin. Two hands grope your breasts, rolling the swollen buds between his fingers. He squeezes gently as you whimper under him, moving his mouth to encircle your nipple. The heat between your core nearing unbearable.
âMy.. lord⊠p-please..â You cry out, his teeth graze your nipple, a warning. He huffs against your skin.
âDo not rush me, woman.â His mouth moves to your other breast. Staring up at the high, ornately decorated ceiling of Ryomenâs chambers, you find yourself drifting into a daze. Suddenly coming to when you feel a rough hand reach between your wet folds. Sukuna purrs lowly, gathering your slick between his fingers. Your gaze meets his once more, you desperately squirm against his hand.
âAlready so eager⊠surely you realize youâll break if I try to fuck you.â His voice laced with playful menace as his fingers tease your entrance. Your vision hazes as you look up at your king, your bruised lips part taking in shaky breaths in anticipation.
One thick finger enters, pumping into you slowly as you feel your whole body turn to jelly. Sukuna chuckles darkly as you writhe under him, he adds another thick digit giving you just a second to adjust to the slight stretch. You feel a pressure building in your abdomen, similar to the one you felt the night you spied on your king.
âYouâre close, arenât you⊠How disappointing it's just from my fingers.â He coos bringing his other hand to your throbbing clit. He speeds up his ministrations, slipping in a third finger to bring you closer to the edge. A slight curve upwards is all it takes for your sinful walls to clench around his fingers, your back arches as you are delivered to a place youâve never been before. The unfamiliar feeling of orgasm, the pleasure of release washes over your body.
Ryomen removes his fingers from you, watching as your hole flutters around nothing, he brings the slick-coated fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste the fruits of his labor. You catch your breath as you feel his weight pushing you deeper into the sheets. His crimson eyes bore holes in your soul as he looks down at you with pure hunger in his gaze. One of his cocks rubs between your folds, gathering your arousal. A flash of hesitation crosses your face.
âI do not expect you to take both your first time.â He attempts reassurance. His cockhead rubs up and down, kissing your clit before pushing into your hole.Â
He growls as he slowly enters you, feeling the warmth of your walls enveloping him. You wince at the stretch, tears pricking your eyes. His hand reaches to cup your face, thumb wiping away the tears as they fall. He hushes your cries with a gentleness previously unknown to him.
âRelax little one⊠I hnng am going as slow as possible.â He moans as more of his length is surrounded by you. The way your warm walls clench around his thick cock makes his eyes roll, you were so tight, a temptress made to bring him to his knees. A vision of utter seduction. Buried deep in your pussy, you could ask anything and surely heâd grant every one of your desires. âYou.. fucking minx.â He curses as his tip kisses your cervix.
Your hands claw at his chiseled chest as you feel him reach the depths of your cavern.Â
âLord Sukuna! Tâmuch!â Your words come out jumbled and slurred as he begins to thrust into you. His pace slow, painfully so. His face etched with utter concentration as he tries to control his urge to split you open. With each long stroke, you feel every vein as he drags along your walls. Feeling deliciously full as King Sukuna pumps purposefully into your cunt.
âFâŠFaster please my lord..â You whisper shamelessly, his eyebrow quirks up in amusement.
âYou dareâŠorder your king?â He sneers, picking up the pace anyway. His hips stutter as he feels your cunt squeeze around him. Sukuna pulls you up to him, now resting on his heels as his two strong arms hold your back and the others hold your hips in place. Your arms snake around his neck supporting yourself as he pistons into you.
His thrusts become less rhythmic as he nears his breaking point. He grunts louder, his breath quickening.
âYou belong to me⊠fuck⊠you hear me woman? All mine. Mineminemine...â He groans and babbles as he delivers one last thrust, his cock twitching as he paints your walls with his hot sticky seed. Your back arches in his hold as you reach your climax. He watches as your body convulses, melting like putty into his hands. He lowers you back onto the mattress, watching as your chest heaves. He slides his cock out of you, still semi-hard now covered in a mixture of your slick and his cum.
You take in the sight above you: his slightly damp pink hair, tattooed arms now bearing tiny welts from your scratches. And the look on his faceâhis red eyes nearly black from arousal. Gods, you wished you could take a picture, a snapshot burned into your brain for eternity.
He sinks into the space next to you, catching his breath. You are quiet for a moment, mind still reeling from the events that just transpired. Should you stay? Were you meant to just up and leave after? Unease coils in your chest as you sit up, gathering yourself for the short walk to your room before you hear his voice again.
â Where do you think youâre going?â His voice laced with a hint of annoyance. You glance over your shoulder to see him propped up on one of his hands, his gaze dark.
âI thought youâd want me toââ
âYou will stay. You will⊠sleep here with me.â he commands softly, his grip firm yet gentle as he pulls you onto his broad chest. Your ear presses against his pectoral, the strong, steady beat of his heart thrumming through you like a soothing lullaby. You look up at him, his eyes are closed as he rests his hand atop your head.Â
âSleepâŠâ he murmurs, his voice a deep, husky whisper before his soft snores soon rumble in his chest. You close your eyes as well, drifting off as you lay on the man whoâd watch the world burn⊠for you.
taglist (I added who I could, some blogs were unable to be tagged!! FULL NOW IM SORRY) @quinnyundertow @devastyle @bokuatsubro @alt-her @novembersavior @twinkyjohnson @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @bubb13gumb1tch @kalulakunundrum @flowerpot113 @caratinluv @koyukilove @memers666 @saikilover7878 @smolbeanzzz @byul9158 @shadava @bellinghambby22 @pastelbunnelby @jvg02 @ohmykwonsoonyoung @goldenglow149 @imnotabot28 @s1urpjuic3 @nctislifue @szired @mold-ed @fuyuji-ii @samisfunky @junni-berry @call-memissbrightside @wil10wthetree @iamthehybrid @poemzcheng @00frenchfries00 @greentea-ellie @worldean @klutzylaena @heyheyheyggg @hillmiaxoxo @lashaemorow @kuudere-raia @didielly @thejujvtsupost @malazloje @dumplings4life0520 @kum1ko-chan @paprikaquinn @damnshorty @dumbmi
#kbwrites#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk fanfic#jjk x reader#ryomen sukuna#sukuna x reader#jjk sukuna#jjk smut#sukuna smut#ryomen x reader
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Skin Deep
Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand her horizons, gets her first tattoo from Simon. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.
Sequel here.
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âI bit the bullet!â you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friendâs ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.
âYou bit what?â she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.Â
âThe bullet,â you laugh. âI called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!âÂ
She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. Sheâd been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped youâencouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to âmake more mistakesâ, to live life more fully. Now sheâs staring at you like youâve grown a second head and itâs the one doing the talking.Â
âWhat guy I recommended?â she asks.Â
âKevin!â
âOh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?âÂ
You frown. âYou said you went to Kevin.âÂ
âIt wasnât a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! Heâs a creep; thereâs a reason why I never went back.âÂ
You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. Itâs not just the tattoo. Itâs the icing on a shitcake of a day.Â
A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.Â
âYou conveniently left that out. Ugh. Iâll cancel it. What am I even fucking doingâthank youââ you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. âânone of this is like me.âÂ
Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. âYou were the one who said youâd always wanted a tattoo. Youâre an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions youâre old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and heâs highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?âÂ
âAlright,â you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesnât work out with this next tattoo artist, then you wonât be getting one at all. Youâll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.Â
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What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.Â
The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to peopleâs disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isnât until youâve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand ringsâand itâs him.Â
âHello?âÂ
âIâm free Wednesdays for consultations,â says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.Â
Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. âI work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?âÂ
He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.Â
âName a time. Iâll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,â he says.Â
Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isnât trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that youâve already made an impression so foul that itâs incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?Â
âAlright,â you answer cautiously. âHowâs five?âÂ
âFive. Donât be late.âÂ
He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.
-
You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itselfâa tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagramâis locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesnât help. How are you supposed to get in?Â
All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.Â
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.Â
Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.Â
Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.Â
âI have a consultation,â you blurt out. âAtâŠfive?â
He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. Heâs so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.
âSit,â he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sipâof tea, judging by the smell. âName?â
You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.Â
âThe water is for you,â he says.Â
âOh!â You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. âThank you.â
âThis is your first tattoo.âÂ
âWhat gave me away?â you ask with a weak laugh.Â
He doesnât laugh. âEverything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.âÂ
âWhat? No, of course not. I want this, Iâm just, Iâm an anxious personality. I promise.â You hesitate and then add: âI probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.âÂ
His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as youâre comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.
 He asks what you want and God, thatâs a harder question.Â
You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silenceâpausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.Â
He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.Â
He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and youâre just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.Â
âI think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and weâll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?âÂ
âI mean, it hurts?â you offer.Â
He stares. âTwo sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.âÂ
You think that maybe heâll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you canât help but watch him.Â
Heâs handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. Itâs almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.Â
âHere.âÂ
You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didnât make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.Â
His thoughtfulness touches you.Â
âI love it. I want it,â you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.Â
âThis is just a first sketch,â he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. âIâll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?âÂ
âYes,â you say, nearly buzzing. âI really want to book.â
Heâs expensiveâbut judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, heâs got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldnât bore him to death.Â
âThanks again for meeting with me,â you say as he sees you out. âIâll be waiting for your text.âÂ
âYouâll get it.â He glances past you out the window. Itâs dark. âDid you walk?âÂ
âNo, my car is just there.â
âIâll wait.âÂ
And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.Â
-
You didnât tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.Â
GHOST? Cute? Iâve never even seen his face lol. Heâs always wearing one of his masks.Â
You chew over this information. Yes heâd been wearing a mask, but heâd lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something? Â
Masks are cute, you say.Â
Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe heâll ink you for free.Â
Youâre terrible.Â
YouâreâŠthinking about it.Â
-
Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. Itâs from GHOST.Â
The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.Â
I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think thatâs the one.Â
Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate. Â
And fuck, you didnât even think of that.Â
-
âYouâre being ridiculous,â you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.Â
âYou are,â your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. âYour tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.âÂ
The look you give her is the one the phrase âif looks could killâ was modeled after, surely. She doesnât even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. Youâve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.Â
âBe glad youâre not going to creepy Kevin anymore,â your friend says.
âVery glad of it.âÂ
You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a wordâit didnât embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.Â
âYou should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. Heâs been doing this for years. Iâm sure heâs seen it all,â she saysâthe first good idea sheâs had all night, miles ahead of âJust let Ghost see your cute titsâ.Â
That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you arenât overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.Â
Iâm a little nervous.
You can cancel, is all he says. Iâll refund your money.
Itâs not that.Â
What is it?Â
Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.Â
But all he said back was: how can I help? Â
I donât know, you admit. Then; sorry. Iâm probably bothering you with this while youâre working.Â
Iâm not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you arenât going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. Iâll let my piercer know Iâm with a client and not to walk in. Iâll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?Â
Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.Â
-
You bring the pasties anyway.Â
-
The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase âknees knocking togetherâ, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghostâs hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.Â
When it does, heâs like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in placeâtypical for him, if your friendâs words are to be trustedâbut his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasnât been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.Â
Youâre horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friendâs words echo in your mindâfuck the tattoo artist, maybe heâll ink you for free.Â
âHi,â you squeak.Â
Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.
âIâm still nervous,â you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesnât.Â
âThatâs normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if itâs still what you want.â
Itâs exactly what you want, and more.Â
âItâs perfect. Youâre very talented.âÂ
He huffs a little, like you shouldnât have said such a thing.Â
The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once heâs gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.Â
You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. Thereâs just something about a person who knows exactly what theyâre doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.
âReady?â he asks at length.Â
You nod, hoping your nerves donât show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt youâre wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. Heâs not watching a strip tease, heâs looking at a canvas.Â
Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.Â
âAm I hairy?â you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.Â
âYes,â he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. âEveryone is. Everywhere. Itâs normal.â
âIâm just teasing you.âÂ
âDidnât think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,â he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. âYouâre nervous, I mean.âÂ
âWould you take the mask off?â you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.Â
âNo,â he says. He adds: âSorry. Itâs more sanitary fâyou if I keep it on.âÂ
You get the feeling that he really is sorryâand thatâs well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.Â
After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. Itâs sexy. Youâve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than youâd ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadnât expected. You feel soâŠbadass.Â
âGood?â He asks.Â
âVery good,â you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.
But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.Â
âThank you,â you say softly.Â
He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. âIâll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.âÂ
âIâm not backing out.âÂ
He clicks his tongue as if to say, Itâs your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.Â
It burns more than you expected it to. Thereâs a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a catâs tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isnât overwhelming. In factâŠa strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe itâs the rush of endorphins.Â
âGood?â He asks.Â
âGood,â you squeak.Â
You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.
âLet me know when you need to break.âÂ
You donât know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.Â
âAlright. Break,â he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. âTake ten.â
He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.Â
âDo you need to get that?â you ask, offering him an out.
âNo,â he says. âI make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.â
It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.Â
âGood for more?â
And so it repeats.Â
At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. Itâs too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.Â
His thumb gently strokes your sternum.Â
âItâs rough. You can take it,â he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. âJust keep breathing. Thatâs it. Good girl.â
Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.Â
âYou can do it. Just a little longer for me, and weâll break.â
âHurts,â you breathe, flinching again.Â
He hushes you, surprisingly tender.Â
âThis is the worst of it.â This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear. Â
âBreak. Ten minutes,â he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.Â
You call out: âHey, waitâIâd rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.âÂ
âI need breaks too,â he says stonily.
You duck your head, feeling silly. âRight. Sorry.â
âDonât be.â He vanishes again.Â
He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoicâwhat bits of it you can see from behind the maskâas he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.Â
This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breastsâa fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail youâd give your life to follow).Â
âI think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,â he mutters at length.Â
âEager to be done?â you wonder.Â
He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.Â
âI donât have anywhere to be,â you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.Â
So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.Â
âGo take a look. Iâm going to cover it up.âÂ
Itâs beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.
âI love it,â you choke out. âThank you.â
âCan I take a picture of it?â he asks. âFor Instagram.âÂ
âSure!â It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are coveredâthe very far edgesâbut you canât deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.Â
After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: âLet me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Donât do anything stupid to it. Understand?âÂ
âI understand.â
âAnd if you have any questionsâtext me.âÂ
-
You get home to find that Ghostâs personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental âlikesâ). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.Â
-
Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you donât text him like he asked you to. You call.Â
Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?Â
The internet doesnât help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.  Â
With shaking hands, you donât even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.Â
Heâs going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone elseâexcept he doesnât. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.Â
âYes?â Ghost says into the phone, as if thatâs a decent hello.Â
âThereâs something wrong with my tattoo!â you cry.Â
âWaitâget out of my goddamn way.â There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. âSay it again. Now I can fucking hear you.â
âThereâs. Something. Wrong,â you say through your teeth. âWith my tattoo!â
âWell? What is it?â
âItâs falling off, for one!â
He snorts. âThatâs normal. That's why you called?âÂ
âItâs all swollen and hot. And it hurts.âÂ
Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. âHurts how bad?â
âWorse than getting it.âÂ
âFuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop inâŠtwenty?âÂ
âTwenty minutes from now?âÂ
âFrom when else?â He hangs up. Man doesnât know the meaning of the word goodbye.Â
-
The night is cool. You donât bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.Â
Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.Â
Heâs dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your titsâor resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.Â
âWell. Sit. Show me.â
You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. âWhat, just flash you?â
âNothing Iâve never seen before.âÂ
Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.Â
âI was smoking,â he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.Â
âYouâre worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?â
âFuck my lungs,â he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. âCan I?â
You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. âAny fever?â he asks.Â
âNot that Iâve noticed.âÂ
âYou feel warm, but Iâve felt warmer. I donât think itâs infected. Have you tried icing it?â
âNo,â you admit.Â
âIce will help. Just use something clean, for fuckâs sake.â As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. âWhen you called, I thought it was for me.â
âIt was for you,â you say, brow furrowing. âWho else?â
He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. âForget it.âÂ
âForget what?âÂ
âTalking about it goes against forgetting it.â
You groan, tossing up your hands. âYouâre impossible.âÂ
He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttonsâyou end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.Â
âThank you for meeting me. Iâm sorry it was for nothing.â
âIt wasnât for nothing,â he says. âAnd I wasnât doing much.â
âYou were with friends,â you insist.
His eyes narrow. âWho told you that?âÂ
âI saw it on your Instagram tonight.âÂ
âNosey.âÂ
âI could buy you a drink sometime,â you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? âMake up for the ones I lost you tonight.âÂ
âMaybe.â
God, itâs like heâs not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesnât it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.Â
âWould you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to beâŠpositive?â
He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You donât cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.Â
âMaybe you should look closer.âÂ
His eyes flicker up to yours. âCloser.â
Your mouth is dry. âYeah.â
âCanât get much closer than I am.âÂ
âYou couldâif you wanted to.âÂ
âIf Iââ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: âCloser.â
âMhm.â
The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.Â
âFucking hell,â he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want thisâand whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already youâre achingâhave been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the streetâbut he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.Â
âPretty little tits,â he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.Â
âFuck,â you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.Â
âBe still,â he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. âLet me play with you.âÂ
âPlease,â you gasp. âPlay with meâeven if thatâs all you wantâjust donât stop, please.âÂ
His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. âYou donât even know what youâre saying.â
âI do. Iââ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. Heâs so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattooâand then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.Â
You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.Â
âDriving me fucking crazy,â he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.Â
You gape at his admission. Had you been? Heâd been so closed off and coolâŠthough now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.Â
He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until youâre no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. âYou the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?âÂ
âUh-huh,â you promise, head bobbing.Â
He buries his face in your neck. âGood. I wonât last when Iâve got my cock in you. Iâd like you to cum at least once before then.â
âOh god,â you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.Â
âWhat else do you need?â he asks.Â
âMyâtouch meââ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.Â
Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he canât believe what heâs seeing.Â
âFucking perfect.â You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. âLook at me. Look at me.âÂ
You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.Â
He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.Â
When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. Itâs probably a good thing too. You arenât sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.
Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.Â
Fingers enter your visionâyour ownâreaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. Heâs so bloody tall, tooâŠbut he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.Â
âDoes it hurt?â You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.Â
âNo,â he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. âYou can play with it.â
You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.Â
âYouâre soââ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: ââhot.âÂ
He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You canât help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. âYou broken, or can you take more?âÂ
âI want more.â
âWant my cock?âÂ
You nod, feeling like a bobble head.Â
âI want to hear you say it.âÂ
âI want your cock.â
His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artistâs hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.Â
He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.Â
âOh my god,â you mutter.Â
âNo gods here,â he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.Â
âCanât believe you let me ink you,â he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. âPractically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. Theyâll know who touched you.âÂ
âGood,â you breathe.Â
His sigh is shaky. Youâre learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means heâs pleased with you. Youâve said something right.Â
He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to youâfor inspection, you realize, though youâve had so few one night stands (try zero) that youâve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.Â
Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.Â
âRelaxâŠthere you go. Let me in,â he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretchâheâs thick everywhere goddamn itâbut itâs a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.Â
âGhost,â you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.
âI think you can take it,â he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. âBut what do you think?âÂ
âYour cockâwant itâpleaseââ
âAlright,â he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. âNo need to beg.âÂ
He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until youâre clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.Â
His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when youâre pinned beneath it.Â
âStay still,â he mutters into the juncture of your neck. âStay still or Iâll cum and this is all over.â
âCanât,â you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. âHave to move, âm so fullââ
âFucking hell,â he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. âRoll onto your side.âÂ
He gives you instruction but isnât shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.Â
You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.Â
âWant you to cum again,â he says, stilling your movements so that you canât fuck your self back against him. âGive me one more. Then itâs my turn.â
âGhostâI canâtââ youâve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.Â
âIf you canât, then donât,â he says simply, like itâs the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.Â
You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you arenât the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.Â
âOh fuck,â you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.Â
He hums behind you, a smug sound.Â
âNot sure I want you to cum now,â he says. âHold it. Iâm thinking it over.âÂ
âGhost!â
He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.Â
He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.Â
The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didnât know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.Â
He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.Â
Sooner than youâd likeâbut heâd warned you, hadnât he?âhis thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.Â
âFuck,â he whispers. And again: âFuck, fuck. You broken?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he canât see.Â
-
âSorry about this,â he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. Youâre still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.Â
âRegretting it already?âÂ
âYes,â he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: âShould have at least taken you to dinner first.âÂ
âDinner?â
âYou owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.â He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasnât relaxed, he says: âI donât regret the sex. Do you?â
You shake your head.Â
He scoffs a little.Â
âI mean it,â you insist. You touch your tattoo. âI wanted itâŠthe day you didâthis.âÂ
He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.
âI didnât think you were interested,â you admitted sheepishly.Â
âI jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,â he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. âI was interested.âÂ
You laugh; you canât help it. âDinner, then? Or drinks?âÂ
âYeah,â he says. âAlright. Get dressed.â
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pls pls pls can we get some overstimulating toji, Hes whimpering so much, maybe tie his hands up đđ love u twin
â€ïž à»đ toji letting you "top" him
warnings. fem! reader, overstim, whiney toji, riding him after he cƫms, dirty talk, mdni.
âhmph. youâre gettinâ too fuckinâ cocky,â toji gruffs lowly, leaning back against the padded comforter. dark eyes stare right back into you as you straddle his lap. heâs buried into you, and he was just about to finish. his breaths were quick paced, huffing and puffing. white clouds of air escape his lips as he keeps dark irises on each of your fidgety movements. âwipe that smile of yâer face. donât like when ya give me that look.â
you hum, leaning in to toss your arms over his wide shoulders. whilst heâs stretching your gummy walls out to the very fullestâ you lean in to plant a kiss near the right side of his lip, soft contact right against his infamous slanted scar. a soft moan always withdraws from his lips whenever you did that. the toughness that scraps against your mouth as you plant your lips down on that specific spot. âor âŠwhat?â you tease, grinding your hips just a bit more brisker at a fleeting tempo. âaw, someoneâs getting close?â
âfuuuck,â he growls out, pearly white canines sticking out near the very corners of his mouth. tojiâs head throws back in rapture and he feels your hand glide down the middle part of his chest. his shaggy, unkempt bare chestâall types of scars from his work that you love to feel all over. heâs about to pump you full, the blissful agitation that pokes against his nerves makes him feral. âsensitive still,â and with a low exhale, he glares at your stretching sly smile. âdonât give me that look. donât âŠ. evenâf-fuck..â
and at that exact moment, toji fushiguro whined.
you grow quiet. he grows so quiet, itâs so silent that you could hear a pen drop.
toji swallows, even a simple action as that was just so loud. he groans, leaning back against the fat silk pillows before he stares at you with low hooded eyes.
âs-shit,â and his voice continues to grow more . . . shaky.
itâs so unlike him, the way his words quaver from each word was so cute to hear. you even had his hands tied up, pinned amongst the edges of the bed. he was sprawled all out for you while you were grinding against his lap.
âi spoil you too much, f-fuckinâ little girl,â and heâs clearly trying to keep up his rough facadeâ but alas, itâs really no use.
âyouâre cute when you whine, baby,â you smooch against the scar near the right side of his lip.
his mouth twitches in vexation and you watch as his eyes roll further back.
his abdomenâ oh, it burns into a mild volume of arousal, heâs profusely sweating before he feels himself about to break. each time you sneak a kiss against his scar, he groans. âmwah,â you tease, treating the lower part of his face with such delicacy. toji was shooting you a look of grimace. brieflyâhe tried to keep up his stubborn antics, but his glare only turned into lewd eye rolls from how good you clamp against his cock. itâs so good, the saturation of your sopping wet pussy squeezing down on him tight, heâs going dumb by the minute. âitâs okay, toji. you can cum.â
âdonât tell me what to dââ and he gets cut off before he quite literally does cum, itâs abrupt. tojiâs quavering underneath you as he dumps a thickset load of seed into you. âshit, fuckinâ damn,â he heaves. his breath was heavy as heâs leaning all the way back now. with a hand still gripped onto your left hip, he sinks into the weightlessness nirvana that awaited him. âfuuck,â he pants, a rough hand grasping your assâ for a solid moment, toji grows quiet and the only sounds thatâs could have been made were the sloshes of your cunt accepting his seed. somehow he managed to rip off the restraints on his wristsâwasting no time to finally touch you. in the midst of still rocking your hips in a circular rotation again tojiâit consists of such satiny ropes, youâve never felt more stuffed. âugh, fuckinâ slut. got me moaninâ for you like this-â
you giggle, gifting him with a chaste kiss. âiâm not done, baby. keep up with me, okay?â
tojiâs caught by surprise once you start to move your hips again, accelerating them against him and he whines. âf-fuck, the fuck? girl, âjus fuckinâ came . . sensitive, goddamnnn.â
it was cute, the way his low raspy voice pitches up an octaveâ heâs whimpering, the rapid movements of your pussy having him practically speechless. with his twitching dick now flaccid, heâs still got a firm grip on your waist. a raw groan only then wrenches from the back of his throat.
âcanât cum anymore, f-fuck, âm still sensitive,â he babbles, softly pulling you by the neck to give him a kiss.
and by kiss, it was more sloppy than anything. with wet tongues moving against each other in tavern, he feels you grinding again and again.
tojiâs so warm. he can feel his heartbeat coercively pulsating through his ears. your tender touch against him had him so needy. even while having him like thisâ he was still attractive, yet thatâs when you grab his wrists, making him pin them back again. âfuck are ya d-doing.â
âno touching me, baby,â you hum, and his glare returns. with pinkish crimson lips squeezing into a scowl, his darkened eyebrows curl into a furrow. âtouch me after you give me another one, yeah?â
he swallows, toji couldnât believe how dominant you were being. it was rare to get him like this, even rare to be on top of him.
âfuckinâ brat,â he grouses, his muscles near his forearms tensing. your cuntâs involuntarily constricting around his massive length. your walls hug him tightly before he starts to pant more and more. âfine. f-fine, just kiss me againâŠâŠ please.â
you lean in, throwing your arms around his broad shoulders before pulling him into a deep kiss.
heâs so sensitiveâheavy, hot huffs of breaths gnashing together, he whines again in your mouth. toji shivers, feeling the print of your thumb brush down against his undercut. he groans, feeling your hips start to pick up pace again and he pulls away to breathe. âphew,â he puffs out, seeing nothing but pure stars. you rode him so good that he didnât even have a witty comeback.
tojiâs entire face was all flustered, he glowers once he sees your smug grin tug against your lips. âwhat.â
âyou should whine more,â you pause your hips, leaning in to pepper a few kisses against his cheek. heâs so flutteredâstill heaving through his full lungs, eyelids halfway open as a big arm wraps around your waist. toji pulls you close, despite how embarrassed he wasâhe took it as a opportunity to pull you closer towards him. âyou sound so cute when youâre whiney.â
âshut up,â he pouts, avoiding eye contact. tojiâs still stuffed inside of you before he grunts once he feels you starting to move then stop. âm-mhm. donât stop though. keep going.â
you giggle, bringing a single finger to stroke his cheek. âsay please, toji.â
âfuckinââ he starts, sending you straight daggers. heâd argue further but he was still deeply buried into you. just a quick move with your hips and heâd start whining again from the euphoric friction. âfine. fine, just finish fucking me, please.â
âgood boy,â you kiss the top of his head, starting up your hips again and he brings you into his chest, wrapping his beefy arms around you before whimpering into your neck.
he swallows, seeping his teeth into the crevice of your neck. âshut u-mhm,â and he slumps back with a pussydrunk smile on his face. âactuallyâŠ.praise me more. call me that again, ân look at me when you do.â
âgood boy, toji,â you repeat in a sweet voice, picking up his head to make him stare into your eyesâheâs still panting before he leans back, groaning, shuddering from your touch. âsuch a good boy.â
#â
vegasbaby.#toji smut#toji x reader#toji fushiguro smut#toji fushiguro x reader#toji x you#fushiguro toji x reader#toji x reader smut#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk drabbles#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujustsu kaisen x reader#anime smut#female reader#cw sex mention
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Fatherhood. P2
Single dad!Cregan Stark x reader
Summary: The reader follows through with her marriage proposal. (I literally cannot say more without spoiling stuff)
Part 1
Masterlist
...........................................................
"Father?" Her voice carried through the hall.
Bolton turned to give his daughter his entire attention.Â
"The carriage outside. Have we a visitor?" She asked meekly.
He sighed. "Afraid not."
Her head tilted. "An empty carriage? Who would ever send such-" She found herself stopping at the realization. "It's for me, isn't it?"
Bolton's lip tightened. "It is."
"Ah," she noted wearily. "I'll⊠I'll collect my things, I suppose."
He nodded, though his heart ached somewhere deep inside to see her go. "Best that you do. Can't have ya forgetting yer lavender, eh?"
She managed a smile. "No. I couldn't bare it."
"Go on, then."
She gave one last look before retreating up to her room.
âŠ
She thanked the driver earnestly as she stepped in, watching the door shut behind her.Â
This was nicer than she anticipated it being.
She leaned back when the carriage began to move and started to close her eyes before pausing at the sight of a small sealed letter.Â
She picked it up.
The Stark sigil.
Her fingers shook as she opened it.
My dear lady, I do hope you'll excuse the manner in which you've received this letter. Your father seems to be a man of pageantry and show, keeping you in the dark. I implore you to stop the carriage for a surprise of sorts. - An eager father
She reread the letter a few times before daring to do as it said.
Tap.Tap.Tap. against the ceiling of the carriage.
It came to an abrupt halt.
She paused with her hand still raised at the ceiling. Her ears listened intently for any noise at all.
The door soon opened and light poured further into the carriage. A hand shot out and she took it, stepping out.
When she stepped out and her eyes adjusted, the sight of her hand in Lord Stark's threw her off. "Lord Stark�"
Cregan's bright smile filled her sight. "Hello, sweet girl."
She looked around, noticing that Cregan's horse stood behind the carriage. "What is this? A-Are you trying to save me?" She asked with a confused brow.
"Am I- what?" His grip on her hand tightened. "No. No. Of course not."
She frowned. "Excuse my bluntness, my lord. Why are you here then?"
He took a step back to collect himself, and a bright smile came over his face. "Y/n." He took her other hand as well. "Who do you imagine wished for your hand so ardently?"
It clicked then and her eyes widened. "You-"
"-Indeed," he beamed.
Her mouth laid agape. "W-Why did you not tell me?"
He rubbed his thumbs across her knuckles. "I had thought your father would, but alas."
"I fear I've embarrassed myself then-"
"-anything but." He persisted, "You've proven to me just how loyal you are. That's a trait that is not easily learned."
"You truly wish for my hand?" She asked.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Of course. Now come, Rickon awaits us in Winterfell."
Her eyes lit up. "Then we must go." She moved to the carriage, then paused when she noticed Cregan's lack of movement. "You are not traveling with me?"
He frowned. "A northman does not fair well in carts and carriages. We're made for horses."
She hummed. "Very well." She turned on her heel and began to walk to the horse.Â
He shifted his weight to his other foot. "What're you doing?"
She looked over her shoulder. "What? Think I can't manage one horse ride?"
An amused smile came over his face and he shook his head in acceptance as he strode over to her.
Did he have to lift her onto the horse? Yes. Did he have the reigns the entire time? Yes. Did she know a single thing about horses? No.Â
Did he point it out or complain once? Never.
âŠ
The young woman had spent more time with Rickon than it seemed with Cregan for the time being.Â
Sure, their wedding was still a few weeks out, but it was a strange thing to see a woman so infatuated with a son that was not of her blood.
"A horse? Yes," she grinned as she tapped the wooden horse on the ground as if it was galloping. "It's a mighty horse, isn't it? Very strong. Much like your papa's."
Rickon moved to his small chest of toys and pulled out another wooden thing, quickly moving to sit by her and do the same thing with his toy as hers.
"A direwolf? Horses gallop. See?" She replicated her motion. "But direwolves run. Here." She held her hand over his and lightly moved it to tap at a smoother and lighter rhythm. "Horses move with their mind. Wolves move with their hearts. That's what makes them predators."
Rickon tries to replicate the motion she made. It was sloppy, but it was clear that he got the idea.Â
"That's wonderful. You're a clever boy," she preened at him.
"Clever as his father?" Cregan grinned from the doorway.
She gasped and turned, not expecting to see him while she was seated on the cold stone floor. "Cregan-"
He walked further in and knelt on the other side of them. "What have we here? A hungry wolf? Or is he friendly?"
She laughed. "All of our animals are friendly. Aren't they, Rickon?" When he nodded, she continued. "Wolves aren't hungry within these walls, Cregan."
His eyes were glued to hers, an obvious heat moving through his body. "Perhaps there is one."
Her head shot up and met his gaze, a pink hue coming to her cheeks. "I-"
Rickon's eyes had watered, and the boy let out a sniffle.Â
The tension was quickly broken, for both now focused on the boy.Â
"My boy," Cregan hummed. "No need for tears. I didn't mean that. There's no wolf besides Dark Watch. And she's no evil thing, is she?"
The boy finally let out a real cry, clearly terrified at the thought of a hungry wolf in Winterfell.
Cregan held his arms out, ready to receive the boy's wet cheek upon his chest. But it never came.
He heard her soft gasp as Rickon launched himself against her chest in desperation. She slowly wrapped her arms around him and began to rock him. "Your father didn't mean it, my little Rickon. It was only a jest."
Cregan wanted to be mad. He felt that maybe he should be. But there was no angry bone in his body.Â
His son had found a comfort besides him.Â
He believed he found himself falling further for her, if that was even possible.
âŠ
"CREGAN!"
His head shot up from the letters sprawled across the council table. "Excuse me."
He didn't wait for permission from the council members before he ran out of the room and a fast pace.Â
The man pushed himself to run down the stairs, through the corridors that felt like forever, until he came upon his son's room.
"Cre-Oh. Oh, you missed the most wonderful thing," his betrothed beamed.Â
Relief filled him. "I thought you dead from the sounds."
"My heart is very much alive," she claimed. She held Rickon on her hip and Cregan couldn't help but imagine her doing so with his seed growing inside her.
He had to physically shake the thought away.Â
"W-What is it?"
She pulled Rickon closer to focus and her voice lowered. "Pa-pa," she enunciated. "P-ah p-uh."
She looked expectantly at the boy who only stared back.Â
"Oh, Cregan. I promise he said it. I truly do!"
He shook his head with a sigh. "I believe you. I do. But I've not heard him speak. If it wasn't for his cries, I'd fear he had no voice at all."
"Be easy on him. He's learning."
"He should have already," Cregan sighed. "I fear it's my fault."
Her head tilted and she shifted the boy. "I don't see how it could be."
Cregan fully sat at that point, crossing his legs lazily. "His mother died on the birthing bed, you know."
She nodded. "I remember."
"I was in shambles after that. Couldn't dare to look at him." He ran a hand through his hair as if brushing the memory away. "Took some time to get over it. And by then, well, the damage was done."
Her heart ached at his honesty. "There were wet nurses and servants to help though, surely?"
"Yes, but none are the same as a father's touch."
Her body grew warm, and not just from the child in her arms. "Indeed."
Cregan leaned forward and brushed his hand over the back of the boy's head. "He's a good child. I'm glad he has you."
She looked up at the man and admired the genuine smile that was over his face.Â
âŠ
The weeks following were easy. Breaking fast with Cregan, followed by a walk through the halls to help her grow confidence in her home. Then hours in the library where she read or stitched. A servant brought small foods to tide her over to supper. Then supper with both Cregan and Rickon. The poor boy had to sit on his knees to even see over the table.Â
"No, no," Cregan laughed heartily. "You were terrified, my love!"
"I was n-" She couldn't help but brake into a smile. "Well, you're an intimidating man at first sight!"
"Am I still?" He asked as a tease, but it was mixed with something else. "Do I frighten you?"
Her breath escaped in a short pant, overcome with the thought of what being his wife would truly entail.
He was frightening to everyone. Firm and strong, not easily swayed. Cold and forbidding.Â
"No."
"No?"
"Not at all."
He gained a smirk. "How so?"
Her eyes shifted between him and his son. "You're softer than you wish to seem."
A fire was lit behind his eyes, and she knew that if Rickon wasn't there, they may have been doing something entirely different.
"Smart girl."
She preened at his praise.Â
âŠ
"What about-"
"-I have it handled."
Her head tilted. "Fine. And th-"
"-It's been done. You worry too much."
"One last thing. T-"
"You intelligently foolish woman," he sighed as he took her shoulders in his large hands. "I have done it all. You need only do your part."
She forced herself to take a deep breath. "You wonderful man."
"And you, Lady Bolton? Are you not a wonder as well?" He grinned.
"Lady Stark," she corrected him.
âŠ
She fit into the role of lady with grace and ease.Â
As if there was never such a prefect fit.
"Come," she beckoned Rickon along. "Your father is expecting us, and we shan't keep him waiting."
Upon seeing them enter the council room, Cregan's gloomy demeanor was instantly lightened. He stood up. "You're late."
She hums. "Do excuse us. Lord Rickon was practicing his jumping and who am I to stop him?" She teased
"Ah," he acknowledged when they got close enough. He bent down and picked up the boy. Once Rickon was held firmly against him, Cregan tilted his head down and kissed his wife deeply.
She pulled away with a fond giggle and red cheeks.Â
Cregan was an unashamed man, kissing his wife in such a manner in front of his councilmen. "Sit," he gestured to her chair. "Let us begin."
âŠ
"I'll never know how to thank you," Cregan remarked quietly one day.
The three had managed to get away from Winterfell for an afternoon. Seated on the dead grass, she watched Rickon spend his time chasing a bird that was so far in the air, he'd never have a chance, even if he could fly behind it.
"Thank me? For what?"
"For this. For being able to live in such ease," he said as he gestured out to the field.
"I should be thanking you," she hummed as she reached out to their basket and ripped of a small piece of bread, eating it.Â
He leaned to her and placed a sweet kiss to her cheek. "Never."
She giggled and ripped another, now turning to him. "Fatherhood suits you, my love." Her hand came up to his lips.Â
He opened his mouth, smirking as his wife's hand pushed the bread between his lips. Her fingers rest there as a look comes into her eyes.Â
Cregan chewed the bread then kissed at her fingers. "And you, you wonderful mother."Â
"PAPA!"
Their heads shot up at the sound.
"Rickon?" Cregan's eyes widened. "RICKON?" He stood in a hurry and his eyes scanned the field.Â
He ran out when he saw where his son sat in the dirt. "Son, what are you doing? Gods, are you well?"
Rickon looked over his shoulder. In his hand was a flower. He held it up.
"Oh." Cregan bent down. "You scared me, boy. Yes, yes, that's a lovely flower."
Rickon stood up on his still pudgy legs and moved passed his father.Â
Y/n had been watching and had slowly starting walking to them. When Rickon neared, she bent down. "Did you speak?" She asked softly.Â
Rickon held the flower out to her.Â
"For me? Oh, you sweet, sweet boy!" She picked him up and spun him around. "I've never been more proud."
Cregan had joined them at that point. He pulled his wife into his hold. He kissed the crown of her head and whispered in her hair, "Thank you for this. Thank you, my girl."
The family stood there in the field, enjoying every bit of their lives together.
...............................................................
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ik its hyper unrealistic but like imagine being in las almas during the 'alone' mission as just a civilian who's hiding in their home with the lights off, praying no one finds you.
then in sneaks a skull face man who's too light on his feet for his burly size, but you remain silent, pressing yourself flatter into the dark corner you're tucked in.
his boots come to an abrupt stop in your living room, and you're biting down on your tongue painfully to keep from whimpering, but you think he hears you anyway- how could he not? each quivering exhale that escapes you sounds deafening even to you.
"hide better."
you start when he speaks, a gruff baritone that reverberates in your very chest.
"now."
his unyielding tone has your body moving before you can even acknowledge the fact, scrambling away on all fours to your bedroom in a panic, when he's suddenly behind you.
a strong arm lifts you like you're but the size of a child and shoves you into a small closet, pushing you behind him and swiftly closing the door, holding the knob so it doesn't click as it shuts.
the space is too tight, your nose aching as it's forcibly pressed into his broad back. you're pinned between a solid wall and the back of the closet- a noise of protest about to fall from your lips when you hear glass shattering.
you flinch, your fingers digging into the sides of the man's jacket in reflex. voices begin to flood your quaint, little home, american by the sound of it.
it all muffles after that, a thunderous roar inside your ears, heart slamming against your chest, dread sinking into your stomach.
god don't let them find you, don't let them find you don't-
the skull man shifts imperceptibly, and a large hand curls around your thigh that's firmly pressed against his own, and tightens-
grounding.
slowly, you let out a calming breath, the rough hold he has on you soothing your frayed nerves. he wouldn't have done any of this if he was an enemy.
the moments after that feel like an eternity as the sound of footsteps that fill your home slowly dissipate. the wait feels endless, until your savior finally emerges from the closet, freeing you from confinement as well.
he walks forward a little, then turns his head your direction.
"hidin' in plain sight works only on the amateurs. these men aren't. i won't be here t'save ya next time."
he unsheathes a blade from his waistband, metal gleaming under the dim light, and silently pads toward your back door.
"thank you," you whisper.
the only sign you get that he heard you at all was a subtle pause of his movements before exiting, effortlessly melting into the shadows.
hours later, when johnny finally stumbles in through the church doors, simon notices a very recognizable fabric tied around johnny's arm in a makeshift bandage.
hm.
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A multi-headcanon request please. How the boys react when they discover their s/o has been hiding a wound from them because she had it under control and didn't want to give them something else to worry about
Hi! Thanks so much for the request and all the support! Have written a little fic for each of the guys, starring... - Xavier, Deepspace Hunter extraordinaire âš - Linkon's worst best baking partner, Zayne đȘ - Drama queen Rafayel đ - King of self-care, Sylus đ
Putting On A Brave Face
L&DS Boys x Reader
Summary: Sometimes, a certain hunter likes to say things are fine when they definitely aren't...
Genre: A lil bit of angst, mostly fluff + comfort!
Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, some injury details/blood mentioned, teeeeency bit of suggestion (I'm looking at YOU, Sylus...)
| Word count: 4k (1k each!) | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
Xavier â
This is bad. Not âend of everything as we know itâ bad, but definitely âan obscene amount of paperworkâ bad.
You clutch one of your pistols to your chestâ deep breathâ and you listen carefully, your head leant back against the rock youâre using as cover. Your mind latches on to every sound: each growl, each rumble of earth that marks the movements of the Wanderers that have trapped you here.
Youâve fought worse odds, but then again, you donât usually have to do it with a broken leg.
Or maybe just sprained? You shift a little, trying to move, and the pain that sears through you settles the debate in an instant. Your teeth sink into the back of your hand to keep you from crying out.
You hope Xavierâs ok. You sent him your co-ordinates minutes ago, and the lack of response has worry gnawing away at the deepest parts of you. You check your hunterâs watch.
Still nothing.
Another deep breath, and you readjust your position as much as you can. Balancing on your good leg, you manage to peer over the top of the rock to get a visual of your surroundings.
Thereâs four, noâ five Wanderers. Stupid no-hunt zone; youâre never not outnumbered.
You can see your second pistol, abandoned in the middle of the clearing where youâd dropped it. Thereâs flickers of movement, too: further in the woods. More Wanderers. Shit.
You duck behind the rock youâre starting to think might be your new home. Then your watch flickers, broadcasting a map of the area, and thereâs the co-ordinates of another hunter, closing in fast.
Something flashes in the clearing, lighting the dark of the forest like a stutter of lightning. Then again. Then again. Thereâs a blood-curdling roar, and it endsâ abruptâ with another flash.
Everything goes silent, save for a familiar voice calling your name.
âXavier!â you call back.
You peek over the rock to see your partner jogging towards you, dead Wanderers littered behind him. âAre you alright?â he asks, his voice soft as always, but his sword is still dripping blood.
âIâm ok.â You clamber up, using the rock as a seat when the small effort almost breaks you. âYou?â
Xavier draws closeâ his gloved hands on your face, cupping your cheeks. His thumb grazes over a shallow scrape on your brow. âYeah,â he answers.
âDid you find that weird Wanderer?â
He shakes his head: no. Steps back to check his watch. âItâs probably moved on to a different zone by now.â
âThen we should look for it,â you say, standing up. All of your weight is on one leg.
âAh,â Xavier ponders, rubbing his neck, âreally? I thought we should maybe head back.â
âNo need.â And whatâs the plan here, exactly? You canât walk. You definitely canât fight. Maybe you can wait here while heâ no. Heâs never going to leave you. âI told you Iâm ok.â
âBut youâre not.â
âI am,â you assert. Youâre determined to convince him and your own, useless body. Itâs just a sprain. It is just a sprain. You take a step forwards and stumble, your bad leg crumpling beneath you.
Xavier catches you, strong and solid, and he's holding you like youâre something delicate. He sets you down on the rock again. The pain is making your vision swim.
âYouâre hurt,â he reasons gently, even though the truth of it is a knife thatâs twisting in your heart. He seems to sense your reluctance: âThereâs no shame in admitting that. It happens. Letâs go back.â
âNo.â
âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm slowing you down, Xavier!â you gush. Your heart is split open and it has to bleed somewhere. âYou have no idea what itâs like⊠being your partner.â
Heâs looking at you with so much guilt and gods, you wish that somewhere was anywhere but his hands. âWhat do you mean?â he asks on a shaky breath. Â
âI love working with you.â Soften the blow. âI love being with you, but you donât need me. Youâre this incredible hunter. This figure of legend, of everyoneâs stories. You can do so much on your own and I just donât know how to keep up. I mean, look at meâ I canât.â
You feel sick. Empty. âYou shouldnât have to hang back for me,â you finish limply. âYouâre you, Xavier. You can fight like a hundred Wanderers and still come out unscathed.â
The blue of Xavierâs eyes has grown understandably more turbulent, though it settles a little. He seems to relax. âYeah⊠about that,â he mumbles hesitantly.
He turns around and your mouth drops. A savage cut drapes like a crimson sash down his back, splitting the white of his uniform. Itâs not deep enough to be fatal, but itâs not good, either.
âWhaâ Xavier!â you exclaim, trying to surge forwards, but your pain keeps you rooted. âYou said you were ok!â
âSo did you,â he frowns, bewildered. âCan we get out ofââ
âYeah, yeah.â You let him take your arm and help you to your feet.
He leads you through the clearing and into the forest, supporting your weight as you hop along beside him. Thereâs a murmur about how he should carry you, but youâre quick to reassure him heâs doing enough. Youâre both hurting; you both just need to survive the short walk out of the no-hunt zone, where a med team can take over.
âYou donât slow me down, you know,â Xavier says quietly, after a minute of silence. âYouâre the reason I can keep going.â
You squeeze his arm affectionately, mustering a smile even though youâre nauseous with pain and the idea that heâs been dwelling on your speech this whole time. âWell,â you chuckle through gritted teeth, âyouâre gonna have to learn how to get by without me.â
âHuh?â He gives you a curious look.
You glance down at your leg. âZayneâs gonna kill me...â
Zayne â
âIâm a doctor.â
You stop what youâre doing to fix Zayne with a questioning stare. âOkâŠ?â
âIâve published dozens of research papers. Pioneered new surgical techniques. My work on Evol-based regenerative properties still has lasting implications for my field, and Iâve the accolades to show for it. The Starcatcher Award. The Linde Award, tooâ I was the youngest ever recipient.â
None of this is news to you, and you canât help chuckling at this change in your usually-humble physician. You humour him: âThe youngest ever recipient, huh?â Thereâs a crack as you split an egg on the side of the bowl in front of you. âThatâs very impressive.â
âIs it?â
Zayne stands from his seat at your kitchen table: you hear the chair draw back. You feel his presence arrive behind you as you continue to stir your soon-to-be cookie dough. âYeah,â you lilt with a smile.
âReally?â he pushes again, and his arms wrap around you as he bends to speak into your ear. âBecause someone seems to think I canât even recognise aââ he nips at itâ âsprained ankle.â
His breath is warm on your neck and you let out a giggle. âKeep speaking to me like that and these cookies are never making it into the oven. Or your stomach.â
The man relents. He releases you, not returning to his seat but opting to lean against the kitchen counter instead. You glance up at him; he stares back, waiting for an actual answer.
âMy ankle is fine, Zayne.â
Thereâs a sigh as he crosses his arms.
âIt is,â you insist, even though you did sprain your ankle at work today, it does hurt like hell, and you do just want to sit down. You reach for the flour youâd measured out previously, tipping it into the larger bowl. âIf it wasnât, would I really be hereâ making you cookies?â
âYes,â he says plainly.
âYouâre delusional.â
âOk.â Â
Well, that was a little too easy. Donât overthink it, and definitely donât read into the fact that heâs standing there oh-so-smugly, like he knows something you donât. You finish stirring the flour into the mixture, then add the last of the ingredients. Just a pinch of salt, and thenâŠ
Where did you put the chocolate chips? You glance about yourself but theyâre nowhere in sight. âHey, Zayne? Have you seen theââ
âThis cupboard,â he indicates with an upwards nod of his head. His eyes are relentless. âTop shelf.â
Ah. Thatâs ok. Youâve totally got this. You move beneath the cupboard, opening it and gazing up into the contents. You can see the pack of chocolate chips. You can get up there somehow, right?
âWould you like me toââ Zayne starts, but you cut him off:
âNope.â You put your hands on your hips. âPleaseâ if I can climb the back of an alive, awake, and very angry deluge wyrmlord to put a sword through its skull, I think I can make it onto the kitchen counter in one piece. Lemme justâŠâ
Your knee lifts. You make it about a centimetre from the floor before Zayneâs hands are on your waist, grounding you. âStop,â he instructs, and it's not a tone that allows for any rebuttal. Satisfied by your silence, he brings the chocolate chips down to you.
âThanks,â you say quietly as theyâre placed on the counter.
âYouâre welcome."
Sheepishly, you spill a generous amount of chocolate chips into the cookie mixture. Your throat hurts in the way that keeps you from saying anything more. You already feel like an idiot, and your eyes are watering, threatening to make you look like even more of one.
Zayneâs hand appears in front of you, hovering over the bowl. You laugh in understanding: giving the half-empty bag another shake so chocolate chips fall into his palm.
âYou⊠donât have to explain yourself,â he says as he lifts them to his mouth. His next words are muffled: âBut you can tell me anything, my love. I never want you to feel as though you canât.â
You chuckle again; you canât help yourself. Look at him: your oh-so-serious doctor shovelling chocolate into his mouth. He raises an eyebrow at you, his lips still on his palm.
âI know I can tell you anything,â you smile, the ache in your throat receding, however much the rest of you hurts. âI did sprain my ankle. Itâs not that I wanted to hide it from you, itâs justââ you stop stirring the mixtureâ âitâs just that your whole life is taking care of people at the hospital. You should get a break from it. You should get to be Zayne, here⊠at home. Just Zayne, not Doctor Zayne.â
Zayneâs hazel eyes have taken on a hue of regret. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, buying himself a few seconds as he contemplates. âAre you a doctor?â he asks after a moment.
âNo?â
âAnd yet, here you are, taking care of me.â He reaches for the abandoned packet of chocolate chips. âTell me, does it feel like work to you?â
âYeah,â you tease, drawing the packet away from his stretching fingers in explanation; youâre both grinning.
âWell, it never feels like work to me. Just Zayne likes taking care of you. And right now? He wants to bundle you up on the sofa and finish these cookies for you.â
You purse your lips: thatâs some dubious wording. âZayne, hell will freeze over before I leave you and this cookie dough unsupervised.â
He shushes you, pulling on the cord of your apron until the bow at your back comes loose. Before you can protest, heâs wearing the apron himself.
âZayne, Iâm not kidding. I know what youâre gonna do. Youâre gonna get rid of me, and then youâllââ
âShh,â he coos again, whisking you carefully off your feet, because itâs time for a taste of your own medicine. âYouâre delusional.â
Rafayel đ„
âMmhmm. Mmhmm.â
âRaf, who are youââ
He holds out a finger to shush you. âMmhmm.â
You cross your arms impatiently. Who is he even talking to, anyway? His lilac eyes are locked on you as he continues humming away, apparently very invested in whatever the person on the phone is saying; youâve never seen him go this long without talking.
He narrows his eyes at you. You narrow your eyes right back.
All around you, guests of the exhibition are milling about, all dressed to the nines and minding their business, however much they want the attention of the man in front of you. A few of them linger as they pass him, like they want to say something, like theyâre going to say somethingâŠ
But they donât.
Itâs a wonder that Rafayel stands out in the crowd as much as he does. Youâd seamlessly located him, back from your third trip to the bathroom to check on the bandages youâve managed to conceal beneath this dress. Heâs still holding your purse for you, his phone in his other hand, exceptâ
Thatâs your phone. Thatâs your phone! âRafayel!â
He shushes you again. âI understand,â he says solemnly, notably not to you, âthanks for letting me know.â The call is ended. He takes a deep, collected breath, then looks at you. âI knew it!â
âKnew what? Who was that?â
âZayne.â
âYou called Zayne?â
âLike I had a choice!â Rafayel retaliates. It is true; heâs spent the entire evening trying to get you to admit something was wrong, and you had no intention of giving him that pleasure. âYouâre supposed to be in the hospital! What kind of idiot breaks out of the hospital?â
The lack of irony in the question almost breaks you. âUmm⊠you?! Like every other week?!â
He shrugs. âThatâs different.â
âRafayel, I swear, Iâm gonnaâ ah!â you gasp in pain. Youâd stepped forwards too quicklyâ maybe to strangle him, but thatâs neither here nor thereâ and the wound on your side is clearly on his side. It stings like hell: punishing you, and you know the pain is self-inflicted.
Rafayel frowns in concern, maybe even guilt, and thatâs why you didnât tell him. âCâmon, we should go,â he insists gravely.
âItâs fine, Raf. It doesnât evenââ
âStop lying! You said you wouldnât hide stuff like this from me. You promised, remember?â
Youâre losing track of all the promises youâve made to the Lemurian, but you do remember that one. Guilt has its teeth in you, too. âI know,â you grumble, âIâm sorry, ok? I just knewââ
âWhat?â
âThat youâd act like this! Youâve been working on this exhibition for months, Raf. Tonight is supposed to be about you. Not meâ you. And I want it to stay that way. Everyoneâs here to celebrate you and your work, and thatâs how it should be. Thatâs what I want. To support you. To be here for you.â
Your voice has gone timid. You finish meekly: âCanât you let me do this for you? Please?â
Rafayelâs eyes are wide and still the prettiest things youâve ever seen, even in a room full of masterpieces and jewels you could never afford. They shine with uncertainty, but soften as he smiles, full of fondness and affection. âThatâs sweet. But also? Really dumb.â
âRafââ
âThe onlyâ and I mean onlyâ reason Iâm here tonight is because you are. I donât care about what anyone thinks about me or my paintings. Just you. And you can see this?â He gestures around the gallery. âAnytime. My lifeâs your private exhibition, cutie. Exclusive access, 24/7, and I wouldnât want it any other way.â
He steps closer to you: close enough that he can see the tear thatâs made it halfway down your cheek. He wipes it away with a chuckle. âPlus,â he adds, âI know you know Iâm amazing. You donât need these old sourpusses to tell you that, do you?â
You laugh tentatively. âNo, I donât.â
Your injury protests as you use the lapels on Rafayelâs blazer to pull him closer; you have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Heâs still grinning as he draws away, a light blush on his cheeks, but the sweetness of the moment vanishes as his gaze drifts lower.
âMy eyes are up here, Rafayel.â
âYeahâŠâ he concedes mindlessly, but then he points: âyou know youâre like, bleeding, right?â
You glance downwards to where the red of your dress is turning darker. Thereâs just a small splotch, but itâs growing. Shit. You must have reopened the wound.
âThomas?â you hear Rafayel call, and then heâs stuffing a silk handkerchief into your handsâ helping you apply pressure. âWe have to get out of here,â he explains as a figure joins you.
His agent folds his arms; this is not dissimilar to stunts you and Rafayel have pulled before. âFake blood, guys? Really?â He pinches the bridge of his nose. âYou canât leave, Rafayel. I can just see the headlines tomorrowâŠâ
âDashing artist selflessly flees exhibition to save devoted bodyguard,â Rafayel concurs with a nod.
Thomas groans. âThatâs not what theyâre going toââ
âHelp me out with this, cutie?â
âYes, sir,â you mock salute.
A moment later, Rafayel has scooped you up into his arms. Your hero; he gives you a conspiratorial wink before glancing about frantically. âQuickly!â he cries out. âEveryone out of the way, please!â
âFor the love ofââ Thomas starts.
âOh, gods!â you shout in agony. âIt hurts. It hurts!â
Heads turn. Cameras flash.
Tomorrow morning, half of Linkon will be talking about one of their favourite celebrities and his long-envied bodyguard. A news article will pop-up on her doctorâs phone, and heâll see the pictures and sigh.
Sylus đ©ž
âItâs not too late to back down, sweetie,â Sylus sneers.
âAw, but you got all dressed up for the occasion.â
Your eyes rake over the outline of the manâs abs, courtesy of the tank top heâs wearing, and it does take the sting out of the fact that heâll be trying to hit you. He holds his wrapped hands before him, ready to defend, ready to attack. Heâll probably attack, right?
âLast chance,â he growls.
âIs it, though?â This is the third âlast chanceâ youâve been given in the five minutes youâve been teetering on combat. You beckon him with a curl of your fingers. âCome on, Sylus. This is getting old.â
He scoffs: âHow do you think I feel?â
âLike youâre about to get your ass kicked?â
âAlright, enough.â His hands drop and it feels like youâre back at the academy, about to be scolded for not taking something seriously. Sylus turns his back on you. Moves to the edge of the boxing ring so he can retrieve a stool from outside of it and sit down in a huff. He starts peeling the wraps from his knuckles, andâ wait, is he mad? Like, actually mad?
âWhatâs wrong, Sy?â
He laughs as though youâre missing something dreadfully obvious. Maybe irony.
âSylus?â
âYou really are heartless, sweetie. You know that?â
The words steal your breath away, if only for a moment. Yours is a relationship of pulled punches, but he wonât meet your gaze and that one was real, wasnât it? He wanted it to sting. âWhyââ
âI could have hurt you,â he snaps, his dishevelled, snowy hair falling to cover his eyes. His discarded wraps slide from his hands, pooling by his feet like blood. âYou were going to let me hurt you.â
He looks at you, finally, but itâs not in the way you want. His gaze is cast low, trailing over your body and making you feel every bruise, every closed cut that wants to reopen and every ache, rooted almost to bone. Youâd done your best to hide it, even going so far as to press make-up hastily over your purpled skin.
That Wanderer really did a number on you yesterday. Â
âYou should have told me,â Sylus says, since youâve made it onto the same page. âHonestly, kitten. Why would youââ
âBecause Luke and Kieran told me, ok?â
Oh, theyâre going to kill you. It was supposed to be a secret, and here you are, spilling like a fresh wound because you canât stand the thought of Sylus being upset with you. You step closer, scrambling to dissect what youâve done right in front of his eyesâ holding it out to him: this is why. This is why. âThey said you had a rough week. Some deals of yours had fallen through or something. And Iâve been too busy. I havenât called, I havenât even texted, andâŠâ
You need him to understand, but the truth is a mess in your hands and how do you even start to explain it to him?
âYou wanted to do something for me,â he finishes for you, and you donât have to explain a thing.
âYeahâŠâ you confirm, bittersweet and still sad. âYou do so much for me, Sylus. I just wanted to do what you wanted, for a change.â
Maybe itâs a round of boxing. Maybe itâs a dozen illicit dealings where he needs you to play enforcerâ it doesnât matter. As long as heâs happy.
âCome here,â he orders gently.
You close the rest of the rift between you, letting him reach for you and pull you closer. His knees have spread so you can slot against him, and his arms circle around youâ trapping youâ as he nuzzles into the warmth of your stomach.
âIâm sorry I called you heartless,â he speaks into you, his voice muffled as he gives you a chaste kiss. He then cranes his head upwards, resting his chin against you so he can profess more clearly: âI do worry about you, kitten.â
âI knowââ your hands move to his headâ âIâm sorry too. I shouldnât have lied to you.â
âMmm,â he hums in accordance, maybe even forgiveness, and his eyes close as your fingers card through the soft of his hair. âI lied too.â
âYeah?â
âYeah,â he confesses on a contented sigh. âI didnât want to spend today⊠boxing.â
âWhat do you want to do today, Sy?â
His eyes flicker open and his hands find your hips. âWhat I really wantâŠâ he contemplates, as his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt to rub circles on your skin, âis to take care of you.â
There are lifetimes of need in his gaze.
âWonât you let me take care of you, sweetie?â
âŠ
âIf he finds the terms so disagreeable, then heâs more than welcome to take his business elsewhere. Althoughââ Sylusâs voice is coldâ âhe might find his other options less⊠amenable than when he saw them last. Less communicative, too. You can tell him I said so.â
He ends the phone call. Smiles. âSorry about that, sweetie.â
âAre the boys ok?â
The smile widens, even though you canât see it. âTheyâre fine.â
Phone set aside, Sylus carries on with the important business Kieranâs call had distracted him from. Youâre half asleep, your head in his lap as he brushes your hair: rose-scented and soft from the bath heâd drawn for you, hours ago. Every bandage is fresh and clean. Every ache has been dulled with a lazy massage and more chaste kisses, for good measure.
âPerfect day,â you mumble blissfully.
âPerfect day,â Sylus agrees.
#đrach is actually writing#xavier x reader#zayne x reader#rafayel x reader#sylus x reader#love and deepspace#lads x reader#lads x mc#shen xinghui#li shen#qi yu#qin che#lads#lnds#l&ds
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đ đ đČ đ„ đą đ đĄ đ â ËïœĄâ đđ ËïœĄË â nicholas a. chavez
playing: đđđČđ„đąđ đĄđ by taylor swift đđËïœĄË â
synopsis! reader woke up late for work but nicholas, your boyfriend, wishes to stay in bed longer..
paring: nicholas chavez x fem!reader
warnings: lots of fluff , sexual content + unprotected sex! oral (f! receiving) , fingering , mature , 18+ (minors dni!)
word count: 2,500
â ËïœĄâ đđ ËïœĄË ââ ËïœĄâ đđ ËïœĄË ââ ËïœĄâ đđ ËïœĄË ââ ËïœĄâ đđ ËïœĄË â
Soft sunlight filters through the thin slats of your bedroom window shades, casting patterns of light and shadow across the room. Itâs not abrupt, but rather a slow increase in brightness that touches your closed eyelids, warming your skin and pulling you out of your dream. The room becomes bathed in a soft, golden glow, and as you blink awake, the light feels like a quiet reminder of the world waiting outside.
However, behind you with an arm draped around your waist and soft snores coming from his slightly parted lips laid your boyfriend, Nicholas, making you want to tell the world to fuck off, turn off the lights, and try again another day.
A soft sigh escaped your lips as you rubbed your eyes and stretched your arms making a half-asleep Nicholas stir. You smile softly and turn to face him with his eyes still shut. You ran your fingers through his tousled hair, briefly wondering how bad your own must look, before softly whispering, âGood morning.â
He hums softly, wrapping his hand around your wrist as it rests in his hair and brings it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to your pulse. In a raspy voice, he murmurs, âGood morning, baby.â
âHowâd you sleep?â You ask, your voice still low, not wanting to disrupt the stillness of this peaceful moment. Itâs only Nickâs second time spending the night in your New York City apartment, the first just two nights ago.
He exhales peacefully, drawing you closer until your legs are tangled with his. âYour bed feels like sleeping on a cloud,â he murmurs.
You giggle at the sudden movement, watching as Nick plays with your fingers. Then he looks up and asks, âWhat are your plans for today?â
You groan at the thought of returning to reality. âI have to be at work by 8:30. Iâm presenting a pitch for a headline, so I should probably start getting ready since itâsââ You stop to glance at his watch as he gently strokes the back of your hand.
â8:29?! No, no, noâfuck!â You quickly untangle yourself from his arms and get up, Nickâs shirt skimming the tops of your bare thighs as you fumble to put on your slippers. Just as youâre about to rush out of the room, Nick grabs your wrist and pulls you back into bed.
Before you knew it, your back was against the mattress again, pinned beneath Nickâs steady gaze.
âI love that shirt on you,â he uttered softly.
âNicholas câmon.â You ignore his remark, wiggling beneath him trying to free yourself. He however, seemed to have taken that as a damn challenge.
A smirk tugs on his pink lips before he leans down to ghost his lips against yours, teasing. It was almost like a test to see if you were gonna resist. But when you didnât, he leaned down once again, capturing your lips between his in a slow, deliberate kiss.
In that moment, it felt as if the world slowed and everything narrowed down to just the two of you. The softness of his lips brushing against yours, a gentle pull, sparked a sensation that coursed through your entire body. There was an unspoken connection, an effortless sync as you responded to each otherâs movements, and the kiss deepened naturally. His breath mingled with yours, and his touch was both tender and intense, filled with desire. Time became irrelevant; you could have stayed in that moment forever. Nothing else mattered except the feeling and Nicholas.
Nicholas. Nicholas. Nicholas...
He was all your mind could focus on.
His lips parted from yours with a soft, wet sound before trailing down your cheek, behind your ear, and slowly along your neck. The slow descent of his kisses gave your mind a fleeting chance to gather a coherent thought.
"Nickâ I really need to get going," you breathe, trying to summon a resolve that feels distant in the moment.
"Do you, now?" he murmurs against your skin, gently nipping at your neck before soothing the spot with his tongue, drawing a gasp from your lips.
He knew all of your vulnerabilities, every spot that made you gasp for air, craving more, and he was definitely using it to his advantage. But you werenât exactly upset about that.
Nicholas was feeling it just as intensely. Your sweet sighs and tugging of his hair as he suckled on your neck made all the blood in his body rush straight to his cock, leaving him a needy mess. And it didnât help when he sucked on that sweet spot behind your ear, making your back arch into him and accidentally grazing his hard, throbbing bulge.
He let out a low groan at the small amount of contact and was desperate for more. Once again, his lips were on yours, more hungry and ravenous than ever. You felt the air leave your lungs when he rolled his hips into yours feeling every inch of him. The repeated action of his hips grinding into yours made you let out the softest moans against his lips, and that sound alone was enough to make Nicholas go wild.
He pulls away for a second to catch his breath as you do the same, though his hips never stop their mindless rutting against yours. He was so drunk on the taste of you, he couldnât help but start rambling.
âFeel that? Feel what you do to me, pretty girl? Hm?â Heâs breathless against your lips as he ground his hips against yours more intently, making you feel him through the barrier of your blue lace panties and his black boxer briefs.
At this point, you were ready to get fired.
Nothing would be able to drag you away from this moment with Nick, not even your fucking job.
All you could do to respond is moan into the air, hoping he wouldnât stop. His fingers trail down to the hem of his t-shirt on your body. He lifted it just enough to reveal your navel and abdomen, kissing along the fabric as his head traveled lower and lower.
You wasted no time in discarding the nuisance item of clothing leaving you in just your underwear.
Nicholas left gentle kisses along your abdomen, trailing down in between your thighs, all the way to your ankles, then back up again.
âYouâre perfect,â He whispers against your skin, his words sending shivers down your spine.
His eyes darkened as they lingered on what he craved the most, groaning in approval at the wet spot left on your underwear. You were soaking and Nicholas was ready to have a taste of your sweet nectar.
He planted a gentle kiss on your pelvis just above the little blue bow of your underwear, dragging his lips against you until he stopped right at the center.
Looking up at you through his long lashes, with a raspy voice he asks, âis this okay?â
You nod, breathlessly answering âyes.â And with that he wasted no time.
His lips pressed against your clit through the fabric, stealing your breath away. When his tongue slid slowly over the damp fabric, you couldn't hold back the moan that escaped, and he smirked against you.
âLook at you. So wet for me," he rambled, pulling the lace to the side to finally see you.
His finger glided through your folds, and he brought it to his lips, sucking it clean with his eyes closed in satisfaction.
The sight before you is so pornographic it makes you rut your hips up instinctively in hopes for some kind of friction which has him chuckling. He stops teasing you and discards your last item of clothing, leaving you completely exposed and bare to him.
Without warning, his flattened tongue swept a long, slow lick between your folds, making you cry out, your body reacting on its own as you ground against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair.
You become dizzy as he begins to lap at your heat like a dehydrated kitten and your hips suddenly have a mind of their own, grinding against his face, hand shooting out to tangle between his brown locks.
His lips suction on your bundle of nerves and as your back arches, he plunges a finger in you starting a pace that has your eyes rolling.
âF-fuck!â You cry out, clenching around his digit as his tongue flicks your clit in different patterns that sends shocks throughout your body, that is until he inserts a second finger.
Itâs amazing and almost pathetic how quickly he has you crumbling to pieces with just a flick of his tongue and fingers. Soon enough, you felt the knot in your lower stomach tightening, and Nick sensed it as well with a knowing smile, watching how tense your body was becoming.
âGonna cum for me, princess? Huh?â He mumbles against you, never slowing the relentless pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around them so tightly, it makes him chuckle.
âCâmon baby, soak me. I wanna taste you,â His words push you over the edge off the cliff you were hanging on for dear life.
A string of moans leave your lips as your body begins to shake and convulse uncontrollably. His tongue rides you through the utter bliss, suckling and suctioning causing aftershock waves to jolt through you.
Nick runs his hands up and down your thighs, whispering praises, peppering you with kisses all the way up to your lips as you catch your breath.
âFeeling good?â He whispers, brushing your messy strands of hair out of your face with a soft smile. You nod, returning his smile, glancing at his sheen chest, running your fingers up and down it.
Your gaze then drifts down to the bulge in his briefs, begging for attention to which you trail further down, palming him with light pressure.
Nickâs head falls into the pillow beside you, a low moan escaping his lips at the friction his cock was aching for.
âFuckâ baby, donât,â He babbles, gasping as you reach into his briefs and release his shaft from the tight confines, pumping him slowly.
You feel the heat in your belly flare up again at his desperate sounds of relief, and begin to tap the tip of his cock against your clit, teasing the both of you.
Nick crashes his lips to yours in a needy haze, both gasping as you line him up with your entrance and start inching forward so slowly itâs practically torture.
Youâre so slick with arousal, thereâs minimal resistance to his intrusion as you feel your muscles stretching to accommodate around him. You both let out a euphoric moan when he fills you completely, stilling himself and relishing in the feeling of your warm, wet walls.
âGodââ He strains against your mouth, âI donât think I'll ever get over how amazing you feel, angel.â
You moan softly at his words, rutting your hips against his, âplease...â you beg, voice trembling.
He smiles against your lips giving you a quick peck, âplease what, babyâhm? Tell me what you need.â
You whine in frustration, rocking your hips up once again, to which he takes as an opportunity to sneak his arm under the small of your back and pin you up against his chest. âWhat do you need, love?â
Before you could form a coherent sentence, he thrusts his hips forward once, the slap of your skin on his echoing in your bedroom which pulls a sharp gasp from your lips.
Then again, and again, and again.
âThat what you need, sweetheart?â He pants, starting a pace that has you a mess of strained moans, matching the rhythm of his hips. âNeed me to fuck into you like this huh?â
You can't help when your hands tangle in his hair, pulling on it as you cry out when his hips pull back and slams into you with such force, it makes your entire body jolt.
His pace quickens as he rests his forehead against your own, the small actions of you tugging at his hair seeming to enrage him more.
The sounds that echoed in the softly sunlit bedroom were the wet slaps of your skin colliding and a string of profanities and pants coming from the both of you, your walls clenching tightly around him as the tip of his cock hit your sweet spot over and over again with each thrust, sending you into a spiral.
You could feel the knot in your lower tummy starting to get tighter and tighter, your muscles flexing around him as you feel yourself quivering and he can certainly feel it too. His head drops down next to yours letting out low groans, never stopping his ruthless thrusts and determination setting.
âThatâs it baby, one more, please.â He whines in your ear, kissing your neck and fingers landing on your bundle of nerves to spur you on alongside his sharp thrusts.
âFuckâ Nick, Iâm gonna come,â You warn, feeling yourself start to clench around his cock, to which he keeps his relentless pace to finally push you over the edge.
You let out one last strangled moan as the knot inside of you snaps, digging your nails into his back, your head thrown back as your entire body convulses.
He buried his head into your neck, slamming into you so feverishly to drive you deeper into ecstasy and once you come down is when his thrusts start to become sloppy and moans louder.
He suddenly jolts forward, sobbing out moans through his teeth, feeling his warmth paint your walls white. He collapses on top of you, both breathing so heavily as the aftershocks of your orgasms rolling out of you.
Neither of you could move, relinquishing in each otherâs company and trying to recover from the sensations you both just experienced.
After a while of sweet silence and whispering sweet nothings and praises to you, he rolls onto his side, bringing you closer to him.
He plants a soft kiss to the side of your head, drawing patterns on your arm with his fingers.
âI should probably call off now,â You suddenly say to which he responds with a snort.
He reaches down to level himself with your plump and swollen lips, stealing a kiss. âYeah, youâre gonna be pretty busy the rest of this afternoon, angel.â
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Grumpy
fem!reader X Simon Riley
Summary: You're always grumpy in the morning, and Simon always 'fix' it.
Tw:Smut, unprotected sex.
A/n: First time posting here, just because this man doesn't leave my mindđ This masked manđŁ Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my first language
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By then Simon knew that you were far from being a morning person, on the contrary, you hated waking up early with all your soul.
But over time he learned to get used to you, waking you up with a session of kisses and hugs, pampering you until you improved your mood a little.
But nothing worked better than having his cock deep inside you, sliding in and out of your pussy, moving in a tantalizing way.
âFucking spoiled bratâ.â Simon growls in your ear, his tattooed arm wrapped around you, balancing you as he fucks you from behind.
He wasn't angry with you, far from it, after all, how could he be angry when you moaned so sweetly for him? Your head buried in the pillow as you whimpered, calling his name again and again.
It was obvious that you couldn't form any coherent sentences given that he was pounding into you like crazy, but he knew you were loving it, since you were squeezing him almost painfully hard.
âYou just need a cock to start the day, don't you?â He teased as he gave you a particularly sharp thrust, eliciting a loud whimper from you.
You were already a mess, you'd cum once while he was massaging your clit, now you were approaching the second time while he was fucking you hard.
He was all honeyed with your fluids, his cock base had a ring of liquids formed on it, all your sweet juices staining it.As if that wasn't enough, you also couldn't deny that the weight of him on top of you turned you on in a frightening way, just feeling his huge, muscular body covering yours, you felt your cunt clench around his dick.
By this point Simon had stopped trying to understand whatever strange language was coming out of your mouth, because you weren't making any sense.
The only coherent thing coming out of you were moans and whimpers, nothing else.Your mind only became an even bigger mess when Simon started kissing and nibbling your neck, one arm supporting you, while his free hand went down to your breasts and held on tight, squeezing and softening the flesh.
âFucking nice tits.â He murmurs in a deep voice, making you dizzy with the sensation of his balls slapping against you.
âSi- si- I'm gonna-â you stuttered, rolling your eyes and tucking your head back into the pillow once more.
He grinned in response, knowing that you needed a little push to get there, just a little. So he did.
Simon came out of you in one swift movement, making you moan at the ache the emptiness brought you.
Which didn't last long.
The next thing you felt was his cock entering you all at once, barely giving you time to get used to his huge size and thickness. And fuck if he didn't love feeling the way your cunt stretched to accommodate him, how your walls tightened around him like a vice.
When he did it, it was over for you, you just came, just like that.
You squeezed him and gushed out your orgasm, making a mess of him once again.Simon didn't take long after that, he always waited for you to come first, and then he'd get frantic.It was no longer about getting you there, but about him reaching the peak of his pleasure.
Then he would slam into you in a sloppy, abrupt way, driving his hips into you with force.You could have sworn you were going to faint from how good it felt.
But the best feeling was yet to come.
â Stay still. You'll take it, yeah? I don't want a drop out.â He hissed in your ear, holding your hips and preventing you from moving.
With one last hard thrust, he spurts his seed into you, grunting as he does so. Something that never failed to turn you on was the noises he made in bed, especially when he came like that.
His hot cum flooded into you and filled you up, and he didn't take his cock out of you until he was sure he had cum all the way inside you.
When you'd both recovered from the high, he lay down next to you and pulled you into a hug, pulling the covers over you both.
âMood better?â He asked, running his hands through your hair.
âMhm.â You mumble, hiding your face from him.
âUse words.â He retorts, lifting your chin, just to see the satisfied expression on your face.
âYeah, a little.â You whisper.
He was satisfied, not that it bothered him, because he wouldn't have minded giving you a second round if necessary. Simon wasn't one to reject sex with you, so waking up every morning like this was nice.
And he'd be lying if he didn't say he was already daydreaming about the next morning.
He could certainly have you in a mating press the next morning.
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What i've been learning thru my research is that Lawn Culture and laws against "weeds" in America are deeply connected to anxieties about "undesirable" people.
I read this essay called "Controlling the Weed Nuisance in Turn-of-the-century American Cities" by Zachary J. S. Falck and it discusses how the late 1800's and early 1900's created ideal habitats for weeds with urban expansion, railroads, the colonization of more territory, and the like.
Around this time, laws requiring the destruction of "weeds" were passed in many American cities. These weedy plants were viewed as "filth" and literally disease-causingâin the 1880's in St. Louis, a newspaper reported that weeds infected school children with typhoid, diphtheria, and scarlet fever.
Weeds were also seen as "conducive to immorality" by promoting the presence of "tramps and idlers." People thought wild growing plants would "shelter" threatening criminals. Weeds were heavily associated with poverty and immortality. Panic about them spiked strongly after malaria and typhoid outbreaks.
To make things even wilder, one of the main weeds the legal turmoil and public anxiety centered upon was actually the sunflower. Milkweed was also a major "undesirable" weed and a major target of laws mandating the destruction of weeds.
The major explosion in weed-control law being put forth and enforced happened around 1905-1910. And I formed a hypothesisâI had this abrupt remembrance of something I studied in a history class in college. I thought to myself, I bet this coincides with a major wave of immigration to the USA.
Bingo. 1907 was the peak of European immigration. We must keep in mind that these people were not "white" in the exact way that is recognized today. From what I remember from my history classes, Eastern European people were very much feared as criminals and potential communists. Wikipedia elaborates that the Immigration Act of 1924 was meant to restrict Jewish, Slavic, and Italian people from entering the country, and that the major wave of immigration among them began in the 1890s. Almost perfectly coinciding with the "weed nuisance" panic. (The Immigration Act of 1917 also banned intellectually disabled people, gay people, anarchists, and people from Asia, except for Chinese people...who were only excluded because they were already banned since 1880.)
From this evidence, I would guess that our aesthetics and views about "weeds" emerged from the convergence of two things:
First, we were obliterating native ecosystems by colonizing them and violently displacing their caretakers, then running roughshod over them with poorly informed agricultural and horticultural techniques, as well as constructing lots of cities and railroads, creating the ideal circumstances for weeds.
Second, lots of immigrants were entering the country, and xenophobia and racism lent itself to fears of "criminals" "tramps" and other "undesirable" people, leading to a desire to forcefully impose order and push out the "Other." I am not inventing a connectionâundesirable people and undesirable weeds were frequently compared in these times.
And this was at the very beginnings of the eugenics movement, wherein supposedly "inferior" and poor or racialized people were described in a manner much the same as "weeds," particularly supposedly "breeding" much faster than other people.
There is another connection that the essay doesn't bring up, but that is very clear to me. Weeds are in fact plants of the poor and of immigrants, because they are often medicinal and food plants for people on the margins, hanging out around human habitation like semi-domesticated cats around granaries in the ancient Near East.
My Appalachian ancestors ate pokeweed, Phytolacca americana. The plant is toxic, but poor people in the South would gather the plant's young leaves and boil them three times to get the poison out, then eat them as "poke salad." Pokeweed is a weed that grows readily on roadsides and in vacant lots.
In some parts of the world, it is grown as an ornamental plant for its huge, tropical-looking leaves and magenta stems. But my mom hates the stuff. "Cut that down," she says, "it makes us look like rednecks."
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