#and a make-up station with a make-up artist waiting | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

agathasfamiliar · 5 months ago

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hi!! I just found your blog, can I request g!p detective!agatha railing reader in a missionary position and has a bulge kink (poking the bear🤭🏃‍♀️)

thank you so much for this request it was very fun to write, i hope you enjoy it!

fuck the police:

detective agnes o'connor x fem!reader

You fucked up and finally got caught for your long-running streak of graffiti artistry. What's worse than being arrested, however? Being interrogated by the one detective in town who causes you to question your all out hatred for the profession.

word count: 6.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, agnes is trans/intersex/has a penis, penis in vagina sex, power bottom!reader, service top!agnes (but agnes still needs a little control of course), handcuffs, breeding kink, bulge kink, agnes loves reader's tits, smut

author's note: trans butch agnes, my beloved. also i probably could've done more research into a more realistic set up/i know this isn't how someone being arrested/interrogated would work but it's porn so...hopefully you can look past that

You never thought you’d find yourself here, arrested and waiting to be questioned for your crimes. Perhaps you should’ve seen it coming, your graffiti art has steadily risen in popularity over the last few months, ever since one particularly evocative piece got featured on the local news and allegedly inspired a number of protests throughout the city of Westview.

Not that you had anything to do with that.

The police department has issued several requests for information on you, even offering a pretty handsome reward for the proven identity of “Hex”, the name you tag every piece with. A rumor has even reached your ears about a copycat artist getting arrested over in Eastview. Serves them right for using your signature, but it at least has kept the feds off your trail for a bit.

Admittedly, you’d gotten cocky thinking you could get away with tagging the squad car stationed at the busiest intersection in town. In your defense, it had looked empty. How were you supposed to know the deputy on duty was napping in the back seat? You’d made it halfway through the looping pink pig face you were sprawling across the windshield before he woke up and chased you down four blocks.

If you were wearing your usual running shoes instead of having slipped on an old pair of slides in your rush out of the house, you probably would’ve outrun the middle-aged cop chasing you, another mistake you won’t make again.

Now, you sit shivering in nothing but a sheer white tank top and sweatpants so spattered in all the vibrant colors of your, now confiscated, cans of spray paint, that you can’t even remember what color the pants originally were. You weren’t an idiot, you had a black hoodie on when you went out to do your work, but the rookie cop that booked you at the station also insisted on taking your sweatshirt for “evidence”.

You’re pretty sure he just wanted to see you suffer in the refrigerator-like temperature they keep the precinct at, clearly only recently having graduated the academy and already taking a shine to abusing his power. Pigs, indeed.

The interrogation room they brought you to well over 30 minutes ago sits at the very back of the building, a windowless box that somehow looks and smells both musty and sterile. A large one-way mirror covers the wall opposite the door, the only noise in the confined space being the tick-tick-tick of the clock above it that reads just past midnight.

You rattle the short chain connecting your handcuffed wrists to a bar on the heavy metal table in front of you, just to disrupt the suffocating silence. Have you seriously been forgotten here?

Just as you have that thought, as if summoning another person into existence with it, the door, opposite the corner where you sit, opens briskly.

Twin sighs of irritation drop from both your mouth and the supposed detective’s as she enters. You can’t make out too many details of her appearance at first because of the dim lighting that mostly just illuminates the table you sit at, as well as the fact that she has her head down looking over what you assume is your intake forms.

“I want a lawyer.” Are the first words out of your mouth once the woman has turned to shut the door behind her.

“Ha!” She laughs dryly and it has you simmering with rage already, but something about it also sounds familiar.

“Well, sweetie,” The still concealed detective continues as she finally steps into the light, “not likely to find a public defender that’s available at this hour, but if you insist on staying overnight…” She trails off amusedly, finally stepping into the light and causing your prepared reply to die in your throat as you connect the recognition of the voice with the blue eyes that meet yours.

“Detective O’Connor.” You greet, trying to keep your tone even.

Fuck.

Of fucking course, of all the detectives in the goddamn city, this is who had to come question you. The same detective you’ve served coffee to every morning for the better part of three years at your shitty cafe day job. The same detective who barely acknowledges your existence, but when her fingers brush yours as you pass her usual over the counter, you think about it for the rest of the day. The detective you berate yourself for fantasizing about, because she’s everything you despise and your friends would never let you hear the end of it if they found out, especially with how often you’re spouting your “radical” political beliefs (not that you see them that way.)

Detective Agnes fucking O’Connor…

This is not how you imagined it would look if you ever got her in a room alone.

“Huh? Do I know you?” She questions, almost offended, and now you’re the one to let out a dry laugh.

“Here, let me help jog your memory.” You say, picking up the small, paper cup of water that had been left on the table for you in one bound hand, holding it aloft and reciting her order.

“One large hot coffee with two sugars and half a pump of vanilla.”

She looks unaffected at your display, only raising both eyebrows once in sudden recognition before sauntering over to the chair on the other side of the table and sitting down casually.

“Impressive, that how you’ve avoided custody so long? Charming Westview’s finest by memorizing their coffee orders?” Her questions are laced with condescension.

“Nope, just yours. Why? Is it working?” You smirk despite your better judgment. You hadn’t planned to try the flirting route to get out your charges, but hey, the best schemes have an element of truth to them. Plus, if this is the only chase you’ll have to speak to the detective alone, you might as well make the most of it.

She doesn’t answer, instead leaning back in the rickety metal chair that lets out a squeal at the motion. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that’s tied low at the base of her skull. Blue flannel sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and it’s all you can do not to think about tracing your tongue over the veins that snake over her strong forearms.

The jeans she’s wearing strain with the way she sits, legs spread apart, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from letting out a gasp when you notice how it puts the delicious outline of what’s beneath the denim on display. Fuck, you do not need to be thinking about straddling the woman where she sits and grinding down against her bulge right now, but you are anyway.

Mercifully, she leans forward again in the seat to ask another question and the view is gone. You need to focus if you’re going to get out of this without incriminating yourself.

“What were you doing tonight?” She asks flatly, getting down to business. You know better than to provide anything resembling an answer, true or false.

“This whole thing seems pretty excessive, all things considered. I mean, an interrogation? Really, Agnes?” Her first name slips out before you can catch it, but you don’t really care.

“Just answer the question. And it’s Detective.” The flare of anger in her eyes only spurs you on.

“Sorry, Detective Agnes,” you correct yourself, purposefully using her name this time, just to see that flash of heat again.

“If you were so curious about where I was tonight you could’ve just asked me out.” Now that you’ve opened the floodgates, the suggestive remarks just keep coming out.

For Agnes’ part, she remains still and draws in an angry breath. Her blue eyes blaze with irritation at your lack of cooperation more than the intrigue you were hoping for, but that just means you’ll have to turn up the dial on this improvised plan you’ve laid out for yourself. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Listen, if you’re going to keep wasting my time I’ll just lock you up now and wait ‘til morning.” She threatens with a glowering expression, voice raising every few words in an attempt to intimidate. It’s kind of cute, actually.

You think she might hear just how her phrasing comes out and anticipate your next response, because she almost looks remorseful. The slightest pink tone that rises to her cheeks and the way she pokes her tongue out to wet her bottom lip when her eyes flick down to your barely covered chest don’t escape your careful observations either.

“Ooo,” you start, falsely scandalized, “now you want me to spend the night?” A slight giggle escaping you at your own words and the way you lift your handcuffed wrists in front of you playfully.

With the action, you’re sure to press your biceps against either side of your body to even more obviously display your tits, and she can’t help but look down with the movement, eyes raking over your nipples that stand at attention beneath the thin fabric in the cold space.

Heat is practically rolling off her in waves and you can’t tell for sure if it’s arousal or fury that is threatening to boil over, or what will happen when it does, but you have always been the type to take risks. Why stop now?

“Can’t you just get me off with a warning? I mean- let me off…” You ask before she can recover from your last question, attempting a simper at the intentional slip up in your speech.

It seems that this is what finally pushes her over the edge as she slams her hands loudly against the metal table and stands up, causing it to vibrate with the impact. Her chair goes clattering to the ground behind her, but she doesn’t seem to care. The satisfied expression you wear drops for a second at the forceful display, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright, that’s enough!” She shouts, leaning over so you can practically feel her breath on your face before she rounds the table quickly.

“Do you really wanna keep poking the bear?!” She asks, furious, now standing at your right side and heavily folding at the waist to shout into your ear.

You have to lean away slightly at the volume that threatens to burst your eardrum and it provides just enough space to look the detective up and down where she stands.

That’s when you see it.

Unmistakable and pressing against the zipper of her jeans so forcefully that it’s a wonder they haven’t burst; Detective O’Connor is hard.

You can’t drag your eyes away from the tented fabric, so obvious that it nearly casts a shadow onto the denim in the odd light of the room. As you are still seated, you’re practically at the perfect level to just lean over and mouth the length through her pants. It’s all you can do not to let your head dip where it wants to most, as if you’re a magnet being drawn by its opposite charge.

“I- uh.” You stutter, unsure of your words for the first time since she walked in. The amount of saliva that has accumulated in your mouth at the sight in front of you forces you to swallow before you speak again.

“I think I’d rather have the bear poke me.” You breathe, sounding wrecked just at the thought.

When you finally drag your gaze back up to hers, her face is burning red, but this time you can tell it is much more out of embarrassment than anger. She looks self conscious in a way you’ve never seen and it’s so, so pretty.

“It’s okay I c-” You start, reaching out uselessly in your confines, but you’re cut off from your attempt at a rare comforting word when Agnes seizes your right shoulder and lifts you to your feet. She then immediately folds you over and presses you against the table on your stomach, handcuffed hands pinned beneath your chest. You let out a grunt at the forceful action as well as the freezing cold metal that almost stings your skin that has warmed at your flirting.

The position is much like the one you were put in a few hours ago upon your arrest, only now it causes you to ache with desire instead of seeth with fury.

“You think this is funny?!” She questions, but it sounds strained and unsure. Your own hesitance at her intentions keeps you from muttering out that it’s actually not funny, it’s really fucking hot.

It dawns on you then that she probably turned you over like this so you aren’t able to see the blush that’s probably still spreading over her skin, or the bulge in her pants that’s no doubt only getting worse, especially with how you purposefully arch your back in her grasp.

She has you pinned beneath her hands, one still on your shoulder and the other holding your waist, the perfect placement for her to pull you back against her. Instead, a shaky breath sounds from behind you. It seems like she’s deciding what to do next and you can almost feel the heat radiating from between her hips that begs her to choose the option you’re hoping for too.

You start pressing back yourself, impatient and using any amount of leverage possible to reach your destination. To help her decide.

“Come on, detective. Let me help you out.” You nearly whisper in the most convincing and sweet voice you can muster. Her hands loosen ever so slightly at the soft sound and you use the opportunity to slide the last inch backwards, your ass just barely brushing her front, aware also that if she had wanted to stop you she would’ve easily been able to.

You feel the hardness and heat of her cock against you through both your clothing and nearly release a whimper at the sensation, at the idea of her finally being inside you like you’ve fantasized about so many times.

Just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Her hands release you entirely and she steps away without a word, leaving you feeling even colder than the steel table you’re slumped against. You drop your head to the metal in defeat. That’s it, you think. Your efforts haven't worked and you’re not only going to spend the night in a cell, but you’re going to do so while very uncomfortably wet and wound up. Plus, she’s probably going to try to add attempted bribery or harassment to your charge sheet. God, this was a dumb idea. Why couldn’t you have just gotten some old guy detective whose questions you would have dodged coldly and without a second thought?

All these thoughts flash through your head in the few seconds it takes Agnes to step away from the table and turn you by the hips to face her, the chain keeping you there being just long enough to allow such movement.

You look down immediately, as if out of instinct, to find the large bulge still present, possibly even more so somehow. A bolt of desire strikes through your core at the small dark spot you notice has formed on the crotch of the already dark jeans. The evidence of your effect threatens to turn your legs to jelly. Finally, your eyes raise to meet Agnes’ with a curiosity, who stands less than a foot from you, hands still holding your hips loosely. The thrill of not knowing what she’ll do next makes your already racing heart beat even faster.

You find that she looks as weak as you feel, drinking you in like you’re an ice cold glass of water she’s found in the middle of the sahara. It’s clear that she’s used up every last thread of restraint she has to resist your offer, and it still has proven to be insufficient. Her blue irises have nearly been swallowed by blown black pupils that bore into you as she speaks her resignation to her rapturous fate.

“If I’m gonna fuck you,” she breathes the words out like she’s just run a marathon, “it’s gonna be while looking at those pretty tits.”

You lean back into the table in favor of collapsing straight to the floor at those words. How is this actually happening?

Seeing you stumble into the table, her right hand shifts down to your thigh and lifts, helping you to sit on the ledge as she steps closer to let your knees bracket her body. She looks so much more confident in this moment, and not in the same stone-faced way she had while you prodded at her before. It brings a soft smile to your lips and she looks away, somewhat coyly, at your noticing. It’s hard to decide if you prefer her shy or assertive.

Blunt nails graze gently over your covered thighs, to your hips, then your waist, before finally settling over your scarcely contained breasts. Your own sharp intake of breath meets your ears as you lean into the warm touch and she squeezes them with a smirk playing on her lips.

“I might not remember your face…” she rasps, leaning to speak directly into your right ear, “but I definitely remember these.” Both thumbs move to brush over your already pebbled nipples, causing them to harden further. You roll your eyes, both at the comment and at the thread of pleasure that tugs right from where she touches you all the way down to your pulsing clit.

For all the humor in it, you can’t help but notice just how sincere her comment sounds and flashes run through your mind of every low cut top you’ve ever worn to work, wondering which one’s are her favorite.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You exhale with a chuckle against her cheek, momentarily forgetting your binds and trying to reach around her shoulders to pull her closer. The chain rattles loudly and you jerk with the reminder of your limited movement.

Agnes shakes her head and laughs at your needy but firm command as well as your inability to move.

“Here, let me.” She continues laughing gently as she reaches for the key ring you somehow hadn’t yet noticed swinging from her hip.

“No.” You blurt before you can think better of it.

“Leave them.”

It’s a daring statement and you run your tongue across your teeth mischievously while the implication works its way through the woman’s mind. Her lower lip disappears into her mouth with how hard she bites into it, looking at you in disbelief and utter need.

“Fuck,” is all she says, dropping the keys back to her side and moving instead to undo her belt with a clumsy haste.

You would be scrambling to remove your own pants as well, not wanting to waste anymore time, but your own request has left you unable to do so. Instead, you’re left in awe as the black leather belt is unlatched and left hanging loosely open while Agnes works at her zipper. Even less is left to the imagination when denim is pulled aside to reveal cotton boxer briefs protruding with the tension of her arousal.

Her cock is pressing tautly against the soft, grey material and the way the underwear clings to her body causes you to gape at the implication of how much the secure garment is still concealing.

The dark spot you’d noticed on her jeans is even darker and more centralized to its origin on the grey cloth. Saliva fills your mouth again at the sight, the only thing better than seeing her from beneath that last layer of clothing will be when it is finally removed.

As if reading your mind and wanting you to suffer a moment long, she pauses her motions of undressing any further. Before you can argue or make a snide remark, her hands are on your own waistband, tugging the paint-covered article down as much as she can while you’re still seated. You can’t very well lift yourself with your hands at the moment, so you slip off the table quickly to help get them the rest of the way down, hopping back up just as swiftly and letting her pull them off your legs, shoes falling to the floor one by one in the process.

The cold table under your mostly bare ass draws the breath from you momentarily, only a black pair of boyshorts now protecting you from the metal.

“Do you ever wash these?” Agnes asks down at the rainbow vomit littering your clothing before dropping the pants to the floor, a real dry humor in her voice replacing the stern, mocking one from when she first entered the room.

“What’s the point?” You ask, because seriously, why would you wash them if you’re just going to get paint all over them again?

“Do you answer every question with a question?” She fires back, moving back between your knees from where she’d stepped back to help undress you. Her fingers play again at her own waistband, dipping into them slightly before meeting your eyes, waiting for your answer.

“Do you always stall like this when a girl wants you to fill her pussy?” You ask with an exaggerated expression of curiosity, as if you are genuinely awaiting the answer and not just communicating your impatience.

Her cheeks pink again at the response, any clever comebacks quickly forgotten. You remove your gaze from her face and shift it back to her arousal to allow her to blush in private.

In your peripheral vision, you see her eyes flick up to watch your face as she dips her left hand into her underwear and grasps herself so gently, right hand pushing the material down to reveal what you’ve been waiting for.

You’re first met with a mess of dark curls that trail all the way up to her belly button, which you only catch a quick glimpse of with the way her shirt momentarily gets caught by her arm. You stifle a moan at the reveal of her thick cock; rock hard, reddened and still beading pre-cum, as you saw evidenced on the front of her jeans and underwear.

Now you slightly regret having her leave the cuffs on, as you long to reach out and take the length in your hands, or better yet, your mouth. Heat takes your face at the idea of getting on your knees before the detective and gagging on her length, and now you’re the one blushing and biting your lip.

Painfully tearing your eyes from the beautiful sight to catch Agnes’ expression, you find her still looking for your reaction. She finds exactly what she’s looking for in the way your eyes soften and you use one finger, your hands still bound at the wrists and settled in front of your chest, to beckon her forward.

Loose strands of brown hair that have escaped her messily tied back tendrils brush the side of your face as she leans in close to catch your message.

“I need your cock inside me, detective.” You husk, more than speak, into her ear, the lust dripping from the title she insisted on minutes ago causing a physical and auditory shudder through the woman. Looking back down, you see Agnes stroke herself once, as if your words have rendered her unable to resist.

Maybe she notices that you’re about to make a comment about it, because in one swift motion Agnes’ right hand flies up to your left shoulder, shifting you fully to your back on the table. You let out a gasp at the sudden movement, metal tabletop clattering at the impact and drowning out the sound. Just as quickly as you’ve adjusted to your new position, you’re being pulled by the thighs to the very edge of the table and towards exactly what you want, Agnes then guiding you to wrap your spread legs around her hips for support.

“You need this, huh?” She asks, hungrily looking over your body from her new perspective. You’re about to answer her question with your own when she slowly and teasingly drags the head of her cock from your clit to your entrance, over your underwear. Her timing is getting a little too convenient.

You groan at the feeling of your own wetness being pressed against you by her hardness. It makes you ache knowing it’s so close to being consumed by your heat, only a thin shield of fabric left between you. If you had full range of motion of your hands, you would have already ripped the rest of your clothing off, but the quick and dirty way you’re both still mostly clothed almost turns you on more.

Desperate to maintain the dizzying contact, your hips grind upward as your legs become a vice, pulling her ever closer. The clear enthusiasm only spurs her on, gliding back up and down again, circling your clit three times with her cock on the last pass until you're squirming beneath her and hopelessly trying to contain your whimpering. You would rather wait a lifetime for your orgasm than beg a cop.

You’re so sopping wet, though, that when you look down between your bodies you can see the way her cock shines with your arousal despite not having yet made full contact. It’s almost too much to bear, your clit throbbing in time with your pounding pulse. Something has to give or you’re soon going to be a blabbering mess.

“Just fuck me, Agnes!” You bark out, hips rising insistently and your voice verging on a whine.

The room goes still for a moment, even the clock ticking away on the wall seems to pause for dramatic effect as she quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head dangerously at your outburst. That same feeling from before washes over you, when you thought you might’ve really fucked up, but it only lasts for half a second before a hand is shoving your ruined underwear to one side and you feel the tip of her resting at your entrance.

Your eyes meet her blue ones, which are actually still mostly black, especially in this light. They burn into you like before and you don’t know whether her silence is a good or bad thing.

You draw in your own shaky breath, waiting for her next move, and on the exhale she sheathes herself to the hilt inside of you.

Even she can’t contain her half of the guttural growl that comes from both of you at the perfect feeling. You don’t even have the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about just how fucking soaked you are that she was able to slide all the way in with one thrust, because the way her cock is filling you up so completely has rendered every other thought irrelevant.

A moment passes where you both breathe, adjusting to the stretch and squeeze respectively. You feel her throb once within you and think, at this point, with enough determination, you could come just from that small amount of friction.

You don’t need that determination, though. As if mocking that passing thought, Agnes skips any unnecessary build up and starts at a positively bruising pace. Just one moment ago she was panting over you, looking like she might not even make it two thrusts in before unraveling, and now she’s slamming into you with a literally breathtaking force.

No intelligible noises are able to come out of your throat at first, only broken, reedy gasps. Your eyes roll back in your head as the glorious, slapping sounds of your joining sexes fill your ears. Her length jabs over and over again at the perfect spot inside you, just where you need her.

Doing your best to focus your vision, you look up to see the red face of a woman clearly holding on to her composure for dear life. Her finger nails are short, but still able to bite into your hips ever so slightly as she practically slides you up and down along the table while also moving against you herself, which deepens her thrusts even more.

This also seemingly provides quite the show for Agnes, who you observe is splitting her time between watching your face contorting with pleasure, her cock sliding in and out of your pussy, and most of all, the way your tits are bouncing considerably with her every movement.

“You like these? You should fuck them.” You make out between gasping breaths, nodding down at your own chest.

Agnes takes a moment to respond, her laser focus causing her to not even register your words at first. When she does however, and notices your gesturing, her thrusting falters only for a moment, as if the idea alone has made her nearly swoon with desire. Crystal irises scan you over again and you can tell she’s thinking about it by the way her eyebrows knit together in a desperate sort of way.

“Maybe next time.” She decides, smirking down at you and ramming herself into you particularly hard once before returning to her rhythm, while her left hand comes up to grip your right breast greedily.

“Mmn- next time?” You ask around a moan, trying not to sound too hopeful, but it’s also such an unexpected sentiment from the detective you can’t help but question her further.

“I’d bet good money this won’t be your last arrest,” is all she says to satisfy your curiosity. While it’s also a subtle dig at your evading skills, your imagination still runs wild with the unspoken promise of how a future slip-up might turn out for you. It almost makes you want to get caught again.

“Right, because you’d love to f-fuck, fuck! Oh my god!” Your response turns into a moaning curse when her hand shoots down from playing with your tits so her thumb can land firmly on your clit and press down with flawless pressure, never letting up consistently filling you in the process.

“Oh fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..” The mantra spills from your lips while your orgasm mounts within you and you know you’ll be toppling over the edge any minute now.

If your hands were free you would be locking your fingers behind her neck and pulling her even closer to you to ensure you get what you want, but the burn of the metal chafing your wrists is a delicious alternative. The pain only sharpens the pleasure you’re feeling everywhere else and you throb at the idea of waking up tomorrow and seeing angry red and purple bracelets of evidence.

At your emphatic request, she doesn’t stop. You’ve never been so full before and when Agnes’ cock throbs within you after every couple of pumps, stars explode behind your eyes. There’d better be a next time because you’re pretty sure nothing and nobody has or will ever make you feel like this.

“I’m so, so close. Fuck!” You shout, unsure what possesses you to tell her, but her response only drives you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, yeah, fucking come for me. Come on my cock, come on my c-cock…” She huffs, the exertion that you were already impressed with her maintaining finally shows in her voice, but she still never lets up. It almost sounds like she’s begging, a “please” barely contained behind her lips, and that’s what makes you really want to come for her.

Chasing your orgasm, you redouble your efforts of rocking your hips up and it makes her length press even more fully against your front wall until you’re practically screaming with pleasure. The new angle caused by your rocking coupled with the way your walls are tightening around her in anticipation of your release is also clearly doing something for Agnes.

Her breaths are coming in short puffs and she is completely unable to stifle the loud whimper that bursts out of her when you clench around her even harder, your orgasm just seconds away.

That’s what finally does it, that mewl that you were able to pull from the tough detective. It sends you flying, every muscle tenses and wave after wave of pleasure causes you to buck against the table and Agnes, but she holds you firmly in place, fucking you through it and moaning herself the whole time as she marvels at your release. The aftershocks go on for what feels like forever while you float in your euphoria, never wanting it to end.

After your release, Agnes’ thrusts quickly become short and frantic, almost rutting into you with a fervor. The throbs you’ve felt are coming on every pump and you’re content to lie back in your blissed out state and let her take whatever she wants, until she starts to pull out of you, one trembling hand releasing your hip and clearly intent on finishing herself off.

You’re suddenly more lucid than ever, quickly locking your ankles behind her from where they’d fallen limp, and shoving her back into you until she bottoms out. A surprised breath leaves her at the action, a sheen of sweat breaking across her forehead as she stutters out her reasoning.

“I-I’m gonna-” She can’t even get the words out and it’s the second time in so many minutes that you feel your heart squeeze at just how adorable this usually grave woman is.

“I know, I know. Come inside me, baby.” Your voice is thick with desire and you’re still lingering bliss, the pet name slipping out like water, but you need her to know just how badly you want it.

Her eyes widen slightly as a deeper blush somehow takes over her already red face, unsure but so very full of want. You feel her twitch within you despite herself and her hips roll just at the words.

You don’t break eye contact, making clear how serious you are to quell her doubt.

Tentatively, after a beat, she starts up a slower pace, pulling almost out of you before thrusting all the way back in, like she’s giving herself time to think again.

“You can do it baby, I know you want to. Fuck, you feel so good inside me.” You gasp out the words while she fucks back into your pussy and you think you could come again just from the way she looks at you when you say them.

You repeat your cooing encouragements and it doesn’t even take three more of those slow thrusts before she falters and stays sheathed inside you, rutting weakly.

“Come on, baby.” You repeat, and you know she’s done.

More of those beautiful whimpers fall from her lips as you feel one stronger throb and then warmth explodes into your walls. You can’t help but moan yourself at the feeling of being filled by her. Spurt after spurt of her cum coats your insides while she holds you tighter and tighter, as if you’ll float away if she lets go. Her desperate moans die down eventually and she slumps against you, still inside, and draws in one big breath before releasing it slowly. Her eyes are screwed shut and her head is now resting against your restrained hands on your chest.

It’s probably good they're restrained, you think, because if they weren’t you’d be having a very hard time resisting running your fingers through her long hair, tenderly scratching your nails against the nape of her neck.

Another beat passes where the two of you breath against one another and come down from your respective highs. The delicious mix of your and Agnes’ cum has started to drip out of you onto the table below and it’s a hot enough thought that your sensitive clit gives a weak twitch and you clench around Agnes unintentionally, causing her to crane her neck to look up at you.

Her eyes are clear again and softer than you’ve ever seen them; you let your coursing endorphins carry you away on a cloud of imagining leaning the six inches it would take to capture her lips in yours, but you don’t dare actually do it.

She starts to shift, maybe shaking herself from some similar thought, you can’t tell. Her soft sex pulls out of you slowly as she pushes up on her hands and waits for you to release her from the grip your legs still have her in. You unsteadily unravel yourself from her, shuddering slightly at the loss and trying not to think about how empty you feel without her.

Now free, she tucks herself back into her briefs and makes quick work of finally undoing your cuffs. Her hands rub at the raw skin absently, using her hold there to pull you into a seated position. She then reaches down for the balled-up mess you call a pair of pants and slides them back onto your trembling legs easily. After you’re relatively put back together, cum still leaking out and coating your already ruined underwear, she looks you over once more with hunger along with something else you can’t place.

She looks thoughtful, like she wants to say something else but thinks better of it, instead letting a sly smile pull at her mouth and a different comment sneak through with a soft laugh.

“Consider that your warning.”

#agatha harkness #agatha all along #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha all along fanfic #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader smut #x reader smut #female reader #fem reader #x reader #agatha harkness fanfic #agatha harkness smut #smut #agatha all along smut #familiar requests #agatha x you #agatha smut

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fleurfiles · 6 months ago

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INKED INTENTIONS | b. eilish.

ꨄ︎ contents: tattoo!artist billie, a little subtop!billie moment (i love you blake) fem!reader, quickie, oral, i think that’s it !!

ꨄ︎ gabi’s quick thoughts: i have written 4 fics today please someone stop me IM ON A ROLL. anyways lmao enjoy !!

the tattoo shop door jingles as you step inside, making your presence known. the faint hum of the tattoo machine instantly fills your ears, followed by low rock music bleeding through the speakers, mixed with people’s conversations to their tattoo artists. the shop smells of antiseptic and ink, a combination that brings back vivid memories of your last visit.

you’re nervous.

the last time you were here, months ago, it was for a small, dainty design on your wrist. nothing complicated, but that wasn’t what made you nervous. it wasn’t about the tattoo itself— it was about her.

billie.

the tattoo artist with the confident blue eyes, the baggy clothes, and long, gorgeous black hair. she had beautiful and soft pink lips and hidden tattoos that your eyes always darted to, though you’re favorite was the one on her hand— the same hand she used to run her fingers along your skin when she finished your tattoo off.

you’re not sure why you’re here again. the excuse of wanting another tattoo feels thin even to you, but the truth was that you couldn’t stop thinking about her— about the way her hands moved so delicately over your skin, about the way that her eyes lingered over your body when you were laying in her chair.

“oh, hey!” her voice pulls you out of your deep thoughts, her tone smooth and slightly amused.

you look up to see her stepping out from the back room, wiping her hands on a towel. she’s wearing loose black pants that sit low on her hips, a cropped tank top that shows off her toned stomach and the intricate tattoos climbing up her arms. her black hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few strands framing her face perfectly, as usual.

she looks… good. too good.

you gulp.

“nice to see you’re back,” billie says, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “what’s it been? a couple months?”

your eyes land on hers for a moment, and you run a fingertip over your tatted wrist, slightly anxious now. “yeah, figured i’d just get another one, you know?”

“thought you might,” she says, giving you a sweet, comforting smile.

her gaze lingers on you for a moment before she nods toward the chair. “c’mon love, let’s see what you’ve got in mind.”

you follow her lead to her station, and you feel like your chest could literally explode with how nervous you are. it wasn’t about the needles or the pain or how sickening the smell of alcohol pads and ink was, it was about how billie’s eyes stayed glued to your body as you laid down, about how she bit her lip when you pulled your crop top up, exposing your bra.

“i was thinking something right below my…um….”

“your boobs?” billie giggles, though her eyes don’t soften up. she’s looking at you so hard and with such precision, but you brush it off on the fact that it’s literally her job to inspect and intricately view your skin before tattooing it.

“mkay,” she starts, leaning back to manspread in her chair as she throw a leg over her knee, “since this is just a suggestive area to place a tattoo, i’m sure you don’t want everyone in the shop seeing your chest. i have a station in the back, would that make you feel more comfortable?”

you feel your body grow more tense, the thought of being alone with billie, her seeing such intimate parts of yourself— it’s mindwracking. but you just shrug, “yeah, that’s fine.”

“okay, dope.” billie gives her thigh a slap before standing up, waiting for you to mimic her movements. and then she takes your hand, guiding you towards the back of the shop and through a door that says “BILLIE” in bold lettering with a polaroid next to it. it’s of her throwing up the middle finger and smiling at the camera, a backwards cap and a long jersey complimenting her frame.

“nervous?” billie breaks the silence between you two, her iridescent eyes locking onto yours. it’s like she can almost sense how stiff you are when you slump into a chair, watching as she closes and locks the door behind her.

“it’s not the tattoo.” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. you basically just told her that she makes you nervous.

billie raises an eyebrow, a newfound amusement blossoming against her visage. “oh? then what is it?”

“i just—” you pause, fumbling for words, being careful that you don’t slip up and say the wrong ones, “i don’t know. i’m just… tense.”

she sets down her tools and steps closer, her hands on her hips as she studies you. “tense, huh? well, honey, we can’t have that. i need you relaxed, or this’ll be harder than it has to be.”

before you can respond, she’s moving behind you, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders. you’re still stuck on the fact that she just called you honey, but you try to relax as you hear her slump into the chair behind you, her hands resting on your shoulders.

“let me help, yeah?” billie suggests, her voice low and soothing.

her thumbs press into the tight muscles of your shoulders, and you let out an involuntary sigh. her touch is firm but gentle, and it’s almost embarrassingly effective at melting some of the tension in your body.

“a little better?” she asks, her breath warm against your ear.

“yeah,” you breathe, though your heart is racing for an entirely different reason now. you try to let the feeling subside, your eyes closing as you bask in how good your skin feels, the knots in your body working themselves out underneath billie’s touch.

her hands move down to the curve of your shoulders, her fingers kneading the knots there. it feels… too good. too intimate.

“you’ve got a fuck ton of tension, girl.” she comments jokingly, her tone casual but her touch anything but.

“yeah,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper, “stress.”

her hands slide a little lower, her fingers brushing against the bare skin of your upper arms. the room feels warmer suddenly, the hum of the tattoo machine in the background fading into nothing.

“you’re still tense, honey.” billie murmurs, her lips dangerously close to your ear now. she leans next to you, “maybe i’m not doing a good enough job— you need something more?”

your breath hitches, and you swear you can feel her cocky smile against your skin.

“billie—” you start, but the way she presses her thumbs into a particularly tight spot in your neck makes your words falter.

“shh,” she says softly, her hands sliding down your arms, her fingers tracing lightly over your skin. “just relax.”

the air between you shifts, electrically charged and heavy. her touch lingers, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin that feel less like a massage and more like something… more.

“there we go,” billie says, her voice dropping an octave. her voice is husky, her breath making your ears twitch, “you’re starting to relax now, yeah?”

“barely,” you deny, the words slipping out before you can stop them. you try to shrug off her actions as her just doing her job, but it doesn’t feel like that when her hands move to your sides, her fingers brushing against your waist. it’s not a massage anymore, and you both know it.

“you okay?” she questions, her voice softer now, almost a little hesitant.

you turn your head slightly, your eyes meeting hers. there’s something unspoken in her gaze, something that makes your breath catch in your chest, and you choke out a small ‘yeah’, your voice barely even audible.

her lips curve into a small smile, and then she’s leaning closer, her hand cupping your jaw as her lips brush against yours—soft and tentative at first, then more sure when you don’t pull away.

it’s electric, the tension between you snapping all at once. her hands are on your waist now, pulling you closer, and you’re gripping the front of her shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. she’s quick with her actions, and you both know that you don’t have much time— she probably has other clients.

with a swift movement, billie yanks your sweatpants off of your body, sliding them onto the floor and taking your thong with it. she immediately drops to her knees, tapping your thighs, “open ‘em.”

you obey, not a hint of reluctance in your actions as billie smiles beneath you, biting her lip, “so fuckin’ gorgeous. i’d be lying if i said i haven’t thought about doing this before.”

it’s a shock to you, honestly. billie had always seemed like a flirt, but the way she looked underneath you now— it was like her demeanor had changed. it was needy, wanting, like she’d do anything to taste you right now.

“please? can i?” she asks you, and you nod, your body language more than any verbiage could do justice.

billie’s tongue finds itself on your clit, suckling at the bud harshly, making you gasp. she’s quick with her movements, knowing in the back of her mind that she’s only got so much time with you. her head cocks to the side, finding a sweet spot on your pulsing bud that makes you grip the table beside you, and you accidentally knock something over that makes a clink against the floor.

“billie? you alright in there?” someone calls, and you assume it’s one of her co-workers. but she doesn’t stop to respond, she just looks up at you with wide blue eyes, a shit-eating grin on her face as her mere licks intensify to something more wanting, something more hungry.

“this okay, honey? this feel good to you? please, tell me!” billie whimpers, though she hates the fact that she’s gotta part from tasting you. but she needs this, needs to know that she’s the one making you feel good— so you offer up sweet words as you look down at her, “feels amazing, billie, i promise. please keep…k-keep going—“

your words are cut off by billie’s tongue returning to your clit, her fingers grazing over your cunt before slowly pushing them inside you, and the fullness makes your head feel dizzy. her fingers curl at a pace that shouldn’t even be human, and you fight to stay silent, since you’re completely unaware of how much noise can travel through the door behind you.

“fuck!” you whisper-yell, trying not to get yourselves caught as you wrap an arm around your waist, finding something to grab onto so you don’t literally tumble off of your chair. you feel your orgasm impending and you grab a fistful of billie’s hair, “m-m’gonna— bils, baby—“

you don’t mean to slip up and call her that, but that’s the absolute least of your worries right now. billie thrusts into you even harder, eyes glossed over as her gaze lays upon you, “wanna be the reason you feel good— so badly….please…you gonna cum? all for me?”

you nod as you feel your cunt pulse against billie’s tongue, clenching around nothing as your orgasm washes over you, your back slumping into the chair harshly as you let out little whines, billie’s hand gripping at your bare thigh as your chest heaves.

when her lips part from your center, her mouth is wet and glistening in the lighting of her office, and she smiles, licking her lips,

“so…you still tense?”

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#‧₊˚✩ — 𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒!#billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x female reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x you #billie eilish fic #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish blurbs #billie eilish blurb #billie eilish drabbles #billie eilish drabble

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frenchkisstheabyss · 10 months ago

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♡ ｄｅｌｉｃａｔｅ ♡

♡ Pairing: body piercer!seungmin x chubby!fem!shopassistant!reader (w/ appearances by tattoo artist!stray kids)

♡ Genre: fluff/smut

♡ Summary: For the longest time you've dreamed of getting your belly button pierced but you always stop yourself, too shy about your weight to get it done. While working your usual shift at the tattoo shop the resident piercer offers to do it for you, with a bit of meddling from your best friend Changbin, though it turns out that he wants to give you a little or a lot more than just a piercing.

♡ Word Count: 4.7k-ish

♡ Warnings: reader has some insecurities about her weight, piercings (of course), you're getting your belly button pierced babe so yas there's a needle, strong language, kissing, body worship, unprotected sex, Seungmin has a lil dom moment, grinding, fingering, mirror sex, ass slapping, oral sex (f receiving), pet names (good girl), and otherwise fluffiness.

♡ A/N: Hello my loves, I wrote this as a comfort fic for anyone out there who may be struggling with a bad body image day or who might feel like sometimes that they aren't thin enough to wear/do what they want or get the person that they want. My point being that you're a badass bitch who can get whoever and do whatever. If anyone tells you differently they can eat dirt and tell them I said so, babes - xoxo

♡ Part Two Here ♡

Saturday nights at the shop are always your favorite. It’s a little too loud, a little too hectic, but that’s the way you like it. On nights like these you never know who’s gonna step in from the glow of the neon signs and throw you for a loop.

Like the couple making out on one of the couches while they wait their turn to get matching inner lip tattoos. A decision they totally won’t regret when their two week long romance crashes and burns.

Or people like the guy on the phone insisting he come in for a tattoo you know for a fact all of your boys would die before they took on.

“Look, man, I’m not judging you,” you say, judging him to the fullest extent, “It’s just that most of my guys aren’t gonna tattoo your di—”

“Delivery!” a friendly voice rings out in the lobby.

The front door dings, announcing the arrival of your usual delivery girl. She’s short and bubbly with a bag hooked in each of her wrists, filled to the brim with food. In a hurry as always, she sets them down on the desk in front of you and flashes a sweet smile before scurrying off to her next delivery. You respond with one of your own, hopping off the phone just in time to shout, “Have a good night!”

Without missing a beat, you scoop the bags up and head down the hallway off to your left. Bobbing your head along to the rock music blasting from the speakers overhead, you make your way to the main floor where tattoo guns are buzzing away.

“Food’s here!” you announce but it’s too late. You’ve already been spotted and Jeongin’s swiping the bag from your right hand before you can dodge him.

“Ooh, what’s for dinner?” he asks, already hard at work cruising through tonight’s options.

“What?” Felix yells from the far side of the room. He’s hunched over his table, focused on finishing a tattoo of a butterfly on the ankle of a girl who’s much more interested in him than a tattoo.

“She said food’s here!” Jeongin mumbles through a mouthful of food. He makes it a few steps back towards his station, hugging the bag like a newborn baby he’ll protect with his life, before Hyunjin intercepts him.

“Give it here!” Hyunjin demands, almost wrestling a stubborn Jeongin for the bag.

You feel a tugging at the other bag and by the time you turn to see who it is, Minho’s already passing by with Chan, the bag secured in his hand.

Minho digs through it, frowning, “Fuck, they forgot my sauce again.”

“Christopher, can you control your children before they scare off our customers?” you shout after Chan as he grabs his food and settles down at his station.

Chan leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up. Checking his watch, he grins, “Can’t sorry. I’m on break.”

You roll your eyes, letting out a huff of frustration. Sometimes the real headache isn’t the weird customers, it’s the guys you work for, but you love them so if there ever were a headache you could tolerate this would be it.

Turning to head back up front, you stop dead in your tracks when you realize that one of the first people to swarm you for dinner hardly looked your way. Backtracking you spot the stray, Seo Changbin, locked in on an intricate chest tattoo and Han laying across his table, whining like this tattoo wasn’t his idea to begin with.

You skip over to Changbin’s station, quietly admiring the piece over his shoulder. It’s a compass. Highly detailed. Clean lines. The same flawless work you always expect of him.

“Aah, you’re trying to kill me” Han says, turning to you for sympathy, “He’s trying to kill me.”

Changbin groans, paying him no mind. “Hey, I wouldn’t have agreed to do this if I knew you’d be such a baby about it.

Han pouts, poking his lip out, “I am not a baby.”

You giggle, shifting to the other side of the table to get a better look.

“You are such a baby” you tease, poking his lip back in, “It looks really good. Totally worth the pa—oh my god. When did you get that?”

Your gaze drifts from the tattoo and down Han’s torso where shiny, stainless steel jewelry adorns his belly button.

“A week ago, maybe two?” Han smiles, happy that you noticed. “You like it?”

“Ugh, I love it” you gush, eyes lit up at the sight of it. “I wish I could get one but I can’t.”

Han seems more excited than you at the mention of it. “Why not? You should get one!”

You freeze, unsure how you want to answer this question. You’re mortified of the possible awkwardness of the truth but you’ve been best friends with these guys far too long to lie to them.

“Well, I haven’t lost enough weight yet to get one but when I do—”

Changbin stops tattooing, shutting his gun off to stare into your soul. “What did I tell you about that? You’re beautiful how you are. Isn’t she beautiful the way she is?”

He poses the question to someone over your shoulder and, as the figure rounds the corner, your heart almost stops beating.

“Hmm? Yeah” Seungmin, the sole piercer in the shop, nods sipping a drink through one of those cute twisty straws. You find pretty much everything the man does attractive but there’s something especially adorable about this.

He disappears into his room with a simple wave and a nod that makes you weak in the knees. Every guy here is like a brother to you but Seungmin? He’s different. You’ve been head over heels for him, utterly at his mercy, since he started working here.

As far as you know he doesn’t have a girlfriend but you haven’t figured out how to decipher his trademark grumpiness enough to tell if he has a thing for you too. Far too terrified to make the first move, you’ve settled for drooling over your dark haired puppy dog eyed lover from afar.

Han nudges you with his elbow, struggling to hold back his laughter, “Ooh, you like him.”

You’re about to knee him in the side but he’s saved by Changbin’s execution of a plot he concocted mere seconds ago. You hadn’t noticed that mischievous look on his face but you have now and you don’t like it one bit.

“Seungmin!” he calls out, flicking his gun on and getting back to work.

Seungmin appears in the doorway, more preoccupied with his phone than anything Changbin has to say.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Got time to do a belly button piercing real quick?”

“Depends” Seungmin shrugs, finally looking up from his phone, “Who’s asking?”

“Changbin, no” you mouth, only to be ignored.

Changbin points to you, bubbling with joy at his evil plan. Seungmin folds his tattooed arms across his chest, looking you up and down.

Suddenly you’re second guessing what you wore today. Some combat boots and a short black dress with lace accents. It’s tight enough to highlight your shape but loose enough to flow a bit when you walk. Is it enough? Is it too much? Why are you even thinking about this?

“You?” Seungmin asks, raising a curious eyebrow.

Fidgeting with the silver heart locket on your necklace, you muster up the courage to actually face him.

“I was just, uh, I was thinking about it but I’m working so…”

Changbin chimes in, not letting you weasel your way out so easily, “Jeongin can watch the front desk”

“I don’t even have any jewelry picked out.”

“He has emergency jewelry back there. Don’t you, Seungmin?

Seungmin glances back into his room to check, “I’ve got something for her and my next appointment canceled so I have time if she really wants it.”

With no way out, you take a step towards his room, hesitating for a moment. Seungmin gives you a half smile, more than he offers most people. “Come on. I don’t bite.” Not that you’d be mad if he did.

Giving in, you push forward, glancing over your shoulder to give Changbin a look that says he’ll pay for this later. Seungmin steps aside, patiently waiting for you to enter his room before shutting the door behind you. You jump a little when the door clicks shut and you hear him laughing at you.

“Nervous?”

“Me? Nervous? No way.”

You’re lying and he can tell. When you spend your time doing dozens of piercings a day you get good at reading people. Plus the way you’re trembling doesn't exactly make it hard to tell what you’re feeling.

“Well you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of you, okay?” he reassures you, placing a comforting hand on your forearm. His thumb strokes your inner wrist and suddenly your body's electric.

“Uh, yeah, for sure” you nod, your voice light and airy.

Seungmin gently squeezes your arm, heading over to his closet to search for something. After a few seconds he pulls out a small fuzzy blanket with a cute Halloween pattern on it.

“I need you to pull your dress up for the, well, you know” he says, opening the blanket up for you, “But if you’re not comfortable you can cover up with this.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s really sweet of you.” You try not to seem too impressed, taking the blanket as he turns his back to you, busying himself by doing some prep.

Hiking your dress up over your stomach, you tuck the blanket around your waist to cover your legs. Staring down at the way your soft belly pokes out, your brain goes into crisis mode. You’d imagined yourself half dressed in a room with Seungmin but this was far easier in your fantasies than in real life. You feel so vulnerable, one of your biggest insecurities laid bare, but there’s no turning back now. You’re in this.

“So, are you gonna tell me what all that was about?” Seungmin asks, careful not to catch even the slightest peek at you before you’re ready.

“All of what?” you stutter, your mind temporarily going blank. “Oh, that with Changbin? That was just, I don’t know, I’ve been wanting this for a while but I was putting it off…for reasons.”

“Because you don’t think you’re ‘Beautiful the way you are’?”

You cringe at his question, wishing Changbin hadn’t used such a cliche phrase. You squint your eyes, staring into the distance, imagining all the ways you’ll torture him for getting you into this.

“It’s not that” you deny, gearing up for another lie but you back down yet again, “It’s kinda that. I don’t know. I’m not really a girl with a flat stomach.”

Seungmin snaps on a pair of black gloves, “Can I turn around now?”

“Mmhmm” you nod, your dress gathered in a tight fist of fabric above your stomach.

He spins around, pulls up a chair, and flops down in front of you in one fluid motion. He twirls a black marker in one hand, popping the top off with his teeth.

“Who told you that you had to be a girl with a flat stomach?” he asks, inspecting your belly button for the perfect spot. “I like your stomach. I think it’s cute.”

The compliment has the heat formerly warming your cheeks spreading through your entire body. You let out an involuntary giggle and he cracks a smile, a full one this time. The first of its kind in shop history.

“You don’t have to say that to be nice.”

Seungmin marks a point, grabbing a hand mirror to show it to you, “You like it? Yeah? Good. Up on the table.”

You hop up on the table and assume the position. Straight out on your back, hands at your sides. You see it every day. No instruction needed.

“I wasn’t being nice by the way” he says, that handsome face sliding up next to you. “It is cute. You’re…you’re really cute.”

Feeling himself begin to blush, he slips out of view to sterilize the area and get the needle ready.

“I’m sorry if that was weird. Was that weird?” he rambles, mostly to himself.

Today’s full of firsts. You’ve never seen him nervous before, you never expected to, but the man’s ears are turning red and he can barely string a sentence together.

“It’s not weird, Seungmin. You’re really cute too” you say, despite your own nervousness. You’ve been waiting so long to say that. It’s a relief to finally get it out.

“Now you’re just saying that.”

“I’m not. I do think you’re cute. I always have” you confess, “I just never said anything cause I didn’t think you’d like me."

Pinching your skin with a set of forceps, he aligns the needle with the tiny mark above your belly button, “Deep breath in.”

You take a deep breath in and the needle pops through like butter. You feel a quick sting followed by a rush of adrenaline. He slips the jewelry through so seamlessly you hardly feel it and you’re all done.

“Are you crazy? I’ve liked you forever. Was it not obvious?” he asks, popping off his gloves and taking your hand to sit you up.

“What? No. It wasn’t obvious. Was it supposed to be?”

Seungmin pauses, truly reflecting upon his attempts at flirting. “I tell you ‘Good morning’ every morning. I tell everyone else to kiss my ass.”

“So romantic” you joke before noticing how sincere he is about it.

You instantly wonder if he’s stared at you before the way he does now. The truth is that he has, maybe not in the most obvious moments but every chance he gets. When you’re running late in the morning, hurrying in with iced coffee to win everyone’s sympathy. When you’re all hanging out at Minho’s place and you’re rambling with Han about the dramas you’ve been watching. Or when you’re all out having drinks and you’re simply existing. He has those same stars in his eyes that he does now. Every. Single. Time.

Realizing how hard he must be staring, he backs his chair up, giving you enough room to move around. Riding high on the thrill of actually going through with your piercing—your thoughts jumbled up by the knowledge that these feelings are mutual—you hop up to check yourself out in the mirror with not a thought given to the fact that the blanket has slipped off.

So here you are, twirling around in front of the mirror with your dress proudly held up. Plush thighs kissing each other. Lacey black panties on full display. A dazzling piece of jewelry dangles from your belly button and your stomach does the happiest jiggle as you delight in your reflection.

“You like it?” Seungmin asks, coming closer to get a better look.

“I love it. It’s so pretty” you beam, your gaze drawn to something shifting in the reflection.

Seungmin isn't watching you the same way he was anymore. There are notes of something reminiscent of the former innocence and awe but it’s something different entirely. It’s intense enough that you can feel the air shift in the room. The brown of his eyes seemingly grows deeper the longer he takes in your figure.

“You can’t look at me like that” you say, your breathing growing shallow as you begin to lose yourself in what you see in the mirror. Watching him watching you.

“You don’t want me to?” he asks, patiently awaiting your answer.

You don’t feel rushed or pressured. His patience is genuine but his eyes never leave you. They never leave you to question if that look of longing is dedicated to you or not.

You take a deep breath, making one last twirl to face the man that has your pulse racing a mile a minute. It isn’t just the way he watches you that has you on the verge of soaking through your new panties. It’s the way he sits in his chair, slightly tilted back, arms resting on his legs. It’s like he’s waiting for you, that little grin on his lips daring you to come take a seat.

“I want you to” you say softly enough that you’re unsure if he heard you.

Seungmin glides closer to you in his chair, stopping when his knees barely graze your legs. He leans forward, fingertips tracing the outline of your thighs, “You want me to what?”

As he asks the question, his breath tickles the surface of your skin and you shiver at the sensation.

“I want you to…aah” you gasp as his hands grip the tender flesh of your ass, pulling you in close enough for his lips to meet your stomach. He kisses it carefully and lovingly, taking his time to let his mouth and hands explore all of the softest, fluffiest parts of you.

“You want me to…what?” he asks, tugging you down into his lap, his lips still wet from kissing your body. It makes it all the more tempting to kiss him. Surrendering to your impulses, you pull him into a kiss so ravenous and full of need that it leaves his head spinning in the best way.

You were meant to come in here for a piercing. That was it. Now you’re straddling his lap with your fingers in his hair while his tongue’s halfway down your throat.

Slipping his hands back under your dress, he rests them on your hips, pressing you down into his lap to show you just how hard you've gotten him. Your panties are more soaked than you notice, making the material thin enough that you can feel it all. The thickness of his cock, the texture of his pants, grinding against your sensitive core, bumping your clit each time he raises his hips.

A moan escapes your lips. A weak, cute little thing that only makes him want you more. He breaks from the kiss, charting a course down your neck to tease the curves of your breasts with his tongue.

“Who told you that you could be this sexy?”

“I don’t know” you giggle, a small glimmer of your former shyness coming through, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Wrapping an arm around your waist, he tilts you just enough to give him the space to stroke your clit through your panties, forcing more and more of those sensual moans to pour out of you.

“Just promise me you won’t stop” Seungmin begs, tucking your panties to the side to pet your dripping slit. “Keep being this sexy…this fucking cute…this—fuck.” He sinks his fingers into your core and you swallow them up eagerly, clenching tightly around them.

You throw your head back, your back arched in pleasure. You know without looking that he’s watching you again. You know he’s getting off on how your breasts bounce each time you grind down onto his fingers, your pussy so wet that his whole hand’s slick with your juices.

Seungmin navigates your body like magic, picking up on your most tender spots and knowing just when to hit them to make you tremble the way you did when you first stepped into this room.

Cradling his cheeks in your palms, you come face to face with him, and say to him in the sweetest tone, “Fuck me already.”

Taking you into his arms, he sweeps you up out of the chair, and sets you down on the edge of the table.

“Oh god, I didn’t know you could do that” you gasp, stunned that he could pick you up. You knew that Seungmin was fit, something more than obvious by the toned body your eyes are graced with when he pulls his shirt off. But fit enough to pick you up like you’re nothing? Now that you didn’t expect.

“What? You didn’t expect me to be strong? I’m hurt” he pouts, pretending to be offended but not too offended to help you wiggle your dress up over your head.

You slide back on the table and right out of your panties. “Get up here and I’ll make it better.”

You spread your legs and he’s right in between them, leaving a trail of kisses behind as he makes his way up to a pussy wet enough to glisten in the glow of the overhead light. He can’t resist having a taste, humming at the deliciousness of your arousal dancing on his taste buds.

The tip of his tongue meets your clit, flicking it slowly at first then picking up an unforgiving speed. Your hands find his hair again and you’re writhing on the table, choking back moans with your fingers tangled in the back of his head.

The slurping sounds that fill the room make you want to cum right now. In his mouth. Down his chin. All over that gorgeous face of his. And he’d welcome it happily. Beg you to give him more even. That’s how badly he wants you. How badly he’s always wanted you.

Seungmin’s mouth deserts you unexpectedly, leaving your walls spasming and your stiffened bud twitching in his absence. “Add that to the list of things you can’t stop doing” he whispers, crawling on top of you.

You’re beautiful from any angle, there’s not one he can think of where you aren’t, but this has to be his favorite. You look so perfect underneath him. Right where you should be.

“Getting eaten out?” you ask, planting a kiss on his shiny pink lips.

“I meant tasting so good but…” he muses, the head of his cock throbbing at your entrance, “I can make sure that happens too.”

That first bit of contact, the very first time you feel his cock raw against your pussy, has you purring. Seungmin feeds you just the tip at first, stretching you out little by little, loving everything about how your body reacts to him. Running your nails across his back, you raise your hips, whining for more.

“What are you whining for, baby?” Seungmin teases, giving you one inch after another, “Is this it? This what you want?”

“Aah, yes, I want it. More please. Please” you plead, your eyes growing glossier the wider you’re stretched.

It crosses his mind to spend more time teasing you just a little bit, it’s in his nature to be a bit of an asshole after all, but you feel way too good to play games with. You fit him like a glove and with every thrust he becomes more and more convinced that you must’ve been made for him.

“You’re so perfect” he praises, massaging your curves, “Fuck, I love your body. Your face. Your everything.”

Soaking in the praise and the ecstasy of his length dragging along the ridges of your core, you could swear that you were glowing and, actually, you are. Glowing in his adoration and, courtesy of an accidental glimpse of yourself in the mirror, a fair share of your own.

Seungmin catches you looking at yourself and smiles, pounding into you harder. “Don’t look away” he instructs, holding your head in place, “Have you ever seen how pretty you are when you cum?”

“N…no” you manage, biting down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming at the tremors each thrust sends through your body.

“Good, we’ll see it for the first time together then.”

Using his free hand, he grips one of your thighs, pressing your leg back so that he feels even deeper than before. The force is powerful enough that you feel it in your chest, vibrating down to your fingertips.

You can’t take your eyes off of your reflection, he won’t let you. Your body moves so beautifully when he’s fucking you that he needs you to see it how he does. You need to see the way your tits bounce and your hips jiggle as the tension builds up inside of you and you’re choking back moans with his name on the tip of your tongue.

Seungmin doesn’t need you to tell him how close you are. Your body gives him every cue he needs. The tightening of your muscles. The stuttering of your breath. The legs wrapped around his waist, making sure he keeps punishing your sweet spot, pushing you further and further to your breaking point.

“Mmm, coming. I’m coming” you moan, letting your high wash over you.

He kisses you on the cheek, refusing to let up on you. “Look at you, coming all over my cock” he coos, committing every face you make to memory, “Such a good girl.”

The vision of you is almost too much. Your legs spread out, your brain all fuzzy, your body overstimulated, and your juices pooling on the table below. He can’t hold back anymore. He can’t ignore the tightness and the warmth of your velvet walls fluttering around him.

“Oh fuck” he hisses, pulling out just in time to coat your swollen pussy in a thick glaze of his cum. It’s hot and tingly on your clit, tickling as it drips between your folds.

You stroke his back, comforting him on his way down from his high and he does the same for you, his fingertips running up and down your thighs. The room falls into silence. Not an awkward one but one of comfort. One where you hold each other as long as you want. Not minding the heavy breathing or the sweaty bodies. Just enjoying being together before it dawns on the two of you that you’re both still at work.

“Shit, shit, shit! The front desk is definitely on fire by now” you fuss, rushing to throw your clothes back on.

Seungmin’s not nearly in as much of a rush as you are. He’s having too much fun watching you freak out to care about if there's a bunch of agitated customers waiting up front or not.

Grabbing you by the wrist, he spins you into a hug that calms you down in an instant.

“So what if it is?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your face, “I have to ask you something important first.”

“Important? Important like what?”

“Important like I know we don’t close until 2am tonight but could I see you after, maybe?"

You shrug, acting like you don’t care when you’re literally screaming on the inside, “I guess so.”

“It’s like that? You ‘guess’ so?”

Seungmin slaps your ass and draws you into a kiss that has you ready to drop your panties for him for a second time.

“Fine. I more than guess. I’d love to see you later” you blush, playfully pinching his cheeks, “I’ll wait for you up front then?”

He nods, getting one last squeeze out of you before turning you loose. “Let me see it one more time.”

Knowing exactly what he means, you take a step back to flash him your new piercing.

“Yup, still very hot” he winks, casually leaning against the table he just fucked your brains out on.

You smooth your dress back out, giggling as you skip back out onto the floor to find that everyone’s staring at you. Machines are buzzing but no one’s actually doing any work. Even the customers are staring at you waiting to see what happens next.

Clearing your throat, you hold your head high, and march across the floor. You manage to hide your excitement just long enough to make it back to the hallway where your joyful squeals can flow freely. You can’t remember the last time you felt this excited about something. About someone. About yourself.

You aren’t too big for a belly button piercing. It looks sexy as fuck on you, you must admit. And you aren’t too big for Seungmin who happens to look sexy as fuck on you too. You feel beautiful the way you are, truly, and there’s a boy sitting at his station, too busy thinking about you to get anything done, that thinks so too.

#stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #stray kids smut #seungmin x you #seungmin x reader #seungmin smut #seungmin fluff #stray kids x female reader #stray kids x you #stray kids x chubby reader

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fckwritersblock · 25 days ago

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Run Lines With Me

Michael B Jordan

A/n:… I don’t know what this is for real y’all. I was just typing lmao it’s unedited as fuck per usual until I find somebody to help me out with that part but yeah so… enjoy…. or don’t idk IDK

Micheal B Jordan

Run Lines For Me

“Ouch.”

You rolled your eyes hard at the movie star.

“Well, if you stop movin’, I can get this last bit of hair,” you fussed, firmly holding his chin in your hands. “You’re not meant to be on your phone while getting a shave anyway, foo’.”

Like a child, he stuck his tongue out at you, and you did the same in return.

“Now hold still,” you commanded as you concentrated on your task.

It was one of those surreal moments; you were on the set of *Sinner’s*, in Michael B. Jordan’s trailer, making sure his face was free of all makeup products and that his goatee was perfectly lined for tomorrow.

It was a dream come true, really.

You were Ryan’s cousin. The two of you had always been super close; you were his favorite aunt’s only child, and he looked out for you while you followed him everywhere. As a result, he always hired you to be part of the makeup team for all of his films. You had gone to beauty and barbering school to become a licensed barber, cosmetologist, and aesthetician specializing in FX makeup. You loved enhancing people’s appearances in whatever way they saw fit. Skin care was just as important, so once you got into the film industry and started working on set, you made sure to pair the two; the removal process was just as essential as the application. You always went the extra mile, giving clients facials and whatever serum they needed at the end of the day. Growing up, there was no doubt in your mind that Ryan would become a big-time movie producer, director, and filmmaker. From the moment he showed interest, you supported him. Being a few years younger and looking up to him, you wanted to figure out how to be of service in achieving that. That’s where all those licenses came in. You wanted to be behind the scenes. Though you dabbled in theater a bit in middle and high school, you lived for the feeling of being behind the curtain and camera, putting it all together and seeing the vision come to life.

After five years of your cousin pitching this movie and waiting for it to get picked up, as soon as it was, you were called immediately. Needless to say, this wasn’t your first rodeo with Michael B. Jordan since as you worked on Fruitvale Station , Creed 1 & 2, and Black Panther. While you wouldn’t say you were friends, you’d definitely say it was more than just coworkers. More than associates as well. There had to be more than that, especially with the endless flirting you two had exchanged over the years.

In fact, it was no secret to Ryan that you wanted to jump the actor’s bones. You had a crush on him since you saw Hardball when you were kids. You were obsessed with him on The Wire, crying about it for a week when Wallace died. Being that Ryan was like an older brother to you, what did brothers do? Tease and bully you with love. Fast forward to Ryan shooting Fruitvale Station, and the role of Oscar Grant going to none other than your childhood movie crush, Michael B. Jordan.

Not only was it your first time working on a movie set, but you were actually going to work with Michael B. Jordan. Anyone would be nervous, and you were no exception. Ryan teased you about it endlessly. You had gotten your introduction to the movie star and were assigned as his makeup artist for *Fruitvale*. Given the gravity of the situation and the kind of movie it was, you didn’t talk to him too much, trying not to be a bother. You figured it was hard being a young black man playing a character who was unjustly killed in real life. You wanted to ensure everything remained professional and that he was comfortable.

It wasn’t until *Creed* that you really got to know him better, and good Lord, had the man filled out. That little kid crush on the boy on the screen had transformed into a full-grown woman’s yearning, and every day on set, you were fighting for your life, trying to remain professional. Not stare too long, not make things awkward. You wanted him to feel comfortable with you, a level of normalcy like you wanted all your clients to feel. You didn’t want to make things weird.

Michael noticed your efforts too. He appreciated it. It was why he always made sure to speak to you every day, learn your name, and ask how you were doing. He included you in conversations when you were around, making sure you didn’t feel like just ‘hired help.’ Not to mention, you were fine as hell—thick thighs, soft-looking skin that always seemed to have this glow and warmth to it. He liked the way your clothes hugged your shape in all the right places, how luscious your lips looked covered in a simple gloss, paired with a light beat on your face. Michael was also a sucker for nice lashes, and the way you peered through them to look at him, looking all innocent, did something to him.

The crush was definitely mutual.

Even Zinzi was in on it. You remembered a month before the table read, you were on FaceTime, and she swore she saw something between the two of you.

“You grown grown now; I need you to act like it, baby,” Zinzi stated matter-of-factly.

Sis had been encouraging you to shoot your shot for the third or fourth time in the past month.

“I am grown, bitch! I just don’t wanna embarrass myself and lose my job,” came your lame excuse.

“PUHLEASE. As if your cousin would ever cut you loose. We both know what's up. The man personally asked Ryan if you were gonna be there.”

“Says your plotting ass husband,” you mumbled, knowing setting you up for failure would be a prank he’d pull.

“He didn’t have to tell me, baby; I was there,” she smirked at you, crossing her arms in a ‘now what’ manner.

Another time you and she had a similar conversation was about a month ago before the table reads started.

“Heard you was making googly eyes at ya man yesterday.”

“Who said tha- you’re gonna be widow soon.” You huffed rolling your eyes extra hard. “Yall are hella annoyin’”

“Uh huh whatever.” Zinzi leaned back a little bit rubbing her belly as she spoke. “I’m tryna help you get your shit together before you see that man. Hearin’ a nigga say ‘I wanna taste you’ will have you foldin’ quicker. Speaking from personal experience—”

“Ewwwww! I don’t wanna hear nothin’ about what you and my cousin are doing,” you fake-gagged.

“Whateva.”

“Ay, ay, ay, worry less about what me and my lady are doing and get your man, cousin.” Ryan chimed in appearing in front of the camera.

“HE’S BEEN THERE LISTENING THE WHOLE TIME, ZINZI?!”

Fast forward to now, just a few weeks later. Here you were in Michaels trailer. You had removed his make up and did your own person after care face routine that you did on all your clients and were just about finished lining up his goatees.

“All done. How you feel?” You asked taking a step back handing him a mirror.

“Lighter that’s fasho.” He nodded checking his hair and everything okay.

“I bet. Sucks we’re gonna have to put it back on in like 8 hours.”

“Man don’t remind me.” He sighed handed you the mirror back.

“You getting a treatment and stuff tonight too or?”

“Nah, we can do it tomorrow if you don’t mind. Tryna get in the right frame of mind for these next few days of filming.” He answered do which you nodded.

“I feel you.”

There was a comfortable silence between the two of you as you cleaned up and pack all the make up and others products up for the night, Michael tapping away at his phone screen. There’s a place for everything and everything has its place.

“Aye Run some lines with me real quick.” Michael called out to you.

You turned raising your eyebrow at him. It was a statement not a question.

“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.” You groaned throwing your head back a bit.

“C’mon girl, help a brotha out.” He plead going over to a backpack on the table to the side of yall and pulling out a few stacks of paper.

“You just tryna hold me hostage. Keep me to ya self and shit” you said playfully peering at him through the mirror, finding his eyes already on you.

“I might be.” He smirked the gold ones still in his mouth from filming earlier gleaming.

You could fold right then and there.

“You got me for 30 minutes.” You mumbled snatching the script from him.

“My girl!” He claimed victory smiling at you fully now, you playfully rolling your eyes smiling a bit back.

“Ahem, so what scene?” You asked putting some distance between you a bit.

“The one we shooting tomorrow.”

The past 3-4 days had been spent shooting all of the day time scenes with him playing as Stack, Smoke being played by his double. Tomorrow they’d start shooting all the scenes with Michael as Smoke. Specifically the ones with him and Wunmi.

“You nerves bout it or somethin?” Came your simple ask out of genuine curiosity flipping through the scripts pages.

“Nah, I just spent the past few days playing Stack. Smoke vibe a little different. Wanna make sure I’m locked in and shit” he answered honestly.

“I feel you”

“Mmhmm, here.” he flipped to the right page.

Of course he wanted to start right before their sex scene. You took a deep breath reminding yourself that you were doing this just to help him out before you two got started. You were doing fine, too, reading the lines to him.

All was good until you go to to the the line where Annie threatened to cut Smoke with an idle threat.

You laughed a bit and Michael couldn’t help but grin as you did so.

“I’m sorry, I just know I sound stupid.”

“Nah, you good.” He assured you. Laughing or breaking character happened all the time. That’s what takes are for. Besides yall were just practicing.” You gotta stop reading like it’s a book. Get in character and shit. Ryan told me all about them plays and shit you used to be in growing up.”

“You lie.” You were mortified.

“Dorthy in the Wiz ain’t neva looked that good. Just be fine ya whole life huh?” Michael flirted licking his lips at you.

“Nigga!” You you swatted at him with the script in hand before covering your face with it in embarrassment as he laughed at your expense.

You were gonna kill your cousin.

“I’m just sayin,” Michael continued when his laughed died down, amusement in his voice. “might not be yo passion like that no more but you still know wassup.”

You nodded in agreement while he pushed the papers hiding your face out of it so he could see you clearly.

“Sooooooo. You gon be my Annie or what?”

“Ok.” You breathed out.

“That’s what I’m talking bout it.” He clapped loudly 3 times tryna pump you up.

“We picking up where we left off?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed putting the papers down.

“Oh shit you don’t need the script?” His tone was teasing but you could hear the surprise in his voice.

“Nah i think I got it.”

You had read the script a few times, Ryan sending it to you when he had first completed it a while back and again when he tweaked a few things right before production began. Not to mention you had been a round for a few table reads and a run through or two. If you were being completely honest, that was one of your favorite scenes especially once Michael was officially cast. Rereading it over and over again like the rest of the books you had that were full of filth it was all the more fun imagining him as ‘Smoke’. Now here the two of you were, and he was asking you to play with him.

“Aight then bet, count me in.”

Soon as you got to three he took a deep breath and then read the last line out loud.

“I can’t believe you takin this make believe bullshit” Michael spoke, country accent for ‘Smoke’ turned on,

“Smoke you give me my money fo I cut yo black ass.” You held up one of your make up brushes to his neck as a prop.

With a ghost of a smirk on his face he continued “You gon put the blade up woman,” he demanded staying in character, before holding up a 100. “I’ll trade you”

“I don’t want your money.” You sneered.

“Don’t be stupid”

“I ain’t stupid it, Your money come with blood

“All money come with blood.”

“Not like yours.” You snapped.

You were feeling it, he could tell by the look in your eye and that recollection made his heart do things.

This wasn’t the first time he asked you to run lines with. He was having a hard time admitting it but he had been feeling you for a while. He just didn’t wanna step on any toes you being related to the man who hired him for the job. At least in the beginning. After that it was all just bad time you. Either you were taken or he was but it didn’t change the fact that he liked you for a while. You know what they say right person wrong time.

Now though, now was the perfect time though. Especially since you were both single and had a bit more alone time than before.

“Why it ain’t work on our baby then?”

“I don’t know…but they work for you.” You paused. “You still got that mojo bag.”

Funnily enough he did have it on. He had put it on early when him and Percy were foolin’ around joking bout trading places. They traded hats and upon seeing the mojo bag on one of the prop tables near by, he put it on before they posed for some behind the pics before they continued to shoot the shit.

Slowly you reached out to touch it, and his hand shortly followed. Neither of you looked away as you removed it his hand lingering on yours as you pulled away. . Turning around you remained in character and proceeded to ‘pray over it for a few moments out loud while mentally praying for yourself. You didn’t dare make eye contact through the mirror as you placed the necklace on the counter in front of you trying to steady your heart. It increased as you felt Michaels presence heavy behind you, body damn near pressed against your.

Be a big girl bitch, you stated mentally.

“Why you here Smoke?” You breathed out as you turned back around, bracing your hands on the counter behind him. “ what you want from me?”

There were a several ways Michael wanted to answer that question.

He wanted you wrapped around him.

He wanted you bouncing on his dick screaming his name.

He wanted to fuck yo fine ass until you were dumb, numb, and your pussy was dripping with his cum.

Wanted to devour you

Suck ya soul right out ya body

He wanted you for himself

He wanted you to be his.

Michael didn’t bother to hide the lust that flickered in his eyes as he looked at you, unconsciously licking his lips. Your gaze zeroed in on his actions, and you instinctively squeezed your thighs tight together, feeling a rush of heat course through you.

His nostrils flared slightly when he noticed your reaction, but he remained silent, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Grand opening for the juke tonight. Want you to cook for us.”

“Elijah,” you tilted your head, feigning innocence, knowing exactly what he was implying.

“You gonna make me say it?” he challenged, his voice low and teasing.

You stayed quiet, just as you were meant to, as he took a step back and settled into a chair, his eyes never leaving you.

“Still hurts coming back here, but I love ya. And I miss ya,” he confessed, his voice tinged with something deeper, something you wished was meant for you.

You knew he wasn’t speaking directly to you, but the longing in your chest was undeniable. Your body was on fire, and the crazy part was that he hadn’t even touched you yet. But you could feel the tension simmering beneath the surface; he wanted to, and you could sense it.

As the air shifted, you instinctively knew what was supposed to happen next in the script. Taking his face in your hands, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his for just a moment before planting a chaste kiss near his mouth. Another kiss landed softly on his cheek, and you continued to leave a trail of kisses down the side of his neck. With one hand, you pulled his head back for more access, massaging his scalp as you did so. Nipping at a spot on his neck, you swirled your tongue around it, sucking gently, earning an almost inaudible “fuck” from him.

“Your body ain’t forgotten me,” you whispered, your breath hot against his skin as your right hand slid down to palm him through his sweats.

That was the tipping point. Methodically, his hand traced up your body, wrapping around your throat as he stood, bringing your face closer to his. When his lips finally met yours, he groaned like a man starved, savoring the taste he had been yearning for. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, a dance of passion igniting between you.

Standing up he pulled your body flush against his, his hands exploring your curves, leaving an indescribable heat in their wake. With a swift motion, his hands hooked behind your knees, grinding into you as he effortlessly set you on the table you had been working on just an hour ago.

Both of you were tired of pretending that you didn’t want each other. It showed in the way you tore each other’s shirts off, the way he shoved his tongue into your mouth, and the way you pulled him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. You ground into him, desperate to create friction to satisfy the relentless ache in your core, the bulge in his pants straining against the fabric of just jeans, ready to burst through with how hard you had him. Michael wasted no time pulling the chair closer, sliding your pants down and throwing your legs over his shoulder and as you watched pupils blown wide with lust.

The heat between you was palpable, a fire igniting in the space around you. You could feel the urgency in his touch, the way his fingers dug into your thighs, holding you steady as he continued his ministrations. Each flick of his tongue sent shockwaves through your body, and every breath you took was laced with desperation.

“Michael,” you breathed, lost in the moment, “I need you.”

His darkened lust filled eyes found yours as he pulled away for just a moment, letting the anticipation build. “You want me?” he asked, voice low and sultry, making your heart race.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but full of longing. “Please.”

He wasted no time, standing up and positioning himself between your legs once more, the heat of his body radiating against yours. You watched as he dropped his gray sweats to the ground freeing his member that was nice, thick, and hard precum oozing a bit from the tip. You could see the desire etched on his face, a mirror to the yearning that consumed you both. You were done pretending; this was your moment, and you were ready to seize it.

Turning around you bent over slightly, gazing at him through the mirror, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in anticipation. He lined himself up with your entrance, eyes locked onto yours as he slid in, his thick tip greedily welcomed into your core. You pushed your ass out to meet his thrust, eager for him to fill you completely.

“Damn, you’re wet as fuck,” he marveled, pulling out just enough to watch how you coated him, glistening with your desire.

You could only hum in response as he pushed back in, stretching you wider than before. “You good?” he asked, massaging your lower back while thrusting slowly, giving you time to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of him filling you.

“Mmhmm,” you managed to reply, lost in the pleasure.

“Good.”

With that, Michael picked up his pace, his relentless hips pounding into you from behind. One of your hands braced against the counter, while the other reached back to grip his wrist for support as he delivered delicious back shots, each one sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

“Smoke—” The name caught in your throat as he pulled your head back by your hair, a possessive gesture that sent shivers down your spine.

“Uh uh, my name, baby,” he purred against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and filthy as he continued his assault on your pussy.

This was no longer just an act; he wanted you to know this was all him.

“Michael, oh my fuck,” you whimpered, your walls tightening around him as he found that sweet spot deep inside you.

“Right there?!” he grinned through the mirror, and you nodded, panting wordlessly, feeling your eyes roll back in ecstasy.

“Words, mama.”

“Yes, Michael!” Your hands gripped the counter tighter as you began to throw it back, desperate to ensure he felt you just as intensely as you felt him.

“Fuck.” He growled, keeping up the pace, your pussy feeling warmer and wetter with each thrust. He loved the way you felt wrapped around him, watched the way your breasts bounced, your mouth slightly ajar, eyebrows furrowed, eyes fluttering as you tried to keep them from rolling back.

He was utterly captivated, relishing the faces you made while he pleased you, as if you were made for this very moment.

“Michael,” you moaned, the sound music to his ears. “I’m about to cum, baby.” Your abs began to clench, your body preparing to release.

With a swift motion, he pulled out, turning you around and placing you on the counter, your ass hanging off slightly. You were furious, to say the least. So close to climaxing, only for him to cut you off just before your peak. You huffed, frustrated, as you tried to catch your breath.

“Michael, what the—” you gasped, throwing your head back as you felt his tongue delve between your folds. “FUCK!”

He did it again, groaning as he did so, taking your throbbing bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before pulling back, a string of saliva connecting the two of you, both looking like he was starved for your sweetness.

With a sudden slap to your pussy, he pulled another moan from you that satisfied his sadistic desires.

“You can cum on my dick later,” he mumbled, giving your dripping cunt a teasing peck as you whimpered, legs shaking slightly. He looked up at you, a grin on his face, his mouth glistening with your slick, hands rubbing and gripping your inner thigh.

“First time I make you cum, I want it to be in my mouth”

#black writer #black!reader #michael b jordan imagines #michael b. jordan #black reader imagine #black female reader #sinners fanfiction #sinners x reader #smoke x stack #smoke and stack imagine #smoke moore x reader #black reader masterlist #black reader #sinners fic #sinners imagine #michael b jordan #stack moore x reader

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rhaenyraeri · 2 months ago

Text

Co-Star Tensions (Interlude) - Jack O’Connell

minors dni, 18+!! (no smut, just mention)

Part 1, Part 2, Interlude, Part 3

Pairing: Hailee Steinfeld x fem!platonic!Reader, Wunmi Mosaku x fem!platonic!Reader, mention of Jack O’Connell x fem!Reader

Summary: After reshoots finished, you headed to the special effects artist’s station to get your makeup off from the day. Little did you know, your closest friends were to pay you a visit regarding your recent excursion with Jack.

Warnings: mentions of sexual acts, swearing, rpf

Words: 762

Note: Going through a small writers block with part 3, but I owed you all a little something. So, here’s a fun little drabble moment showing reader’s friendship with Hailee and Wunmi! I haven’t gotten to show much of it, but I hope this can be a good peace offering until the next part is done lol.

As the artist removed the makeup, you zoned out, just endlessly scrolling your social medias as you thought of how excited you were. To finally get that date you hoped for, being able to finally be with him outside of filming with dozens of people around. A loud voice pulled you from your thoughts as you look up in a panic to the door, where Hailee and Wunmi now stood, smiling deviantly.

“I knew it! I knew that would happen! So when’s the date?,” Wunmi questioned, a little hint of excitement peeking through her words as she walked closer to you, putting a hand on your shoulder and giving a light shake. Hailee ran around the back of your chair, giggling. Your panicked face quickly morphed to a smile, your face turning bright red, and your foot now tapping. “Tonight. Actually, once we both get back to our rooms and freshen up.” Hailee let out a girlish “eeek” and Wunmi clapped. The two of them were your closest friends, and it felt like the three of you were teenagers having a sleep over, talking about boys and how you wanted to be with the one you liked oh so much. “Oh, how exciting! You two really broke the ice pretty damn good already though, huh?,” Hailee said, now making eye contact with you through the mirror. If your face wasn’t already red as blood, it definitely was now. “Hailee! Oh my God, I can’t believe you already brought that up!,” you jumped. Of course she would, you knew she would but part of you hoped she’d wait just a few days. “I mean, it isn’t exactly like you were discreet about that one. We all kinda knew where you were, but we’d been covering for you.”

You closed your eyes and took a breath, thankful they covered for you but also.. still embarrassed. Slightly. “So, you guys knew about us a week ago too?” The gasps from the women were so loud that it made your eyes widen from the change of tune. They didn’t know. Fuck. Now that’s another thing to fuel their girl talk questioning. “What? No?! What happened a week ago?,” Wunmi pushed, desperate to know what her close friend gotten up to with the man she’s crushing on a week ago. “Well, uhm, I, uh-“

“Girl, come on! Did you two do something a week ago too?” Hailee’s jaw was dropped after that question, amazed you kept that from her and Wunmi, and baffled that today wasn’t the first time.

“Well, you know how we had to refilm the Joan and Bert scene? Uhm.. On my way back to my camper I ran into him.. and we were both still in costume… and we did some things.. on the set. In character.” Your face had to literally be on fire right now. The heat was insufferable, and you could swear if you touched your face that your skin would burn, but you had to hide the embarrassment with your hands. “Shut the fuck up! In character? You little freaks! Wunmi, can you believe our sweet friend is a freak?” The two women clapped and squealed, loving every bit of the girl talk you were giving them. “I can’t! Girl, you’re going to kill us! On set, too? That’s insane work…. good for you!” With your head still in your hands, your body started to shake from laughter. “I know, I know! I was stunned too. There was just something about him in that.. outfit. I don’t know guys! I’ve been thinking about it all week. He wanted to take me out last week but I worried myself to death over it and convinced myself that he didn’t actually want me.” Their celebrating quieted, more serious emotions coming out. “So that was the distance we noticed. Neither of you were yourselves this week. But hey, now you know he was serious. Don’t worry about that, I see the looks he gives you. Sometimes Hailee and I would catch him staring at you like you hung the stars above the earth. He really likes you,” Wunmi comments, messing with a strand of hair out of place. You nod, a small smile emerging as you think of the past week in a different light, knowing tonight could be the start of your relationship. “Come on, we’ll help you get your stuff and get you back to the hotel. We’re headed there now, you can ride back with us,” Hailee offered, already grabbing your bag and pulling you up from the chair.

Taglist: @moyavsemoya , @faephoria, @carriemill, @livlifehope

#jack o’connell imagine #jack o’connell x reader #jack o'connell #wunmi mosaku #hailee steinfeld #hailee steinfield x reader #wunmi mosaku x reader #sinners x reader #sinners #sinners imagine #sinners fic #remmick #annie #mary

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skywalkerslvt · 1 year ago

Text

Inked- Ellie Williams

❥Pairing: Ellie Williams x AFAB!Reader

❥Summary: Ellie gets a stomach tattoo and then fucks you in a public washroom

❥CW: 18+ smut, oral sex (reader receiving), semi-public sex. 1.3k words

❥a/n: NOT PROOFREAD! I lowkey hate this and might edit later but here's the long awaited fic that I took way too long to post lol. Sorry if the formatting is weird- i'm posting from my phone. Hope u enjoy! pics are from pinterest

The tattoo parlour was a blend of buzzing needles and low conversations, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic and ink. You walked in with Ellie, walking close behind her as you looked around. You had been best friends for years, sharing countless memories and adventures, and today was about to add another chapter.

Ellie was finally getting the stomach tattoo she'd talked about for months, and you were there for moral support, as always. The artist greeted you with a nod, already prepping his station.

Ellie seemed calm, but you could sense the underlying nerves. As she lay back in the chair, your hands instinctively reached out to give her hand a squeeze.

Ellie lifted up her shirt and pulled the waistband of her jeans down slightly, exposing the canvas of her skin. Your eyes trailed over her exposed skin, lingering on the slight v-line that disappeared beneath her pants. You felt a rush of warmth to your cheeks and quickly looked away, hoping Ellie didn't notice.

The session began, the buzz of the needle filling the room. You watched as the artist skillfully worked on Ellie’s skin, the blank ink slowly forming intricate patterns. You tried to focus on the tatto, but your eyes kept drifting back to Ellie's exposed skin, the taut muscles of her abdomen, the soft curve of her hips.

Ellie winced occasionally, her grip on your hand tightening. Each time you offered a reassuring smile, but inside you were battling your own desires. The way her body reacted to the pain, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath as her teeth worried her bottom lip–it was all too much.

You found your mind wandering, imagining what it would be like to feel Ellie's hands on you, her mouth exploring your body. The thought of her pinning you down, her fingers teasingly tracing your skin, sent a shiver down your spine. Your eyes traced the V-line of her abdomen once more, and you could almost feel her pressed against you, her breath hot against your ear as she whispered your name.

Your body reacted to the fantasy, heat pooling between your legs as you shifted in your seat, trying to find some relief. You bit your lip, your eyes flicking back to Ellie's face. Her eyes were closed, her breath coming in shallow pants as the needle continued its work. You wondered if she could feel your gaze, if she could sense the effect she had on you.

The thought of Ellie's hands gripping your hips, her body pressed against yours, her mouth claiming yours in a heated kiss-it was enough to make you ache with need. You clenched your thighs together, trying to focus on anything else, but the image of Ellie fucking you, her voice husky with desire, refused to leave your mind.

Ellie attempted conversation with you, but you were too distracted, not hearing her words as your focus zeroed in on her skin. Her grip on your hand loosened, and her fingers splayed against your upper thigh, squeezing slightly to grab your attention.

Your eyes meet hers, heat flooding your face at the contact. “Are you okay?”

Shit. Did she notice you staring? “I- Yes. I'm fine,” you stuttered out, sneaking another glance at her v-line before meeting her eyes again. Something in her gaze shifted and–oh god, you had to get out of there. The way she was looking at you through her lashes had your aching cunt soaking your panties. “I have to use the washroom.”

You got up abruptly, not waiting for a reply from Ellie as you beelined to the washroom towards the back of the parlour. Once inside, you leaned against the sink, taking deep breaths to calm yourself. The mirror reflected your wide eyed, lust fueled expression, your thoughts racing with the memory of Ellie's exposed skin.

Minutes passed, and you heard a light knock on the door. “Hey, you okay in there?” Ellie's voice was soft but laced with concern.

“Yeah, just…give me a minute,” you called back, trying to steady your voice.

Ellie's hesitation was palpable, but she opened the door anyway, slipping inside and closing it behind her. Shit. You forgot to lock the door.

"I was worried about you," she said, her eyes scanning your face. "You seemed... off."

You bit your lip, avoiding her gaze. "I'm fine, really."

Ellie stepped closer, her hand gently tilting your chin up to meet her eyes. "I saw the way you were looking at me," she murmured, her voice low. "And it's okay. You don't have to hide it."

Your heart pounded in your chest as her words sank in. "Ellie, I-"

She cut you off with a kiss, her lips soft but demanding against yours. You melted into her touch, your hands gripping her shirt as you pulled her closer. The kiss deepened, years of unspoken desire finally breaking free.

Ellie's hands roamed your body, sliding under your shirt to caress your skin. Her touch was electrifying, sending shivers down your spine. She pushed you against the wall, her mouth moving to your neck, sucking and biting gently.

You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in her hair.

"Ellie," you breathed out, your voice heavy with need. She pulled back slightly, her eyes dark with desire as she looked at you.

"Do you want this?" she asked, her voice husky.

"Yes," you replied without hesitation. "I want you."

Ellie smirked, her hands moving to unbutton your jeans. She slipped her hand inside, her fingers brushing against your soaked panties. "You're so wet," she whispered, her breath hot against your ear.

You gasped as her fingers slid inside your panties, teasing your entrance.

"Ellie, please," you begged, your hips bucking against her hand.

She slid two fingers inside you, curling them to hit just the right spot. You moaned loudly, your back arching against the wall. Ellie's thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles as she fucked you with her fingers.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the pleasure building inside you. "Ellie, I'm gonna-"

"Come for me," she murmured, her lips brushing against your ear. Her words pushed you over the edge, your body shuddering as you came around her fingers.

Ellie didn't stop, continuing to finger you through your orgasm, drawing out every last bit of pleasure. When you finally came down, she pulled her hand away, bringing her fingers to her lips and licking them clean. "You taste so good," she said, her voice filled with desire.

Before you could respond, Ellie dropped to her knees, her hands gripping your hips as she pulled your jeans and panties down. She kissed the inside of your thighs, her tongue flicking out to tease your skin. "Ellie," you moaned, your hands gripping her hair.

She licked a long stripe up your slit, her tongue swirling around your clit. You cried out, your hips bucking against her mouth. Ellie held you firmly in place, her tongue delving into your core, tasting you. She alternated between licking and sucking, her tongue expertly working you towards another orgasm.

Your legs trembled, your breaths coming in short gasps as the pleasure built inside you once more. "Ellie, I'm gonna come again," you panted. She hummed against your clit, the vibration sending you over the edge.

You came with a loud cry, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Ellie continued to lick you, her tongue gentle now, helping you come down from your high.

When you finally caught your breath, Ellie stood up, her lips glistening with your arousal. She kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. "That was incredible," she whispered against your lips.

You smiled, your body still tingling with pleasure. "Yes, it was," you agreed. "But what about you?"

Ellie grinned, her hands moving to unbutton her own jeans. "Oh, I'm not done with you yet," she said, her voice filled with anticipation.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #the last of us x reader #tlou #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us smut #tlou smut #tlou part 2

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nottellingofname · 2 months ago

Text

Sexy girl, come and lay with me - Ryomen Sukuna

"What do you mean he's not in?"

Suguru swallowed hard, his smile a little too stiff. "Choso's not here," he repeated, firmer now. "But—I’ve got someone else. She’s new, but sharp."

Sukuna didn’t answer. Instead, he yanked out his phone and dialed his nephew's number. It rang twice. Voicemail.

"Choso," he growled into the receiver, voice like gravel underfoot, "if you don’t pick up, I’m going to rip your spine out and wear it like a freaking lei."

He didn’t hang up—just stared at the black screen like he could will it to light up.

Meanwhile, Suguru slipped into the back. You were hunched over your sketchpad, Snickers in hand, music playing softly from your earbuds.

Honestly, you were hoping to ghost through the day undisturbed. No clients. No drama. Just ink and candy. But the moment Suguru burst in, you knew that peace was dead.

“Hey,” he said, too chipper. Too nervous. “I, uh, need a favor.”

You popped out an earbud. “No refunds, no walk-ins, no miracles,” you replied, biting into the Snickers. “Pick one.”

“It’s just one guy.” Suguru stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But he’s... not just any guy. He’s looking for Choso and, uh, he’s not taking ‘no’ well.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. Muscles, bad attitude, likes yelling into phones like that’ll solve anything?”

Suguru nodded.

You sighed and stood, dusting chocolate off your fingers. Silence hung in the air as you stared at Suguru.

“Still. No.”

But Suguru wouldn't take no for an answer either. His grip on your arm was firm as he pulled you from your chair and led you toward the front of the shop.

"Come on," he urged, "it's just one tattoo—you can handle it."

The moment you approached the counter, you saw the man. He was indeed hulking, with biceps that looked like they could crush rocks and a scowl that could make the sun hide behind a cloud. He looked carved out of fury and concrete. His phone was clenched so tight it might shatter.

Ancient tattoos coiled over his knuckles and disappeared up thick forearms. His expression said he wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Or denied anything.

He didn’t even look at you when you approached.

"I'm your artist today," you said, voice lazy, dry as dust.

He didn’t respond. Still redialing.

You walked past him and jerked your thumb toward the back. "Booth’s this way. Bring your tantrum with you."

Surprisingly, he followed, still furiously dialing Choso’s number.

You flopped into the chair beside the station and watched him huff and fume, leaving increasingly unhinged voicemails. It would’ve been funny if his aura didn’t feel like a forest fire with legs.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, but you didn't let it get to you. You've seen all sorts in your line of work, and an angry client was hardly anything new. You leaned back in your chair, kicking your feet up onto the counter.

The stencil in your hand was intricate, a design that had been etched into your brain after countless hours of practice.

It was a pattern that looked like it could have been pulled straight from the pages of an ancient Japanese scroll. But there was something different about it today, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You studied it closely, turning it over in your hands, and that's when you saw it: a perfect match for the angry man still huffing and puffing in your chair.

You wandered over and tapped the stencil against your palm. “You’re not going to magic Choso into existence by threatening his voicemail.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes flashing.

Before he could speak, you pressed a hand to his chest and shoved. Hard. He stumbled backward into the chair.

“Relax, Godzilla,” you muttered, unbuttoning his shirt like you were folding laundry. “I need the canvas.”

As you began to unbutton his shirt, straddling over him, he scrutinized you with skepticism, as if trying to figure out what game you were playing.

"You must be on something," he grunted, his voice thick with disbelief. "Only someone high out of their mind would do this to me."

You just smirked, continuing to expose his skin.

"I assure you, I'm as sober as a judge."

He watched you closely, eyes darting across your face, your hands. Something about your calm seemed to confuse him more than anger him.

"What’s your name, girl?"

You looked up from sterilizing his skin. “You can call me yours if that’ll help you sit still.”

Sukuna’s expression twitched. Whether from irritation or intrigue, you couldn’t tell. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, his eyebrow raising slightly. The room had tension, the air charged with the scent of ink and antiseptic.

He fully took off his shirt, revealing a landscape of intricate tattoos that sprawled across his chest and arms. They were a map of his life, each ink stroke telling a story of battles won and enemies vanquished.

You took a moment to appreciate the artistry before focusing on the patch of bare skin just below his sternum, free from ink.

You laid out the stencil with a gentle hand, aligning it with the existing tapestry of his body art. But as you leaned in to press it against his warm, firm flesh, he grabbed your wrist, halting your movement. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that suggested both annoyance and curiosity.

"This isn't what I want," he growled, his grip firm but not painful. "I wanted Choso's work, not some random girl playing artist."

You leaned back, sitting on his torso, the weight of your body pressing him into the chair.

"Well, tough luck," you said, your voice as smooth as silk. "Choso's not here, and you're getting a taste of what the rest of the world has to deal with when they don't get their way."

Sukuna's eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He didn't like this, not one bit. But there was something about your confidence, the way you held the tattoo gun like it was a part of you, that kept his complaints at bay.

With a sigh that could've deflated a hot air balloon, he gave in. "Fine," he grunted. "But if you mess this up, you're going to regret ever laying eyes on me."

You just smiled, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, I'm shaking in my boots," you said, the sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife.

You knew exactly what you were doing, and you had no intention of letting this man-mountain intimidate you.

The tattoo gun buzzed to life. You started the outline without ceremony, dragging the needle along his skin with confident precision.

Sukuna grunted, jaw tight. “You’re not gentle.”

You shrugged. “I’m not here to hold your hand.”

His gaze wandered, watching your hands more than the art. His fingers began to brush against your thighs. Testing boundaries.

“You nervous or just handsy?” you asked without looking up.

He smirked, low and rough. “Just admiring the view.”

“Focus on the ceiling,” you said, tone bored. “This isn’t that kind of shop.”

Still, his touches grew bolder. Up your hips. Until your waist. His voice dropped into your ear. “You’re good at this.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. “I know.”

His hand slid up to the small of your back, the gesture more possessive than complimentary. The tension in the room thickened, the air charged with something you couldn't quite name. You knew you had to put a stop to it before it went too far.

And then—swift as a snap—you climbed off his lap, the chair screeching beneath you. You set the gun down with a final click.

“That’s enough,” you said coolly. “I’m not here to play house.”

He looked up, startled. “No. Don’t stop. This—this isn’t what it looks like.”

You crossed your arms. “It looks like a man trying to cross a line.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you were already wiping down the ink. “Session’s over.”

“What the hell do you mean it’s over?” His voice cracked the air like thunder.

You met his fury with all the emotion of a bored cat. "Just what I said," you replied coolly. "Your session's over. If you want more, you'll have to come back."

For a long moment, silence stretched. Then—laughter. Low, thunderous, involuntary. It spilled from him like water from a cracked dam. He grabbed the towel from your hand and wiped himself down, chuckling.

“You’ve got fire,” he said, eyes glittering.

You arched a brow. “That a compliment or a warning?”

He looked at the mirror, inspected the work. “It’s perfect.”

You shrugged. “I know.”

Suguru peeked in then, wide-eyed. “Oh. You’re... done?”

Suguru bustled in then, his usual cheerful self. "How'd it go?" he chirped, not noticing the tension hanging in the air like a heavy fog. You tossed Suguru the aftercare instructions without looking up from cleaning your work station.

"He’s all yours," you said, your voice as cool and professional as ever.

Sukuna stood, rolled his shoulders, and glanced at you one last time. “Guess I’ll be seeing more of you.”

You nodded curtly and turned to leave, back into the comfort of the office you were dragged out of. You took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to shake off the encounter. You had done your job, and done it well. That's all that mattered.

But as you left, you felt the weight of Sukuna's gaze on your back. You knew he was watching, no doubt grilling Suguru about you. A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—it wasn't every day you managed to throw someone like him off balance.

“No, Sukuna. I, in fact, cannot tell you where she lives.”

Listen to Sukuna's Playlist? / Listen to everyone's playlist?

#jjk x reader #jjk #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #fluff #jjk fluff #theplaylist #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen #jjk sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna #mafia au #sukuna x y/n

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trianglegoddess · 3 months ago

Text

New Ink, Old Scars

Tattoo artist meet-cute au bbyyyyy

Part 2 of my meet cute series, also on AO3!

-----

Eddie is setting up his station when his new client walks in. He had made the appointment online so Eddie hadn’t actually met him, and well, he’s certainly not complaining.

His new client is absolute eye candy. He’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and an older looking t-shirt, soft and well-worn and well-loved. They had texted a bit back and forth on social media, just so Eddie could have his design ready by the time of the appointment, and he had clearly followed Eddie’s advice to dress comfortably.

It was a pretty sick design, too, not something that would really seem to be up this particular client’s alley. He looks like your typical Good American Boy, with his tanned skin and freckles and moles and perfect floopy hair that makes Eddie want to eat drywall.

Once he’s done setting up, he walks over to the counter, greets him with a, “Hey, Steve, right? I’m Eddie,” and internally high-fives himself for how chill he was able to be.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Steve says.

They chat as Steve hands over his I.D. for the paperwork he then fills out once Eddie makes a copy of it. And it’s kind of…Immediate, Eddie thinks. Sometimes he really has to work to get along with some of his clients, or they don’t really speak at all, but this guy, he’s a fucking riot. He’s witty, and a little bitchy in a mean-girl sorta way that makes Eddie want to write Mr. Eddie Harrington in his nonexistent diary over and over.

The conversation steers towards music, and Eddie’s old pipeline dream of making it big while they size the design up. Steve is getting it on the back of his forearm from his wrist to his elbow, and he gave Eddie complete creative freedom. Once he gets the stencil made, he takes Steve back to sanitize the skin and stick the stencil on.

All the while they talk and talk and talk, and Eddie only interrupts the flow of the conversation to instruct Steve to hold his arm a certain way, and to lay down on his stomach so he can tattoo the back of his arm comfortably.

Usually Eddie gets lost in the work, absorbed in the way he pulls a line to make it perfect, focusing on just how far the needles are going when he gets to the shading so he doesn’t cut Steve. Now, though, he just lets himself go on autopilot. Steve is going on about how his nickname was “The Hair” in highschool, talks about how Eddie’s curls are really nice, talks about how Eddie should do certain treatments that can protect them even more, and Eddie’s never been interested in hair care, never been interested in any of this stuff, but he’s pretty sure he’d be over the moon about golf if Steve was the one explaining it to him.

When they’re done Steve waits patiently while Eddie goes through the process of taking photos and videos for his socials (and if he takes a little longer than he should nobody but he will ever know), before throwing some second skin on him and a piece of paper with the aftercare instructions on it.

There’s a sort of ache when Steve leaves, like he’s suddenly missing something, missing a part of him.

He ignores the feeling, and instead gets ready for his next client.

The next morning after he’s posted the photo of the nail bat Steve got, he sees a multitude of comments. Some are from the ones who comment regularly on his art, some are bots, and some are…Children?

Eddie can’t help but pull a piece of hair in front of his mouth, twirled around his finger as he reads through them. Steve is arguing with some kids named ‘EatMyDust’ and ‘MadMax,’ and it’s dumb and endearing and-and he kind of feels like a teenage girl, twirling his hair and kicking his feet like he is, unable to help the grin that spreads across his face.

Later that night he receives an apology from Steve about his battle with the children (which he lost, MadMax was brutal). He also gets a question about his availability for next week.

It’s how he ends up tattooing Steve again. Steve had requested a robin on his chest, right above his heart.

The design itself is pretty simple, but it’s still a more tender area for most, which he informs Steve of as he’s getting the design ready.

“I think I can handle it,” Steve says easily, and then.

And then the motherfucker winks at him.

Eddie is going to spontaneously combust on the spot.

He tries not to let it affect his speech too much as he instructs Steve to take his shirt off for the stencil. And, even though Steve was being coy about it, Eddie understands immediately that Steve is going to be just fine with this tattoo.

On his abdomen there are mottled scars, ugly and raised and almost matching Eddie’s in a way that’s uncanny. He doesn’t ask though. For one, it’s just rude, but also he’s a professional. It’s not the first time he’s seen bad scar tissue. He’s tattooed burn victims and people who want to cover up their self harm scars and all sorts of other people, all sorts of other reasons for these kinds of markings. He spars a glance at Steve’s abdomen, and that’s it.

Steve, for the most part, seems relatively unshy about the whole ordeal. He had talked about being into sports pretty much his entire life, and he’s sure that that has something to do with it. Being in those locker rooms for all of the important parts of his youth probably desensitized him to this sort of thing long ago.

Still, when they’re letting the stencil dry, Eddie can’t help but run a hand over his own stomach, over his own scars.

“You can ask, you know,” Steve says. “If you want.”

“Only if you wanna talk about ‘em, man.”

“You know Hawkins? Small little backwater town that had that earthquake a few years back?” Steve asks him. Eddie nods. He had been in that backwater town, had been in that earthquake, and once the dust had settled he had gotten the fuck outta dodge. That town had never done much for him anyway, and the earthquake had been as good a reason as any to leave. “I got stuck in all of it,” Steve continues. “Most of it is from the debris and what not; I had been walking downtown where a fault line split the ground up.”

“No shit,” Eddie says. He had been on the fault line, had a very similar experience to Steve in that sense. It had split his trailer in half, and he and Wayne had had to figure their shit out pretty quick afterwards.

Eddie lifts up his own shirt then, shows Steve his own scars. His are a lot deeper, travel a lot farther, all the way up to his neck but they match, and that’s gotta mean something, right?

He hears Steve’s breath catch as he looks down at Eddie’s own torso as Eddie explains his own experiences in that very same earthquake.

After that, the tattoo feels weirdly intimate, with this sort of charged energy between them. They talk, just as much as last time, but this time their voices are softer, gentler, as they talk about their own traumas surrounding the event.

“Sometimes I feel bad, though,” Steve tells him. “I had pushed the kids out of the way, you know, I mean-I didn’t even think about it, I just did it. But then when all that shit fell on me, and when the earthquake didn’t immediately stop, I think-I know I scared them. And I think sometimes they think I’m just gonna disappear. And I feel bad for being the one to make them go through that-that uncertainty. It’s scary, especially around their age.”

“How old were they?”

“Fourteen, except Lucas’ little sister, she was eleven. And now they’re all graduating in a month, and I wanna be there for them but-”

“But it’s hard,” Eddie finishes. “I’ll go with you, if you want.”

Eddie knows exactly what compels him to offer. It’s his big, stupid, fat crush on this actual literal life saver. He’d brave his shitty backwater hometown for Steve. Hell, right now with how strong this crush is he’d probably do anything for him.

“Really?” Steve asks.

“Really,” Eddie says.

After that, Eddie finishes the tattoo pretty quickly. It’s a beautiful robin with irises and snapdragons framing it, all bright colors and an almost sort of impressionistic feeling to it. Then it’s the aftercare and a promise to coordinate their trip to Hawkins at a later date.

Eddie doesn’t expect Steve to take him up on the offer, not really. He seems like the lone wolf-protector kind of guy, someone who thinks they need to face their traumas by themselves to avoid being a burden to those around them. Steve doesn’t text him, outside of thanking him for the pictures of the tattoo Eddie sends his way.

It’s why he’s a little surprised when Steve comes in the next night, too late for there to be any time to actually tattoo him. He looks flushed and almost uncertain as he changes his weight from foot to foot while he waits for Eddie to greet him at the counter, carefully angling his body to hide whatever he’s got behind his back.

“Stevie!” He greets, unable to help the smile that splits his face in two. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Does your bandage need to be changed out?”

“Wha-no, uh, no. The bandage is fine, no leaking or anything. I just-um. Well.”

Without saying anything else, Steve pulls out a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. They’re marigolds and daisies, and they smell fucking amazing. Eddie gently takes them, wide-eyed and dumbstruck as he looks between the flowers and Steve and back again and back again.

“I, uh-would you. Are you busy?” Steve asks. His face is beat red, and he’s running a hand through his hair and he can’t meet Eddie’s eyes for more than a second before he looks away again.

“Uh-No. I mean-not after I’m done closing up, I mean. I just have to mop and then I’m all yours.”

“Really?” Steve asks, and it’s so fucking hopeful, so fucking endearing, and Eddie practically melts.

Eddie nods, hiding his smile behind the flowers. “Really,” he says. Steve just grins back at him.

“Do you want to go to dinner with me?”

“I’ll go with you,” Eddie says. “If you want.”

Steve softens all around. His shoulders relax, and the nervous tension he had been holding himself with dissipates as he takes a confident step forward.

“I would like that very much, Eds.”

A month later, Eddie gets to meet the kids that Steve goes on and on about, and he meets the Queen of Steve’s Heart, Platonic Soulmate with a Capital ‘P,’ and she gives him a knowing look and a wink and it’s-

It’s good. Great, even.

It’s great.

#bisexual steve harrington #steve harrington #eddie munson #modern au #tattoo artist!Eddie munson #meet cute #steddie #stranger things

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i-dared-myself · 4 months ago

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Name on My Skin

Jisung x reader

In which you meet the perfect soulmate for you.

In a world of soulmates, it is chaos. Oftentimes, meeting your soulmate is love at first sight. Other times, they meet their best friend. Occasionally people die before meeting theirs.

Or there are the times that people’s soulmates weren’t nice people. You would meet someone who you had positive ideas about for your entire life, only for them to be an asshole.

Your greatest fear is for your soulmate to be a jerk. For them to be some kind of psychopath or someone who should be in prison.

That is why you always avoid any chances of meeting your soulmate. You don’t go on blind dates. You refrain from physical touch, not wanting a mark to linger on your skin.

Your mother is not pleased.

“Who’s going to take care of you?” she yells, hands on her hips.

“I have friends,” you tiredly remind her. “And why are you here?”

She huffs and turns around, looking at all the shirts. “I don’t know why you even bother buying it. It’s not like the love of your life is going to appreciate it.”

“I have a job interview.” You rub at your forehead, fighting off a headache. “This is very important to me, okay?”

Your mother breathes out through her nose, barely hiding her disdain. “I don’t know how you expect to make any money there. Makeup? For men?”

“Men can wear makeup.” You peruse the options carefully. You don’t want anything too flashy, but you do want to stand out from all the other candidates. “And it’s their job, too.”

“What are they, models?” Your mother shakes her head and scoffs. “I don’t think this is a good fit for you, dear.”

“It’s just an interview.” You select a shirt off the rack and hold it up. You smile as you bring it out to checkout with your mother trailing after you. “It’s no guarantee of a job.”

Your mother sighs. “You’re right. You probably won’t even get it.”

But you do.

You get the job.

Now you’re a makeup artist for Stray Kids, finally making use of your degree. You had always been told it was a mistake to go into the field, but here you are.

When you walk in on your first day, you’re given the run down. Where the styling room is, who your coworkers are, and everything important.

You’re slightly ashamed to admit to your coworkers that you’d never listened to Stray Kids.

You had heard of them, just never gotten into it. You had never listened to them, nor watched anything with them.

You weren’t against them; it just had never peaked your interest enough to risk your mother’s wrath. She deeply disapproved of most things; boy bands being one of them.

So when they walk in, you might possibly be confused.

A man sits at your station, settling onto the raised stool. He smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re new.”

“Uh, yes.” You bob your head, reaching past him for your tools.

“So who’s your bias?” he asks, making you pause.

You hesitate because you don’t know any of their names. “Uh, you?”

He grins, poking the one next to him. “Do you hear that, Hyunjin? I’m the favourite!”

Hyunjin scowls and closes his eyes as his makeup artist moves to his eyes. “And?”

You try to swipe the brush over this man’s face, but he’s bouncing around wildly. You’re attempting to wrangle him back into his seat when a man walking by frowns.

“Stop it!” he scolds. “Can’t you see they’re trying to work?”

You smile softly. “It’s okay. We have time.”

“Sorry,” the man mutters. He slumps back and looks up at you, smiling sweetly. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Jeongin gave him too much coffee. I swear, I have to limit their caffeine intake.” The man shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “Anyways, you are…?”

You tell him your name before hesitating. “Right. Um, it’s nice to meet you…”

“Bang Chan.” Dimples form at the corners of his mouth.

“Wait.” The man sitting in your chair frowns. He straightens and looks at you in horror. “Do you not know who I am, either?”

Hyunjin laughs, shoulders shaking. “This took a turn.”

“Sorry, no.” You wring your hands nervously. “I promise I’m not trying to disrespect you and- and-“

“I’m Jisung,” he declares. He crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his chin. “You lied to me.”

Your face burns with embarrassment. “Sorry. I just- You-“

“So I was your favourite without you even knowing who I was!” Jisung exclaims. He begins to slap Hyunjin’s arm excitedly. “Did you hear that! Did you hear that?”

Hyunjin wordlessly slides out of his seat and pads towards the door.

Jisung winces at you. “He’s not a morning person.”

“Jisung!” Bang Chan calls from the other side of the room. “Hurry up!”

Jisung grimaces. “Right. Sorry, let’s do this.”

You finish the rest of his face, smiling gently at him as he bounces away. He tries to take you with him, but you dodge his hand.

“I’ll be here if you need a touch-up,” you tell him, feeling bad when he pouts.

“I’ll try my best to not smudge it!” Jisung vows solemnly, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “I don’t want you working so hard on your first day.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” You laugh lightly. It’s nice that he cares so much. “But that’s why I’m here. Don’t worry about it.”

Jisung just giggles as he runs off, going the way Bang Chan had gone. You shake your head, hiding a smile as you clean up your station. You have no idea how it got so messy already.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You hoist your bag over your shoulder, checking your phone. You don’t have any notifications so you open the weather app so it looks like you’re still busy. You love your new job, but you’re tired after training and training and smalltalk galore.

Your nose is so buried in your screen that you don’t even notice the man sprinting in your path, head turned in the other direction. He knocks into you and your phone clatters tk the ground. You collapse as well, and his hands grip your forearms to help you up.

“Jisung?” You frown as he bends down to pick your phone up. “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that.” He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up from where they had been focused on the ground. They widen a fraction and his lips part in surprise.

“Jisung?” You wave a palm in front of his face. “You good?”

“You- I-“ He gasps and points frantically to your arm, where there’s a tattoo of his name.

You blink at it. “That’s new.”

“Oh my gosh.” Jisung stumbles away from you. “You’re a crazy stalker!”

You shake your head desperately. “No! I have no idea how that got there!”

He wets his lips with his tongue. “Then that means…”

You both stare at each other for a minute. Neither of you seems to want to say it, but the words seem to hang in the air.

You found your soulmate, and he’s Jisung. Jisung is your soulmate. What you had been avoiding for years finally arrived.

“Um.” Jisung’s throat flexed as he swallows. “This is a thing.”

“Yes,” you agree. “This is a thing.”

Jisung watches as his name fades from your skin, never to be seen again. Now that you know who the other is, the only thing left to do is discuss where this leads.

“Are you gay?” Jisung blurts out. He winces. “I mean- I’m totally okay if you are. I support! I love, um, lesbians? Okay that came out wrong. I just mean that like-“

“I like men,” you assure him, heart melting. This… Jisung is the type that you wouldn’t be scared of. “And I would be willing to explore a relationship.”

His shoulder slump as he blows out a heavy breath of relief. “Okay, I’d like that. Can I buy you dinner?”

“Sure.” You nod and tuck your phone in your bag. “How was your day?”

Jisung seems taken aback by your question, but walks by your side as the two of you go out the door. “It was really good. I bet you can guess why.”

You smile, feeling all gooey inside. “I bet I can. Uh, I know it’s not great if we’re seen in public together, so is there anywhere specific you want to eat? Somewhere you go often?”

Jisung considers it for a moment before brightening. “Oh! There’s a really small shop near here. Good food, and no one is ever there.”

“Lead the way,” you say. You’re so glad your soulmate is someone like him.

Taglist:

@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret @hansmic @imeverycliche @strawberryscentedd @iwuberic @lezleeferguson-120

#han jisung x reader #jisung x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids #soulmates #soulmate au #gender neutral reader #stray kids x gender neutral reader

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pseudowho · 2 years ago

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Hiromi Higuruma Relationship HCs

(help me find the Higuruma artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

For our other favourite tuckered-out hardworking man of JJK...

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- First of all, this man knows he's intense. Whether he's tired of life, or fighting for someone's life, he worries he's just going to cause a partner stress, so he generally avoids relationships. -Not that he doesn't want a relationship, he does; but he knows he wants someone smart, someone who can see the dark comedy of life, and someone who can argue. - Because let's face it - Hiromi Higuruma will argue with anyone about anything He needs someone to share his burning passion; it doesn't have to be about the same thing. - He feels like his standards are unrealistically high, and he won't make these demands of someone, he needs it to happen organically.

✨ and then Hiromi Higuruma finds you ✨

- You're in front of him in the line at the bar, having a fight with the guy in front of you, who was rude to the girl on the tills - And you just roast this guy - Hiromi's having the time of his life, he only wanted a beer but now he's getting a whole show - This guy crawls off, having been used to mop the floor, and you just shake it off, leaning over the bar to apologise to the girl on the tills, and order your drink - Higuruma leans past you; "I'll get hers" - You look at him, and he holds his hands up placatingly; "With no expectation," he says, "nice work with that arsehole. Have one on me." - So obviously, you talk all night - The bar staff come over in the small hours and hoik you out, because you're still talking; Higuruma is smitten- you're witty, dry, bright and immediately happy to talk about bigger things, and he feels so alive - You go out, and it's freezing, and Hiromi feels awkward and guilty for keeping you out so late - Gives you his jacket to keep you warm while he gets you home safely - Sad to leave you at your door, doesn't think to ask you for your number, because he just doesn't see someone seeing him that way until--

- "All that, and you don't even ask me for my number?"

- He stutters - No Higuruma left, brain gone walkies - You tap your number into his phone, doing the drop-call in case Higuruma doesn't

✨ You fall first, but Higuruma falls harder

- To save himself from disappointment, Higuruma insists to himself through so many coffee dates and dinners, trips to museums and galleries, and long walks in the park, that you're just friends - He's so used to crushing disappointment at work, he can't take it from you too - Until one day as you're raging against the machine to him, the love hits him like a bus - You're just waiting for the train to arrive together - And he leans in and kisses you, so softly but so convicted - The train whooshes into the station, rushing you both with warm air, but you're so lost in each other, one of his hands on your waist now to bring you closer while yours tangles in his hair to pull his lips harder to yours, because - Finally - You thought he'd never make a move

✨ After this, you're inseparable; as far as Higuruma is concerned, the hardest part (working out if you're in love) is done. He's absolutely decided you're the one, so that's settled, the man knows his own damn mind

- And he treats you like a man who knows what he wants - He's totally committed, but not showy - This man absolutely has your back, through thick and thin - Will fight your fights for you, but knows he doesn't have to - You read together, a lot. He massages your feet on his lap while you counsel him through the difficulties of another tricky case. You take long baths, working through at least one bottle of wine together, and his foot creeps past you to turn the hot tap on again because he's not ready to get out yet. - Higuruma takes it as a personal insult when you're sad, or upset, or have had a bad day, and curses the cruel world you live in for upsetting you...while throwing blankets over you, making you tea, making sure the house is tidy - Making you happy is his pride and duty - But if you do argue, it absolutely must be resolved. This man will not tolerate silent treatments or going to bed unhappy with each other, anything that can be talked through will be talked through - Absolutely loves quietly ragging on strangers with you, this man gets life from the absurd comedy of people-watching bad or stupid people - Always the first to put the kettle on if you have tea to spill - His bad days are bad, and sometimes his anger at the world seems so great, he must surely be angry at you too - But you stay patient, reassuring, a lighthouse in his darkness and God does he adore you for it - Once this man has decided to commit to you, there is no changing his mind, you've got to ride this one your whole life now

✨ NSFW ✨

- Fairly tall, slim, average guy build. The kind of soft abs of a guy who works like a racehorse - Secretly packing - His big dick energy in Court translates across - His breakdown in his 30s makes him pretty unashamed to tell you what he wants and give you what you want in the bedroom - Views it as an absolute personal failing if he doesn't make you cum at least twice - I mean come on, there's enough injustice in the world without bad sex - Loves it when you ride him after a long day at work, but he'll get mean if he thinks you're slacking - "*sigh* I know you fuck as well as you fight, so is that what you want? A fight?" - Full of praise when you bounce that pussy up and down his cock, stroking your hips and clit, determined you should share your pleasure - Also, sneak into his office at the courts, I dare you - Mother Justice looking down on you with her scales as you take his beautiful cock into your mouth while Higuruma moans without shame; or, the Newton's Cradle on his desk clattering as Higuruma bends you over, absolutely railing you with a wild look in his eyes, holding his black hair out of his eyes with one hand while he squeezes your arse with another, secretly hoping his colleagues are drinking in your squeaks and whimpers outside the door

(they are and they're so pleased) (Higuruma has looked stressed out lately) (maybe a good fuck will cheer him up)

- When he has had a very bad day prepare to be outrageously overstimulated by him, his lips and tongue and that nose working on your clit over and over while you cry and reach out for purchase on anything while you cum over and over, tears dripping back into your hair - "Can't do it? Nonsense. Hold onto the headboard. I won't be done for a while."

Overall, 10/10, husband material if you can weather those storms.

#jjk #jjk nanami #kento nanami #higuruma hiromi #jjk higuruma #higuruma smut #Hiromi Higuruma smut #jjk fluff #jujustu kaisen #jjk headcanons

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castielscaplan · 5 months ago

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Ink & Oath (tattoo artist!Mafiaso!Dean W.)

Summary: Reader comes to a quaint tattoo shop to get some much needed work done to her back piece... little does she know that her entire life will change in just a few short moments.

WC: 13.5K

Warnings: mafia au,tattoo artist dean nongraphic smut, angst with a happy ending, pregnancy

Read on ao3!

A/N: i wasn't going to put this piece on tumblr, because of it being so long. Plus i'm honestly so tired of the blank blogs giving empty notes and not really giving much else. So i'm *probably* not going to keep this posted if it receives nothing but likes w/ little to no reblogs. I worked extremely hard on this piece a few days ago and it's honestly so discouraging to not get /something/ in return. Anyway, whatever.

You’re standing at the counter of Winchester Ink, half-annoyed and half-desperate. The sleek, industrial-style tattoo parlor is packed, and the receptionist informs you that due to their packed schedule, only 40 minutes of work can be squeezed in today. You’d planned to finally finish the intricate back piece you’d started with another artist—one who bailed on you last minute.

Agreeing to the partial session, you put down the deposit and prepare for a follow-up. The artist does incredible work, but it’s not enough to bring your tattoo to completion. When you return for your second appointment, you’re shocked to find the shop’s owner himself—Dean Winchester—waiting for you. His broad shoulders and sharp green eyes hold a glare that’s almost as intimidating as his reputation.

He explains that your rushed appointment cost him money and time—and now you owe him. But when he notices your determination and sees your unfinished ink, a mischievous smirk creeps across his face.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean says, leaning on his desk, “I’ve got an offer. You want your back piece done? You’re gonna work it off. Be my shop assistant for a few weeks, cover some shifts. And maybe… I’ll finish the job myself.”

The lines between professionalism and something much darker start to blur as Dean’s attention becomes far more personal than just your tattoo.

You blink at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious or just messing with you. The way his smirk deepens when you hesitate tells you he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” you ask, crossing your arms.

Dean shrugs, completely unbothered. “My shop, my rules.”

You glance around the parlor, the buzzing of tattoo machines filling the space, the scent of antiseptic and ink in the air. The place is busy, artists hunched over their clients, lost in concentration. Winchester Ink has a reputation for being one of the best, and Dean Winchester himself is practically a legend. It’s an opportunity, but it also feels like a trap.

Still, you want this tattoo finished. It’s been sitting on your back like an incomplete story, haunting you every time you catch your reflection. You can’t let it stay unfinished.

With a deep breath, you square your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Dean grins like you just handed him the keys to your soul. “Atta girl.”

The next day, you show up, not sure what to expect. Turns out, working at a tattoo shop is nothing like you’d imagined. It’s long hours of cleaning stations, refilling ink wells, running the front desk, and dealing with clients who can’t decide on a design to save their lives.

Dean watches you like a hawk, making sure you don’t slack off, but there’s something else in his gaze too—something that makes your stomach flip. And when he finally gets you in his chair, stretching your skin taut beneath his gloved hands, the air between you shifts. His touch is precise, his focus unwavering, but every now and then, his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You sure you can handle working here, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he leans in, the tattoo machine whirring softly.

You lift your chin, refusing to let him see how much he affects you. “I can handle a lot more than you think, Winchester.”

His smirk returns, this time laced with something darker, something that makes your pulse stutter.

“Good,” he says, dragging the needle across your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke. “Let’s see just how much."

The next morning, you step into Winchester Ink, now seeing it from the other side of the counter. The usual buzz of tattoo guns fills the air, along with the scent of antiseptic and ink. Dean, already working on a client, jerks his head toward the reception desk.

“You’re on desk duty today,” he calls over his shoulder. “Phones, appointments, clean-up. Try not to scare off the customers.”

You roll your eyes but take your place, answering the phone as a biker-looking guy strolls in, flipping through the portfolio. It’s an adjustment, sure, but you settle in fast. You’re almost enjoying it—until Dean appears behind you, close enough that his breath warms your skin.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing. “But don’t think I won’t put you to work scrubbing floors if you slack off.”

You turn to retort, only to find yourself inches from his sharp green gaze. The tension crackles between you like a live wire, and from the slow smirk spreading across his lips, he knows it too.

Maybe this deal isn’t as simple as it seemed.

The shop closes late, and you’re still sweeping up stray paper towels and discarded ink caps when Dean finally locks the front door. Most of the other artists have already left, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space. The buzzing neon "Winchester Ink" sign outside casts a soft blue glow through the glass, flickering faintly like it’s seen too many late nights.

“You survived day one,” Dean says, leaning against the front desk with an amused smirk. “I was half-expecting you to run out crying after dealing with that Karen who wanted a ‘spiritual wolf’ tattoo on her lower back.”

You snort. “Please, I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Yeah?” He watches you for a beat, arms crossed over his chest, his black t-shirt stretching just enough to be distracting. “Guess we’ll see if you can handle tomorrow.”

Something about the way he says it—low, laced with something unreadable—sends a slow shiver down your spine.

“You really that desperate for free labor?” you tease, tilting your head.

Dean’s smirk deepens. He steps closer, just enough that you catch the faint scent of leather and aftershave beneath the lingering ink and antiseptic.

“Nah,” he says, voice dropping a little. “I just like watching you squirm.”

Your pulse kicks up, and you hate that he can probably tell. But before you can come up with a sharp response, Dean straightens, stretching his arms behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Go home, sweetheart. Get some rest.” He nods toward the back. “Your tattoo’s not getting finished if you pass out on me halfway through.”

You don’t move right away. The reminder of why you’re here—why you agreed to this in the first place—grounds you, just enough to shake off the heat in your chest.

“Goodnight, boss,” you say, deliberately casual as you set the broom aside and grab your bag.

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

And damn him, you swear you can still feel his gaze on your back long after you’ve stepped outside.

Working at Winchester Ink is no joke. The shop is always packed, and between scheduling appointments, sterilizing equipment, and dealing with customers who either can’t commit or want the worst design ideas imaginable, you barely have time to breathe.

Dean? He’s a menace.

He pushes you, makes you run errands, hands you the mop at the end of every shift like it’s some kind of personal game. But the worst part? The way he watches you.

It’s not outright—nothing you could call him out on—but it’s there. A glance that lingers too long. A smirk when he brushes past you, his hand skimming your lower back like it’s an accident. And the way he says things.

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

"Bet you’d look even better covered in more ink."

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep biting that lip, and I might start thinking you’re doing it for me."

It’s infuriating. Mostly because part of you likes it.

By the time your shift ends, your feet ache, and you’re pretty sure you have ink on your cheek. Everyone else has already left, and it’s just you and Dean—again.

“C’mere,” he says from his station. His voice is softer than usual, but there’s still that teasing edge to it.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He taps the leather tattoo chair. “You wanna get that back piece finished or what?”

Your stomach flips. “I thought we were waiting—”

Dean raises a brow. “You put in the work, didn’t you? I think you’ve earned a little progress.”

You swallow hard. This was the deal. Your tattoo. That’s why you’re here. That’s all this is.

Right?

You climb into the chair, heart hammering as Dean snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. His fingers ghost over your skin as he carefully peels back your shirt, exposing your unfinished tattoo. The cool air sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean’s touch lingers, his fingertips dragging just a second longer than necessary.

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “I’ll take good care of you.”

The tattoo gun hums to life, but the only thing you can focus on is him—his breath against your neck, the steady grip of his hand on your waist.

And when he starts tattooing?

You swear it has nothing to do with the ink and everything to do with the way his touch sinks under your skin.

The sharp sting of the needle drags across your skin, but it’s not the pain that makes your breath hitch—it’s him. Dean’s touch is firm, his other hand resting against your waist, grounding you. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin as he leans in closer, the scent of leather, whiskey, and something unmistakably him flooding your senses.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Gotta loosen up for me, sweetheart.”

The words send a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your stomach. You grip the edges of the chair, trying to focus on the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun, but it’s impossible when Dean is right there, his presence overwhelming.

He works slow, deliberate, the pressure of his hand steadying you with every pass of the needle. His fingers, clad in latex, slide against your skin, adjusting your position with a touch that’s almost too gentle. And maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s the adrenaline, but there’s something in the way his thumb sweeps over your side—something that feels less like a professional touch and more like a test.

A challenge.

“You okay?” he asks, but there’s something smug in his tone, like he already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is breathier than you’d like.

Dean chuckles, and you feel it vibrate through you. “Yeah? You sure?” His voice dips lower, teasing, and then—fuck. His hand moves, sliding just a fraction higher, his thumb tracing the dip of your spine in a way that has nothing to do with the tattoo.

Your pulse hammers. You should say something, should shift away, should stop this before it goes somewhere dangerous.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let out a slow exhale, pressing just slightly into his touch. It’s barely anything, just a shift of your body, but Dean notices.

Of course, he does.

His grip tightens—not rough, but possessive. The needle lifts from your skin, and suddenly, he’s not working anymore.

You hear the quiet click of the tattoo gun shutting off, the eerie silence of the shop settling between you. Your heart pounds as Dean pulls his gloves off with a slow, deliberate snap.

Then, he leans in, lips just brushing the shell of your ear.

“I think we both know this ain’t just about the tattoo anymore.”

You swallow hard, your breath uneven. “Dean—”

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice nothing but a growl now. “Tell me to back off, and I will.”

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

Instead, you turn your head just enough that your lips are a whisper away from his. The air between you crackles, electric, and then—

He kisses you.

It’s not slow. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all that tension, all those unspoken words, poured into one desperate, claiming kiss. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back, his other arm sliding around your waist and pulling you against him, hard.

You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, demanding and sinful. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he sucks it between his own, and you swear you feel the heat of it all the way down to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, your lips swollen, breath ragged.

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, his voice pure sin. “We’re just getting started.”

The air in the shop is thick with heat, the scent of ink and sweat lingering between you. Your back is still tingling—not just from the fresh tattoo, but from the way Dean had held you, touched you, ruined you right there in his chair.

You’re still catching your breath, your body limp against the leather, when you feel him shift behind you. His fingers trace over your spine, a ghost of a touch that sends another shiver down your already overstimulated body.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse, rough with something smug and satisfied.

You manage a breathy laugh. “You really have to ask?”

Dean chuckles, and you feel the warmth of it against your bare shoulder before he presses a slow, lingering kiss there. “Just making sure you didn’t pass out on me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re too spent to come up with a sharp retort. Instead, you sigh, shifting slightly as you feel the ache settling into your muscles.

Dean moves away, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he tugs his jeans back on. You should probably do the same, but right now, your body feels like it’s made of liquid, melted into the chair that still smells like him.

A moment later, something soft lands on your back—a towel, warm and slightly damp.

“Clean yourself up,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, rough around the edges in a way that sends another ripple of warmth through you. “I’ll grab you some water.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching as he moves across the shop. His shoulders are broad, his movements lazy, like he’s entirely at ease, but there’s something else there too—something in the way he glances at you over his shoulder like he’s still thinking about what just happened.

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

By the time he returns, you’ve pulled your clothes back on, though your skin still hums from his touch. He hands you a bottle of water, watching as you take a few slow sips.

“So,” you say finally, breaking the silence. “This part of the standard Winchester Ink experience?”

Dean smirks, leaning against the counter, his green eyes flicking over you like he’s already plotting his next move. “Nah,” he says, voice low. “Just the VIP package.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The weight of what just happened still lingers between you, heavy and unspoken. And maybe this should be awkward—maybe you should be freaking out, wondering what the hell this means for the deal you made, for the tattoo, for anything.

But you’re not.

Instead, you watch Dean, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way he looks at you like he’s still hungry, and you realize something.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

And judging by the way Dean grins at you, slow and wicked, he knows it too.

You knew something was off about Dean Winchester. No man carries himself with that much confidence—that much authority—without having something to back it up.

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

You’re sitting in his apartment, a loft-style space above Winchester Ink, still tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts. The tattoo on your back is finally finished, but that’s the least of your thoughts right now. Because Dean just told you something that should have made you run.

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

Dean Winchester owns this city. Or at least, the parts that matter.

He’s the leader of something much bigger, much darker. The kind of operation that people whisper about in hushed tones, the kind that law enforcement pretends doesn’t exist because even they’re too scared to take him on.

And yet… you’re still here.

“You’re not saying anything,” Dean murmurs, watching you from across the room. His back is to the window, the neon glow of the city framing him in pale blues and reds. His green eyes are unreadable, but there’s tension in the way he holds himself—like he’s waiting for you to get up and walk away.

You take a deep breath, considering your words. “You just told me you run a criminal empire, Dean.”

He huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

You tilt your head. “What do you want me to say?”

Dean studies you for a moment, then looks away, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. Figured you’d freak out. Maybe tell me I’m a monster.” His voice is low and rough, like he’s bracing himself for something inevitable. “Most people would.”

You take a moment, looking at him. Really looking.

And what you see isn’t just power, or danger, or the weight of everything he’s done. You see a man who has lost too much, who carries the weight of his past like a chain around his throat.

“You’re not a monster,” you say softly.

Dean’s eyes snap to yours like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You don’t know the shit I’ve done.”

You exhale, pulling your knees to your chest. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates, his fingers twitching at his side. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“My dad built this empire,” he says, staring out at the city. “He wasn’t a good man. He did a lot of bad things hurt a lot of people. But he kept us safe—me and my little brother, Sam. When he died, I took over. Thought I could do better, clean things up.”

You already know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

Dean swallows, his jaw tightening. “I tried. But this life? It doesn’t let go. Sam didn’t want any part of it. Got himself a real job, a real life.” He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Thought I could keep him safe if he stayed away. But they still found him.”

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I buried him six years ago.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time, you see it—the real Dean Winchester. The man who lost everything, who built his own empire on the bones of his past.

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

You slide out of bed, crossing the room before he can stop you. When you reach him, you press your palm against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

Dean’s breath catches. His hands, rough and calloused, come up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His thumbs brush along your cheekbones, and when he speaks, his voice is almost pleading.

“You should be scared of me.”

You smile, just a little. “Maybe.” You lean up, brushing your lips against his. “But I’m not.”

Dean groans softly, his grip tightening, and when he kisses you, it’s different this time. Not just hunger, not just claiming.

It’s desperation.

Like he’s been drowning for years, and you’re the first breath of air he’s had in a long, long time.

Dean kisses you like he’s unravelling—like everything he’s kept buried for years is clawing its way to the surface. His fingers grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, like if he holds you tight enough, he can stop the ghosts from creeping back in.

You let him.

You let him take what he needs, because you’re still here. You don’t flinch when his hands slide lower, gripping you with a kind of desperation that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that he’s terrified. Terrified that now that you know the truth, you’ll vanish like everyone else he’s ever cared about.

But you don’t.

Instead, you press closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring you, like he’s memorising the way you feel against him.

His hands roam, calloused palms skating over your skin, slipping beneath the flannel you’re still wearing. When his fingers find bare skin, he exhales against your lips, his breath uneven.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, almost like a warning.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m still here, Dean.”

Something in his expression cracks, just for a second, before he fists the back of your shirt and tugs you toward him. His lips brush against your temple, your cheek, and your jaw. His breath is warm and ragged.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth ghosting along your collarbone.

“I don’t care.”

Dean stills. His grip on you tightens for half a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“You should care,” he says, voice rough. “People in my world don’t get happy endings.”

You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch. “I don’t need a happy ending.” You tilt your head, letting your thumb brush the corner of his mouth. “I just need you.”

A low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a groan and a curse, before his mouth crashes back onto yours.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No restraint.

Dean takes—his lips moving against yours with purpose, his hands gripping your hips, lifting you with ease as he carries you back to the bed. The mattress dips beneath you as he lowers you onto it, his weight pressing you into the sheets, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the night.

“You sure about this?” he mutters against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “Shut up and kiss me, Winchester.”

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

And when he claims you this time, it’s not just need—it’s something deeper, something neither of you are ready to name yet.

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

Dean doesn’t just kiss you—he devours you like he’s been starving for something real and only just realised you’re the thing he’s been craving. His hands are everywhere, sliding under the flannel you stole, gripping your thighs, tracing over the fresh ink on your back like he’s memorising the way his work looks on your skin.

The sheets are tangled around you both, the air thick with heat and the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something dark and utterly intoxicating. His mouth drags from your lips to your jaw, then down, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

“I should ruin you,” he mutters, voice dark and full of something dangerous. “Make sure no one else even thinks about touching you.”

Your stomach tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “You already have.”

Dean groans against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a bruise there—one that’ll be impossible to hide. “Damn right, I have.”

His hands are rough, calloused from years of working with them, but the way he touches you? Reverent. Like you’re something precious, something breakable—but only if you want to be.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower, his breath hot against your skin.

You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you, those sharp green eyes blown wide with hunger. “I want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

And when he finally gives you what you want, it’s not just sex.

It’s a claim. A promise that he is yours and yours alone.

The city hums beyond the window, but inside Dean’s apartment, everything is quiet except for the sound of your slowed breathing and the faint rustle of sheets as he pulls you against his chest.

You’re spent, muscles aching in the best way, his warmth sinking into your skin. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your stomach like he’s not ready to let you go.

“Still not scared of me?” he asks, voice rough with exhaustion.

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

Dean huffs a laugh, but when you glance up, his expression is unreadable—something guarded, something uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he says after a moment. “This life isn’t clean. It’s not safe. Being with me? It means something. You don’t just walk away from it.”

You tilt your head, searching his face. “Are you asking me to?”

Dean’s fingers tighten against your waist. “No.” He exhales, something shifting in his gaze—something like vulnerability. “I’m asking if you can handle it.”

You reach up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the scar on his shoulder, one of many marks that tell a story you’re only just starting to understand.

“I think,” you murmur against his skin, “I can handle you just fine.”

Dean makes a sound—something between a groan and a chuckle—before flipping you onto your back, caging you beneath him once more.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his smirk slow and wicked, “you have no idea what you’ve just signed up for.”

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

The familiar buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but this time, the sound isn’t the only thing making your pulse race.

You’re back at Winchester Ink, straddling the tattoo chair, your shirt discarded, leaving only your black lace bra as Dean hovers behind you. His fingers graze your skin—not with the same desperate need as last night, but with something just as intense.

Possession.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, teasing, but you can feel the weight behind it. This isn’t just any tattoo—this is his mark, something new, something permanent.

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes—dark, intense, hungry—and smirk. “You gonna keep asking me that, or are you actually gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, but there’s something sharper behind his amusement. He leans in, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire.”

Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly, but you don’t break eye contact. “Maybe I like the burn.”

Dean mutters a curse under his breath before snapping on his gloves. The scent of antiseptic and ink fills your lungs as he dips the needle, and then—

The first sting.

Your body tenses for half a second, but Dean’s free hand finds your waist, grounding you. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, his tone softer now, intimate. “You know the drill.”

You exhale slowly, sinking into the sensation. The pain is sharp, but it fades into something almost hypnotic, especially with the way Dean’s fingers press into your hip, steadying you.

The shop is closed—Dean made sure of that—but the thought of anyone walking in, seeing you half-dressed, stretched out beneath his hands, sends a thrill through you.

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask after a while, voice laced with curiosity. You hadn’t asked for a design, just told Dean you wanted something from him.

Dean hums, his tone smug. “Something to remind everyone who you belong to.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

Minutes pass, the pain blending into pleasure, and when Dean finally leans back, wiping the fresh ink clean, you swear you feel his lips brush your shoulder.

“Done,” he murmurs.

You twist to look at his work, and your stomach flips when you see it.

A small, intricate sigil—subtle, but unmistakably his. Right along your ribs, where only he would ever truly see it.

You glance up at him, your heart pounding. “That what you wanted?”

Dean peels off his gloves, tossing them aside before gripping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your lips, his gaze dark.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His smirk is slow, dangerous. “We both know this is just the beginning.”

The tattoo still burns, a dull ache that lingers under your skin—but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean is looking at you right now.

You’re still straddling the chair, breath unsteady, your skin warm under the shop’s low lighting. The ink along your ribs feels like a brand, like a claim, and Dean? He’s drinking you in like he’s memorizing every single second of this moment.

His fingers brush over the fresh ink—featherlight, barely a touch—but it still makes you shiver.

“You like it?” His voice is rough, low, laced with something possessive.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, there’s nothing between you but the hum of the tattoo gun, the scent of ink and antiseptic, the tension coiled thick in the air.

“I love it,” you admit, and it’s not just about the tattoo.

Dean's smirk flickers, something darker lurking beneath it. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because it means you’re mine now.”

A shiver runs through you, but it’s not fear. It’s need.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you tilt your head, baring your throat just slightly—an unspoken challenge. “Oh yeah?” you tease, your voice softer now, breathless. “That what this means?”

Dean huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fingers trail lower, over the ink, then down to your waist, pulling you forward until your chest brushes against his.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “you’ve been mine since the second you walked into this shop.”

You should push him away. Tell him he’s being ridiculous, that a tattoo doesn’t mean ownership. That he doesn’t own you.

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

So instead, you smirk, dragging your nails down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. “Then maybe,” you murmur, “you should remind me.”

Dean’s grin turns wicked, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth already crashing onto yours.

And as he presses you back into the chair, the unfinished tattoos and the world outside forgotten, you realize something:

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

The night is quiet—too quiet.

Winchester Ink should’ve been locked up an hour ago, but Dean insisted on keeping the doors closed while he finished some business in the back. You were wiping down the front desk, waiting for him, when the first gunshot shattered the silence.

Pop-pop-pop!

The windows explode inward, glass raining down as you instinctively duck behind the counter. Your heart slams against your ribs as tires screech outside, bullets peppering the front of the shop like a damn war zone.

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

He bursts in from the back, gun already drawn, his sharp green eyes scanning the chaos before landing on you. In a second, he’s in front of you, crouching low, shielding your body with his own. His breath is rough, his muscles tense, but his voice? Steady as hell.

“You okay?” he demands, his fingers curling around your wrist, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you manage, swallowing back the adrenaline climbing up your throat. “Dean, what the hell—”

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He peeks over the counter, eyes narrowing as he counts heads outside. You follow his gaze—black SUVs, men with weapons, their faces hidden under masks.

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “They are.”

He turns back to you, and for the first time, you see something raw in his expression—not just anger, not just control, but fear. Not for himself. For you.

“We gotta move, sweetheart,” he says, shifting so his body shields you completely. “Stay behind me. No arguments.”

You nod, your fingers curling around his jacket as he pulls you toward the back exit. His gun stays up, movements sharp, calculated. The Dean Winchester you know—the inked-up, cocky-as-hell tattoo artist—is gone. This Dean? This is the real one.

The leader. The fighter. The man who kills for the people he loves.

A shadow moves near the doorway, and Dean reacts instantly. Bang! One shot—dead center. The masked man drops without a sound.

Your breath catches. You’ve never seen him like this. Never seen death come so easily to him.

Dean turns back, his hand finding yours. “You still with me?”

You meet his eyes. Despite the gunfire, the danger, the fact that he just killed someone—you're not scared. Not of him.

“I’m with you.”

Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe—but there’s no time to dwell on it.

More men are coming.

Dean tightens his grip, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead before he exhales sharply. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

And as the two of you disappear into the night, chased by bullets and fire, you realize something.

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

The shop smells like antiseptic and fresh ink, but beneath it lingers something metallic. Gunpowder. Blood.

Dean’s grip on your wrist is tight, dragging you through the back hallway of Winchester Ink, his jaw clenched so hard you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. The shootout from earlier still echoes in your ears, your pulse hammering in your throat.

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

You should be questioning everything—how many people Dean just killed, how easily he moved, how ruthlessly he handled the ambush.

But all you can think about is the way he shielded you, how his first instinct was to grab you, tuck you against his chest, his own body between yours and the bullets.

Now, inside the safe room of the shop, he’s pacing like a caged animal, gun still clutched in his fist, blood splattered across his knuckles.

“Dean.” Your voice is steadier than you expect.

He stops, his sharp green eyes snapping to yours, wild and dark.

“I told you this would happen,” he growls, voice low, ragged. “Told you my life isn’t safe.”

You take a step toward him. “And I told you I could handle it.”

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I kill people. Not just assholes who deserve it—anyone who’s a threat. Anyone who crosses me.”

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

You take another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the blood drying on his skin. He’s still Dean—the man who tattooed you with steady hands, the man who kisses like he’s trying to brand you, the man who just tore through enemies to keep you alive.

Your fingers graze his wrist, just above the gun. “You could’ve let me go,” you whisper. “Could’ve left me behind.”

Dean lets out a breath, harsh and uneven. “Not an option.”

You press your palm against his chest, right over his heart. “Then stop trying to scare me away.”

His control snaps.

One second, he’s standing there, tense, on edge—then his hands are on you, everywhere. Gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him, his mouth crushing against yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

Like he needs to feel you alive, solid, beneath his hands.

“Mine,” he mutters against your lips, his voice raw. “You’re mine.”

You nod, gasping against his mouth. “Yours.”

Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Then from now on, sweetheart? You stay glued to my side.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “You just want an excuse to keep your hands on me.”

Dean huffs a laugh, his grip tightening. “Damn right I do.”

And just like that, Winchester Ink isn’t just a tattoo shop anymore.

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

The aftermath of the shootout settles into a strange, electric silence. The back room of Winchester Ink feels too small, too charged. Outside, Dean’s men are cleaning up the mess—disposing of bodies, wiping down shell casings—but inside, it’s just you and him.

Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment the bullets started flying. You should be shaken, but instead, you’re standing in front of Dean, watching the way his chest still rises and falls too fast, his gun hanging loosely in his grip.

His knuckles are raw. Blood smears across his inked skin, a dark contrast against the swirling black designs crawling up his forearm.

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

But the only thing you feel when you step closer is heat.

Dean watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His fingers twitch, like he’s deciding between pulling you closer or pushing you away.

“You’re not scared,” he finally mutters, almost accusingly.

You raise a brow. “No.”

Dean lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You should be.”

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

His jaw clenches. “Because I keep waiting for you to wake up and realize I’m not a good man, sweetheart. I’m the kind of guy people run from.”

You tilt your head, letting your gaze drag over him—the blood, the bruises forming along his jaw, the way he’s still standing between you and the door, as if another threat could come at any moment.

“You think I don’t see who you are?” you ask softly. “You think I don’t get it?”

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

“I know what you do. I know what this shop really is,” you continue, stepping closer until your fingers ghost over his forearm, tracing the ink there. “And I know you didn’t hesitate to put yourself between me and those bullets.”

Dean swallows hard. “That’s the problem.”

You shake your head. “No, Dean. That’s the part that tells me everything I need to know.”

His eyes search yours, something flickering behind them—uncertainty. Vulnerability. Maybe even something darker, something deeper.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he finally says, quieter now.

“No.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe you. Then, before you can say anything else, his hands are on you again—tugging, gripping, claiming. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation, like he’s trying to consume you.

You don’t resist.

You meet him with the same fire, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. You can taste blood on his lips, feel the way his breath stutters when you press your body against his.

Dean breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his hands flexing against your waist.

“I kill for you,” he murmurs, voice raw. “I’ll burn the whole fucking city down if it means keeping you safe.”

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

It’s been months since that night—since the shootout, since Dean pulled you close, breath ragged and raw, demanding you stay with him. Since you allowed yourself to slip deeper into his world, where danger was an ever-present shadow and the line between love and possession was blurred beyond recognition.

Now, you're sitting in the back of Winchester Ink, the familiar scent of fresh ink and leather comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Your shirt is tight, stretched over the curve of your stomach. Your fingers rest lightly on it, tracing the tiny life growing inside of you.

Dean’s son.

The weight of that realization still sometimes hits you like a freight train—his blood runs through you, through the baby you’re carrying.

You’re not just his lover anymore. You’re the mother of his son.

And, God, does he make sure everyone knows it.

Everywhere you go now, there’s the unmistakable, possessive edge in the way Dean looks at you. His hands never leave you, whether he’s holding your waist or brushing his thumb over your wrist. The people in the shop, his men, they all treat you with reverence—like you’re untouchable.

Because you are. To him, anyway.

You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the weight of your growing belly makes everything feel… off. You smile softly, your hand resting again on your stomach.

“Is it kicking again?” Dean’s voice breaks through your thoughts, soft but commanding, as always.

You glance up to see him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes already on you, softened by something that could almost be called gentleness—a rare sight from the mafia king. His hands are in his pockets, but he’s still intimidating as hell, the muscles of his arms straining under the black shirt he’s wearing.

“Yeah,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips as you rub your stomach. “It’s starting to feel real now, you know?”

Dean crosses the room in a few long strides, his gaze never leaving you. He kneels beside you, hands instantly reaching for your stomach like they always do when he’s near. His fingers are warm, rough against your skin.

“Damn right it’s real,” he mutters, a soft grin curling his lips. “You’re carrying my heir.”

His words, so heavy with ownership, almost make you laugh, but then you feel a flutter under your palm. The baby kicks again, strong enough to make you gasp.

Dean’s face softens, his hand pressing gently against your stomach, as if he’s trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside of you.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, almost reverent.

“I do.” You smile up at him.

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, and for a brief second, you see something in him that no one else gets to see: vulnerability.

“You’re not just mine now, you know.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

He meets your eyes, his expression fierce and possessive. “You’re carrying my son. That’s not something I take lightly.”

You know he means it. You know Dean doesn’t do lightly. He owns everything he touches, and now, he’s made you his queen.

You reach out, cupping his jaw with your hand, pulling him closer. “I know, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a breath of relief, but there’s something darker, something more primal in the way he kisses you—his lips urgent against yours, demanding.

His hand moves lower, caressing the side of your belly, the other pressing against the back of your neck to pull you even closer. You melt into him, feeling his warmth, his power, and the weight of his love—of his claim—surrounding you.

You are his, and you always will be.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I’ll protect you. And the baby. No one will ever hurt either of you.”

You nod, smiling softly at him. “I know.”

His hand slides up to your neck, cupping your jaw, his gaze darkening. “Good.” Then, with a soft but insistent pull, he presses his lips to yours again. His kiss is rougher this time, more demanding, as though trying to make you feel the depth of his promise.

As you melt into him, you know one thing for sure:

You are his. Completely.

And no one, not even the world outside these walls, can take that from you.

The sterile scent of the hospital is sharp in the air, mingling with the soft beeps of machines around you. You’re propped up in a bed, your body sore from the grueling hours of labor. Your arms are still aching from where the IVs had been placed, but there’s a weight on your chest now—the kind of weight that makes everything worth it.

The small bundle in your arms—your baby, Dean’s baby—softly coos, the tiny body swaddled in a pale blue blanket. You stare down at the little face, marveling at the miracle you just created, your heart swelling with something fierce and protective.

Dean’s sitting beside you, his rough fingers lightly brushing the side of your hand, his gaze never leaving you or the baby. He hasn’t moved since the moment the baby was placed in your arms, his body radiating tension as if the world outside could suddenly break in and take everything from him. From you.

His eyes are dark, intense—like a man who’s seen too much blood to believe in peace. But the way he looks at the baby in your arms? There’s something almost gentle there, something protective and soft, like this tiny being is the only thing that could make him show any weakness at all.

It’s a weakness you know he’ll do anything to protect.

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

Your heart skips, your hand instinctively tightening around the baby. Dean is on his feet in a second, moving so fast you barely register the movement. His body is between you and the door before the intruder has even fully entered the room.

A man—dark hair, tense shoulders—stands in the doorway, his eyes flickering quickly over Dean, then to you. He’s got a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, the cold metallic glint catching your eye.

Dean’s expression is pure stone, his hands already reaching for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

“I told you,” the man says, his voice low but sharp, “the baby's the next target.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together. “Get out.” His voice is thick with menace, each word weighted with the danger of a man who has nothing left to lose.

“I don’t think you understand,” the man says, taking one step forward, the gun clearly visible now. His hand rests on it, like he's daring Dean to move. “We’ve got orders. The baby’s a liability.”

You flinch at the words, the weight of the situation settling in. You’re not just the mother of Dean’s offspring anymore. You’re a target.

Dean’s movements are so fast, you don’t even have time to react. He pulls the gun from his waistband, smooth as a snake, and in one fluid motion, he’s pointing it at the intruder’s head.

“Leave. Now.” His voice is ice-cold, every syllable laced with authority and the threat of violence. The room feels smaller, suffocating. The air is thick with the promise of danger.

The man’s hand hovers over his gun, but Dean’s eyes never waver, never falter.

“You don’t want to do this,” the man warns, a tremor of hesitation creeping into his voice.

“Last warning,” Dean growls, his finger pressing lightly on the trigger. “Get. Out.”

The man stares at Dean for a moment longer, before his gaze flickers to you—the mother of his enemy’s spawn—and then he seems to make a decision. Slowly, he backs out of the room, never breaking eye contact with Dean.

When the door clicks shut, the tension in the room snaps. Dean holsters his gun, but his body remains rigid, every muscle in his frame still coiled tight, as if he’s waiting for the next attack.

You can’t breathe.

It’s almost too much—the rush of emotions, the exhaustion from labor, the fear that still clings to you. You want to scream, but you only manage to whisper. “What was that, Dean? What the hell was that?”

Dean turns toward you, his eyes filled with something primal, his hand going straight to your side, pulling you against him. His arms envelop you like a fortress, protective and warm.

“They’ll never stop coming,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with the weight of the life he’s pulled you into. “But I’ll never let them touch you. Never let them take what’s mine.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hand resting on his chest. “Dean…”

“Don’t say anything, sweetheart. Not right now.” His hands cradle your face, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek. “You’re not just carrying our baby anymore. You’re my queen. And anyone who thinks they can take either of you, they’ll be facing a war they don’t want.”

A chill runs through you, but it’s not just from fear. There’s something else in his voice—something deep, something dangerous.

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

The room falls into silence again, save for the soft breathing of the baby in your arms, a new life and a new threat, forever intertwined with Dean’s world of shadows and blood.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The buzz of the tattoo machines fills the air in Winchester Ink, the low hum a familiar soundtrack to your day. Your hands are busy, one on the counter, the other moving skillfully to help a new client pick out their design. The shop is quieter than usual, but it’s still early, the door just having closed behind the last customer who left for the day. The steady rhythm of your work is a welcome distraction—until you hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching.

You glance over your shoulder, only to stop dead in your tracks.

There, standing in the middle of the shop, is Dean. But he’s not alone.

In his arms, swaddled snugly in a soft gray blanket, is your baby. The little one is asleep, content and peaceful—completely unaware of the chaos that swirled around its birth. Dean’s eyes meet yours, the same possessive look in them, but now, there’s something softer, something tender beneath the hard edge.

He takes a few steps toward the wall, his gaze never leaving you.

“I’m teaching them the family business,” Dean says, a smirk playing on his lips.

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

Dean doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he pulls a small padded wall-mounted bassinet from beside one of the stations, carefully setting it down against the tattoo wall. He adjusts a few straps, making sure the baby is securely tucked inside.

You watch, your heart skipping a beat. There’s something about the way Dean handles the baby—so careful, so deliberate—that takes you by surprise. He’s never showed much patience with anything in his life… except for this.

“Dean…” You take a step forward, a small frown creasing your brow. “What are you doing?”

He shoots you that smug grin of his, the one that drives you crazy in all the best ways. “I’m teaching them how to survive in this world. It’s not enough you’re carrying our blood. I need them to know how to handle this.”

You blink again, unsure if you’re about to laugh or scold him. "You’re setting the baby down against the tattoo wall?"

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze flickering to the little bundle. “It’s not just any wall. It's our wall.” His voice drops lower, his eyes flashing with that dangerous glint you know too well. “You’re not the only one around here that needs to be toughened up, sweetheart.”

Before you can reply, a soft cry rings through the air, and you turn to see the baby stirring, fingers curled, lips pursed as it starts to wake.

You rush over without thinking, your heart pounding, instinct driving you as you scoop the baby into your arms.

Dean watches you for a moment, his posture still tall, like he owns the room. When your eyes meet his, there’s something in the way he looks at you—a hint of pride, mixed with something dark, something almost possessive.

The baby settles into your arms, its tiny face scrunched in that adorable way babies do when they’re just waking up. You smile softly, the weight of your love for this little one threatening to break you. But Dean’s presence beside you is like a shield, strong and unwavering, giving you strength you didn’t know you had.

“There you go,” Dean mutters, his voice softer now, his arms crossing over his chest. “Just need to toughen up a bit more, kid.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gently rock the baby. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe. But in this world, we need to be.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can respond, a customer enters the shop—an old friend of Dean’s, someone who’s clearly seen their fair share of tattoos, judging by the sleeve of ink already visible on their arms. They’re a regular, and you’re used to handling them on your own, but today, Dean stands beside you, just a step behind, his protective aura nearly suffocating.

The client sits down in one of the chairs, and you turn your attention back to them, pulling out a design sketch from the folder. “So, you wanted something custom, right?”

Dean moves to stand just behind you, his gaze flickering from you to the client, eyes hard. His presence is imposing, like a lion lurking nearby. His fingers brush against the top of your shoulder, a subtle reminder that he’s still there.

“You’re getting the best I’ve got,” Dean mutters, his voice low enough only the client can hear. “Don’t waste my time.”

The client hesitates, looking up at him and then at you. There’s a moment of tension in the air, as if Dean’s mere presence commands their respect. They nod quickly, understanding that there’s more than just ink on the line here.

You work on the design, laying out the details, explaining the placement as you always do. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Dean—watching, waiting, always so protective.

And when your eyes flick to the bassinet against the wall, you see Dean’s gaze fixed on the baby, the softness in his eyes evident, even if he’s trying to hide it.

The family business, he’d called it.

And as you glance at the client, then back at Dean, you realize the full extent of what that means.

You and your son are the center of Dean’s world. His empire. His everything.

And no one, not even in this room, would dare to touch you or the life you’ve built.

Dean would see to that.

---

The sun is warm on your skin, a soft breeze rustling the trees around you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not in Winchester Ink, you’re not in the chaos of Dean’s world. You’re outside, in the real world, with your baby tucked safely in your arms. It’s a rare moment of peace, and you’re soaking it in.

Dean walks beside you, his presence still larger than life, but today, it feels different. The weight of his usual dominance is softer, almost protective in a way that makes you feel safe—not just from the world outside, but from him.

You glance over at him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing the tattoos that run the length of his arms, his posture still straight, but his eyes are warm as he watches the baby in your arms. Every step he takes, every glance he throws your way, speaks volumes. He’s here—truly here. No business meetings, no threats, no blood spilled. Just him—Dean, your partner, and the father of your child.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly, his voice always so gruff but softened by the moment.

You look down at your baby, whose tiny hand has wrapped around your finger, a soft coo escaping from them. You smile, looking back at Dean. "Like everything’s perfect."

Dean’s lips curl into a rare smile, one that’s softer than you’ve seen in a long time. It’s a smile that feels more genuine than any of the cold, calculated grins he gives in the tattoo shop or when he’s dealing with business.

You walk through the park, the sound of children laughing and playing around you, birds chirping overhead. It’s almost too perfect—like you’ve stepped into a moment that isn’t meant for people like Dean. People like you.

But here you are.

Dean takes a step closer, his body brushing against yours, his hand brushing against your waist protectively. His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the baby in your arms, and you feel a shiver of warmth run through you.

"I can’t believe how small they are," Dean murmurs, his voice low, almost like he’s in awe.

You smile down at the little one. "They’re only going to get bigger, you know."

Dean’s eyes meet yours, a flash of something fierce flickering in his gaze. "I’ll protect them, sweetheart. No one’s taking what’s mine. Not now. Not ever."

You chuckle softly, but there’s an edge to your voice when you reply, "I think we’re safe here. We’re just… family today."

Dean’s smile deepens, but there’s still that ever-present glint in his eyes—the reminder that no matter where you are, he’s still the king of his world. And that’s a world that’s made of blood, ink, and power.

"Family," he echoes, the word heavy on his tongue. He looks down at the baby again, his expression softening. "Yeah. This is all I care about now."

You lean into him slightly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You’re good at this, you know. Being a dad."

Dean’s eyebrow raises, a small, teasing smirk forming on his lips. "I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at it, but I guess I’m figuring it out." His gaze softens as he looks at the baby. "I’d kill anyone who thought otherwise."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t suppress the smile that tugs at your lips. "You really do make everything sound like a threat."

Dean chuckles, the sound rich and deep, and for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine a life like this—simple, quiet, full of moments that are just about you and him and your baby. A family.

But even as that thought swirls in your mind, you know that this peace, this quiet moment, is fleeting. Dean’s world doesn’t just let you walk away from it. It pulls you back in, no matter how hard you try to resist. And you’ve come to accept that. Because as dangerous as that world is, it’s the one where your heart beats the strongest.

And as long as Dean’s by your side, you’re ready to face it. Together.

Dean’s hand slips into yours as you both stop at a bench, the baby still in your arms, nestled comfortably against your chest. He sits down first, and you follow, sitting next to him. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting on your leg, grounding you in this rare moment of normalcy.

The world around you continues—kids laughing, families strolling by—but for you, in this moment, time stands still.

This is your family. And Dean’s right. This is all that matters.

"You’re my everything, sweetheart," Dean says softly, his lips brushing your temple. "You and the baby. I’ll never let anyone come between us."

You nod against him, breathing in the scent of him—leather, ink, and something uniquely Dean. "I know."

And for once, you allow yourself to believe it completely.

The sun is low in the sky now, casting a warm, golden glow over the park. You and Dean are sitting on the same bench, your toddler nestled comfortably on your lap, their small hands wrapped around a stuffed toy. The baby—who’s growing bigger by the day—rests in the stroller beside you, peacefully asleep.

It’s a rare moment of tranquility, and for once, you feel the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. The tension from the past months, from the dangers that come with being with Dean and the world he inhabits, seems to dissipate when you’re here, in this bubble of calm.

Dean’s hand rests on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly stroking over your skin. His eyes are on you, but it’s not the usual hard stare. There’s something softer there—a vulnerability that you don’t see often. He’s been different ever since the baby arrived, a side of him you’ve been learning to understand.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you thinking about?”

Dean’s lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something nervous about it. “Just… you, sweetheart. You and the kids. And what I want to do next.”

Before you can ask what he means, you feel a small hand tug at your sleeve. Your toddler, wide-eyed and eager, pulls on your arm to get your attention.

“Mommy!” they say, their voice high-pitched with excitement. “Look!”

You look down, your heart melting at the sight of your toddler, holding out a small box, the velvet lining peeking through.

“Mommy,” they repeat, clearly serious. “This is for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You glance up at Dean, whose gaze has softened into something that makes your heart race. He’s watching you with that same intensity, but now it’s mixed with something else—something raw and honest.

You take the box from your kid, your fingers trembling slightly as you open it. Inside, nestled carefully, is a simple yet stunning ring. A diamond, elegant but not flashy, set in white gold with delicate engraving along the band. The ring that could change everything.

“Dean…” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from the glint of the ring. You glance back at him, your heart pounding. “What is this?”

Dean stands up, slowly, carefully, his hand reaching out for yours. He drops to one knee in front of you, his movements deliberate, measured.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I’ve never been good with words. Never been good at this… stuff.” His gaze flicks to the toddler, who’s watching intently, their small face beaming with pride. “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You feel your heart skip a beat, your hand instinctively going to your chest. You know exactly where this is going.

“I don’t need the world, not anymore.” Dean’s voice drops even lower, his eyes never leaving yours. “All I need is you. And I want to make sure you and the kids are mine. For good. So, what do you say?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you look at him—really look at him. The man who’s seen things that would make most men break. The man who’s shown you what it means to truly care. The man who’s protected you, fought for you, and built a family with you.

“I—” You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “Yes. Yes, Dean, I’ll marry you.”

Dean smiles—a rare, genuine smile—and slides the ring onto your finger. The weight of it, the finality, makes your heart swell. You’ve never been more sure of anything yourself. This moment, this family, this life—it’s all yours. Together.

He stands up, pulling you into his arms, the ring sparkling between you. Your toddler jumps into your arms, eager to be a part of the hug, and Dean chuckles, holding you both close.

“We’re a family,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “And we’re never going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, the world around you disappearing for a moment as you let the warmth of the moment settle in. The past, the dangers, the blood—it doesn’t matter anymore.

This is your family. And Dean’s made it clear that he will fight for it. Fight for you.

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

It’s been years since that day in the park. Since the proposal, the wedding, the birth of your son. Time has passed, and with it, your family has only grown stronger. Your little one, once a tiny bundle, is now a teenager—tall and lean, with that same fire in their eyes that Dean has. They’ve spent their years in the tattoo shop, learning the business, the art of ink, and more importantly, the way of the Winchester world.

The shop is bustling as usual, a steady stream of clients coming in and out, getting their tattoos, chatting, and sharing their stories. But today, something feels different. You can feel the shift, the weight of the next generation taking shape. Your child—your teenager—stands at the counter, just like you once did. Their gaze flicks to Dean, who’s overseeing everything as usual, arms crossed, his intense green eyes never missing a beat.

Dean’s been watching them grow, guiding them, teaching them. Not just the art of tattoos, but the code that runs deeper than ink—that’s part of the Winchester legacy.

You’re sitting at the back, flipping through some paperwork, but your eyes can’t help but watch the scene unfold in front of you. Your son is sitting with one of the artists, learning the flow of a new design, a quiet determination in their posture. They’re like a mirror of Dean in so many ways—calm, collected, and with a sharpness that hints at something darker, something deeper.

Dean’s voice breaks through the hum of the shop, a low rumble that commands attention. “Kid,” he calls, his gaze sharp but approving. “You’re not just here to learn how to make art. You’re here to learn how to run this place. And when the time comes, it’ll be your job to make sure it stays running.”

Your son looks up at him, nodding with that same serious expression that’s so much like Dean’s. “I know, Dad.” They’re not scared. They’re not hesitant. It’s like they were born for this.

Dean nods approvingly and walks over to where your son is working. He places a hand on their shoulder—a gesture of both authority and affection. The weight of that touch is something you know all too well. It’s the same touch he’s given you, the same reassurance that says you’re mine, and I’ll make sure you know it.

You stand up from the back and move toward them, quietly observing. Your heart swells with pride, mixed with the heavy weight of the life they’re stepping into.

“Everything okay?” you ask, your voice soft but steady.

Dean glances up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “They’re learning. Got a good head on their shoulders.”

You look at your teenager, who’s now carefully sketching out a new design, their movements swift and precise. Their concentration is unnerving, even more so than Dean’s at their age.

“You’re teaching them the ropes?” you ask, your gaze flicking to Dean.

“I’m teaching them everything,” Dean replies, his voice low and controlled. “Business, loyalty, the family code.” His eyes flicker back to your son, watching them work. “They’ve got the skill. But they need to understand what it takes to lead.”

You swallow, your heart tight in your chest. It’s not just tattoos Dean is passing on—it’s everything that comes with being in this world, with him. The mafia lifestyle, the control, the power that pulses through his veins.

You’ve seen the darkness that follows Dean everywhere, the long hours, the moments when his past comes rushing back. You’ve seen the way his eyes harden, the way he can turn from loving to lethal in an instant. And now your son is learning that same side of him—the side that can protect and destroy with equal intensity.

“Do they know what this life means?” you ask, your voice suddenly quiet, worried.

Dean’s gaze softens just for a moment. “They will. They’re not a kid anymore. They understand what we do.” His eyes shift to the teenager again. “And they’ve got what it takes to keep this legacy going. I see it in them. They’re not afraid.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and for a brief moment, you feel a flash of the weight of it all. This life is dangerous, it’s unpredictable, and the world you’ve built together—your family, your empire—is always under threat.

But then your son looks up, meets your eyes, and gives you that small, knowing smile. It’s as if they’ve already made peace with this life, just like you and Dean have. They are part of this, and there’s no turning back.

“We’ve got your back, Mom,” they say, their voice steady. “Always.”

The words are simple, but they carry more weight than you could ever imagine. You feel a lump form in your throat, but you swallow it down.

“Just don’t forget that you’ve got to stay smart. There’s always a price,” you reply, trying to keep your voice level. “The tattoos, the ink—it’s not just art. It’s a symbol of what we stand for. You remember that, okay?”

Your son nods, their eyes filled with the same quiet confidence you’ve seen in Dean for years. “I will.”

Dean steps forward then, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. You lean into his warmth, your hand resting on his chest.

“This is their world now, too,” he murmurs against your ear. “We’ll make sure they’re ready for it.”

The weight of it presses down on you, but you know Dean’s right. This world is theirs now. The legacy is theirs to carry, to shape, and to protect.

And as you look at your son, standing so tall and unflinching in the face of everything this life demands, you know that Dean’s right about one thing: they’ve got what it takes.

The Winchester name will live on.

The night had started like any other, calm and quiet. The tattoo shop had closed for the evening, and the low hum of the neon lights outside cast a soft glow on the shop floor as you and Dean sat in the back, the baby long since tucked into bed and your teenager nowhere to be seen. The air smelled like ink and leather, a familiar comfort in the chaos of your life.

But that peace shattered in an instant.

Dean’s phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then a third time. He didn’t pick up, not yet. The silence lingered for a moment too long before you saw his posture shift—his muscles tensing, his eyes narrowing. You could feel it in the air; something was wrong.

"Dean?" you asked, but it was too late. He was already moving, pulling his phone from his pocket with a cold, calculated expression.

He answered the call.

“Where the hell are they?” Dean’s voice, usually low and measured, was tight with barely contained fury. “What do you want?”

You felt it then—the gut-wrenching, icy realization.

Your heart skipped. You were already on your feet, rushing towards him.

“Dean, what’s going on?” you asked, your voice shaky.

Dean didn’t answer you right away. His eyes were locked on the phone, his lips tight, his jaw clenched. He took a slow breath before his words hit you like a freight train.

“They’ve got our kid.”

A rush of cold terror slammed into you. Your breath hitched. “What? Who? What the hell do you mean?”

“Somebody took them. For ransom,” Dean growled, his hand tightening around the phone. "They want money, but it’s not about money. It’s never just about money."

You could see it now—the flicker of rage in Dean’s eyes. A darkness, deep and unsettling. His body was wound so tight you could practically feel the tension radiating off him. He hung up abruptly, his face pale but his eyes burning with something darker.

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing. “What do we do? Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions, none of them good. “We get them back. Now.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the back of the shop, where the emergency stash of weapons was kept. You followed, heart in your throat. You knew Dean better than anyone. He was a force—calculating, ruthless, deadly—but seeing him like this, seeing that raw desperation and fury... it made your blood run cold.

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, the venom in his voice making you flinch. “No more talking. This isn’t some negotiation. This is personal. Whoever thought they could touch my kid is about to learn what happens when you mess with the Winchesters.”

You were barely able to keep up with him as he grabbed his gun, the sound of it clicking into place ringing in the otherwise silent room. He was already sliding on his jacket, the hard edge of his jawline like stone.

“You’re not going alone,” you said, your voice firm, no longer the shaky one you had been a moment ago.

Dean stopped, the briefest hesitation crossing his face. His eyes flicked to you, narrowing, but you saw that brief flicker of worry. It didn’t last. He took a deep breath and turned to face you.

“You’re staying here with the baby,” he ordered, his voice low and controlled. But the undercurrent of his tone betrayed him. He was barely holding it together. “You’re safer here.”

“Don’t tell me what’s safer, Dean,” you snapped, taking a step forward. “They’re our kid. I’m going with you.”

He gave you one long, unreadable look before his lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but more of a grimace.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered under his breath. “They’ve crossed a line. And I’m about to show them just how bad an idea that was.”

Before you could argue, Dean was out the door, moving fast. You had no choice but to follow.

The city streets blurred around you as you and Dean sped through the darkened roads. Dean’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might break. His gaze was laser-focused on the road, but his mind was already somewhere else—somewhere far darker.

The message had been clear. The voice on the other end had been muffled, but the demand had been simple. Money, or we end them. But the truth was far more terrifying than that. Dean knew this wasn’t just a random kidnapping. This was a message.

And Dean never let messages slide.

You didn’t dare ask questions as the car whipped through the streets. Every second felt like an eternity, but Dean’s pace never faltered. You could feel the anger rolling off of him, thick and palpable. He was slipping back into that dangerous, unpredictable rhythm you knew too well.

“I’m gonna tear their fucking world apart,” Dean muttered, his voice tight with venom. “You don’t touch what’s mine and expect to walk away. No one does.”

He slammed the car to a stop in front of an old, rundown building—no lights, no signs, just a hollow shell of a place. His eyes flicked to you, once again soft for a fraction of a second. “Stay close, sweetheart. Don’t let them get to you.”

Before you could respond, Dean was out of the car, moving like a shadow—fast, calculated, lethal. You grabbed your own weapon and followed close behind. You knew, even without him saying a word, this wasn’t just about money. This was about respect. About vengeance. About showing whoever had taken your child just how badly they’d fucked up.

Inside the building, it was eerily quiet—until the sound of a door creaking open echoed through the dark. Your heart stuttered, but Dean was already at the door, his presence commanding. You could hear voices inside. One was familiar—your child’s, a little shaky but still strong.

The seconds felt like hours.

Dean motioned for you to stay low. You crouched behind him, your heart thudding in your chest as you followed his lead.

Then Dean burst through the door. The sound of gunfire rang out, deafening and sharp. It was chaos—screams, shots, but Dean was a whirlwind. He moved faster than anyone could react, gunfire flashing, bodies hitting the floor.

And then you saw them. Your child, bound to a chair in the corner of the room, looking at Dean with a mix of fear and relief.

“Dean!” you shouted, rushing to their side.

Dean had already disarmed the remaining goons, his eyes cold and dead set on the leader of the operation—a man who had made the mistake of thinking he could get away with this.

Dean was on him in an instant, grabbing the man by the collar and lifting him off his feet. “You think you can fuck with my family?” His voice was a deadly growl. The man’s eyes widened in terror.

The next few moments were a blur. The others were dealt with swiftly—brutally. Dean didn’t speak again, not until the building was clear and your child was free.

Dean walked toward you and your som, his demeanor still cold, but his hands trembling just slightly as he reached out to untie them.

“You good?” he asked, his voice gruff, but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the undercurrent of worry he was trying to hide.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Your son’s voice was steady, but you could see the relief in their eyes.

Dean looked at them, then back to you, his voice softer this time. “No one ever takes what’s ours again. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, you believed him.

It had been weeks since the nightmare ended. Since Dean stormed through that warehouse like the wrath of God himself and took back what was his. Since he’d carried your son out of that hellhole and brought them home, holding them so tightly you thought he’d never let go.

Things had settled, in the way only the Winchesters knew how—cautiously, quietly, always keeping one eye open. But the weight had lifted. Your family was whole. And today, for the first time in a long time, life felt normal.

The shop was closed for the day. No buzzing tattoo machines, no clients, no business meetings in the back with men who spoke in hushed voices. Just you, Dean, and your now fully-recovered teenager spending the day somewhere safe—somewhere untouched by the chaos of the world outside.

The park was bright and warm, sunlight filtering through the trees, kids laughing in the distance. You sat on a picnic blanket, watching as your son—your fighter—taught their younger sibling how to climb onto the jungle gym. Dean stood off to the side, arms crossed, that usual scowl on his face, but you knew him well enough to see through it. The tightness in his jaw wasn’t anger—it was pride.

“You gonna hover all day, Winchester?” you teased, nudging his arm.

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “Not hovering,” he muttered. “Just… watching.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Watching for what? Squirrels?”

Dean shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You know what I mean,” he said, his voice quieter now. “After everything…” His gaze flicked back to your teenager, who was laughing as their little sibling clung onto their back, begging for a piggyback ride. “I just need to know they’re okay.”

You softened, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “They are okay, Dean. Because of you. Because of us.”

Dean let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

You squeezed his hand. “Hey. Look at them.” You tilted your head toward your kids. “They’re happy. They’re safe. They’ve got us. And nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a long moment, like he was memorizing the way you looked in the sun, how your eyes held no fear, no worry—only love.

Then, finally, the scowl eased off his face, replaced by something much softer.

“Damn right,” he said, pulling you into his side, his lips brushing against your temple. “No one’s ever taking what’s mine again.”

The wind rustled through the trees, the laughter of your children filling the air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right. Whole.

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

//this is your kind reminder to REBLOG!!//

#supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x sister!reader #dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester smut #dean winchetser angst #spn #spn fanart #spnedit #spnfandom #spn rp #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fanart #angst with a happy ending

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austinbutlerslovers · 7 months ago

Text

Model Patient

Label Mature 18+

Summary You’re a high fashion model, with a fast paced life, until it all comes crashing down leaving you desperate for the gentle care of Dr. Butler.

💝Romantic Smut 💝Austin as a doctor • compassionate •caring •adoring •doting• wanting to wait• body worship• improvement of body image •nurturing• attentive • genuine care• hesitant to engage with intimacy• gentle stimulation • soft fingering •protection • lovemaking • orgasms •aftercare 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proof Reader @purejasmine 🚨heavy mentions of e.d.• lack of self love •attention seeking behavior

Model Patient

The energy backstage is chaotic, a whirlwind of shouted instructions, last minute adjustments, and the sharp scent of hairspray filling the air. Leo, the man with the clipboard, shouts orders over the commotion, his shrill voice cutting through the noise.

“Hydrate! Models, drink water!” he yells, glancing at each of you with hawk-like precision.

You ignore him, your fingers flying over your phone as you film a quick clip for a new cosmetic campaign. The lip gloss you are given to promote shimmers under the harsh backstage lights. You pout at the camera, flashing a practiced, sultry kiss.

—Perfect—

You post the video immediately and your heart races seeing the likes and engagement pouring in.

Before you can even set the phone down, the makeup artist is at your side, wiping off the gloss and applying another shade. The constant back and forth is exhausting, a never-ending list of demands and obligations, but you don’t dare complain.

This is the life you’ve worked for, and you’ll be damned if you let anyone think you can’t handle it.

“Stand up,” one of the assistants directs, pulling you toward the fitting station. The designer stands there, fussing over a corset that will showcase the gown you’ll be wearing. You stand still as they cinch it tighter and tighter, the pressure on your ribs growing unbearable.

You sway on your feet, exhaustion clawing at you, but you catch yourself. You don’t have time to falter. Not today.

“Sorry,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper as your vision blurs for a second.

By the time you are cinched the other models are already lining up at the entrance of the grand mansion, ready to walk down the closed-off Beverly Hills street for the show.

You join them, your heels clicking against the marble as you walk out the front doors, each step as practiced as your breathing.

It’s showtime.

As you reach the black pavement lined with the iconic palm trees, your adrenaline surges, masking the ache in your legs and the lightheadedness threatening to topple you.

The stretch of Beverly Drive is packed. Celebrities sit on either side of the runway in gilded chairs under the hot California sun, their eyes shaded by designer sunglasses, fans in hand. Photographers are poised at every angle, cameras raised like weapons ready to capture your every move.

This is your moment.

The music blares as you step onto the runway with a commanding presence. Your signature walk—fierce, confident, unapologetic—draws whispers and praises from the audience.

The gown’s flowing fabric catches the wind, billowing behind you like a royal train. The cameras click furiously, the rapid-fire shutters capturing every stride.

Your mind races as you walk, your jaw clenching tightly to make your cheekbones and piercing gaze sharper under the harsh sunlight.

You push harder, strutting like the ground is your kingdom and these people are mere spectators in your empire. But the ache in your stomach and the dizziness in your head grow worse.

The end of the runway looms, the finish line in sight. You reach it, striking a pose as the audience erupts into applause. The cameras flash in a blinding frenzy. For a moment, you feel invincible.

Then, the world tilts.

Your legs buckle, and the applause turns into gasps. You barely register the concerned voices or the rush of people toward you as your knees hit the pavement.

The last thing you see is the blue sky above and the white hot sun blurring into nothingness.

The first thing you notice is the light. Bright, clinical, and annoyingly sterile, it filters through your closed eyelids, pulling you from the fog of unconsciousness.

You groan softly, the sound foreign even to your own ears. Slowly, you blink, your vision swimming as you try to adjust to your surroundings.

The room comes into focus piece by piece—the white walls, the steady beeping of a heart monitor, the faint smell of antiseptic.

And then, your gaze lands on him.

He’s standing at your bedside, his posture attentive, his sandy blonde hair catching the light like a halo. He looks like an angel, his jawline sharp, his blue eyes impossibly kind, and the faintest hint of a smile plays on his full lips. Your heart rate spikes, and the monitor betrays you with a loud, insistent

Beep, beep, beep.

He glances at the monitor, then back at you, an amused look in his eyes. “I hope that’s not because of me,” he teases, his voice smooth and warm. “Though I’d take it as a compliment if it is.”

You blink at him, disbelief cutting through the haze, your eyes darting to the name tag pinned to his white coat: Dr. Butler.

“Shit!” you curse, realizing you’re in the hospital.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile, clearly amused by your reaction.

“You fainted during your show,” he reveals, setting his clipboard down.

“Aside from the dehydration and a few mild scrapes from the fall, you’re stable.” he explains. His tone is calm and reassuring, clearly trying to ease your mood, but the mention of your job makes your chest tighten, shame creeping in.

“I need to go!” you panic, your voice trembling. “People are waiting on me, people are going to be talking about me—I have to do damage control—I need to fix this!”

You try to sit up, and your body protests immediately, feeling a sharp radiating ache through your limbs.

Dr. Butler leans in, his movements calm and measured as he places a steady hand on your shoulder helping you up.

“Slowly,” he says, his voice gentle but firm, his touch grounding you. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You ignore his advice, stubborn as ever, and sling your legs over the side of the bed, attempting to stand. The instant wave of nausea makes your head spin, and your body sways dangerously.

Dr. Butler’s hands are firm on your arms, holding you steady guiding you back to the bed. His grip is gentle, keeping you anchored as your body protests against your defiance.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him, your voice edged with frustration.“I can’t believe I fainted. In front of everyone,” you say, the shame pressing down on you, the weight of your failure suffocating.

For a moment, you look up at him. His blue eyes are calm as they hold yours, the weight of his concern cutting through your defenses like a knife.

You hate how exposed you feel with him, but you can’t look away, utterly captivated by the sincerity in his gaze.

“You fainted because your body gave out,” he says gently, his tone steady and soft. “You’re dehydrated, undernourished, and overworked. When was the last time you ate or slept properly?”

You flinch at the question, looking away. “It doesn’t matter,” you say sharply. “This is my life. If I slow down, I’ll lose everything.”

His gaze softens, but the resolve in his expression remains. “You’re obviously someone who thrives under pressure,” he says, his voice steady as his eyes look over you, assessing your condition. “But even someone as strong as you needs to listen to their body.”

His words break through your defenses, even though you don’t want them to. You grip the edge of the bed, your knuckles white, as a wave of frustration and shame washes over you.

His words hang heavy between you, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s no judgment in his expression, only quiet understanding and something gentler—something you’ve never experienced before—compassion.

It’s disarming, seeing the unfamiliarity of the warmth in his gaze. You’re used to scrutiny, admiration, even jealousy, but never this. It’s not pity or condescension—it’s genuine compassion, and it catches you completely off guard.

“When was the last time you allowed yourself to rest?” he asks, his tone firm but gentle, his gaze searching yours as if willing you to tell the truth.

You want to snap back, to shrug off his words, but his sincerity touches you. For a moment, you’re not a flawless model expected to be perfect—you’re just you. And he’s looking at you like he actually sees you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but as you exhale, your breath shudders as if everything you’ve been holding in—stress, exhaustion, fear—rushes out in that single moment.

His gaze is steady and patient, as he smiles softly. “That’s a start,” he says gently, his tone warm.

Your lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but before you can say anything, he reaches over to collect his clipboard.

“Normally, I wouldn’t do this,” he says slowly, “but I want to make sure I stay updated about your condition. I know your schedule is hectic, so I’ll leave my number with your manager so have her call me if—”

“Give me your number right now,” you cut him off, your tone sharp but resolute. You don’t want him filtered through your agent you need to have him directly.

His brows lift in surprise, then his smile returns, this time softer as you see a hint of admiration in his eyes. “Alright,” he says with a small nod.

He flips to the last page of your chart, pulling a pen from his coat pocket, and scribbles his phone number down. He tears the piece off neatly and hands it to you. Without hesitation, you fold it and quickly tuck it into your palm, as if holding something fragile, something precious.

“Thank you,” you say, the words quieter than you intend, but they carry the weight of your appreciation.

You feel something stir in your chest—gratitude, yes, but something else too, something you’re not ready to name.

Dr. Butler stands up tall, slipping the clipboard under his arm. “Now that you’re awake, I’ve got some phone calls to make.” He explains. “Your team has a car waiting downstairs, so I’ll get started on your discharge paperwork.”

You nod, feeling the exhaustion settling in again, but you still manage to straighten your posture. “Thank you… for everything Dr. Butler…. —I mean it.” You say with sincerity.

His eyes soften as he looks at you, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged, though neither of you speaks it aloud. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Take care of yourself for me,” he says, his voice quieter as he softly smiles.

You nod again, clutching the folded piece of paper in your hand. “I will,” you promise, even though you’re not entirely sure how.

As the door closes behind him, you’re left sitting there, feeling lighter than you have in a long time, the piece of paper burning softly in your palm with an unspoken promise.

Something stirs in you—a feeling you can’t quite name but refuse to ignore. It’s unfamiliar, unsettling, and yet, for the first time in forever you feel calm.

Dr. Butlers number is stored permanently in your phone, the folded piece of paper he wrote it on tucked safely in the small drawer of your vanity.

But life moves at an unforgiving pace for you. They blame your collapse on heat stroke—something palatable, something relatable—and it gains sympathy the world over.

But sympathy isn’t what matters…notoriety is, and your perseverance becomes the buzz on everyone’s lips and within days, you’re diving headfirst back into the chaos of your career.

There are campaigns to shoot—luxury brands that demand nothing less than perfection.

Relentless scheduling, each hour meticulously planned leaving no room for error.

Evenings filled with glamorous galas and ceremonies where you’re expected to dazzle, pose, and exude effortless elegance, always flawless under the scrutinizing gaze of cameras and critics alike.

Fashion shows in other cities come next, with back-to-back fittings, rehearsals, and appearances that blur together in a haze of adrenaline and exhaustion.

The weeks pass in a relentless rhythm. Every minute of your day is claimed by something or someone. The pressure builds like a vice around your neck, and though you’re aware of the toll it’s taking, you push harder, convinced you have no other choice.

When you finally come home one evening, the quiet feels oppressive. The sleek, modern lines of your beachfront house feeling almost sterile.

You toss your purse on the counter in the kitchen and place your hands on the cool marble, your body trembling.

Your stomach twists painfully and you dig through your purse, pulling out a bottle of painkillers to dull the familiar pounding in your head.

Swallowing one with a sip of filtered water, you lean heavily on the counter, hoping for relief.

Instead, the medication makes your stomach churn, the pain clawing at you, sharp and unforgiving, leaving you dizzy and lightheaded.

The room tilts slightly, as you grip the edge of the counter to steady yourself.

Your mind races, panic swelling in your chest as you fumble through your purse for your phone. You scroll through your contacts without hesitation knowing exactly who you need to call.

The phone rings twice before his calm, familiar voice greets you. “Dr. Butler.”

Your voice is shaky, your words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s me. I—I feel awful. I can’t stand, my head’s spinning, and I just… I don’t know what to do.”

His tone softens immediately hearing your panic. “Okay, slow down,” he says gently. “Tell me what’s happening. Have you eaten today?”

“Not really” you admit, your voice small. “I haven’t had time. I didn’t think it was that bad, but now that I’m home… I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice soothing. “It’s alright. You’re going to be okay. Do you have any orange juice, or maybe piece of fruit of candy there?” He asks.

“I haven’t been home in a few weeks but… I …I think I have juice,” you say, glancing weakly toward the fridge.

“Good. Drink a small glass, slowly,” he instructs.

Despite your panic, you manage to open the fridge, your hands trembling as you shakily pour a glass of orange juice.

The cold liquid soothes your dry throat, and as the sugar begins to settle in your system, the dizziness starts to fade allowing you to take a deep breath.

“Do you make house calls?” you ask, half-joking starting to feel a bit better.

You can hear the smile in his voice as he answers, “I do.” His voice as comforting as ever.

“I think I need one,” you admit honestly, his soothing presence feeling like the only thing capable of cutting through the overwhelming chaos you’ve been drowning in lately.

“Where do you live?” he asks and instead of answering, you immediately send him your location.

He pauses as he receives it, his voice steady as he replies, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

You unpack your suitcase and shower with your little spike of energy and slip into a satin camisole with matching shorts and exactly one hour later, the doorbell rings.

You walk downstairs, the excitement pounding in your chest to see him again and you steady yourself as you reach for the door handle, taking a deep breath as you open it.

Dr. Butler stands there, looking almost too good to be true. He’s wearing a long-sleeve white tee that fits him perfectly in all the right places, the soft fabric hugging his broad shoulders and defined arms giving a subtle glimpse at the sculpted muscles beneath.

His sandy blonde hair falls in loose waves, tousled perfectly by the evening breeze, and in his strong arms, he carries a set of grocery bags, that he holds with effortless ease.

“You… brought groceries?” you ask, blinking at him in disbelief.

He grins as you step aside to let him in. “I’m going to cook for you,” he confirms with a warmth that entirely disarms you.

The kindness of the gesture catches you completely off guard, and a small whimper escapes you as your hand instinctively flies to your chest. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say softly, trying to protest but your heart is already melting.

He sets the bags on the kitchen counter, glancing around your open floor plan home.

“You have a really beautiful place,” he says, his voice warm as he takes in the view of the dark waves beyond the sleek living room.

“Thanks,” you reply, leaning against the counter. “I live alone, so… it stays clean.”

He grins and rolls up his sleeves with an effortless confidence. “Well let’s get some food in you.” He says as he begins unpacking the ingredients onto the counter. “I’m thinking something hearty and nutrient-rich—some vegetables, some bone broth—let’s replenish what your body really needs,” he says, his tone warm and reassuring.

You lean over the counter resting on your elbows as you watch him work. His hands move with practiced ease, chopping fresh vegetables and mincing herbs with precision. The rhythmic motion is mesmerizing, and the rich aroma of sautéing onions and herbs begins to fill the air.

You find yourself captivated by the way he moves—focused and sure, his forearms flexing subtly as he mixes ingredients in a pan. He’s completely unaware of how attractive he looks, the soft light from the kitchen highlighting his sharp features and the faint curve of his smile as he works.

“What are you making?” you ask, your voice softer now, curiosity breaking through the haze of your daydreaming.

“A simple vegetable and chicken soup,” he replies, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s rich, balanced, and should help get your energy back.”

Your eyes linger on him, the kindness in his actions feels almost overwhelming, and you’re not sure how to process it. “Thanks” you say the words slipping out as though your entranced.

He grins lightly, stirring the soup. “It’s the least I can do,” he says, his blue eyes filled with affection as he briefly glances over at you.

As the rich, savory scent of his cooking fills your home, you feel a warmth you haven’t felt in weeks—not just from the food, but from the quiet, unspoken care he’s showing you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel grounded… you feel calm.

Seeing his final stir as he taps the ladle, you reach into the cabinet, pulling out two bowls and placing them on the counter. He fills them with the soup, letting it cool slightly, the vibrant colors of the broth and fresh herbs almost too perfect to disturb.

You stand by him at the counter to informally eat there, offering him a spoon.

You enjoy watching as he begins to eat naturally, his movements relaxed and unhurried, but you hesitate, unsure at first, but finally take a spoonful. The rich flavor hits your tongue instantly —salty, savory, delicious— everything you didn’t know you needed.

You continue to eat and the tender chicken practically melts in your mouth as the carrots and potatoes add a comforting, hearty texture. Each spoonful feels like nourishment not just for your body, but for something deeper, something you hadn’t realized was starving.

As you continue to eat together your curiosity gets the better of you as you glance up at him.

“I just realized… I don’t even know your first name,” you remark, your voice softer now, a genuine interest lacing your words.

He looks up from his bowl, meeting your gaze with that familiar calm. “My name is Austin,” he says, a small but warm smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You pause, studying him for a moment, letting the name settle. “It suits you,” you say honestly.

He grins, shaking his head. “Good because, if it didn’t, I’d have to change it.”

His lighthearted comment makes you laugh, the intimacy of the moment catching you off guard. For a moment, you forget the chaos of your life—until the realization crashes back, sharp and heavy.

The upcoming Variety shoot flashes through your mind, the pressure tightening your chest. You stop eating, abruptly placing your spoon down as your appetite is replaced by a gnawing guilt of the strict guidelines of your recent fitting.

Austin notices immediately and places his spoon down to rest his hand on your shoulder, his touch solid and reassuring.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks softly, his voice low and calming.

“I—I have this variety shoot coming up,” you admit, your voice trailing off as your eyes flicker with guilt. The words feel heavy, as though admitting them aloud solidifies the weight pressing on your chest.

He studies you for a moment, his blue eyes searching your face soft but concerned then without a word, he takes your spoon, dipping it into the bowl and carefully filling it with broth.

“Open for me,” he says gently, his tone firm yet warm as his eyes lock onto yours with quiet insistence.

Caught off guard by the tenderness of his actions, you surrender without hesitation. You part your lips, letting him feed you, the warmth of the broth sliding down your throat, soothing and comforting.

He refills the spoon, his movements careful again, as you open your mouth without question letting him affectionately feed you.

“I picked a soup because it’s simple,” he says softly, his fingers grazing your chin to tilt your face toward him.

“For someone as strong-willed as you, I know it feels almost impossible to take a break.” He says his voice calm and thoughtful, as he spoons a little more and guides it to your lips.

“So, when life gets overwhelming, sometimes something as basic as bone broth will help.”

He pauses, watching you swallow, then he smiles softly. “It’s just a start—” he says, his blue eyes holding yours with reassurance. “—While you adjust and figure out …how to take care of yourself the way you deserve,” he says with quiet conviction, his gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your breaths uneven.

His words cut through you like a knife, slicing through the walls you’ve built around yourself. You swallow hard, feeling entirely exposed, completely vulnerable under his gaze. His care is so genuine, so intimate, that everything he offers feels like something more—more than nourishment, more than kindness.

When he lowers the spoon to the bowl again, your resolve shatters and you reach for him, your hands pulling him toward you, pressing your lips to his in a deeply, passionate kiss.

He stills as your lips press against his and you kiss him with every ounce of your gratitude and longing for him.

His hands instinctively reach up for yours, gripping them gently as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze.

“We shouldn’t—” he whispers, his voice barely audible, his breaths mingling with yours, his lips still close that the space between you feels unbearable.

As his eyes search yours, you see it—the way he wants you, the way every part of him seems drawn to you, like you’re impossible for him to resist.

Unable to hold back, you lean forward and kiss him again, your hands sliding around his neck, pulling him closer, making his resistance nearly impossible.

For a fleeting moment, he’s perfect—his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that feels both tender and desperate, his fingers pressing into your waist as though he never wants to let go.

Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he pulls back.

“We can’t,” he says, his voice a mix of regret and longing as he struggles to steady himself, his gaze flickering with conflict.

“Austin,” you whisper , your voice soft but commanding as you thread your fingers through his soft hair pressing your body firmly against his. “Stop talking”

Before he can respond, you pull him into another kiss, capturing his lips with a boldness that leaves him stunned. You don’t let him hold back, deepening the kiss as your hands tug gently in his hair, pressing your body harder against his.

You feel him, his restraint crumbling under the weight of his desire. His tall, strong, muscular frame is almost overwhelming against yours and as your hips brush against him you feel the undeniable hardness of him press against you making a heat flood your body.

“You want me,” you whisper against his lips, your confidence making his resistance falter.

His resolve weakens further, as you step back shrugging your camisole from your shoulders letting it slide effortlessly down your body, pooling at your feet as you slip out of your shorts with deliberate ease.

His eyes roam over your nakedness, the medical side of him evident as he assesses every part of you, but the intensity in his expression impossible to ignore, he wants you and more than just the image you maintain—he wants the real you.

“You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?” he asks, his voice filled with reverence as his hands betray him, caressing up your sides.

“How incredible you are,” he says, almost hushed, as his eyes meet yours, filled with an aching need to make you understand what he sees.

Your hand lifts to rest softly on his chest, “Make me feel it,” you say, your voice barely audible, raw with vulnerability as you look up at him.

“Make me believe it,” you whisper, your fingers trailing up to his collarbone, brushing the side of his neck, your touch as gentle as your voice. “Make me feel what you see in me.”

His jaw tightens, his chest rising and falling as your words hit him like a tidal wave. His eyes close briefly, as if trying to regain control, but it’s futile.

He can’t stop himself and his lips are drawn to yours in an instant, capturing them with a desperation so raw it makes your knees weak.

His kiss is intense, almost pleading, as his body presses firmly against yours. His grip is strong and unyielding as he pulls you closer his hands sliding beneath your thighs and lifting you effortlessly onto the counter.

The intensity of his touch and the hunger in his kiss, leaves no doubt—he’s determined to show you exactly what he sees in you.

In that moment, you feel like the center of his universe special and precious as his lips move against yours, his hands exploring your body.

One slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek, while the other trails down between your thighs.

His touch is delicate, his fingers tracing soft strokes along your entrance, teasing you, testing you, each featherlight pass sending waves of heat through your body.

Your breath catches as he presses in gently, his long fingers pushing in with soft care, stretching you just enough to make your entire body tense with anticipation.

“Am I giving you what you need?” he asks, his voice low and breathless, his lips grazing your ear as his fingers find a slow, teasing rhythm that makes your slickness increase with every thrust.

“Yes” you whisper shakily as he pulls back slightly to watch.

His gaze is fixated where his hand moves between your thighs, his focus entirely on the way his fingers slide in and out of you effortlessly.

The sight seems to captivate him, his breaths growing heavier as he watches the effect he’s having on you.

“You’re so incredible,” he whispers, his voice tinged with awe and desire as the slick sounds from his skill make you tremble, your body tightening around his fingers as he pushes deeper.

When he finds a certain depth he curls his fingers just right and your back arches sharply, as a soft cry escaping your lips.

His fingers thrust steadily there, the motion precise and unrelenting, and you can feel yourself growing tighter with every stroke. Your breaths come faster, turning into soft pants as your head tilts back, the world around you going fuzzy.

“I want to give you everything you need,” he whispers, and you gasp as his thumb brushes against your clit adding another layer of sensation that makes your hips push instinctively against his hand.

His lips kiss the curve of your neck as his free hand steadies you, gripping your waist firmly, holding you in place as he continues to work you to a climax with his fingers.

You can’t stop yourself as your head falls back, your eyes squeezing shut as your cries of pure ecstasy fill the air. He increases the pace his fingers stretching and filling you as our body responds instinctively, tightening around his fingers, amplifying every thrust drawing desperate moans from your lips

His thumb circles your clit in time with your cries and the tension begins building until your breaths turn frantic.

His lips find yours again, swallowing your moans as he kisses you deeply, his hand never faltering. The quick thrusts of his fingers send you spiraling, the pleasure overtaking you completely until you’re lost in it.

Your cries muffle against his mouth as your body trembles uncontrollably feeling the tension in your body snap like a tightly coiled spring.

The rush of pleasure is overwhelming, your orgasm radiating outward in pulses so intense it feels like your body might come apart. Your thighs clench around his hand, as the sensations courses through you, leaving you breathless and weightless all at once.

Austin’s hand slows immediately, his touch now gentle and soothing, letting you ride out the waves of pleasure.

“Breathe,” he says softly, his lips brushing against your temple before he presses a tender kiss there. “You’re okay….” His tone is calm and steady, grounding you as a shiver runs through you, the weight of emotion making your chest tighten.

His arm wraps securely around your waist, holding you steady as your body quivers against him. His touch is so tender, it feels as though he’s caring for your heart and your body in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

His hand moves up to cradle your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as his eyes hold yours with a mixture of awe and affection.

“You’re so beautiful,” he softly smiles, the sincerity in his words soothing you as he gazes deeply into your eyes, his expression tender and full of affection making you smile in return.

He leans forward, brushing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips warm and reassuring as he slowly withdraws his fingers.

You shudder at the loss, but he pulls you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you protectively.

He holds you for some time like a fragile, precious thing, his arms cradling you with a gentleness that makes your feel safe and warm.

You savor the moment, pressing your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he readjusts his arms around you, pulling you even closer.

“Will you stay?” you ask, your breath shaky, exhaustion creeping into your limbs and making you feel heavier in his embrace.

He hesitates, his jaw tightening slightly as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. “I shouldn’t,” he says softly, the conflict clear in his voice.

You reach for his hand, guiding it over your heart, holding it there as if to anchor yourself to him. “Please,” you whisper, near begging—something you’ve never had to do for anyone before.

He swallows hard, his eyes searching yours for a long moment. Finally, he nods, his resolve breaking. “I’ll stay… until you fall asleep.”

The relief and gratitude wash over you, and you smile—a genuine smile, full of warmth and happiness something you haven’t felt in a long time.

He lifts you effortlessly into his strong arms, his hold making you feel both secure and cared for as you guide him to your bedroom.

When he lays you down gently, you feel the cool sheets against your skin, and he adjusts the blanket over you with the same tenderness he’s shown all evening.

As he sits on the edge of the bed, his hand brushes your hair back from your face, his touch lingering for just a moment. “Get some rest,” he whispers, his voice low and steady.

You reach for his hand again, your fingers curling around his. “Stay close,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles down at you, his expression warm and reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere until you rest,” he promises, his words like a balm to your weary soul and as your eyes drift shut, his hand remains in yours, grounding you as you finally let sleep take over.

You wake slowly, your senses gradually pulling you out of the heavy haze of sleep. The faint sound of a phone buzzing piercing the quiet of the night, persistently lighting up the room. Blinking groggily, you realize it’s coming from the nightstand beside your bed.

Turning your head, Austin is lying next to you sound asleep. His chest rises and falls steadily, his face relaxed in a way that makes him look almost boyish and a small smile creeps onto your lips, the sight of him still there bringing a warmth to your chest.

The phone buzzes again, its glow illuminating the room for a moment before fading. You watch him stir slightly, his brows furrowing and his lips parting in a soft, sleepy sigh as his hand reaches instinctively for the sound.

His eyes flutter open, and the panic sets in almost immediately as his grogginess clears.

“I—I have to go,” he mutters, his voice raspy and urgent, as though the weight of reality is crashing back onto him.

He sits up quickly, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair, looking through the missed calls flooding his phone.

—But you’re not ready to let him leave—not yet.

“Austin,” you say softly, sitting up the sheets slipping from your body as you reach for him.

Your hand brushes against his arm, and when he turns to you, his eyes are filled with hesitation.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, your voice low and full of need.

You tug gently at his arm, and he hesitates for only a second before setting his phone back down on the nightstand. “I can’t stay much longer,” he says, his tone conflicted.

You smile, a playful edge in your voice as your hands slide to the hem of his shirt. “Then don’t waste our time,” you reply.

He doesn’t even resist as you pull it over his head, revealing his broad, muscular chest and sculpted abs.

Your fingers trail over him, admiring the strength in his body, the warmth of his skin under your touch. He watches you with lustful eyes, his breaths quickening as your hand moves lower, undoing the button of his jeans and unzipping them with care.

You tug his jeans and boxers down together, freeing him completely, and your breath catches at the sight of his substantial cock, hard and ready.

Your fingers trail over his tip and down the length of his shaft, the heat of him and the way it twitches under your touch sends a shiver through him, his breath catching as he watches you.

Before he can say anything, you lean over to your bedside drawer, sifting through until you find a condom that will fit his impressive size. The quiet sound of the wrapper tearing fills the room, as his eyes remain locked on yours.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice low and heavy with emotion, his breath hitching as your fingers brush against him carefully rolling the condom into place.

You meet his gaze, your hand lingering on him as you whisper, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Whatever resistance he had left disappears entirely as he pulls you into his lap, his lips finding your neck, kissing softly before his need for you takes over.

His hands slide up your sides, cupping your breasts as his lips travel lower, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

When his mouth finds your nipple, he sucks gently, drawing sharp gasps from you as his other hand squeezes the curve of your breast. The gentleness of his touch sends shivers through you as your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him closer.

“I want you so much,” he whispers against your skin, his voice thick with need, the raw longing in his tone making your heart ache.

“I want you too,” you whisper breathlessly, your voice trembling with both desire and anticipation.

He lifts his head, his blue eyes meeting yours for a lingering moment filled with longing, and without breaking the connection, he gently lays your back against the bed, his hands never leaving your body as he moves over you.

One of your legs bends instinctively, your knee raising to accommodate him as he positions himself, the other leg wrapping around his waist.

His hand cups your jaw soft and reassuring as he presses the tip of his cock against you and with a careful insistent push, he thrusts into you.

His cock stretches you slowly, his movements unhurried as you gasp, your body arching to accommodate his size.

His free hand slides along your thigh, gripping gently as he begins to move, the rhythm steady and controlled as he eases in inch by inch until each thrust fills you completely.

You softly moan for him as his eyes remain steady on yours, his hand caressing your cheek, while other traces the curve of your hip as he thrusts into you gently.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers, his thumb caressing your jaw. “So beautiful, so incredible.” He says his words tumbling out savoring the way you feel together.

You grip his shoulders tightly as he thrusts into you harder, the tension winding tighter as your hands slide down his back, your nails pressing lightly into his skin.

“You feel— so good to me.” You whisper the words spilling from your lips with raw sincerity, and they spur him on, a groan escaping his throat as his hands tighten their hold on you.

His lips press against your throat, his breath warm and uneven as the pleasure between you builds into something unstoppable.

Your soft moans only push him further, his body responding completely to your every sound.

He softly pants against your neck, lost in bliss, his eyes closed, his breaths warm on your skin. His lips press to your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses as his groans break and falter, his control slipping as he nears release.

You cling to him, your hands sliding to the back of his neck, holding him tightly against you. “Make me feel —how much you want me,” you whisper, your voice trembling as your own orgasm begins to build.

He clenches his jaw, a deep groan vibrating through him as he fights to hold back. Slowing his thrusts, he shifts to long, deliberate strokes, each one reaching the spot that sends jolts of pleasure through you. The tension coils tightly inside you, your breath hitching with every deep, purposeful thrust.

“You’re perfect to me,” he confesses, his voice rough and strained as he watches your face, his hips beginning to move faster as your soft whimpers fuel him. His rhythm becomes more urgent, his thrusts hitting harder, sharper, until your release crashes over you.

You cry out, your head tilting back as waves of pleasure course through you, your walls clenching tightly around him. The sensation pushes him over the edge, his groans deep and guttural as he buries himself inside you, his cock twitching as he comes.

It feels so good it borders on unbearable, your chest tightening as tears prick the corners of your eyes. He rides your though your orgasm and you cling to him, your fingers gripping his shoulders, needing something solid to ground yourself as your release consumes you.

When the intensity finally begins to fade, you feel raw, exposed, but so utterly content that a soft sob escapes you. The pleasure lingers, warm and soft, as your body melts into his, the aftershocks making you shudder gently in his arms.

He doesn’t stop holding you, his hand soothing as his lips brush against your temple. “You’re okay,” he whispers tenderly, his other hand sliding to your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek as he steadies you.

You nod weakly against him, overwhelmed by how deeply he’s unraveled you, feeling a flood of gratitude and emotion that makes tears spill silently down your cheeks. You bury your face against his chest, his compassion grounding you in a way you you’ve never known.

His head rests lightly against yours as his arms hold you securely, his breaths gradually evening out.

Then with carefulness, he slowly slides his large cock out of you, the loss leaving you momentarily speechless.

You shudder, your body adjusting to the emptiness, your emotions swirling as you cling to him for a moment longer.

You tilt your face up to him, your eyes locking with his as a connection passes between you, unspoken and undeniable, that neither one of you dares to name.

Gently, he shifts, rolling the two of you onto your sides, pulling you close and as you lay in his strong arms, his fingers trail against your back, soothing and steady, his warmth comforting you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

The way he cares for you—completely and unconditionally—fills a space you didn’t realize was empty, touching a part of you that you thought no one ever could—and for the first time in what feels like forever, a sense of peace settles over you as you slowly drift to sleep in the depth of his strong and loving embrace.

🩺END

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