#all my calls are going straight to voicemail

[sweetcheeksschemmenti]

Happy Birthday, Cowgirl!

Melissa Schemmenti x fem oc

Summary: You wake up expecting it to be another forgotten birthday. Melissa makes sure it’s one for the books.

WC: 2.2k

Today is my 25th birthday! I wrote this for myself and figured someone else might enjoy it, too.

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

Growing up, your parents never made your birthday a big deal and you didn’t understand it. All of your friends… and even your brother… got to celebrate their big day with cupcakes and parties filled with presents and excitement. Not you. November 5th was just another day as far as your family was concerned. Occasionally they would remember and mumble a simple ‘happy birthday’ as you walked out the door to walk to school, but there was no fanfare. Despite the fact that you always went out of your way to celebrate the birthdays of those close to you, you’d grown accustomed to not celebrating your own.

You had been dating Melissa Schemmenti for almost a year when your 28th birthday rolled around. Normally on a Saturday morning you would wake up with a mouthful of red hair and a hand full your girlfriend’s breast. Unfortunately, work had sent you to Nashville for a truly unnecessary- yet mandatory- conference, so instead you woke up alone in a ridiculously themed Margaritaville hotel suite. Jimmy Buffett himself stared down at you from the wall like a tacky Jesus portrait at your Grandma’s house. You glanced at your phone on the nightstand to see a missed call from the redhead. What the hell was she doing awake at six in the morning on a Saturday? There was no voicemail so you picked up the phone and called her back. Your brows knit together in confusion as you were sent straight to voicemail, something that very rarely happened. Assuming she had put her phone on ‘do not disturb’ and gone back to bed, you shrugged and got up to get ready for the day.

Once showered and dressed, you grabbed a granola bar and banana from the mini fridge and sat in front of the television to watch the morning news. After listening to a couple of local stories you tuned out the noise and stared out the window as you ate. The granola bar was stale and the banana wasn’t quite ripe… pretty on brand for your birthday. You gave up a couple of bites in and tossed them in the trash, opting for a half-eaten candy bar from your purse instead. With a deep sigh, you gathered your things for work and headed towards the door. You paused to look at yourself in the mirror once more before you left, staring a little too long at the bags under your eyes. Time was already leaving its mark on you. “Happy birthday, Y/N,” you whispered to yourself before you left for the day.

Around noon the team split from the conference for lunch with plans to return at two. Instead of joining your coworkers, you decided to grab take out from the restaurant at the hotel and eat in your room with hopes of maybe getting to talk to your girlfriend too. You scarfed down your hot chicken sandwich before dialing Melissa’s number; again, it went straight to voicemail. Disappointed, you tossed your phone onto the bed with a huff and sat on the edge with your head in your hands. You had hoped for at least a ‘happy birthday’ text from Melissa, but now you were starting to think that even she didn’t want to celebrate your day. You set an alarm and laid down for a nap thinking it might make the day go by faster.

The alarm blared and you sat straight up with a gasp- something Melissa always teased you about. ‘It’s like you remember ya left the stove on or somethin’,’ she’d mumble. It had only been two days without her, but you missed her. You decided to try the phone one more time before heading back to work, disappointed when you heard the voicemail message yet again. In a bit of a grumpy mood, you left the room and met back up with your coworkers.

“What’s that face for, Y/N? You look like someone kicked your puppy,” Seth said as you approached. You rolled your eyes and shrugged.

“Sorry, my face doesn’t have an inside voice. I’m alright. Ready to get back to it?” You straightened yourself out and slapped on a smile.

Seth and the rest of the team nodded and followed you out to the van knowing better than to question you. The rest of the work day dragged by as slow as molasses. Luckily, you were able to score a new deal on printer paper for the office through one of the new connections you made; it was a small something, but it brightened your day a little. By the end of the work day everyone was ready to head to Broadway for the annual bar crawl. You told Seth you’d catch up with the team in a few hours and caught an Uber back to the hotel. The day had really bummed you out and you just wanted to sleep for a while before forcing yourself to be social with your drunk coworkers.

Just as you sat down on the bed to call Melissa one last time, the landline rang. You blinked at it for a second before picking it up. “…Hello?”

“Hello, is this Miss Y/L/N?”

“This is she.” You toed your shoes off as you spoke, setting them next to the nightstand.

“Good evening! This is Jasmine from the front desk. We have a guest down here that wishes to visit by the name of Seth Kagan. Do you give your permission for us to give him your room number?”

You shake your head in confusion. Why wouldn’t Seth just text you? “Uh, yeah. That’s fine. Thank you for checking.”

Minutes later, there was a knock at the door and you knew it had to be Seth. You swung the door open without looking and held it for him to enter. “Don’t just stand there, man, come on.” Your eyes were on the floor.

“Well that ain’t no way to greet your girlfriend after she flew six hours to see ya,” Melissa chuckled.

Your eyes widened as you finally looked up to see the redhead standing in the doorway with an arm full of flowers and a small square box. “Baby?! What are y-, how did.. hello?!”

Melissa entered the room and set everything down before turning to face you with open arms. You eagerly wrapped yourself around her in a tight embrace. She felt like home, a comfort you’d not known until you fell in love with her. She held you close and pressed sweet kisses to your head. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she whispered.” You pulled away just enough to capture her lips in a passionate kiss, moaning quietly when she nipped at your bottom lip.

The kiss broke and you leaned back just a little. “Mel, what is this!?” You gently hit her shoulder as tears welled up in your eyes, her arms still wrapped around you.

She smiled, a twinkle in her eye. The way she looked at you made you actually believe that she hung the moon and stars in the sky just for your enjoyment. “It’s your birthday, ya dork! I wanted to surprise you. We brought cake and presents.” Gently and lovingly, she wiped the tears from the corners of your eyes.

You cocked your head. “We? Who’s ‘we’?”

Just then, there was another knock at the door. Melissa released you from her grasp and pointed towards the door. “Go on, open it.”

You moved towards the door quickly and opened it, peeking out from behind the door to see an empty hallway. You’d expected to see a couple of your coworkers, but there was nothing. “Huh…”

“SURPRISE!!” Your friends, chosen family, and Seth shouted as they stepped in front of the door. Barbara, Jacob, Janine, and a handful of other folks from home had made the journey from Philly to Nashville… for you. For your birthday. You were in shock. No one ever put in this kind of effort for your birthday.

“Oh my gosh, come in! Wow… you guys! This is… this is too much,” you stammered as they all entered the suite, tears streaming down your face.

The small group greeted you with hugs and kind words, handing off gifts to Melissa for you to open later. Thanks to Janine and Jacob, your suite was transformed with cowgirl decorations and a birthday banner in the matter of minutes. Shots were poured into little cowboy boot shot glasses and passed around to everyone. Melissa held hers up, an arm wrapped around your waist. “Cheers to the birthday girl,” she shouted and everyone cheered in response.

You gleefully mingled with your loved ones, occasionally meeting eyes with Melissa across the room, causing a delightful pink to grace your cheeks. Once the sun had set, the group made moves to head down to Broadway to hit the bars. Barbara handed you a bag before she left, “we’ll see you down there, honey. Drinks are on Sea Barbara tonight!” You took the bag and thanked her as the group left, leaving just you and Melissa.

Melissa sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs. “You havin’ a good birthday, hon?”

You leaned on the back of the couch with the bag still in hand as you thought about your day. “I really am. Thank you for putting all of this together, baby. I’m… a little overwhelmed, honestly. No one has ever done anything like this for me. How’d you get everyone down here?” You set the bag down and stepped towards your girlfriend, straddling her lap.

She held grabbed your hips and pulled you down onto her lap, leaning forward to kiss you. “ I know a guy, “she smirked. “And you don’t have to thank me, Y/N. You deserve to be celebrated.”

“Ya know… in all my 28 years, I’ve never felt loved on my birthday. It’s always just been another day on the calendar. You’ve changed that for me… that’s something special.”

“Like I said, you deserve to be celebrated. I love you, hon. As long as I’m around you’ll never have another shitty birthday. I promise.” She made a cross on her heart to show she meant it. And you believed her. You hummed in response and raked your fingers through her fiery locs before you leaned in for another kiss. Melissa immediately deepened it, darting her tongue out to taste you.

In the middle of the lazy make out session, Melissa’s phone buzzed with a text from Barbara- signaling that it was time to head to the bars. You chuckled as your lips parted. “Oh, so NOW your phone works, huh?”

She swatted at your ass. “I’m sorry! I did try to call you at the ass cracking of dawn to be the first to wish ya happy birthday, but you were asleep! Then my phone was on airplane mode until we got here because I forgot to turn it off.” She gave you a smile she knew you couldn’t resist and you shook your head with a grin.

“You were still the first one to wish me a happy birthday…. I forgive you.” You placed one more kiss to her lips before you stood up and smoothed out your shirt. You took Melissa’s hand and started pulling her towards the door. She paused and picked up the bag Barbara had handed you earlier, placing it in your hands again.

“Open it.” You did as told and pulled the tissue paper out. Inside was a bright pink cowgirl hat that matched the decorations in the room. The smile on your face grew, so much so that your cheeks began to hurt. Melissa took the hat from your hands and placed it on your head, fluffing your hair for you before turning you towards to mirror to see. “Oh this is perfect,” you laughed.

Melissa snatched the hat off your head and put it on her own. You gasped and turned towards her, “Melissa! Do you know the cowboy hat rule?!” She shook her head and you bit your lip. Nine times out of ten, Melissa was the leader in the bedroom. Your cheeks warmed at the thought of this night being the one time out of ten. “If you put on a cowgirl’s hat… you have to ride the cowgirl.”

She pulled you in for a heated kiss. “That’s one of the few rules I’m willing to follow,” she whispered in your ear before nibbling at your lobe, earning a whimper from you.

“Later, baby. Gotta at least have a few drinks on Broadway tonight.” You took your hat back and settled it on your head. “Can’t lose the hat. A cowgirl can’t ride without it,” you winked at her, enjoying the blush that spread over her cheeks.

Melissa smacked your ass as you walked out the door. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’m not lettin’ that hat outta my sight! We gotta find a screw driver or something on the way back to take Jimmy off the wall though… I don’t know if I can uh… focus with Mr. Margaritaville staring me down.”

You pulled a screwdriver from your jacket pocket and held it up. “Already ahead of ya, baby.” You laughed together as you walked down the hall hand in hand.

No more shitty birthdays.

[whoreformattsturniolo]

False allegations C.S

I decided to join NNN cause angst and fluff fics don’t get enough love over here. this is my first fic so please dont judge how bad it is. (also english isn’t my first language so please excuse the grammar mistakes 👍🏻)

warnings:ED, breakup,mentions of smoking and alcohol addiction,crying,heartbreak

summary:chris gets sent a video of y/n cheating on him. what happens when he leaves without asking for an explanation?

Y/N’s POV:

I’ve struggled in relationships for years. I’ve never met a guy who treated me right. always cheated on,no guy has truly been loyal to me. i always turned to drinking and smoking as a salvation to my horrible love life and I’ve accepted that I’ll never find true love. that was until i met Chris.

me and chris have been dating for 2 years. our anniversary is in one week from now and i couldn’t be happier. we met through mutual friends and we started dating a month after we met. we’re always together wherever he goes i go too. we even moved together which was shocking for everyone since he’s so attached to his brothers. he cooks me breakfast almost everyday helps me clean the house buys me flowers every week and always shows me off in front of everyone and i could not be happier.

everything was going fine until this morning i woke up and chris was nowhere to be found.

that was strange because he never leaves the house without a text or note saying where he is and why he’s gone. i call matt to ask him but the number goes straight to voicemail. that’s strange??? i call nick next and it says that the number has been changed. what the hell is going on????

i get up from bed to notice that half of chris’s wardrobe is missing. where the fuck did this idiot go?? i walk in the kitchen to find breakfast made and alot of things gone from our house.

i decide to eat breakfast then drive to matt and nick’s house to see what happened. i brush my teeth do skincare sit down eat and head out the door to their house.

i pull up and ring their doorbell. nick opens and his face is disgusted the second he sees me. i’m confused by his expression but still go to hug him “hey-“ he steps back. “leave right now i dont even know how you have the audacity to show up considering what you did.” i stare at him in confusion. “what are you talking about nick. where is chris why are all of your phones turned off??” he rolls his eyes and gets his phone out of his pocket. “lemme show you something that will refresh your memory”

he starts showing me a video of the club i was at and 2 people all over each other. i notice that the girl looks similar to me and stare blankly. “nick what is this?” he looks at me with wide eyes “i should be asking you that y/n. yeah we know you cheated on chris at your cousins birthday party with some random guy. how dare you do that right before your guys’s 2 year anniversary??? get out of my porch and never show up again.”

he slams the door in my face and i start tearing up. i get in the car before anyone sees me and drive home. i didn’t do it that wasn’t even the club we were at why wouldn’t they listen to me i would never cheat on chris i love him to death. fuck this hurts.

after getting home i fall into my bed and cry for hours. i don’t do anything besides crying staring at my ceiling and sleeping for days. after a couple of days i decide to call the one person that’s closest to the triplets other than me. madi.

i call madi and she picks up after 5 rings. “madi please listen to me i didn’t cheat on chris i have proof but nick wouldn’t listen to me.” i start talking before madi starts speaking “y/n how dare you do that i can’t believe you’d cheat on chris after everything he’s sacrificed for you.”

“madi listen to me. i didn’t cheat on chris i have texts and my cousins can prove that i didn’t cheat. i’m literally sending you the proof right now please listen to me i’ve been crying for hours i can’t lose chris he’s the only important person i have left everyone hurt me.”

madi sighs before she opens everything i sent her. pics videos texts everything from that night.

“i believe you. i’m so sorry for turning against you and not believing in you. the triplets are back in boston so we can’t even talk to them.” i break down even more. he’ll be gone for a month and i won’t even be able to talk to him. “oh.” is all i say before i say bye and hang up the phone. i hug my pillow and sob even louder than before.

i lost him. i lost the only person worth waking up for. the only guy who made love worth it and not something insufferable. the only guy who went out his way to show me how much i mean to him and how much i’m worth fighting for. i continue crying until i fall asleep because of how tired i am.

2 weeks later…..

i wake up to loud noise in my room. i open my eyes to see my cousin next to me. “y/n you have to get out of this depression episode and try to move on. why fight for a guy who didn’t even hear you out and moved out without explanation??? he obviously isn’t worth it.”

“andrea you don’t understand. he was the only thing keeping me alive. he was my reason to go. the only reason i was laughing and happy was because i had him in my life. he saved me in ways no one ever did or will. i can’t live without him these last 2 weeks have been literal hell. no one besides you and madi believe me.” i break down again and bury my face in my hands. andrea hugs me tight and holds me until i calm down a little bit.

to say my house has been a mess would be an understatement. trash everywhere. smoked out cigs on the floor wine bottles everywhere. i shouldn’t be this much of a mess but i cant try to get on my feet even when i try. chris took me out of this exact place just to bring me back again.

andrea grabs my arms and lifts me off the bed. “get up we’re cleaning the house and going out for a cousin’s day out. i can’t stand seeing you like this.” i didn’t have a choice so i got up and showered and put on new clothes. i cleaned the house with tears in my eyes i can’t stand not having him here this house is nothing without him. we go out and i smile for the first time in weeks. everything is a little bit better but i still can’t believe he’s gone.

i get back before i notice madi sent me a picture. i pick up the phone and right when i pick it up i drop it the floor. chris hugging another girl. i stare blankly at the ground as tears start streaming down my face.

he moved on that fast without even listening to my side??? 2 weeks ago he was telling me i was the love of his life and now he has a different girl in his arms. i slam my phone down and curl up and cry to sleep.

chris’s pov when he found out:

i wake up to see jade had sent me a video. me and jade used to be in a friends with benefits situation before we realized we weren’t meant for each other. she still tried flirting with me but i kept shutting her out and focusing on my lovely gf and hopefully soon to be wife. i love this girl more than life i wouldn’t imagine my future without her and my brothers there.

i check my phone and to my horror it was a video of y/n making out and grinding on a random guy. at her cousin’s birthday party too. the party where she was texting me non stop. i drop my phone and turn to her side to see her innocently sleeping. how could she do this to me??? after everything we went through together she cheats on me??

i pack my stuff and my belongings that mattered most and head out the door. matt is already here waiting for me. before leaving i make her food because no matter what she does i knew how important eating was because of how much she struggled with eating before we met. i leave the house and go over to my brother’s house.

we get on a flight the next day and plan to stay in boston for a month. y/n showed up yesterday but nick kicked her out. when i heard her voice i broke down. i faced my worst fears did things out of my comfort zone for her to throw it down the drain??? and to think she loved me haha very funny chris which girl ever loved you for y/n to ever love you.

2 weeks later….

me nick and matt have been in boston for 2 weeks and these two weeks have been the hardest time of my life. waking up every day wondering why y/n isn’t by my side or with me. she has tried to reach out to everyone but no one answered her. she even tried to get madi involved to help her out but it didn’t work. i don’t think i could ever forgive her after this. my heart is completely shattered and my trust in anyone is gone. matt and nick have tried to get me to leave the house but have failed since i’ve been a crying mess 24/7.

one night i wake up to jade calling me. i pick my phone up “what do you want i’m trynna sleep.” “chris listen i have something to tell you but please dont kill me. it’s about y/n.” i rise off the bed. no matter how much i couldnt stand seeing her i’m still worried. my heart still worries for her no matter what id rather go to hell and back than have someone/something hurt her.

“what is it.” “remember that video i sent of you of y/n making out and grinding with a random gu-“

“get to the fucking point jade” i start to get irritated now. “well that wasn’t y/n it was one of my friends. i wanted to see if you would break up and realise i’m better for you than she ever was-“

i cut her off. “you did WHAT??” “you fucking bitch. you ruined my relationship with the girl i was planning on proposing to because of what? jealousy? never contact me again.” i slam my phone down rub my face in my hands. i left my girl because some bitch was lying to me. i can’t believe i chose to believe someone else over the woman i wanted to marry.

i run to the living room. “i’m going back to LA right now.” nick turned to face me “what are you talking about chris?” “jade just told me the girl in the video wasn’t y/n and that she did that to make me jealous. i have to go back to LA and see y/n i cant believe i believed some girl over my future wife” “your future what?” “nick i was planning on proposing to her on our anniversary don’t you remember???” nick’s eyes went wide. “do you still have the ring?” i swallowed loudly. “of course i do i wouldn’t wanna marry anyone else.”

i go back to my room and book the first flight i could find to LA which was at 3am. nick and matt will stay another week but no way in hell i’m staying another minute without her.

3 am rolls around and matt drops me off to the airport. i get on my flight an hour later and call madi in the meantime to make sure she’s in touch with y/n. she tells me y/n hasn’t left the house until andrea made her go out and that the house was in horrible condition. my heart broke at that. my poor girl. all this because i chose to believe someone else over her.i call an uber and it takes me straight to her house. it was pouring rain in LA which was suprising because it hardly rains here.

i ring her doorbell and stand outside. she slowly opens the door. “madi i told you i don’t want to see any-“ she freezes when she sees me before she starts tearing up. the moment she opens the door i drop to my knees hugging her legs and sobbing “i’m so sorry my love i’m so fucking sorry for not listening to you and making you go back to this horrible place again. i promise to never do this again please just forgive me i can’t live without you.” i keep sobbing into her legs.

she lowers herself to my level and grabs my face kissing my tears away. “i forgive you but i’ll still need time to recover. i couldn’t live with the thought of you never wanting to see me again.” she sobs as she looks at me in the eyes. “i’ll always be here i’m not going anywhere.” i grab her arms and stand up before squeezing her into my chest.

andrea comes behind y/n and throws a spoon at me before i duck. “woah woah calm down” “you better have apologized to her you moron she barely got out of your bed.” “i did and i’ll continue to show how sorry i am everyday till she forgives me fully.” i kiss her head and bury my face in her hair.

“ok love birds i’m leaving you alone. if you do some bullshit again i’m throwing a knife next time.” i laugh before taking my suitcase to our room. the room smells of cigarettes. “how much did you smoke in here it stings.” i don’t mind the smoke i used to smoke too but i know y/n never smoked in our room before this. “sorry i was not in the right place so i didn’t even care to smoke outside.” she looks down as i kiss her cheek. “don’t feel bad baby i don’t mind. now let’s cuddle and watch gilmore girls again.” she turns to me and flashes me her beautiful smile. as i see her smile i realize i’d never want to be anywhere besides here with her smiling at the stupidest things ever as she hugs me.

we watch gilmore girls for awhile while she lays on my chest asleep. i smile and kiss her head “i love you so much pretty girl happy 2 years.” i feel her move her head before she places a kiss on my cheek and goes back to sleep. fuck this girl drives me crazy.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this. I love writing so I hope to continue this NNN with alot of works. I cried a little writing this cause Y/N’s character is mostly based on me and how I deal with things so please don’t do what Y/N does 🤞🏻

also I read a similar story to this a year ago but I cant for the life of me remember who wrote it. if you find out somehow please tag them so I can give credits. I love you all so much enjoy your sunday afternoon/evening you are loved.

[whatevertheywant]

This long ass shift and the assistant manager not holding up her end of this is about to be my villain origin story

[cranberrymoons]

.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

[fridayyy-13th]

i'm going to a queer school event tomorrow but i'm literally feeling so paranoid about it. what if my mom checks life360 while i'm there, then looks up which event is at that location, and puts the very obvious two and two together. if i put on airplane mode to freeze my location, what if she texts me and freaks out when i don't respond for a good few hours. what if a family friend somehow spots me there and passes the information along. i really wanna go and connect with other queer people here but holy SHIT the thought i could inadvertently out myself simply by taking my phone along is terrifying.

[bluesandhoney]

I got yelled at by someone’s baby momma yesterday. I didn’t even fuck her man, she’s just mad that I could.

[rememberwren]

Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand her horizons, gets her first tattoo from Simon. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

-

“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.”

[rafesangelita]

Pouge!Sweetheart!Reader and Rafe request! Rafe gets carried away in bed with dirty talk, saying degrading mean stuff about her being a pouge, because he is really horny and she gets a bit taken back because she doesn’t know if he truly feels that way about her and he can tell she is a bit standoffish and down after and he doesn't know what he has done :(

warnings: unprotected sex, degradation, light fluff, a little bit of angst, rafe feels rlly bad :(

both you and rafe managed to surprise each other when you two proposed new ideas to spice up your sex life. choking, overstimulation, roleplay, degradation, to name a few. while rafe reassured you that he loved how vanilla you two were in bed, you wanted to be everything and more for him, your own mind a little curious to see where he takes things. the first time rafe decided to rough things up a bit, it brought new sides out of both of you, and you equally loved it. however, you didn’t know how to feel about degradation this time around.

“oh, my- please don’t stop rafe!” you cried out, the band in your stomach threatening to snap at any moment, your boyfriend’s hips pistoning in and out of you at an unforgiving speed. “so fucking needy, huh? always wanting more like the fucking pogue you are?” his words made you blink, unsure of what he meant by that. you still moaned, his length pressing that spot inside of you that made you tremble. rafe leaned down, taking your lips in a kiss. “you’re so fucking sexy, who woulda’ thought a pogue had it like this?”

there he goes again. this time when he kissed you, you didn’t move your lips, your mind simply somewhere else. eventually rafe finished, his arms caging you in as he cursed against your skin. thankfully he didn’t pay too much attention to your face, instead he pulled you against his chest and spooned you as he whispered sweet nothings in the curve of your neck. he intertwined your fingers, rubbing your back soothingly until you fell asleep.

the next day you woke up early, still feeling off from last night. while rafe was snoring softly, you managed to slip out of his arms, taking it upon yourself to get ready and go out to get breakfast. apart of you felt bad for going out without him, and quite literally leaving your camper without a word, but you needed some space to clear your head. soon enough, your cell was ringing off the hook with calls and voicemails from rafe. when you got back home, rafe was sitting on the little steps outside, his knee bouncing as he chewed on his thumb.

“where were you?!” rafe looked confused as you walked past him and inside. “i got breakfast.” you shrugged, your voice barely above a whisper. “breakfast?” he watched you take a seat on your little couch, his hands on his hips as he stared down at you. rafe didn’t know what to think, as far as he knew he thought everything was fine, great even, between you two. “what’s wrong?” he sat down, immediately picking up on the way you avoided his gaze. “hey, talk to me, tell me what i did, baby.” he grabbed your chin.

you looked up at him, concern written all over his face. “last night,” you started, “..you said some things that bothered me.” you swallowed thickly. rafe shut his eyes momentarily. “i was a little thrown off when you mentioned the whole ‘pogue’ thing.” you watched as the realization dawned on him, a groan leaving his lips as he rested his head in his hands. “fuck,” he cursed, “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean anything i said, y/n. i wasn’t thinking straight.” he shook his head. you sighed, placing your arms around him.

“even the part where you said i was sexy?” rafe paused, a laugh tumbling from his mouth as he turned his eyes on you. you were too sweet for your own good. “no, i definitely meant that.” he clarified, resting his forehead on yours. “i’m so sorry if i made you feel bad, that was never my intention.” he hugged you, pulling you onto his lap. you studied his face, knowing he was genuine. “i know you are. it’s okay.” you pecked his lips. “how about this,” he took your hand, “instead of us trying to make things ‘rougher’ why don’t we try softer? praise instead of degradation?”

you smiled, nodding at him while he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “..i can’t believe you got breakfast without me.”

[churipu]

STRAIGHT TO VOICEMAIL 𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧

ִ ࣪𖤐 featuring. gojo satoru

ִ ࣪𖤐 warnings. cursing, mentions of death, gojo being sad and angry, 2006 gojo geto shoko.

note. for some reason i feel angsty today and i just saw this prompt on pin, just had to write it lol.

gojo has never loathed himself more than when he missed your call — your very last call.

"i could've fuckin' saved them, suguru." gojo blankly stared at the ceiling, his head thrown back onto the couch's rest; he was conflicted, he didn't know what to do. it was as if his motoric abilities had just stopped all of a sudden.

"satoru . . ."

"i could've fuckin' saved y/n." the white haired male mumbled out, his face scrunching in frustration.

gojo has dealt with death. a lot. the concept of death isn't a stranger to him anymore, not in this world — and to think that he'd actually be alive to experience deaths of his loved ones, thinking he could have done so much more made him hate himself.

god, gojo hated crying in front of other people. the aura in the room was palpable. nobody spoke —nobody dared to speak— and the only sound resounding was the vague ticking belonging to the clock hanging on the wall.

"i could've fuckin' saved them," the male repeated for the third time, his voice breaking that he had to inhale sharply to stop himself from breaking down right there.

gojo pushed himself up, placing his palms above his eyes, pressing down on them harshly; he lets out a loud sigh, "where the fuck did it all go wrong?"

"y/n was killed in action . . ." god, gojo wanted to rip his hair out when yaga called him in privately to say that. the male had lost count of how many times the statement repeated in his mind.

frankly, it's haunting.

out of all the news he could have received today, he never expected to hear your death lulling into his eardrums. so soon. so many things swirling in his mind all at once that even he, deemed the strongest, felt the sensation of losing. he felt weak.

"hi, 'toru — you're probably busy since my call went straight to voice mail, but 'm just saying . . . i love you, and i miss you. so much." there was a slight pause and your breathing shallowed into the mic, every single detail in your last moments were graved in that file, "'m not sure if . . . i'll be back as soon as i promised, but, i just want you to know that whatever happens. happens."

there was a slight static before your soft voice recoiled back into the mic, "i've never broken any promises to you, but this might be the very first time — and just know that i've never wanted to do this, i fucking hate myself for this," your voice broke slightly, "'m bleeding. a lot. but 'm trying to stop it just like how ieiri taught me. and i think 'm doing shit at it . . . i don't know what happened, and how it happened; but 'm not doing okay."

"i don't want to die, 'toru." you whispered into the mic, hoarse and weak — feeling the life drain out, "i really don't want to die . . . i have so many things i want to do with you, and suguru, and ieiri . . ." you murmur out, inhaling sharply but it all ended up with you coughing out in pain.

"remember that time i said i wanted to open a pet hotel . . ? i don't know if you think i was joking, but i was really serious about opening one," you began to mumble out, all in random directions — none of your words make any sense anymore, and you could barely keep yourself awake.

"i don't want to die, please," you pleaded, desperate for life. no matter what you did at this point — the light inside of you was almost out, and you can't do anything about it, "fuck. i hate this. so much, 'toru."

"i want to see you again. i miss you. i miss you so so much," you softly murmur out, " . . . i love you. i love you so much, satoru."

and everything ended right after. including you.

gojo has never loathed himself more than when he missed your call. your. very. last. call.

© CHURIPU 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE

[sjkezz]

hyung line when you come home late

pairing: hyung line x reader | genre: fluff

[notes] hi everyone! i dont know why but most of you really like whenever i do this instead of my other stories which is sad but itsok. i hope you enjoy this. thankyou!

divider by @dollywons

[heeseung] he would be furious when you dont pick up his calls or replying him back to his texts messages, asking you where you are. he would go home and try to think positive so that he doesnt worry himself more. he would ask you a million questions when you had just entered the house and you just told him that your phone died and you forgot to ask your friend to borrow their phone because you thought that heeseung wont be that worried but after seeing his face, you knew that you messed up so you apologised and apologised to him, hoping that he would forgive you. you would cheer him up by telling him jokes and finally he laughed. he is so relieved to have you home.

[jay] he would be worried sick since you're the love of his life. he would think positively but his positive thoughts would be clouded with negative thoughts and finally when he heard the door shut, he sees you soaking wet due to the heavy rain and you not having an umbrella. he would ask you why you took so long to come home and how worried he was because he thought that something bad had happened to you. he really didnt want to lose you. you reasurred him that you're fine and you're sorry for not calling or texting him that you'd be home late. he would accept your apology and tell you not to do it again. he wouldnt know what to do without you honestly. jay is so whipped for you. that is true love right there.

[jake] he would be thinking of the negative thoughts of you instead of the positive ones and he would try to find you but when he couldnt, he would give up and just pray to god, hoping that nothing bad happened to you. when you came home, he would engulf you with the tightest hug and whisper to himself, "you're okay, you're okay" and kiss your forehead. then, he would ramble to you and be dramatic and said that he almost had gotten a heart attack finding you. you apologised and he gladly accepted but he made you a pinky promise to update him next time if you were coming home late.

[sunghoon] he would be so frustrated at you and ignore you because he doesnt want to raise his voice at you, knowing how sensitive you are. you knew that he was furious since he only ignores you when hes mad. you try and try to make it up to him like making pancakes, buying gifts for him, peppering kisses all over his face and when he finally cracked a smile, you hugged him real tight and said a small "sorry". you would start crying because you felt guilty and it was your fault for coming home late. sunghoon would reassure you that he forgives you and he was just worried about you. he didnt want his love of his life to be in a bad situation or in the worst case scenario so he got frustrated when you went home late. his thoughts were messing with him, thinking that you slept with another guy just because you were bored or you didnt love him anymore. he really loves and treasures you, dont ever lose him.

[sunoo] he would sulk when you came home late. he'll overthink because he doesnt like whenever you dont update him. he would tell you to earn back his trust and you would always succeed but this time, he would make you learn your lesson by ignoring you. he just wants you to not make him worried next time. you would give him mint chocolate and plushies and he would give up and kiss you all over the face but he'll still put you in your place and tell you how much he worries about you. this is how much he loves you.

[jungwon] he would spam call you and leave you voicemails, asking you when you'd come home. when he doesnt see you being online, his heart would beat rapidly but he knows that you can take care of yourself well so when he saw you coming in the house, drunk, he straight away carried you in bridal style and bring you to bed. he wouldnt be mad at you for being late because he knows that you just wanna enjoy yourself. he would stay right by your side and sleep with you. when you start to apologise, he would understand what youre felling because if he was in your shoes, he wouldve done the same thing. he really cares about you and want you to have fun so he would tell you to forget about it. hes just happy that you came back home safely, despite being drunk.

[ni-ki] he would be spam calling you and if you didnt pick up, he would be a giant crybaby. he doesnt want to lose you. so when you entered into the house and see him crying, you would ask him what happened and he would be mad at you and walk away, sniffling in his room. he would sulk at you. you would try to cheer him up and apologise for being late but he wouldnt accept it. he didnt want anything to happen to you. you would have to wait for him to accept your apology for atleast 3-5 days. you felt bad. finally when he accepted your apology, you would jump onto him and hug him so tight. you didnt want to be apart from him. you wouldnt know what you would to without him.

hi guys! if you didnt like this im sorry. i havent been active due to personal reasons and i kinda have lost motivation to write. i dont think some of these make sense but i hope they do. i'll try and write again and not keep you guys bored. thankyou.

[shoyudon]

𝐈'𝐌 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐂 .ᐟ

them trying to make it up to you after forgetting your date.

starring. gojo, sukuna, toji x fem! reader

heads up. cursing, not everyone has a happy ending :D

tags. @dreamsarenicer @deftearzi @ninikrumbs @litlebruh

note. this is a continuation from "DOESN'T MATTER, I LEFT!" make sure to check it out to make sense of everything!

──────〃★ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

gojo is far from miserable — if there was a word to describe a state worse than miserable, that is what gojo is feeling right now. he didn't know what to do besides the countless messages and calls he's sent out to you.

he's tried knocking on your apartment door for days, but to no avail, you refused to see him. telling him to go back home and to leave you alone. hell, gojo's even took a few days off from work, spending his day off trying to get you to talk to him face-to-face about everything.

"y/n," gojo knocks on your door, his head leaning onto the hard wooden surface — even without looking, you could tell how tired he is. the stress from work, from his relationship, everything; just falling apart, "i know you're in there, i can hear the tv show running."

you scoffed, leaning back onto the couch. gojo sighs out, banging his head gently onto the door, grunting out, "can we please talk about this . . ? you can't shut me out forever," he spoke.

and before he knew it, the door swung open, there you were; standing right in front of him. if looks could kill, the strongest would be six feet under, "stop coming over, you're not welcomed here, satoru. we don't need to talk about anything, i made it clear that you weren't ready for a relation—"

"you won't even listen to what i have to say about it?" gojo cuts you off, his brows furrowed; the creases between his brows deepening.

"no, i won't. i don't have to, you're not ready and you know it," you tell him, hand on the door and a hand on the doorway, looking at him calmly, "listen, go home. stop coming over, and stop trying to text me from different numbers."

"i am ready. i'm sorry for leaving you there, please let me make it up to you— i can't do this y/n. i'm really sorry, i fucked up. i just—" he looks at you desperately, his cerulean blue eyes doing all the conversation. gojo's never felt so weak before until now.

"can we please just talk about this . . ? i'll make it up to you, i promise — i just . . . right now i'm — can i just —" he rambles on in panic, his fatigue catching up to him, arms flailing around.

furrowing your brows, you eyed him, "what are you— satoru, calm down."

he inhaled sharply, "i just . . . i know i've been so caught up in work. please let me make it up to you, i took a few days off, please? can we talk about this? i don't want to break up with you, you're all i have . . ." gojo choked out, inhaling sharply at the end of his sentence.

"satoru, i don't know, okay? you're busy — yes. saving the world, saving people, saving everyone. i love you, i really do—"

"why are you breaking up with me then . . ?" gojo whispers out softly, brows furrowed, his pupils looking everywhere in panic and discomfort, "why are you breaking up with me if you love me? i'll do better, i promise."

"just — do better. 'm not going to accept you right now, show me you can do better and we'll see." well, that was better than a straight up no, gojo nodded his head vigorously.

"okay, okay. that's good, i promise. i'll be better, i'll be better," he whispers, unconsciously clutching onto your hands.

──────〃★ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍

teaching sukuna to operate a phone might be one of the most regretful thing you did. waking up to more than forty missed calls and thirty voice mails wasn't the most exciting things in the world — especially with his voicemails being cursing contents because h didn't know if his previous voice mails went through or not.

"why is it that mortals use this rectangle— did my voice go through?" was almost in everything, a few voicemails containing questions like asking to meet up face to face to communicate about everything that had been going on; much to his disdain.

one to which you finally replied to after two days. figuring it was going to be better if you made it clear to him that you no longer wanted anything to do with him.

sitting on a coffee shop, you stared at him, "i'll say this one time, stop contacting me, i have nothing else i want to do with you in the future. so refrain from sending me more voicemails or missed calls," sukuna scoffs, looking into your eyes.

"you're leaving over three hours?" he snarkily commented, more aggressive than he wanted it to come out or intended, "did i not say that i would book another place? i was caught up in another matter."

if you could just pass out out of disbelief right now, you would. it was honestly a shame that sukuna had to make matters worst with his comments, "are you — look, i've listened enough. and i want nothing else to do with you right now, nor do i want anything to do with you in the future. so please, i am ending things between us right now. i deserve better than this, and you know it."

sukuna clenched his jaw, clearly furious with how everything is turning out to be. i mean; being the king of curses, he expects everything to go his way. and currently, it wasn't.

"take that back, you are not 'breaking up' with me," he mutters out in annoyance.

"sukuna, yes, i am breaking up with you." he narrowed his eyes when you called him 'sukuna' instead of 'ryo' like you always do. sukuna never liked it when people addressed him by 'ryo', but with you — he had grown so accustomed that it felt odd hearing the word 'sukuna' escape your throat.

"don't address me as such."

"it is your name, no?" he clenched his fists in annoyance, "i've said what i need to say. stop calling me and stop sending me useless voicemails, i won't change my mind. and i won't indulge in this relationship anymore. you think three hours is a short time? i made myself a fool in front of the whole place."

"did i not tell you that i had matters to attend to? you're being a bit childish, no?"

"if breaking up with you over disrespect is childish, consider me childish then," you told him and stood up, "goodbye."

──────〃★ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

"i know you're in there, open the door," toji banged on your door just an hour after you ended both your relationship and the call, "woman, open this door before i break it in."

he sighs out loudly, looking around — he felt like a burglar, standing on your porch menacingly. toji knocks again, "so that's it? you're just going to throw away everything? not talk to me about it? i never agreed to breakin' up with you."

he stares at the door as it swung open just before his eyes, his eyes falling on your figure, "so, you're finally ready to talk about this?" he scoffs, crossing his arms, "listen, i forgot, i fucked up and y' definitely aren't happy."

"ha ha. no shit, toji. you waste my time and my efforts, all you can say is that you fucked up and that you'll make it up to me?" you tell him calmly, leaning on your door, "you think that's enough for the constant disappointment you made me feel? you fucked up? you'll make it up to me? you didn't even say sorry."

toji furrowed his brows, inhaling sharply, "what do you want me to do?"

"what do i want you to do is leave me alone, and let me break up with you, because i'm so tired of you constantly telling me you fucked up instead of you're sorry. which is a big difference and i'm actually making a big deal out of it. i don't deserve this, you know?"

he shakes his head, "no, don't do that breakin' up fuckery with me. i'll do anythin' to make it up to you."

"make it up to me by letting me break up with you, that's all i want. you're not ready for a serious and committed relationship, and i'm not going to be the scapegoat for your constant mishaps. i'm tired of having to lie to myself that you're trying your best to be a good boyfriend when you make mistakes like this over and over again. it's ridiculous, toji."

toji blinked his eyes, looking at you, "no. it's a mistake, i fuckin' promise you. it just went over me — i knew i was missing something, and i thought —"

"toji. i've talked to you about this same mistake countless of times, and it went over your head again? and again? 'm tired, okay. can you just leave me alone, we had what we had, we had our time, and well, nothing lasts forever. do better next time with someone else," you tell him, getting ready to shut the door.

but of course, he wasn't really going to take this closure from you, slipping in his foot to stop the door from completely shutting, "move your foot, toji," you sigh out.

"you can't just sum it up like this, i don't wanna break up," he sighs out, "i know i fucked up, again. can't you give me another chance or somethin'? i'll make it up to you."

"i gave you more chances than i should've. bye, toji," you pushed his foot away and shut the door, ending the conversation.

© shoyudon 2024 . no copying or reposting allowed !

[lymtw]

When Toji finds out that you get yourself off when he's not around, he's blatantly offended. You recognize jealousy on Toji's face when you see it. It's not always pretty, but sometimes you think it's the most beautiful way you'll ever see him. He looks at you with those eyes. Those merciless, yet disarming, green eyes. You've told him before that they are one of your greatest weaknesses, and since then he uses them to his advantage at any given chance.

Shiu called Toji to notify him about a last minute mission, and though you begged him to stay, he reminded you of how this could be the one that brings both of you out of the struggle to make ends meet.

You were blinded by the amount of time you had spent with him. A week straight, no interruptions until Shiu called. It was one of the best weeks of your life, and that only further devastated you when you couldn't talk him out of leaving.

To make things worse, he wasn't able to reconcile with you and comfort you before he left. Shiu was rushing him, but all he could think about was how you turned your back to him, not even wanting to look at him before he left.

He answered Shiu's phone call for three seconds, an enraged, "I'm going. Jesus, fuck," before hitting the end call button. He stands at your shared bedroom doorway for a few seconds more seconds, still only getting a look at the back of your head. "I'll be back, princess. Gonna make it up to you, so wait up for me."

—

The mission wasn't difficult at all. It was so easy that he even attempted to contact you while he scouted the close quartered area. You didn't pick up a single one of the six calls he made, letting them all go straight to voicemail each time. It was irritating. He wanted to hear your voice, he wanted you to listen to him, he wanted to tell you that he was rushing this mission so that he could sprint home to you.

Once he got his dirty work done, he tried your phone again, and again, but you were still letting his calls go to voicemail. So, he decided to text you.

Babe, answer.

I know you're upset, but i'm on my way home now

Baby, please

You read his messages, sighing before throwing your phone across the room. He never says no to Shiu when it's about a job. You've accepted this before, but after spending a whole uninterrupted week with Toji, feeling like things would remain that way for longer than they did, it was hard to remember that life was gonna merge back in again at some point. Your vacation hours would run out and you would have to go back to work, and Toji would be hired to hunt someone down again. It was just disheartening to find out that it would happen so soon, and that Toji would jump back into routine so quickly.

You see one of his shirts at the end of the bed and reach for it. It was flipped inside out and balled up, so you know it was worn by him. Just holding it in your lap, you can smell Toji's scent. You bring it up to your nose, and your heart begins to race. Toji wore this. He's not there with you, so that's the closest you'll get to him until he's physically in front of you again.

You bury your face into the rolled up shirt, inhaling deeply. The scent really works at pushing you to forgive him for leaving. His scent was debiliating. It brought vulnerability to a moment where it was just you on the bed you share with your man. You were missing him and wishing he weren't so obligated to his work. It stirred up feelings that couldn't be contained.

In this whirlwind of emotions, you couldn't reject the feeling that blazed in you the most. Your need for him. Your desire to have him all over you, with those hands that don't quit when you waver between feeling like you've had enough, and wanting more of him than ever.

You crawl back to the top of the bed, Toji's shirt dragging on the sheets beneath your palms. Your shorts are peeled off and tossed to the floor. You grab his pillow from his side of the bed, slipping it between your thighs before laying down flat on your stomach. You spread his shirt out on your pillow, and lay your face on it, allowing your mind to fill with thoughts of Toji. You used this internal shrine to fuel the languid roll of your hips against the pillow.

Toji called one more time. He was two minutes away from the house. Your phone is on silent mode, still on the floor on the other side of the room. Besides, you were too distracted to see your phone screen light up, anyway.

"We're literally here, already. Quit stressing," Shiu says when he sees Toji scoff after putting his phone down, a deadpan expression on the former's face. The second the van stops, Toji hops out, and without another word to Shiu, he slams the door shut.

The door barges open and slams shut behind him. Had you not been in your blissful haze, you would have been concerned. Toji's footsteps echo on the hardwood floor as he looks around in search of you. You're not on the couch, you aren't in the kitchen. Where the hell could you be?

"Ma," Toji calls, walking through the hallway. He peeks into the bathroom, not digging further because the light was off. He hears heavy breathing nearby, so he keeps going down the hall. It's one of two doors. Luckily, he chooses the right one.

He slowly creaks the door open, his shoulders dropping immediately at the sight on the bed. He sighs in awe, leaning against the doorframe.

Your hips rolled a little faster against the pillow now, your arms curled tightly around the pillow for your head. Your face remained buried in Toji's shirt, your moans muffled as you gnawed on the black fabric. You were so close to unraveling, you could feel it building up in your lower abdomen.

Toji really liked the little arch you made everytime you pulled back and then dragged forward to get the longest amount of friction between your legs. He could see your body trembling, and your moans were getting louder.

"Oh, Toji..."

The monster in his pants came to life, prominently bulging through his pants.

"F-Fuck... fuck me, please," you gasped, keeping your rhythm but grinding harder against the pillow. "Oh fuck, oh fuck..." you moaned, higher in pitch as you reached the brink of orgasm. You dragged your panty clad cunt across the pillow one more time before completely falling apart on it. Cries of pleasure shamelessly filled the room as you continued to shakily rut against the pillow through your peak. You whimpered, your abdomen quivering with your shuddered breaths as you kept grinding.

Toji's boxers were drenched with precum, just from watching you go wild on a pillow. You were thinking of him while he was gone. You wanted him. You called his name while you got yourself off to his scent on a shirt he wore yesterday, and now you're just there. A breathless, panting, needy, beautiful mess.

Toji straightens his posture and enters the room. He sees your phone on the floor and picks it up, the screen lighting to show his most recent missed calls. His footsteps pull you out of your climactic trance, a starry-eyed look on your face when you see him approach the bed.

"Couldn't pick up the phone even once?" He presents your phone to you. "Too busy fucking yourself on my pillow?"

"Toji..." you start, waved off immediately by his hand.

"Heard my name in there a couple times, princess. Thought you were upset with me." His eyes rake down your body, focusing on the way your thighs clamp around his pillow. He sees the wet spot on the front of your panties, and for some reason feels envy begin to bubble up in his stomach. His hand reaches for the elastic band of your underwear, simply feeling the material that hugs your hips.

"I was," you mumble.

"Uh-huh. So, instead of waiting for me like the perfect angel I thought you were, you made yourself cum on a pillow?" He scoffs. "Don't know about you, but that's borderline selfish to me." He notices the involuntary pout on your face, your guilty eyes trying to hold eye contact while he scolds you. "I make you cum. I fuck you until your damn claws are digging into my back. Tell me, doll, and be brutally honest, for me. How is it not enough?"

"I missed you..." you say, a last resort. All you can do is back yourself up now.

He laughs in disbelief. You really were ruled by your own desire. "Try again, doll."

"I needed you, Toji, and the closest thing to your presence was your pillow and a stupid shirt you wore yesterday. We have a dirty clothes hamper, you know?" You point at the tall basket in the corner of the room. "Maybe this wouldn't have happened if you had thrown it in there."

"Show me," he says, a twisted grin on his face.

"What are you talking about? Show you what?"

He pulls the pillow through your thighs so that you're centered on it again. "Show me how much you missed me." He sits in front of you, his hands resting on your hips. "Show me how this flimsy replacement for me, made you lose your shit."

You sit there, flustered by his silence as he watches you, waiting patiently for his hands to get gentle friction from your skin.

"Oh, you need some help winding up? I was so sure you were good at this, seeing as though you made yourself spill, but, guess not." He looks down at the front of your panties. The wet patch was growing with no movement from you at all. This made his ego sky rocket, but also reminded him of how unpredictable you could be. "I'm not gonna hold your hand the whole time, baby. You're supposed to be putting on a show for me."

His grip on your hips tightens and he starts assisting you with rolling your hips against the pillow. He watches your face, a bright shade flourishing on your cheeks when you make eye contact with him. It was like he had a spotlight on you, and he was expecting you to perform well for him under the harsh light.

You let out a shaky breath, your palms settling on his thighs. Your head hung low, hiding the bashful look of bliss on your face. It was a gesture that Toji did not approve of.

"Let me look at you," he says, still maneuvering your hips in a constant rhythm. You lift you head but turn away from him. "Keep those eyes on me." He manually turns your head, one hand releasing your hip in favor of forcing you to look at him. His hand returns to its spot when he has your glossy eyes on his. "I'm right in front of you. There's nothing over there that demands your attention, so focus."

"Toji," you whine, humiliation flooding your body.

"Gonna let go in a few seconds, so you better fall into some sort of rhythm, doll."

You try to pretend like he's not there, but it's hard to do so when he's staring straight into your soul. Watching every expression you make, watching every tremble of your lips, every swipe of your tongue. You feel total vulnerability.

His hands are off and you stutter for a second before picking up again.

"There you go," Toji mutters. You took control, and ground yourself harder against the pillow.

"Toji, touch me, please." You pull your shirt off, baring more of yourself to Toji. His lidded eyes take in the newly exposed skin. He can see your breasts rising and falling now as you breathe, and he can't deny how badly he wants to hold them. He gives in, his hands going to your back to unclip your bra. His hands immediately grope your boobs, testing the malleability like he always does. They're just so perfect.

"Aren't you a sight... You just have to be so fuckin' pretty all the time, don't you?" He rolls your nipples with his thumbs, taking in the way you shudder at the contact. "Fuck, it's hard to stay mad when you look like that."

You feel that familiar ache begin to form again, when the roll of your hips starts leaving a lingering pleasure behind.

"You're about to cum again, aren't you?" Toji asks, knowing the answer. His eyes are narrowed on you, his dick twitching even if his blood is boiling at the thought of you enjoying this so much. You're doing those little arches again where you pull back and your stomach is quivering every time you drag yourself back forward.

"Mhm..." your nails dig into Toji's thighs, using them as leverage to facilitate your movement even more. "Toji, can I cum?" you ask, your submissive tendencies coming out right on time, as usual. You like handing over control to Toji, even if it means you don't get to cum when you're seconds away from being an absolute mess. "Toji, can I, please?"

How can he deny you when you've complied with what he asked you to do? How can he turn you down when you're so driven with pleasure that you look like you're about to cry just from slowing down for a couple seconds, awaiting his response?

"Only if you do it on my hand." His hands still your hips, holding you down firmly to stop your movement completely.

"What?" Your cunt aches from holding back. It's pulsing, craving the return of stimulation.

Toji's hand slides into the front of your underwear, cupping your slickened folds. "Do it on my hand," he repeats.

"O-Okay," you comply, once again. You start rocking against his hand, the roughness of his skin adding more friction to your sensitive core. You were bound to snap any second now.

"God, you're so wet, ma. All for me?"

"Mhm... all for you, Toji," you whimper. "Gonna..." you gasp. "Oh, fuck-"

Toji devours your expression and the shaky pressure of your silkiness against his hand. His pupils are enormous, ridding him of almost all the green in his eyes. He loves the sounds you make, he loves that you adjusted to the spotlight he put on you and gave him the best show, but most of all, he loves that this was all the product of you just missing him.

You're left breathing shakily, your head hung low, and your eyes lidded with exhaustion.

"Did it feel the same?" Toji's voice brings you back. His hand retracts from your underwear, and he gets a good look at what you left behind on him, wiping it off on his shirt. It'll be removed soon enough, anyway.

"Not at all." You giggle. You look at him, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. "You're irreplaceable, baby. Inanimate objects don't do it for me like you do."

He chuckles. Your voice is adorable, all quiet yet still able to communicate your reassuring words.

"I need a nap," you mumble, retrieving your shirt from the end of the bed.

"Wanna shower with me, instead?"

Your attention directs towards him like a homing bolt of lightning. He gives you a smug grin, and you know exactly what he's thinking.

"Spare me some company and one of those massages you're so good at giving, yeah?"

You give him a deadpan expression, almost refuting him until he hit you at another point where he knew you were weak.

"Please, mama?"

[matsunoluvr]

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ how clingy sylus copes with your absence

warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking

characters: sylus

link to master list here!!!

authors notes: so basically we all love clingy!sylus and i don’t think people talk about it enough, so i here i try to do him some justice </3

i tried not to mischaracterise him, but i find it difficult to imagine how he’d react. he’s a full fledged adult - 27/28 years old - so i can see him trying to be mature about it. but after a while, it gets hard to wait any longer no?

more below the cut!! :3

first few days of your absence sylus is fine, i mean it’s one day - people get busy, people get tired. sylus understands better than most that life gets tough.

he checks his messages maybe two or three times to see if you’ve responded, but nothing. that’s okay, he’ll wait for you.

after five-ish days he’s a little irritated, how could you forget about him for that long?

yeah you could be busy, but seriously?

he gives you a call but it sends straight to voicemail, to which he refuses to leave one.

i bet he secretly feels a little embarrassed at how much your absence is bothering him, and out of spite he refuses to check his phone during the day.

“Tsk, ignoring me?”

luke and kieran definitely notice his small shift in attitude - his nonchalant facade isn’t perfect after all.

they are also secretly cursing you for disappearing, i mean come on! how could you leave them with an angry boss!!

another few days pass, how long has it been since he last saw you? a week?

gets fidgety and cracks, calling you again - no reply.

when he gets sent to voicemail he speaks in his typical, slow tone.

“Why aren’t you picking up my calls, kitten? Get back to me when you listen to this.”

despite his seemingly calm voice, he’s starting to really lose his cool. your absence was unsettling, and yeah he’s disappeared before for a few days on business, he at least picks up calls.

he never leaves you clueless for even a few days, let alone a whole week.

mephisto is sent out for surveillance of the n109 zone, and sylus keeps his phone close. always in his vision, hearing range, whatever.

every notification catches his attention, eyes snapping to the illuminated screen only to slowly drag away when he sees it isn’t you.

from the first to second week of your absence, his irritability shoots up. sylus is getting agitated, brushing it off as annoyance.

after all, what the fuck did he do for you to ignore him for this long?

he texts you almost every day now, the texts getting increasingly shorter, decreasingly floral and more concerned.

“Kitten, why aren’t you picking up my calls?”

“[YN], are you really ignoring me?”

“Hello? Are you okay?”

“Call me.”

he’s calling you every other day now, his sleeping schedule is deteriorating and his mind isn’t focused.

sylus is getting angry at himself, why is he so messed up about this? so what if you haven’t spoken to him in 13 days, isn’t it pathetic to be so affected by your absence?

he lived 27+ years without you, he can live another hundred without.

yet he still finds himself rearranging the plushies you two caught together, checking for your messages, scrolling through your posts.

almost a month has passed since your disappearance, and sylus isn’t getting any better.

why did you go? are you okay? did you get hurt?

god forbid something happened to you.

he’s hired some people to search for you, fuck waiting he’s worried.

finds himself drinking more alcohol with his meals than usual, to the point where even he - a heavy weight - feels his head becoming a little dizzy, his hands twitching for his phone.

one night, after downing a bottle of wine himself, he calls you at least five times, before leaving a voicemail.

his voice lacks its usual slow, bored tone. instead his words are a little slurred, his voice seems a little higher pitched - not too much but it is noticeable - and he’s speaking a little faster too.

“[YN]? Where are you, are you okay? Please pick up, it’s been a month. Do you really- have I deterred you? I know you dislike me, have you ran away? If you have, then at least tell me you’re alive. I mi-”

he catches himself before he says it, because he’s just realised something, something that was so blatantly obvious he feels shocked that he hadn’t noticed it

he misses you, he isn’t angry. he isn’t annoyed that you disappeared, he’s upset.

the fact that it took so long for him to realise is stupid, and all he can do it sit and chuckle drunkenly to himself.

“I miss you, [YN]. Please call me back.”

when you finally call him - exactly 43 days since you left - he almost scrambles to his phone

sylus picks up immediately, yet miraculously finds himself at a loss for words. what does someone say after over a month of waiting?

kind of just stands there, frozen - if you wait before speaking you can hear his almost shaky breaths

“Hey Sylus, you miss me? You left over 13 voicemails and 65 texts, I’m touched.”

gods your voice smoothed over his tense muscles like honey

he sits down, heart beating faster than usual. it’s stupid how much hearing your voice affected him, but he couldn’t help the way his body relaxed at the sound.

if he was a dog his tail would be wagging so fucking hard

“Come here, now.”

when you do arrive, you seriously expect to get killed or something. his tone sounded seriously pissed - i mean like the most pissed you’ve ever heard it

but when you open the door you just get swallowed into a chest and a pair of arms

if you try to move away or struggle, they just hold you tighter and restrict your actions and- oh, sylus is hugging you.

his face is angled down into your head, and you can’t see his expression - only the beating of his heart against you, and it was fast.

“Where the fuck were you? I missed you.”

explain whatever the hell you want to sylus, he’s already decided that you’re not going out without him knowing ever again

probably tries to download some sort of GPS tracker on your hunter’s watch to make sure he knows where you are

TLDR; sylus doesn’t realise how much he really cares for you until you go MIA for over a month in which he starts to genuinely tweak out! :3

AN; guys i actually spat this out in like an hour i think i might have clingy!sylus brain rot because oh my god anyways this isn’t proof read i just needed to express my love for clingy!sylus that gets worried because he isn’t just a dominant badass gang leader he’s also human and he also gets sad and upset and feels emotions argahdbansn he just sucks at recognising his own desires (get it because his evol eye can see other people’s desires but he can’t see his own :3)

[its-avalon-08]

say something, say anything (ln4)

summary -> lando and y/n got into a massive agrguement and he yelled at her. she leaves to get some space and he is left to pick up the pieces.

✦ pairing - lando norris x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, tears, comfort

The air crackled with tension in Lando's sleek apartment. Dinner plates remained untouched, the remnants of a playful afternoon at the Monaco harbor replaced by a suffocating silence. Y/N, her back ramrod straight, finally broke it.

"I can't believe you said that to Daniel," she said, voice tight.

Lando scoffed, pushing back from the table. "Come on, Y/N, it was just a joke."

"A pretty cutting one, aimed at someone who's actually struggling this season," she countered. "And in front of everyone, no less."

"He should be able to take a jab," Lando mumbled, his playful demeanor replaced by a defensive scowl.

"That's not the point! It's not funny to poke fun at someone's performance, especially a teammate."

"Oh, come on," Lando's voice rose a notch. "Don't pretend you haven't laughed at some of Ricciardo's antics yourself."

"That's different! It's all light-hearted banter, not publicly belittling someone on a bad day."

Lando slammed his fist on the table, the sudden noise making Y/N flinch. "Look, will you just fucking drop it? It's not a big of a goddamn deal."

The anger in his voice caught Y/N off guard. Tears welled up in her eyes. "That's not how you talk to me, Lando."

His expression softened a fraction. "Y/N, I—"

"No," she cut him off, wiping at her eyes. "This is fucking childish. I'm going for a walk."

She grabbed her purse and stormed out, leaving Lando staring after her, a knot of guilt tightening in his stomach. He waited for a beat, then pulled out his phone, his heart hammering in his chest as he dialed your number.

One ring. Two rings. Voicemail.

Frustration bubbled up. He tried again, the same result. He slammed his phone down on the table, his anger returning.

He fumed for a while, then finally dialed again. This time, you picked up.

"Y/N," he started, relief flooding his voice.

"What, Lando?" Your voice was cool, devoid of its usual warmth.

"Look, I'm sorry about earlier," he said, forcing a lightness he didn't feel. "It was a stupid joke, and I shouldn't have said it."

"An apology would've been nice back at the apartment, before I had to practically walk out," you countered.

"Yeah, well, you could've just talked to me instead of storming off like a—"

He stopped himself, realizing where that was going. There was a heavy silence.

"Don't call me immature, Lando," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

"It's kind of immature to walk out on a conversation just because you're upset," he retorted, defensiveness creeping back in.

"Oh, so now it's my fault for being upset by your lack of empathy?"

"I have empathy, Y/N! But I also know how to laugh things off sometimes. You need to lighten up geez."

The line went dead. Lando stared at the phone, his frustration morphing into something close to despair. He'd messed up, royally. He knew you weren't the type to throw a tantrum, but walking out after he yelled? That was bad. Really bad.

He sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. He needed to fix this, but how? Maybe some flowers, your favorite chocolates… but that felt like a band-aid on a gaping wound. He needed to do better. He just hoped you'd give him the chance.

a little later

Y/N wandered the park, tears drying on her cheeks, leaving a trail of saltiness. Her phone buzzed incessantly with Lando's calls, but she kept it silenced. She just needed some space to process the anger and hurt. As she rounded a corner, she bumped into a familiar figure.

"Oh, Y/N! Hey!" boomed Daniel's voice, his usual infectious energy dimmed. Heidi, his girlfriend, greeted her with a warm smile.

Y/N felt a fresh wave of guilt. "Hey, guys," she managed, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The puffiness around her eyes must've been a dead giveaway.

"Everything alright?" Daniel asked, his brow furrowing with concern. "You look like you've been crying."

Y/N quickly blinked away any threatening tears. "Oh, no, it's just allergies. Hay fever's a nightmare this time of year." It was a lame excuse, and they both knew it.

Heidi, perceptive soul she was, placed a comforting hand on Y/N's shoulder. "Are you sure? You can tell us if something's wrong."

Y/N hesitated for a moment, the urge to confide in them strong. But Lando's immaturity and the sting of his words still felt raw. "Honestly, it's nothing a good night's sleep won't fix. Thanks for your concern, though. It means a lot."

Before they could press further, Y/N shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, there's something I wanted to say." She turned to Daniel, her voice sincere. "I'm so sorry about Lando's comment earlier. It was completely out of line, and I know you're working incredibly hard."

Daniel gave her a sad smile. "No worries, Y/N. I appreciate you sticking up for me." He patted her hand lightly. "Just tell Lando to ease up on the… team spirit, shall we say?"

Y/N gave a weak laugh, unable to meet his eyes fully. "I'll try."

With a forced farewell, she turned and walked away, leaving Daniel and Heidi to exchange a worried glance.

Daniel, phone pressed to his ear, marched purposefully towards his car. "Lando? Speak to me."

There was a nervous pause on the other end. "Hey, mate," Lando said, his voice strained.

"Don't 'hey, mate' me," Daniel cut him off, his voice low and firm. "What happened with Y/N?"

Lando flinched at the sharpness in Daniel's tone. He mumbled a vague explanation, trying to downplay the situation. Daniel, however, wasn't having it.

"Listen, Lando," Daniel interrupted, his voice heavy with disappointment. "I know things haven't been going great for me this season. But that doesn't give you the right to take a jab at my performance, especially in front of everyone. You know better than that."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And from the way Y/N sounded, it seems things escalated beyond a 'joke'. You know she cares about you, right?"

Lando mumbled incoherently, a knot of shame tightening in his stomach. Daniel didn't need to hear his answer.

"Just… sort it out," Daniel said with a sigh. "And for goodness sake, apologize properly. She deserves it."

The line went dead, leaving Lando staring at his phone, the weight of his actions hitting him hard. He'd hurt Y/N, embarrassed Daniel, and created unnecessary tension within the team. Now, he had to fix it, but where to even begin?

Panic gnawed at Lando's insides. He'd called Y/N a dozen times, each unanswered ring echoing his growing fear. He couldn't believe he'd let things escalate so far. To make matters worse, her phone's location service was disabled, adding another layer of frustration.

He knew her usual haunts, the park being a top contender. Throwing on a cap and sunglasses, he jumped into his car, speeding through the city streets. Every corner looked the same, his heart pounding with a frantic rhythm. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted a familiar figure on a park bench, a discarded coffee cup beside her.

He parked haphazardly and sprinted across the grass, his chest heaving. Y/N, her back turned, didn't even turn her head when she heard his approach.

"Y/N," he said, voice ragged. "Hey, please listen to—"

She remained stubbornly silent, staring intently at a group of pigeons strutting across the grass. Lando felt defeated, his shoulders slumping. "Look, I know I messed up. Big time."

Still no response. He felt like a fool, rambling on to a brick wall.

"What I said to Daniel, it was stupid and insensitive. And then yelling at you… that was just… I don't even know what I was thinking. You didn't deserve that."

He took a deep breath, finally registering the hurt on her face, even from behind. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. Can you please forgive me?"

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Just as Lando felt all hope drain away, Y/N finally spoke. "You know what, Lando? You hurt me. A lot."

Her voice, though quiet, held an unexpected edge of strength. It was a wake-up call, and Lando felt a surge of gratitude that she hadn't shut him out completely.

"I know," he confessed, his voice thick with remorse. "I feel terrible about it. Please, just talk to me."

A long, agonizing silence followed. Finally, Y/N sighed, a flicker of something softer returning to her eyes. "Alright," she said, finally facing him. "But you better be sincere, Lando Norris."

Relief washed over him like a tidal wave. He knelt before her, taking her hand in his. "More sincere than you can imagine. I value you, Y/N. You're… everything to me."

His voice cracked slightly, and he saw a flicker of empathy cross her face. "Just… don't take that for granted, okay?"

He squeezed her hand, his heart overflowing. "Never. Never again. Can you forgive me?"

She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze searching his. Slowly, a hint of a smile played on her lips. "Fine," she conceded, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "But on one condition."

Lando grinned, hope blooming in his chest. "Anything."

"No more insensitive jokes about teammates, especially when you know they're struggling. And no more yelling when we fight."

He chuckled, relief turning into pure joy. "Deal. In fact, I'll bake Daniel a giant apology cake. How does that sound?"

Y/N laughed, a beautiful sound that chased away the last remnants of tension. "Sounds like a plan."

He stood up, pulling her into a tight embrace. The scent of her perfume filled his senses, a comforting balm to his soul. As they held each other, the anger and hurt melted away, replaced by a deep sense of love and understanding.

He leaned in, his lips brushing softly against hers. The kiss was hesitant at first, filled with unspoken apologies and renewed devotion. As they deepened the kiss, a sense of peace settled over them.

When they finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Y/N snuggled closer, resting her head on his shoulder. With his arm wrapped around her, they sat in comfortable silence, the warmth of the afternoon sun basking them in its glow. They had a long way to go, but for now, they were together, and that was all that mattered.

[shanastoryteller]

The day his deal comes due, Sam goes missing.

Dean tells himself it’s nothing, that he’s gotten caught up in some research, some last ditch, hail mary nonsense and that he’s just turned his phone off and everything’s fine, that he wouldn’t do something stupid, that he wouldn’t break his promise.

He tells himself that for the first two minutes after he cracks his eyes open and sees the empty bed across from him, and the first time his call goes straight to voicemail, and not much after that. Sam’s broken his promises over things significantly less important to him than his brother’s life.

Dean is dressed and in the Impala five minutes later, heart thudding wildly in his chest. He calls Bobby, Ellen, everyone he can think of, but none of them have heard from Sam, none of them have eyes on him. Sam was with him last night, even if he boosted a car, there’s only so far he can get.

He keeps calling, keep searching, desperate to stop whatever he’s trying to do, to find him, to see his brother one last time before he’s dragged to hell. To make sure Sam is going to be okay after he’s dragged to hell. But the hours tick down, the sun sets, and he can’t find a trace of him. He’s so exhausted and heart sick that when he goes to call Sam again it takes him a long time to read the number on his phone, eyes swimming, the time not making any sense.

1:03

That’s not possible.

That’s not –

His phone rings, blocking out the time with Bobby’s name across the screen, and he answers it but his throat is too thick to say anything.

“Dean?” Bobby says tentatively. “Are you – I got an email from Sam. It just said, I mean, did–“

“What did it say, Bobby?” he asks, even though he’s sure he knows.

Bobby sucks in a breath at his voice, because he knows just as well as Dean that he should be screaming in hell right now, not answering his phone. “To take care of you.”

Dean drops the phone, hears Bobby still talking as he grips the wheel and presses his forehead against the back of his hands. This is what he’d been afraid of. This is why he hadn’t wanted to mess with the deal in first place. This is the one thing he’d begged Sam not to do.

It's easy to find a crossroad.

The demon is laughing at him when it shows up, wicked grin in a pretty face. “That didn’t take you long, boy.”

It’s a different demon than the one he delt with, obviously, but Dean figures they all know the same shit, since demons are a bunch of gossips. “This wasn’t the deal. My brother lives and I die.”

“You traded your soul for your brother’s life,” she corrects, so amused by all this that all he wants to do is kill her, to exorcise her, to make her scream. “Just like your father traded his for yours. There’s no reason Sammy can’t make his own trade. Man, but is your family fucked up. Maybe if you’d just settled down like little Sammy wanted, you wouldn’t all be bargaining for each other’s lives like haggling at a flea market.”

“Untrade it,” he snaps. “My soul for him alive, come on, no year, no waiting, you bring him back and take me to hell right now.”

She laughs in his face. “You don’t have anything to bargain with, boy.”

“My soul,” he repeats, “That’s what this is about, isn’t?”

“Oh, it’s what it’s all about,” she says. “But Sammy’s a clever boy. You know that, don’t you? He didn’t trade his soul for your life, he didn’t have to. You didn’t die. No, he traded it for your soul. Sorry, honey, but your credits been declined.”

At first he doesn’t understand. Sam traded his soul for Dean’s, exactly, so there’s no reason he can’t trade it right back. Then he gets it.

She sees the exact moment it clicks, the moment despair and horror sweep across his face too quickly for him to stop them. “That’s right. Little brother owns your soul now. For some reason he didn’t think you’d take proper care of it. You have it because that’s where he wants it, but no one will be making any deals with you, Dean Winchester. You can’t sell a soul you don’t own.”

“You can’t,” he has to clear his throat, “you can’t just come in and change things at the eleventh hour-”

“Eleventh hour?” she interrupts. “Sammy made his deal eleven months ago.”

His mouth is so dry he can’t speak.

“Isn’t it funny?” she asks, head cocked to the side. “All this time, the deal he’s been trying to get out of wasn’t yours, but his own. Maybe the two of you might have even managed it, except you just wouldn’t help, would you? Insisting that he not research, that he not look for a way out, and he spent so much time trying to convince you, coaxing you to talk about your feelings when he knew you were safe, all he because he thought it would make you feel better when he was gone, because he couldn’t tell you the truth and talk about how scared he was, so talking about your fear was as close as he could get.”

Dean’s going to be sick. “Don’t – please, please, I’ll give you anything-”

“You don’t have anything,” she says, gleeful. “You want to know why I agreed? The thing that made it just too delicious to refuse? Sammy’s down there, just starting in on an eternity of torture, and all he has to do get out of it is give up your soul. It’s his, after all, and he can put the original deal back in place any time he chooses. Just one moment of weakness on his end and his beloved big brother will be on the rack instead.” She sighs happily. “It’s almost as good as anything we’re doing to him down there, the knowledge that if he slips up for even a moment then it would all be for nothing. I couldn’t have found a way to twist the knife deeper if I tried.”

There’s vomit crawling its way up his throat and he has to swallow it down before he can speak. “I can’t – I’ll do whatever you want, please, there has to be something.”

She leans forward, cruelty and delight shining in her eyes. “The only thing you can do is what you’ve been telling your precious baby brother to do for the past year. Accept it. Move on. Live a good life so his sacrifice isn’t in vain.”

God. How can she – how can Sammy expect him to –

He’s doubling over, finally upchucking what little he’s ate today, and he’s dry heaving on the dirt when he hears the fading sound of her laughter.

This can’t be real. This has to be Hell, he has to be in it right now. He has to be.