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rememberwren · 2 months

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A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 2

A continuation of Skin Deep. Part one of this sequel is here.

About this: previous warnings apply, oral sex (f receiving), alcohol, gross imperfections, not a single nipple unfortunately, an eyebrow though. For @/moody-alcoholic, I hope this manages to quench even the tiniest portion of your thirst. 1 more part left. 7k

“Simon?”

“Hm.”

“Are you seeing anybody else?”

Simon looks up at you. His hair is getting long, falling over his forehead and looking nearly brunet in the dim lighting. You don’t think he’s cut it since the two of you have started dating.

He’s been drawing for half the night, hunched over with the sketchpad in his lap, doing terrible things to his own posture and blocking his own lighting all at once. When he answers you, it’s in that dry tone that lets you know he thinks you’ve said something funny or clever: “No.”

A knot in your chest loosens. It’s hard to believe you worried over such a question for so long just to receive such a simple, earnest answer. He goes back to sketching.

You content yourself with this and stretch your legs out until your toes touch his thigh at the other end of the sofa. His mouth twitches, but he keeps working.

Six months pass, and how do you celebrate? You climb topless onto Simon’s lap, eager and anxious in equal measure. Your nipple piercing had stopped hurting months ago (save for the time you had snagged it on a cable knit sweater and nearly seen Jesus), but you had read online that piercings heal from the outside inward, and as such you had made every attempt possible to leave the thing alone even when all you wanted to do was play with it.

In his own way of celebrating, Simon had bought you your first new barbell: a black one with black gemmed studs at each end. You couldn’t help but notice that it looked similar to his, only with a more delicate, feminine touch.

“Will you change it for me?” you ask him. Your hands are shaking.

“Alright. Let me wash my hands.” He shifts you off of his lap and disappears into the bathroom where you hear the faucet turn on. You cross your arms over your breasts, feeling silly being half naked without Simon in the room. Your foot bounces impatiently, but you know that if cleanliness were a love language, it would likely be Simon’s.

Not that he had told you he loved you—nor had you told him. You had promised yourself that you would wait until he said it first (the only sure-fire way to avoid coming across as overeager and scaring him off). Still, there were a thousand ways in a day that Simon made you feel as if he loved you: the way he would go out to start your car in the wintery mornings when your remote start stopped working; the way he always offered you the first bite of his food if you weren’t sharing a meal; the way he’d crack open your drinks before handing them to you. Was it wrong of you to try to read between the lines?

Simon comes back and tugs you onto his lap again. His hands look huge compared to the jewelry through your breast as he dexterously works the ball free from the barbell. He has the hands of a surgeon: steady and calm. You close your eyes in anticipation of pain, but there is none; it just feels alien, sensitive whenever his calloused fingers brush over your pebbled nipple, even as he removes the barbell itself.

Taking the sanitized jewelry, he carefully puts it in and screws the stud in place.

“That didn’t hurt at all,” you say, reaching down to tug softly on the barbell. Still, no pain.

“Great,” he says, eyes on your breasts. He grips your hips. “Up, now. C’mon, up.”

He tugs you up onto your knees so that you’re the perfect height for him to take your nipple into his burning mouth. You shiver, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other burying itself in his hair, gripping softly to keep his mouth in place. If you had worried that getting the piercing would make you less sensitive, you were wrong. He tugs on the jewelry gently with his fucking teeth and God, holy shit, fucking hell, definitely not less sensitive.

“Been waiting to do this,” he says, nuzzling the skin between your breasts as he gives you a moment to catch your breath. “Six months of hell.”

“Yeah?” You pant lamely, chest heaving.

He hums. His thumbs stroke beneath your breasts along the sternum tattoo he gave you—a favorite part of you for him to touch—as his lips find your nipple again, lashing softly with his tongue. His hands have begun to tremble where they slide down the curves of your sides and to your hips, touch soft and worshipful as he brings you down to rest your weight against the hard line of his cock still confined in his jeans. The shaking says more than a thousand of his words ever could.

“I want you,” he mutters. “Say yes.”

“Yes, God, yes.”

Simon guides you off of his lap, kneeling down into the space between the couch and the coffee table. He pushes the table backwards with a little more force than is necessary when there isn’t enough room for his long legs and accidentally sends a cup full of charcoal pencils tipping over onto the carpet. You snort with laughter. He peels your leggings and panties off and drags you to the edge of the couch, pressing your thighs open wide.

Getting head from partners in the past had been a fraught, mostly unenjoyable experience. Even your first few times with Simon had been tense, with him quickly moving on to something else after noticing your inability to relax. A less eager man might have counted his blessings and moved on, but Simon’s gentle persistence had gone a long way toward reassuring you that he truly wanted to please you this way. It had gone a long way toward reassuring you that you could let him.

He spreads you apart, thumbs slipping against your slick folds, heated gaze pinpointed on your most intimate parts before he leans in and licks a broad stripe over your entrance and up to your clit. You shut your eyes (and cover your face for good measure). His warm breath fans against your pussy as he laughs. He could be mean and pull your hands away, but he lets you hide this way and you are grateful for it.

Simon takes his time mapping each part of you with his mouth, nose brushing your clit whenever he doesn’t have his lips sealed over it. Your thighs shake, toes curled, as he pulls whines and choked gasps from your throat.

You peek through your fingers when you feel him shifting beneath you to find that he’s worked his cock from his jeans and is jerking off, only noticeable by the tell-tale rhythmic motion of his arm against your calf.

“Jesus, Simon,” you whine.

He makes a little sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, shifting on his knees to change the angle of his mouth against you. Something about him so unashamedly enjoying himself makes it easier for you to enjoy yourself too, to let your hands come away from your face and thread them through his hair.

“Can we fuck?” you breathe, aching inside deep where his tongue can’t reach.

He nods against you and kneels up to kiss you. You still aren’t used to the taste of yourself in his mouth, but it’s growing less foreign—and nothing could ever make you turn away from one of Simon’s kisses.

He pulls you off the couch onto your knees, his legs spread to either side of your own. You arch your back, feeling his cock brush against the back of your thighs. Two of his thick fingers slip inside you, testing your give and your wetness. He twists them; turns to hook them against that soft, vulnerable spot inside you that makes your legs shake. Simon works a third finger into you, a stretch that your body struggled to take before but which it accepts eagerly now, the sting welcome and familiar.

“Fuck. I need a condom,” he rasps.

“Just pull out,” you say.

You can sense him rolling his eyes. Your fondness for the (dangerous) pull-out method had been formally noted by him and thus far rejected at every turn.

“Don’t insult me,” he mutters. He grabs your hand and guides it between your own legs. “Be good and keep yourself warm. I’ll be right back.”

He’s barely gone long enough for you to stroke your fingers through your folds, but when he returns (flashing the intact condom package at you like he always does), he watches you for an endless, lingering moment.

“I like that,” he says at last, taking his spot behind you again, condom in place.

“Like what?”

“Watching you touch yourself.” The head of his cock nudges your entrance. He finds the right angle and slips inside you, stretching your walls to make room for himself. You groan, your fingers digging into the couch cushion. It stings a little, right towards the end, but he just softly saws himself in and out of your pussy, soothing the ache with pleasure. His words go completely over your head.

He reaches so deep inside you, like with his every thrust his cock bullies the air out of your lungs. The slick sounds are lewd, keeping time with your moans and sighs as his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips, manhandling you further onto the couch to the perfect height for him to fuck into you, your knees barely skimming the carpet.

Your hand ends up crushed between your pelvis and the couch. You let your fingers find your clit and the touch reminds your body of how close it is, that coil deep in your belly stretched tight and ready to release. Your fingers trail down to where his cock pistons in and out of you, and at your touch he groans, slows to a smooth drag, his length slippery with your own arousal.

“Touch yourself, not me,” he chides, his voice rough. “I’m close enough.”

“I’m close enough,” you say.

He flops against your back, nearly crushing you with his weight to hook his chin over your shoulder and ask: “Then what the fuck are we waiting for?”

You can barely draw in the breath to laugh, and it’s only worse when you cum. You bury your face into the couch cushions, giggling, fingers rubbing a gentle, hectic rhythm against your clit as your pussy spasms around him. He snorts at your laughter, a soft quiet exhale against the back of your neck. Then he cums, his thrusts sloppy and hard, turning his head at the last moment to bite your shoulder lazily.

“Sex makes you so weird,” you pant. Your face hurts from smiling.

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

He ties off the condom and throws it away. The two of you sit naked on the couch together, curled up. It’s a little alien to be this open about your body with someone and to have them be so open about their body in return, but it’s a good strangeness. So much about loving Simon is.

“I need to get the other one pierced now,” you mention, toying with his unpierced nipple. “Have to complete the set.”

“I never did.”

“You’re incomplete. Don’t you know?”

He snorts. “I feel quite fulfilled, thanks.”

“Please Simon?” you ask. “I want to.”

“Don’t ever say please. I’ll text Soap in the morning,” Simon says, trailing his fingers up and down the length of your arm, making goosebumps appear.

You hesitate. Should you tell him what you’d been thinking about for the last several months? Would it offend him to know that you didn’t want to go to Johnny for any more piercings?

Whether it offended him or not, your pride couldn’t rest easily going back to the tiny room behind the curtain in Skin Deep. While there had been only a few other tense interactions between you and Johnny since Simon’s birthday (and usually he seemed to favor outright ignoring your existence), the situation had not improved.

“Simon—I think I’d rather go somewhere else for my other nipple. To someone other than Johnny, I mean.”

Simon frowns. “What’d Johnny do.”

He phrases it like that—more of a statement and less of a question, immediately assuming that Johnny is at fault.

“It’s just—it’s like I said on your birthday. He doesn’t like me much.”

Simon turns to look you in the eye. When your gaze tries to skirt away, he lets out an irritated breath through his nose—but doesn’t fight you. Simon always lets you run. Maybe because he knows his legs are long enough to catch you. “You really feel like that?”

“You’ve never noticed?”

“Thought it was in my head,” he mutters. Then he says the most dreaded words he possibly could: “I’ll talk to him.”

“No!” you nearly shout. You struggle to lower your voice to something more appropriate for indoors, your heart tap-dancing to an anxious beat inside your chest. Just trying to picture Johnny’s irritated expression at any of Simon’s potential efforts to talk to him made your stomach turn over. “I mean—don’t. Really. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I need you two to get along. You and Johnny—you’re the most important people in my life,” he says baldly. His honesty does something to your lungs—empties them, crushes them. You only just realize the position that you’re putting Simon in, and it makes you feel about two inches tall. How could you let your petty problems with Johnny potentially get in the way of their longtime friendship? Their brotherhood?

“I’m begging you, Simon,” you plead. “Promise me you won’t talk to him. Just, give me more time to get to know him or something.”

“Can't promise that.” He stands up and stretches, joints popping as you stare at him, your stomach tearing itself to pieces at this knowledge. This is not how this conversation was meant to end. But he disappears into the bedroom before you can gather your wits enough to say another word.

There is nothing like sleeping beside Simon, his arm beneath your head, your body turned and cradled against his side, a leg thrown over his thighs. His heart is as slow and steady as his breaths, his calloused thumb tracing a line back and forth on your naked side, a line which grows slower and slower as he drifts closer to sleep.

You ruin it like this: “Simon?”

“Hm.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“If you got’a.”

“On your birthday, you said that women meant for you sometimes ended up being Johnny’s. What did you mean?”

He’s quiet for so long that you mistake him for falling asleep. You’ve resigned yourself to asking him another night when he speaks, his speech is slow and thoughtful, like it is hard to put it into words.

“When Soap and I are in a room together with women, I’m like a ghost. He’s a fucking human being. Flesh and blood. Alive. People want to talk to him, to know him, to laugh with him, to have a drink with him. I’m not like that. I haven’t ever been like that. More than once Johnny would try to get me together with a woman who would end up falling for him instead. Eventually I convinced him to stop trying.”

“Were you jealous?”

He makes an ambiguous sound. “It’s hard to be jealous of Soap.”

“Not impossible, though.”

He rolls you over onto your back, coming to rest over you, your legs a tangled mess beneath the sheets. The darkness lengthens the shadows of his eyes, but you can still feel his gaze, tangible as any touch. He braces himself on his elbows over you and lets his forehead rest against your own. “I just wanted someone who was mine,” he says.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, those words that are building inside of you and growing harder to withhold by the day. But you say it like this and hope he can translate: “I’m yours.”

He ducks his head and kisses you.

In the morning, Simon has slipped a piece of paper just beneath the edge of your mug of tea. When you look at it, written in charcoal pencil is DARCELINA: Dream City Tattoos and Piercings XXX-XXXX.

It’s one for the record books: the rain. Thick pregnant clouds carry more than eight inches of rain to your city in the course of a day. The last time it rained so much was apparently during the Civil War era. The city floods, including the basement of your apartment building, which leads to a building-wide power outage.

Simon has you pack a suitcase, junk the majority of your refrigerator and freezer, and come stay with him. You’re giddy, feeling like it’s a semi-permanent sleepover when he gets the call that Skin Deep has flooded as well.

Then things take a turn for the worse. Simon is gone for nearly 36 hours straight making endless calls to attempt to clear the water and begin repairs, and sometime in the midst of that, the fight with Johnny happens.

It’s an ugly one.

Simon comes home in the foulest mood you’ve ever seen him in. It turns him positively stony as he moves around the apartment making himself a hasty meal, avoiding your eyes every chance he gets. After he eats, he sits heavily on the sofa, pulls out his sketchpad, and trashes no fewer than six entire pages before you get the nerve to ask him what’s wrong.

“Soap,” he mutters, crumpling a paper in one strong, dextrous hand. He throws it toward the small garbage can beside the telly and misses. “He’s looking for other locations to pierce at.”

“Is the building that bad?” you ask. “You guys will have to find a new place?”

“Soap is looking for a new place. One without me.”

You gape, the shock of this news reaching all the way to the core of your being.

“You don’t think it’s because of—?” Me. You can’t even finish the sentence, the thought upsets you so much. You tuck your legs beneath you on the couch, curling up, seeking to become small and harmless as grief and horror wash over you in wave after wave.

“This is my fault. I tried to talk to him but he’s so fucking—he gets under my goddamn skin like he was born to do it.” Simon pauses heavily, before adding: “I need to tell you something about the night Soap pierced me.”

Story time. Alright. You uncurl your legs, choosing to sit with them criss-crossed, your body turned toward him, giving Simon your entire attention. It’s been months since you found out that Johnny had been the one to pierce Simon, but you had been no closer to getting the story from either of them. Your curiosity was a dangerous, corrosive thing, eating away at your insides.

“I’m listening,” you say, hoping you don’t look as eager as you feel.

Simon looks to be at a loss for words, running his tongue along the sharp edge of his teeth. When he speaks, it’s hardly the lengthy story you had been anticipating: “We fucked.”

You blink. “You and—Johnny?”

Simon sighs and shrugs a shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were…” Simon stares, waiting for you to finish your sentence. “…interested in men.”

“You are. Why can’t I be?”

You feel a chilly pang of horror, like someone has slipped a dagger between your ribs. You rush to assure him: “You can! You—“

Simon’s mouth twitches as he rubs at the crease of one eye, and your panic fades. He mumbles: “I’m just fucking with you.”

“So you’re bisexual.”

“I’m… I don’t fucking know. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. I never named it.”

“Okay,” you say gently. “We don’t have to. But what does that have to do with now?”

“The day after we—y’know. Fucked. I told him it was a one time thing. Maybe it’s in my head,” says Simon, frowning. “Maybe I’m crazy. But sometimes he looks at me or says something to me and it makes me think it’s not over. Not for him.”

“Is it really over,” you ask, “for you?”

Simon looks at you, quiet. He says: “I want you.”

And you are so relieved by the obvious honesty in his answer that it never crosses your mind to think that’s not what you asked.

Simon is uptown at a café holding consultations while Johnny directs cleanup efforts at the shop, and you think that now’s the perfect chance.

Your hands shake against the steering wheel the whole drive there, nerves less like butterflies and more like great winged moths in your belly. A part of you says that this is a mistake, you should turn back and let Simon and Johnny work it out on their own. But another part of you feels personally responsible—even if Simon says you aren’t. All your life you have taken things too personally, shouldered burdens which were not your own, bent over backwards to solve problems that weren’t yours to solve. If there was any chance that you could resolve this, you would put your pride on the line to do it.

You park alongside the street and are thrilled to find the front door unlocked. The entire place smells musty, like a basement. The wooden floors have warped a little under your tentative steps, announcing your presence sooner than you’d like.

Johnny sits in the chair where Simon tattoos clients. Sunlight streams in through the blinds and lights him up like some kind of punk-rock angel, his mohawk freshly clipped, dark finger nail polish chipping. Sometime between now and the last time you’ve seen him, he’s pierced his eyebrow: a black barbell with studs that reminds you a little too much of the one through your nipple (and Simon’s. Was that intentional? Did Johnny pick jewelry to match Simon’s? To match yours? For some reason just the thought makes your nipples tighten). In his hands is one of Simon’s sketchpads, and he’s flipping through it leisurely.

He glances up toward the sound of your footsteps.

“If you’re here about the water—“ his words die out on his pierced tongue as he stares at you, gobsmacked by your appearance.

“Hey,” you say lamely.

“Where’s Simon?” he asks, eyes flickering toward the protective spot where Simon usually hovers just over your shoulder. “He said he wouldn’t be in today.”

“He’s not. It’s just me. I thought maybe we could talk.”

Johnny openly grimaces. He shuts Simon’s sketchpad and sets it down (hopefully where he found it). Standing from the chair, he takes a few casual steps away from you, clearly heading towards the curtain that leads to the back of the shop. “Really cannot think of anything we have to talk about.”

You square your shoulders, fighting down that instinctive urge to make yourself smaller, to give in and be manageable. “I think we do.”

“You should go.”

“Not until we work this out.”

“There isn’t any this, alright, just—does Simon even know you’re here?” Something guilty must splash across your face because Johnny gives a mirthless laugh, reaching up to palm at his eyes. “Tha’s great. Just great. Could you be more incriminating?”

“Incriminating—? Look, Simon told me about the night you pierced him.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Johnny says flippantly.

“About how you two slept together.”

Now that stops Johnny in his tracks. It’s clear that he didn’t expect Simon to really tell you about that night all those years ago. He looks at you with a fresh caution, waiting to see how exactly you’ve taken this news—what you plan to do with it. “Aye, then. I guess he did.”

“I’m not trying to take him away from you.”

Johnny makes a derisive sound. His words are well-rehearsed, like he has said them to himself a hundred-hundred times: “Cannot take what isn’t mine.”

“He was your friend first,” you say, aiming for conciliatory and gentle the same way you might approach a feral animal. Johnny stares at you with flat, suspicious eyes. They’re so fucking blue—so different from Simon’s own dark ochre ones. “He told me that you’re one of the most important people in his life.”

Johnny’s face softens. He says: “You shouldn’t tell me that. He wouldn’t.”

“He’s not always good with words. Please don’t leave the shop, Johnny. I think it would break Simon’s heart.”

“I didn’t know he had a heart to break,” Johnny mutters. He leans against the wall beside the curtain and sighs, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it. Now out. You shouldn’t be breathin’ in this air.”

Johnny ushers you to the door, hand hovering just above your back, careful not to touch you. Once you’re out on the street, he shuts the door and locks it audibly. Then he leans in and huffs a heated breath beneath the “NO WALK INS” sign. In the fog, he adds: “No GFs!”

You flip him off.

He flips you off.

On the way back to your car, you find yourself smiling. You force yourself to scowl. It’s a more appropriate expression. Giving one last glance back toward Skin Deep, you find him still standing there, watching.

Likely just to make sure you’re really leaving.

Not long after you are moved back into your apartment, you find that Simon stops sleeping.

You’re ashamed to say that it takes you a while to notice; nothing changes on your end of things. Anytime you are sleeping over, he lays down with you, tugs you up against his chest, and holds you for ages, his body still and breathing even. But one night you wake to a cool, empty bed. And later in the week, it happens again. Until more often than not you realize that any moment when you expect Simon to be sleeping, he isn’t.

Usually you find him sketching, shadows like charcoal smudged beneath his eyes. He doesn’t meet your gaze and tells you to go back to bed, that he’ll be there soon. Sometimes he even does come to lay back down beside you—but only long enough for you to convince him that you have fallen asleep again. Then he is shifting away from you, disappearing into the other room, shutting the bedroom with the quietest click behind him.

You know that he’s busy. His schedule has been booked—and with deposits nonrefundable, people more often than not kept their appointments. He’s been working with a client on mock ups for a sleeve, and the various pieces and the way they all come together around the contours of the person’s body are very delicate. Johnny’s threat to find a new job doesn’t help, either. Have they talked and resolved things yet? Simon never says so.

You can’t imagine the stress that he is under, and you’d do anything to be able to shoulder a fraction of it for him.

That’s how you end up with drunk Johnny in your car.

It starts with Simon falling asleep before you—for once. You can tell he is well and truly asleep by the sheer weight of his arm over you, the soft snores that he gives out against the nape of your neck. After so many nights of sleeplessness, his body has finally given in. You’re about to slip off to sleep yourself when the buzzing of a phone startles you back into wakefulness.

Not your phone—Simon’s phone. And it goes off again. And again. And again. Who the hell could be sending so many messages at midnight?

You know you should leave it alone—if it was urgent, they would likely call—but curiosity gets the better of you. Carefully you slip out from under Simon’s arm. It’s a testament to his sheer exhaustion that he doesn’t wake as you jostle him. In sleep, he looks painfully young and relaxed, and it makes you long to reach out and brush back his hair that has fallen onto his forehead. But not at the risk of waking him.

Sure that all you are planning to do is shut Simon’s phone off so that he can get some restful sleep, you are surprised to see that Simon has his text notifications visible on the homescreen, so all it takes is a simple tap to open them up.

Johnny. All Johnny.

Ghost.

Ghost

Are you uo?

Up* fuck my fingers

I need a ride home

Simon

I’m at that bar on… The text is cut off. To see more, you would have to open his phone. So Johnny is stuck at some bar, drunk more than likely. Well good riddance, you think to yourself, the hurtful way he treated you still very much fresh in your brain. But then you remember your talk at Skin Deep, and your traitorous heart softens. Could you really just put the phone back now and pretend you hadn’t seen the messages?

Simon doesn’t even have a password; that’s how much he trusts you. Would he still trust you after this, if he knew that you had gone through his phone, even if it was for a good cause?

Making a spur of the moment decision, you could only hope so. Your conscience wouldn’t let you wake Simon, and as much as you disliked him, it couldn’t let you leave Johnny stranded at some bar either.

You open his phone as quickly as you can, swiping so that it goes straight to Johnny’s texts and nowhere else. The name of the bar is right there, and you scramble for your own phone to type it down in Google Maps. He’s not far. Probably would be within walking distance, if he weren’t drunk. You could be there and back before Simon ever knew you were gone—you hoped.

As Simon, you send back to Johnny a simple OMW.

There is no hint of spring in the frigid March air as you slip outside into your car. The parking lot is dim and quiet, and traffic is minimal as you follow the GPS on your phone to Johnny’s location. The pub nightlife spills out onto the pavement and you struggle to find a place to park, grimacing at the knowledge that you will have to get out of the car and go inside to find Johnny, considering you see him nowhere on the street. Leaving the warmth of your car is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, especially in just a thin tank-top and a pair of leggings. Gathering your coat more tightly around yourself, you rush out of the car and through the people on the sidewalk and into the warmth of the pub.

You keep your eyes peeled for Johnny, but can’t spot his silly haircut anywhere. What if he’s gotten a ride home from someone else? What if he’s decided to walk, or found someone to go home with? You shift up onto your toes, looking over everyone in the bar when you spot him in the corner at a table with a few other men.

Johnny doesn’t even recognize you at first—either a testament to how unexpected your sudden appearance is or how drunk he is based on how difficult it is for his eyes to focus on you. When he realizes who you are, his mouth drops. He points.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, accent so thick and slurred that you can barely understand him.

“Picking you up. You said you needed a ride.”

“Aye but not from—oh, Jesus make me still. Yer not wearing a bra, are you?”

All the men at the table turn to gape. You snatch the sides of your jacket closed where they had loosely fallen open, your face flushing with warmth. The table roars with laughter, but Johnny in his drunkenness doesn’t seem to notice your embarrassment.

“That was mine!” Johnny shouts, elbowing the man next to him. “Did you see that? That was my work!”

“We get it, bruv,” the guy says with a roll of his eyes. “She’s no ten.”

“What’d you fuckin’ say?”

The table laughs.

Johnny grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and drags him nearly clean out of his seat. “I said, What’d you fucking say about her?”

The table stops laughing. Johnny cuts an impressive figure even when drunk; he’s easily the largest guy of the group. Your stomach drops and lands somewhere between your shoes. This is not going to plan at all. Reaching out, you try to insert yourself physically between the two of them but can only wrap your fingers around Johnny’s wrist, feeling the strength poised in the tendons.

“Johnny,” you say, loudly to be heard over the sounds of the pub. “Come on. Let’s go, yeah? Simon…Simon’s out in the car.”

“Simon?” Johnny let’s go of the guy’s shirt, his bad mood evaporating as quickly as it had manifested. He nudges his way out from behind the table, all politeness. Once free, he stumbles into a woman in a slinky dress who gives him a look that could melt glass.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize to her, wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist and doing your best to keep him steady. “He’s an idiot, and he’s drunk. You look amazing by the way—“

“Control your boyfriend,” she snaps.

“I will,” you promise, guiding Johnny away from her and into the crowd.

His nose brushes the shell of your ear, breath fanning across your neck as he says with a laugh in his voice: “I’m not yer boyfriend.”

You flush. “Thanks for letting me know, Johnny. I had no clue.”

He says something back, some Scottish phrase, his accent so thick you couldn’t understand the words even if you knew them.

“English, please,” you mutter.

“Je-sus,” he groans, dragging the words out into multiple syllables. He takes your chin in his hand and squeezes your cheeks a little. “You’re just like him. ‘English, MacTavish’. Ha!”

You bat his hand away.

“He’s been rubbing off on you,” Johnny mutters, laughing a little. Beneath his breath (though far more loudly than he likely intends), he adds: “In more ways than one, I imagine.”

Your face goes hot. “Johnny, stop talking.”

The two of you exit the pub out into the cool night air. It seems to sober Johnny some, as he takes in deep, gulping breaths. He walks a little steadier as the two of you cross the street, and by the time you’ve made it to your car, he has shrugged you off altogether (even if he is still a little unstable on his feet). He stands outside the car for a moment before opening one of the rear doors.

“What are you doing?”

“Rather sit back here.”

“I’m not your cabbie.”

“Strange manner of dress if you were,” he says snidely, slipping into the backseat.

In the driver’s seat, you let yourself have a small breakdown. You grip the wheel tightly, taking a few deep breaths of your own, searching for inner peace. You thought that you and Johnny had a tentative truce after that day at Skin Deep, but clearly he is still holding some grudge. Your search for peace turns up empty.

“Sorry I lied about Simon being here. I just really needed you to leave the pub,” you explain politely.

“Knew you were lying,” Johnny says from the darkness of the backseat. He sounds remarkably like Simon: brooding and irritable. “He’s got no idea you’re here, does he? He’d never let you come alone.”

You frown. “No. He doesn’t. He’s sleeping and I didn’t want to wake him.”

“Nightmares?”

“Huh?”

Johnny leans forward. You glance at him in the rear view mirror. “I said, Has he been having more nightmares?”

You didn’t know anything about Simon having nightmares. That sour feeling in your belly was back, the one that made you feel like you would never truly know Simon, not the way his friends did.

“No,” you say, a little defensive. “He’s been working on this sleeve for a client. Staying up way too late to finish it on time.”

“Aye. Nightmares. Anything else is just an excuse he’s telling himself—and you.”

Done with the conversation, you turn the key in the ignition and pull out into the street. “What’s your address?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why’s that?”

“Left my keys at the bar.”

“Goddamnit.”

You turn towards Simon’s apartment. “Then you’re staying with us—with Simon. You can sleep on his couch and get your keys in the morning; I’m sure he won’t care.”

“Are you staying there?”

“Yes.”

Johnny mutters something under his breath. You consider yourself lucky not to have heard it. For a while, the two of you drive in silence. Then Johnny says:

“You never came for your second nipple.”

“It’s only just been six months.”

“So you’re due for an appointment then, aren’t you?”

You steel yourself, gripping the wheel tightly at ten-and-two. “Actually, I’m going to someone else.”

Johnny’s seatbelt unclicks. He hovers at your shoulder bringing with him burning warmth and the scent of whisky. When he talks, his breath brushes your neck, fury tangible in every syllable. “Who is it? Who the hell is he taking you to? Darcelina? Astrid? Dusty? Whoever it is, consider the appointment canceled. No one is piercing you but me.”

“You don’t get that privilege,” you grit out between your teeth. “Not anymore, not after the way you’ve treated me!”

“Oh, did I offend you?” he breathes, clutching one hand at his breast. “Not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on?”

“Fuck you, Soap! I wanted to be friends.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. Suddenly the road goes blurry. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to calm down—you’re driving for fuck’s sake. You swallow past the lump in your throat, the silence interrupted by rustling as Johnny leans forward again in the backseat, trying to get a look at your face in the passing streetlights.

“Fuck,” Johnny groans. “Are you crying?”

“No!”

“You are. Fuckin’—pull over, before you get us killed.”

Keen embarrassment only has your eyes watering more, until you have no choice but to do as he asks, pulling over to hastily parallel park and throw on your hazard lights. You let your elbows rest against the steering wheel, face in your hands. His words echo in your head, said in that stupid Scottish brogue: not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on? Are those really the things he thought you wanted? Is that the sort of impression you gave to Johnny, to Ghost’s other friends?

The backseat door opens and Johnny climbs out. A small part of you hopes that he will walk himself home—and good riddance. But he horrifies you by walking all the way around to the driver’s side of the car and tugging on the door handle until you begrudgingly unlock the doors.

“C’mon,” he says, trying to pull you out of the car with your seatbelt still on.

“What’re you—?”

“Just—wouldya—so stubborn—“ he drunkenly leans over you and mashes his fingers against the button of your seatbelt until it releases. For that brief moment, he is a warm weight across your lap, bringing with him the scent of cologne and whisky. Then he pulls you out of the car—and into his arms. It’s a tight, full hug, chest-to-chest, not bone crushing per se, but all-encompassing.

You don’t realize how badly you need it from him until you’re getting it.

“You’re such a dick,” you groan against his shoulder, sniffling.

“Aye,” he says, swaying a little on his feet, like the two of you are dancing. “But I’m right. We cannot be friends. So you’ve got to let this go, alright? Just breathe out 'n let it go.”

“I don’t understand,” you mutter. “He wants us to be friends.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,'' Johnny says, one hand rubbing gently at your shoulder blades. “No more crying. It’s out of your hands. Aye?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his shirt.

But your tears slow and eventually stop. Cars pass occasionally. One of them honks at the sight of you both entwined on the side of the road, rolls down their window to let their passenger yell something suggestive, and it makes your face go hot. Johnny pulls away, nearly stumbling out into the road to give the car both middle fingers as it peels away. He slips on the damp asphalt and goes down hard on his side, taking the skin off his elbow and palm.

“Fuck, I’m hammered,” he laughs.

“Clearly,” you say, struggling to help him up and into the backseat.

Once in the driver’s seat again, you feel exhausted, emptied, like a washcloth wrung out and left to dry. The drive back to the apartment is silent, and when you’re in the parking lot, neither of you make a move to get out of the car.

You warn Johnny: “Simon’s asleep, so be quiet inside.”

Johnny warns you sleepily: “Ghost is right there.”

There’s a tap on the glass of your window. It nearly makes you shriek—but it is only Simon, half-smoked cigarette in his fingers, bundled up outside the car door. You roll down the window sheepishly.

“Need a little help?” he asks, taking a drag and turning his head so the smoke doesn’t touch you. His eyes are on Johnny in the backseat.

You hold up your fingers with just a smidge of space between them.

#ghoap x reader #skin deep

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glamplandivas · 1 year

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The Ultimate Guide to Buying Hand Sanitizers Online

Buying hand sanitizers online can be a convenient and efficient way to ensure your hands are clean and free from germs and viruses. Always check the ingredients, size, brand reputation, expiration date, fragrance, moisturizing properties, and price before making a purchase.

#hand sanitizers online

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deandoesthingstome · 1 year

Text

Forest Fantasy

Pairing: Werewolf!Walter Marshall x Reader

Summary: There's a new hotel in town. It can't possibly be what it's advertised as, can it?

Word Count: 6.5K

Warnings: 18+, NO MINORS, cunnilingus, p in v (missionary and doggy style), monster fucking (right?).

A/N: I was considering waiting until Oct, but it's a fucking Super Moon tonight so let's gooooo.....!!!!!

When The Fantasy Hotel opened up in town, you scoffed at first. "What’s with this name? What kind of depravity is this? Why can't folks just fuck in their own homes?" you thought to yourself. “At least they have someone to fuck. Why must they flaunt their relationships in my face this way?”

But then you heard the whispers. The suggestions. The innuendos. A few of your online friends, who know you'd been through a dry spell for some time now, had been asking if you'd given any thought to trying it out and you were...confused. They wouldn't say outright what they'd heard about the place, but curiosity got the better of you.

You opened the incognito browser and typed the hotel name and were...shocked. Shocked at the images and the rave reviews. This hotel wasn't strictly for couples. As a matter of fact, it was designed for singles. And you shut your laptop quickly, convinced this wasn't for you and worried what your anonymous, online friends must think of you. You broached the subject delicately, so as not to offend in case maybe they didn't really know what they were asking about.

MNstrluvr: Come on. You've read the fics. You've liked and commented. Are you really saying you weren't into it? The idea of it?

sendmeanangel: I was sucked in by the phenomenal writing. You know me. I read anything if it's told well, descriptive, immersive, get you out of your head.

darkgothnightengale: This is THAT. But IRL. You're fucking lucky they picked your town to open the first one. You HAVE to try it and tell us how it is!!!

sendmeanangel: Have you seen the prices?

darkgothnightengale: We chipped in.

sendmeanangel:...

MNstrluvr: Come on! We're dying to know first hand from someone we actually know. Please. For science!

It took a few more gentle prods and pokes, with promises of no jokes unless you gave specific permission. And under NO CIRCUMSTANCES were your friends allowed to post anything that even vaguely alluded to the fact that you were trying the place out. Private DMs and Super Private Chat Room discussions only.

Your visit was booked. You opted for a brief stay only. Two hours. You couldn't bring yourself to book a longer stay and the theme you selected was one that allowed for less than full evenings. It was also the only slot available on the day you were able to ask off work.

You showered and primped, pampering yourself with your favorite body wash and lotion, knowing how good it made you feel to be fresh and clean and smelling delicious. You checked your clothes and your makeup in the full length mirror by your apartment door, opting not to change for the fiftieth time since stepping out of the shower. A few final items stuffed into your travel satchel and the large floppy hat on your head you'd bought specifically to hide your face as you made your way into the hotel and you were off for your adventure, trepidation buzzing around your insides and threatening to derail your purpose.

Your friends had paid and you figured you were already past a normal hotel refund window, so paying them back would mean picking up a few extra shifts on top of your already hectic university schedule. Besides, you didn't want to disappoint them. They were so curious to know if the stories that were starting to pop-up on Tumblr did any justice to the experience. You really couldn’t imagine this was anything more than some extremely well put together costumes and perhaps use of silicon implements, which had you really wondering about sanitation, but whatever.

The cab pulled up at the hotel entrance and a petite woman with a pixie cut stepped forward to open the door and help you out. She gave a warm smile with no hint of derision or teasing about the hat as she welcomed you sincerely and led you through the front doors, depositing you at the registration desk.

"Enjoy your stay!" she beamed at you, with a conspiratorial wink before heading back out to, you assumed, await the next guest.

You called out a thanks after her, then turned to the front desk attendant, who welcomed you by name.

"You have the only check in slot at this time," he answered your unspoken question with a kind smile. "We stagger arrival on purpose to ensure privacy for our guests. Especially first time visits. We have you booked in the Deep Forest Suite for the next two hours, and it looks like you requested the basket add on. That will be waiting for you in the room. Since it is your first time, we just need you to sign a few waivers and I'll run through the hotel safety rules for you. A copy has also been sent to your email, if you want to check them during your stay. But also, rest assured, your host is well versed and knows exactly how to keep you safe. You are in good hands here, I promise."

Every word spoken carefully and with respect, every inflection designed to put your worries at ease. If you had butterflies going in, you'd never know it now. You had taken notice of the lush and inviting lobby, dark wood furniture covered in rich velvet, chandeliers and wall sconces casting a warm glow around you. There was nothing menacing or untoward, nothing like you had expected, even after seeing the interior photos online. You'd experienced marketing ploys before. This wasn't glue disguised as milk or fries on toothpicks to stand up straight in the box or a long angle shot of the tiniest pool ever. Everything so far was exactly as depicted and you were impressed.

Then you remembered the photo of your host and had to swallow hard. You had assumed it was a doctored image, maybe some unique lighting to draw attention. But if the decor was real, then maybe he was too. The rules were oddly specific for an experience with a guy in a costume.

Maybe everything you had assumed about the nature of this hotel was wrong.

"Everything okay?" the clerk asked with a furrowed brow. "Is there something worrisome about the rules?"

"Oh. No. No everything is fine. I'm just..." you trailed off. Nervous wasn't the right word. Nor were you embarrassed, as you thought you would be. The door attendant, the desk clerk...neither had made you feel anything but welcome and safe and not self-conscious at all.

"It's perfectly reasonable to feel a little apprehension your first time. If it makes you feel better, you should know: you actually can opt out at any time. We do have to retain a portion of the room fee, but a partial refund is available. Should you change your mind."

"That's nice to know, thank you. I think I'll be okay."

"Then let's get you to your room,” he clapped his hands together with a mirth. “427. Elevator is down the hall and there are directional signs, but I'm happy to escort you if you'd like."

"I think I'll manage, but thank you."

As he placed the key in your possession and sent you on your way, the reality sunk in a little deeper. Weighed down by the heavy iron key in your hand as you rode the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped down the hall to your room, you could no longer deny what was about to occur.

You were headed into the wolf's den.

The door unlocked with a satisfying click as you turned the iron key. You were transported to a lush forest setting when you stepped into the room. Or as close as you could get indoors, anyway. A carpet of deep, soft green lay on the floor beneath your feet, and you immediately slipped out of your shoes to feel the cool material on your skin. It was impossibly silky, smooth, and comforting.

Large potted fir and pine plants lined the walls and stood in corners. At least a few held miniature deciduous trees and some with limbs stretching across the ceiling. You finally let your eyes fall on the chunky, four-poster bed, the legs, head- and foot-boards crafted of smooth finished logs you might find in a high-end cabin or ski chalet and covered in a thick feather mattress wrapped in luxurious blankets and piled high with pillows.

A picnic basket sat prim and proper on the coffee table nestled between two plump, overstuffed chairs and you had just reached out to peek beneath the deep red cloth when the door closed softly behind you and a throat cleared.

"I hope I haven't startled you."

You turned and gasped as you took in the sight of one of the largest, and, for lack of a better description because your brain was starting to fail you, manliest men you'd ever set eyes on. His photograph might have been deceptive, but only because it didn't do him justice. He wore a thick, blue cable knit sweater and dark gray cargo pants that seemed to mold around his thighs. He was barefoot, which surprised you a little, but then who were you to judge at the moment?

You caught his smirk as you lifted your gaze to appreciate the rugged beard and full head of chocolate curls that framed his face, offsetting mesmerizing blue eyes.

"I'm Walter," he offered you his hand as he spoke your name with a gentle growl. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You're not..." you stopped yourself, suddenly embarrassed at how eager you'd found yourself. "Forgive me. That may have been a rude way to start."

"It's okay," he chuckled. "This isn't the form you signed up for, but I've found it more enjoyable to at least meet in this state. If I bounded in here all claws and snarls, we wouldn't have a chance to speak first. And I prefer to have at least a quick chat, if that's okay with you."

"It's fine," you whispered, your throat dry though your mouth was watering.

Walter stepped past you and reached a large mitt into the basket to pull out a bottle of water.

"Would you like to talk with me a bit?" he asked, offering you the bottle. Your eyes lingered on the basket, though, curious what else might be in there. The amenity said “Fantasy Basket”, so it could have just been a riff on the hotel name, but still, you had assumed…

“Did you not get a chance to peek before I arrived?” he asked as you took a sip of water.

“No. Do you know what’s in there?”

“I do,” another chuckle, deeper and darker than before. “Do you want to know now, or later?”

“We don’t have a lot of time, do we?” you asked, suddenly aware and mentally kicking yourself for thinking you didn’t need more than a few hours to get the lay of the land. Literally, you snorted at your internal joke.

“Something funny?”

“Lay of the land,” you replied with a grin and as he laughed with you, you caught sight of his canines. They seemed a little longer than when you saw them in his first grin. At the moan that slipped from your throat, he darkened again.

“That it will be.”

You gasped and squeezed your thighs, clenching at the reverberation in his voice. Something had changed from even just the moment before when he’d entered the room. Aside from the physical appearance, you sensed a shift in the air, something wavering in the ether around you. A heat crept from your core to your cheeks, through your spine and settled into your chest. You were breathless.

“How do we…um, how does this start?”

“We’ve already started, haven’t we?” he replied, a little mysteriously. “Sit with me?”

What made you drop to the floor beneath you instead of onto the comfortable looking seat, you couldn’t say, but here you were resting back on your heels as you took another drink of water from the glass bottle in your hand.

“I was going to suggest the chairs, but if you prefer the ground, I’m happy to say I do too.”

Walter stepped forward and lowered himself to the ground beside you, one knee splayed wide and almost touching yours, the other knee bent with an elbow draped over it as he leaned toward you. You could swear you caught him sniffing the air.

“I don’t know what to say,” you spoke with caution, suddenly overwhelmed. The day was just becoming a series of flip-flops in your mind as you imagined yourself, sometimes bold and determined to experience what you could, then timid and nervous as the reality overcame you. Once at ease and open, now shy and reserved.

“That’s okay,” Walter replied. “The better for me to begin.”

Why did that sound like such a familiar phrase? You took another drink and nodded for him to continue.

“I’d like to continue our time together by undressing you, one way or another. You have a choice, which you can leave to me if you’d like. I can do it now, in this form,” he paused, cocked his head to one side, then the other as he cracked his neck. “Or I can shift, in your presence or not, and do it that way.”

What did he mean by “shift”? Surely, he must mean change. As in undress and don a mask. But then you remembered his teeth, somehow longer. And you thought about the subtle way the atmosphere seemed to shimmer and transport you and you wondered if he really did mean “shift.’

“That sounds like two choices,” you whispered and caught his grin, canines even longer than before.

“Perceptive. I like it. Need a few moments?”

“What happens after I’m…I mean, I know what happens, I guess… but just, like, how…” you trailed off, not really sure what you were asking.

“We’re playing a game here, really. That’s all. It can be as simple or intricate as you’d like, though, you’re right. Our time is ticking away.”

“You do it.” You rushed, barely letting him finish his response.

“Here or…?”

“I’ll close my eyes.” The thought of watching his shift, though intriguing, also made you wonder if it would make you more nervous than you already suddenly found yourself again. Maybe it was better to just jump in and get started, as much as you were also enjoying speaking with Walter in his human form.

“Why don’t you take the basket into the bathroom? Pick out whatever intrigues you for use and come out when you’re ready. I’ll shift before you return. Sound okay?”

You nodded and he helped you to stand, then handed you the basket and gently urged you toward the bathroom door. Before he let go of your arm, he stepped in close, slipping his hand over yours and pressing it to his chest as he tugged you toward him.

“Do you mind if I give you one kiss this way before we meet next? You can say no, but it’s nice, I think, a good way to gauge your interest.”

Did he somehow think you weren’t interested? How had you hidden the drool from him? You’d been too quiet, clearly. Mesmerized by everything that had happened already in such a short time and you’d lost your voice, unable to truly communicate your desire. You were ruining everything, obviously.

“I’d like to kiss you very much,” you admitted, peering up into his eyes, which you now noticed were not the 100% blue you’d originally thought. Was this man really about to change shape? Did it matter? It didn’t matter in the least as far as how well he could kiss you, because while you were contemplating the genetics of the man in front of you, he was leaning down to capture your lips in what started as a chaste, closed mouth peck that grew steadily more intense as you felt his free arm slip up your back to settle a hand against the nape of your neck while yours slipped around his waist and urged him closer, as if you were guided by some unknown force. You felt his tongue lick along your bottom lip and you opened your mouth to him as if you’d known him your whole life.

With your hand still pressed against his sternum, you could feel his heart beat faster as each second passed and the kiss grew more heated. When he pulled away you actually whined.

“I’m glad to see you are interested,” he teased with a grin before he spun you toward the door again and pressed you inside. “Now hop on in and don’t take too long. I want to treat you for as long as I can.”

The bathroom was just as sumptuous as the main room. A dark tiled shower took up one entire wall of the room and you couldn’t tell if the color was black or just the deepest forest green you’d ever seen. Instead of a curtain or sliding door, a glass panel separated the shower from the rest of the room with an opening opposite the brass water valves to step in. What you imagined must be a rain shower head jutted out from the ceiling. You didn’t want to waste any more of your precious time, but wondered if there’d be any left to enjoy this shower when all was said and done. The rest of the bathroom fixtures and amenities would have to wait for inspection, since you needed to pay attention to your basket. You set it on the veined marble counter and finally lifted the cloth completely off.

Only the cloth wasn’t exactly a cloth. It was a cape, tucked neatly on top of a few more bottles of water, a small loaf of bread, some cut cheeses and fruit in a covered bowl. And that was it for the tame picnic items.

You pulled a short, white peasant dress trimmed in lace and a red apron with black satin ribbon criss-crossing the front out of the basket, along with what appeared to be a pair of black fishnet stockings and thought of Walter’s comments. Were you expected to change or only if you wanted this part of the experience? Finally, you noticed a few heavy leather straps and as you pulled them from the basket you realized they must be meant as restraints, but for whom? You or him? You also noticed a distinct lack of silicon implements.

You heard a rustle of some sort outside the bathroom door, reminding you that Walter was waiting and time was fleeting and you really needed to make a decision about how you wanted to enter the room again. Walter had suggested you take the basket with you. And he was going to be … different when you saw him again, wasn’t he? And you had asked him to undress you. Maybe he anticipated that undressing would be … vigorous. What if this costume was meant for that? You had brought a change of clothes but didn’t think you’d be leaving here with one less outfit in your already sparse wardrobe.

Your mind made up, you stripped quickly and donned the outfit, amazed at how simple the apron was to slip over your head, then pull the satin ties tight with your own hand. You always imagined an intricate article of intimate clothing like this would take so much more effort. Maybe it would be something you’d feel comfortable and confident enough to do outside this hotel someday.

For now, you were drawn back into the moment with a thud on the door and a low growl that sounded like “Come out.”

You finished dressing, wrapping the cape around your neck and drawing up the hood. You still weren’t wearing shoes, so you could feel the ground through the wide gaps of the fishnets as you stepped back into the room, picnic basket on your arm. It felt different. More uneven. Crunchy leaves crackled beneath as you stepped onto what now felt like real grass, fading to dirt, fading to ground littered with pine needles and dry leaves. Ferns peaked out from the tree trunks. And a supermoon shone overhead.

This was not your room. It was on the other side of the bathroom door, to be fair, but this was not the room you’d stepped into 20 minutes ago. And yet, how could it be anything but? A twig snapped to your left and drew your attention as you realized you didn’t see Walter. You’d thought he’d be right outside the door, waiting for you, maybe in a chair, maybe on the bed. But you didn’t see him, only his clothes folded neatly on the table where your picnic basket had been. Suddenly, you felt a rush of air next to you.

“What are you doing here, little one?”

You had a hard time deciding what to focus on as the words were spoken. The actual choice of the words themselves, which harkened back to that story that drifted through the tendrils of your mind, whispering “You know me?” Or the rough, low way those words tumbled from him, hungry and full of want. Was this the game?

“Your voice sounds so strange, Walter. Is everything okay?” you asked, plucking the words from the cobwebs in your head.

“I think I just swallowed some water wrong.”

You took a deep breath and turned, ready to catch him, ready to see. He was glorious and you were awestruck. It took a few moments of taking in the sight of his body, arms slightly elongated, up on the balls of his feet, hair that looked like chocolate silk covering his body but not in a way that you couldn’t see the tone and definition of his skin underneath, nose and mouth pulled forward, ears up. Ears up.

“Walter, what big ears you have,” you cooed, reaching up to touch them, though waiting for the assent in his eyes. When you could see he would allow it, you brushed your fingers along the back side, then scratched a little in the crease where they met his head and he closed his eyes for a moment. His eyes.

“Walter, what big eyes you have,” your voice a bit lower, sultry, as if the confidence you’d lost earlier had found its way back to you. He opened them and you’d have sworn sparks flew as his deep blue eyes pierced yours before you saw him drag his gaze over your face, down your neck, back and forth between your breasts, unfortunately still covered. He must have felt the same because he didn’t linger on the clothes, but when he reached your thighs, clad in the black hose he snarled, baring his sharp teeth. Sharp teeth.

“Walter,” you teased. “What big teeth you have.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear,” he growled and pounced, swatting the picnic basket to the ground before lifting you by the waist and hoisting you over his shoulder. He only needed a few steps before he could toss you back onto the plump bed. Your cape hood dropped off your head and your dress skirt hiked up a little, but not like it mattered.

Walter was between your legs, nudging your thighs wide with his own as he folded himself over you, arms caging your head. With a snarl, he began to nuzzle down your neck, sniffing along the way.

“You smell good,” he grunted as he drew a paw over your chest. “Smelled you from the moment I walked in the room, but I wanted to be closer. Like this.”

You peered down towards his hand and noticed the sharp claw of what should be an index finger drawn back and ready to slice through the black satin down your breast. The apron draped to your sides as easily as you’d put it on, practically one handed, and it was gone now. You didn’t really care if the white dress met the same fate as the apron, but the cape was quality. Surely there was no need to ruin it. You reached to untie the bow at your neck just as Walter sliced easily through the front of the dress. The rip as he reared back and grabbed a side of split fabric in both hands to finish the job was satisfying.

Since you’d decided to just leave off the bra and panties for the sake of time, you were now left like an unwrapped package on the bed, intricately woven stretchy black thread the only thing sitting between you and Walter. Your chest was heaving and so was his. And since he was now up on his knees instead of bent over you, you had a chance to glance away from his face toward his hips and you had to bite your lip.

He was huge. Like, possibly not gonna fit huge. He must have seen the hesitation on your face.

“Don’t worry,” came the sound as he dropped back off the bed, knelt on the floor, hooked his arms under your thighs, and tugged you to the edge of the bed. You felt his nuzzle against the skin of your belly, the warm, wet air of his exhale trailing down your side, into the crook of your thigh, and finally settling right on top of your cunt. He was so deft as he slipped a finger into your slit, then cut the thread between your legs as he pulled the finger free, widening the hole to give him greater access.

The noises you made could absolutely be interpreted as nothing other than consent, but you wanted to make sure he didn’t stop, as the contract said he could if he had any doubt about your permission. There could be no doubt.

“Please, don’t stop. Put your mouth on me. Make me cum.”

There was the slightest of huffs, as if he was smiling the briefest of victory smiles, before his assail began. It was measured, it was slow, it was a thorough gathering of information. It was infuriating. As you were about to open your impatient mouth and remind him that the clock was ticking the minutes away, like the insufferable bitch she was, he shifted tactics.

Every little nuance he’d taken note of, every amount of pressure and length of lick that produced some desired effect was now fortified. This was the only thing he did. And at a brisker rate, as if he’d calculated the pleasure you’d derived at the low speed and determined the exponential pleasure you’d get from the real speed.

They had not put mathematical genius in his bio, but here you were getting eaten alive better than anyone had ever done it before. And you dared say, maybe after. This could get expensive.

When you couldn’t take it anymore, when you were afraid the remaining time had to be expired because you kept awakening from mind bending bliss to find him still lapping and sucking at your pussy as if he just got started and how long had it been, my gods, you grabbed hold of the curly hair around his head and tugged as you begged.

“Stop. Stop,” you were breathless. “Walter, please stop. It’s so good. It’s too good. I don’t want you to stop but we have to stop. My time must be up, I have to go.”

His laugh wasn’t cruel, but it was sinister “We have time. Don’t worry. I made sure.”

You didn’t dare look at the clock. Your gaze was locked into his anyway, whites of his eyes replaced by a deep, lustful red. He held your stare while dragging his tongue and snout along your heated skin.

He slipped an arm under your waist, tugging your torso in one direction as he stepped a hind leg up to nudge your hips in the other. He settled in between your legs once he had you parallel to the edge of the bed. You threw your arms over your head as he caressed your outer thigh, coaxing it around his waist while bending to savor the scent you'd released for him. When he was satisfied, he moved again to climb over your body.

You were aching for him, arching into the heat radiating from the closeness of his form. As you reached for his neck to pull him even closer, you realized why he'd kissed you before the turn. It would be awkward now to put your mouth on his. The shape didn't lend itself to an easy slotting of lips against one another, though you yearned for the recent memory.

As if he could sense your desire, he leaned in and nuzzled against your neck, behind your ear, then along your throat. He pushed your chin up with his muzzle to bare your pulse to him and then he nipped.

You whimpered at the sensation and even as he licked to soothe it, he did it again, a little harder, just shy of breaking skin.

"Please," you begged, eager to feel the power, though you knew it was strictly forbidden and you trusted he did as well.

His growl was full of bravado, as if he was proud to have you begging him to break the rules.

"You wanna get me in trouble?" Walter grumbled in your ear as he ran his paws up and down your body, dragging his claws carefully over your skin. He snarled when they snagged on the stockings and looked to you for approval before he tore them away from your legs completely.

"If you can't bite me, then at least mate me," you pleaded, knowing full well he couldn't do that either but you were too far gone to care. It would at least get him thinking about sinking his cock in you one way or another.

He reached for the drawer of the heavy wooden night stand and produced a few foil packets, dropping all but one on the bedside table and handing you the last, prompting an eyebrow raised in question from you. His response was measured, as if he struggled to control something deep inside.

"You have another choice to make," he began with a low rumble as he sought understanding in your eyes. "I can't mate you directly and I'm sure you know that. I have access to...toys, equipment that would allow you to feel that sensation, but it won't be me. If instead, you're willing to use protection with me, I will gladly fill you up."

If he wouldn't go bare, so be it. He wiggled his claws as you attempted to hand him the packet, sure you'd make a debacle of trying to sheath the monster between his legs.

"Just to be safe, you'd better do it. These are pretty sharp. That ok?" he grunted at you in question.

You nodded and scooted out from under him, up the bed so you had a little leverage. He kept a knee on the mattress as he stood tall from his other hind leg still on the floor and waited for you to tear the package and roll the condom down his cock.

"Is there anything special I need to do to make it fit?" you asked, vaguely aware of how ridiculous the question sounded but eager nonetheless to get past this part and onto the one where Walter would be deep inside you, filling every inch, stroking every wall. You'd already seen the size, but forgotten your initial trepidation thanks to the glorious head he'd given you.

Surely, no standard drugstore rubber would cover it. His huff was kind, and you could swear you saw the twinkle of a smile in his eyes as he answered.

"We bring them in special. They're designed for a ... more substantial, and sometimes even exotic, need. But if you know how to use one, you know how to use them all. Still alright?"

You nodded with a smile, and set to work, letting the heft and feel of his member draw you back into your haze of lust and desire now that logistics were out of the way. You worked the rubber over his girth and found yourself imagining what it would be like to have him split you in two. You couldn't wait and he could tell.

"So eager," he grumbled as he grasped your shoulders and eased you onto your back.

You thought about trying to tame your excitement, but to what end? For a brief moment the thought that you surely didn't have much more time left flitted through your mind and then you let the excitement and anticipation take over.

"Please take me now," you begged and captured the side of your lower lip with your teeth as you once again pictured the incoming pleasure.

"If anything feels uncomfortable, you can tell me to stop," he murmured in your ear as he lowered himself over you. "Say 'woodsman' and I stop. Understood?"

He pulled back to find your reply and when he had his confirmation he didn't hold back any further. As if no time had passed between when he had coaxed so much moisture from your core and now, you were still dripping for him when he grabbed ahold of his thick member and placed the tip at your entrance.

Any other man would have slid in easily, but Walter wasn't any other man and he knew it. Once the tip breached your aching pussy, he carefully nudged a knuckle alongside, pressing in and loosening the way. You spread your legs wider for him and willed your walls to relax, though they wouldn't.

Remembering what he said during the exchange about the condom, you pulled a hand off his shoulder, down his furry chest, and in between your bodies, reaching for the spot where you were connected. The growl he let out when he realized what you were doing was invigorating and spurred you on.

You watched him bend his head down so he could take in the sight of you stroking him a few times before you began to massage the folds at your entrance. You let your fingers tease your clit and when you couldn't stand it any longer, a time which you were sure had already passed, you split your index and middle finger and gently coaxed your opening wider.

As he felt the ease, Walter sank ever deeper until he was bottomed out and pressed as far in as he could. You saw stars, immediately, and loosened even more, coating him with warmth and juices that helped his movements.

In another time, with another man, that may have been it. Most men, if they even took the time to draw an orgasm from you through the missionary position, would collapse in almost relief as soon as you came, spending their load and ending the night then and there.

But you'd already established Walter was no mere man. He took your sigh as his cue to help you feel that way again and again. And when he couldn't tear another orgasm from you in this position, no matter how hard he pumped or how high he got your legs over his head, he pulled out and flipped you to all fours and slammed back in from behind, eager to wrench at least one last shout of pleasure from your lips before he spilled his seed in the condom and sent you to your belly with a slap on your ass as he withdrew from you entirely.

"Am I charged extra for that?" you mustered the energy to ask once he'd returned from the bathroom. You peeled one exhausted eye open to see he was back to his human form, though still completely unclothed and you wondered if anyone was lucky enough to enjoy that experience as well.

"Sorry?" he asked, a quizzical look on his face.

"Does this place charge by the volume? Was there a limit to the number of orgasms allowed? I imagine it has to be like the extra mini-bar charges they tack onto your bill when you check out of any other hotel, right?"

His laugh was deep and infectious. It reverberated through the room and your chest as he climbed into the bed beside you with the bowl of cheese and fruit in one hand and the bread in the other.

"We don't have a limit. You can have as many as you want. Care for a snack? Get your energy back?” Walter took the time to feed you small bites while your boneless body slowly recovered.

"We have to be so far over my time limit. Am I about to turn into a pumpkin now?" you asked after swallowing a final bite of bread.

Walter laughed again and it warmed your heart. Maybe he was just a really good actor, but nothing so far had rang false, so why would he try to fake this? He thought you were funny.

"No, nothing so drastic. But if you do want to rinse off before checkout, you should get a move on. I could carry you if you're still not up to moving just yet?"

You nodded, and as if you weighed nothing, Walter lifted you from the bed and deposited you in the shower cabin, away from the shower head while he fiddled with the water faucet. Once the steam began to rise, he pulled you in with him and helped you lather up and rinse off, careful to keep your hair away from the spray as best he could. Then he dried you off with a fluffy towel and helped you dress in your extra set of clothes, before tucking the cape in your bag with your original outfit.

"It's part of the basket fee," he answered your unasked question with a ridiculous wink. "If you book it again, they'll give you a discount, but you'll have to remember to bring it with you."

As you stepped out of the bathroom, the room again appeared as it did when you first entered what felt like hours ago. Surely more than two. Walter could sense your confusion.

“The hotel has some special features we don’t actually advertise,” he offered, as he pulled on his pants. “We use them at our discretion, but it means you get an experience unlike others. This room, for example, truly can transform into a deep forest. And I like to stretch the time here, especially for newcomers. When you walk out into that hall, it’ll be two hours since your arrival. We’ve been here for longer though. But do me a favor, wouldja? Keep that to yourself?”

You nodded and smiled, appreciative of his special treatment, then took one last look around the room to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything. Walter walked you to the door and gave you a final kiss goodbye.

“I do hope everything was to your satisfaction. Hopefully, you’ll come back sometime,” he grinned at you as you stumbled backwards down the hall, not wanting to turn away from his gorgeous face. You were absolutely going to figure out a way to pick up some extra shift and make your way back to this hotel again if it killed you.

Bonus Edit: Absolutely GORGEOUS headers made for me by my wonderful friend in fic @geralts-yenn:

Everything HC Taglist: (as always, let me know if you want on or off)

@sillyrabbit81 @mayloma @geralts-yenn @raccoon-eyed-rebel @fvckinghenrycavill @kebabgirl67 @beck07990 @itsrubberbisquit @sweetdreamsofgelato @liveoncoffeeandflowersss @alexakeyloveloki @marantha @aireraume @angelmather1 @lizzystuffsthings @enchantedbytomandhenry @omgkatinka @littlefreya @avengersfan25 @just-chirpin @thesaucynomad @valacirca @henryownsme @summersong69 @foxyjwls007

Special tag: @kittenofdoomage (cause sometimes you love my stuff and this one's a monster fucker lol!)

Werewolf!walter only (if you asked on the teaser):

@ellethespaceunicorn (hope this is okay! Tag me in whichever HC character werewolf you end up with!) @juliaorpll78 @martha-oi @cardierreh15 if you asked and aren't here, Tumblr won’t let me tag you. Sorry!

#walter marshall fanfiction #walter marshall x reader #werewolf!walter x reader #walter marshall #werewolf!walter #spoopy season #forest fantasy #henry cavill characters #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #could be a series #who knows?#mine #deandoesthingstome

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sionisjaune · 7 months

Text

George/Alex sex shop meet cute, ft. George's questionable customer service skills and unquestionable knowledge of inventory:

Alex finds himself in the sex shop because he has decided, after great deliberation, to face up to the fact that he is a bisexual man, and his occasional hookups require more equipment than he has in his flat.

He tugs open the door which boasts a cheery little welcome sign that is quite possibly adorned with an anthropomorphized, ejaculating penis, and tries not to flinch when his eyes meet row upon row of phallic objects in glossy packaging. The bell on the door jingles as it swings shut, and Alex crams his hands in his pockets, surveying the aisles.

Choosing to get the job done quickly, Alex rocks up to the first aisle and strolls past the shelves decisively. He chooses a dildo at random and pulls the box off the rack to examine it. The packaging reads EXTRA LARGE HOG in graffiti letters with a grinning devil waving a pitchfork underneath the logo. The dildo itself is grossly fleshy in a shade that would imply that the phallus’s owner (if it had one) was suffering from jaundice.

Alex flings the dildo back on the rack, repulsed. God, maybe his own cock will have to do. He doesn’t know if he has the stomach to stay in the shop for long enough to make a purchase.

He’ll call Lily, he considers, backing away from the shelves. He’ll ask her where she bought her cute little rose thing and then order online with a hand covering his face, peeking through the cracks between his fingers. People have told him he’s good in bed, right? He wouldn’t get any less ass if his nightstand drawer remained empty of dildos and cock rings and butt plugs and whatever other horrifying—

While Alex spirals about the state of his sex life, someone down the aisle coughs.

Alex’s heart skips a beat, and he nearly springs backwards, his trainers squeaking on the floor while he regains his balance.

“You really shouldn’t buy that one,” says a pale, pinched, and actually rather fit employee standing two metres away from Alex. His hair is floppy and a rather ordinary brown, and his collared shirt is buttoned to the throat. His name tag reads George.

“Beg your pardon?” says Alex, and nearly chokes swallowing his own saliva.

“I said you really shouldn’t buy that one,” says George, sweeping a hand through his hair and frowning. “If you’re shopping for a missus, studies have shown that thermoplastic elastomers can disrupt reproductive health.”

“Missus,” says Alex, rolling the word over on his tongue. “Thermoplastic elastomer.”

George blinks owlishly. “Yes. And if you’re shopping for a mister, TPE is porous, so it’s very difficult to properly sanitize,” he explains.

Alex shakes his head. He glances at the wall of dildos in their gaudy packaging and then back at George. His lanyard seems to be patterned with the same little walking, grinning pensises that the welcome sign bore.

“What’s TPE?” says Alex, for lack of anything better to do with his mouth.

“Thermoplastic elastomers,” says George. “I just said.”

“And those are?” says Alex.

George runs a hand through his hair again and sucks in a breath. He steps towards Alex—which causes shivers to course down Alex’s spine, for some reason—and points towards the EXTRA LARGE HOG box.

“Look,” he says, pointing to the corner of the box which bears writing so small Alex can barely read it. “TPE. Not body-safe.”

“So,” says Alex, information whirling in his head. The fluorescent lighting is giving him a headache. The glare glancing off all the clear plastic packaging gives the sex shop a dream-like quality, like any second Alex will wake up erect and sweating through his covers. “So, why would it be on sale if it’s… not body-safe?”

“You see,” says George, his eyes lighting up. “Since sexual enhancers are classified as novelty items rather than therapeutic medical devices, manufacturers are able to exploit a gaping loophole and produce products for cheap using unsafe materials. For example, our top-selling Starbright Bangers—” George gestures to a display of pale, jellylike dildos of increasing length and girth. “—contain phthalates which have been shown in male animals to precipitate a greater risk of malformed penises, and—” George’s jaw snaps shut.

Alex inhales, his hands balled in his pockets, staring straight into George’s giant eyes. “You can keep going,” says Alex.

“No, I—” says George. “No. I’m done.”

“So,” says Alex. He pulls his fists from his pockets and forces his hands to hang limply at his sides. “So I’m looking for a dildo.”

“Ah,” says George, blinking again. “What kind of dildo?”

Alex swallows. “Any kind? I’m not exactly an… experienced buyer?”

“Okay,” says George, tilting his head back and forth. “Alright. Do you know what you like?”

“It’s not for me,” says Alex, quickly. “It’s just that I want to… spice things up, in the bedroom.”

“Ah,” says George, again. “So we’re looking for something versatile.” He spins to face the aisle, scanning the wall of dildos. He glances towards Alex, his dark brows furrowing. He really is rather pretty, Alex thinks. Pretty in that prim, poncy way that boarding school fantasies are supposed to be. Not that Alex has ever had any of those.

“You never did tell me whether you’re looking for a missus or mister,” says George.

“Either. Both,” says Alex, throat dry.

George hums, tapping his foot. He squats to the floor, tugging a box off the lowest shelf. “Try this,” he says, handing it up to Alex.

Alex turns the box around and squints at it meaningfully. The packaging is rather nondescript, offering a photo of the product (slim, blue, rechargeable) and the product name (SKINNY SATISFIER).

“Great,” says Alex, pinning it under his arm. “Perfect. I’ll get this. Thanks for your help.”

George unfolds from his squat, rising to a height that’s maybe just a millimetre shorter than Alex. “You don’t want anything else?” says George, making his big owl eyes again.

“I’ll just be on my way,” says Alex, stuffing his hands in his pockets again. “Thanks a bunch.”

George’s mouth opens and then closes, a bit like a fish. Then it opens again. “You should probably get an anal plug,” says George. “Very popular. And you can get them without rhinestones on the bottom, if you're worried. We have all sorts. Hold on a second.”

George dashes down the aisle while Alex remains frozen, dildo under his arm. When George returns, he’s carrying an armful of boxes. “Here,” he says. “Pick the one you like.”

Alex eyes the mountain of boxes and the product images he can see. Some of them are rather feminine. He supposes he could use them on a girl. Or on a boy of a particular persuasion.

“They’re all… body-safe?” says Alex.

George rolls his eyes. “Stainless steel. So, obviously.” He makes meaningful eyes at the heap of boxes in his arms.

“Great,” says Alex, plucking one at random off the top.

George lets out a breath and dumps the remainder on a shelf strewn with bottles of novelty lube. “I can ring you up over there, if you like.”

“Oookay,” says Alex, fisting his dildo in one hand and his butt plug in the other. He follows George up to the cash where a scary-looking girl with teased hair and a lip piercing is ringing up a complicated leather harness.

“Here you go,” says George, when he’s finished scanning Alex’s items and has presented Alex with a (thank God) plain paper shopping bag to carry them in. George plunges his hand into a jar beside the register, pulls out a handful of foil packets and drops them in Alex’s bag. “Every customer gets a free scoop of lemon sherbet flavoured prophylactics with a purchase of thirty pounds or more,” George explains.

“Brilliant,” says Alex, wondering when he’ll wake up.

George waves, his lanyard swinging against his shirt. “Shop again soon!”

#i wrote this #galex

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