#Just expanding his horizons
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headcanon that every time Niko sees something on social media about something that would send a Victorian child into a coma, she immediately tries it on Edwin.
#Not maliciously obvi#Just expanding his horizons#dead boy detectives#edwin payne#niko sasaki#their friendship is my favorite part of the show
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"a haircut is like make-up for a man." wrong. it's actually adoption. give that man responsibility and a will to live, watch him get attached and learn the meaning of love and understand the value of family as he grows with them
#hi yes hello i have just finished ultraman rising OH MY GOSHHHH#ultraman rising#kenji sato#the mandalorian#din djarin#the witcher#geralt of rivia#thr last of us#joel miller#the sea beast#jacob holland#netflix nimona#ballister boldheart#the tiger's apprentice#mr.hu#the hunger games#haymitch abernathy#summer.txt#shoutout to the kids gaining more familial figures along the the way too!! bless <33#everyone tag your faves i would love to expand my horizons
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⬇️rant about a really good hengren (reverse renheng) fic i read. link at the bottom give it a whirl
i've never read a fic so well-catered to my tastes before in my life and the best part is that i was so caught off guard by how good it was cuz the tags and summary had me like "right this is some omegaverse-esque, rawr XD mating shit"
but from the very first paragraph i realized it wasn't just ao3-typical possessive mating shit it was (dare i say) IN CHARACTER possessive mating shit. underappreciated dan feng lore is the two hearts shit, duty expects him to smother his own empathy and perform cruelty obediently (and that being in his dragon form literally numbs his empathy towards mortals) but then it's flipped around and he's criticized for being too heartless
there aren't a great many english fics that take advantage of the 'numbed empathy' thing, so this fic using that to explore the toxic codependency that drove dan feng to making yingxing immortal in the first place is so!
dan feng's dragon heart prioritizing it's own indulgence and power, his human heart screaming against it for empathy and restraint, but both hearts united in this possessive adoration of yingxing... dan feng is possessive to the point of harming his partner, forcing them to take his affection, inherently contradictive to the protective impulse to see the other unhurt.
dan feng makes yingxing immortal in a really sketchy operation, despite knowing that yingxing is literally defined by his pride in being a short-life. he wants yingxing to be with him so badly that he does the one thing that would hurt yingxing the most, too blinded by possession, this sickly overbearing affection, to empathetically respect yingxing's death.
yingxing lived cramming every second he could into his craft and his goals precisely because he has so much less time than all the immortal species around him, but when he's forced into immortality, his hands are scarred and ruined past the point of ever crafting again. he suddenly has so much time, all this time he would've cherished as a mortal, but is totally useless to him now that his purpose for living and passion is gone.
so there being a scene in this fic where dan feng is moping "yingxing doesn't wanna fuck because he's glued to his workshop", being followed up with a scene of dan heng fucking blade while kissing his scarred hand and crying that he's "so sorry", yeah no shit asshole, his dragon heart got what it wanted, blade has all the time in the world to fuck and nothing competing for his now limitless attention and no one's happy about it.
as arrogant about being a short-life as yingxing was, it really is compensation for the discrimination he faced for it. other immortals looked down on him, so having dan feng, THE top dog, be so deeply enamored with him stirred his own toxic codependent urges. he was so desperate to have dan feng's eternal regard that he's willing to die for him (as in the sedition), his death being the force cementing his place in dan feng's heart forever.
so the fic having yingxing ruminate on this, that he had hoped for dan feng to love him even centuries after he inevitably died, only for the fic to end with:
yeah yingxing... you left an impression... he made you immortal.... everyone's upset by this
(that's what makes dan heng forgetting blade was ever yingxing to begin with all the more painful because, you went and turned him immortal and when it backfired horrifically you went on and fucking forgot, bitch i'd be pissed to the point of centuries long bloody pursuit of vengeance too.)
here's the fic go read it and leave kudos and a comment, technically porn but i got so invested in the character study that part barely registered. also yeah if you hadn't realized already super dead-dove:
blah blah "renheng is toxic" sorry that's why i like it
#hengren#renheng#txt#fic rec#nsft#idrc about who tops but ppl who are strictly top!blade truthers... give this fic a whirl plz it's so good expand ur horizons#so many other insane ramblings i could have about this fic oh my god the way the cloudhymn magic constantly healing yingxing#parallels blade's selfhealing (a self healing he got BECAUSE dan feng made him immortal)#cementing how his current state really was created by dan feng's desire to keep him and his love eternal URHGHG#ppl have the audacity to say blade is obsessed with dan heng when it was dan feng's obsession that created blade to begin with. kms#and also dan heng's guilt the whole while is 🤌 cuz before he was like. wow. that's SO fucked up. good thing dan feng did it#surely /i'm/ not capable of that -- pan to slow realization that he's still very much dan feng#so the initial rejection of responsibility of dan feng's crimes to realizing that it's deadass just his own crimes he has to atone for#kafka being quietly and subtly comforting of blade and that making dan heng possessive . when the reason blade needs comfort to begin with#is dan heng himself. like. it's so ironic i'll die#more honorable mentions is i love dan heng calling blade 'yingxing' because it's so fucking mean#he's the bitch getting pissed everytime someone calls him dan feng or dares to insinuate he's the same person but he's the exact same bitch#totally doing a 180 on blade and treating him way more kindly after realizing he used to be yingxing#'stop treating me like the shadow of someone who's long gone' bud listen to ur own advice#the unreliable narration between the first two chapters is so fucking good like once you catch on to which dialogue is actually happening#and what was a flashback and etc etc it's SO fucking good#another honorable mention is. lmao. love it when the top cries pathetic men you'll have my heart forever and always#tons of other endless thoughts about and inspired from this fic but give that bad boy a read. so worth#also this author writes sunblade so that's how you KNOW they're enlightened
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i feel like my weird unexplained health issues are getting to the point where scientists should be paying me to research me
red monkey magic on the turtle tank 👆
#anyways thats where ive been the last uh 2ish months *weakly holds a thumbs up*#i have like 5% energy i used to which was already minimal compared to most ppl... waiting on that cardiologist lolz#want to expand my art horizons but struggle with what i know so i think i need to just get decent at my furry art again#so i can open comms since idk if i can get a real job again at least for a while#since its just like overwhelming pain whenever i move... i feel fine for like 2 or 3 days at a time at the most#but even then. idk hownto explain further without giving out too much personal medical info lol#you know when goku had his heart disease? thats me rn
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TRUE!!! the original post was just made in reference to things that had inspired my own design and a wish to see more variety among the masked long-haired braided human designs that were absolutely DOMINATING the place at the time (nothing wrong with that, love those ones and i've drawn a few myself, just came from a perspective of missing seeing the truly unique designs that made me associate the design with the artist ;-;) but yea it definitely applies outside of just him. and outside of just pigs, looking at random animals can be a great reminder of how varied and weird some stuff can actually be :D
one of my favorite ocs, who i have drawn a grand total of two times bc i have been very lazy with art lately, actually ended up happening only because i got inspired by my own post fkjdhg
even tho it's a full year old at this point, still a pretty good drawing imo. i like his face :]
babirusa btw if you couldn't tell. he's a zombie piglin who has been withered :0
#i should draw him again#oh i should. wait i should give him an outfit i've had sitting on the backburner for a while#i have more nether outfits but just havent had any use for them. i should give him one i've been thinking about#this post was made solely to ramble a bit and show him off again#dude it is. so funny looking back at the 2019 art i have saved#and then seeing when The Shift happened. where everyone got inspired by the big artists at the time and it just took over#AGAIN NO HATE TO THOSE ARTISTS OR ANYONE WHO FELT INSPIRED I AM TRYING SO HARD TO MAKE SURE I DONT SOUND HATEFUL#IT WAS JUST REALLY FUNNY TO WATCH EVERY OTHER DESIGN DISAPPEAR FOR A LITTLE WHILE HKJFDG#some old designs are So <3 i still look back on those pieces a lot#anyone remember the short hair blond ones. miss those guys#that art of him with the knives on his fingers. if you know you know. evren this is targetted at you specifically fkjdhg#a lot of ppl have been expanding their horizons and straying from the expected designs which is fun to see again!#i still see a lot more human/humanoid art tho (not that i see much art today anyways) which sucks bc i looove how varied the pig designs ge#yes i play favorites. i favor the pig design a lot. i am a biased party <333
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me being reminded I’ve only written two Valerius omorashi fics: I’m a fucking hack, oh no
#rambling#and oooone Lucio one lmao#‘wait bottomvalerius ACTUALLY has a piss kink??’ always have son#pisscourse#I should expand my horizon tbh it’s just so easy with Valerius because his default characteristic is drinking LMAO#the fics write themselves#but Julian would be good for this tbh though he has a few already out there#for those who look for it LMAO#Damien would be good as well but that feels like cheating lmao Apple -> Tree
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i dont really think siwan is a perfect actor but he’s soso incredibly earnest with everything he takes on and always brings something so special to the table with his characters. i just adore him sm
#he def is better at certain characters than others imo#like misaeng he was genuinely so excellent in#and not to say he's bad in any roles#but some are more convincing to me than others?#but the way he doesnt just stick to one type of character or role is smthn i admire so much#always trying new things and expanding his horizons#siwan
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#'overthrow capitalism' your whole shtick is selling stuff#possibly even stuff you found in trash cans#you fund the local store and supply the others#donate to the museum#create (??) a movie theater#repair/improve the town in various ways the mayor himself could never afford to#you own land and a thriving business#you even buy a lady a house if you wanna go real hard#you practically own this town#you are THE capitalist#what you overthrow is corporatism
@ Prev Tags; So true
#everyone seems to keep forgetting that stardew valley is the story of capitalism standing up in the face of corporatism#it's the little guy who goes out and makes a name for himself by working his ass off from sun up to sun down#Trying to save every coin he can just so he can continue to invest that into his business#to make it better and produce the highest qualities#to continue to make money and invest it further into the business#it's literally the capitalist's dream#and yeah#you work HARD#you work as hard as you can#Because everyone demands perfection from you#everyone will keep demanding perfection from you#and it's *NOT* just pocketing money#it's investing in what will make people happy too#it's expanding your horizons beyond just making money
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One of my closest friends has a brother, let’s call him Chase, who is so very obviously bi but deeply in the closet. Which is wild because his sibling is openly bi and nonbinary with mostly queer friends, so you’d think he’d come out to her at the very least.
But instead he just likes tweets about being a bisexual guy, and since his likes are viewable and my friend likes to see what their sibling is up to, they end up sending me screenshots of his likes, usually with an accompanying thought along the lines of, “dude I know everyone works on their own time. But come on. It’s been years of this. He knows I can see these.” This is off topic, but sets the scene for how we all know he’s bi but he won’t come out so we all pretend he’s straight in his presence.
Anyways a couple months ago he was going through a really rough time. Post-surgery blues, gf left him for a dude that lives in a van, moving back to his hometown because his internship ended, etc etc. We were all at my friend’s place when he turns to me and goes, “Fen, I’m thinking of bleaching my hair blond. Thoughts?”
To which I sat in stunned silence for a beat before gathering my thoughts and choosing my words cautiously. “Huh. Um..well I don’t know how it is for straight guys, Chase, but…so it’s a well-known phenomenon among gay men that if someone bleaches their hair then they’re almost certainly Going Through It. Like, it’s a very common stereotype that gays’ll joke about: the bleach-blond twink who’s mentally unwell. And I say that as someone who was once that twink who was very mentally unstable and bleached their hair platinum-blond. So I gotta ask, you doin’ alright bud?”
Which led to a flustered response from him and all of us nodding along that yes he’s straight and it must be so different if a straight guy does it blah blah blah. There’s no real point to this story. Just a funny little bloop on a recurring topic in this friend group. Very much a “breaking the fourth wall to look at the camera” moment, to which my friend had to leave the room because they knew if we made eye contact neither of us would be able to hold back a smile.
“Just make sure you do it professionally. And talk to the stylist at least two weeks beforehand about if you should change your shampoo/conditioner routine leading up to it”
#sometimes I just wanna grab his shoulders and shake him and be like “You Would Clean Up!!!! in the gay community!”#expand your horizons! all your girl troubles..well actually they’d just also include boy troubles. hm. maybe not the argument I think it is.#runon post
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as i discover more and more foods im allergic to, i grow increasingly afraid of the kind of people who will ignore people's food allergies out of spite or tell them "just eat at home if you have allergies". at least for service workers they can get fired/sued for trying to kill me i guess
#dcb me#reading a reddit post about a mcdicks employee who put tomatoes on a kids burger#even though the kid was deathly allergic#and all of the comments saying that the kid deserved to have that happen to him#because his mother broke in line#i also worry like how many people are going to hear me being like#please dont put x y or z on my food and their gut reaction will be like AWWW ARE U PICKY U SHOULD EXPAND UR HORIZONS#no brenda i love avocado they just send me into what is approaching deathly allergic reaction territory#i wish i could eat cassava pasta since im gluten intolerant but im FUCKING ALLERGIC#watermelon and kiwis I WANT TO EAT THEM but they make me ITCH and BURN MY TONGUE and give me 6 hour long stomach cramps#no im not wary of indian food because im a white person who cant handle spice im just ALLERGIC TO FENUGREEK#i love spice i season everything with ghost pepper THATS NOT THE ISSUE#begging people to respect food allergies
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I am going to make so many f****** niche cartoons with storyboards and write so many novels before I die
#It's the only thing that makes sense to me#Even when I don't feel like doing it#BoJack and his wife had a good run#It's been 3 years of writing that stupid fantasy novel that nobody liked#I loved it#But it's time to expand my horizon...#to writing more mommy stories#just kidding#also making cartoons original ones#and writing more original novels#but also the mommy thing#But with Rick this time
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Skin Deep
Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 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.
-
“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s 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.
“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.
“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”
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. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.
“What guy I recommended?” she asks.
“Kevin!”
“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”
You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”
“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”
You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.
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.
“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” 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. “—none of this is like me.”
Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”
“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.
-
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.
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 people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve 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 rings—and it’s him.
“Hello?”
“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.
Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”
He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.
“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.
Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?
“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”
“Five. Don’t be late.”
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 itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is 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 doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?
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.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.
Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.
Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.
“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”
He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s 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.
“Sit,” 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 sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”
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.
“The water is for you,” he says.
“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”
“This is your first tattoo.”
“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.
He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”
“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”
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 you’re 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, that’s a harder question.
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 silence—pausing 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.
He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.
He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.
“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll 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?”
“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.
He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”
You think that maybe he’ll 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 can’t help but watch him.
He’s 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. It’s 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.
“Here.”
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 didn’t 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.
His thoughtfulness touches you.
“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.
“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”
“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”
He’s expensive—but 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, he’s 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 wouldn’t bore him to death.
“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”
“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”
“No, my car is just there.”
“I’ll wait.”
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.
-
You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.
GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.
You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?
Masks are cute, you say.
Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.
You’re terrible.
You’re…thinking about it.
-
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. It’s from GHOST.
The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.
I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.
Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.
And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.
-
“You’re being ridiculous,” 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.
“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”
The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t 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. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.
“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.
“Very glad of it.”
You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t 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.
“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.
That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.
I’m a little nervous.
You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.
It’s not that.
What is it?
Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.
But all he said back was: how can I help?
I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.
I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?
Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.
-
You bring the pasties anyway.
-
The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.
When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t 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.
You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.
“Hi,” you squeak.
Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.
“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.
“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”
It’s exactly what you want, and more.
“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”
He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.
The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s 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.
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. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.
“Ready?” he asks at length.
You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.
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.
“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.
“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”
“I’m just teasing you.”
“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” 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. “You’re nervous, I mean.”
“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.
“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”
You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s 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.
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. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.
“Good?” He asks.
“Very good,” 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.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”
“I’m not backing out.”
He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.
It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact��a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.
“Good?” He asks.
“Good,” you squeak.
You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.
“Let me know when you need to break.”
You don’t 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.
“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”
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.
“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.
“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”
It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.
“Good for more?”
And so it repeats.
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. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.
His thumb gently strokes your sternum.
“It’s rough. You can take it,” 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. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”
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.
“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”
“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.
He hushes you, surprisingly tender.
“This is the worst of it.” 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.
“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.
You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”
“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.
You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.
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 stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.
This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a 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 you’d give your life to follow).
“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.
“Eager to be done?” you wonder.
He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.
“I don’t have anywhere to be,” 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.
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.
“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”
It’s 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.
“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”
“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”
“Sure!” 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 covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.
After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“And if you have any questions—text me.”
-
You get home to find that Ghost’s 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 ‘likes’). 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.
-
Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.
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?
The internet doesn’t 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.
With shaking hands, you don’t 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.
He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.
“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.
“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.
“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” 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. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”
“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”
“Well? What is it?”
“It’s falling off, for one!”
He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”
“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”
Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”
“Worse than getting it.”
“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”
“Twenty minutes from now?”
“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.
-
The night is cool. You don’t 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.
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.
He’s 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 tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.
“Well. Sit. Show me.”
You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”
“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”
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.
“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.
“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”
“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”
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. “Any fever?” he asks.
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”
“No,” you admit.
“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”
“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”
He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”
You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”
He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.
“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”
“You were with friends,” you insist.
His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”
“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”
“Nosey.”
“I could buy you a drink sometime,” 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? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”
“Maybe.”
God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.
“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”
He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t 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.
“Maybe you should look closer.”
His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”
Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”
“Can’t get much closer than I am.”
“You could—if you wanted to.”
“If I—“ 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: “Closer.”
“Mhm.”
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.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and 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 you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.
“Pretty little tits,” 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.
“Fuck,” 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.
“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”
“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”
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. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”
“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s 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 tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.
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.
“Driving me fucking crazy,” 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.
You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though 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.
He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”
“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.
He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”
“Oh god,” 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.
“What else do you need?” he asks.
“My—touch me—“ 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.
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 can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”
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.
He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.
When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t 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.
Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but 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.
“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.
“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”
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.
“You’re so—“ 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: “—hot.”
He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”
“I want more.”
“Want my cock?”
You nod, feeling like a bobble head.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I want your cock.”
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 artist’s 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.
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.
“Oh my god,” you mutter.
“No gods here,” 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.
“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”
“Good,” you breathe.
His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.
He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve 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.
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.
“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s 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.
“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.
“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”
“Your cock—want it—please—“
“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”
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 you’re 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.
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 you’re pinned beneath it.
“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”
“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“
“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”
He gives you instruction but isn’t 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.
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.
“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”
“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve 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.
“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s 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.
You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.
“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.
He hums behind you, a smug sound.
“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”
“Ghost!”
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.
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.
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 didn’t 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.
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.
Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.
“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”
“Yes.”
He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.
-
“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.
“Regretting it already?”
“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”
“Dinner?”
“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”
You shake your head.
He scoffs a little.
“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”
He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.
“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.
“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” 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. “I was interested.”
You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”
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YANDERE HUSBAND x GN CELEBRITY!READER
— based off of a dream i had of a childhood friend/crush. hiatus not over tho lol.
— morally bankrupt reader. clingy husband. the usual yandere stuff.
YANDERE! HUSBAND who was your childhood best friend. Your parents shipped you two since you could speak.
YANDERE! HUSBAND who had a crush on you since forever. He doesn’t even remember a time where he didn’t get butterflies and an aching need to be the only one close to you
YANDERE! HUSBAND who’s the biggest flirt. He knows you the best. Although you were completely oblivious. He’d always try to be around you, compliment you, tease you.
He’d give you matching keychains, and would beg his parents to buy whatever gift he’d think you’d like.
YANDERE! HUSBAND who sadly had to move away for a while. He comes back during high school. And the first thing he asks while he’s there? To be put in the same class as you.
Now that you two are older, you finally started to notice how much of a tease he was. Always grappling unto a piece of your attention.
You acquiesce and begin to date him. Not necessarily feeling anything for the guy but thought it was high time that you finally settle down. It was the perfect storyline you could share once your ambitions were fulfilled.
That and cause your parents would only let you go to acting school if he married you.
Which you two eventually did before college. Was it rushed? Definitely. Did you even love the guy? Nuh uh. But you had places you had your sights set on. And he was the only path.
YANDERE! HUSBAND who drops out to be your full time househubby. His parents could always give him a job at their corporation anyways. There was no real pressure for him to study and get a job.
YANDERE! HUSBAND who almost always supports your acting career. Watching all your shows, movies, and interviews. Basically buying out all the merch you featured in. And paying advertisers across the globe to have your face plastered everywhere.
YANDERE! HUSBAND who unfortunately stops you from having any romantic or sexual scenes. Essentially blocking you from any roles that could be your breakthrough just cause it could have a tiny kiss or so.
Your anger at his blatant attempt to have control over you began simmering. Ever so slowly reaching the surface. Not improving at all when you found out he’d been trying out a job that his mother gave him.
Fuck the gifts. Fuck the yachts and cars he’d swarm you with. Why did he get to do what he wanted and you didn’t?
So you follow him to work once, only to catch him in a compromising position with a coworker.
You didn’t care about him or his business beneath the sheets really. So you had to thank the gods above that you knew exactly what and how to do the following act.
Cry. Scream. Throw things at them.
The coworker already left. Shuffling as they tried to hide from your anger.
Your husband is unresponsive. Catatonic. Even more of an excuse to hurt him.
You call him filthy, uncaring, the worst man to ever exist. Hell, even some of your true feelings come out as you yelled about how you regretted ever being with him.
You find out later from his mom that he had been framed. That this coworker was just trying to get money out of the heir.
Still, you wanted out. He had already served his purpose and you needed to expand your horizons.
A week later of radio silence from him as you prepared the divorce papers he walks in.
Covered in red his hands caressed your face,
“You called me filthy did you not? So I cleansed myself with their blood.”
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagine#yandere fic#yandere oc#yandere oc x reader#yandere core#yandere husband#male yandere#male yandere x reader#yandere male x reader#yandere headcannons#yandere hcs#yanderes#yandere x darling#darlingcore#yanderecore
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also wen ning is really into bdsm sex dungeons and goes visiting them when on tour with his band which like. sure. why not
#I do think its a bit ooc since wen ning is so shy and self-concious in canon but this is fanfic. expand your horizons#this is almost one of the few fics where I feel like adopting a-yuan isn't a slap in the face to the wens#wq and wn are still around but their great-aunt just died and that's the only caretaker he had#wq is still in her residency and wn is with his band and they would have really struggled and sacrificed a lot to care for him#and wwx and lwj are so close to them so its not like a-yuan is losing the wens#ficblogging
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King Deshret x Reader I
PART I: Where King Deshret falls in love with Nabu Malikata and forgets you, causing you to leave Sumeru to forget him
SCENARIO: you are the queen with King Deshret, however, he slowly falls in love with Nabu Malikata and forgets you, so, hurt by his betrayal, you ask Rukkhadevata to help you fake your death to leave Sumeru forever and go Inazuma to start a new life. Years later, when your heart had already healed, Rukkhadevata asks you to return to Sumeru to help her with the Withering, and you return, meeting him again.
(Here it is! I hope you enjoy it! I've made it longer than normal because I wanted to go into this one longer, doing it with a more descriptive narrative. I hope you like it and thanks for the request! Dedicated to sailorstar9)
(Also, second and third part will be published on Monday 11 and Friday 15!)
I.
From the beginning, you were Deshret's constant support, beyond politics and alliances with other gods. You shared a unique vision for his kingdom, a dream forged with every step you took at his side in the desert sands. Every glance you exchanged at the edge of the vast void spoke of your commitment, of your unwavering fidelity.
Your connection to him was deeper than sand and wind; you were his queen, not only on the throne, but in his ambitions and in his darkest nights. Each whispered word shared in the stillness of the night sealed the promise that love and kingdom would flourish together, no matter what danger lurked in the shadows. He taught you to believe there was something beyond the horizon, a power capable of shaping destiny.
You still remember the nights when he shared with you his deepest secrets, his desires and fears. He dreamed of a kingdom where his people were not slaves to the laws of heaven, and though his dreams were vast, his love for you seemed even greater. Under the cloak of the stars, he promised you that there was nothing that could break his loyalty to you.
II.
The peace of the kingdom was shaken when Nabu Malikata came into his life. At first, she was just a friend and an ally who shared with Deshret and Rukkhadevata the vision of a kingdom where the desert and the forest coexisted. You admired her strength and the gentleness of her presence, believing that she could be a powerful ally. However, over time, that admiration turned to uncertainty, because something in Deshret's gaze had changed.
Nabu Malikata brought with her an ethereal beauty, the kind of grace that seemed to merge with the wind and the water, that seemed to even calm the sands beneath her feet. You could feel the pull she exerted on him, like a distant star calling to him from above, unreachable and magnetic. In moments of silence, you noticed that his mind was no longer completely with you, but was lost in thoughts of Nabu Malikata, in the dreams they built together.
Every word Deshret said about her became a thorn in your chest. You tried to suppress the pain, to pretend you didn't notice how your nights with him became lonelier. You tried to remind him of his promise, to reconnect with the man you loved, but his heart seemed to have lost itself in a labyrinth of unknown longings. What was once yours was now foreign to you.
III.
Betrayal was a harsh word to describe what you felt, but you had no other word for the emptiness that began to expand in your chest. Deshret was trapped in his ambitions, in the secrets shared in whispered nights with Nabu Malikata, while you languished in silence. You could not bear to live in a realm where your love was no longer the center of his world, where you had been replaced by another vision, another soul.
It was then that you turned to Rukkhadevata, that wise and serene friend who knew the weight of pain and hope. You knew she shared an ancient loyalty with you, and her compassion inspired confidence. You revealed your fears to her and asked her for a soul-sucking favor: to help you disappear.
“Rukkhadevata,” you murmured, your voice cracking, “I’m afraid I cannot remain here.”
She tilted her head in understanding. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a stillness filled with empathy.
“He no longer belongs to me. His heart… has turned to her, and I cannot bear to remain in his shadow.” The words tumbled painfully from your mouth, but you held firm. “I ask for your help, my friend. I do not wish to cause conflict, I only want to leave, to be forgotten.”
With a sacred ritual, you faked your death, a disappearance shrouded in mystery and mourning. Deshret mourned your loss, but deep in your heart, you knew his grief was tinged with other feelings. He did not return to your grave more than once, and his devotion to Nabu Malikata continued. You left without looking back, knowing that your love had been sacrificed on the sands of his ambition.
IV.
Your arrival in Inazuma was a silent rebirth. Here, far from the sands of Sumeru and the memories you left behind, you began to rebuild your life. Over the years, your skill at purification and healing made you a symbol of hope in this land. People began to call you the Queen of Benevolence, a woman shrouded in mysticism and compassion, someone who had learned to heal poisoned souls and lands.
You dedicated each day to this new purpose, transforming pain into something positive, into a force that gave back to others what you had lost. The nights when you thought of Deshret were few, and each time his memory appeared in your dreams, it was less vivid, less painful. The faces of those you helped replaced their images, and your new life felt like a second birth. You had learned to let go of love and embrace the peace that came with distance.
V.
Centuries later, a familiar figure appeared before you: Rukkhadevata, clothed in the same serenity and compassion you had met years before. Her visit was not just a show of friendship; she came to ask for your help.
The Withering, a plague of corruption had ravaged the lands of Sumeru, and only your power of purification could help mitigate its advance.
“The Withering,” she explained to you, her voice heavy with gravity and despair, “is devouring our forests and withering the lands. Life itself is fading from our realm, and I fear my power is no longer enough to stop it.”
Rukkhadevata's request shook the delicate balance you had built in your heart. Returning to Sumeru meant facing what you left behind, the indifference you had cultivated. The memory of Deshret, now only a shadow, seemed insufficient to make you hesitate. However, the suffering of the land, the need to save the innocent, made you rethink your decision. This time, you would not return out of love, but out of duty.
VI.
Your return to Sumeru was solemn, without great ceremony or promises. When Deshret saw you for the first time, his gaze held wonder, pain, and something else that was harder to decipher. His lips, which had previously spoken only words of love for you, now only emitted pleas. He wanted your forgiveness, one last chance to redeem the harm he had caused you. But for you, the Deshret you loved had been buried in the sand, along with the promise you once shared.
“My queen…” he murmured in a trembling voice. “Is that you? I thought I had lost you forever… Please forgive me, I…”
His pleas echoed hollowly in your heart, and you looked at him with the same compassion you gave to all those you helped in Inazuma. His love was only a distant echo, and in that moment, you understood that there was no room in your heart for resentment or forgiveness, only for the peace you had found without him.
“Deshret,” you replied in a calm voice, “you are no longer my king, nor am I your queen. Time has erased the love that once existed. I have only returned to help my friend and fulfill my duty to this land.”
With one last look, you walked away from Deshret, letting the past burn in the sands.
Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3
#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact#genshin x reader#genshin x you#genshin impact fanfic#genshin fanfic#genshin angst#king deshret#king deshret x reader#greater lord rukkhadevata#genshin rukkhadevata#genshin#nabu malikata#sumeru#sumeru archon quest
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first time for everything
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
summary: a lot of things were in the cards for oscar’s first home race. he just wasn’t expecting confessing his love for you to be one of them. (3.3k)
warnings: maybe a swear word idk
a/n: my first oscar fic! not sure if i've got his personality down quite yet but hopefully i've done him justice :)
“You’re nervous.”
Oscar tore his attention from his phone camera, where he was messing with the swoop of his hair for what had to be the fifth time. He shook his head, though you could probably see right through him. “No, I’m not—I just didn’t sleep that well last night.”
“Yeah, ‘cause you were nervous for today.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s okay to be nervous, Oscar. I’d be more worried if you weren’t.”
You were right, he was nervous about a lot of things—this weekend was his first home race, the first race you were able to attend during his time as a driver for McLaren. But the first thing he learned from competing at this level was to never let his nerves show. Put up a front, make it seem like he was cool as a cucumber so people wouldn’t doubt him, let his skills on the track do all the talking.
Normally, Oscar was good about that. But you could see right through him. You knew him well enough to know how he was feeling and how to help, even if he himself didn’t quite understand it.
The story of you and Oscar was quite the cliche, really. He knew of you through a friend of a friend and was instantly intrigued without even meeting you, managed to reach out, and the rest was history.
You hadn’t even met each other face to face until a month into your constant texting, but when you did finally find the opportunity to meet up in person, it was like you’d both found the other half of yourselves in each other. While Oscar was more of a straight to the point, cut and dry kind of guy, you managed to bring him out of his shell a little bit, to get him to expand his horizons (within reason, of course).
You were the opposite—always smiling, always happy to try new things, warm and sunshine-y and everything in between. Oscar toned you down without holding you back, reminded you to take a breather before immediately jumping into the next exciting thing, to enjoy what you had while you had it so you wouldn’t miss anything.
He’d only just gained the courage to ask you out a few months back, but it only seemed fitting that you were here with him for his first race in front of his home crowd.
“It’s a lot to process.” Oscar admitted, letting his shoulders creep up towards his ears in a shrug. You leaned against him, looping an arm through the crook of his elbow and slipping your hand into his for a reassuring squeeze, pressing your chin against his bicep. “I just don’t wanna let anyone down, y’know? Wanna make everyone proud.”
“You’re going to do great. I promise.” You said firmly, reaching up to push his hair into its perfect place. Oscar nuzzled into your touch on instinct, letting you cradle his cheek in the palm of your hand. Your thumb swept over his cheek a few times, lulling him into a sense of contentment.
“Forget me. How are you feeling?”
“I’m excited! I’ve never done something like this before.” You replied, letting your hand drop. “And kinda nervous, but it’ll be fine, right?”
“Yeah, ‘course it will.”
“Have any sage words of wisdom for a first time paddock goer?”
“Oh, you know me. Keep your head down, walk fast. There’s gonna be a lot of cameras, lots of fans, they’re all gonna want something from you. I’ll be with you as long as I can, so I’ll be there in case things start to get out of hand.”
“Can I say hi to the fans?”
“If you want to, yeah. They already love you.”
That was another thing Oscar had to be worried about. Today was a day full of firsts, it felt like, because it was also the first time you’d be making your public debut as a couple. You’d already become a fan favorite when the two of you were just friends (two very mutually pining friends, no less), but making your relationship paddock official seemed daunting.
Oscar wasn’t at all worried about what people would think. In fact, he didn’t really care. He was happier than he’d been in a long time and nothing would change that. What he was worried about was how you’d be treated. Oscar loved the fans, he really did, but there were always that handful who thought they knew him—knew what was best for him. Knew who was best for him.
If he could protect you from any harm that could possibly be aimed your way, he’d do it in a heartbeat, but things could get so very unpredictable out there. The best he could do was keep you close.
Your grip on Oscar’s hand tightened just the slightest bit at seeing the sheer amount of people outside the window. Noticing this, he rubbed his thumb along your knuckles soothingly.
“You don’t have to come along.” He said softly. You tore your eyes away from the passing crowds to look at him. “There’s a back entrance, you can go through there.”
“No, it’s alright! I’ll be fine.”
“You sure? It’s okay if you're having second thoughts, sweetheart.”
“I’m not, I promise. It’s kind of a lot, but nothing I can’t handle.” You said firmly, more for yourself than anything. Oscar squeezed your hand with a soft smile. “If you can do it, I can do it.”
“There you go. You’ll be the star of the show. Everyone’ll be like Oscar Piastri who? There’s the most beautiful girl in the world, and just some guy.”
You had to bite back a laugh at his words paired with the deadpan expression gracing his face. Oscar always seemed to know how to get you to relax.
“Well, you’re the hottest just some guy I’ve ever seen.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek, smiling at how his fair skin immediately flamed hot under your lips.
Despite your previous hesitation, you looked entirely in your element as you made the walk hand in hand, looking around with bright eyes and an even brighter smile. Oscar couldn't help but watch you take it all in, not bothering to mask the awe in his eyes as he did so. He wouldn’t be surprised if photos of him looking at you made it to fan Twitter by the end of the day.
Oscar was whisked away as soon as you got through to hospitality, giving him barely enough time to say goodbye to you before he was shuttled to meeting after meeting, press conferences and pre race interviews, a thousand things to do in the few hours he had before he had to get ready for free practice.
He was already exhausted by the time he made it back to his driver’s room, pushing open the door with a heaving sigh. You glanced up at the commotion he was making, smiling at him warmly and setting aside your phone.
“Hey, you,” You hummed, holding out your arms towards Oscar as soon as he closed the door behind him.
“Hi.” Oscar sighed, folding you into his embrace as comfortably as he could in the cramped alcove. There was barely enough room for one person on the bench, let alone you and your boyfriend with his broad shoulders. You shifted sideways to solve the problem, throwing your legs over Oscar’s lap, to which his hand immediately came to rest on your knee. “I missed you.”
“Wish I could say the feeling was mutual.” You teased. Oscar rolled his eyes goodnaturedly, giving your leg a gentle pinch that you giggled at before leaning in to press a quick peck to his cheek. “I missed you too.”
“What did you get up to while I was gone?”
“Oh, so much! I took a walk around the paddock just to check everything out, and I kinda got lost, but someone helped me find my way back eventually.” You shrugged, not noticing the way Oscar’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline.
“Wait, you got lost? Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were busy.” You said, very as-a-matter-of-factly. He blinked at you slowly, a blank expression present on his face. “I’m a big girl, Osc, I can find my way around just fine.”
That made Oscar falter. You were right. He cared so much, especially about you—so much so that sometimes he forgot you were entirely capable of taking care of yourself.
“A lot of people asked to take pictures with me. Me! Isn’t that crazy?” You exclaimed, beaming bright. “I promised one of them your sweaty fireproofs in return, but that’s beside the point.”
“You what?” He spluttered, eyes widening almost comically. His fingers froze in their fiddling with the rings adorning your fingers.
“I’m kidding, obviously. Lighten up, Oscie, jeez.”
Oscar rolled his eyes playfully. “Right, well I’m glad you’re having fun.”
“You know what would make this day even more fun?”
“I don’t think I want to.”
You stuck your tongue out at him before continuing. “Can I meet Charles Leclerc? Is that something you can pull off?”
Technically speaking, it would be extremely easy for him to pull off. All he really had to do was bring you over to the Ferrari motorhome for a quick introduction, and he was sure Charles would take a liking to you, just like every other driver you’d gotten to meet so far. You had that kind of persona; one that made people want to get to know you.
Oscar quite liked that about you. What he wouldn’t like as much was you being immediately wooed by the driver’s seemingly irresistible French charm. And yeah, you were Oscar’s girlfriend and Charles also had a girlfriend of his own, but still. Nobody wanted to see the girl they loved fawning over another man, even one as cool as Charles Leclerc.
But Oscar would never tell you that, because he loved you, and he’d do anything to make you happy.
“Uh…yeah, sure. I could probably get you an intro, if that’s something you really want.” He heard himself saying, scratching the back of his neck. His heart thudded a little harder in his chest at the way your face lit up.
“Really?”
Oscar smiled tightly. “Why not? D’you wanna go now? There’s some time before we need to be on track.”
“That would be amazing, Osc.”
“Right then, let’s go.” He nudged your legs off him, heaving himself to his feet with a groan that would usually be associated with someone much older than him. You threaded your fingers through his as soon as he finished popping all his joints like an old man, following his lead out of the room and the motorhome, all the way to the bright Ferrari red building a few doors down.
Luckily, Charles was sitting at one of the tables in the main area, so you didn’t have to look far to find him.
“Charles, mate, you got a second?”
The aforementioned Monegasque tore his attention from his phone upon hearing Oscar’s voice, an easygoing smile already present on his face. “Oscar! What can I do for you, mate?” His eyes found you next, and he nodded politely. “Hello!”
“Hi.” You said quietly, clinging to Oscar’s hand tightly. This feeling was foreign to you. You’d never been so stunned into silence by someone before, but maybe that was because you’d never met someone as well known as the Charles Leclerc.
“This is my girlfriend. It’s her first time in the paddock and she’s a big fan of yours, figured I could introduce the two of you. Y/N, Charles. Charles, Y/N.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard much about you!” Charles exclaimed, popping to his feet. He moved forward to embrace you, wrapping you in a warm hug like he’d known you for a long time, let alone just met you not even fifteen seconds ago.
Oscar never really understood the whole hugging thing Charles had going on. Maybe it was a French thing. Either way, the hug seemed to have shaken you out of whatever starstruck daze you were in, because you straightened up.
Charles smiled warmly. “Welcome to your first race. I trust they are treating you well over at McLaren?”
“There’s definitely a few perks.” You replied, returning his infectious smile. You squeezed Oscar’s hand as you said it, and part of him felt a smidge proud that you considered him a perk. Charles laughed goodnaturedly. “I hate to sound so forward, but I wanted to say I love your music. The way you play piano is…the only way I can think to describe it is beautiful.”
“Oh wow, you—thank you! That means a lot, thank you. Do you play?”
“A little bit, but I haven’t had much time to sit at the bench lately.” You replied, giving a haphazard shrug. Charles nodded sympathetically, like he understood the troubles of carving out time to play. “D’you mind if I ask you a bit more about your inspiration while I’ve got you?”
“Of course, yes, yes, I would love to talk about it!”
Oscar touched a hand to the small of your back to snag your attention for a second. He liked music as much as the next person, but not as much as you and Charles, it seemed. “I’ll be over there.”
You nodded, popping up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek before returning to your animated conversation with Charles.
Now, Oscar wasn’t a jealous guy by any means. On the contrary he was always quite calm and collected, so he thought he’d be fine. Secretly a little miffed, sure. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, but actually seeing you go starry eyed while talking to Charles sparked something inside him. He didn’t know how hard he was squeezing the can in his hand until he felt liquid trickling down the sleeve of his fireproofs.
“Ah, shit.” He muttered, shaking out his arm frustratedly.
“Stare at her any harder and she might burst into flames, mate.”
Oscar glanced to his left to see Lando standing there, arms crossed over his chest, expectant brow arched.
“Dunno know what you’re talking about.” Oscar grumbled, moving to toss the now crumpled can into the nearest rubbish bin. Lando looked wildly unconvinced. “What?”
“Don’t feed me that shit, Oscar, you’re way too easy to read for me to believe you’re not absolutely fucking in love with Y/N.”
Oscar made an offended noise from the back of his throat. “I am not easy to read.”
“Mate, you’re the openest book in the history of open books right now.”
“Openest isn’t a word.”
“Whatever! Stop deflecting.” Lando scoffed, wrinkling his nose. “You love her. Tell her that.”
“I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“What if it’s too soon? What if she doesn’t feel the same way yet?”
“You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.” Lando groaned, letting his head tilt back in exasperation. Oscar squinted at him, unamused. “Oh, you’re serious? Mate, come on. Just today, in the half a day I’ve known her, I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. I see the way you look at her when she’s not looking. It’s obvious. You’re both obnoxiously in love with each other, and it’s sickening.”
The corners of Oscar’s mouth lifted into a grin. “Really?”
“Oh my god, yes, really. I mean honestly, how dense can you be?”
“A lot, it seems.” Oscar cast another glance at you, feeling a lot better than he had a few minutes ago. You were laughing at something Charles had said, but now all that was running through his mind was how pretty you looked when you laughed. How happy you looked talking to a person you held a lot of admiration for. Professional admiration, nothing more.
Part of him felt a little guilty. He should’ve been supportive the whole time, not sulking around being a jealous little prick thinking you would ever choose Charles over him.
“No point in overthinking it now, bro.”
“Since when did you become such a wise old man?”
“Oi, watch it, you muppet. I’m only two years older than you.” Lando huffed, rolling his eyes. “And I’ve always been wise, thank you for noticing.”
“Sure you have.”
“Tell her.”
Oscar nodded once, accepting the clap on the shoulder Lando gave him. “I will. Thank you.”
“Of course. And if you ever need any more advice, come on down to Lando’s love shack, where you can get—”
“Leave now, I’m begging you.” Lando took the hint, wandering away to go wreak havoc somewhere else, leaving Oscar alone with his own thoughts as he waited for you to finish up. It wasn’t long until you were making your way back over, practically aglow with excitement as you approached him. “Made a new best friend, have you?”
You snorted, clearly amused. “Oh, of course. We’ve already arranged to go on a double date when we’re all in Monaco at the same time.”
“Ha ha, very funny. You do know Ferrari’s one of our top competitors, right?” Oscar laced his fingers through yours once more, letting your joined hands swing between the two of you as you walked.
“You know what they say—keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Consider my blossoming friendship with Charles your way into the heart and soul of Ferrari’s strategies. You’re welcome.”
You were just joking, of course, and it made Oscar smile. Lando was right. Oscar was in love with you. He tugged you off the main path suddenly, leading you to a more secluded area between motorhomes.
“Osc? What’re you—” You were entirely cut off by him stopping in his tracks, and before you could comprehend what was happening, he was kissing you. He curled a hand around the back of your neck, the other coming up to cup your cheek gently.
It was by all means a sweet kiss, but a completely unexpected one nonetheless. Oscar had never been a public display of affection sort of guy before, so for him to kiss you out of the blue where anyone could see you…well, let's just say there was a first time for everything.
To say you were taken aback was an understatement. You let out a noise of surprise, but returned his kiss wholeheartedly as soon as you realized what was happening.
“That was new.” You breathed as soon as he pulled away, splaying your palms across the firm plane of his chest to steady yourself after he’d kissed the living daylights out of you. Oscar’s eyes fluttered open slowly, a dazed grin stretching his lips. “You feeling alright, babe?”
“I love you.”
Immediately, you beamed, lighting up faster than a bonfire on a warm Melbourne night. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s about damn time you said it.” You poked his chest playfully, stifling a giggle at the way he did the biggest double take ever at your words.
“You—hang on, what?”
“I was waiting for you to be the one to say it first.” You shrugged. Oscar’s brow scrunched in confusion now. “Didn’t wanna scare you off and lose one of the best things in my life.”
“So…you do feel the same way?”
You reached up, smoothing a stray curl away from his forehead fondly. “Do I love you? ‘Course I do. I think I’ve loved you since the first time we met.”
“That was a good one, I should’ve said that. You’re so much better at this than I am.”
“What can I say? I’ve got the best just some guy as my inspiration.”
“I see what you did there. That’s gonna become a thing now, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Osc,” You sighed, patting his cheek affectionately. “It already has.”
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#oscar piastri#oscar piastri x reader#op81 x reader#oscar piastri x you#op81#oscar piastri x y/n#oscar piastric fic#oscar piastri fluff#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri one shot
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