#Just expanding his horizons | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rememberwren · 9 months ago

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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.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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marsian-tango · 1 month ago

Text

Yandere Cowboy

Ah, the countryside…

It’s such a contrast to the messy and hectic scenery of the city—flickering lights from the streets, which shine manages to cover the inside of your bedroom, even with the curtains drawn; loud voices that echo against the quiet of the neighborhood at night; the constant fear of getting robbed while you’re walking home from the grocery store, or at the bus station, or while you’re taking a nice stroll in the park.

You chose to live in the city. It inspired you at the time. It made you feel like a complete star, living in a cosmopolitan environment, breathing the air filled with potential and dreams, sending new chapters and drafts to your editorial almost everyday. You wanted this, so why does it seem so annoying now?

Maybe it’s because you drank a little bit too much tonight, but the idea of leaving your entire life behind and starting again doesn’t seem so bad all of the sudden…

Imagine. A pretty farm, lots of animals, creating a new routine, meeting new people, expanding your horizons. It’s perfect! Plus, you can still do your job, this shouldn’t be an impediment. In fact, this is gonna get you the inspiration that you’ve been lacking lately!

Oh, a whole new life waiting ahead of you. The intoxicating calmness and the pretty landscapes are bound to make you feel right at home. You just know it.

It’s been two months since you arrived at this place. The Campbell farm. You’ve gotten pretty used to the whole country life—if you may say so yourself.

You walk through the farm after eating breakfast, heading to the barn like you usually do. Waving and cooing at the animals that you passed by, making sure to bathe in praise every cute animal that you see.

You take in the morning sight, the one that always takes your breath away, no matter how many times you see it. It remains just as beautiful every single time you look at it.

Lush green plains covering the landscape, as well as fields with different kinds of vegetables and cereals, and a few small creeks here and there that seem to shine in an ethereal glow when the sunlight hits it. The breeze caresses your face softly, bringing the faint smell of mud with it. It’s all just like the stories you always read, or the Hallmark movies you sometimes watch—the ones you take a guilty pleasure from.

It’s all a new routine, different from the one you had in the city. Wake up at 7:44—even if the Campbell ladies scold you for ‘waking up late’; collect the eggs from the chicken coop; make yourself breakfast; clean the chicken coop; feed the animals—except the cows, they may look cute and soft, but they haven’t warmed up to you yet; and lastly, find Flynn to see if he needs any help.

Ah, right. Flynn.

“Hey! How’s it goin’, sweetheart?” A deep voice resonates in the old barn, pulling a knowing smile from your face.

“Nothing much.” You say dismissively. “How are you? Anything I can help you with?”

Flynn Bennet. The golden boy of these lands. Son of a well respected landowner, who passed away when he was just a kid. Popular amongst the other landowners for his helpful nature and charming presence—and that’s exactly why he’s here, helping out at the Campbell’s farm out of the goodness of his heart.

“Oh, I’m doin’ just fine on my own, sweetheart.” He says as he lifts a square bale and puts it amongst others in a corner. He steps towards you, standing in front of you. “But I actually have some business in town, wanna come with?” Your face lights up at his offer and you nod eagerly.

He chuckles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to bring you closer as you two start walking to his truck. “Mhm, knew you’d agree.”

Ever since you got here, you’ve felt a sense of comfort every time Flynn’s around. He’s your only friend here apart from the owners of the farm after all. He’s just such a country sweetheart, and you don’t want to stereotype him…but he’s a living stereotype himself! He’s a true gentleman. He’s helpful, caring, respectful, handsome. You like being around him, and—in all honesty—who doesn’t?

He always seems to appear out of nowhere when you need him the most, or when you’re coincidentally looking for him. He’s just always so within reach. Every time you have a problem—as minuscule as it may be—he’s there. Like when the bathroom door got stuck after you came out of the shower, or when your curiosity got the best of you and you tried to hand feed the cows, or that time when you thought it’d be cool to ride a horse—without really knowing how to ride a horse.

But that’s only what you perceive, isn’t it?

You don’t notice his lingering gaze tracing every curve of your body when you’re not looking. You don’t notice the way his polite smile seems to tense—like it always does when he’s lying—when he says that the Campbell’s asked him to do the laundry for them, but he only ever picks up your clothes. You don’t notice the heavy breathing coming from your wardrobe when you’re about to go to sleep.

To you, he’s your knight in shining armor, ready to help you whenever you need. But to the omniscient presence following your story? Well…it’s complicated.

“I don’t wanna sound like a jerk, but both look the same to me.” You deadpan, shrugging at him.

Flynn rolls his eyes. “C’mon, darlin’! They’re two completely different colors—oh, whatever. Just tell me which one you like best.” He slightly lifts the two hangers with the shirts, so you can see them better. The only aspect that helps you tell them apart is an almost imperceptible shade difference. You don’t seem to be a very helpful shopping-buddy.

Before you can give your answer, a sudden voice startles both of you.

“Well, look who we have here, if it ain’t the Golden Boy himself!” You turn your head to look at the stranger, which makes him drift his gaze to you. A smirk stretches across the stranger’s face before he acknowledges your presence. “And…a cute lil’ angel too.”

“Ah…” You laugh awkwardly, unaware of the hard glare Flynn was giving the man. “Uhm, you guys know each other?”

Flynn huffs under his breath as he sets the shirts he was holding on a nearby table. He hates being interrupted, and he especially despises being interrupted while he’s spending time with you. Don’t people know that intrusions like these are impolite? Ugh! He just wishes he could bang this guy’s head against the wall over, and over, and over, and—

“Boy, do we know each other, huh, Bennie?” The man chuckles, patting Flynn’s shoulder with a bit too much force, but Flynn’s broad body doesn’t flinch. “We’re like cousins, we went to school together!”

Flynn lets out a sigh, clenching his fist in exasperation until his knuckles turn white. “Yeah, good to see you, Harvey, but we’re actually a lil’ busy here—”

“Oh, don’t kick me out like this! I still need to get to know this lil’ sugarcube right here…” His eyes slowly wander down your body, his tongue running along his lower lip as he does so.

Your eyes widen slightly in response to his overwhelming—and kind of off putting—attention, making you turn to Flynn for support. His features soften as his gaze collides with yours, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

“I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you, Harvey,” You say politely, but unenthusiastically. “But Flynn’s right, we were actually about to leave, so…” You lie, feigning an apologetic look.

“Oh, well that’s quite alright! You see, I can tell you’re not from ‘round here, and I’ve heard that the Campbell’s got a little guest on their farm,” Harvey takes a step closer to you, invading your space, and making you back away until your back touches the wall behind you. “You don’t happen to be said guest, do ya’? Cause if you are, then I could—you know—drop by and…pay you a lil’ visit.” He smirks at you, and you grimace.

Next thing you know, Flynn’s pulling you to his chest, away from Harvey. You welcome his comforting touch with open arms, letting him hold you against him, and ignoring how tight his grip is on you. You pretend not to notice the sharp tension hanging in the air, and you also pretend not to notice how the man’s face turns from arrogance to something close to fear.

“We’ll be on our way now, Harvs. It was…nice seeing you.” His voice sounds just as easy going as it always does, but there’s something in the way he says it. Something…fake. Restrained. Controlled. As if he was holding back from saying something entirely different.

You two leave the shop without sparing him a single glance. Flynn’s grip on your arm remains tight, he seems to have forgotten to let go, but you don’t dare remind him. You’ve never seen him act like this, and it unnerves you.

You get in his truck, sitting in the passenger's seat, and he buckles your seatbelt for you before turning the car. Even in a state of wrath, he remains a gentleman.

The ride back to the farm is quiet, disturbingly so. You choose to leave him be and let him cool off instead of questioning his behavior—no matter how intrigued you are. Throughout the whole journey home, you stay in your head, daydreaming about everything and anything.

And while you wonder if the cupcake that you left in the fridge disappeared, was stolen, or you simply ate it and don’t remember—Flynn is scheming.

Lost in his head, his mind going 100 miles per hour, he plans how he’ll punish that bastard for shamelessly harassing you in front of him. He plans how he’ll make that vermin pay for even attempting to woo you. He plans where he’ll hide the body. He plans if he’ll even leave a body.

He’ll gauge his eyes. He’ll skin him alive. He’ll chop off every limb of his body. He’ll make sure to give him a slow and agonizingly painful death.

Flynn Bennet has never killed anyone. Why would he? He’s the Golden Boy after all, the knight in shining armor, the prince charming. But now that he has you. Lovely, sweet, innocent, God-sent you. What is he supposed to do?! Let that parasite…live? NO!

C’mon! ‘Sugarcube’? CREEP ALERT!

Someone as precious as you shouldn't have to deal with morons like that.

He needs to protect you! You’re from the city, you don’t know how disgusting these people can be—how nauseating they are! They’ll try to take advantage of your naivety and hurt you!

Not him though. He’s the exception, he’s the only one you can trust.

Sure—he may or may not sniff your dirty clothes until he falls asleep, and he may or may not watch you while you change…and sleep…and shower…and just overall exist—but that’s just a bad habit! He’ll quit once you become his, he swears!

He will take great care of you. The second you become his, you’ll never have to worry ever again.

He’ll take care of everything, so don’t worry about a thing. He’ll make sure to romance you how it’s supposed to, like a true gentleman. Trust him. His mother and older sister have taught him how to treat a darling like you.

So, just you wait. You just keep writing your stories, playing with the animals, getting to know yourself. He’ll take care of the rest.

After all, what better way to live the country life than with a cowboy by your side?

I did it! I finally did it! I finished what i was supposed to finish a month ago! Are you guys proud of me? I know you're not, you must be heavily disappointed, especially the person who requested this. I'm sorry. But I did it, at last, the prophecy has been fulfilled and I can finally write whatever I want guiltless... I know it's not very good nor very long, but at least it's here (Which is the bare minimum, I'm sorry) I love you all, I hope everyone is having a good day or night. Remember to point out any mistakes that you see. Ps. @c4cyk4 I'm really sorry, my sweet N4N4, I owe you. I shouldn't have taken this long. I love you, don't leave me, wifey <3

#i'm sorry guys #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #i literally have no excuse i'm just lazy #yandere imagines #don't leave me wife #i love you #yandere drabbles #yandere oc #reader insert #yandere cowboy #male yandere #x reader #by the way this is special cause it's my first yandere with a proper name #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n

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wandascosmic · 3 months ago

Note

hii! could you write one with kinda emo aou wanda, with i hate everyone but you vibes, dating reader who’s more popular than wanda? just their cute little moments together

because of you (request)

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: in which wanda was initially the prickly new member of the avengers, however you quickly became her greatest friend.

word count: 1416

tags: unedited, fluff, wanda's got a huge crush on you, a little bit of i hate everyone but you vibes but i've never really written it before so i hope i did you justice!! emo wanda being the little baby we all love (this is also like my sorta first time writing emo wanda too so my writing horizons expanded quite a bit with this request, she's genuinely just very cute though

“You have to be cheating,” Sam says angrily, slumping on the couch and crossing his arms over his chest, slamming his controller down beside him.

“Nope,” you respond with a grin, pleased with yourself for beating Sam at yet another video game. “You just suck.”

Sam narrows his eyes, before rising up once again in determination. “One more round, only this time you’re handicapped by giving me a five second head start.”

“Sure,” you agree, already prepared to win for the 15th time in a row.

However, before you and Sam can start your video game, a tired Sokovian witch makes her way into the living room.

“Oh, hey, Wanda,” Sam says to your girlfriend who stands beside you, immediately wrapping her arms around your shoulder.

Wanda ignores him, and instead asks you, “Where were you?” against your neck.

“I promised Sam I would play Mario Kart with him last night,” you explain. “I bet him 50 bucks I could win 10 rounds in a row, and guess what, I’m at 70 now!”

“Not for long!” Sam interrupts.

“Want to stay and watch?” you ask Wanda, who hesitates for a split second, not really wanting the company of anyone else except for you, but ends up agreeing with a small nod.

You shift over on the couch to make room for her, and she immediately sits down and rests her head on your shoulder while you begin another round against Sam.

You end up winning about 150 bucks that day.

***

Wanda had been part of the team for about 7 months now, and you had quickly become her closest friend in the first 2.

Wanda, at her most vulnerable and lowest moments was still riding on a lot of the guilt from Ultron, add the fact that she had just lost her only family member and best friend, and the fact that she was already a bit prickly to begin with, it was safe to say that the majority of the team was too scared of what could happen to them if they even attempted to get close to her.

Wanda was okay with that at the time, she wanted the freedom to grieve without the added pressure of someone counting on her.

However, you were an exception.

You broke down the walls that had been built so far up after lost plagued Wanda’s life.

Every time she would protest, you stayed, no matter what.

She was a mess, and over time you became her safe haven.

You helped her grieve, helped her overcome her anger, her sadness, and you became her hope.

Now, Wanda could never get enough of you.

You were her best friend, and she was yours.

Wanda was eternally grateful for your existence.

“Y/N?” Wanda asked, one month into your friendship you laying on her shoulder watching the sitcom on the TV from her bed.

“Hm?” you responded.

“Thank you,” Wanda said, hoping you could understand every single hidden word she wanted to convey as best she could.

You smiled up at her, “Anytime.”

***

“Wow, Wanda, what’s got you so grumpy?” Tony asks, noticing Wanda’s very apparent frown.

“She hasn’t seen Y/N in two days,” Nat says with a grin. “Y/N’s mission from Monday got extended last night, so now she won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

Wanda glared at Natasha before going back to pouring her cereal.

“Come on, Nat,” Steve says as he walks in. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Hey, I never said it wasn’t,” Natasha says, holding up her hands in surrender.

Wanda’s frown deepened, despite the truthfulness to everything they were saying.

“Come on, Wanda,” Steve said as he came around the counter to pat the witch on her back. “Just one more day.”

Wanda nodded quietly, making her way back to her bedroom to eat her cereal and wait for your return.

***

You came back at 6AM, and your face softened as you saw Wanda laying on top of your covers, very clearly having been waiting for your return by the sitcom still running on your TV in the background.

Carefully you kneeled beside her on the bed, gently shaking her awake.

Wanda stirred awake slowly, looking around disoriented before she saw your face, her eyes lighting up and immediately wrapping her arms around you. “You’re back,” she whispered.

“I was only gone 3 days,” you reply in amusement.

“Don’t care,” Wanda says, hugging you tighter.

You hug her back in return, letting go after a few minutes to go take a shower and change into your pajamas, and Wanda doing the same.

Then, at 6:30AM, the two of you go to bed together, and spend the rest of the day wrapped in each other’s arms.

***

“So, what is it you want my help with?” Natasha asks, secretly gleeful at seeing the shy side of Wanda for once behind all her sharp edges.

“I want you to help me set up Y/N’s birthday party,” Wanda says shyly, looking down at her shoes.

“Oh, Wanda, we’re gonna have a blast,” Natasha replies, walking over to Wanda and wrapping an arm around her shoulder, leading her to go grab the supplies.

***

Wanda would never admit it, except maybe to you, but she wanted everything to be absolutely perfect for your birthday.

You had been the only one to help her when she needed it, and every time she felt like she was too sharp, too mean, too prickly, you accepted her with unwavering kindness.

You were the only thing that made Wanda feel seen after Pietro’s death.

And so, she needed you to see how grateful she was with everything inside of her.

“Okay, so we’re gonna get balloons, streamers, the food and drinks, cutlery, decorations, then the cake tomorrow?” Wanda asks Natasha as the two grab everything for your birthday tomorrow.

“Yep, Tony’s money is finally going towards something useful,” Natasha says, making Wanda look over towards her curiously. “Your love for your girlfriend,” she explains.

Wanda slaps Nat’s arm in return, though she does end up blushing for the next 5 minutes.

***

“Oh, god, what if she doesn’t like it?” Wanda asks, nervous since it’s only one hour before you’re supposed to arrive back at the compound.

Natasha pats Wanda on the back reassuringly. “It’s gonna be fine, Wanda. Truthfully it came from you, and she loves anything you do for her no matter what.”

Wanda nods, nervously playing with her rings in anticipation.

“Can she hurry back already,” Sam groans. “I wanna eat the cake already. Wanda glares angrily at him.

“Careful, Sam,” Nat warns playfully. “If you mess that cake up a single bit Wanda might magic you into a pickled herring.”

Sam looks over to Wanda who’s eyes glow red in a threatening manner.

Sam holds up his arms in surrender.

Wanda ends up switching between being nervous and stopping Sam, Bucky, and Tony from accidentally doing something that might harm your party, and suddenly an hour has gone by.

“Y/N’s on her way back right now!” Tony calls out after asking FRIDAY. “She’s gonna be up here in two minutes!”

“Okay, everyone hide!” Natasha yells out, grabbing Wanda to hide with her behind the counter as everyone sprawls out across the upstairs floor.

“Please say she likes it, please say she likes it,” Wanda mutters under her breath in her hiding place so no one can hear her.

Though Nat’s absurdly good hearing foils her plan. “She’ll love it, Wanda.”

Wanda hums in response, taking a reassuring breath before waiting to surprise you.

“Thirty seconds everyone!” Tony calls out after FRIDAY notifies him on his watch.

3…2…1…

“Happy birthday, Y/N!” Everyone calls out after you finally make your way up the stairs.

You barely register the shock before you’re smiling widely.

“This was all Wanda,” Nat tells you, causing you to look towards the witch who looks incredibly sheepish.

“Everyone helped,” Wanda mumbles.

“Really?” you shake your head before making your way over to your girlfriend and kissing her fiercely. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“I needed a way to show you how grateful I am that you saved me,” Wanda tells you.

“Well, you saved me too,” you reply. “You made everything so much better.”

Wanda’s eyes light up at your confession, and she hugs you tightly, causing you to laugh and wrap your arms around her.

“Now, how about we enjoy my birthday together, hm? This will be the best one yet because of you.”

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