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syoddeye · 8 days

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big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too.

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private.

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers.

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious.

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing.

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook.

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing.

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss.

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests.

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps.

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.”

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained.

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

#ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #mind the tags #posting and skittering off

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therugdistrictcanada · 2 years

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stillmonsterz · 4 months

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10th Street

pairing: jake sim x reader, jay park x reader kind of (one-sided genre: raw sex with jake :/ summary: you go on a date with jay and it's looking bleak, but the bartender comes around to save the day. warnings: alcohol, unprotected sex, drug mentions, crypto mentions, jay is annoying and rich, oral sex.... word count: 5.4k and unproofread.

“What really gets me about these rug pulls,” Jay says, steepling his fingers and placing them under his clean-shaven chin, “is that they’re so damn predictable. Any asshole with an ounce of intelligence could immediately spot that an anonymous crypto project is obviously going to rug. I mean, it’s fucking ridiculous, right?”

“Right,” you say. Your eyes flicker across his face, taking in his features. You wonder if the sex will be worth this, but the cursory glances you’ve taken at his trousers have told you that it probably won’t.

Your date is Jay Park, this entrepreneur who has made a name for himself in your area’s tech scene. When he had initially met you in a bookstore, skulking out of the philosophy section to not so much as introduce himself as to remind you of his name and status, you had assumed that he would have taken you someplace nicer. Instead, he drove you in his McLaren just outside of 10th Street. He had paid for 4 hours parking and had jostled you down the cluttered sidewalk, his Ferragamos clattering. Jay had gripped your elbow as he navigated you past drunkards, children wandering the streets without parents, and women with glassy eyes.

Your voice was joking but belied some of your concern. “Where are you taking me, a traphouse?”

“That’s date number two,” Jay had replied jovially, looking back at you in the light of the setting sun, “if I decide that you’re worth the effort.”

You had bitten back a groan and continued following him down the street. Finally, he had stopped you outside of a seedy dive bar, with a hole in the glass boarded up with cheap planks. The planks themselves had been tagged with obscene phrases written in spray paint and Sharpie. Jay had pointed to one word and smiled at you with childish glee. “I wrote that one,” he had said proudly. “

“You have awful writing,” you had said flatly, crossing your arms. “And this place looks like a crack den.”

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” Jay replied in a wheedling tone, his grip on your elbow sliding down to your hand. He had interlaced your fingers together. “Come on, don’t you wish to shed the trappings of the social strata? Doesn’t this excite you?”

A protest had begun to rise in your throat, but Jay had already pushed the door open, pulling you along. The bar was dimly lit, the lightbulbs flickering in the grimy lamps. Stains cover the cheap plywood flooring, and as Jay led you to a table the planks made harsh squeaking noises. Industrial metal was playing from a tinny radio, and the one LCD TV mounted in the corner was displaying grainy footage of a football game. The patrons crowding around the bar and littering the pool table are what you would expect. Loud, raucous, with hunched backs, jerky movements, and thinning hair. The glances that some of the men situated by the pool table gave you were reason enough to flee, but Jay’s grip is as tight as a viper.

“Don’t mind them,” Jay had whispered, his face nothing short of elated. His head had surveyed the room, and a slow smirk settled onto his lips. His well-coiffed hair, youthful face, and understated yet expensive clothes had set him apart, something that greatly pleased him. He had turned back to you. “You’re probably the most beautiful woman they’ve seen in months.”

“That’s not hard,” you had mumbled, crossing your arms. Your seat was sticky and the table separating you and Jay was riddled with dents and chips.

“Oh, come on,” Jay had whined, spreading his arms widely. “Don’t be such a little princess. Isn’t this nice? This stripping of artifice, this beautiful and vulgar display of Americana? It’s exciting, isn’t it? Gets you kind of…turned on, right?”

You had raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sporting a half-chub, yeah.”

You had groaned. “You’re disgusting, Jay.”

“Stop,” he had muttered, holding up his hand. “I might go full mast….” Jay had stood up hurriedly. “I’m going to get us drinks before I inelegantly bust all over the table. What do you want, like a Cosmopolitan or some shit?”

“No…I kind of wanted a vodka cranberry?”

Jay had scoffed, opening his wallet in a way that showed you his black card. “What, are you someone’s fucking grandmother? Christ.” He had stalked towards the bar, and you had sat there, trying not to make eye contact with any of the barflies. Finally, your gaze had fallen upon Jay talking to the bartender, at whom he was wildly gesticulating. The bartender was nodding patiently, taking a slow swig of a clear liquid in a tumbler. His apron was stained, his plain black V-neck exposed his thin arms and chest, and his eyes sparkled with a youthfulness one wouldn’t expect to find in a place like this.

As you had watched the two of them, the bartender’s eyes had briefly slid towards you. His eyes had widened, then narrowed playfully before he went to prepare the drinks. Your chest had felt warm, but you stifled your smile as Jay had stalked back towards your table.

“I feel bad for that poor bastard,” he had said, sidling into his chair and slinging his arm on the back of it. “Imagine being shackled to this shithole.”

“I thought you liked this shithole.”

“Yeah, as a brief recourse from the ardors of being really fucking rich,” Jay had retorted. “Not for the rest of my life. I mean, goddamn. Look at that prick.”

Jay didn’t have to tell you twice. You took in his messy brown hair, his wide smile, his deft fingers. Then he had walked away from the counter, holding your vodka cranberry and an old-fashioned for Jay. His stride was sure, and he was only looking at you.

“Here you are,” the bartender had said lowly. “Here’s your old-fashioned-“ he had set the drink in front of Jay with little fanfare- “and here’s your vodka cranberry.” He had slid the drink towards you, making brief eye contact with you. He had been so close to you, you could finally make out his name tag – Jake, written in careful capital letters- and you could smell the moonshine on his breath.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jay had muttered.

“Thank you,” you had added softly.

Jake leaned away slowly, his eyes still lingering on you, before politely nodding. “Let me know if you need anything,” he had drawled before walking away.

Jay had taken a long swig of his old-fashioned and takes a look at the retreating figure of Jake before groaning. “He should have made it even more obvious that he wanted you. He should have just shoved his cock into your old-lady drink and swirled it around so we really got the picture. Fuck me, I guess.”

You had sipped your vodka cranberry and laughed. “Oh, come on. You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m not,” Jay had insisted, pointing at you with an accusatory glare. “He was checking you out in this lascivious manner. It was disgusting. He was looking at you like you were some piece of ass.” He had taken another long drink of his old-fashioned, barely wincing at the burn.

“As opposed to you,” you had said sarcastically, “who only has pure intentions for me, right?”

Jay had laughed. “Hey, it’s different when I objectify you. It’s kind of like when a homeless guy calls you sexy on the sidewalk compared to when an apex predator like me calls you sexy. The point is, that bartender wants you, and it’s revolting.”

You had dared another glance at the bartender, who was blatantly staring at you while sipping his moonshine. “Relax. I’m probably just the first woman with a full set of teeth he’s seen in a while.”

Jay had snickered again. “That’s probably true.” Only a few moments of silence had passed before his voice took on a mischievous, almost playful lilt. “You know, you could probably get something from him…”

You had wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumbs. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Jay had said with a shrug, “you could get some free drinks out of him if you flirted a little, take advantage of him. You could probably get him to bequeath his life savings, which could maybe buy you a used microwave or a footlong.”

Your mouth had gaped open. “Are you openly encouraging me to flirt with him?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you a cuck or something?”

Jay had laughed again, slapping the table. “Ah, you slay me.” He had reached over and pinched your cheek, an action that made you want to bite his fingers off. “Come on, just shove your cute little ass in his face and flirt. It’ll be funny to make him think that he has a chance with you.”

“I’ll pass,” you had replied. “I mean, it’s not really my thing to just play around with other peoples’ emotions.”

He had sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “Oh, what am I going to do with you? You’re so goddamn innocent. You’re saying that you’ll feel some modicum of guilt if you fuck around with him?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jay had downed the rest of his old-fashioned. “Recalcitrance is for bitches and pussies.”

You had rolled her eyes. “Fine, so I’m a pussy.”

Once again, that finger had found its way into your line of sight. “You know who’s really a pussy? This asshole who had invested in this obvious pump and dump…”

As Jay rambles about crypto, you can’t help but look at the bartender. He’s behind the counter, cleaning a cloudy glass with a rag. When he notices that you’re looking at him, he smiles at you warmly before he looks at Jay and returns his attention to the glass.

Jay corrals you into having another drink, and you listen to his sophomoric opinions on modern society, the current film industry, his tech predictions, and his opinions on right-wing pundits. The only thing stymying your boredom from overtaking you are your furtive glances at the bartender- Jake, you remind yourself. Jake.

Finally, the two of you leave the shady bar, and Jay makes out with you as he presses you against his car. You close your eyes and think about Jake as his tongue probes inside of your mouth with little grace.

“Listen,” you murmur, pulling away from his lips, “I have a presentation early in the morning to give, so I’m going to have to cut this date short…”

“Oh, bullshit,” Jay says, groping your ass on the sidewalk, “you just don’t want to fuck me, is that it? Can you say that for me? Say that you don’t want to fuck me.”

You sigh. “I don’t want to fuck you.”

His hands comes off of your ass and he pulls away from you, shaking his head. “That’s all you had to say. I don’t get women. They’re always like, ‘Men never listen to us!’ Then they don’t explicitly tell us anything, we have to parse through their shit...” As Jay talks, he opens the passenger door. “Get in. Please.”

You slide inside of his car and he closes the door, even buckling your seatbelt for you. Then he walks over to the driver’s seat and drives to your place. He calls you a cock-tease and a winsome harlot and some other choice terms you can barely hear.

When he finally arrives at your place, he begs you for one last kiss. You oblige, he bemoans that he’ll never get to pound that tight strange, and he drives off, presumably to coerce someone into his bed for the night.

Against your better judgement, you take an Uber and walk into that bar on 10th Street alone. This time, the lustful eyes of the barflies are less disgusting than they are frightening. Thankfully, the bar area has been just about cleared out, and you take a seat on a stool with a peeled cover.

Jake is busy cleaning up a spill on the far end of the counter, but when he looks up and sees you his face brightens. He drops the cloth on the table and walks towards you with a goofy smile.

“Hey, babydoll,” he says lowly, eyes sparkling. He doesn’t bother masking the fact that he’s openly checking you out, his eyes lingering on your breasts before meeting your own stare again. “Was your date that boring?”

“He was…nice,” you reply, resting your head on your hand.

Jake laughs. “Yeah, nice, sure.” He shakes his head slightly, like he can’t believe his good fortune. “You want something to drink, babe?”

“Yeah, could you make me something nice and sweet? Nothing too alcoholic.”

Jake points at you, cocking his head. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” He busies himself behind the bar, pouring this and that into a shaker. As he does, he can’t stop stealing glances at you. Every time he does, he smiles and bites his lip before looking away. Finally, he pours a light-yellow drink into a cocktail glass, carefully affixing a lemon wedge to the side before gently sliding it to you. “It’s a lemon drop,” he explains in his slow drawl.

“Thank you.” You pull your wallet out of your purse. “How much is this?”

Jake shakes his head. “Nah, for a pretty girl like you, it’s on the house.”

A smile spreads across your face, and that warmth in your chest spreads. “Are you sure?”

“Surer than anything, babe.” He gestures for you to try it, pushing his mop of hair back.

You take a sip, and your eyes widen. “This is great.” You hold the glass by the stem as you drink it.

“Thank you,” Jake says almost shyly. “Glad that I picked up something useful from bartending this shithole.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Been working here for…ten years? Owned it for three.” Jake takes a long sip of his moonshine, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not my first choice of job, but when you’re an addict and you need money, you’ll take anything.”

Your mouth opens, but Jake quickly answers your question. “I’m clean now. Been clean for five years. My only vice is this.” He holds up his tumbler and shakes it before taking another sip.

“Do you make that yourself?”

Jake nods. “I make it myself, in the back,” he says, a tinge of pride in his voice. “This must be about…80% pure alcohol, I figure.”

“Can I try some?” you ask tentatively.

Jake laughs, his face contorting in disbelief. “Are you sure, babydoll? This could knock a grown man on his feet.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say. You hate to back down from a challenge.

With another laugh, he walks over to you, coming around the counter. He holds his glass out to you, and as you wrap your hand around the tumbler he tilts the liquid into your mouth. Jake’s eyes are fixed on your lips, awaiting your reaction.

At first, it does little to you, and you’re about to say something snarky. Then the burning starts, flames licking at your throat, and you double over coughing. Your eyes are screwed up, filled with tears, and your hands clutch the edge of the counter.

You can feel a hand rubbing your back, the other hand gently stroking your arm. “Aw, damn. You took that like a champ.”

Through hacking coughs, you eke out, “I don’t feel like a champ.”

Jake continues rubbing comforting circles on your back. “I’ve seen men collapse to their feet from a shot of moonshine. You’re a little firecracker, ain’t you?”

“Thanks,” you mutter, turning to look at him through watery eyes.

“No problem. You want some water, babydoll?”

You nod, and Jake reluctantly lets go of you to retrieve some water for you. He returns to your side with a glass, holding it up to your lips. The water is like a soothing balm for your throat, and after a long drink you sigh. “Damn.”

Jake sets the glass down and picks up his own tumbler of moonshine, taking a long swig. “That’s moonshine for you.”

Your eyes widen. “How are you drinking that so…so…”

“Like it’s water?” Jake smiles at you cheekily, leaning against the counter next to you so that his elbows are on the edge and he’s facing you. “First of all, I’ve put shit up my nose that burned more than this. Second of all, I’m used to it. When you’re dealing with this day in and day out-“ he gestures widely at the bar- “you need something good and strong to get through it.”

“Your liver must be strong as hell.”

Jake laughs, setting his tumbler down. “It must be pickled at this point.”

You can’t help but laugh, and he playfully pokes your shoulder. “Don’t laugh at my liver. It’s the only reason why I’m still standing.” Then he stills, appraising you with a careful gaze. “I never got your name, babydoll.”

You tell him your name, holding your hand out.

He takes it and shakes it firmly. “Lovely name. Suits you perfectly. My name’s Jake. Jake Sim.”

He’s still holding your hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he murmurs. Jake holds your hand to his lips and kisses it, traces of moonshine wetting your hand. He flattens your hand and idly starts tracing your palm, his other hand circling your wrist. “You’ve got nice hands. Real nice.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly. “Yours are very rough.”

Jake laughs somewhat self-consciously. He stops drawing on your palm with his index finger. “Yeah, well, you don’t work at a place like this for damn near a decade without getting a few calluses and cuts.”

Your voice comes out as a whisper. “I like it.” You reach out and gently squeeze the tip of his finger, feeling the callus for yourself, before dropping it.

Jake smiles, but his eyes take on a dangerous glint. His finger trails from the palm of your hand to your wrist, his fingertips gliding over your veins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, both of you continued smiling at each other. Then Jake licks his lips, and he lets go of your wrist. His other hand now strokes your forearm. “Why’d you come back here, baby? Coming to this shithole once is one thing, but twice in the same night…”

You don’t see a point in playing games. “I wanted to see you.”

The smile drops off of Jake’s face, and he leans in towards you. “Yeah? No bullshit?”

“No bullshit.”

His other hand moves to rest on your knee, and his thumb strokes it through your jeans. “Your date didn’t do it for you?”

You shrug, picking up your lemon drop again and sipping it. “He was okay, I guess. He was weird.”

Jake’s voice is becoming low, his eyes serious. His eyes flicker over your body, settling on your thighs. This time, he doesn’t bother looking back up at you. “You don’t like weird?”

“Not that kind of weird,” you reply, your voice catching.

“You don’t like rich prick typa weird?” His voice is amused, and his hand creeps up your knee. “You prefer broke bartender at a shit bar typa weird?”

You lean in, your eyes locked onto his full, plush lips. The smell of moonshine has become less of a deterrent and more intoxicating. “Is that a problem?”

“The opposite,” Jake replies in a husky voice. His lips brush your cheek as he moves to whisper in your ear. “I’m flattered that a gorgeous lady like you has interest in me.” His right hand is now caressing your thigh slowly, intentionally. The other touches your face with his thumb.

“I’m surprised you’re flattered,” you reply, leaning into his touch slightly. “Women here must love you.”

“They love me to get free drinks out of me,” he says dismissively. “Besides…most women who come here aren’t a fraction as pretty as you are. You’re like a gem in a pigsty, you know that?” When you don’t say anything, Jake continues, running his finger along your jaw. “Your date must’ve been as stupid as hell to let you go.” He pulls away from your ear so he can look you in your eyes.

“He couldn’t do anything about it. I just didn’t want him the way-“

Jake’s eyes narrow, and he comes impossibly closer. “The way what?”

“The way I want you.”

There’s a pause, and Jake’s face is unreadable. When he does talk, his voice is strained, “Tell me you aren’t fucking with me. Tell me you’re serious. Say the word, and I’ll shut this place down and kick all these junkies out.”

You swallow, need and desire building up in the pit of your stomach. “I’m serious.”

Jake pulls away from you and walks over to the barflies, telling them to get their drunk asses out. They complain and groan, but they leave without much of a fight. Once they’re all gone, Jake locks the door. “Come here,” he says, beckoning you with his finger.

You walk towards him as if in a trance, and when you’re close he spins you around by the waist and kisses you. You readily kiss him back, your hands resting on his chest. His mouth tastes like moonshine, and you can even taste a hint of his sharp aftershave. Jake presses you up against the door, placing his knee in between your legs to trap you. The kiss starts off playful, but it grows hungry, and Jake seems as though he would swallow you if he could.

When he pulls away from your lips, a string of saliva in between your mouths, his eyes dart all over your face. Then he nods slightly, as if he’s come to some grand conclusion.

“What?” you ask, your hands snaking up to his cheek. “What is it?”

Jake pecks your lips gently and smiles. “I just realized…I’m not going to be able to take my time with you.” Before you can say anything, he wraps his arm around your waist and guides you behind the counter to a wooden door that looks liable to give one splinters.

When he opens the door, the smell of alcohol is almost staggering, and Jake’s grip tightens on your waist as if he had anticipated that reaction. Bottles of alcohol are stacked in crates on wooden shelves on the far wall. To the right rests three DIY pot stills, all using dented kegs. To the left, there’s a small faux-leather couch with chunks of it peeling off. You think back to Jay’s words about the artifice or whatever the fuck, and suddenly you wish there was at least a bit of pretense. But when you turn to Jake, he’s smiling at you like you had hung the moon in the sky yourself. “I know it’s no Hilton,” he begins sheepishly, but you shut him up by kissing him squarely on the mouth.

“It works for me,” you say, biting your lips.

Jake’s grin widens. “Shit, okay.”

You tumble together on the couch with Jake, your mouths connecting sloppily and wetly. You suck his tongue into your mouth hungrily, causing you to choke slightly. This only spurs Jake on further, and he grinds his crotch into you. Your hips rise to meet his, and you hump each other desperately and almost painfully. His hand crawls up your stomach, and he gropes at your breasts. Finally, he pushes himself off of you, settling into a kneeling position. Through the dim light filtering in through the cracks of the door, you can see that Jake’s lips are swollen, his hair messy, and his eyes wild.

“Take it off,” he grunts. “Everything. Now.”

Your hands fumble with the zipper of your jeans, excitement clogging throat. As you tug your jeans down, Jake unbuckles his belt, throwing it to the side. You kick your shoes off, shimmy your jeans off, and toss your shirt away, leaving you in only your bra and panties. When you’re suitably undressed, you look up at Jake.

Jake’s shirt is off, revealing a dark mass of skin you recognize as tattoos. One of his hands has slipped into his boxers, and he’s staring at you. A moan escapes his lips as his eyes wander your body. “So fucking perfect,” he says, voice strained as he plays with his cock. “So goddamn beautiful. Play with yourself for me, baby.”

You tentatively tug your underwear down, collecting your arousal to coat your clit before stroking it with two fingers. You’re so sensitive that just the first touches cause you to whine in pleasure.

“Spread your legs,” Jake hisses. “Nice and wide…”

You oblige, widening your legs so that Jake gets a full view of your pearly pussy. He moans again, his mouth watering at the sight of it, at the hot, sweet smell. “Let me taste it. Let me taste it,” he begs, dipping his head down.

As his wide tongue touches your clit, you cry out in pleasure. Jake laps at your clit with fervor, his hands pushing your legs apart as he licks wide stripes. His mouth makes obscene smacking noises, and when he briefly pulls away to catch his breath, his entire lower face is slick with your arousal. “So good,” he mutters before diving back in. You squirm, knowing that you’ll cum quickly if he doesn’t stop, but Jake’s nails dig into your fleshy thighs, holding you in place.

“Oh, Jake, Jake,” you pant out, head leaning back. “Jake, I’m so close, Jake…”

Seemingly encouraged by your words, Jake continues attacking your clit, and two of his bony fingers slip into your vaginal walls, spreading you open. They pump themselves in and out, in and out, like the undulations of the ocean. Like that, he rips an orgasm from you, continuing to lick the arousal spilling from you as you ride out the wave of pleasure.

You lean your head back on the armrest of the couch, trying to catch your breath. Jake gently caresses your thigh as you come down from your high, peppering your neck with kisses. “Tasted amazing,” he says, voice ragged. “Tasted like paradise.”

Your brain is so fuzzy you can hardly piece together a coherent sentence. “That was so good, Jake.”

Jake smiles at you and gives you a kiss on the mouth, slow and gentle. You greedily lick your own juices off of his lips, even sucking it off of his tongue. As you kiss, you can feel the head of his cock poking at your entrance. “Sorry,” Jake says blithely, “but I need to fuck you right now.”

You nod. “Please.”

To his credit, he takes his time. He fucks into you slowly and carefully, wanting you to adjust. He’s not long, but he’s girthy and fills you well. He feeds you his cock inch by inch, moving in and out as so not to hurt you. Once you seem at ease, he pushes your thighs up so that your knees touch your breasts and fucks you at a faster pace. After a minute or so of that position, he seemingly gets tired of it, opting to place your legs over his shoulder. This allows him to hit a sweet angle, one that has you moaning.

He’s fucking you so quickly that your breasts begin to hurt, so you cover them with your hands. Jake swats your fingers with his free hand, the other wrapped around your legs. “Stop that,” he huffs out. “Let your tits bounce.” You let go of your breasts, and he licks his finger to swirl it around your nipples, marveling at their stiffness. He kneads your breasts as he pounds into you with grunts of effort.

Jake pulls out of you, and the loss causes you to cry out. He grabs you by your shoulders and pulls you around so that your head is lolling over the edge of the armrest. He hovers over you, one hand prying your mouth open. “Need to fuck this mouth of yours. Will you let me, babydoll?”

You pant out your assent, and he slides his wet cock into your mouth. First you kitten-lick the head, tasting your own hot arousal, then he presses his cock further down, treating your mouth like a pussy. As you gag around his dick, you play with his balls, fondling them with one hand. With the other, you play with your engorged, reddened clit. This doesn’t go unnoticed by him. “You’re amazing,” Jake pants out. “Playing with yourself while you get facefucked.”

You tap his stomach, and he pulls his cock out, stroking your cheek gently. “All good?” he asks tentatively.

You nod and spit somewhere on his floor before taking him back into your mouth. “So good to me,” Jake praises. “So, so good.” Once he’s done fucking your mouth, he pulls out and his cock on your cheek, almost playfully. Then he pulls you over so that you’re flat on your stomach, your head still hanging over the edge of the couch. He spanks your ass once, twice, then slips his wet, stiff cock into your folds, moaning as he does.

This time, his pace isn’t furious, but moderate. He pulls you up so that your back rests on his chest. He’s on his knees, fucking his cock into you upright. Your hips meet Jake’s, so that you’re bouncing on his dick. He kneads your breast with one hand, the other hand holding your waist. Your lips meet in a sloppy, rushed kiss before he pushes you down and grips your hips. He pounds into you with strangled moans, sounding more animalistic than anything else.

“You like this?” he asks, the question sounding less like dirty talk and more like a desperate need for assurance.

“I like it!” Your voice is tremulous, shaking as he thrusts harder and harder into you.

“That rich prick you were with couldn’t fuck you like this, right?” He punctuates his sentence by pulling out of you before slamming himself back inside with a groan.

You moan loudly, trying to clutch the armrest for support. “No, he couldn’t. He’s nothing like you.”

“That’s right,” Jake says, closing his eyes. “He couldn’t. He couldn’t make you purr like I do.” His thrusts become sloppier and faster, and you slip your hand down so you can rub your clit to chase your own orgasm.

Peals of moans spill from your lips. “I’ve never been fucked like this before, Jake.”

“I thought so.” Jake flips you over so he can enter you from the front, pushing one of your legs to the side. He slides in and out of you with ease, your juices having pooled on the couch. “You need to be fucked like this, don’t you?”

“I need it,” you choke out, your stomach desperately burning. “I need it, Jake.”

As he comes close to orgasm, you can feel his cock twitch inside of you. “Fuck, a girl like you just begs to be treated like this.”

“That’s right,” you babble.

Jake doesn’t talk anymore, instead letting out low grunts as he comes close. Your second orgasm hits you first, and you scream out his name. The tightening of your vaginal walls is enough to bring him to climax, and with a final grunt and a low, “Fuck!” he spills into you. He pulls out of you and weakly rubs his cock to spill his last few spurts of hot cum on your stomach. Then he wearily collapses, leaning back on the opposite side of the couch.

Both of you recover from the heated session, and you gasp for air. After a while, you feel Jake’s hand on yours, and he pulls you onto him. He strokes your hair and kisses both of your cheeks. You wrap your arms around him and rest your cheek on his chest.

“I can’t just let you go,” he murmurs, fingers tangling in your hair. “I’m going to need you again soon.”

You look up at him, surprised. “Again? Soon?”

Jake laughs, his playfulness returning. “We’re going to rest up for a little, and then I’m going to take you again. We need two more rounds, at minimum. What do you say?”

“I say you’re insane,” you reply, any snark momentarily eviscerated by the residual pleasure spreading in your body.

“You like it.”

“Shut up.”

With another laugh, Jake kisses the top of your head. “You’re cute.”

You allow your eyes to flutter shut as you revel in his embrace, taking in Jake’s scent and comfort.

#jake sim smut #enhypen smut #jake x reader #enha smut #kpop smut #kpop fanfiction #jay park smut #jake sim x reader

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sinsandsweetness · 8 months

Text

thinking about living across the hall from Frank…

-> always running into him at the most random times. in the elevator or the lovey super late at night or bright and early in the morning. When he’s on his way to a job and you’re coming back from work. Or you’re on your way to study at the library and he’s got his keys and a bag of groceries in his hands. Always giving you a little nod of acknowledgment but neither of you ever have the courage to speak. To actually say hi.

-> until one day where you get locked out of your apartment. You lost your keys or something. And with your luck, your roommate works the night shift at the hospital. You’ve got no way in until morning.

-> So you find yourself stuck. An hour goes by and you’re sitting on the dirty carpet hallway floor. Leaned up against the wall. Eyes fluttering closed because hell it’s been a long day. Frank, on his way home from work, makes his ways down the hall. Concerned at first by the sight of your body laying in the hall. But he gets to his door and it’s just you, half asleep. You give him a soft smile and he finally asks you for your name. You explain your situation and he nods in understanding.

“Well don’t just sit there. C’mon.” He’d wave you into his place, lunchbox in hand. Dirty from a day of construction. In desperate need of a shower and some food.

-> you’re reluctant to come in. Not because of Frank. Or at least not because you didn’t like him. More so… the opposite. You found him intimidating. Handsome. Rugged. You always enjoyed running into him. Smiling at him in the elevator. Trying not to blush too hard. But there’s just this aura about him that makes you a little nervous. Butterflies or something.

-> he’d tell you to make yourself at home while you wait to get ahold of your roommate. Or come up with a plan to get your keys. To call the landlord. Though you doubt they’d answer at this hour.

-> he asks if you’re alright if he showers, “I’ll be quick. You can help yourself to the fridge.” He even grabs you a beer and places it on the table in front of you. Cracking one for himself as he heads for the washroom.

-> it feels weird. Being in a strangers home. It’s empty. Sad almost. Grey walls. Nothing… personal. Nothing that tells you anything about the man. It’s clean. As clean as any of the suites in you cheap ass apartment can possibly get. But it’s bland. It’s a bachelor suite. He’s got nothing more than the necessities. The basics. You can’t help but think about Frank. In this apartment. Every night by himself. He must be lonely.

-> you saunter over to the fridge. Not particularly hungry, but feeling slightly awkward just sitting at his table and doing nothing. There’s enough to make a weeks worth of sandwiches. And a more than a few weeks worth of beer. You take a swig of your bottle.

-> when the water shuts off, you get back to your spot at the table. Checking your phone. The messages with your roommate. He’s probably busy. Drawing blood. Stitching people up. Doing whatever it is he does as a surgical intern.

-> “you get ahold of him?” Franks voice brings you back.

“Oh, no. He’s- he’s probably busy. Works at the hospital so… um… thanks for inviting me in, but uh, I can just wait out there.” You sling your bag over your shoulder, getting up to leave.

“Wait out there? All night?” He asks. Your gaze goes down to his shirt. A little damp where beads of water are running down his neck. Off his beard. You look back up. He’s got such pretty eyes, you notice.

“Yeah, i’ll be alright.” You give him a tight lipped smile. But he’s not having it.

He shakes his head, “here,” he grabs a blanket from the supply closet. And a pillow. A pillowcase. He fumbles with the makeshift bedding for a moment until he makes the couch up. It does look nicer than the stained hallway carpet.

“You can’t stay out there. There’s some real… weirdos in this area. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you.” His concern makes your stomach flutter. Even if it’s just human decency. Courtesy of not wanting you to get mugged or murdered.

“You really don’t have to-“ you try to deny the offer but he grabs your bag. Gently pulling it off your shoulders and placing it against the wall.

“It’s just for the night. I don’t mind. Seriously.” His eyes are serious. Brows furrowed in concern.

-> the couch is cozier than you expected. Worn and used in the most perfect way. It takes you no time to fall asleep. Frank on the other hand, is having some serious insomnia. There’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, right outside his bedroom. Sleeping on his couch. Probably making his blanket smell like her vanilla perfume. It’s making his brain all fuzzy. He can’t think. Well, he can’t not think. You’re wearing one of his tee shirts. He offered it up. No, he insisted. And when saying goodnight from his bedroom doorway, he couldn’t help but notice that your pants were folded up on top of your bag, and your bare legs gleamed in the dim light of the living room, as you fluffed up your pillow.

-> the two of you had some very interesting dreams that night.

-> Waking up to the smell of coffee, you’re blushing hard when he hands you a mug. He tells you he has to leave for work. Lunchbox in hand, jacket on.

-> He didn’t ask for his shirt back.

-> you wave Frank goodbye as you watch him head down the hallway, and at the same time, you see your roommate come out of the elevator at the end. Both of them exchange a nod and a glance. Your roommate jogs up to let you both into your place.

“You coulda came to the hospital. Coulda grabbed my keys,” he says plopping himself down on the couch. Rubbing his eyes. Long night for him as well.

“I didn’t even think about it. He just- Frank invited me in and I was so tired… I mean, it seemed like a better option than sleeping in the hall…”

“Well it was real nice of him. Maybe you should make him a dish or somethin’. Lasagna? Y’know, to say thank you.”

“You just want some lasagna don’t you?” You smirk, rolling your eyes.

Your roommate smiles back. A low chuckle escapes his throat. “The man let you sleep on his couch. You better be sayin’ thank you somehow.”

continued here

(Idk what this is tbh but um… let me know what we think??)

#officially writing for Frank now my loveys <3 #Frank castle x reader #frank x reader #Frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle imagine #frank daydream #frank castle

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therugcollective · 6 months

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Exploring the Rich History of Rugs: From Antiquity to Modernity

Discover the Fascinating Journey of Rugs through Time: A Comprehensive Guide

Dear rug enthusiasts and history aficionados,

Welcome to an immersive journey through the captivating history of rugs—a journey that unveils the stories, techniques, and cultural significance behind these timeless treasures. In this blog post, we'll explore the evolution of rugs, from their ancient origins to their modern-day presence in our homes.

Rugs have transcended centuries, bridged cultures and serving as artistic expressions. As we delve into this post, be prepared to be transported through time, uncovering how these woven marvels have left an indelible mark on civilizations worldwide.

Join us as we unroll the rich tapestry of rug history, one section at a time.

Section 1: Origins of Rug Weaving

Tracing the Beginnings of Rug Craftsmanship

In this section, we'll journey back to the dawn of rug weaving—a time when nomadic tribes and ancient civilizations first wove these functional and symbolic creations. We'll explore the earliest weaving techniques and designs, showcasing how these rugs have evolved into the exquisite pieces we cherish today.

Section 2: Rugs in the Ancient World

The Silk Road and the Global Reach of Rugs

Our adventure then leads us along the Silk Road, a bustling trade route where cultures converged, and rug weaving flourished. Discover how these rugs became sought-after commodities, adorning the courts of emperors and sultans. Dive into the intriguing stories behind iconic carpets like the Pazyryk and the Ardabil Carpet.

Section 3: Renaissance of Oriental Rugs

When East Meets West: Oriental Rugs in the Renaissance

In this section, we'll delve into the captivating fusion of Eastern and Western influences during the Renaissance. Explore the timeless allure of Oriental rugs, renowned for their intricate patterns, rich colors, and enduring elegance. Learn how these treasures captivated the Western world, shaping interior design for generations.

Section 4: Rugs as Cultural Artifacts

Rugs: More Than Floor Coverings

Rugs hold stories, beliefs, and traditions of the communities that craft them. This section uncovers the cultural significance of rugs across different societies, from the symbolism of motifs to the rituals associated with their creation and use. Rugs are more than decor; they're cultural artifacts.

Section 5: The Evolution of Rug Craftsmanship

Innovations in Rug Making Techniques

Time brings progress, and so do rug-making techniques. Discover the evolution, from hand-spun fibers to modern mechanized looms. Learn how technology and design innovations have shaped the rug industry into the vibrant, diverse field it is today.

Section 6: Rugs in Contemporary Design

Modern Rugs: Blending Tradition with Innovation

In our final section, we bridge the gap between history and modernity, exploring how rugs continue to be vital in interior design. From minimalist concepts to avant-garde creations, contemporary designers seamlessly blend tradition with innovation, breathing new life into the ancient art of rug weaving.

Conclusion: Threads That Connect Us Through Time

As we conclude our journey through the history of rugs, we reflect on the enduring legacy of these woven wonders. Rugs that grace our homes today carry with them the stories of generations past, connecting us to traditions, cultures, and artistry. Rugs are not just decor; they are threads that bind us across time.

We hope this blog post has deepened your appreciation for rugs, revealing the rich tapestry of history they bring to your space. As you explore the world of rugs, remember that you're not just acquiring decor; you're preserving a piece of history.

Ready to explore the world of rugs and bring history into your home? Visit www.therugcollective.com to discover a curated collection of rug designs honoring the timeless art of weaving.

#large area rugs #oriental rugs #rugs #area rugs #rugs for sale #8x10 area rugs #kitchen rugs #8x10 rug #eco-friendly rugs #9x12 area rugs #Machine Washable Rugs #Bedroom Rugs #Living Room Rugs #Cheap Rugs

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1-800-local-slut · 4 months

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House of Memories (Spencer's Version)

Spencer Reid x Black! Fem! FBI! Reader

A look at your life with Spencer through the eyes of his team mates

Warnings: none really, just fluff, the team being observant, adult objects (condoms, alcohol, etc.,), not a warning but a note: reader isn't in the BAU but she works in the FBI, through Emily's POV

“I wasn’t expecting an invite from you, Reid. Thanks for having me over.” The front door to the apartment opened. Emily was holding a bottle of cheap wine that she grabbed from the liquor store down the street when she realized she forgot to bring a house gift. It was a close call too, she was literally driving past it when she realized and had to make a very hasty u-turn.

“It’s no problem, thank you for coming! Derek, Garcia and Hotch are in the living room, Rossi’s in the bathroom and JJ’s coming late. Her loss though, I think she’d really enjoy Interstellar and if she comes late I know she’s going to complain. Come in, just take your shoes off if you don’t mind.” Emily nodded, after Spencer gave her a light side hug and accepted the bottle from her.

He wore a white tee-shirt, pajama bottoms, and smelt fresh. His hair was damp as well, like he’d showered a few hours ago but his hair is so thick that it takes a minute for it to dry. She noticed his light shrug, as if it wasn’t his preference but he would take it anyways.

Ghosting through the threshold, she bent down and slipped off her boots. She heard light chatter, music, smelt a vanilla and sea salt (it was a rough guess) candle burning, and heard the clatter of pots in the kitchen.

She couldn’t help it, her analytical mind working before she could stop it. Sometimes she would find herself profiling strangers even when it was rude. And profiling your coworker who invited you into his home was very rude.

Spencer’s shoes were thrown on the floor, one knocked on its side but still close together. As if it was an attempt on his end to be some sort of neat. Pairs of heels, pumps, boots were lined on the shoe rack but after doing a quick count, she noticed something. There were far more womens shoes than there were mens shoes. About six pairs of men's shoes to a 10 women’s shoe ratio.

Aaron, David, Derek make three, and the other three were clearly Spencer’s. Pen’s shoes obviously were one of those female shoes. The bright purple heels sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the browns, blacks, and deep reds of the female shoes.

‘Enough Emily, stop being rude.’

“Your house is beautiful Spencer.” She couldn’t help but look around in slight awe. She wasn’t expecting Spencer’s house to be so…neat? No, that sounds mean. Neat in a way that didn’t seem like it was all Spencer. Sure Spencer’s little unique touches were sprinkled about the apartment and she was still standing at the doorway.

There were pictures of nature hanging on the wall, of a young black woman standing in front of a large pond far from the camera. She wore a pink baseball cap and had her hands flung out as if to emphasize how big the pond was. Who was that? A secret lover? She looked familiar, like a face Emily had seen in passing.

“Oh thanks. I just moved in a few months ago so not everything is fully set up.” Spencer called from the kitchen, and there were three clicks from the stove. Then he slid out, wiping his hands on a towel. As she walked through the house, she noticed more.

Potted plants with lush green leaves, knitted plant holders hanging from the ceiling, a red and dark blue patterned rug on the floor in the hall. From where she stood, she could see there was a small dining area. A nice wooden table, with papers and files scattered all over.

She found her way to the living room and saw her coworkers engaged in whispers on the couch. More papers and files were on the small tables on either side of the couch, a contrast to the neatness of the rest of the house.

“Hey everybody, what’s up?” Emily asked. Heads snapped towards her, and she noticed Penelope’s eyes curved up in a mischievous grin.

“Hi! Come sit, come sit.” Penelope motioned next to her, Derek and Rossi sliding over to make room for her.

“Did you make it in okay?” Hotch asked and Emily nodded while she slipped onto the brown leather sofa. A dark purple hand knitted black was thrown over the back of it. Did Spencer take up knitting or was this just a nice purchase?

Spencer plopped down into the brown leather armchair and rested his feet on the pouf in front of him. Emily noticed how spotless the glass coffee table in front of them was.

The whole house was ridiculously clean. The wooden floors sparkled, the carpets meticulously vacuumed, the TV sparkled and the speakers next to the TV were flawlessly dusted. The large oak bookshelf that was up against the wall that was closest to the kitchen was also dusted and the books neatly organized.

When would Spencer have time to clean his house so thoroughly? They were on a mission all of last week, got back two nights ago and have been at work since then. Sure, it’s Spencer he could just be very clean but the way things sparkled, it was clear they were cleaned merely a few hours ago.

When they did go home it was late at night and they were back at work early the next day. Did he spend his whole Saturday afternoon scrubbing his floors, and preparing to cook for them? Spencer wasn’t the type to have a housekeeper, especially when he does his work all over and you can’t exactly leave FBI documents in the eye of the eye of a random house keeper.

“Sorry about the paperwork, I still have to set up my study. I have to put up my desk and everything.” Everyone voiced a consolation, some variation of ‘I don’t mind’ or ‘you should see my place’.

“Not the handyman?” Derek teased, wiggling his eyebrows. Spencer chuckled and shook his head. Spencer’s been smiling a lot more lately.

“I like keeping myself out of the hospital. Did you know every 45 minutes a piece of furniture falls on someone, and 25,000 people a year are treated at the hospital for a furniture related incident?” Spencer rattled off, emphasizing the numbers with his fingers.

Before anyone else could say anything, the doorbell rang. Spencer glanced back at the door, before he sprung to his feet with enthusiasm like he was expecting Emily and Penelope exchanged looks, giggling while Rossi lightly rolled his eyes.

“Of course he knows that. Also, did any of you know that Spencer moved to a new place?” Derek asked.

“Well I knew. I know where all of you live. But it was very considerate of him to invite us over.” Hotch nodded, taking a sip of a bottle of water. Not Spencer’s usual brand but she did notice a switch some time ago. From Purelife to Poland Spring.

“Did you see the coat? Hanging by the door rack?” Penelope whispered, motioning for everyone to come in closer. There was a devilish twinkle in her eyes, her brain working overtime.

“What, you think he has some… extra company? A secret lover?” Rossi chuckled. Of course she noticed, but she just thought it was Penelope’s.

“Maybe! Do you think?” Penelope asked excitedly, her hands flapping around with enthusiasm. Oh Penelope, ever the romantic. Derek giggled next to Penelope. He was lightly smacked by Penelope as a rebuttal and he giggled as if the slaps tickled him and they heard Spencer’s reapproaching foot steps along with an extra pair of heels.

They all turned, eager to see who it was. Would it be the woman in the photo? His mom? Someone else?

“JJ!” Emily exclaimed when the final member of their team came in. She twisted around in her seat, happy to see her friend. JJ wasn’t able to make it on their last assignment so it had been a minute since they’d seen her. For people who practically live together, spending almost every moment together while at work was normal. They’d all fallen into a natural balance of being around each other. Of course they’d missed JJ while she was out sick.

“Hi!” She held her arms open for hugs, while the entire team voiced their hellos.

“Sorry I’m late, the grocery store was ridiculous. You wouldn’t believe what I saw, some lady's ex boyfriend came there and she called the cops on him like right there in the store. Apparently, he gave her something on purpose. She got on the speaker and called him ‘Dirty Dick David’. And then they fired her for playing with the mic that way!” She told her story while passing out hugs and then plopped down in the opposite arm chair across from the one Spencer was sitting in before.

“What?” Spencer laughed while he sat back down.

“Right there it happened.” The whole team was laughing and Emily remembered that this was why she got along with her team so well. The easy laughter was so simple and refreshing.

“Woah, right there is insane! I guess she was sick of him.” Emily leaned slightly into Penny, allowing herself more comfort

“Imagine being at work and your ex who purposely infected you with something shows up to both you? I’d be pissed too.” Derek chuckled.

“I’ve been through three wives and never got a reaction like that, Dirty Dick David certainly had it coming.” Rossi added before they all laughed even harder.

Then there was a loud ringing noise. Spencer’s phone was going off and he patted himself down, lifting himself up checking to see if he was sitting on it. Then he got up, his face making a tiny expression like he could finally recall.

“I’ll be right back guys.” He ran into the kitchen and Penelope pulled everyone into a huddle.

“Okay, here’s what you missed JJ, you ready?”

“I’m ready?” She asked with an arch eyebrow and a nervous smile.

“There’s a bunch of lady stuff around here, like a coat and I don’t know if you saw the shoes but there are a lot of lady shoes. Rossi was in the bathroom and saw a bunch of lady stuff too, like a special face cleanser but he didn’t wanna snoop. I think he should’ve gone for it but whatever. Also I don’t know if you know but I know that Spencer doesn’t cook.

His house is also really clean like really really clean like it was just clean but when would he have gotten the time to clean it? I mean we got off work like three hours ago. Running theories? Spencer has a housekeeper, a secret girlfriend, or his moms visiting. Got it? Okay, got it.”

JJ blinked after Garcia’s rapid rundown, Derek nodding like he was able to keep up with that and Hotch all around looked displeased.

“We are guests in Spencer’s home, don’t go looking through his stuff. Maybe Spencer likes that stuff, that’s not any of our concern.” He frowned with a crease in his eyebrows.

“Yeah Garcia, besides if Spence did get a girlfriend then I think that’s great for him.” JJ chuckled and Derek rubbed her shoulder comfortingly.

“I’m back! I picked up the shrimp and some wine. I also got some beers if you want any. The coolers are for me, you can have one but don’t take any of the pink ones. I like those ones.” A familiar voice sounded through the house.

The sound of socks hitting the floor padded through the house and a young woman walked in. The woman from the photo more specifically. Her hair was in long braids that curled around her waist. She was gorgeous, a red scarf was wrapped around her neck to protect her from the chilly winter air. More specifically she was familiar.

More specifically she was from a different team. More specifically a member of the HRT. The Hostage Rescue Unit. They’ve seen Spencer speaking with her a lot. They’ve teased him for their closeness multiple times, and knew they were a bit closer. But Emily didn’t know they were such close friends. For her to just walk into his home this way.

No offense to Spencer but when Emily said she was hot, she meant she was hot. Like she just stepped out of a magazine. And she never thought Spencer would have it in him to pull. Spencer was certainly nothing to sneeze at but my god was this woman attractive.

She was making her way through the house, to the kitchen lightly waddling. She held a bag of groceries and as if she could feel all the eyes on her she turned.

“Oh hi! I’m sorry, I ran out to the grocery store. I didn’t realize we ran out of shrimp but the food will be done soon.” She beamed at them and put one of her hands on her hips. And Emily did as profilers do. She profiled even if she didn’t truly mean too. She was wearing pajama pants, and a puffy coat that was zipped open to reveal a white tank top. Above all she radiated joy, confidence and comfort.

“It’s nice to see you again.” Hotch cleared his throat, and she nodded at the members of the BAU.

“You got the shrimp?” Spencer called, coming out of the kitchen, slipping his phone into the pocket of his pants. He came up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She instinctively angled her head to his and pushed herself up onto her tippy toes to plant a kiss on his lips.

Penelope was on the verge of exploding, her mouth open in a wide grin. She let out an excited squeal. The two agents jumped upon hearing the high pitched noise and everyone on the couch turned to face her.

“What?! Oh my god, when were you gonna tell us?!” Penelope asked, bounding up from the couch. Spencer looked confused above all as Penelope raced towards him and his apparent girlfriend.

“I didn’t think I had to, we weren’t exactly shy about it.” Spencer laughed as he looked at Penelope basically bouncing up and down in front of him. She giggled and Penelope paused.

“Dude we thought you were just friends?” Derek questioned from the couch. Spencer shook his head, looking more and more shocked by the second.

“So how long has this been going on?” Emily asked with a laugh. She had to laugh! How could she not be happy for Spencer? He looked so happy, he literally hadn’t stopped smiling since she came into the door and they kissed.

“Like a year? I mean, I know we jumped the gun with moving, but my lease was up and I decided that this would work and I couldn’t find anywhere close enough to work. We decided to go for it.” Spencer added, scratching the back of his neck.

“You guys really had no idea? I mean I tell you guys that we go out every weekend, I have a picture of her on my desk. We literally come to work together everyday.” Spencer exclaimed, motioning around with his hands.

“I don't see you that often at work, they probably don’t really notice those things.” She rationalized to him and rubbed a hand over his chest. He never moved his hand from around her waist.

It all made sense. The candles littered around the house, the small basket of yarn and needles on the floor next to one of the arm chairs. The food even smelt too seasoned to be like anything Spencer could cook, the photos that Emily was just now realizing were taken of Spencer. The romance novel that Emily saw sitting on the glass coffee table. How spotless the entire house was. The shoes, the coat, Emily was just mad at herself for not recognizing the photo.

“Well. Way to go Reid, I didn’t know you had it in you.” She smirked at Derek’s remark and stood on her toes again. She whispered something in Spencer’s ear and he cackled with his mouth open in shock.

He was turning a bashful shade of red and his voice squeaked as he sent her away.

“I’ll be finished with your food soon, you guys.” Trailing into the kitchen, Spencer glanced over as if to check if she needed anything.

“Oh gosh, you didn’t have to cook for us! Thank you so much!” Emily exclaimed, realizing that she was just sitting there like a fish with her mouth wide open.

“Let her cook, why not enjoy dinner and a movie?” Rossi joked. It seemed like the shock had dissipated and JJ giggled, her blonde hair shining like the Sun and Emily noted how her entire face lit up like a star.

“Honey, can you come help me with these groceries?” Spencer nodded, following her into the kitchen. They watched, waiting to watch them fully go into the kitchen. Then like little girls at a sleepover, they leaned back into their huddle.

“Wow!”

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” Hotch tried to keep the peace before his team of impatient agents ran rampant. Emily herself felt like she needed answers and she needed them now.

“Did you see the way he looked at her? They’re so cute, I had a feeling when he came to work that one time smelling like perfume and wearing the same clothes but they were like all up on each other.” Penelope whispered excitedly.

“I always knew opposites attract. You know they make a handsome couple too.” The excitement died down for a second and everyone had to look at Rossi. Who even used that phrasing anymore?

“You’re so old, Rossi.” JJ giggled and Hotch shook his head. Rossi smiled playfully, the way he always did when they made fun of him for being ancient.

“What do they even talk about? I mean sure they have stuff in common but for a whole year? I wasn’t expecting that!” Emily exclaimed.

“Reid’s never short on things to talk about.” Derek teased and Penelope swatted him again.

“I mean I noticed he’d been a bit happier but I wasn’t expecting this! I guess you just never know.” JJ added in, glancing over to the kitchen to make sure the two weren’t standing right there.

“We can find out what they talk about.” No one wanted to admit it but they wanted to snoop so bad. So bad that when Penelope suggested it the best thing to do was to stop talking and be extra quiet so they could hear. Even Hotch, slowly reclined.

Over the clatter of pans, the soft clinking of bottles and things being put away, and dishes being taken out they heard her voice.

“Emily brought us some wine. Pink.” Spencer’s voice broke through and Emily tensed up. Oh god, what if they hated the wine?

“Oh my favorite. I’ve always liked that Emily. If it wasn’t for you, I’d go for her.” She laughed and plopped something into what sounded like a liquid.

Derek made some funny eyebrows at Emily and Emily felt her cheeks heat up. JJ and Penelope both grabbed each other to stifle a laugh. As bad as it was to listen to your teammate and his girlfriend's conversation, they couldn’t stop.

“Aw babe don’t pout.” Then a kissing noise.

“There’s that smile. Also I picked up some condoms, we were down to six and you know we go through those like crazy. Speaking of which, I was thinking, do we really need those? I mean I’m on the pill and at the rate we go we’d save more money just not having sex. To be honest we spend a bit too much money on that stuff anyways and I don’t want to replace another bed frame. I like this one and we literally just got it. That or we just need to stop having sex so often. The call is totally yours but that bitch who works at the front cashier keeps looking at me funny everytime she sees me walk up.” It took a moment for everyone to process what she was talking about. It really took a moment. An identical frown spread over both Rossi and Hotch, and Derek had to put his fist in his mouth to avoid cackling.

Oh god, this was an awful idea. Now there was just awkward silence. None of them could say anything even if they wanted to.

“So my options are death, death or going raw?” Spencer whined immediately. Emily focused her eyes on something else instantly, the patterned carpet on the floor, the TV that was showing different scenery as it was in rest mode.

“Oh my god, you are so dramatic! You’re not going to die if we don’t have sexy every day.” The sound of a spoon clattering down and then she broke out into a fit of giggles.

“But how do you know!” He whined again.

“Like I said, it's your choice. It doesn’t really matter to me, I’m just sick of always having to go to the store. And you’re squeezing my ribs.”

“I like your idea. Besides, we have abortion money.” She gasped softly and then broke into light laughter. JJ’s jaw dropped open and Derek snorted before he covered his nose. Of everything that was expected it wasn’t that.

“That’s awful, baby.” She scolded and Emily got a mental image of the two. Was she standing in front of the stove, the smell of food wafting through the house, Spencer standing behind her with arms wrapped firmly around her? If Emily wasn’t so uncomfortable right now her mouth would be watering. It would also warm her heart to hear how happy her friend was.

“I’m sorry.” He joined in on the laughter.

“Oh my god we’re being awful host! Plate up the soup and I’ll pour the wine.”

Once the two came back out, it was hard to even look at Spencer knowing that he had apparently helped break a bed frame. Even if he was holding trays of the most mouth watering gumbo.

“Who wants to watch Interstellar?”

#black reader #x reader #x black reader #fem reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x black reader #criminal minds #bau team

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hyuuukais · 3 months

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-`♡´ - APARTMENT 143

pairing -> lee minho x fem reader

synopsis -> after a bad breakup, y/n needs to find a new place to live. although she's grateful for her best friend, up-and-coming model hwang hyunjin, for letting her stay at his, she can't keep living with him and his model roommates. so when an opening for somewhere nearby with cheap rent opens up, she jumps on it, despite knowing next to nothing about the 3 other tenants, only that one owns 3 cats. the three quickly learn of her breakup, determined to help get her back on her feet. but what happens when one of them begins to develop feelings?

warnings -> gen, food mention, guns, somewhat vague description of a robbery, blood

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO -> BEFORE (partially written, wc: 1.0k)

"Welcome to my childhood house," you say, opening the creaky door, Minho following you through. "It's not that impressive."

With an awkward laugh, you sling your bag over a chair in the dining room to the left, kicking your shoes off in the process. There isn't much to say about where you grew up, the modest little house speaking for itself. Family photos littered the fireplace mantle in the living room, but aside from that, there wasn't much personality in shared areas. No one was home much now since you and your sister had moved out and your mother works long hours.

"Can I see your room?"

You swing around to see Minho leaning against the doorway with his head titled toward you. The action sends a small shiver down your back.

"No!" You blurt, and his eyes widen. "A girl's room is very personal."

He stares at you for a few moments before breaking into laughter. "Did you just quote 10 Things I Hate About You to me?"

"...I might have," you giggle, surprised he got your reference.

"You're wondering how I knew that, aren't you?" The way your eyebrows raise says it all. "How many times did you watch that movie again...?"

"It's amazing," you roll your eyes, a small smile forming on your lips. "You never stuck around to watch the whole thing, so I didn't think you'd know, okay?"

"What do you mean?" Minho seems genuinely confused, standing straight. "I did- ah, right, you fell asleep that time. You snore, by the way."

This makes you blush. "Everyone does."

"I'm messing with you," he sighs.

Rolling your eyes again, you walk past him and move down the hallway toward your childhood bedroom. When you open the door, you're greeted by the soft mint walls and fuzzy white rug surrounding your bed. You sit on the bed, plush blankets shifting. Minho slowly enters, walking around slowly, and suddenly you feel exposed. All of your silly phases and old hobbies out for him to see, past art awards displayed on your desk in the corner and a pile of dirty laundry in another. He stops on the other side of your bed, fingers finding the frame of your family photo, still lying face down on your nightstand, and your heart hurts.

"Don't," you whisper, not ready to see it again. Immediately, Minho pulls his hand away and looks over to where you're now sitting against the headboard, legs tucked into your body.

"What is it?" Minho nods to the frame. When you don't answer, he climbs onto your bed and pokes your side, making you jolt. "Earth to Y/n. What's the photo?"

"Just a family one," you shrug, and he's still trying to catch your eyes. "Before."

"Before what?" He questions, and you finally lock eyes with him.

"...before I got him killed?"

His eyebrows furrow at this, clearly confused. You don't object this time when he reaches over and flips the frame up. Everyone is smiling and happy, two little girls standing with their parents at some kind of theme park. You couldn't have been more than twelve when it was taken, one of the last family vacations you took.

"What happened?" Minho asks, voice low, turning his whole body to face you with the photo still in his lap.

"It was my birthday," you start slow, willing yourself not to cry. "I had just turned fifteen and I didn't get this one album I really wanted. My dad could tell I was upset and said it wasn't in stock when he went to order it, but that he could go now and check if the store had it. We could make a day out of it, and we did.

"The mall wasn't super busy that day, so we got food first. In the actual store, he asked me to go browse as he found the album and paid since he wanted the illusion of surprise still." You sniff, taking the photo in your hands. "So I left to wait outside instead. This guy bumped into me on the way out and I made some stupid comment about watching where he was going," your voice wavers. "When I turned around, I saw he had a gun. Next thing I knew, I was watching him threaten the cashier and my dad."

You pause, taking a deep breath. Minho hasn't said anything, patiently waiting for you to either finish the story or announce you were done, you didn't want to say more. But you did. This is the first time you've opened up to someone about this, not including Hyunjin or NingNing.

"I panicked and ran to my dad, but that must have freaked the guy out because he tried to attack me, but my dad jumped out in front of me and got hit instead." You look up at Minho with damp eyes, voice barely above a whisper. "I still remember the feeling of his blood seeping into my clothes. I still remember screaming, begging him to move. He bled out a lot by the time the ambulance got there."

"Thank you for telling me," Minho says when you're quiet again.

"If I hadn't..." you shake your head. "If I hadn't wanted that stupid album, he'd still be here."

"Don't do that," Minho grabs your face gently by your chin, forcing you to look at him again. "Don't blame yourself for something you couldn't have possibly predicted would happen. Y/n, that's not your fault. This is what you've been blaming yourself for?"

You nod. "If I wasn't being so stupid-"

"You were fifteen, Y/n."

And you can't hold it in anymore, sobbing and hiccupping into his shirt for the second time that evening. You stay like this for a while, and you don't know when you shifted into a lying down position, wrapping an arm across his stomach with a leg wrapped around one of his. His hand is in your hair, the other tracing lines up and down your exposed arm. Falling asleep is easy and unexpected, and when you wake up, he's been replaced with a large, purple cow plushie that was previously sitting in the corner of your room. There's a text from him on your phone waiting for you when you're about to ask where he is.

notes -> sooo....... y/n is starting to open up more to minho ! 😁 also, i will be closing the taglist at ch 25!

taglist -> @chaeryred @toplinelix @channie-143 @staysinbloom @puppyminnnie @tfshouldidohere @kangaracha @chlodavids @whitney190 @thisisnotjacinta @borahae-reads @brooklynie @gini143 @kayleigh-28 @skz-streamer @babyphotos0325 @scallywag1299 @venusmoonxnight @naomisosoup @fertiliezedtoesw @s00buwu @realrintaro @anothershorthuman @stayatinykatsy @ilovejeongin007 @btswestan @multifandomedsimp @ihrtlix @raehawthorne @euphoric-univers @catchingskzzzs @evermourning @satsuri3su @jazziwritesthings @minhwa @wyzminho @fic-for-readers @dreamerwasfound @imsiriuslyreal @lailac13 @palindrome969 @lixie-phoria @aalexyuuuhm @sunflowerbebe07 @st4rhwa @lukeys-giggle @jabmastersupriseee @judeduartewannabe @gaysontheprince @stepout-09-15

^^^ orange means i can't tag you

#-`♡´ - APARTMENT 143 #stray kids smau #skz smau #non idol au #stray kids #skz #lee know #lee know smau #lee minho smau #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know x fem reader #lee minho x fem reader #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #smau #social media au

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