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rememberwren · 5 months ago

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Skin Deep

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

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

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

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zincbot · 1 year ago

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feeling like a gamer

#my latest forays into games have been incredibly successful and i know it's cause the game is made easier for me #but ACTUALLY I LOVE WHEN GAMES ARE MADE EASIER FOR ME #virtual console zelda savestates make the game perfect for me to play without worrying i'll lose all my progress #bleed 2's easy mode and forgiving checkpoints made it so i could complete the entire story mode #difficulty settings Are an accessibility tool and i appreciate them so much #i'm so happy being able to play through and beat a game it makes me feel satisfied and accomplished #i know there's lots of people out there who want their games to be challenging so they can slowly become good at them and beat challenges #and that's why i love difficulty settings so much. nightmare difficulty for those people. and 'easy/relaxed/story' mode for people like me #i don't have good reflexes and i panic and make random motions when i'm pressured #so i need games to give me the space and forgiveness to fuck up my moves constantly #and still let me succeed when i finally hit the right buttons lmao #bleed 2 is good i highly recommend it. it was quite intense and my finger joints were getting fucked up #so i switched to using my ring finger to click the mouse and (while slower) i was still able to succeed at the game perfectly fine #that's good easy mode

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svtiddiess · 17 days ago

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Nom Nom: The Revenge

Synopsis: You’ve had your fun with your boyfriend; now it’s his turn to have fun with you.

Pairing: Seungcheol x afab!reader

Genre: suggestive, mini-series, established relationship

Rating: suggestive/mature

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: biting, marking, nipple play, boob play, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: This is a direct sequel to Nom Nom! It's very highly recommended that you read that before this!

Thank you so much to my second favourite menace @tusswrites for beta reading!

@brownsugarbaybee your part 3 is here baby.

Click here to join my taglist!

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

"I've let you have your fun, but now it's my turn."

You look up at your boyfriend, who has you pinned against the bed. His pupils are blown out, his lips are red and swollen from kissing, his hair is dishevelled, and his chest is littered with love bites made by you.

Your breath catches as your eyes fall on the initials you bit into his chest, framed by a heart. You can’t help but admire the striking contrast of the red and purple marks against his pale skin.

Seungcheol grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks, puckering your lips.

"Did you enjoy torturing me, princess?" he scoffs.

"A little," you giggle through your puckered lips. He lets out a strained chuckle.

"Well, let's see how much you enjoy this," he smirks before reaching down and removing your shirt, leaving you in your red lace bra, he growls at the sight of it. You shiver as the cold air nips your bare skin.

"Cold princess? Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon," he purrs before diving into your breasts.

You gasp and bite your lip as he starts nipping and licking your breasts. You squirm in place from the ticklish sensation on your skin.

"Stop moving," he growls against your skin, and you immediately freeze in place.

He runs his tongue over your bra-covered nipples, soaking the fabric. You whine and tell him to stop teasing.

"Ah, ah, no complaining princess. You're going to sit there and take what I give to you like a good girl," he smirks.

You pout at him and arch your back to press your breast against him to which he chuckles.

"Such a brat," he murmurs before unclipping your bra and throwing it behind him.

You sigh in relief at the feeling of your chest being free of the restraint. Without missing a beat, he dives in and takes a breast into his mouth, sucking on your perked-up nipple. You squeeze your eyes shut and moan his name out loud. He uses his hand to knead your other breast, not leaving it neglected. After taking his time relishing your breast he moves to the other one, giving it equal attention. You can feel your already soaked panties get even more soaked, and it sticks to you like a second skin.

He releases your breast with a pop and looks down at you with a smirk.

"Since you got to mark me, it's only fair that I mark you too princess," he purrs.

"But I'm not going to mark you here," he teases as he squeezes your left breast, eliciting a gasp from you.

"I'm going to mark you…" he murmurs as his finger slowly trails down your torso and stops at your pelvis, right above your core.

"Here," he growls with a smirk.

He proceeds to leave bites and kisses trailing down to your pelvis, his hands firmly holding you in place to keep you from moving. You let out shaky breaths and whimpers, feeling your body heat up at his actions.

He looks at you as he slowly peels your pants and panties off, discarding them somewhere behind him. You shudder as the cold air nips your dripping core. He slowly starts nibbling and licking the skin right above your core.

"Ch-Cheol, please," you mewl, frustrated at the teasing.

"Hush baby, don't make me gag you now," he warns.

You let out a whimper in protest, but he only smirks in reply. He looks into your eyes as he starts marking his initials into your skin, just as you did to him. Your toes curl, and you whine at the feeling of him sucking the sensitive skin. Too shy to maintain eye contact, you close your eyes. Seungcheol grumbles in response and bites down a little harder, causing you to yelp and look down at him.

"Look at me while I'm marking you," he growls against your skin. Your cheeks flush, and you bite your lip as you watch him continue to paint your skin with blotches of red and purple.

Finally satisfied, he sits up and admires the marks he’s left on your skin, gently tracing over them, making you shiver.

"You look so pretty marked with my initials, princess," he smirks. You mewl and buck your hip, desperate for him to finally touch you where you want.

"Such an impatient princess," he chuckles. "Weren't you having fun when you were teasing me? Why're you whining now?"

"I'm sorry Cheollie, please, just fuck me," you whine, tears of frustration pricking the corner of your eyes.

"Not yet, princess. I'm still not done marking you," he states with a gleam in his eye.

He then trails wet kisses down to your inner thighs. At this point you're so wet you're sure the sheet underneath you is soaked. He chuckles when he sees the wet spot forming under you.

"Such a needy princess," he mumbles before gently blowing air into your core.

"Ch-Cheol!" You gasp and jerk your hips, making him chuckle.

Instead of giving you what you want, he starts leaving love bites on your inner thighs. You instinctively try to close your legs, but he holds them open with his calloused hands. The rough texture of his skin feels ticklish against the soft skin of your thighs.

Your thighs tremble in his hold as he relentlessly bites and licks them. Soon, both your inner thighs are painted with bite marks and saliva.

"Cheollie, please. I can't take it anymore," you whine out in frustration. If he continues with the teasing, you might actually end up crying. He chuckles as he sits up, his knees positioned outside of yours.

"Almost done princess. I need to take a picture of my masterpiece, don't I?" he cocks his head and smiles slyly as he reaches for his phone.

He looks down and almost moans at the sight. Your hair is spread across the pillow, perfectly framing your face. Your pupils are dilated, lips red and swollen from kissing, and your body adorned with purple and red bite marks, along with his initials etched into your skin right above your core, and your core is glistening, coated with your arousal.

He licks his lips as he takes multiple photos of you, making sure every detail is captured. The pictures would definitely come in handy when he's off on tour and needs something to jerk off to.

"Cheol," you plead, wanting him to finally fuck you already.

"Princess really can't wait for my dick huh?" He playfully mocks your pout, putting his phone away. You nod eagerly, pouting and giving him puppy eyes, hoping he’ll finally give in.

"Don't worry princess, I'll make sure to fuck you until my dick is the only thing you can think about."

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roses-for-rosalyn · 4 months ago

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Cowboys

Ellie x Reader

Ch. 1, Ch. 2

Summary: things go right then wrong then right then wrong then right

Wc: 6.4 k

For the ao3 girlies

Cw: cowboy! Ellie x fem! reader, drinking, reader gets drunk, Jesse (again), lesbian touching and yearning, kissin', little fight, cleaning wounds (yea again shh), smut!, inexperienced reader (not innocent tho), oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! and e! receiving), switch! reader and Ellie, and as always no use of y/n

Minors DNI (fr)

a/n: This is months in the making. Thank you for your patience, those of you who kept supporting me through all this time even with my lack of activity I'm giving you a virtual forehead kiss. I really hope you enjoy it, I started to really love these characters, I like making them happy. I highly recommend reading the past chapters, but if you want to jump in I won't discourage you!

before you read! DAILY CLICK

★��・・・・・★

You drunkenly fumble with the buttons of your bodice, biting your lip with intense concentration in an attempt to complete the simple task. Your fine motor skills have reduced to that of a toddler. Thank god tomorrow is Saturday.

The front door creaks open just as you manage to get to the halfway point. You look up at Ellie as she walks in, she removes her hat and places it gently on the wooden table. She looks down at the floor as she unties the bandanna from her face. When she looks back up you can finally see her sun-kissed cheeks and perfect lips. You missed looking at her. She’s staring right at you with those emerald green eyes, and you stare back, hands frozen on one of the stubborn buttons keeping you from falling into your soft bed.

You hastily look back down before she can say anything and focus on removing enough clothes so that you can sleep comfortably. You don’t notice her approaching you until you see her boots step into your line of vision. You look up and you suppress a gasp of surprise when you register how close she was. She smells slightly of cigars and pine; it’s intoxicating. Her breathing is a little faster than normal, barely noticeable, but you tend to notice every little thing about her. There’s a nervous look in her eyes, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the windows.

“Need some help?” Your eyes widen a bit in disbelief, you didn’t think she would touch you again after you made her feel your scar. You thought the feeling of her fingertips drifting up and down your skin would simply be something you dreamed about happening again.

“Just gimme a minute, I can do it.” And you focus on your dress once more. As much as you wanted to feel her warm hands against your skin again, part of you felt like you were forcing her into it. Some tiny piece of you was convinced there was something wrong with you for feeling like this. For wanting her to touch you in ways you had been told your whole life should only ever want from a man.

Her hands gently grab yours and lower them to your sides. She wordlessly begins to unfasten your bodice. She takes her time, you watch her slender fingers work at the buttons one by one. You could feel the heat of her hands through the thin fabric of your chemise. She moves achingly slow like she was afraid you were made of porcelain. Your breathing grows heavier and heavier matching Ellie's as you watch her careful maneuvers. She was so close that her warm presence became magnetic in the cold desert night. You subconsciously lean towards her little by little getting so close that if either of you flinched your skin would meet with the other’s.

Finally, she got your dress undone. You both stand perfectly still, knowing once you leave this moment everything will be different.

Maybe you didn’t have to.

You look up at her, she feels you staring, her eyes meet yours. You slowly move one of your hands to cup her jaw, encouraging her to look directly at you. Her gaze flicks from your lips back up to your eyes. You lean into her, pressing your forehead against hers. Your lips are so dangerously close. She looks almost scared.

“Y-you don’t wanna do this darling.” she’s practically out of breath, as if she’d just run 10 miles. You could feel her soft lips move against yours.

“I think I do,” you reply. And with that, your lips meet hers.

This was it; the feeling you had been searching for your entire life, and it felt so much better than you could have ever imagined. You feel her hands cup your face and her featherlight touch gives you butterflies. She had always been so careful with you. You never knew you were missing that gentleness until you felt the way she would hold you, the way her fingers would glide across your skin with such caution. She never touched you without wanting, without purpose. Until these couple days spent with her, you didn’t know that someone could care for you like that.

You could swear you felt her everywhere. She deepens the kiss a bit, getting hungrier. She laces one of her hands into your hair while the other presses you impossibly closer to her by the small of your back. Your hands snake into her soft auburn hair, earning a quiet groan from the cowgirl.

Every breath that she releases you breathe back in, becoming completely immersed in her, feeling her, smelling her, seeing her, hearing her all around you. You wanted to stay like this until you knew nothing else, until you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore.

And then she pulls back, taking all of it away. She presses her forehead to yours.

“We should stop.” She says breathlessly, looking at the wooden floor.

“Why?” you ask with slight desperation in your voice.

“You don’t even know how to keep going from here or what it means if we do. I know that.” She says with defeat. “I can’t do this to you.” She looks up at you with a barely suppressed grin, “Plus you’re a little drunk.”

“But I want you to,” you almost whine, you want her so badly. She gave you a taste just to rip it away, “I promise I do.” You fiddle with the buttons of her shirt in a desperate attempt to convince her to keep going. “Besides, you don’t get to decide what’s best for me.”

“Alright, alright” she smiles a little at your stubbornness, “we can talk about this tomorrow, but for now you should get to sleep.” As much as you hate to admit it she was right, you could barely keep your eyes open.

“Ok,” you whisper. You give her a quick kiss on the cheek before you walk toward your bed. You sit on the edge and watch Ellie take off her shoes, then her belt, then her suspenders. You felt something start to flutter in your stomach as you saw her undress. She didn’t notice you staring until she was done, she looked at you, waiting for you to say something. “You wanna sleep in a bed tonight?” You ask, hoping she would at least do that if she wouldn’t keep kissing you.

Her eyebrows raise in surprise for a moment, “I’m more than ok sleeping on the fl-”

“Please?”

She must have seen the desperation in your expression because she barely hesitated before saying, “Move over.” You do as she says and she sits on the edge of the bed. She takes a moment to just look at you, her eyes moving across your body as she allows herself to see you how she’s always wanted to. “Turn around.” You’re confused but you turn onto your side, facing the wall. Then you feel her lay down behind you. She wraps an arm around your stomach and pulls your body to slot perfectly into hers. You’re sure this was the best thing you’ve ever felt- besides the kissing. You’re not sure if you could go back to how you were living before now that you know what it’s like to be held by someone so strong and so, so softly. Her warmth becomes yours and it just feels so nice.

** **

You wake up feeling a presence behind you. You almost panic until the memories of last night flood your mind. You weren’t used to the feeling of someone wrapped around you. You’re not sure you would ever get used to that feeling.

Her chest rises up and down against your back and you can feel her breath on the back of your neck. Very slowly you try to turn around to face her, trying your best not to wake her up. The bed frame was squeaky, but thankfully the only sound you made was the rustling of sheets against your skin as you turned towards a sleeping Ellie.

The sunlight filters through the window, illuminating her delicate features. You’ve never seen sunlight compliment someone so well. Her long eyelashes rest against her cheeks, and you notice they match her hair, a little red tint exposed by the unfiltered sunshine. You haven’t seen her this relaxed before, it almost felt too vulnerable, too intimate.

You lightly touch a strand of her soft hair to ensure you’re not dreaming. You tuck it gently behind her ear and she stirs a bit. You freeze, feeling caught. Her eyes slowly blink open, a lazy smile forms on her face. You can’t help smiling back at her.

“Mornin,” her voice is heavy with sleep and the sound of it makes your heart skip a beat.

“Good mornin’, how’d you sleep?”

“Reeallyy good.” she sounds like she’s still half asleep with how her words lazily flow from her lips. Her eyes haven’t left yours.

“Good.” You can’t help the smile that seems to form on your face everytime she looks at you. before you can blink she’s sat up and looking down at you and your lips. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Can I kiss you again?” You can’t help but blush and let out a nervous giggle, “Please?” You nod and without missing a beat she leans down and presses her lips to yours. So soft and gentle, she takes a deep breath through her nose like she’s relieving a desperate craving. She cups your jaw and furthers the kiss, you sigh and melt into her. You swear you were made for her.

She moves so she’s straddling your hips. One hand slowly travels down your body, while the other laces into your hair. Her fingertips graze down your neck, over your breasts, down your stomach, sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine.

“Was dreamin about you.” She whispers. Her hand sneaks under your dress, she makes her way up your leg ever so slowly so you can feel the way her skin moves against yours. You sharply inhale through your nose when you feel her fingertips graze the hem of your underwear and she takes it as a sign to tease a little further.

“Was it a good dream?” You manage to squeak out as she lightly grazes her palm over your clothed center. She continues up your body and lightly grasps your bare waist with her warm hand. And before you could blink she was back to kissing you hard, like she was starving for it.

“Mhm realllyy good.” Her voice is still gravelly from sleep.

She breaks the kiss and just looks at you for a moment. She had this expression on her face you’d never seen before, seemed like a mix of admiration and hesitation. She tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear and sighs before her eyes wander from yours. Her hand retracts from under your nightgown, she pulls it down making sure it’s back in its place. The absence of her hands was so jarring.

You couldn’t help the “what-” that slipped from your lips at the loss of her intoxicating touch.

“I have someplace to be.” She smiles gently before kissing your forehead and rolling out of bed.

“Will you tell me where? Where have you even been disappearing to?”

“I’m looking for someone.” She says simply as she begins to put her clothes back on.

“Who?” A bit of frustration comes through in your tone, tired of her mysterious behavior.

“You- uh- you remember what I said about Joel last night?” She clips on her suspenders.

“Yes, you said he was your friend.” You sit up in bed.

“Well, someone killed ‘em,” She sits down and begins harshly putting on her boots, “and I know if it happened to me he would hunt the person down and make sure they paid for their crimes, so-”

“You want to find his murderer and murder them?”

“Well, I’ll make her pay for what she did in a way that I see fit, so yes.” Her voice becomes tight with frustration at your questioning.

“Who do you think is gonna come after you for murdering her, Ellie? This isn’t going to help anything-”

“How the fuck would you know that?” She looks up from her half-laced-up boots, her voice is laced with venom.

You’re too stunned at her tone to respond, you’d never heard her like this. She’s so blinded by guilt and anger that no one could stop her; that much you could tell. You just watch as she finishes tying up her shoes and leaves, grabbing her hat on her way out.

An unwelcome silence falls over your small house for the first time in a while.

** **

Maybe she won’t come back.

You’ve been going back and forth between reading and staring out the window. Hoping you would see her horse appear somewhere on the desert horizon.

You decide to distract yourself by making a little batch of tea. Each step takes up your entire brain, you carefully calculate every leaf needed, and every muscle movement, making the task take as long as possible.

You move out to your front porch with your book and a cup of tea and settle in the rickety rocking chair facing the desert landscape. The sun begins to settle in the sky and as it sinks lower, you get angrier. You put your book down and storm inside, making a beeline to your precious bottle of moonshine. You crack it open and fill the teacup to the brim with the foul liquid.

You settle back down on the porch and sip the bitter drink until the sunlight disappears and the words in your book begin to become a little blurry. You trudge inside and settle at the dining room table, wondering what to do to occupy your time. Maybe you were too drunk to make a fire, but it’s worth a shot. You begin piling wood and twigs in your small fireplace, your movements are clunky but eventually, you get a flame going. You giggle in celebration.

A knock rudely interrupts your accomplishments. You don’t even care who it is anymore, you’re just annoyed you have to get up from the floor. You groan as you move your body to stand up. You manage to walk to the door and open it up.

It’s Jesse. The alcohol hits you all at once now that you’re standing and you have to lean against the door to keep yourself upright.

You blurt out a confused, “Hi,”

“Hi… I thought you had your “bodyguard” staying with you.” Damn, he remembered.

“Yeah sh- he- he uh left.” Jesse just looks at you, confused by your drunken behavior. “What are you doing here?”

“Is he coming back? I- uh just wanted to check on you after last night, make sure you got home ok.”

“Okay, well thank you but I’m fine… a lil’ drunk that’s all. And I don’t know if he’ll come back. Not the best communicator.” You don’t move to let him in, frankly, you don’t want the company right now.

“I can’t leave you here drunk and alone in good conscience.” He says with feigned concern. He steps closer to you, closer to the doorway.

“Oh, I’ve lived out here alone for a while now I think I’m ok-”

“At least let me stay until your bodyguard comes back.” He’s officially invading your space with his eagerness, you suppose no isn’t an answer he will accept right now.

“Um, alright then.” You hesitantly turn your body to make room for him in the doorway. He walks right through and makes himself comfortable at your small dining room table. You did not like the space he took up in this house. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“What do you have?”

“I’m afraid I’m limited to moonshine at the moment.”

“Moonshine is fine.” He nods. “You make it yourself?” The last thing you desired right now was small talk. You prayed Ellie would come back at this point simply to get him to leave. She sleeps on the floor whereas he might force himself into your bed.

“Yes, it passes the time. And does the job better than any whiskey I’ve had.” You turn around, grab a glass from the small cabinet in your kitchen, and fill it a fourth of the way up. This man was a waste of moonshine.

“Who taught ya how to make it?”

“My daddy taught me the recipe before I got married.. before he died.” You almost successfully hide the wavering in your voice at the mention of your father.

“Oh, sorry for bringin’ it up, sweetheart..” You turn around and see him looking down at his hands in his lap in embarrassment.

“It’s alright,” you fake a smile, “I don’t mind talking about him.” And you really didn’t, you just did not want to talk to Jesse about him. You set the moonshine in front of him and he takes a swig. His face screws up a bit at the flavor but he smiles at you and invites you to sit down across from him.

** **

Jesse’s told about 10 different boring stories about his travels, getting drunker as you sober up. You poured him a couple of glasses of moonshine hoping he would get tired and leave, but he seems to get more and more settled in his chair as time goes on. His mannerisms get more and more outlandish as the minutes pass.

In the middle of his sentence, your front door bursts open. Moonlight floods into the small house and a familiar silhouette stands in the doorway. Ellie’s eyes meet yours for a split second before she rushes to stand behind your chair. The cowgirl possessively places her hands on your shoulders. She glances at you and greets you with a gentle “Hello darlin’” before she looks down at Jesse with narrowed eyes, “I think it’s time for you to leave.” She says in her deep “male” voice. It takes every fiber of your being not to smile in relief.

Jesse’s eyes widen as if he’s been caught. He stands up abruptly “Yes, sir.” He replies in a meek voice, “Goodnight ma’am.” he tips his hat bidding you farewell. One day you’ll have to ask her what she said to Jesse that made him so terrified of her.

“Goodnight, Jesse.” You keep your voice sickly sweet until he swiftly makes his exit, closing the door behind him a little too hard.

You both silently watch him clumsily climb atop his horse and begin to ride away. He can barely hold himself up, but he’ll survive. You look at Ellie as her narrowed eyes observe the man-child riding his horse back to town, barely able to hold himself up. Her face had a few scratches and new bruises. A thin layer of dust coated her whole body. Her shirt has specks of blood covering it and you aren’t sure if it’s hers.

Your hand reaches for her cheek, your palm meeting with the scratchy fabric of the bandana still on her face. You gently turn her to face you and her whole body relaxes at the sight of you. You take your other hand and reach behind her head, loosening the knot of fabric at the base of her skull. You allow the bandana to fall slowly and you realize how sunken and bloodshot her eyes are, her lip is slightly busted, and a small gash lines her freckled cheek, and yet she’s looking at you like a cold glass of water on a hot summer’s day.

You cup her cheek and rub your thumb along her soft skin. She leans her head into your palm, surrendering to you.

She whispers a meek, “I’m sorry, darlin’” as she places a gloved hand over yours. She won’t meet your eyes. You can hear her exhaustion through her voice. God knows what she’s been through today.

All you can do is smile sadly and say, “Let’s get you cleaned up.” You pull your hand away, even though everything in you is protesting against it. You walk over to the small tub you keep by the stove and dip a cloth into the cool water. The feeling of the cold liquid dripping down your arms grounded you. You take a breath as you wring out the excess. Turning around you see Ellie sitting in one of your wooden chairs, hunched over in exhaustion. She takes off her boots and then places her hat and gloves on the table and turns to look at you. You can’t read her expression and you’re not sure you want to. You tentatively walk toward her and pull up a chair across from her. You sit down so close to her that her knee rests between your thighs. You lean forward and begin carefully wiping away the grime from her skin.

“Feel like you’re always takin’ care of me.” She says softly, slightly wincing when you start cleaning up the gash on her cheek.

“You’re always givin’ me a reason to take care of you.” You won’t tell her that you didn’t mind being the person she came to to wipe her face clean, the person she trusted to tend to her wounds- big or small.

“Yeah, but then who takes care of you?”

“I suppose I just never needed it.” You move the washcloth gently across her forehead.

“Would you ever let me?” Her voice is almost inaudible.

“Let you what?” You pause your movements.

“Let me take care of you.” She gently lowers your hand from her face, her eyes unrelentingly staring into yours. She forces you to realize how close she is to you, her face is mere inches from yours.

“But,” She leans even closer to you, her chapped lips brushing yours, causing you to have to catch your breath, “I don’t need it.” Her breath grows heavier, smelling of whiskey and a hint of something sweet.

“I think you do.” You can feel her lips move against yours as she speaks. You linger there for a moment, waiting for her to give in. Her hands thread into your hair, and she pulls you into a desperate kiss. You put your hands on her chest to steady yourself at the impact. Her warm tongue makes its way into your mouth and you let out a little whine at the feeling. The sound seems to motivate her further, she reaches for your bodice and begins fumbling with the buttons, slowly undoing them. You use one hand to unlatch your overskirt as the other remains on Ellie’s chest. As you both stand your clothing practically melts off of you. Ellie encourages your bodice off your shoulders and onto the floor, doing the same with your skirt, leaving you in your thin chemise.

As she inelegantly leads you to the bed you begin undoing her stained button-down. You run your fingers under her suspenders and pull them off her shoulders earning a hungry groan from Ellie. The back of her legs hit the edge of your bed and she sits down. You look down at the disheveled cowgirl and feel something flutter in your stomach at the sight of her. She’s looking up at you like a starved woman, her eyes are dark, her mouth hangs slightly open breathing heavily. You mindlessly bring your thumb to her lips, tracing the plush skin. Her expression grows hungry at your small touch.

Ellie’s hands grip your waist encouraging you to straddle her lap. You grab her shoulders for stability and kneel on the small bed, settling yourself on her thighs. She gives you a quick peck on the lips before dragging her own gently down the side of your neck.

“You know,” she takes the soft skin into her mouth evoking a gasp from your lips, “I wasn’t gonna ask,” She kisses her way across your collarbone and she’s so gentle until she begins sucking your skin into her mouth, sending a surprisingly pleasurable feeling through your body. She’s ensuring there would be remnants of her left on you- even after this. “But what was he doing here?”

You snap out of the trance her soft lips inflicted on you at the mention of Jesse. “I-I don’t know,” She won’t stop kissing you, moving the neck of your chemise down to gain more access. Your brain is almost too scrambled to form a response. “He-” She reaches a hand under your nightgown, moving her palm up your thigh slowly. “He said he wanted to check on me.” You take a much-needed breath, trying to get your heart to stop beating out of your chest.

“Mm,” she murmurs, sounding doubtful. “Sounds like he wanted to catch you alone.” She moves her hand up higher, brushing against your underwear, your hands clutch at the fabric of Ellie’s button down, a futile attempt to ground yourself.

“Maybe,” you manage to squeak out.

“Looks like I was the one who ended up catching you alone.” She smirks.

“Good,” you breathe out.

Every little thing she does earns a reaction from you. She smirks at you, enjoying your struggle, “You’re pretty sensitive huh darling?”

“Sounds like more of an observation than a question.” You were like putty in her hands.

She lets out a short laugh, “You can still talk back though, huh?” She smoothes her hand up your stomach, stopping just under your breasts- she was hesitating.

But you didn’t want her to stop, you couldn’t take her walking away again. “And?” You place your hand on top of hers and guide it over the plush skin of your breasts. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Oh darling,” She moves her fingers gingerly over your nipples, shooting an electric feeling right between your legs. “You have no idea what you're askin’ for.” She grabs both of your thighs and swiftly moves to stand up with you in her grasp. You let out a surprised squeak at her movements. She spins around so your back is to the bed and gently lays you down. The Cowgirl crawls on top of you and slowly drags your chemise upwards. She takes in every newly exposed inch like you were a detailed work of art, taking note of every freckle and birthmark. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” You’ve never been this exposed to anyone before. Instinctually you start to move your hands to cover yourself up but she catches them. “Don’t.” She protests with a gentle sternness. She bunches the fabric up on your collarbone, keeping you bare for her.

She moves impossibly closer, slotting her knee between your legs. She inches it up higher, higher, and then- oh. The pressure was perfect, it relieved the ache between your legs just enough to keep you wanting more. She places gentle teasing kisses between your breasts. You could lay here just savoring the feeling of her lips on your skin for the rest of your life. As if on queue her lips pull away for a moment but then you feel her warm tongue tentatively lick your nipple. She teases around it in circles before taking it into her mouth.

“Oh god,” You gasp as you lace your fingers into her auburn hair. She lets out a beautiful little whine when you lightly pull. Now you understand why she likes your whines and whimpers. You would do anything to get her to make that noise again, it made your stomach flutter in a way that felt so good. You begin mindlessly moving against her knee as the ache between your legs grows stronger. She moves to your other nipple, teasing it before entrapping the sensitive bud into her mouth. She uses her free hand to pinch and tease the opposite one. Your back arches towards her, your body silently begging for just a little bit more.

And Ellie obliges. She trails her free hand down your stomach and traces a finger lightly under the hem of your underwear, your stomach jumps at the feeling. Her slender fingers tease you over the thin fabric of your underwear. You quietly moan as she finds the sensitive bundle of nerves desperately craving her attention. She adds just a little more pressure and you tilt your head back as you take a deep breath. All of these new feelings are almost overwhelming- almost. It was the type of overwhelming where you wanted to see how much you could take, see how far the feeling could go.

You begin to urge Ellie’s shirt off her shoulders exposing her bandaged chest as she continues her pleasurable assault of your nipples. You wanted to be able to see her too. You wanted to memorize the placement of every individual freckle on her body, you wanted to be able to draw her from memory, to know every part of her so well you could know her by touch alone.

You reach for her belt buckle, blindly attempting to unclasp the metal as she overwhelms your senses. You throw the belt somewhere in the room, the sound of it falling to the floor is drowned out by the mix of your whimpers and Ellie’s labored breathing. You’re about to attempt to unbutton her pants when she halts her movements, “I can’t fucking take this anymore,” she quietly groans to herself.

“What-” You can’t even comprehend her statement- until she makes her way down your body, dragging her nose down your abdomen, leaving a little kiss above your belly button. She leisurely pulls your underwear down your legs, exposing you completely. Before you can attempt to try and close your legs Ellie settles in between them, wrapping her arms around your thighs like it was second nature. She uses her grip to lift your thighs, forcing you to bend your knees, opening you up further for her. You watch as she litters kisses all over your inner thighs, occasionally marking the silken skin.

“So perfect for me,” She runs her fingers through your drenched folds, your breath hitching at the foreign feeling. She teases her digits around your entrance before moving back upwards and circling around your sensitive bud. Your hands grasp at the sheets like a lifeline, not knowing how to react to this feeling. It felt so, so good. Almost too much but not enough at the same time.

“Feel ok, baby?” She asks, seeming a little concerned at your almost panicky breaths.

“Feels-” she doesn’t stop her movements to allow you to respond, you have to gather your wits to form a sentence. “-feels really, really good.” you say breathily. She seems to enjoy challenging you, she likes watching you stutter as she debilitates you with her expert hands.

“Wanna feel even better?” She challenges with a tinge of mischief in her voice.

“How?” You barely form the question before Ellie traces her tongue up your slit. Your surprised gasp melts into a moan. Her warm tongue caresses where you crave her most, gradually picking up speed as you get accustomed to the feeling. She proceeds downward circling her tongue around your tight entrance, sliding it in and out of you at a steady pace. You mindlessly moan and buck your hips towards her, needing her deeper.

You’re sure she can read your mind at this point because she pauses her movements and crawls back on top of you. She kisses you sloppily before encouraging your lips open with her ring and middle finger. “Get them nice and wet for me darlin’.” Your inner walls clench around nothing at her words. You swirl your tongue around her digits until she smoothly removes them from your mouth.

She sinks back down between your legs and resumes her movements. She circles your dripping entrance with one finger and slides it into you at a painfully slow rate, opening you up for her a millimeter at a time. The pleasurable pressure in your abdomen begins a steady climb upwards. You cry out as Ellie curls her finger to hit the perfect spot. Her tongue and her fingers are turning your brain and body into jelly.

“That’s it, you’re doing so well for me baby,” she praises. You are completely at her mercy as she sucks your clit into her mouth. Your hand swiftly reaches for her auburn locks, tugging on her hair the way you did before and she whimpers into your cunt, sending vibrations through your lower body.

Just as you think you are at the height of the pleasure you could ever possibly feel she adds another finger inside of you, sinking her digits deep into your cunt. Pressure builds in your abdomen as she curls her fingers right into that spot that makes stars cloud your vision. The feeling in your stomach grows to an overwhelming peak.

“You almost there darlin’?” She asks as she continues pumping her fingers in and out of you at a steady pace.

“I-,” She somehow moves her fingers faster, purposefully interrupting you. You knew because she couldn’t even hide her smirk when she did it. “I th-think so,” you mutter, not even really knowing what she means. What you did know is the feeling was getting tighter and tighter and something in you told you that when you finally released it, it would feel like heaven.

Your moans grow louder as you lose control of your body. Ellie continues pleasuring you as the feeling finally peaks, “Come on baby let go for me,” And you do. Waves of pure ecstasy crash over you, your hips buck against her over and over uncontrollably as the sensation washes over your whole body. Strings of obscenities and Ellie’s name escape from your swollen lips as you ride out the high.

She doesn’t stop until you're whining from sensitivity, weakly trying to pull her away from your aching center. You stare at the wooden ceiling while trying to catch your breath, processing whatever just happened to your body. You can feel Ellie sit up between your legs before she leans on top of you, placing her hands on either side of you so she doesn’t crush you.

And of course she’s smiling.

“You ok?” She asks as she cups your cheek.

“Mhm, very ok,” you’re almost slurring your words. You nuzzle into her hand, wanting to be closer to her. She gently pinches your chin between her thumb and index finger, urging you slightly upwards so her lips could catch yours. You give in to her like second nature, tasting yourself on her lips.

Your body is so tired and heavy- but you’re not done yet.

“You want a turn, cowgirl?” You’re only half teasing.

“Um, no you don’t have to- I don’t need-” She’s blushing, if you didn’t know better you’d say she was flustered.

“What if I want to?”

“Uh, then yes I suppose we could try something.”

“So shy all of the sudden, baby,” you sit up- slightly startling Ellie, but she follows your movements, “You sure you’re ok with this- we don’t have to do anything I just-”

“No,” she interjects, “no I want you to.”

“Good,” you smile, cupping her cheek before pulling her in for a kiss. You do as she did earlier and trail down the side of her neck, letting your hand wander downwards to trace mindless shapes along her abdominal muscles. You pick a spot and suck the skin into your mouth, her breath hitches at the feeling. Ellie shifts so she’s straddling your thigh, you feel her softly grinding against it and the feeling gives you butterflies.

“I’m guessing we’re not getting this off tonight,” you graze your hands over her bound chest, watching it rise up in reaction to your touch.

“N-no, that would take too long, I need you now,” she grinds against you a bit harder, silently urging you to continue. She nuzzles her face into your neck and whimpers a desperate, “Please,” against you. One day you would get that thing off of her, be able to enjoy her fully, but you wouldn’t make her wait any longer.

“Just show me what to do, Ellie.”

She wordlessly responds by unbuttoning her pants and then placing a hand on top of yours, steadily guiding it down her abdomen and underneath the hem of her pants. Your fingers drift past her warm pelvis and slide into her dripping folds. You hold in a gasp at the state of her, she must have been aching for this for so long. “Poor baby,” you mock pout as you look at her, eyes squished shut at the feeling of your fingers finally where she needed them. “You wanted this so bad, didn't you pretty girl?” She can’t even respond, just moves faster against your hand, her whimpers growing louder. You decide to try to give her more, you move your fingers towards her entrance. They slide into her with a surprising ease and she gasps as your digits slide deeper. She continues moving her own fingers in circles around her sensitive bud as you begin to curl your fingers towards yourself as she did to you.

You watch her thoughtlessly rock back and forth against your fingers, her hair messily framing her flushed face, she looks beautiful. Now she was finally a mess for you, the feeling was addicting.

You place a hand on her abs, tracing your fingers along the muscles feeling them flex and relax at your touch. She begins moving a bit faster. She whispers a mixture of fuck and your name in a whiny desperate voice that has you dripping down your thighs all over again.

“Do-don’t stop,” She mewls, her head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, completely lost in pleasure. You feel her walls start to clench around our fingers, she softly moans at every thrust of your digits into her. Suddenly she contracts hard around you, “oh fuck,” she moans. She thrusts hard against your fingers as she reaches her high, you watch her face as she experiences the same ecstasy you just had, you almost came again at the very sight of her.

You don’t stop until she slows down, practically collapsing onto you. “You are so perfect,” she whispers into your neck.

You smile, “I know,” you softly comb your fingers through her hair, taming the kinks you created just moments earlier, “so are you.” You lean back, encouraging her to follow. Her head rests on your chest and you run your fingers through her auburn locks until her breathing becomes slow and steady. You count her breaths until your eyes grow too heavy to keep open.

★・・・・・・★

Tags:

@elliewilliamgfooc @bready101 @sakiigami@wishbones999 @a-little-bit-of-everybody @ellabssweetheart @lily-fics-11 @shiimer @spring-sparr0w @doeyedbambi @darlingoutlaw @4ntifanyx @tokiioryuii @hater1sthuman2nd @elliewilliamsblunt

I appreciate you all, it's been a rough couple of months lol. Just had some time on my hands because I got my wisdom teeth removed- gross. I'm sorry if this was bad I promise I tried my best to make up for how long this took and what better way to make up for it than some smut ?😈 <3

#ellie williams #the last of us 2 #ellie tlou #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie smut #ellie tlou2 #cowboy!ellie #cowgirl! Ellie #cowgirl #western! au #wild west #cowgirl reader #wlw ns/fw #wlw yearning #sapphic #wlw

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abbyshands · 9 months ago

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PALESTINE LINKS

in honor of the media blackout this week, i wanted to compile a list of links and resources regarding what’s going on in gaza. i advise all of you to give these links a look at, or to at least reblog them. the people in gaza need the bare minimum from us in that sense. &, well, if you can’t take enough time out of your day to give these links at least a look, a like, or share, then, bye !

& for all the the last of us fans out there, you need to see this. it’s genuinely a must. not to call anyone out, but i see a lot of people who have not spoken out about this at all, who, for example, keep publishing or reblogging fics etc during the blackout. i love a good fic as much as anyone else, but you can wait a week. there’s really no excuses here. if you didn’t know about the previous blackout, then now is your chance. don’t turn a blind eye to this.

at the end of this post are links specifically for those engaged in the last of us tumblr. if you aren’t going to look at the links before that, then at least look at those.

oh, & for the dumbasses who are unfollowing me for spending a week to post about a fucking genocide? fuck you, & good fucking riddance. you are not and never were welcome on my page. i don’t want you here anyways!

PALESTINE LINKS

SEVERAL ways you can help the people in gaza. some of which are fully free.

SEVERAL links regarding info around this genocide, such as places to boycott, and ways to learn more about the nature of it all.

SEVERAL ways you can help, including ways to donate, petitions you can sign, and campaigns you can join.

places you NEED to boycott. don’t buy from them, regardless of if they really fund israel or not. if they support them, that is more than enough. boycotting is a way to resist, so do it. at the end of this post are also places that are helping those who are in gaza, and families you can help escape by donating.

know that this issue did NOT begin oct. 7th. this is so much deeper than you know, and has been going on for 70+ years. click the above link to educate yourself on that front.

CLICK HERE TO HELP PALESTINE! this site has already been debunked on if it really helps the people in gaza or not, and it does. just one click is all you need. one button, once per day. you can even do it on different devices or browsers so you get more than one click in. click it daily!

CALL YOUR REPRESENTATIVES using this link, and this link (this will help you find ways to call or email them depending on where you live). also, urge biden and congress to do right by the people in gaza. the U.S. sends billions of dollars to israel every year, funding the genocide that’s ensuing as we watch on from the comfort our homes. do the bare minimum, & hold them accountable. please.

HERE ARE WAYS YOU CAN DONATE or find a PROTEST near you! not everyone is readily available to do these things, i know that. but looking into them could never hurt, or at least sharing it elsewhere so there is more awareness surrounding it.

LEARN OF AFRO-PALESTINIAN EXPERIENCES, & the efforts they have made over the years. i think it’s so, so crucial that we hear their voices, &, god, learning of all that they’ve been through, & all that they’ve done, is so inspiring.

here is some more info regarding BOYCOTTING. boycotting does, and has been proven to work. this post explains the subject a bit more in case it happens to confuse anybody, along w/companies and such that need to be boycotted, & why. as i said before, boycotting is a way to resist. so do it!

HERE IS A 🇵🇸 MASTERLIST including ways to educate yourself, donate, books you can read, & films you can watch. this is one of the best links i have regarding this genocide, and i highly recommend you look at it!

SOUTH AFRICA took israel to court for this genocide! read about it in the above link.

FOR THE LAST OF US FANS

do not remain in the dark about the last of us’s link to the ongoing conflict in gaza. neil druckmann, the director of the game, is a ZIONIST. he grew up in israel, and TLOU2 is rooted in israeli themes. now, no one is saying you have to quit playing the game, or dislike it, for all you dense ones out there. but i ask that you remain aware of this aspect of it, especially if you are regularly engaged in the last of us tumblr.

this is a link that i highly, highly recommend you read through. it discusses the HEAVILY ISRAELI THEMES TLOU2 displays. click the following link to learn more on TLOU2 & NEIL DRUCKMANN.

DO NOT BUY TLOU, TLOU REMASTERED, TLOU2, TLOU2 REMASTERED, OR ANY GAME FROM ND! neil druckmann has donated money to the IDF in the past. & where do you think he’s getting his money from? yeah, you got that. watch gameplays, pirate these games, or buy them secondhand. several shops sell used games. & for those of you who went and purchased the game anyway, knowing about all of this? fuck you.

if you think your $10 doesn’t matter, then think about this: okay, one person spends $10 on the game. whatever. but when 100,000 people do it? that’s a million dollars, going into the hands of a zionist, who is using YOUR money to help kill innocent men, women, and children. put that in your pipe and smoke it.

it is not just the games you need to boycott. HBO’S show also needs to be. follow this link to learn of more movies and shows you need to boycott, & the reasons why, including the last of us. let’s also not forget that dina & abby’s actresses are in support of israel, and BELLA RAMSEY, ellie’s actress, has also shown support.

boycott. the fucking. show. there are a million websites where you can pirate it, so you are not giving any of your support to it. resist.

i understand that not everyone is educated on this subject, and that not everyone knew of the previous media blackout. for the last of us fans, i understand that not everyone knew about the game or show’s israeli nature. but it is never too late to take part. it is never too late to care. i promise you that. if you purchased the game, at least donate to one of the sources above. that’s just bare minimum.

get educated, get loud, & GET PROUD! these are innocent people who are dying as you read this from your bed, couch, whatever. the least you can do is like & reblog so this reaches more people. your voice matters, big account or small.

FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE 🇵🇸🍉

#gaza #palestine #free palestine #free palestine 🇵🇸#free gaza #gaza strip #israel #the last of us #the last of us 2 #tlou #tlou2 #ellie williams #abby anderson #neil druckmann #boycott israel #the last of us remastered #the last of us 2 remastered

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clairelutra · 1 year ago

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hey so uhhhhh just a heads up: ao3 may or may not be in deep legal trouble. specifically for mistreatment of volunteers and lax compliance with certain laws, afaict.

i highly recommend you back up any stories you have and any favorite stories/authors you'd miss.

here's how i'm doing it:

download calibre. it's an open source ebook reader. link here.

it has a plugin called fanficfare. download that here.

open calibre and go to the dropdown next to "Settings", and then select "Get plugins to enhance calibre"

Find and install FanFicFare (sort by title and scroll down to F to find it easier)

go to the dropdown menu next to the fanficfare icon in the top bar and select "Get story URLs from Web Page"

when prompted for a URL, you can post any URL that displays a list of stories, e.g. "https://archiveofourown.org/users/[username]/bookmarks?page=7" or "https://archiveofourown.org/series/[number]" or "https://archiveofourown.org/users/[username]/pseuds/[username]/works"

click "Yes", then wait for it to gather the metadata and download the stories (you can give it another URL to grab stories from once it's done with gathering the metadata if you want)

it will give you a little popup in the lower right corner once it's done, telling you how many it was able to download (usually all of them) and how many it didn't.

if it misses one or two, you can click to see the details and find out which one didn't get downloaded, and go back to the page you got it from and download those yourself if you want.

tell it to update your library.

voila! all the stories on that page are now backed up on your computer.

notes: it will skip any fics that are locked to archive users only (the ones with a blue padlock next to the author's name in the listing), and you'll have to go back and grab those yourself. if your whole account is under archive lock, i highly recommend unlocking it for the duration of the time it takes to grab and download them (a few minutes to a few hours, depending on whether you have <20 or multiple hundreds like i do lol) before locking them again.

back up everything you love!! back up everything you moderately like!! back up anything you wouldn't like to lose!! even if the ao3 mess pans out to nothing, it's always good to have a "just in case".

EDIT: check replies and reblog comments for further information on the legal trouble they may or may not be in. if anything happens, it will likely be in the scale of months or years. i still recommend backing everything up, but it might not be as dire as this makes it sound.

#ao3 #pro ao3 #writing #fanfiction #backing up fanfic #calibre #fanficfare #the ao3 mess //

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sandwhitches · 4 months ago

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*ೃ༄ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌 (𝐯𝐚𝐫. 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐤𝐲𝐮𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

✹ 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰: drabbles of various hq characters as songs from charm by clairo

✹ 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: fluff!!

✹ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀: atsumu miya, osamu miya, rintaro suna, tooru oikawa, hajime iwaizumi & keiji akaashi

✹ 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: (under 16 dni) established relationship (all except suna’s), mentions of insecurity in osamu’s, smoking & drinking in akaashi’s, oikawa and iwaizumi’s may be slightly suggestive at some points but it’s a reach

✹ 𝗮/𝗻: if you’re like wow that lineup is so random it’s because these are all my most prized boyfriends i hope you can understand thanks. also been obsessed w charm lately erghghhh listening to the entire album is a part of my daily routine now!! songs are linked to the titles if u wanna give a listen while reading :) i highly recommend listening to the album if u haven’t already!! srry for any typos i missed!

𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚 ✶ 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞

“and once you get in my ear, i see kismet sinking in, it’s second nature”

after all this time, you suppose that loving atsumu isn’t as complex as it seemed like it was before. you love him in the same fashion in which you breathe or blink, you’d forgotten how to function without it, it’s second nature. likewise, atsumu finds loving you to be the easiest thing in the world.

he knows you too well, it makes your heart flutter every time he does something, no matter how many times he’s done it before. every morning, you slip out of bed to find that your slippers are already waiting for you on the chilly wood of your bedroom floor, placed perfectly where your feet land when you roll out of bed. you’d almost forgotten it was sunday, and you would have had you not heard the sound of your husband in the kitchen doing a horrible job at being quiet.

you can picture it before you even see it, atsumu hunched over a skillet with sizzling bacon popping quietly to fill the early morning silence of your apartment. atsumu can never sleep in anymore, eternally used to the long hours he spends as an athlete, so he’s since taken it upon himself to try to be productive before you wake.

“mornin’” his voice is still raspy and warm, the afterthought of sleep apparent on his softened expression that he holds when looking at you. atsumu chuckles quietly under his breath when you press your face between his shoulder blades, snaking your arms around his waist. he still smells like the floral detergent of your bedsheets and the buttery sandalwood of his body wash.

“you’re burning the bacon, already.” you snicker into his shirt, earning a click of his tongue, “don’t ya’ like it crispy?” he counters playfully, using a fork to turn over one of the bubbling strips.

“yeah, i do, but,” you peak from around his back, pointing at the darkened bacon in the pan, “those are totally charred.”

atsumu scoffs teasingly, peering down at you, “they are not.” they really are about to be unsalvageable. you laugh dryly under your breath, using your hip to bump him out of the way of the stove, taking the bacon off the heat. atsumu puts up no fight, leaning on the counter to watch you grab a plate, eyes filled with a mushy lovesick glow. you should be used to this kind of unadulterated display of adoration, but it still makes your cheeks heat up like it did when you were in high school.

“i missed ya’,” he whispers softly, just loud enough for you to hear. you glance over your shoulder at him, smirking in confusion, “i didn’t go anywhere, did i?”

atsumu simply offers a content laugh, grabbing a piece of bacon from the plate, “i meant i missed ya while you were asleep.” he rolls his eyes as if it’s the most logical thing to assume in the world. you snort playfully, “weren’t you only awake for, like, 10 minutes before me?”

taking a (rather difficult) bite from the piece bacon, he nods, “exactly.”

𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚 ✶ 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞

“sexy to someone is all i really want.”

osamu peered into your hotel bathroom upon smelling the scent of your perfume, a usual indication he has since learned that meant you were nearly done getting ready. an expression of confusion contorts his face into a frown at the sight of your own unhappy grimace.

“what’s wrong?” he inquires softly, watching your eyes through your reflection in the mirror. you groan in bemusement, setting the perfume bottle down, “nothing’s cooperating with me today, look,” you ruffle your hair a bit, trying to place it the way in which it usually sits on your head.

apart from your hair, you feel like you might have rushed too much on your makeup, and when you look in the mirror, maybe your dress doesn’t go as well with your shoes as you thought it did when packing.

you and osamu were in tokyo tonight, getting ready to go down for a celebratory dinner for the grand opening of the new branch of onigiri miya. while the thought of seeing all of your friends in one place was exciting, your hasty attempt to get ready in time was beginning to dampen your mood.

“what are ya talkin’ about, darlin’?” osamu knit his brows, genuinely baffled by what you could be implying as he leans against the doorframe. you blow out a short breath of frustration, gesturing at the mirror, “i feel like i look like a mess.”

osamu’s lips part in disbelief, the corners twitching in annoyance, “are ya kiddin’?” he scoffs, leaning forward to place a big hand on your arm. you turn away from your reflection, looking up at him, surprised to see such a perplexed expression upon his face.

“yer ridiculous, ya know that?” he scoffs, already pulling you out of the bathroom, “i’m serious.” you whine in frustration with yourself, begrudgingly following him towards the door. osamu lets go of the soft hold he has on your arm, turning to face you; he bends over to level with you, shaking his head, “yer the most beautiful person i have ever seen in my life, ya know that?”

you go quiet, crossing your arms as he stands back up to open the door for you. osamu glances over his shoulder, a wry grin occupying his lips now as he shakes his head once more, “i seriously can’t believe ya, sometimes.”

you knew osamu better than to think there was any actual malice hidden behind his frustration with you. leave it to him to fix the unfixable. as you walk down the hotel hallway, the way he drapes an arm around your shoulder suddenly makes you consider that he might be right. the admiration in his eyes as he looks at you makes you feel like maybe you are the most beautiful person in the world.

𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✶ 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰

“when i drive, i always check over the seat, i could see you right there, waiting for me”

it was much too late for this type of situation to be launched at you so suddenly, you knew that, but you still chose to unlock the door when you saw suna through your peephole.

you could tell he was drunk, his cheeks were bright red, hair mussed and eyes lidded with exhaustion. “what are you-” you hiss under your breath as he makes his effort to push into your apartment, experiencing no resistance from you as you let him stumble in. suna turns to face you upon hearing the door click shut, a lazy grin gracing his face.

“hi,” he snickers, readjusting his unstable stance. “hey.” you return, crossing your arms, “you know it’s late, right?” the clock on your phone reads 1:30, exactly two hours past when you should have been asleep. “i knooow.” he muses, walking over to collapse on your couch.

“are you just gonna sleep here?” you scoff incredulously, watching him roll over to look at you, grinning contentedly. “nah, came here to say something.” suna rasps, patting the cushion of the couch beside his head as if he owns the place.

against your better judgement, you choose to oblige, sitting down with a sigh as he makes an effort to sit up hunched beside you. “you know i’m not an idiot, right?” he starts, an unusual mixture of honesty and playfulness in his drunken tone. you crease your brows in confusion, “what are you talking about?”

“i know,” he nods, leaning back onto the couch, “i know what we’ve been doing this whole time.” you feel your heart begin to race, he can’t possibly be hinting at that, can he?

all the playful flirting, the lingering touches and longing glances around friends. they were meant to never be discussed, a secret so forbidden that even the two who kept it mustn’t acknowledge it. the practically invisible elephant in the room. suna was about to mess it all up, and you weren’t sure if your heart beat ten times faster with fear or excitement.

“what?” your mouth has long gone dry, words unsaid all dying on your tongue before they can even flow out to defend yourself. “i’m tired of it.” suna mumbles out, closing his eyes, then cracking one open to look at you, “aren’t you?”

he doesn’t wait for your response, though there wasn’t enough room for thought in your mind to formulate one, anyways. “i used to think i could ignore it, but i never realized how much i think about it until recently,” suna swallows, then turns to face you, head lolling against the couch, “am i wrong? it’s been like this the whole time, hasn’t it?”

you frown, “what do you mean?”

“you’ve liked me this whole time, haven’t you?” suna whispers, the tenderness of vulnerability making him sound so quiet, “because all i do is think about what things would be like if we stopped pretending like nothing was happening.”

there he goes, spoiling the quiet little mutual crush you two shared. something that started small enough not to notice, but grew until it boiled over, and one of you were bound to crack. it was suna who cracked first, albeit drunk, but you knew in the hushed whisper of his confession, that he meant every word of it.

“i-…” your words are lost to you, anything you thought to say no longer exists. suna reaches up a calloused hand, sloppily brushing a piece of hair from your face, “m’ really tired of missing you when you’re not around…wan’ you ‘round…all the time.” he’s beginning to slur his words, and you realize how drunk he actually is, his breaths slowing with the tightening grips of sleep.

as suna’s eyes flutter shut, you can’t help but wish he doesn’t forget about this when morning seeps in through your living room windows and wakes him up from a long, drunken slumber.

𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐨𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚 ✶ 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐚

“(you make me wanna) buy a new dress, (you make me wanna) slip off a new dress”

you can’t believe how different life feels when you completely give in to love. how have you gone so long without the addictive sensation of loving and being loved? with tooru around, the blandest situation becomes technicolor; the chirping of birds by your window in the morning is no longer annoying, the coffee shop seems to always make your order right, and you look prettier in the mirror than you ever have before.

tonight the moon did not bring the chill of seaside winds with her, instead, the warm kiss of a summer’s breeze drifted through the air. you and tooru had long forgotten about your walk back to the car after dinner and had ended up at the pier, salty sea air dancing through locks of hair and playing with the hem of the dress you’d bought specifically for this date.

a warm pair of hands come from behind you, fitting snug against your hips as oikawa tucks his chin into the crook of your neck, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “have i mentioned you look beautiful tonight?” he murmurs. before, you would’ve been so embarrassed at how easily he could make you blush, but now it doesn’t matter.

“i think you’ve mentioned it a couple of times.” you hum in response, leaning into his touch. oikawa snickers, watching waves lap against each other in a foamy dance. “could i mention it again?” he returns slyly and you giggle, “i’ll allow it.”

tooru leans forward, whispering into the shell of your ear, “you look beautiful tonight.” he seems all too pleased at the way your cheeks burn red, how easily you could be flustered if you let yourself be.

“how’d i get so lucky, hm?” he adds, nosing into your cheek, following the soft touch with a peppering of kisses along the side of your face. “tooru,” you whisper, voice shaky with the aftertaste of laughter, “hm?” he purrs into your skin.

you bring up a hand to place on the other side of his face, situating your head to return a chaste kiss to his cheek, “let’s head home, yeah?”

oikawa stands up straight again, brushing his fingers over to spot you’d kissed you suddenly. while he prides himself on his ability to make you flustered, sometimes he conveniently ignores the fact that you’ve always had the exact same effect in tenfold.

“i think that’s a great idea.” he muses, slipping a hand from your waist to link fingers with your own as you walk back up the pier. in the midst of your lovesick chatter, he interrupts you, “hey, my love?”

“yeah?” you mutter lightly in response.

“i forgot what direction we parked the car in.”

𝐡𝐚𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢 ✶ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮

“i really hate to admit it, i put my pride on the line, ‘cause when i met you, i knew it, i’d thank you for your time.”

being like this was never easy for hajime, which is why he chose against this for so long. it was a tiring six-month battle of hallway encounters and awkward elevator rides before he finally admitted to himself that he was head over heels for the girl across the hallway from him.

loneliness seems so distant now, and he’s long chased it away in return for your sleeping figure beside him. iwaizumi can’t imagine what his life would be like nowadays if his pillows didn’t smell like you or his shoes didn’t fit so perfectly next to yours at the end of the day.

he can’t find it in himself to sleep tonight, and neither can you, a short moment of surprise exchanged as you roll over to find he’s already looking down at you. after a blink or two, the both of you felt grins of amusement tugging on either corners of your lips. hajime pulls you closer, wrapping his big arms around your torso, thumbing the small of your back.

“you’re my favorite, you know that?” he mumbles into your hair with a certain waggishness to his words. you huff out a short laugh, “favorite what?”

“just in general.” he returns, moving back slightly to look down at you with big eyes full of fondness, “i like you a lot more than anything else.”

giggling, you bring a hand up to cup the side of his face, feeling the setting of his jaw under your palm at the touch, “you’re not so bad yourself, either.”

hajime scoffs in amusement, rolling his eyes, “oh, thanks.”

the dark bedroom is filled with the mirth of quiet laughter, a moment that seems to last forever, a feeling that you wish to keep in your pocket and carry around. there’s nothing extraordinarily funny happening, and perhaps you’re only laughing in disbelief of the fact that this is real

living with hajime is like moving in with your best friend, there’s nothing about plain existence that’s entertaining, but with him everything is funnier than it’s ever been. you two never get enough sleep because you’re always up for hours, savoring each word, touching each other’s skin, feeding off the thrill of breathing each other’s air like the opportunity is only for one night.

hajime is glad that you made him a weak man. there’s nothing more in the world he could have ever wanted than this, and he’d be thanking you for sharing your time until the day he died.

𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐢𝐣𝐢 ✶ 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧

“simple thing, i don’t need much to like, i find.”

saturday nights were never spent like they used to be back in college. you suppose that’s a part of growing up, becoming boring. but despite how plain the pattern of your life has become since you’ve started working and settling down, you never once considered wanting anything more.

akaashi’s cramming days worth of work into one night, lips stained with red wine as he types with precision onto the clacking keyboard of his laptop. you’re on the other side of the couch, legs bent up to support your own laptop that you draft an email on. you let out a pained groan at a sudden ache that tears through your thigh, setting the laptop onto the coffee table to stretch out the tight muscle.

keiji pauses, looking up at you. his glasses were almost askew, sliding down his nose. a cigarette hung loosely from his lips, a collegiate habit that sometimes still haunts the both of you, especially on nights like these. “is your leg cramping?” he inquires, setting his laptop on the cushion beside him. you nod, kneading at the skin.

a soft breath of surprise sucks in through your lips when a pair dexterous hands replace your own, pushing between the muscles with precision. you look up to find akaashi’s focused expression, what was left of his cigarette burning out on the ashtray placed haphazardly on the couch’s arm.

sudden relief washes across your body as his index finger pushes into the right spot, a low sigh leaking from your lips. akaashi glances back up, a rare smirk making its appearance, “better?” you nod in response.

akaashi looks at his watch, then up at you, “it’s kinda late, huh?” he notes, leaning over to shut his laptop. “it was kinda late two hours ago, it’s really late now.” you return, stretching your sore back out. once again, akaashi’s hands return to your body, kneading at the tired muscles without a second thought.

a soft kiss is pressed to the tender back of your neck, it smells like red wine and cigarettes, you longed to turn around and taste his lips, but restrained yourself. “you tired?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“i just…i really need to finish this project by monday, i’m worried that-“ keiji silences you with another kiss, this time to your cheek, “you won’t get anything done if you’re tired, why don’t you work on it tomorrow?”

you think about arguing, but you ultimately know that he’s right. your shoulders relax and you let your body weight rest up against his chest, savoring the rise and fall of his ribs with every breath he takes.

tonight was simple, perhaps a bit stressful, but that was the typical night with keiji nowadays. you couldn’t ever find yourself growing restless with this, however, and moments like these made you feel like no matter how unremarkable nights like these are, you love them more than anything. you love keiji more than anything.

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vaadazen-codes · 4 months ago

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How To Get Started Making Visual Novels

Wanna make a visual novel? Or maybe you've seen games like Our Life, Blooming Panic, Doki Doki Literature Club, etc. and wanna make something like that? Good news, here's a very basic beginners guide on how to get started in renpy and what you need to know going in! Before you start, I highly recommend looking at my last post about writing a script for renpy just to make it easier on you!

LONG POST AHEAD

Obviously, our first step is downloading it from their website

thankfully, its right on the home page of their site. Follow basica program installation steps and run the program. I highly recommend pinning it to your task bar to make it easier to access.

From there, you're met with the renpy app, it's a little daunting at first but let's talk about what all these buttons are for.

Projects

This part is simple, it just lists the current projects in the chosen directory. You probably won't have any in there of your own. You should still see Tutorial and The Question!

Both of those default projects are super helpful in their own ways, i highly recommend testing out the tutorial and playing around with it just to get comfortable with some of the basics.

Create New Project

The first step to actually making your game into a game!

You'll be met with a prompt letting you know that the project is being made in English and that you can change it. You can click Continue.

From here, you'll be asked to input a project name! Put in your games title, or even a placeholder title since this Information can be changed later! (this is also the title the folder will be in your file browser, be sure to name it something you won't overlook)

Now we get to choose our resolution!

If you have no idea what to choose, go for 1920x1080! This is the standard size for most computer monitors and laptops, but it will still display with moderately decent quality on 4k monitors too!

You can choose 3840x2160 as well. This is 2x the measurements of the default, with the same ration. These dimensions are considered 4k. Keep in mind, your image files will be bigger and can cause the game to have a larger size to download.

Now we get to choose our color scheme!

Renpy has some simple default options with the 'light mode' colors being the bottom two rows, and the 'dark mode' colors being the toop two rows.

You can pick anything here, but I like to choose something that matches my projects vibes/colors better. Mostly because depending on how in depth you go with the ui, it minimizes the amount of changes I need to make later.

Click continue and give it a minute. Note: If it says "not responding" wait a moment without clicking anything. It can sometimes freeze briefly during the process.

Now we should be back at our home screen, with our new project showing. Let's talk about allll that stuff on the right now.

Open Directory

This just opens that particular folder in your local file explorer!

game - is all the game files, so your folders for images, audio, saves, and your game files like your script, screens, and more.

base - this is the folder that the game folder is inside of. You can also find the errors and log txt files in here.

images - takes you to your main images folder. This is where you wanna put all of your NON gui images, like your sprites, backgrounds, and CGs. You can create folders inside of this and still call them in the script later. EX: a folder for backgrounds , a folder for sprites for character a, a seperate folder for spirtes for character b, etc.

audio - Takes you to the default audio folder. This is empty, but you can put all your music and sound effects here!

gui - brings up the folder containing all of the default renpy gui. It's a good place to start/ reference for sizes if you want to hand draw your UI pieces like your text box!

Edit File

Simple enough, this is just where you can open your code files in whatever text/code editor you have installed.

Script.rpy - where all of your story and characters live. This is the file you'll spend most of your time in at first

Options.rpy - Contains mostly simple information, like project name and version. There aren't a ton of things in here you need to look at. There is also some lines of code that help 'archive' certain files by file type so that they can't be seen by players digging in code however. Fun if you want to hide some images in there for later or if you just dont want someone seeing how messy your files are. We've all been there

Gui.rpy - where all of the easy customization happens. Here you can change font colors, hover colors, fonts, font sizes, and then the alignment and placement of all of your text! Like your dialogue and names, the height of text buttons, etc. It more or less sets the defaults for a lot of these unless you choose to change them later.

Screens.rpy - undeniably my favorite, this is where all of the UI is laid out for the different screens in your game, like the main menu, game menu, quick menu, choice menu, etc. You can add custom screens too if you want, but I always make my own seperate file for these.

Open Project - this just opens all of those files at once in the code editor. Super handy if you make extra files like I do for certain things.

Actions

last but not least, our actions.

Navigate Script - This feature is underrated in my honest opinion, it's super handy for help debugging! In renpy you can comment with # before a line. However, if you do #TODO and type something after it, it saves it as a note! You can view these TODO's here as well as easily navigate to when certain screens are called, where different labels are (super great if your game is long, and more. It saves some scrolling.

Check Script (Lint) - also super duper handy for debugging some basic things. It also tells you your word count! But its handy for letting you know about some errors that might throw up. I like using it to look for sprites I may or may not have mispelled, because they show up in there too.

Change/Update GUI - Nifty, though once you start customizing GUI on your own, it isn't as useful. You can reset the project at any point and regenerate the image files here. This updates all those defaults we talked about earlier.

Delete Persistent - this just helps you delete any persistent data between play throughs on your end. I like to use it when making a lot of changes while testing the game, so that I can reboot the game fresh.

Force Recompile - Full disclosure, as many games as I've made and as long as I've been using Renpy, i have never used this feature. I searched to see what it does and this is the general consesus: Normally renpy tries to be smart about compiling code (creating .rpyc files) and only compiles .rpy files with changes. This is to speed up the process since compiling takes time. Sometimes you can make changes that renpy don't pick up on and therefore won't recompile. In these cases you can run force recompile to force it. Another solution (if you know what file is affected) is to delete that specific. rpyc file.

The rest of your options on this right hand side are how you make executable builds for your game that people can download to extract and play later!

Sorry gang! that was a whole lot of text obviously the last button "Launch Project" launches an uncompiled version of the project for you to play and test as you go! Hang in tight because my next post is about how to utilize github for renpy, so you can collaborate easier!

#renpy #renpy game #renpy visual novel #vndev #visual novel dev #otome dev #vn dev

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alltimefail · 2 months ago

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Agency Assignments: A comprehensive to-do list for saving Dead Boy Detectives!

I'm very easily overwhelmed, so I wanted to break down all the ways to help "Save Dead Boy Detectives" that I have seen floating around. This is meant to be something you can reference when you feel like there is so much you need and want to do to help, but don't know how or where to start.

Note: I will be updating this post as we go when necessary, so feel free to bookmark it in your browser for easy access, add it to your homepage, whatever! I'll always have a link to it in my Pinned Navigation post on my blog as well!

It is of the utmost importance that we fight as an organized, well-informed front. We need to be on the same page if we're going to save our show, so let's get into it! 💜💀🔎

➪ First and foremost, follow @savethedeadboys! They're going to be our best resource during this fight.

➪ Next, follow @deadboyagency for news and updates: they've been around since the show dropped and have been an invaluable source of information the entire time.

Now for some task breakdowns:

"One-Time" Tasks

➪ Like the header says, these things can only be done once. Once you do them, you don't have to give them any space in your mind.

Sign the petition*

Review & Rate Dead Boy Detectives on Google, IMDB, Rotten Tomatoes. Be sure on IMDB you don't just rate the show as a whole, but you also rate each individual episode! You can also "Like" the show on Google and click "Watched" which helps the show's engagement scores. (If there are other popular sites I haven't listed here, feel free to share them and rate Dead Boy Detectives highly on them!)

Notify Netflix customer service (through their online chat feature) that you're unhappy with the cancelation of Dead Boy Detectives. This is a short, 5-minute task that I wrote a guide on (with an example message) here!

"Repeat" Tasks:

➪ These tasks can become a part of your daily routine; do what works best for you! You don't have to do every single one of these tasks every day if that is overwhelming!

Share the petition* over and over again, on every one of your socials! Make everyone you love sign it!

Stream Dead Boy Detectives!* Keep it on a loop in the background on low volume as much as possible. Try to get others to stream it as well, especially if they haven't watched it before! Netflix cares about VIEWS: views save shows and I broke down the reasoning here. (Bonus: if you post over on Twitter about your rewatch, use the tag #ReviveDeadBoyDetectives)

Talk about Dead Boy Detectives!* You're probably doing that already, but just be sure that you're tagging your posts. Here on Tumblr use the "Dead Boy Detectives" tag at least (to boost our tag to trending) and anywhere that uses hashtags (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram for example) I would recommend #SaveDeadBoyDetectives and #DeadBoyDetectives as those seem to be the most commonly used tags! IMPORTANT: do not use more than 20 tags here on Tumblr! Any more than 20 and your posts might be marked as spam and hidden from the tags!

Create art, edits for TikTok, fics, gif sets, doodles, crafts, analysis posts, and so on for Dead Boy Detectives.* Having fun is important, too! This is an extension of the "Talk about Dead Boy Detectives" point, but it needs to be stated - don't remove the joy from the fight. If a drawing of our boys or a smutty fic with your favorite trickster cat king is what you can bring to the fight on any given day, that is a perfectly valuable contribution! It's not all emails and hashtags.

Daily request a show through Netflix. Bonus if you're signed in! (I do 3-5 times a day)

Send Emails advocating for Dead Boy Detectives (Email list & Email Template). You can do this as much as you want or just one time.

Send Snail-mail (physical letters) to Netflix advocating for Dead Boy Detectives. I also send a copy of my letters to Warner Bros. Studios. Again, you can do this one time or multiple times. There are dates set aside for "mass" mail sending as well, so check out info on that here!

Interact with articles posted about Dead Boy Detectives. Read them, share them, comment on them, thank the writer for writing them, etc. We want lots of press about the cancellation, and supporting journalists and publications will make them want to write about Dead Boy Detectives more.

NOTE: Anything marked with a * means it's extremely important; if you can only do a few things, these tasks are the ones that you should focus on first. Remember to take care of yourself. This is a marathon, not a sprint, so don't burn yourself out!

WE WILL SAVE THIS SHOW.

Say that to yourself as many times as it takes for you to believe it. We're doing this to get justice for the writers, the actors, for ourselves, and assert to these companies that diverse, queer stories are not disposable one-offs; they deserve to be told in full!

Hugs and Handshakes to you all - whatever will suffice. 💜 Always feel free to reach out if you have any questions, whether that be through private message or my ask box. I'm not going anywhere!

- V

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unlimitedlust · 4 months ago

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Chokehold - Noah Sebastian x Reader (+18)

Author's Note:

Heyy, I've had this idea in my head for a while now and it took me some time to finally write it so I hope y'all like it!!

I'm new to this fandom and this is my very first Noah Sebastian fanfiction, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Disclaimers: as any other content in this blog, this is a highly NSFW smutty story so if you're not into this kind of explicit content I advise you not to read it. Here you'll have a bit of plot and lots of porn, unprotected p in v (be safe out there), oral (f receiving), Noah being a giver, alcohol and lots of explicit descriptions.

English is not my first language, so forgive me for any mistakes I eventually skipped while proof-reading it.

I wrote it to Sleep Token's "Chokehold", "Take Me Back To Eden" and "The Summoning", and also to Bad Omens' "The Death Of Piece Of Mind" and "What It Cost", so if you're into listening to something while reading, I recommend you these songs.

WC: 4.7K

Enjoy your time here and if you enjoy it, feel free to leave it a like and/or to reblog the story, your feedback is what keeps me writing!!

End of Author's Note

-0-

You were Bad Omens’ photographer for the tour, the one responsible for taking all the pictures the fans would go feral online, especially Noah’s, and you couldn’t help but to keep giving them more material, because even though you’d never admit it, you’d also secretly had a deep crush on him.

The guys from the band and the crew would often joke about how Noah’s pictures were the best ones and how you privileged him over the rest of the band, but you always dismissed the subject by saying that it wasn’t your fault he had the better angle since he was the lead singer. It was true in some aspects, yes, but your skills for taking fantastic pictures no matter how challenging the circumstance was were undeniable, so in the end of the day, it wasn’t hard to reach the conclusion that Noah was your favorite.

You often caught yourself admiring the pictures you took of him, his perfect angelical features in contrast with his tattoo covered skin, the way his eyes would catch the lens like he was staring right into your soul through the camera separating you.

But that was all coming to an end tonight.

They’d just played their last concert of the tour and you’d all agreed to make a small (kind of) party to celebrate it at the boys’ place.

You felt bittersweet towards the event. You were happy to be partying with them and being able to enjoy the moment without the concern of taking the perfect pictures. But on the other hand, you were sad you wouldn’t be seeing the band daily anymore and you’d miss them because you’d gotten attached to them and to their jokes, and also (and obviously) because you wouldn’t be seeing Noah anymore.

Your flight home for the morning after the party was already booked and you’d already checked in to save you some time.

So you sighed when you walked inside the big house in front of you. You, like always, held your confident and unwavering poise before everyone, but deep down you were uneasy. Was this the last time you’d be seeing him? In how long? Or ever?

You couldn’t hear the sounds of your heels clicking on the wooden floor because at each step you got closer to the party where loud music was blasting and you soon found the small crowd of people in the main living room already having their own fun.

You felt an arm hooking on yours and suddenly Folio was pulling you through the people towards the rest of the band and you couldn’t help but to smile at the unexpected gesture.

Your heart raced and your cheeks burned as you got closer to Noah, who’d been watching you from the moment you arrived, but you played it cool like always as you got to them and Ruffilo immediately put a bottle of beer in your hand.

Noah couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You didn’t know that, but he also had a strong crush on you and all of the band knew it. He always told them it was just a small crush and they should ignore it just as he did (or tried), because he wanted to keep it professional between you two.

But when you got to his sight and he saw you wearing that black leather crop top, with thin straps on your shoulders, just a zipper on the front imprisoning your breasts and highlighting your cleavage, along with a high-waisted skinny black skirt molding your curves and, mainly, your ass, bare toned legs on display and black boots on your feet, he was done.

You’d spent the last months practically living together in tour buses and stuff, but you always wore larger, baggy dark clothes that’d cover your body and blend you with the rest of the crew, so how well you looked caught not only Noah’s attention, but everyone else’s, the difference tonight was the fact that Noah just wouldn’t stop staring.

You felt confident, you knew you looked hot and secretly you’d chosen your clothes just for him, to impress him, to catch his attention. And your mission was successfully accomplished.

“Hey pretty” Noah reached his right arm out and pulled you to him in a side hug before kissing the top of your head.

“Hey handsome”

That exchange wasn’t new for you, it was like that every time you met, but this time, the way his lips lingered longer in your forehead as you inhaled his scent deeply got you very aware that something was different tonight. Was it because you were parting ways?

When he let you go he searched for the flustered expression you always had in your face when he did that, but sensed some apprehension instead, despite the grin forming on your lips.

Another thing you didn’t know is that Noah learned over time how to read you and he loved how cute you looked every time he got a shy smile out of your lips.

He loved how flustered you got when he gave the camera the looks he knew got you weak on your knees, because every time he did that, he saw how you unwittingly licked your lips as you checked out the pictures you’d just taken. And no, you didn’t have that same reaction over the pictures you took from the rest of the band, no matter how incredible they were.

“Gonna miss me now that the tour is over?” You teased him, taking a sip from your beer.

“Miss you? Why? We’re not going anywhere” Confusion splattered across Noah’s face as he had his full attention on you.

“You remember I live on the other side of the world right?”

His jaw visibly tensed when he finally processed the information you just brought him.

“Fuck…” Noah was frustrated “But you’re still coming for the barbecue tomorrow, right?”

“Uh… Nope… My flight leaves early in the morning actually…” You felt guilty as the words came from your lips, the intensity of his glare over you stealing your breath as Noah looked like he’d just been stabbed.

“No, you can’t do that… Are you saying this is our last night with you until God knows when?”

He took a big gulp of his own beer, his knuckles white due to the hard grip on the bottle and on the counter behind him, until he sighed in defeat.

“Come on, it’s not like we’re never seeing each other again” You nudged him trying to cheer him up “All you gotta do is hire me as your photographer again” You winked at him and took another swing of your beer, but you didn’t miss the way he watched your lips wrapping around the bottle.

“You say it like we’ve fired you, but you forget you won’t get rid of us, and especially me that easy”

“Like I’d want to get rid of you” You rolled your eyes.

“You could’ve waited a little longer to go home though, are you that tired of looking at my face?” He teased, the smirk on his lips making you weak on your knees.

“Tired of looking at a catch like that? Never”

“You think I’m a catch? Good to know” The way his eyes burned as he looked at you up and down again raised goosebumps on your skin.

“You’re insufferable”

“And you’re a terrible liar” He grabbed your hand “Now come on let’s have some fun”

The rest of the band along with other guests had gathered around the sofas in the middle of the room, all of them paying attention to Jolly, who was explaining the rules of the drinking game he’d just invented.

After a few drinks, beers and shots in, you along with anyone else got loose and the games that were tame at first got wilder as the night went on.

“Truth or dare, come on, never gets old and I’m dying for some revelations tonight” Folio spun an empty bottle in the center of the coffee table in front of them “bottom asks, top answers”

The bottle finally stopped spinning and you had the first round: Rufillo to Jolly.

Jolly chose dare and Rufillo made him drink 5 seconds of tequila.

Another spin. Folio to you.

“Come on honey, truth or dare?” He made the question with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Truth”

“Let’s heat things up a bit then: of the people in this room, who would you make out with?”

Your cheeks burned red with his question as all eyes were on you and the room went silent waiting for your answer. Yet you weren’t shy, the alcohol in your system had you bold at that point.

“Noah”

“Yet you always deny he’s your favorite” Folio pretended to be offended.

You winked at Noah, who was sitting by your side, eyes narrowed in you as he raked them over you, visibly satisfied by your answer.

A few more rounds went by until the bottle landed on Noah.

“Truth or dare, buddy?” Folio had evil intentions in his eyes again and of course Noah wasn’t going to be spared.

“Dare”

“I dare you to take a body shot on the person you find the hottest in this room”

Noah left his place by your side as the boys brought him salt, a piece of lime and a shot of tequila. When he got up you felt your heart sinking in your chest with the realization he might choose another girl, but when he knelt in front of you, you lost your breath.

Noah rested his tattooed hands on your knees, uncrossed your legs and pulled you towards him, to the edge of the couch, the way he manhandled you catching you off guard as he was now between your legs and your skirt rose higher, getting dangerously shorter.

Heat pooled in your panties as you watched him lean you backwards and prepare you for the body shot. He placed the small glass of tequila in your cleavage, poured salt on your neck and the piece of lime between your lips.

“May I?” He splayed his hands on your thighs as the smug on his lips grew wider.

Since your lips were occupied by the piece of lime, you only nodded, watching him lick his lips as he leaned closer towards your neck.

Noah took his time on licking the salt off your neck, swirling his tongue and kissing your skin in the process, then made his way down to your chest where his nose brushed against the valley of your breasts as he wrapped his lips around the shot glass to down it, and for last came up for the lime on your lips, his own ghosting over yours as he took it with his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he teased you in front of everyone, fingers sinking on your thighs as he seemed to be holding himself back.

Rufillo cleared his throat loudly and Noah quickly stood on his feet.

“Fuck I’m dizzy” Was all you could muster as you got up as well all flustered, pulling your skirt down as you headed for the kitchen for some water.

You were so aroused you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Your core ached between your legs as you pressed them together hoping for some friction. You chugged down a glass of cold water in a vain attempt to ease your nerves, but it wasn’t water you were thirsty for.

The feel of his tongue and lips on your neck still lingered, tingling, and you wondered what he would do to you if you weren’t surrounded by people.

“Thirsty?” Noah materialized behind you, practically caging you, but also keeping some distance.

His eyes were darker than usual, burning holes in yours as he waited for your answer, and you both knew very well that “water” wasn’t the subject, and since this was your last night with them, with him, you weren’t running away anymore.

“Been the whole tour” You fired back at him and he took a step closer.

“Same on my part” He cupped your cheek with one of his hands, his fingers entangling with the hair on your nape while his thumb traced your lips “It’s a shame we waited this long… If you only knew all the ways I’ve had you in my mind…”

His husky voice sent your shivers straight to your pussy at his confession, and you wanted nothing but to have at least a sneak peak of what he’d had in his head. If only he could know what’s been to yours as well.

“Well now I can’t seem to understand why are you taking so long to show me?”

“Is there someone in a hurry?”

“Since I have a flight in the morning…” His hand slid down to your neck, choking you.

“And who says you’re getting into that plane tomorrow?” You couldn’t help but to moan when he tightened his hand around your neck just enough to make you melt into his grip “Let’s get out of here”

He let go of your neck and grabbed your hand, guiding you upstairs towards his bedroom. You stood in the middle of his room waiting for his next step as he locked the door behind him, the predatory gaze sending shivers down your spine as he checked you out once again.

“You are so fucking beautiful”

You couldn’t help but to blush at his confession as he stood in front of you, both hands cupping your face, admiring your delicate features.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the first day I laid my eyes on you” He licked his lips, his eyes shifting from your lips to your eyes.

“Fucking kiss me, Noah”

“Thought you’d never ask”

He crashed his lips against yours and you felt your body going limp in his arms as he deepened the kiss. You let your fingers trail their way through his dark soft hair as his tongue explored yours, devouring you. He kissed you passionately and his hands roamed free over your body, you nibbled his lower lip and he pulled your hips closer, making sure you’d feel how hard he already was, pressing against your belly.

“If you don’t tell me to stop now, I won’t” He gasped, his restraint holding on by a thread.

“Who says I want you to stop?” Your hands slid down his chest to the hem of his shirt “I want your everything” You pulled his shirt upwards and he took the cue to help you take it off.

Your fingertips traced the tattoos on his body in admiration, every inch of him pure perfection in your eyes.

He kissed you again and guided you backwards to his bed, making your body collapse on it just as you felt your calves hitting its edge. Noah hovered over you, the thin chain around his neck dangling over you, almost touching your face as his hand ran up the side of your body from your outer thigh.

When he reached your ribcage, his fingers changed their path to the middle of your chest, to the zipper of your crop top, and you held your breath as he opened it slowly, eyes trained on you as the leather piece slowly slid off your breasts revealing them to him, nipples hard and sensitive on his full disposal.

“Fucking amazing”

Your lips met once more as he splayed one of his hands on one of your boobs, fondling it and pitching your nipple between his tattooed fingers. His body stood between your legs and you whimpered when he rubbed his clothed manhood against your aching center, covered only by helplessly damp lace panties.

His lips trailed kisses down your jaw towards your neck, where he now, very aware of your sensitivity in that area, covered your skin in with kisses and angry love-bites, clearly intending on marking you as his.

Your manicured nails ran up his back as his lips now peppered kisses down your clavicles to your chest, his mouth immediately latching on one of your breasts, suckling and nibbling your nipple, to then soothe the small sting with the softness of his tongue before switching his attention to the other.

You arched your back, legs spreading wider apart as you surrender yourself completely to his mercy, small cries of pleasure escaping your lips as you watched him, mouth and hands full of your boobs, the ache between your legs almost unbearable as you desperately needed him there, filling you.

“Noah please…” You pleaded as your legs tried to pull his hips to grind against you with no avail.

His voice was raw, deep and filled with lust: “Please what?”

He teased, lips now traveling lower on your body, stopping only to give him enough room to take both your skirt and panties at once, throwing it randomly in his room.

“I need you to tell me what you want babe” He nibbled the skin right below your navel, and the realization of how close he was to your intimacy sent stronger shivers over your body as he kissed your inner thighs “Fuck you’re dripping”

“I need you inside me, please” You whined as his lips got closer to your hot center, his eyes admiring how glistening wet you already were for him before he blew his breath on you, making you quiver at the sensitivity.

“I will princess, but I need to taste you first”

Noah spread your legs wider apart and his tongue ran flat over your pussy, collecting and tasting all the arousal he could get, moaning against you as he finally got to taste you. His skilled tongue on your clit got you seeing stars in seconds as he worked on building your orgasm, and you prayed the music downstairs was loud enough to keep the rest of the party from hearing you, because you just couldn’t hold yourself back.

“You taste so fucking good”

Noah ate you like a starved man, feasting on you, taking pleasure in watching the sexed expressions on your face and how you helplessly writhed below him. He added a finger inside you as he kept working on you with his mouth, his long finger immediately finding the magic spongy spot inside you that made your legs shake around his neck as the pleasure knot forming on your lower belly threatened to explode violently at any second.

You tried to hold it back for as long as you could, but when he combined the work on your clit with his tongue along with a precise flick of his wrist, he forced the orgasm out of you in strong white hot waves of ecstasy, making you lose your senses for a few seconds as he rode your high.

Yet Noah didn’t stop.

Still eating you, he held you firmly and flipped you both on the bed, making you sit on his face. Your faltering legs threatened your balance, but his firm grip kept you up straight.

You looked below you and the scene alone almost made you cum again. The pussy-drunk look on his face, the disheveled hair, the way half of his face was covered in your slick, dark eyes glossy as he looked up meeting yours as he kept lapping, sucking, overstimulating you on purpose.

“Oh my fuck N-Noah…”

“Fuck my face babe”

He growled against you, fingers sinking on your ass cheeks as you, still shaky, followed his command and started to roll your hips back and forth, allowing you to control the pace, the pressure, and to use his face on your own will.

You felt your climax blossoming inside you again as he kept devouring you, drinking in every drop he could take from you, his nose rubbing against your clit while he fucked you with his tongue.

“Oh fuck… Noah…” Your orgasm bubbled up inside you again, but you were not ready for it yet, you were sure you’d collapse on top of him if he gave you another one in such a short time.

As if reading your thoughts Noah stopped, keeping you from falling apart so soon, but on the other hand edging you as you were so close to jumping off that cliff again.

You got off of his face and moved down his body to remove his pants and underwear, hurried, dying to feel him. He propped himself on his elbows and watched you undress him with shaky hands, the fucked out expression on your face making him want more of you.

Your jaw dropped when his cock sprung free, rock hard against his belly, head glistening with precum, the size and thickness doing justice to his height, and your throat went dry to the thinking of how he would feel inside you, stretching you.

“It’s all yours” He grinned, watching you admire him.

You straddled and pulled him up to kiss you and your taste still lingered on his tongue. His arms wrapped around your back and waist bringing you closer, and you took the cue to rock yourself against his shaft, coating it with your arousal, mixing it with his precum, the friction making him groan against your lips.

You pulled his hair, tilting his head back exposing his neck, and attacked it with your lips and tongue, all while you now teased the head of his cock with your opening, pretending you’d finally let him in, threatening to finally join your bodies, but skipping it every time, his digits digging on your flesh with his impatiency.

“You’re gonna make me beg for it now?” He peppered kisses on your chest and collarbone.

“You tell me… You want it that bad?” You whispered in his ear and nibbled on his earlobe.

That’s until he took control over you again and held your hips in place, lining himself with your entrance, all while he pulled you by your hair with his free hand, pulling you away from his neck, making you look at him, eyes so dark with lust and oozing such a primal desire you felt like prey.

“I do”

He caressed your cheek with his thumb.

“Now eyes on me”

He instructed and you immediately obeyed. With one of his hands still on the back of your head and the other on your hip, the tip of his cock met your pussy and Noah pressed you down on him, merging your bodies slowly. His name came out of your lips in such a sinful pitch that made him throb inside you, the vision and the feeling of you, flesh and bone, being endlessly better than he could’ve ever imagined.

Your arms snaked around his neck as he bottomed you out, you felt so full and stretched, your whole body was on fire, ignited with desire, and when you got used to his size you started to move on top of him, slowly increasing your pace as you rode him, stealing grunts of pleasure out of him every time you intentionally clenched around him and fucked him harder, your skin slapping against his as his fingers dug into your thighs.

He was so lost in his own moment he didn’t know if he should look at where your bodies merged, at your boobs bouncing in front of his face or at your sex glazed eyes. His lips captured yours once again as you rocked your hips back and forth, that very specific motion almost making you both snap.

“Fuck you’re gonna make me cum”

He whined and rolled you both, laying you on the bed as he got on top of you, switching positions so he could last longer, to feel you longer, to fuck you longer. He pushed himself inside of you again and all at once, at the new depth he reached with that position turned you into a moaning mess as he now set his own pace, but making sure that with every thrust he stimulated that very spot he found earlier inside you.

“Noah oh my…”

You couldn’t finish your sentence as that postponed orgasm emerged again like a tsunami, washing away all of your senses as it bursted from inside out, hard, making your pussy clench desperately around him as he rode your high, taking every bit of his restraint to ride you through it without unloading inside you, cock throbbing in need, and just as he felt your body becoming jelly under his he pulled out of you, cumming on your belly in long hot spurts as he stilled over you, cheeks red and eyes rolled back.

He glued his forehead on yours, breathing still heavy as he came back from his own high, admiring how impossibly beautiful you looked at that very moment.

“There’s no fucking way I’m letting you into that plane tomorrow”

#fanfic #fanfiction #smut #romance #noah sebastian #bad omens #nick folio #nick ruffilo #nicholas ruffilo #jolly karlsson #self insert #joakim karlsson #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian x you

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yoongihan · 9 months ago

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You Left A Mark - LYB - OneShot

pairing: felix x female reader

genre: smut, angst, fluff

romantic trope: soulmates (inspiration from this reel)

word count: 10k

rating: M for smut, a little language

warnings: cursing, penetrative sex (unprotected), kissing, cuddling, so much touching but it's FELIX, an excessive amount of felix admiration, mc is a reporter and i make up all of that because i know nothing, ages are never mentioned but felix is a few years younger than mc, mc is shorter than felix, silly use of skz song titles for the names of venues. i can't think of anything else that might need a headsup, please let me know if i've missed something.

a/n: fic #2 in skz as romantic tropes collab with @jl-micasea-fics. the soulmate trope i use is one i encountered here (it's a great fic and i'd highly recommend it) and i have no idea if it originated anywhere else. don't click if you don't want to be spoiled, my fic explains how it works about half way through.

It was, in appearance, just another work day like any other.

In truth, just another work day tended to be not like any other work day as your job entailed reporting the news, which means you could be anywhere in the city in any kind of situation. Your job probably seems exciting to the regular person, but more often than not, it’s dealing with the news anchors’ larger than life egos and your producer not allowing you to cover much more than fluff pieces.

You like fluff pieces, you do. The world is a big hot mess of negativity and darkness and reporting on a child who saved a hamster is definitely a small bright light in that void. But you also care about the dark things, the horrors big and small that need to be announced so that maybe someone can do something about them.

But you aren’t there yet. According to your boss and her boss. You are still growing as a reporter, as a television personality (wtf?), and the latest showdown at the courthouse is to be covered by seasoned professionals.

Not little you and your four years of effort and hard work (not even counting the internship).

But you digress.

You’re in front of the newest coffeehouse in one of the smaller neighborhoods. Taste is the simple name and it looks more like a sleek, modern cocktail bar than a cozy coffee shop. Austere and intimidating if you aren’t someone who can look put together (which you often aren’t).

“So for those interested in a new type of caffeine experience,” You start to close your segment after speaking with the owner and manager. “This place is definitely for you. The coffee mocktails themselves would require multiple visits before you try them all. So come by and have a ‘Taste.’” You smile as brightly as you can despite the cringe-worthy pun, but before your cameraman (one of your favorite humans on the planet, Chan) can call cut, you are bowled into by someone running past.

Part of your professional attire sometimes includes heels and as it is a particularly nice day that doesn’t require too much traversing, you wear heels. Which give no stability when being bumped by someone careening down the street.

“Hey!” you hear Chan say but you can only concentrate on trying to keep upright (a losing battle) and you hold onto the microphone because compared to your body, the mic will cost more to replace.

But you don’t fall. You don’t feel the hard smack of the concrete against your skin.

Hands are wrapped around your upper arms, grip firm and steady.

“You okay?”

You try to regain your balance, find your footing in these insensible but pretty heels. “I’m okay, I'm fine.” You turn your head to see your would-be rescuer and have to blink a few times.

Okay, freckles.

He smiles. This guy of probably mid-twenties, warm russet eyes, with black hair is smiling at you once you’re standing on your own merit. He releases you, but not without a quick pat as though to say ‘there you go, you got it’.

“Thank you.”

His cheeks redden. “Oh, um, you’re welcome.” There’s an accent to his words, but you’re still rather gobsmacked by the entire exchange to place it.

“You alright?” Chan has moved to the both of you, eyes quickly inspecting you as though you might hide any injuries even though you didn’t fall. “It was some kid.”

There’s a deep sigh from your rescuer. “Yeah, he stole some of the chocolates we keep by the POS.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I…well, it’s just chocolate.” His smile is less brilliant and more sheepish. “He probably needed it.”

“Chocolate is not a necessity,” you reply immediately, but then pause and rethink your words.

“It might be.” He smiles again. “It’s pretty good chocolate.”

You shrug. “That’s fair…wait, we caught a crime on camera?” you ask Chan. “Amazing.” You brush yourself off even though you really aren’t covered in debris because again, you didn’t actually fall. But this guy’s attention is throwing you off just a bit.

“I caught you nearly falling on your face,” Chan says before laughing at your glare. “I’ll edit it out.”

“Whatever,” You aren’t really annoyed because it’s Chan and you did nearly fall on your face. “Thank you, again, Mr….”

“I’m Felix,” your rescuer says. “I work here.” He reaches out to move a wayward piece of your hair out of your eyes, his finger brushing along your cheekbone. It makes you pause in your attempt at gratitude because you’re not really bothered. Like he’s a stranger and is touching you and you don’t mind? Because he has a nice, sweet face? “Sorry, you had some hair…”

You can sense Chan moving away, packing up the camera, leaving you relatively alone with this person.

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” You stutter a little because you’re off your game. “Felix. At some point, I owe you a drink.”

“Oh no, it’s not a–”

“I owe you a drink.” You smile, though it’s your television smile because you need to be professional even if you feel the least professional. “Even if it’s just a coffee.” You gesture to Taste. “If you want.”

The smile returns in full. “Yeah, okay. I’m here most days.” His lips part like he might say more, but he doesn’t. Nor do you.

It’s nice just looking at him. The sun-warmed skin that contrasts with the inky black of his hair and eyebrows. He’s taller than you, but there’s no intimidation factor in the difference. He feels like someone you could meet anywhere and approach without worry.

You bet he gets great tips as a barista. Imagine walking in to get a coffee and that luminescent smile.

You hear Chan call your name in an attempt to get you to head back to the studio. It shakes you out of the strange reverie this stunning, deep-voiced person has you in.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you.”

He waves as you walk away before tucking his hands into his back pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. It’s now that you notice that he wears the half-apron other employees were wearing, black pants and emerald shirt (a t-shirt, but like a really nice one). You glance back once you’re in the news van with Chan who chuckles.

“Isn’t he a bit young for you?”

You look back at the road and huff. “Aren’t you a little too interested?” You grab a granola bar out of your bag and take a bite, sighing happily.

“Not at all. I haven’t seen you look at anyone like that though.”

“God, he’s cute, alright. And saved my job because I doubt I could keep reporting with a broken face.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too–”

“I can murder you, you know,” you interrupt. “No one would suspect because I know things. I’ve watched a lot of Criminal Minds.”

He presses his lips together, but is grinning. “Ooooo, scary.”

“Exactly.” You roll your eyes, your mind briefly leaving the cute barista and returning to all that is work.

–

When you get home that night, he pops into your brain again. The pretty, voice as deep as the ocean, Felix.

But not for the normal reasons one would ponder a good-looking acquaintance.

He pops into your brain when you undress in your bathroom in order to take a much desired shower. In the corner of your eye, you see your reflection when you remove your shirt. There, in marked contrast to your skin, is the beginnings of the darkest bruise you’ve ever seen.

“What the–” You turn to examine it better, spooked by it when you had no memory of bumping into anything that hard. Your other arm shows a similar discoloration, in a similar area.

In fact, it almost looks like something left by a tight hand grip.

You roll your eyes at your own reflection. It hadn’t felt like he’d held you that hard, but you could bruise pretty easily, so of course, Felix, the fae-looking barista, grabbing you to keep from planting into the sidewalk would leave a mark. No big deal.

You pull your hair back as it is not hair-washing day, and then quickly use make-up remover on your face. You are stopped again by your reflection.

On your cheek, not as dark or as prominent, there is the slight darkening of another bruise.

You push a piece of your hair out of the way as you move closer to the mirror to see it clearer. As you do, it sparks the memory of Felix moving your hair and how you’d felt the brush of his finger keenly.

“But…like, a bruise?” Talking to your reflection isn’t a thing you do, but today really has been a weird day. You press it and wince. It does pinch a bit. Nothing worse than the time you ran into the sliding glass doors at your family’s home as a child. Nothing topped that fiasco and subsequent pain.

Dismissing it as your body being more sensitive than usual, you hopped in the shower and soon went to bed after that. Your dreams are filled with a strange scenario of chasing after croissants and them being sucked into a hole in the sky.

–

It’s two days later when you find yourself at Taste again. You aren’t sure if it’s just Felix who’s stuck in your brain, or the fact that the bruises you see when you wipe off your makeup and undress at night makes you remember meeting him; therefore, he’s just there, hanging around in your memory which is distracting.

You tell yourself you just need some coffee that isn’t out of the ancient coffeemaker at the station.

You can’t really buy him a drink unless you have his number or something after all.

The list of excuses and rationalizations you’re coming up with is concerning.

You walk in and smile at the person behind the counter, trying to look for your rescuer without looking like you’re looking. The barista smiles at you as you place your order for a Fiery Redhead (salted caramel breve latte with a hint of cayenne) and you go to sit at an empty table by the window. You know you should ask if he’s working or coming in later, but you also just sort of want to not do much of anything for a few minutes. Work is very intense even on days you aren’t recording. News never stops whether it’s life-changing or just a cat stuck in a tree (life-changing for the cat), and you spend most of your off-work time catching up on stuff around your apartment or sleeping.

You’re staring out the window, watching the cars pass, people drift by, and you aren’t sure where you go, but when you hear a slight noise, you jump and see a mug topped with curlicues of latte art. You look up the arm attached to see Felix smiling apologetically.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

You feel your skin heat at his attention on you. You’ve thought about him quite a bit in the last forty-eight hours, assuming that maybe your fascination is due to that imagination of yours. But no…he’s really that lovely to look at.

The freckles are particularly still eye-catching.

“I just zoned out.”

He’s wearing the uniform, though no apron.

“Are you on break?”

“Haven’t quite clocked in yet,” he swallows. “Saw you…kinda thought you might be here because of me.”

On anyone else that could sound arrogant, but his voice is incredibly gentle and the lilt up at the end of his words frames it hopeful; a tiny question.

“I am. You thought right.” You gesture to the chair across from you. “Hard to buy you a drink when I don’t know how to get a hold of you, except show up creepily at your job.”

As he sits, he’s chuckling, tugging on the foodsafe opaque plastic gloves encasing his hands. You notice them and it triggers something in your brain, but before you can follow that path, he speaks:

“I figured with your connections being a reporter, you could find out everything about me in mere minutes.”

You smile. “I’m so flattered you think that I have really good connections.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m still kinda low in the newsroom hierarchy.” You rest your chin in your hand. “How long do you have before your shift?”

He glances up behind you, presumably at a clock. “Ten minutes.”

“Early.”

“I hate rushing if I can avoid it.” He looks back at you and you take a second to marvel at the rich brown of his eyes.

He is stupid pretty.

“So…” you begin, trying not to be too direct (hazards of the job). “Is barista-ing something you’ve done before here?”

He nods. “Yeah, though this is a lot fancier than where I was before.” He shrugs. “I'm in school, so it helps pay the bills. And I like serving people.”

“School? For what?” You thought he might be young, but how young?

“Culinary. Baking specifically.” He smiles, the warmth just lighting him up.

“That’s so cool.” You lean closer. “I am a passable cook, like enough to follow a basic recipe and feed myself, maybe buy cookie batter on days I need a sweet, but that’s the extent. If a recipe says to fold in something, I run away in fear.” His answering chuckle warms you more than the latte (though it is very good), all the way to your toes. “Do you love it? Even though it’s school?”

The skin between his freckles turns pink. “Yeah…I enjoy it. Both learning the traditional rules, and getting to experiment.”

“Do you get to experiment here?” You point toward the shelves of pastries. You’d been tempted by at least three. Maybe you’ll give in before you leave.

“A little. When he’s feeling generous and doesn’t think I’ll screw it up.”

That’s a story you want to hear, but you file it away for later. Maybe when you get him that drink.

“What about you?” he asks, derailing your thoughts. “Always wanted to do the news?”

You straighten up and gesticulate aimlessly. “Kinda. I think I wanted to do more print journalism in the beginning. But you have to do both in school and I was good at speaking clearly and on the fly, so I stuck with broadcasting.”

“What do you like about it?” Now he rests his chin in his hand, winces before then straightening. The pained expression makes you want to reach out and check on him. You aren’t uncompassionate or anything, but the immediate concern for this near-stranger is unusual.

Maybe it’s because he looks like taking care of him would be nice. Like to curl up with him on the couch someday and watch a movie together. You bet his hair is soft and playing with it would be so nice. Maybe he’d look up at you with those big eyes and ask you for a kiss, his voice all rumbly and–

Uhhhh, maybe you should not fantasize like that.

“It feels important. Even when perhaps it’s not. I get to meet people and learn things I wouldn’t in a ‘normal’ job or ‘normal’ life.”

“Makes sense.”

You watch him look back at the clock and then sigh.

“Work?”

“Work.” He opens his hand. “I’ll give you my number? If you still want to–”

“I do.” Maybe a little too eager. “I mean, you are under no obligation if you don’t want to.” You pull out your phone and unlock it before handing it over.

“I do.” He says it simply and you wonder if he’s mildly as fascinated by you as you are by him. “I do, too.” His nose scrunches up as he types in his number, and it’s adorable.

“Okay.”

He hands you your phone back and smiles at you. “Okay then.” He starts to stand, pressing his hands on the table to aid him and he grimaces. “Ow.”

“You okay?” The concern, again, you feel is bigger than it should be, but that’s another thing you file away for the time being. “Did you hit your knee?”

“No, I…” He is looking at his hands then at you, and you feel like he’s searching for something as he gazes at you. “It’s nothing.”

You must come up short.

“I better…” He jerks a thumb toward the coffee bar. “I’ll hear from you?”

“Yeah.” You are still intrigued and concerned and a whole lot of other things, so you just force a smile to your lips. “Have a good shift, Felix.”

“Thanks.” He walks over to the bar, grabbing an apron to tie around his hips (why does that emphasize his narrow frame so much and why does that affect you?) and greets the other barista. You look back out the window, taking another sip of your drink (it’s really very good, especially with the heat of the cayenne) and try not to look back at him.

But you do. You watch him as he greets each customer, that smile bright like stars. You watch as he moves around with the other barista in the small space, like a choreographed dance for two; opening a cabinet for something, closing it with his hip or foot as he moves to the espresso machine, spinning the knob to steam the milk.

He speaks with a customer as he makes their drink, laughing without slowing down his work. He sets the paper cup in front of them, showing off the latte art you think, before covering it with the plastic lid. The customer takes it, with a smile almost as brilliant as Felix’s. He waves goodbye before glancing over at you.

You smile, embarrassed at being caught staring, but his tiny grin is shy and cute, and he gets back to making the next drink.

There’s a quick rush in the thirty minutes that you spend there. A queue of ten people, several who are in a hurry and speak with sharp, short words.

One even berating the other barista for not inputting her order quickly enough.

Felix comes to the side of his coworker, speaking calmly to the customer; not smiling, but not frowning.

You wish you could hear what he says, but the lowness of his voice makes that difficult. The perturbed customer doesn’t look too pleased, but does seem to back off. Felix makes her drink and sends her on her way.

He walks back over to his colleague, eyes searching and you know, you just know that he’s checking in. Making sure.

Caring.

You glance at the dregs of your latte, surprised at how much you feel you know this person. You don’t. You know you don’t, but there are things about him that feel familiar. That feel safe, like maybe instead you could curl up in his arms, he could play with your hair, you could ask to kiss him, taste those curved, pink lips and–

You stand up rather abruptly, taking your mug and setting it on the marked table for dishes.

“Bye!”

You turn to see him looking bewildered but bidding you a farewell. You think you smile, but you just nod and hurry away.

Good thing there’s a bit of traffic on the way back to the station. You need a moment or ten to calm down.

–

It’s a few days before you actually message Felix and make plans. Work is relentless as the local election is days away and both candidates for commissioner seem to believe that character attacks on the other is the best way to convince people to vote for you.

There was almost a fist fight yesterday. You also forgot to eat, which you didn’t realize until breakfast the next day. Perhaps your stomach shrunk because you could only do a small yoghurt in wake of not eating for a day. Despite the printed expiration date, you think it might have been spoiling already. It tasted tangy.

As you get ready for your…you’re just gonna call it a date and not overthink about it…, you see the bruises and they seem darker which makes little sense to you. You’ve bumped them a few times and it hurt, but no more or less than a normal bruise.

The bruise on your face is darker too, but your foundation and concealer does a good job of lessening the contrast so most of the time it looks like an oddly placed shadow.

But you feel like it’s a thing. Something you can’t quite figure out. And you will, once the election and campaign stuff is over and perhaps you’ll have a bit more free time.

But tonight is a date. A something with Felix. Who you have texted a couple times beyond the mere matching of your schedules. His schooling is at night four times a week. You imagine working a shift then going to class must be exhausting. You spent your undergrad years in class and in the library for work study. Not on your feet for eight hours or more, serving person after person.

Wow, you are creating a traumatic story for him. He might really love both.

He is excessively positive in his messages. He diatribes one night about nailing baumkuchen (you have to google that to understand what it is and why it’s hard) finally in class.

He’s really proud of that grade. And though you had nothing to do with it, you’re really proud of him too.

Something about him is just inviting, the opening of a door and a wave to come in.

You arrive at Back Door, a relatively less popular bar than Up All Night, which is where you would normally grab a drink after work with your colleagues if you were feeling social (which is about 50% of the time post-work). You’ve not been to Back Door yet, but just walking in makes you smile. Everything looks like a hotel lobby with big couches and large tables to stand at. The art on the walls is a mixture of traditional and modern. The red and black color scheme is daring.

Not a place to get cozy, but a place to make an impression.

Do you want to make an impression on Felix? Maybe.

You walk to the bar, finding a spot in between well-dressed people. You wait your turn for one of the two bartenders to find you and as you often do, you watch people and imagine what their lives might be like.

“Hey.”

You jump at his voice (how do you forget how freakin’ deep it is every time?) and then you get his laugh.

“I keep scaring you. Sorry.” He squeezes in next to you and you get a new image of him. Dressed in ripped black jeans and a pale pink button-down shirt with black tie loosened.

He is…delectable.

You shake your head to his comment as well as the path your thoughts are going.

“I just zone out a lot.”

He moves closer, his ear toward you so he can hear better. You repeat yourself and he nods before turning back so his eyes can look into yours.

Damn, that’s powerful.

“Where do you go?” he asks. “When you zone out?”

Do you admit that you regularly think about people you don’t know and make up backstories for them? You think that maybe he won’t judge you too harshly.

“I–” You cut yourself off when he lifts his hand to try and get the bartender’s attention. He’d had on gloves the last time you saw him, but he doesn’t now.

And the insides of his hand is dark. Like a bruise covering the length of his index finger across the palm to his thumb.

As though he’d grabbed something (someone) and bruised himself.

You don’t think to check for consent, but grab his hand, peering at the marks then you take his other. It doesn’t register that he just lets you, not even saying a word about your impoliteness.

“Felix,” you say slowly. “You…” You look up and he’s looking at your arms which are covered by three-quarter length sleeves. You’ve been intentional about not highlighting that you look like you’ve gone through a round with a MMA fighter. You nod at the question in his eyes.

What’s the point of lying? And to lie to Felix feels beyond wrong.

“Let’s get that drink and talk, huh?” he offers, tugging away from your hold to wave down the bartender. Your brain feels like it’s frozen, like a computer that has glitched so badly no matter what key you press, it’s unresponsive.

“What do you like?” Felix asks you softly, which helps your brain function just a bit. The bartender is there as well, waiting.

“Whatever you’re having.”

He nods, seeming to know that you are processing intensely at the moment. A few seconds pass, you trying to logic why bruises on him and you mean something, but you’ve got nothing when he nudges you with his elbow and lifts his chin to indicate you both should find somewhere to sit.

You follow him, blindly, as he weaves through the weekend crowd, finding a small table in a far corner where the music and talk is muted. He sits, laying the two wine glasses on the table. You scoot in across from him, staring at the wine wine ripple in the glass before settling.

“Can I see?”

You meet his gaze and shrug a yes, knowing what he’s asking. You shove up one of your sleeves, inadvertently pressing the bruise which makes you inhale sharply. He leans forward, hand reaching out to hold your arm carefully.

“Fuck. That’s dark.” He lightly rubs his thumb over it, gentle. “I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have thought much about it,” you begin, feeling content with him touching you, even though he’s the one who left bruises. He’s warm, not just in temperature, but it’s like he emits a toasty energy that flows into you. It’s odd, but you like it. “Because I bruise pretty easily, and you did keep me from busting my face. But…” You touch the bruise on your cheek. “You barely touched me here.”

He follows your motion and peers closer. You actually stare back into his eyes, sparkly as they are with the bar’s array of lights.

“Fuck.”

His second cursing makes you smile even if you don’t understand why. Maybe it’s because his freckles and generally soft demeanor make him seem innocent; i.e. not someone going around using the f-word so easily.

You’re also really enjoying the skin to skin contact. You weren’t even cold, but his touch feels secure, sheltering. Like you’re in an oversized armchair with a cup of tea, reading on a thunderstorm night.

“Do you know what it is?” His demeanor makes you think that he knows more than you, and you have to admit, you’re bothered that you’re so clueless right now. You’re used to being the smarter person on a date.

Which explains why you don’t date much and have been single for nearly two years now.

“I…no. I didn’t realize you had them too.” You sigh, and trace the marks on his hand that isn’t holding you. You don’t question the intimacy as you’re pretty sure whatever is going on is not a normal interaction with a man you only barely know, even if he is pretty. “Work has been slammed…I was going to go to the doctor if they didn’t fade soon.”

“They won’t. I mean, not on their own.” He stares at the mark on your arm. “Not without me.”

It’s like he’s talking in riddles. “Felix. What do you know?”

He lets go and you shiver as though a cold front blew through the bar, at you specifically. He takes the wine glass and sips it, closing his eyes as though he’s savoring it.

He must like wine because it seems like minutes upon minutes that he keeps his eyes closed.

“Look…” He opens his eyes and you are floored by how much pain echoes there. The same eyes that sparkled seconds ago. “You have questions and I think, think, I know the answers, but…fuck…this means–” He breaks off, dropping his head.

Is he crying?

“Felix….” You reach out, burdened, and place your hand over his. He jolts at your touch, but doesn’t pull away. He slots his fingers in between yours. “Please tell me what’s wrong? Can I help?”

“I need to go. I knew what it was. I just wanted it not to be true.” His voice cracks and he looks up, eyes welling. There’s a quiver in his lips, like maybe he wants to smile or maybe he wants to cry, or maybe it’s both. “I just need some time?” He stands up, leaving his glass and leaving your touch.

“But…?” What the fuck is going on?

He’s next to you, leaning down so your faces are close. You catch your breath.

“Soulmates. Look up soulmates.” He presses his mouth to your cheek before tearing away and disappearing in the ever-growing crowd. You stand up, to do something; call him back, chase after him…something. But he’s gone and you sit down again, staring at the two wine glasses. You take a sip of yours and grimace.

It just doesn’t taste quite right.

–

You take a cab home because you drink your wine, his, and order two cocktails (they all taste odd, but honestly it doesn’t matter by the time you get the first cocktail, you are such a lightweight). It’s dumb but you spend two hours at a bar, using Google on your phone.

At a bar. On a Friday night.

You get approached at least three times by someone either intent on chatting you up, or getting your coveted spot at the table. You basically ignore these approaches because you are intent.

Soulmates.

That’s what he’d said and though normally you would laugh derisively at the mere use of that term in anything other than some cliched romantic film, you find that the moment he said it, your heart felt like it was being squeezed in a tight grip.

So you search ‘soulmates’ which yields more links and pieces of information than you are willing to wade through.

You type in ‘bruises soulmates’ and that narrows it way down.

When you touch the first time, it leaves a mark; something similar to a bruise, but far more distinct. This is your soulmate.

“I met mine, because we ran into each other on the train. Literally. My hip is black and blue. How do I find them?”

The marks take hours to show up, so you have to retrace your steps to find them. Chances are they’re looking for you too.

“I can’t eat any more. It tastes like licking the inside of a dumpster.”

Food and drink will lose its pleasurable taste. It’ll become disgusting, revolting.

“I’ve sent out messages on all SNS. It’s been a week. The hospital keeps pumping fluids, but it’s not working. Someone please help me!”

The only way to survive is to be with your soulmate. Skin to skin contact for hours if you are sick or hurting. Not as long if it’s just daily need. You will no longer need food or drink. Water will be the only thing palatable.

You stumble out of the bar, Uber app open on your phone. The air outside is heavy from late summer humidity and it’s like you can’t catch your breath.

If you don’t find your soulmate, you will starve to death.

You can starve to death. You’re not even thirty years old yet, and death is now something more likely than ever.

You look at your arm, the sleeve still pushed up from earlier.

He doesn’t have very big hands, you muse. The mark is actually lighter and you realize that the little amount of contact you had with him has already started to heal.

Holy fuck.

Your Uber shows up and you practically throw yourself into the backseat as though someone nefarious is chasing you.

“You alright?” the driver asks, glancing back. “You run here?”

You are panting, your breath short from the magnitude of what you’ve just found out. Part of your brain denies it all. Surely this is bullshit. Soulmates, touch, inevitable death for those who lose their person.

It can’t be true.

But what you thought was just hormones when he touched you tonight; the warmth, the comfort, the irresistible draw…

You’ve dated. You’ve fucked. You’ve had men who looked great and those who looked less so. No one affects you the way the quiet-eyed, deep-voiced barista has in three encounters.

You give the driver your address and force yourself to stop looking at your phone before you get more nauseated, and look out the window.

You need to sleep before you can tackle whatever the fuck this is.

–

It strikes you two days later. You go through the weekend researching everything you can, or pointedly turning off your phone and your laptop in order to clean your apartment and reorganize your kitchen.

You look at the set of pots that you got two years ago because you wanted nicer, matching ones and now, you aren’t going to need them.

You’d been able to stomach one egg this morning, the desire for food already waning. You wonder if going to get your favorite donuts would be good, if life-changing information warranted donuts.

It hits you then.

Felix wants to be a baker.

And he’s going to lose his sense of taste.

You sink down to the floor of your kitchen with the weight of that revelation. You lean back against the lower cabinets and let that take hold.

By meeting you, Felix can’t pursue his dream.

You barely know him, but you know enough to understand perhaps a tenth of the loss he must be feeling knowing that he’s going to lose what he wanted to do with his life.

You did this. By nearly falling over, you have changed the direction of his life.

You enjoy food, and the loss of it isn’t something you’re looking forward to, but it doesn’t change your job or your life.

You cover your face when you realize that you’re crying.

It’s your fault.

You cry for longer than one would for a near-stranger before you force yourself back to your feet. You trudge toward your bedroom, seeking your phone that you’ve put on silent and plugged in. There are notifications for work, for social platforms, from your mom.

You don’t check them, but you search out the chat between you and your…

Soulmate.

<<I am so sorry.

What else can you say? There is nothing you can do because unless every source you’ve found online about this phenomenon is wrong and lying, the ball is rolling and nothing can stop it.

You set your phone back down, sitting on the edge of your bed. There’s a window across from you and the view is simply the brick building next to your apartment complex. There is nothing to really look at, but the simplicity of the brick, the gradient of burgundies and reds with beige caulk between is a lot easier to make sense of than anything else right now.

Your phone vibrates.

>>It’s not your fault.

There’s hardly anything you can say. You can state that it is. It is your fault. Without touching you, he’d go on with his life, pursuing his dreams like everyone should get to.

<<Regardless. I am. Very very sorry.

You don’t expect to hear from him. You set your phone aside, noticing that your hands are shaking. You feel exhausted, like the crying you’ve indulged in has drained you. Maybe you’re coming down with something.

Or maybe it’s something else. Something soulmate.

>>Can I come by?

You type out yes before you think through it fully. You send him your address and close your phone before getting back up to go to the bathroom and look at yourself.

Maybe it’s silly to make sure you don’t look like someone who has fought dust bunnies and lost, but you think that showering wouldn’t be amiss.

It’s a half hour later when there's a knock on your door. You’ve already buzzed him in, so it’s not that you’re unprepared to see him, but really, how would anyone be able to prepare for the groveling you want to do when you see him.

He stands in your doorway, eyes wide and you chastise yourself for changing because he obviously had no qualms, dressed in sweatpants, and a creased t-shirt. He looks terribly soft with rumpled hair, light wrinkles on his cheek from sleeping.

There are dark smudges of weariness under his eyes.

“I’m so–” you begin because surely apologizing profusely will relieve a little of the guilt you feel. He doesn’t let you finish, but strides in and wraps his arms around you. He’s got several inches of height on you (lack of heels) and rests his chin on top of your head. He closes the door with his foot, falling back on it, his hold on you firm.

“You don’t need to say you’re sorry,” he whispers. “It’s not your fault.”

“Kind of is. If we’d never touched…” The heat of him warms you through, as though you were icy but didn’t know it until touching him.

It’s uncanny, how much better you feel just by being in his arms. Soulmate or not, you think that anyone would be better receiving a hug from him.

“I could have let you fall. So I’m just as responsible.”

You feel your eyes well up, your throat constrict with grief. “But you were just being nice. That’s all. And this is your reward.” You bury your face into his shoulder, noting how bony he is and how nice he smells, like cookies. “I’m so so fucking sorry.”

You’re crying into his shirt and it’s embarrassing, but you can’t seem to stop. You feel his hand stroke your back, soothing.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

There’s a rumble against you, he’s chuckling. You lift your head to look up at him. He smiles sadly, releasing his hold to wipe under your eyes.

“You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re too nice. I would fix it, if I could. I would give you back–” He kisses you.

Oh. My. God.

If touching him casually or even being in his arms is comforting, kissing him is that feeling amped up to eleven. You actually feel light-headed and dizzy like you’re back at the bar drinking too much wine.

He presses one small kiss to the corner of your lips before drawing away. You whimper to lose that caress, but he keeps his arms around you like he knows you need it. He rests his head on the door, eyes fixed on you.

“Wow,” you breathe.

There’s a slight quirk of his lips, like he wants to laugh, but won’t at the moment.

You realize both of you are still standing in your little foyer so you draw away, but his hands tighten.

“I was just…just gonna invite you in.”

“That’s okay. I just…” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t let go?” You peer at him, seeing that the dark under his eyes has already lessened.

You nod, adjusting so your hand encloses around his. You lead him into your apartment, watch him as he looks around, eyes still wide, but seemingly less panicked now. You sit on your two person couch that is opposite your television. He sits next to you, looking at your bookshelves, covered in photo frames, books, knick-knacks from places you’ve gotten to go for work.

“I have to ask,” you say, making him look over at you. “What are you thinking? Right now?”

“I…I feel a little out of place,” he replies, glancing down at your clasped hands. “You have a real job and a nice place and I’m just a barista, trying to get a certificate.” The mention of his schooling makes you tighten your grip and he squeezes back, still not looking at you. “Makes me wonder if the universe screwed up.”

“I don’t think that’s fair.”

He looks up then.

“You are this beautiful, ridiculously kind human who smiles like the sun and because of me, lost your dream and you’re still here. You should hate me.”

He covers your mouth with his untethered hand. “I don’t. I couldn’t.” His hand drifts to cup your cheek. “I’m not mad at you.” He takes another deep breath. “I’m mad at the fallout. Like…it sucks.” He nods. “It really does. That’s why I just needed some time.”

“I’m sorry. I only gave you like two days.”

His thumb runs over your lower lip and you feel like you’re melting.

“I wanted to see you. I can already tell that I need to…” He blushes. “I need to touch you.”

“You look less drained.” You touched his heated cheek. “I felt out of it, too.”

“Me too.” He leans in, face close, watching you. “I didn’t ask. About kissing you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Weird circumstances.” You hope your smile does half of what his smile does for you. “You’re stuck with me unless you want to starve to death.”

He half-grins, his hand still on your face, tracing along your nose. “It’s pretty dramatic, right?”

“It really is.”

“You don’t mind?”

“What?”

“Being stuck with me?”

“No.” You’re louder than you meant to be. He blinks at the emphasis. “I mean, I don’t know you all that well, but what I do know…” You take his hand from your face, holding it as tight as the other hand. “I like.”

He nods. “Can we…” He takes a breath. “Can we touch more?”

It is weird and you both laugh at the awkward and latent innuendo.

“Like nothing…” He stops talking, expression helpless. You just nod.

He watches as you let go of his hand to get close. His dark eyes seem darker when you pause to figure out how exactly you plan to touch him.

“Here.” He pulls you in, aligning you to his chest, your back resting against him, his arms around you, his chin coming to sit on your shoulder. “The longer we touch, those bruises will fade.”

You lift his hands so you can see that his marks are lighter since you saw them Friday night. He presses his face where your shoulder meets your neck. It tickles, but you don’t shy away.

“I feel like we’ve gone from acquaintances to whatever this is really quick.” It’s an obvious statement, a pointless one, but things are progressing at an exponential speed that you need to voice it, if only to remind yourself and him that it’s real.

“It’s okay, though?” he asks softly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but even beyond the need to touch you, I want to.” His chin rests on your shoulder again.

“You do?”

You can hear the smile in his voice, “I thought you were pretty when you came in for the interview. I think I would have tried to talk to you if you ever came back, even without the rest of it.”

You’re still playing with his hands, absorbing his words.

“This whole thing is weird.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know about soulmates before?”

You feel his chin as he nods. “My grandmother’s second husband and her. My grandfather died and at age sixty-three or something, my grandmother bumped into this man at her favorite bakery. Bruises and everything. She told me the story when I was about ten, when they decided to get married. No one believed her, but I did. It just made sense when you saw them together. But it’s rare. Like…there are accounts of it all over the world, but not a high percentage.” He noses your ear. “What did you find out? You researched, didn’t you?”

“If you call googling for too many hours, proper research.” Being in his arms is slowly making you feel less weary and calmer. You’re still sad and worried, but your body feels less like debilitated frozen tundra. “I guess we’re lucky that it wasn’t hard to know who it was. There are stories…of people…” You stop talking, overwhelmed by the fact that this could have gone so badly. “I’m glad I knew it was you immediately. Like I meet so many random people and I–”

“Shhh, it’s okay.”

You’re both quiet for several minutes. You’ve stopped playing with his hands and he’s just wrapped around you even more snugly.

“How do we do this?”

“Well, I’m going to quit school tomorrow. The semester is nearly over and I haven’t paid for next semester yet, so that’s money saved.”

“It sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.” His hand slips under your shirt and you tremble at the energy pulse that such a slight touch does to you. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” You ponder for a second. “Do we need to do this every day?”

“I think it’s encouraged, and necessary. Like to go too long not in contact is…well, I felt like a zombie until I held you.”

“I hope you don’t need alone time.”

He chuckles. “Not too much. You?”

“Some.” That’ll be an adjustment. Someone wanting to spend hours with you. More than just the occasional meet-up with a friend. “Do…you…god, this is gets more and more bizarre…should you move in with me?”

The gentle motion of his hand stills. “Would you…would that be okay?”

“I mean, we should probably find a place together, but I still have a few months left on my lease. You?”

He sits up and you move away, though you notice his hand stays on your skin, following as you adjust to face him.

“I’m rooming with some guys. Month to month.” His eyes are wide. “Really?”

“I mean…will it make it easier?”

He chuckles. “I have a twin bed.”

“Mine’s a queen.”

“You really are so much more of an adult than me.”

You bat at his arm. “Stop saying that. You aren’t any less. You work and go…went to school.”

“Yeah.” He stares at you for a few seconds. “You’re willing to just let me move in?”

“I mean, we can have sleepovers if that’s easier.”

He laughs, covering his face with his hands for a second before making sure he’s still touching you with a hand on your knee. “I don’t have a lot of stuff. My baking stuff…that I guess I need to sell.”

You lace your fingers with his. “I’m–”

“You don’t need to say it.” He shrugs. “It just is what it is. Anyway, clothes, not a lot. I have my computer and that’s kinda…” He looks around. “Do you have another bedroom?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a makeshift office/storage unit right now.” You make a face. “I should probably get rid of some of it. Do you have a big computer?”

He shrugs again. “I built it. I game and fiddle with computers in my free time.”

You move closer. “How are you that interesting? It’s not fair. You’re ridiculously pretty, you bake, and you do computery things?”

His ears, cheeks and neck all flush. “It’s not that interesting…”

“It is to me,” You point at him with your connected hands. “I just do the news stuff.”

“And zone out.”

You laugh. “And zone out. Regularly.”

He brings you back to rest against his chest, a deep sigh releasing. “So…I guess…we’re moving in together?”

You aren’t horribly impulsive usually. In big things you try to think logically and rationally. But that seems to have been tossed aside currently.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

You feel his lips on your cheek.

–

It’s a month later, after you’ve emptied out the second bedroom with as much as you can let go off, Felix moves in with his stuff (the computer set-up reminds you of like the command bridge in Star Trek or something), and you’ve learned how to sleep in bed with a person you aren’t actually sleeping with (despite the touch thing, both of you seem to avoid talking about anything past necessary touch).

The progression the soulmate-ness has had is different for both of you. You lost your taste for food and drink well before he did. It’s nearly three weeks to the day you two met that he can’t eat one of his galettes because it tastes like the way wet dog smells.

He cries in your arms.

You handled working over eight hours a day as well as you always have, but if it moved to twelve hours, you found Felix at the apartment, on the couch or bed, looking more fragile and delicate than normal. The toll your separation took on his body was far worse than the toll on your body.

It took some adapting and adjusting; trial and error to see what worked for the both of you. If it was going to be a long day, Felix would leave work and come find you at the station, or you’d come to him just to sit and hold hands for a half hour before one of you had to go. It helped.

For the first time since being on your own, you have to worry about someone else and yes, at times, it can be frustrating; overall, it’s nice. It’s nice to come home to someone.

“I can’t do it,” Felix comes in late from the coffeehouse. You came home early and are spending your time trying to figure out what one does with a kitchen and all that cabinet space if one no longer eats.

“Can’t do it?”

He doesn’t stop in his path, dropping his bag on the ground as he toes off his shoes. You barely can say much else before he’s wrapped around you in what has become a regular habit of his. In your arms the moment you’re both home.

You can’t complain even if it thwarts your thought process about the kitchen.

“The coffee smell is awful,” he mutters into your hair. “Like, I thought not tasting it would be okay, but the smell is just as bad. All day, every day…” he sighs. “I almost quit.”

“Maybe you should. I make enough for you to take a break for a little bit.”

“I’m not…” He sighs again. “I don’t like that. It’s your money.”

“And therefore I can help you out.” You rub up and down his back, soothing him. “You haven’t had much time to figure out a new plan.”

He moves so his face is in the crook of your neck, nuzzling. Normally you giggle because it tickles, but lately when his lips are anywhere near you, it’s like every nerve you have is on high alert.

“I think I’m avoiding it.”

“That’s okay too.” You hurry to continue when you feel his body stiffen as though he wants to argue with you. “For now. It’s a lot.”

He lifts his head, but not before brushing a soft kiss on your neck which sends you down a path that you’ve tried to avoid thinking about with Felix in mind. A path that includes not only sleeping in your bed.

“I…” He watches you for a few seconds and you can feel your face heating with his scrutiny. “I’m gonna game for a bit.” He then sees that you have all the plates and cups and paraphernalia on the counters. “Unless you need a hand?”

“Go shoot something digitally. I’m good.”

He smiles that soft smile of his. The one that makes you want to cozy up with him on the couch, his head in your lap and mindlessly watch a movie.

“Sure?”

You nod, and start to move back to the kitchen problem when he drops another kiss, this time on your cheek. You should be getting used to this, and perhaps you are, but it still floors you. The feel of him, the subsequent burst of soulmate voltage that it emits.

He doesn’t seem to notice that every time he kisses you, your brain pauses like a video buffering. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe kissing you doesn’t do much more than just heal in the soulmate way.

He hasn’t kissed you on the lips since that first time. You want him too. You’ve thought about it way too much, even when you’re supposed to be working.

You should say something. You should kiss him, and often. But you hold back. You don’t know why.

He’s had so much of his life uprooted because of you, you don’t want to add the burden of your sexual wants onto his plate.

He shuffles off to the second bedroom and you eventually go back to working on the kitchen.

He calls your name about an hour later, after you have given up on the dusting because it’s too much, and have ended up on the couch, looking through your SNS feed to find that there isn’t much new in the world.

“Hmm?”

“I think…I think I had an idea.”

You get up and wander over to that room, more Felix’s than yours now. You stand in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the darkness because there’s only a lamp that he keeps on by his set-up.

He wheels around in his ergonomic chair.

“What’s your idea?”

“One of my friends,” He waves toward his screen, “Asked me a question about what to add to his computer to boost its…” He chuckles immediately when you furrow your brow. “You don’t care about that.”

“I will attempt to understand it?”

“Nevermind.” He reaches out his hands toward you and you walk in, suspicious. He latches on and pulls you into his lap, which just makes you freeze even more than the nightly cuddles. “I gave him about three different options and he asked if I’d do it for him. He’d pay me.” He cradles your face in his hands. “He’d pay me.”

“Well, that’s nice.”

“I mean…maybe that’s it. I could fix or enhance, I guess, computers. I know too much about it for just fiddling with my own.” He trails his fingers down to your neck and you tremble. “Maybe this is what I should do.”

Even in the dim light, you can see how bright his eyes are. It reminds you of when you met him, before everything changed.

“If you want. I imagine you probably do know more than the average person. I’ve heard you ramble enough to your friends on that thing.” You smile even if the heat of his legs is burning you in the best way. “Will it make you happy?”

His infectious joy fades a little. “It might.” With his finger, he draws an amorphous shape on your skin. “I think it might.”

“Then you should do it.” You pat his shoulders, getting ready to remove yourself from him because being on his lap, facing him, being so close is making you want more than you think either of you are ready for.

His hands slip to your waist to keep you from leaving.

“Felix, what are you–?”

“You make me happy, you know that, right? Being here with you, coming home to you or vice versa makes me happy.” His gaze is zeroed in on you, and it’s a lot. Having his focus.

“You don’t have to say stuff like that.”

He adjusts you so you’re nearer, his hands clasped at the small of your back. “I’m not just saying that. I mean it.” His lips turn down in concern. “Aren’t you? Happy?”

“With you? God, yes.” Sometimes with him, you do this. You say things before thinking it through. “Even when you hog the covers.”

He looks a bit sheepish, but doesn’t apologize.

“But my life didn’t derail because you entered it.”

He touches his nose to yours. “Mine didn’t either. It just changed direction. Maybe a little more dramatically than yours.” He purses his lips in thought. “I only worry about the job stuff because well…I want to work in something I like.”

“Of course you do.” You comb back his hair, longer than when you met him; shaggy and probably needs a cut, but you really like it. “If you want to do this, I think you should.”

“It might take a while for me to make much.”

You point at yourself. “Do I look worried?”

He smiles, teeth flashing, eye crinkles, and your heart flutters.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper, tracing the curves of his smile and cheeks. His lips part at the compliment, and your finger slides to his teeth. “I…uh, sorry.”

He kisses the tip of your finger to reassure you. You swallow your more lustful feelings and smile.

“You better get back to your friends.” You try to stand up, but his arms tighten. “I should…go.”

“Why?” he asks softly. “Why can’t you stay right here? I want you to.”

“You do?”

He says your name in the same whisper and kisses you reverently. You dissolve into him, scooting closer so you can embrace him. There’s a soft groan, and it’s not from you.

“Am I too heavy?” you ask, breaking the kiss. He pouts at you and shakes his head.

“It’s…it’s not that.”

It takes you a second and your eyes widen before you look down.

“Oh.”

He chuckles. “You haven’t noticed?”

“Well, I mean, in the morning, but that’s like…all guys.” His cheeks turn pink as you continue. “I…I wasn’t assuming that it had to do with me.”

“You can assume.”

You stare breathlessly at him.

“If you want, I mean.” His eyes dart away from yours. “If I’m the only one turned on here, you can pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“Just because it’s not as obvious doesn’t mean I’m not.”

You feel him raise his head and meet your gaze. If he can tell your face is hot in the shadowy room, he makes no mention of it.

“Yeah?”

You nod before hearing some tinny voices coming from his headset. “Your friends.” You nod again toward his computer screen. “Your game.” You don’t even try to move out of his hold, but his arm wraps around you so you’re nearly chest to chest.

“Don’t move.” He grabs his headset from around his neck and slips it on, pressing a button on the side. “Guys…something’s come up. Min…I’ll come by tomorrow with a better graphics card and install it for you.” He presses the same button amid all the protests you hear, and takes the headset off. He tosses it on his computer desk before returning to hold you, with one minor adjustment.

One hand slides up the back of your top, searing. He watches your face, intent. You tug at the collar of his shirt, and he stands up gingerly, letting you slide down until your feet touch the floor. He pulls off his shirt before taking your hands in his to bring them to his chest and arms.

“I didn’t know,” he says as you outline the planes and facets with your fingers.

“Didn’t know?”

He dips his head so you have to look up into his eyes, away from his beautiful skin. “Didn’t know you thought about me like that.”

“How could I not?” You let your hands trail up his sides to his neck and then to his face. “You are beautiful, both inside and out, Lee Felix.”

He doesn’t answer but kisses you with none of the former softness or gentleness. His hands are gripping your arms, directing you backwards out of the room and toward the bedroom. All of your kisses have been chaste, as though the crossing into using tongue would mean something else.

Perhaps it did. Perhaps it’s not just about a mutual need to live, a mutual admiration, though that’s all true. Perhaps being soulmates is just the beginning of having a partner. In everything.

You feel the bed at the back of your legs, unaware that you’ve traveled that much of the apartment because Felix might be good at gaming, but he’s exceptionally good at kissing. It’s all you can do to hold on as he consumes you, tongue stroking yours, teeth nibbling. You fall back on the bed, and he follows, climbing on top of you, mouth still seeking yours. His hands have slid under your top, mapping out your shape with fervor.

The calm and quiet of him has broken.

He draws away to look down at you, panting. “Okay?”

“Yes, so much,” you answer breathlessly. He smirks and peels off your shirt before sitting and undoing his pants. “Hey.”

He pauses and glances at you. You can see his hands trembling.

“We don’t have to rush.”

“I know. I know, but I…” He leans to kiss your jaw. “I want you so much.” He slips a finger under your bra strap and slides it down your shoulder. “Sleeping next to you is both wonderful and fuckin’ torture.”

His grin when you laugh only lasts a second before he pulls you close and on top of him. You work his pants off, trying not to get sidetracked by his undoing of your bra and ensuing caresses. It takes a few minutes, both of you distracting the other in the process, but eventually, gloriously, the clothing is gone and you’re both looking at each other in awe.

Beautiful. Inside and out.

“C’mere,” his voice drops to a decibel you aren’t sure anyone else can hear (you don’t want them too because he’s your soulmate and you are so damn grateful). He places soft kisses all over your face, making you giggle as he props up pillows at your back. “We’ve never talked about past relationships.”

“Oh. I mean…” You twist your lips thinking about your last date let alone last relationship. “I haven’t…work kinda replaced everything else, you know? I’m clean…it’s been at least a year.”

“Six months. Had to move away.” He eases in between your legs, hands rubbing your thighs almost carelessly. “Clean too.” He leans down, face inches away and those perfect freckles blurring together.

“Was it serious?”

“I think it could have been,” he says honestly. “You?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been serious about someone till you. Even before I saw the bruises,” You run your hands up his arms, his muscles taut from holding himself up. “You stuck in my mind. Chan teased me about it.”

He grins before slipping one hand down your chest, your stomach and farther down… “You weren’t kidding about being turned on, were you?”

You half-heartedly slap his shoulder because one, it’s more than obvious and two, his tender exploration of you is dizzying. The soulmate energy, with no clothing to bar skin to skin contact, feels like you’ve laid down in a meadow on a warm day; not too hot, no bugs, no pollen, nothing but heat and light and tranquility.

Then his fingers lightly touch your clit and the tranquility liquifies into heat and lust and want.

“There, huh?” The teasing, soft but dark, makes you want to say something snarky, but he’s kissing you, his fingers circling until you're gasping against his mouth.

“Lix, please,” you whine. His lips leave yours before he pushes in. “Oh god.”

As with everything, the soulmate need for touch just amplifies everything; how he feels sliding in, each thrust, the grazing of your g-spot. It’s a million times more and when you break, and feel him break; it’s not surprising that for a few seconds you aren’t sure where you are.

Then the puffs of his shortened breath on your skin, the length of his body covering yours, one hand trailing up and down your arm.

“You back?” he asks, voice gruff.

“I think so.”

He lifts his head, eyes at half-mast, smile sleepy and well-contented. “We should do that again…often.”

You roll your eyes, a grin twitching at the corner of your lips. He kisses you, open-mouthed, but delicate.

“I am really really glad you caught me that day.”

He stares down at you, eyes fond. “I’m glad you caught me too.”

a/n #2 - the coffee drink, fiery redhead, is not mine, but created by a coffeehouse in my parents' town. i love it, and make it at home now.

(c) yoongihan 2024. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans.

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star2fishmeg · 1 month ago

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can you share some of your Luke recs?

Of course! I may have gone a bit overboard but I just love love love all these fics and their authors so so much. I highly recommend all these writers and their blogs, from the nsfw to the sfw, I couldn't stress how highly I respect and recommend them enough:

≡ᴍᴇɢ's ʟᴜᴋᴇ ʜᴜɢʜᴇs ғɪᴄ ʀᴇᴄs

—SMUT

♥ again by @hhughes (you can find her on @bedsyandco now I think) ➥ I frequently find myself going back to this one, the way Cami has written it is just so addicting and it's so hot.

♥ the mortifying ordeal of being a 20 year old virgin by @theemporium ➥ This series is hard as hell, literally love it. Each chapter is just divine and I love Luke and reader's dynamic, it's so juicy and with every new chapter, I think I literally heel click and do a jig.

♥ escape from la by @eyesthatroll ➥ Another one I go back to often, still think about it to this day actually, I just picture it vividly and it gives me butterflies every time.

♥ locker room by @lucijawriteswords ➥ Words cannot describe how much of a chokehold this one has on me. Angry Luke is so hot and I can't stop thinking about the imagery and I want this so bad.

♥ those sleepless nights - @wineauntie ➥ I present to you; my bedtime story. Sleepy smut is just so yummy, you know? And I just wanted Luke wrapped around me after I read this, I now go back to it when it's some silly hour of the morning.

♥ stress reduction by @goldfades ➥ Bro I cannot begin to explain how many times I've read this one. Short and sweet and so sensual, I want it. You'll literally read it and feel something.

♥ risqué reflections by @sweetestdesire ➥ This is the place for filth and I'm a loyal customer. This fic had me doing deep breaths and GOD it's so yummy. Read it once and then went back because the buzz it gave me.

♥ the green eyed monster by @puck-luck ➥ Jealousy has never looked hotter on a man. I remember reading this one morning before uni and yeah let's say I wasn't thinking about my class that day. Andy went all in with this and Jesus it was hot as fuck.

—FLUFF

♥ he's been a bit of a jerk by @quinnylouhughesx43 ➥ I've never liked the winter more, I need Luke to come find my lonely ass and kiss me too. This was too cute honestly and the second part is just as good. Recommend reading them back-to-back.

♥ too tall by @toasttt11 ➥ Anything to do with height differences has me in shambles and this was so cute. I just love the image of Luke standing in the kitchen at 12am like a deer in headlights.

♥ uh oh by @be4chywritez ➥ The Curtis-Luke rivalry will always make me giggle and even funnier with the sneaking around trope, I adored this and the locker room scene. The whole thing is so cute and lighthearted.

♥ jelly on a plate by @wineauntie ➥ I dislike the process of flying so this was a really comforting read and I love it so much. It's adorable and reassuring at the same time and if you're not a fan of flying, I really recommend having Luke with you in spirit.

♥ my princess by @lvrhughes ➥ No because this one's fun and fresh and adorable. Something about drunken nights will always get me, especially when it's one looking after the other. Filled my heart with warmth.

♥ caught by @ifimdreaming ➥ Love this one a lot, it's funny and cute. It perfectly portrays siblings having an argument and Trevor making an appearance will always be funny. Luke is just too cute and love me protective Luke.

♥ kiss her you fool by @withwritersblock ➥ Tooth rotting fluff, friends to lovers and just pining and that's my cup of tea. Loverboy Luke has you aching for him to be honest and you'll wish you were y/n and so much touching that has you tingling.

♥ "are you awake yet?" blurb by @bedsyandco @hhughes ➥ I wish I had this in my life, honestly. Read this and you wish you did too. It's so sweet it makes me kick my feet and twirl my hair, run laps around my room, go through my Luke Pinterest board. I love the way Cami writes Luke.

#≡starfishmeg #≡nonnies #≡blog information

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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year ago

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Rigor Mortis (part 1)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Prologue, Part 2

summary: After the breakup, you move into a new place.

warnings: no warnings! cheeky bit of angst at the end

a/n: this is me admitting that realistically, miguel would be sick of our shit.

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here <3

wc: 4.2k

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

or in the cold, crisp morn:

"These are the keys," Your new landlord hands you the copies, clinking against each other as you transfer them to a dish by the door. Your first thought is that there seem to be too many for this modest apartment: of varying shapes and sizes, and at least half a dozen. He steps through a wide archway to the kitchen, eerily clean. It's not modern by any means, the top half of a hulking brownstone some time away from college.

It’s been… a trying summer. Moving halfway across the country with your boyfriend had seemed like a great idea at the time. Younger you (barely 2 years ago) had been enamoured with the promises of city life: fast-paced, bustling, and never a dull day. Naivete and big ideas that you'd been too stupid, or maybe too desperate, to let go of. After being locked in a loop of the same 3 or 4 places, the same dozen faces - in a place as big as this, mind you - maybe your ex-boyfriend had freed you. Forced you from that halfway-home; as cold and empty as it had become; and back out into the world.

The reality was less than ideal - apartment hopping across the city for the past 4 months or so. You’d seen it all: glorified shoeboxes, fancy duplexes, viewing sublet rooms that were at least a little illegal. A box within a box within a box; coat closets rented out for double your monthly take home; and you had just about given up.

So this place seemed like a godsend: a brownstone, tucked away. Its interior is dated, but gorgeous. It had character: quirks and rich history in the brick and mortar. A fireplace tucked into the corner, window alcoves, wood panelling. Yes, the wallpaper was slightly warped with damp but it’s affordable - a reasonably priced gem that had made you jump when you saw the ad. With the overexposed and pixelated images, they didn’t do it justice.

You pad into the kitchen, running your hands on the smooth countertops. They’re bare and spotless - suspiciously so. Not many personal items, no fridge magnets, photos; nary a blanket on the sofa or half eaten plate of toast on the worktop. It’s so clean it feels staged, and it makes you squint. Isn’t there meant to be…

“I let Miguel know… he must’ve cleaned up the place-”

“Miguel?”

“The other tenant.” He pauses, boots clicking on the grain of the floorboard. “I don’t think he’ll be back until later tonight. Should give you some time to settle in.”

Nodding, you give him a small smile, and he steps out of the apartment. Your apartment.

~~~

You fill the rest of day with unpacking, putting some life into the place. You’d visited not long ago, fantasising about how you’d decorate. Something about sharing an apartment with your boyfriend for the past 2 years had done something to you: flattening and squeezing into a space not built with you in mind. How Jamie didn't like things on the walls, or how he needed the space for his textbooks, so why don't you find somewhere else to put your little stories? If his desk took up half the front room, then that makes sense, he needs it for work. But God forbid you needed a quiet space to study; what if the guest bedroom has your shit everywhere when his friends come over? A million compromises that didn't seem much like compromises: you'd give an inch and he'd take a mile. And so, the space to spread your wings without knocking over a gaudy plaque or two was very much appreciated.

You want to walk around the neighbourhood, map out the convenience stores, bodegas, community hotspots and hubs. Where's the best place to get a drink? The cheapest meal? Your usual haunts were a fair distance away, so maybe you'll make the trek and pick up waffles from Pam's, as a treat. Tired already, you slump on the sofa - a tattered old thing that can clearly take a beating. Looking around the place, something settles solidly at your chest. Contentment, maybe, a strange feeling considering the past few months. This will do, you think. This will do.

Perhaps it's not a very feminist thought, but you're not thriving . Thriving felt presumptuous, and yet coping seemed too complete a word - its implication too tidy, too neat. A mess, before; better, now…? And it didn't quite span the width and depth of the past few months; how long it had taken for the numbness to make way to anger, hot and intense - its flame fueling many a long night. And yet, maybe coping was just the way to describe your foray into this new chapter: a new year, new apartment, and whatever that brings. You had forgotten what it felt like to be alone; not lonely, but with only your own self for company. Without the ache of another person, for the first time in a while.

…except, you had a roommate. Which you had known when signing the lease, of course, but it's taken some time to sink in. What that means for you - a new person to tiptoe around and appease - you're not too sure yet. What is he like? He's out late, so maybe a chronic partygoer - sloppy drunk and vivacious, the life of the party. He might clatter into the apartment, chattering and bubbly. What do you know about him? From the apartment, as is, it doesn't tell you much. At first glance, it had looked too clean, but not unreasonably so if he had anticipated your arrival. No, it was the lack of personal effects that confused you. How long has he been living here and there aren't any pictures or knick knacks? To clutter is to be human, you think. And with the front room as blank as it is, you wonder just what kind of man he is.

It's getting late. Naturally, you do some snooping, lazily padding around in search of life. Onwards and upwards, to new frontiers: the cupboards and drawers in your new apartment.

He likes coffee, you learn. There's a fancy machine on the kitchen counter, glossy and shiny and clearly taken care of. Little packets of beans and filters line the cupboards, all with names you can't quite pronounce. The fridge is similarly well-stocked, with none of the junk food you've gotten accustomed to in the past few months. Its innards are leafy green and plush; labelled tupperware with leftovers notwithstanding. All the spices in a tray above the oven and fancy knives on the wall tell you he likes to cook, or rather, he likes to eat well. The lack of junk would take some getting used to - maybe he's a health nut? The type to go on runs at the ass-crack of dawn, to blend oddly coloured smoothies, and "reflect" after a long day of… dog walking or something.

You move on to the living room, running a light hand over the deep walnut of a side table behind the sofa. Again, it's oddly bare. When you tug at the drawers, it's brassy handles are solid. Locked. Kneeling, you run a hand across the larger cupboard door at its base. You pull at it, and it pops open with a click. Inside, it seems empty, save for a dusty box nestled in the back corner. With your top half almost completely inside its depths, you move it into the light.

It's old, a battered shoebox adorned with coloured sharpie - shaky drawings of flowers blossoming from its sides. The cardboard crackles when you open it. It's full of junk, mostly: half-dead pens, broken crayons, dried flowers, and little plastic toys - the kind you get from cereal boxes and happy meals. And, there's something peeking out. Confused, you dig a little deeper, to uncover a pair of… soccer cleats? They're tiny, clearly for a kid but seem barely worn, with minimal scuffing on the plastic blades.

"What the fuck are you doing?" A voice from above rumbles, and your head snaps up like a rubber band. You hadn't noticed the door open, and you are met face to face with, who you assume to be, your roommate.

He doesn't shout: tall, broad, and back straight by the door. He's got a backpack slung over his shoulder, dressed in a crisp white shirt and slacks. His name was… Miguel? Miguel crosses his arms, brows furrowed in quiet rage. Fuck.

"I was just looking for.. uhh…"

You know how it looks. It's the worst time for your brain to go blank, and you're left holding the hypothetical bag. You stand up a little too quickly, and smack your knee on the lip of the table. Half of the box spills onto the floor and you dart downwards, embarrassed.

" Shit. Sorry, let me-"

He leaps towards the floor, and you're forced behind him, as he scrambles to put everything in its place. You start to help and he stops, stock-still. As if in slow motion, his head turns to the side and he gives you a look that could kill thousands. Retreating, you shrink back, only able to watch helplessly.

" Chica tonta... ¿se crió en un rancho? ¿qué clase de persona entra en casa de alguien y toca todas sus cosas?" He's muttering something under his breath - too fast and not saying anything you can understand. Pausing, he throws you a look. "...y luego me ve como si yo fuera el que está mal- ojos grandes y bonitos como de perrito pateado...oh dios mío.-"

[silly little girl… was she raised in a barn? what kind of person walks into someone's house and touches all of their stuff? // and she looks at me like I'm the one in the wrong - big, pretty eyes like a kicked puppy… oh my god-]

He's gentle with the box, the way he puts it in its place contrasting his mood a couple of seconds before. He closes up the door and you stumble to your feet. In the glow of halogen bulbs, he follows, arms crossed like a mother hen.

"I think… I think I'm your new roommate?" You say your name and stretch out a hand, but Miguel doesn't move. You watch as his eyes sweep over your body, shameless.

"Are you asking, or telling me?" He sighs, pinching at his temples.

"...Telling?" You offer him a weak smile, and he cracks.

Softening, ever so slightly, he grumbles. "I know. I know. Mr Estévez said you would be in tomorrow, though."

"I like to be early."

"Right. Well… don't do that. Again, I mean." He clears his throat. "Don't touch my shit either. It's too… fuck , it's too late for this. I'm going to bed."

He kicks off his shoes, and all you can do is watch as he saunters off; the door to his room shutting with a resounding slam .

~~~

His name is Miguel O'Hara - not that he told you that, or anything. He hasn't spoken to you much at all, leaving you to figure out who he is and what he does from vague clues around the apartment. You don't go snooping , learning quickly from previous mistakes; but his full name on a letter slotted through the mail was fair game, you think. The most you've gotten out of him were grunts and frustrated requests to keep to your shelf in the fridge.

Passive-aggressive wasn't in his vocabulary, you’re convinced. A plethora of dirty looks in his arsenal? Sure. Plenty of vulgar swears in Spanish? Absolutely. Miguel was not, however, passive-aggressive. Just… aggressive. Not angry, of course. Upfront. Abhorred any passivity and indolence: umm-ing and ahh-ing for the sake of it.

So naturally , you were sent to kill him.

You tiptoe around the apartment, avoiding him at all costs. At first, it wasn’t on purpose, just the awkwardness of your first meeting bleeding into the next week. But you dodge and weave like an expert boxer - particularly impressive in the small space. Miguel’s in the kitchen? Suddenly, you’re not very hungry. He’s curled up on the couch for a movie? Wow, look at the time: and you're heading to bed. You can’t read him very well, and don’t trust yourself enough to look him in the eye without fear of melting under his gaze. The few short interactions you have, you crumble; a brush against his shoulder in the kitchen, or legs against his on the dining table. Not that Miguel offers a peace branch, pursing his lips when you’d make eye contact, somewhat frustrated at your theatrics. Call it cliche: you’re avoiding confrontation at all costs. It manifests itself in peculiar ways: the Shower Incident being the most memorable.

The Shower Incident, aptly named, happened not too long ago. The apartment is old , as you soon learnt, coming with its own plethora of quirks. What you had first taken as character and charm - window seats and wood panelling - also came in the form of a building half falling apart. Creaky floorboards, leaky pipes, and a distinct lack of central heating. The discounted price, that had seemed like a bargain before, clearly lacked some creature comforts… like heating. And a working shower.

As you’d been in a rush, you clattered into the bathroom; stripping in no time at all. Bare feet on the tile, and you turn the knobs at the base of the shower unit. You’re not going to pretend you know how it works, just yet, but… it’s not rocket science, is it? The brassy spout sputters; but with no luck. Groaning from the pipes makes you jump, before huffing in frustration. This is not the time; late to yet another 9.00am? You want to be different this year: organised, put together, and on time to your lectures. On your tiptoes, you peer down the shower head hesitantly, like it’s the barrel of a loaded gun. With cruel irony, it sputters to life, sending a face-full of ice-cold water your way.There’s a scream, as you scramble at the handles, scurrying out of its brunt; desperately trying to turn it off.

Unbeknownst to you, Miguel leaps out of his room towards the shouting, with a fumble and clunk of his feet on wooden floor. He’s quick , hand hovering on the bathroom door before you can register it; his voice echoing outside.

“Are you…” There’s scuffling, which you can just about hear over the pounding of the water against tiles. “Are you okay, in there?”

You wince, stepping out of the shower – legs shaky like a baby deer – as you gurgle. “...Yeah?”

“Can I –” He clears his throat. “Are you.. clothed ? Can I come in?”

You scramble for something to cover yourself, settling for a plush towel on the rack. Wrapping yourself up, you brace yourself for the grimace that's sure to be on his face. Tentatively, you crack the door open. There Miguel is, face knitted with worry.

There's a flash of confusion at the scene, and then, what you think is relief. Relief you haven't cracked your head open, most likely: the blood would be hard to clean from the grout. You feel guilty, as you've probably broken it, or touched something you shouldn't. The shower is still on; sputtering, starting, and it becomes a strange sort of background music to your silent exchange.

"I don't know how to use the shower." You say with a small voice, guiltily.

" No me digas…" No shit, he mutters, face back to the furrowed brow you're starting to become more familiar with. He sighs, easing up. "You hurt?"

You shake your head, and swear you see a small smile on his face. You looked like a waterboarded rat, probably: big watery eyes and shaking with the sudden cold.

A mess , he thinks. But not a bad view.

He's still in workout clothes from his morning run, compression shirt and lazy shorts that hug his ass on; as he turns towards the shower. With some sense of shame, you try not to stare, to not watch the muscles of his back and arms flex as he angles the shower head away from his face. It's not enough that you've embarrassed yourself – twice, in the space of a couple of days – but the fact it was in front of your roommate, who is maybe the most beautiful person you've seen up close. Which, granted, narrows the field; but Miguel is gorgeous, a flash of pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates, wide palms toggling the dial.

"You need to be careful… push it in slightly when you turn the-" You crane your head towards his movements. "Come closer, or you won't see what I'm doing."

You move towards him, half naked and shivering, trying not to buckle with the heat of his body next to yours. This is what you get for not having spoken to a man since your ex: a tight coil at the base of your stomach for someone that you've done nothing but unwittingly terrorise for the past week.

He explains, patient and even-tempered; how to use the shower and you half-zone out to the low tone of his voice. There's no malice, or pomp in his words when there are a million things he could make fun of you for - that Jamie may have made fun of you for. You look up, at the sharp lines of his face, and chew at your lip, deep in thought.

"...and this side is for hot water. Next time, just ask me – instead of almost drowning."

You nod, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"...For what?" He says, softly. "Place is falling apart, anyway. It's not really your fault." You're convinced everything you touch in this house breaks, but with the way he looks at you, you believe him.

"Just ask me, next time." He echoes and makes for the door, stopping to drag his eyes up and down your frame. Oh… oh. You like that, the way he looks at you shamelessly, practically undressing you.

He smiles, amused at your deer-in-headlights expression.

"...I think that's mine."

He nods to the towel wrapped around your body and your eyes bulge out of their sockets. " Fuck , I didn't realise-"

He shrugs, noncommittal.

"...Seems like you need it more than me, anyways."

~~~

It's a rough first couple of days, and then a week, and then two. The rhythm is all off: like the jerky stop and start of an old car. He wakes up early to go on runs at the ass-crack of dawn, and you stay up late to finish papers and assignments. He has a job, you think, darting out at the same time once or twice a week in smart clothing and a backpack. Sometimes, you catch him hunched over a laptop or scribbling something in a beat up old notebook. Maybe, he’s a student - even if he doesn’t seem quite like the fresh-faced 19 year olds you see around campus. Although, you suppose it’s not implausible; you were one of the older people in your classes, after all. It’s hard to imagine O’Hara, stony-faced and serious, at a… dorm party, or something. To be that carefree, he’d need to get rid of that stick up his ass, first.

You’ve got a day off from lectures, using the time to catch up on the reading you should’ve done over a hectic break. The list seems to go on and on, already, this early into the year. Internally, you’ve made a promise to be on top of it all - the little hiccup with Jamie, notwithstanding. You’d knuckle down this morning, reading ( scanning) and summarising ( liberal use of the copy-paste function) in preparation for the rest of the semester. Miguel’s locked up in his room, somewhere, so you use the opportunity to spread out onto the dining table.

There’s a knock at the door that makes you look up from the muddle of words on your screen.

When you open the door, there’s a woman there with a notebook in hand. She’s pretty, in a classic sort of way, ginger braids cropped to her shoulders and lips slathered with gloss. Her outfit is relaxed, but carefully curated: a tight jumper and long brown legs stretching out from a black skirt.

“Hi.” She says, visibly keening. It’s clear she wasn’t expecting you, but she quickly recovers and gives you a blinding smile.

“...Hi,” Honestly, you’re a little confused. You haven’t seen her around the complex before; so who she was, you hadn’t a clue. Too pretty to be a door-to-door salesman, and too hot to try to convert you to Mormonism, you think. Whatever that means.

You wait expectantly, as a beat passes.

“Oh!” She laughs, and it sounds like puppies and rainbows, much too bright and airy considering the time of day. It makes her next words even more of a shock. “I’m looking for Miguel.”

With her last words, she steps a little closer; scanning the apartment from her vantage point. Something in you bubbles up, but you try to choke down the laughter.

“You’re looking for...Miguel?” Even out of your own mouth, it sounds absurd . The man had no friends, as far as you could tell. He seemed like the type to lock himself away in his enclosure, only stepping out for work, school, the bare minimum. In the short week that’s passed, his ‘enrichment time’ had consisted of a dry documentary on spider mating cycles - which had been a shock to walk into, the first time.

So someone here, at the apartment? Looking for him? Fidgeting, you scratch at your neck. “Uhh, I ca-”

“Sorry about that, Jia. You can have a seat.” His voice comes from behind you, and Jia breezes into the apartment, perching on the sofa. Legs crossed, she reaches into her bag, taking out a laptop and a pen and paper. He’s changed out of his workout clothes, donned in a loose white sweater and casual trousers - relaxed, for once. With a limp thud, you close the door. There’s an odd feeling as you look around at the scene: tension, and you feel like you’re interrupting. Miguel clatters around in the kitchen, fumbling for mugs and coffee filters and God knows what else.

“...was it two sugars, or three?”

“Three!” She throws over her shoulder, tapping away at her open laptop. “I like it sweet, Miguel.”

You squint. He laughs : a small chuckle that comes with a heat at the base of your stomach. Your head almost aches, trying to recalibrate; reconcile with the version of the person you’ve barely seen around the apartment to now - present, engaged, and personable. Exasperated is the only word for it. Miguel O’Hara was, in fact, capable of joy. Dickhead.

He barely acknowledges you, but Jia does; batting her wispy eyelashes in your direction, curious. The tapping stops, and she curls the corner of her mouth up with a hint of a smile.

“You gonna introduce me?” She calls out to Miguel, and then smiles to you; warm and genuine. It makes you feel a little more at ease. You catch the end of a sigh coming from the kitchen.

“Jia, this is my roommate.” He glances up to gesture towards you. “...this is Jia. I… help her out with work, sometimes.”

From the couch, she rolls her eyes. “He’s too modest. He’s my tutor, technically.”

With that, your eyebrows shoot up. Of everything you’d imagined him doing, tutoring students wasn’t one of them - especially considering he seemed barely out of college himself.

“...Technically?”

“He doesn’t like to advertise it, because he’s picky with his clientele.” She giggles and he scoffs. You get the feeling there’s a joke flying over your head, just out of reach. “Word gets out on campus that Miguel’s tutoring again…”

“ Vale, vale ,” He grumbles, but his tone is good-natured and light. “S’enough, Jia.”

She gives you a wink, before turning towards her work.

You walk towards your things, still on the dining table. He’s got his head buried in a kitchen cabinet and you look on, wanting to ask a lot of things. The words seem to die in your throat: too big, too small, not the right shape. She's a stranger; that knows where the coffee’s kept and the best spot on the couch. That makes Miguel laugh . You want to ask him about the stranger in your home; but you’re too scared he’d turn and point the finger at you.

He walks to the couch, balancing two cups of coffee. You look back. Next to him, her presence is an oddity - a blip in his carefully crafted universe. With the warm sheen of familiarity, she nudges his shoulder. Taking careful sips, he pointedly ignores her, tapping a finger at her screen - as if to say, pay attention. She smiles, wide; an asteroid across the depths of space, dazzling and brilliant in the night sky.

The exchange… it makes you think. If Miguel is the Sun, and Jia, a bright body in orbit: what’s your place in this four-walled cosmos? Where do you belong?

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