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minkieater · 3 days ago

Text

spiderhead → yj

tattoo artist!yeonjun x fem!reader

smut mdni, cheating, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship wc. ~6k

the buzz from tattoo guns spread across the room as if there were a swarm of bees — the shop was busy today. yeonjun’s mouth tasted of tobacco and menthol, his favorite combination, his index and middle fingers stained with the scent from years of use. he rain a hand through his hair, feeling the ends tickle his neck, before burying both hands in the soft, fleece lined pocket of his hoodie.

he made his way over to his station, checking his tools, cleaning up the area so he could prepare for his next client. the steps whirled in his head as they always did when he fixed his area: wash his hands, put gloves on, sterilize his tools, cover his equipment, disinfect all surfaces. he loved this part, the organization, having everything accessible to make his art easier to complete.

god, yeonjun loved his fucking job. just the plain idea of him drawing and coloring on people’s bodies, having his art stay there forever, it was magical to him. yeonjun knew in high school that he wanted to be a tattoo artist — he bought a shitty tattoo gun online, spent his weekends drunk in beomgyu’s basement leaving wonky doodles on his friends in places no one would ever see. at parties, people would beg him to whip out the tattoo gun, implore him to etch small designs on their skin on the big leather couch in soobin’s parents’ house.

those nights turned into lonely ones spent in his bedroom, cross hatching lines into fake skin on his desk, shading with pointillism in designs he’d seen on pinterest, smoke from his lit joint dancing into the air of his bedroom. he had a year long apprenticeship at a tattoo shop in the middle of brooklyn when he turned nineteen, he tried college for a year when he graduated high school but quickly realized it just wasn’t for him. now, four years later, he was thriving: he was booked, he was busy, he was a real fucking tattoo artist and made real fucking money.

he grabbed his phone to check the time before he started disinfecting, only five more minutes before his client was supposed to show. he scrolled his lock screen, eyes thinning when he read the notifications.

v: did u turn the lights off before u left v: if my electric bill is high again just know you’re paying that shit

his lips pulled into a line, thumbs moving a mile a minute.

yj: yes i turned them off yj: u dont have to remind me every single day

he locked his phone and set it face down on the counter that ran along the back of the shop, packed cabinets filled with saran wrap, disinfectant and ink caps underneath. he shook his head, irritation flooding his thoughts, he’d left the lights on one time and now he’ll never hear the end of it.

well over a year now, together but still not quite official — on and off but pretty much living together, yeonjun has spent more time in your bushwick apartment than he has at his own downtown. granted the shop was closer to your apartment than his own, but he’s always liked your apartment more, anyway. tall ceilings, funky art, maps and concert posters on the walls, a unique touch to your living space with your red lacquered kitchen cabinets and dark wood accents where his own looked cheesy and cheap in comparison.

two bedrooms, one full bathroom and a separate room just for the television and couch, yeonjun thought you were fucking loaded when he first stepped foot in your apartment. it had to be your parents paying your bills, or maybe you were a nepo baby – this is new york, after all – but as your relationship grew and he learned more about your occupation, how much you truly made between high commission and tips, he’d never thought a hairstylist could make so much fucking money.

both of you in your careers, working full time with the public, both creative people that spend their days creating art that lives on people’s bodies. your canvases were humans, walking, breathing pieces of scrap paper that you drew on, painted on, poked, cut, shaded. the two of you related to one another too much in too many areas, on too many levels, so many conversations about people and their critiques, their wishes, their families, their stories. if you and yeonjun could do anything, it was talk.

you’d met on your twenty first birthday, a little over a month after yeonjun’s twenty second. you and your girl friends and coworkers he later learned circled up on the dance floor with you in the middle, rolling your hips to the beat of the song, head tipped back in a drunken haze and a cocktail in your hand. he eyed you from the bar, thinking nothing of it other than the fact that you were a drunk twenty one year old about to be obnoxiously loud in his ear all night. he sipped his glass of whiskey, neat, tattooed fingers wrapping around the glass that dripped sweat onto his palm.

the bar was hot, too hot for the outfit he had on — oversized black hoodie with the hood over his head, black pants, boots on his feet. he was dressed for early november in new york, layered to fight off the chill of brooklyn, not for whatever the hell was going on in his favorite bar.

you approached him first, slurring over your words, tucking your hair behind your ear which was already tucked. you batted your eyelashes, your eyes glossed over in intoxication — yeonjun was not biting, he wasn’t interested in the slightest. he gave you a tight lipped smile, clinked his glass with your own and turned his attention away from you, a small gesture to say what you’re looking for is not me, keep it moving.

but when you strolled into his shop two weeks later as a walk-in and yeonjun had a cancellation, only then was he taking the bait, the bait you had no idea you were dangling from a hook right in front of his own two eyes. you didn’t seem to recall your interaction on your birthday, you didn’t seem to recognize yeonjun at all and that only made him curious.

you asked for a ruler along your index finger, two lines to show the public what two inches really is. he laughed at that, a small puff of amusement leaving his perfect plump lips just as the words left yours.

“is that stupid?” you asked, head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed in question but your eyes wide and he swore he could see them shine as you looked up to him. he was taken then, from just that one look in your eyes – he knew he was in trouble.

“not at all,” he said as she shook his head, smile still dancing on his cheeks, “it’s funny, i’ll take you back.”

you sat down on the bench, yeonjun went searching for a ruler in the cabinets lining the back of the shop. you spoke mindlessly about your job as he searched, immediately telling him a story about a client you had a few days ago who wanted a balayage and not highlights but they couldn’t decipher between the two — they insisted on highlights when what they were describing was clearly a balayage. you spoke with such enthusiasm, your mouth running a mile a minute, words spilling from your lips just as fast as you thought them.

yeonjun had no idea what you were talking about but he knew you were adorable — much different from when you first tried to pick him up at that bar. your eyes are bright, words controlled, movements sharp and alert. what did stay the same was the confidence, your outward extrovertedness made it so yeonjun didn’t have to say much, just nodding and listening to your little story as he tried his best to keep his head on straight.

“finger tattoos don’t last as long as they do on other parts of the body,” he interrupted as your story ended, finally pulling a small red plastic ruler from the cabinet to his left.

you shrug, “i figured as much, my hands are in water a lot, too.”

yeonjun sucked a breath in through his teeth, “that makes it even worse.”

“so what, i have to come back and get it touched up, then? big deal,” your hands came up at your sides, shrugging altogether, “as long as you still work here when i have to get it touched up then it’s fine.”

“already commending my work when i haven’t even done the tattoo yet?” yeonjun wears a lazy, teasing smile as he sits down on his stool, grabbing the arm rest for you to lay your forearm on.

“who said i was talking about the tattoo?” yeonjun’s eyes shot up at you who was already wearing a smirk, his lips parted ever so slightly. he immediately cracked a smile, shaking his head as he looked back down to your hand.

“that’s crazy,” he mumbled under his breath as he put the ruler up to your finger, then grabbed his pen from his tray to mark the inches. maybe you did know — maybe you were purposely dangling the bait, or maybe the two of you just had the same amount of interest in each other. maybe there was no bait to begin with.

“i don’t think it's crazy,” he didn’t expect you to hear him or respond, but it seems you don’t have a filter of any kind as you keep going, “you’re hot, i’m hot, we have a lot in common already.”

“we have a lot in common?” he raised an eyebrow, looking up to you again after marking the second inch, he grabbed a different pen to mark the eighths.

“we’re both creative, both work with the public, we have picky people as clients, have to listen to unrealistic expectations, both work in careers that aren’t super common — not common, maybe abnormal? or maybe i’m trying to say we can be abnormal because our careers aren’t super judgemental? appearance wise, i guess, whatever, anyways, we also both know how to talk to people, i can keep going…”

“so all we have in common are our careers?” he’s still playing along as he finishes marking out the lines, “how does that look?”

“looks good to me,” you say after a quick glance, barely an inspection of your finger, “pretty much, but our careers teach us a lot about ourselves. oh! and we can do art trades, i’ll do your hair and you give me tattoos.”

“are you bribing me or pimping yourself out?” the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the smile that paints itself on your face feigns innocence, he’d save that look for his sketchbook later tonight.

“maybe a little bit of both. are either of them working?” you cocked your head to the side again, swinging the feet that hung from the bench ever so slightly, careful not to kick anything in front of you. yeonjun had to reel himself in.

yeonjun had to be honest — with himself, and you — it started working the moment you stepped into the shop. you had no visible tattoos, a casual outfit on, sweatpants and a tee shirt that left just a sliver of skin between the hems of your clothes. your hair was done but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, you didn’t seem like anything special off first glance– in fact, you seemed the exact opposite of his type, the girls he usually went for. yeonjun was just as confused with himself as he was enamored by you.

“i don’t know, i think you might have to try a lil’ harder,” he faked a deciding face, eyebrows scrunched as he moved back in his stool, ushering for you to stand up. he looked at your finger from all angles, analyzing it as you stood to the side, lifting your hands, flexing your fingers as you stood. he was happy with his sketch, his outline, he was more then prepared to freehand a couple lines.

“you should let me try harder over some drinks if the tattoo comes out good,” your eyes were trained on your hand as you followed his instructions, moving your hands into every position he asked for.

yeonjun laughed at that, “if the tattoo comes out good? what, am i the one picking you up now?”

you shrugged as he ushered you to sit back down, “you might be, i’m trying to find out.”

he nodded with his lips pursed, folded into a frown that wasn’t exuding any sort of negative reaction, more impressed than anything. “fair game.”

your tattoo came out flawless, the lines he free handed onto your finger came out straight, perfect in thickness. as easy as it seemed, you knew the talent it took, the patience and a steady hand needed for such precision. after you paid, tipping him generously, your flirting returned with vengeance.

“i think we hit it off if i’m being honest,” you smiled, showing all of your teeth to the black haired man behind the counter, “do you have anyone else after me?”

he shook his head, “you’re my last, i had a cancellation.”

“oh my god– do you believe in fate? yeonjun, i think that’s what this is, i’m being so serious,” your eyes were wide, eyebrows shot up, smile wide. excitement bled from you, your veins, you were nothing but honest. so shameless, not a thought in your pretty little head that he’d reject you – he wasn’t sure if you’d care if he did.

he laughed, something he seemed to do too much during your entire service, his head hanging low in front of him before he picked it back up, looking at you who was already staring expectantly at him. “i don’t, but maybe if we go get drinks you can change my mind.”

you raised your fists, “i’ve won.”

the bar was halfway to your apartment, almost smack ass between the tattoo shop and your place. you’d been there before with your girlfriends, once or twice since your birthday – you could finally join in on the fun. yeonjun was dressed in all black, you’d soon come to find out he was always dressed in all black, and he never looked like he got enough sleep. you seemed so bright next to him, with your hair and your clothes and the plush keychains attached to your purse. you looked like total opposites, when you knew you had much more in common than what meets the eye.

that one night bled into the next year of your lives – something he was not expecting after your first interaction. it’s not like he’s never had a client try to bag him before, but something about you was different, it drove him insane that he couldn’t put a finger on it. he was used to playing games, always the winner, never the loser. he was used to confusion, being stuck in the inbetween, the gray area that sometimes came with relationships, or lack thereof. with you it was so straight forward, a slippery slope, not a hole he dug himself into but instead a well, one full of water, full of life. he never wanted to stop drinking from it, gulp after gulp, chugging until he was so full he thought he might spill over.

the spilling didn’t come until six and a half months in. your first two months were every man’s wet dream – he had every inch of you, every fistful of perpetually iron-curled hair, every corner of plush skin burned to memory – on every surface of your apartment and his.

in yeonjun’s past relationships, he never seemed to be the problem. if anything, he was the victim.

small fights to massive blown out arguments over petty shit, staying out too late with his coworkers at his favorite bar to beomgyu stealing him for a night out clubbing, missed texts and phone calls to going MIA for three days. yeonjun never seemed to understand what the issue was – petty arguments were never his thing, he’d rather stay silent than give into whatever the fuck his current plaything was yelling about this time. so what if he stayed out too late with his coworkers? he still came home. there’s no harm in a night out clubbing with his boys, she didn’t even know about the girl that was grinding against his dick all night, or the other one that had her lipstick smeared across his lips in the corner of the dark club. he went MIA for three days because his phone was dead, not because he had her number blocked. it was ridiculous, really, the things women would try and pin on him – yeonjun never seemed to think he was the issue at all.

the thought never crossed yeonjun’s brain that these behaviors were learned, or that he could teach them to anyone else. he never thought that his pretty, bright eyed new girlfriend would turn into a different version of himself – if she did, he’d be grateful, he thought himself pretty fucking cool – yeonjun never thought any of his behaviors were bad, but when yeonjun got a taste of his own medicine he knew he met his match.

he showed up at your apartment past midnight, drunk off his ass, clothes oozing whiskey, weed and burberry her. he let himself in with his key, the one you gave him after three months in, the one you told him to use whenever he wanted. he called out your name, searching from room to room, but you were nowhere to be found. he’d never shown up to an empty apartment, there’s never been a lack of you, cuddled up in a fuzzy robe, either under your duvet or sitting on the couch watching reruns of your favorite drama. yeonjun was confused, his dazed head couldn’t think up a proper reason for your absence, he decided to do what he absolutely fucking hated to be done to him.

he called you about thirty six times, texted you about forty two times. he also left four voicemails, not one of them nice.

he sat there on your couch – after a much needed shower, a bottle of water and a change of clothes you kept for him in your bottom drawer, he sobered up real quick. he felt more level headed, but he couldn’t ignore the anger that began to grow, a pit that sat heavy in his stomach: where the fuck were you? who were you with?

you damn near fell into the room an hour later, keys falling to the floor after you ripped them out of the door. you giggled to yourself, your heels in your hands, fingers curled into the heel of your black pumps. the strapless, sparkly scrap of fabric he could barely call a dress was crooked, your hair that was always purposely styled to perfection was a mess, your red lipstick was smudged down your chin. yeonjun’s seen this scene before, he’s done it, he’s lived it.

“who fucked you?” were the first words that left his mouth as he stood in the living room, oversized black clothes hanging off his frame like hade’s robes. the breath that left his nostrils was hot, burning his cupid’s bow, his jaw locked with his usually plump lips scrunched to a thin line.

you laughed – you fucking laughed. “you’re a fucking psychopath, junie. i just came back from a night with the girls!”

yeonjun was not buying it – he stepped closer. the stench of alcohol was masked by dior sauvage, a smell he knew too well, a smell that drifted past him as you nearly pushed him out of your way. yeonjun was dumbfounded and raging, his eyebrows furrowed together, his hands held out in front of him like he didn’t know what to do with them.

his girl, his only girl – well, other than the girl he made out with earlier – he couldn’t fathom the thought of someone else’s hands on you, being so close to you that you came home smelling like him. he followed you to the bathroom.

you were already stripped down bare – no bra and no panties to be seen on the pile on the floor with that thin scrap of fabric, yeonjun couldn’t collect his thoughts fast enough, his rage was creeping up his spine, sitting in his stomach like food poisoning, threatening to come out whether he wanted it to or not.

“you’re lying,” was all he could get out as you brushed through your hair, putting it in a tight knot atop your head, a small smile still sitting on your cheeks. he didn’t sound angry enough, his voice wasn’t stable, his feelings weren’t enough to give his voice ground to stand on.

“no i’m not,” you said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like your words were the honest to god truth. you turned to him, your best innocent look paired with that award winning smile, “wanna shower with me? or did you already when you came home from the club?”

yeonjun had a full body reaction, his eyebrows furrowed and his face scrunched up in disbelief and shock, for just a moment there he thought he might be insane. did he make that up? was the dior he smelled just remnants from being with beomgyu earlier? no, no he showered, that was all you. he was not insane. he stepped closer.

the smell of a shower he’d taken just an hour ago filled the room, the body wash that you always used was the only scent he could decipher. he took a breath, “you fucked someone.”

“i think you might still be drunk, baby,” you wore a fake pout, raising your right hand to run your thumb across his bottom lip, “happy anniversary, by the way. six months!”

that was the start of everything – his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend was buried somewhere, six feet deep in wet soil, replaced with something akin to a fucking monster. when yeonjun first met you, you had told him you had so much in common, yeonjun didn’t believe it, didn’t see it. he thought the two of you were polar fucking opposites, yet he liked you anyway, liked that you introduced him to a new type of relationship. while yeonjun spent six months subconsciously teaching you his own behaviors, you spent the time purposely teaching him quite a few of your own.

goodmorning texts to goodnight texts to facetime – yeonjun never did any of that shit before. yeonjun has never bought a single person a bouquet of flowers in his entire life. yet here you stood, his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend, in the middle of your salon surrounded by a herd of your coworkers with a bouquet signed ‘your junie <3 love you baby!’

his friends called him whipped, a simp, a cuck, every name in the fucking book because yeonjun adored you, and it was painfully obvious. you’d come to beomgyu’s garage, parading around in a mini skirt and your tiny little purse that yeonjun was sure only had lip gloss inside, getting him beers from the fridge and cracking them open, handing them to him with a smile and sitting straight on your throne: his lap. his friends adored you too, they couldn’t figure out what you saw in yeonjun – with his dark clothes, heavy tattoos that covered his body, bags under his eyes, black hair and too much metal through holes in his face. his friends were constantly flirting with you, getting you whatever you needed, they were the ones cracking beers and serving them to you, yet you were doing it for yeonjun.

yeonjun was filled with pride, he loved it. a trophy they could look at but never touch. he’d never had this type of relationship before, someone so obsessed with him, someone willing to wait on him hand and foot, he slipped deeper and deeper into an emotion he’d never experienced before without even realizing it.

the day he did realize it, that was when the true fun began, because while he was unconsciously slipping, swimming deeper into that well, you stood at the top, holding the rope, pulling bucket by bucket out of the well with that award winning, innocent smile etched into your skin.

you weren’t kidding when you said you’d do art trades, even his coworkers knew your face by now, taehyun two stations down always offered his services when you sat down on yeonjun’s bench. you giggled and flipped your hair, saying why would i do that when my boyfriend’s a better artist than you?

god, yeonjun loved to hear those words leave your lips. it was a bit the two of you did, taehyun acted as if he was shot through the heart, a poisoned arrow slipping straight through his skin, and yeonjun could hear the sweet melody of your giggle through the shop. yeonjun has filled up one of your arms by now and half of the other– a garden, flowers, bees, butterflies, tattoos that were so undoubtedly you he couldn’t even make fun of you for them. he wouldn’t expect you to have anything else.

his favorite, though, was the YJ right above your hip. it was in yeonjun’s own handwriting, a doodle he marked on your skin for life, late at night after too many drinks – it was like he was in high school again. that was four months in.

that night, yeonjun felt the closest thing to his entire world caving in on him – he needed to go. he stared at the scribble on your hip while his face was buried between your thighs, you were writhing above him, hands buried in his hair, you always looked so fucking gorgeous like that. instead of being focused on you, determined to push you over the edge like usual, yeonjun’s head was clouded – hazy. he wondered how a person he’d met by chance just a few months ago could become so important, so detrimental to his life, he feared he would be a shell of himself if you ever chose to leave him.

it terrified him. he’d never felt this way about anyone before.

before that night, your relationship was golden – yeonjun was something out of a dream, a hero, the prince in your story, you were convinced you’d spend your life with him. he was honest, he was smart, he told you everything that he had wrapped up in his complex, dark brain, and you accepted every word that came from his mouth, every thought that popped into his head.

when he left that night, hours after shoving a twelve gauge needle in your skin with ink the color of his hair, you didn’t stress. you woke with a panic, of course, where the hell did your boyfriend go? but after twelve hours of no response, a trip to his shop, a night spent in his favorite bar, hours bent over your ikea bed frame, you knew what this was. you recognized this fear, you saw straight through him, yeonjun wasn’t as masked as he thought himself out to be. you’d shared too much, you knew too much about one another for yeonjun to be anything but transparent.

you paid attention. late nights, coming home smelling like another woman’s perfume, earrings that fell from his pocket when you did laundry, long and short pink and blonde and brown pieces of hair found around every inch of your apartment – you looked at the tattoo that sat above your hip, you knew there was no one else for you in the world. if yeonjun wanted to play the game, you’d play it too, you’d play it better.

the first three or four or twenty two times you did it – yeonjun didn’t notice. you even sent him home in one of yeonjun’s tees, one of his favorites, one that you successfully convinced yeonjun he left at his own apartment. when he couldn’t find it there, it wasn’t your issue anymore – with half of your wardrobe in two different places, you’re bound to lose a shirt or two.

it was only when you got sloppy, when you wanted him to notice, that he did. two months in, six and a half months after your relationship began, he’d caught you and you were so fucking close to convincing him that he didn’t.

“we’re fucking done,” he was seething as you stepped out of the shower, wrapping a plush beige towel around your torso, no effort needed to keep yourself calm.

“why’s that?” you continued to feign innocence, stepping in front of the mirror to start applying your skincare, not even glancing at the man who stood next to you, his hands balled into fists.

“i know you fucked someone tonight,” his voice was stern, it was hideous on him. you loved the cool, calm yeonjun better – you loved your yeonjun, the one you spent endless nights with, looking through his sketchbook, where he showed you all of his doodles, his drawings, when he let himself be the most vulnerable. “there’s no use in denying it, v.”

“and what have you been doing for the past two months, yeonjun?” your head snapped to look at him, your voice matching his, cadence slipping into something more harsh, laying yourself bare for him. you supposed your time was up. his mouth opened and closed.

“great,” his head dropped, low, sarcastic laughter slipping from his lips, “you fuck someone and blame it on me? project your cheating onto me?”

“there’s no use denying it, jun. have you talked to beomgyu? maybe you should ask him what he did after he dropped you off.”

you physically watched his face turn red – ears hot, crimson bubbling up from his chest to his throat to his face – you had to stop yourself from smiling. he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, and you slept like a baby. freshly fucked, coming down from a solid drunk, you felt brand new.

it was a week before you saw him again – honestly, you were shocked it took that long. that gorgeous, long black hair that curled around his ears, peeked from the hem of his hoodie, you longed to touch it, feel it between your fingers. he looked like he hadn’t slept since the last time he saw you, his bags sat heavy, dark, in your entryway, key in hand. you wanted to take care of him, wanted him to get a good night’s rest – next to you.

you sat on your couch, not a muscle to be moved in his direction, the two of you just stared at each other from across the room. moments went by, you’re sure maybe a full minute, then he was pacing towards you.

“hello?” you asked in disbelief and concern before he was pulling you up by your wrists, smashing his lips against yours. his lips tasted of whiskey, neat, cigarette smoke, menthol. you thought maybe you were addicted to tobacco too from the way his mouth felt euphoric against yours, an old friend you’d missed. it’s only been a week but it could’ve been a year for all you knew.

“you’re mine, you know that?” he’d asked between kisses, his mouth swallowing yours, his tongue stealing the words you couldn’t begin to think let alone speak. instead you nodded into his lips, fingers tangling in his hair, body forcing itself into his, you missed him. you missed his smell, his touch, the feeling of him against you, you missed everything. you never wanted to part from him again.

he had you split open on the couch as he knelt on the floor, head between your thighs again, eyes trained on the YJ that sat on your hip. he hadn’t seen it in a week, his brand on you, his initials that were inked into your skin for the rest of your life – he missed being between your legs, missed tasting you, missed taking everything you had to fucking offer. he missed you, his other half, the monster he created, his comfort, his home.

yeonjun would be lying if he said he was willing to part ways with you, but he’d also be lying if he said he was willing to acknowledge to the full extent of what he felt for you. yeonjun felt betrayed, played, messed with, like you snuck into his brain and plucked every single thought out of his head and fucking warped it. god, he loved you. he was so scared.

he told you as he barreled into you, fucking you like he hated you, whispering those words in a choked breath over and over into the shell of your ear. he couldn’t believe he was admitting it, couldn’t believe he was saying those three little words – you’re different, you’re everything. he loved you.

the months to follow were dancing right on the edge, together, but not quite. apart, but were you ever really apart? every night, wrapped in your sheets or his sheets – always someone’s sheets, always together. you never discussed sleeping with beomgyu, yeonjun never brought it up again, he looked back at that moment in his head and all he saw was weakness, a time where he let you slip away – let you get away from him. you never spoke of it, but it was always there, between the two of you like a wall.

that wall that stood between you was tall and rock solid, unlike the glass doors to yeonjun’s head, yeonjun’s thoughts, that wall of his was unbreakable – even when he came home smelling like burberry her again no argument in the world could pry that night out of him again.

you knew better this time than to try with beomgyu again, he hadn’t reached out since the night yeonjun left your apartment, you knew better than to try with anyone. instead of fighting fire with fire, you got distant, you spoke less, you asked less, you tried less. you became the ghost of his pretty, bright eyed girlfriend, one that had been to hell and back, one that learned from her mistakes. you became a reflection of yeonjun.

yeonjun checked his phone after his client, only two hours had gone by, surprisingly enough. it was a solid first session for his client’s leg sleeve, but his bones were aching, his eyes sore from being focused for so long.

v: you left the fucking lights on

#choi yeonjun #yeonjun x y/n #yeonjun x you #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun #tomorrow x together #txt smut #txt x you #txt x reader #txt fanfic #txt #i have a crush on choi yeonjun

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jacky93sims · 10 months ago

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Hi Ilenya! I absolutely LOVE your Chateau kitchen conversions, they are absolutely gorgeous? Could you maybe also convert the upper cabinets (the closed and open ones) and the big stove hood thing for the wall from this set?

CHATEAU Kitchen Cabinet and Shelves for The Sims 2

These are 4to2 conversions from Felixandre, low poly. They can be combined with the Kitchen Cabinets I have already made. I added a bunch of slots to the shelves. 12 colors.

It was not possible to make the Stove Hood because it's so high it goes to the second floor ahahah.

DOWNLOAD HERE

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remodelproj · 2 months ago

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Lime Green combined with wood finished cabinets in Kitchen. More of a "bright" color combination.

#kitchen #interior design #residential #architecture

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houseoptimizer · 2 years ago

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Cello Novelty Compact Plastic 2 Door Cupboard with Shelf(Brown)

Price: (as of – Details) Primary Material: Plastic. Locking Facility : NoColor: Brown, Style: ContemporaryAssembly Required: The product requires basic assembly and comes with assembly instructionsWarranty: 1 year against manufacturing defectsGreat finish, amazing designElegant, versatile and durable Plastic Molded storage cabinet

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exorcqism · 10 months ago

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❛ INFINITY — 無限大

choso x f!reader ﾉ MDNI

𑂻𑂴 summary. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𓂃ㅤ choso’s recurring dream starts to bother him and makes him depressed. wc, 2.17K. dark mode recommended

𑂻𑂴 tags. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𓂃ㅤ choso (non-curse), mid 90s AU, nsfw, female anatomy, stoner!choso, mentions of suicide, possible sexual content, canon/modern lore mixes, etc.

𑂻𑂴 a/n. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𓂃ㅤ GOOD stuff will happen in the next part i promise. reblog to support meeee and enjoy :D (lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next part)

𑂻𑂴 misc. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𓂃ㅤ masterlist ,, AO3

same tree, same bright sun, pure silence.

choso was under by a large tree in the park. a familiar area he’s seen more than he could count on both his hands and feet. he wore a white robe and a pair of brown boots. to him, it was an odd combination of clothing but he could get used to it.

for the first time in a while, his hair was pinned up in his two spiky buns, leaving his little bangs to hang above his head. choso’s eyes scanned around the empty field that was accompanied by a single picnic table. his slim eyebrows drawing together at the simple sound of grass being stepped on.

“brother,” he heard a voice call and then there was another voice. they sounded excited about his presence. his cheeks flushed a pink color as salty tears formed in his eyes, threatening to fall once he seen his two younger brothers before him.

the male’s hands trembled as he watched the two hold their arms out to him, waiting for him to join them. he always refused this offer, shaking his head quickly while tears poured down his cheeks. there was a reason why he refused.

“i miss you both, more than anything.” choso finally gave in. his arms were wrapped tightly around the males in front of him while he cried and finally flashed a genuine smile. but there was nothing. choso was lying in the grass, crying and laughing, not even realizing what had happened.

until he opened his eyes.

he felt something lightly poking his side while he eyes stared into nothingness with disdain. his small purple irises would peer behind him, meeting his little brother, yuji’s brown eyes.

“choso, i’m hungry,” he whispered as if he were trying not to wake the male up. as bad as choso wanted to shout, he swallowed and sat up.

“okay, just…gimme a minute, okay?” choso rubbed his eyes and slowly got out of bed. his hair was disheveled and he looked like he hadn’t slept. usually, he’d take his time and go do his hygiene but the most he could do was shower and brush his teeth.

after that, the male would grab a cigarette and light it as he grabbed a bowl from the cabinet to make pancakes. he took a glance at yuji, lifting the cigarette.

“don’t smoke. it’s not good for you.” he advised before taking a drag from it. yuji decided not to ask anymore questions. he would nod and sit with his brother in the kitchen as his breakfast was being made.

“you look tired,” yuji started, “are you okay, did you sleep?”

“yeah, i slept.” choso rasped before clearing his throat. “it’s normal to—feel tired after you just wake up. i’m going back to sleep after you eat.”

once the pancakes were finished, he’d place the plate in front of yuji and then a cup of chocolate milk shortly after.

“make sure you eat all of it. if you don’t want it put it in the microwave….or give it to me, i don’t care. just don’t waste it.” choso said. yuji nodded quickly, thanking choso as he seen the dark haired male traveling to the couch and putting his cigarette in the ashtray before turning over to sleep.

“big brother,” choso heard a familiar voice whisper. it had been about ten minutes into his catnap until he was interrupted by the voice. he shot up from the cushions of the couch, where his face was buried, sweating and panting until he noticed yuji.

“oh….”

“choso, are you okay? i was about to ask if i could go see megumi today. i’ll climb the fence to get there so i don’t have to go through the front door.”

“i…” all the male could do was stare at yuji in a daze. he was staring as if his little brother was talking gibberish. “uh…yeah, go ahead, just don’t hurt yourself.”

yuji smiled and hugged choso before running upstairs, seemingly to go change into some new clothes and pack some things to take with him next door. choso just let out a loud sigh.

hours went by quicker than expected. the neighbors next door letting choso know that yuji would be staying for a few days, only if it was okay with him. choso was still in a bit of a daze and he was starting to feel sick after drinking beers and smoking cigarettes instead of eating.

as he laid still, curled up on the bed, blood was starting to seep from the bandage over his nose, staining his pillow and part of his blanket. the male was too drunk to care though.

upon hearing his phone ringing, he slowly reached for it and answered, not bothering to check who was calling. pushing the device against his ear, he spoke.

“what?” he slurred.

your heart skipped a beat when you heard the male’s deep voice reverberate over the phone and back to you. a smile appears on your face, followed by a light blush.

“hey, you good?” you ask as you place your phone down on the vanity and reach for some nail polish and beginning to paint your fingernails.

“i’m-” choso hiccuped, “i’m really dizzy. and i got blood everywhere and i keep hearing stuff…”

you paused, furrowing your eyebrows, “um…do i need to come over? you don’t sound okay.” there was a silence over the phone before a long sigh was heard.

“no. don’t come over. i don’t like other people in my house. i’m so scared of people.” he groaned, his words still slurring. you shake your head, obviously concerned about his situation.

“no, i’m coming over, send your address.” you insist. “you sound sick and tired. i’ll bring you something to eat too. did you eat?”

“i…” he went quiet. “no…”

“oh my goodness,” you mumbled. you would stand up from your vanity and begin to get dressed, putting the nail polish in your pocket since you decided that you’d finish your nails at his place.

“i’m sorry…” he continued softly, his voice sounding a bit weaker than before. “are you still coming? i’ll send you my address like you asked.”

“yes, choso, i’m still coming. just relax…and go wipe your face if you can.” you say, pulling a coat over your shoulder and grabbing your house keys.

“okay…” you heard choso groan before hanging up.

you sighed, putting your phone in your pocket as you were exposed to the cold weather outside. snowflakes were falling and ice was starting to cover the ground. you head to your car and drive to a nearby fast food restaurant, getting choso and yourself something to eat.

your phone vibrates and you check to see what it is as you sit in the parking lot of the restaurant, eating a bit of your own food as you did. it’s from choso. ‘here’s my address..’

you put the address into your navigation and start to drive in the direction to where choso lived, sighing at the weather conditions periodically.

the door opens slowly when you arrive to choso’s place. he peeks out, eyeing you drunkenly before pulling the door open a bit more. you can see the blood streaming down his face while his eyes drooped downward and the black rings around his eyes darkened.

“you look a mess,” you sigh, pushing yourself through the door because you still didn’t have that much space to get through. you place the food down onto the kotatsu table in the living room and take choso by the hand to take him to the bathroom.

you clean the dry blood and the new blood from his face and trashed the bandage that he always had over his nose.

“you need to give it some air. that’s probably why it bleeds so much.” you say. “come on, let’s go eat.”

when you both made it back to the living room, you would sit down at the table and give choso his food, to which he stared at for a short moment before snapping out of it.

“thank you,” he whispered before silently eating his food. while he’s eating, you notice that he was dozing off and you were about to wake him but his head shot up. you gave a concerned look.

“are you sure you’re okay?” you ask.

“i’m fine,” he yawned before getting up to grab another beer. “you know that dream-” choso pauses to hiccup. “that dream i was talking about? it’s bothering me.”

he lights another cigarette and sits down with you again. “so, i decided to drown myself in alcohol and cigarettes until i die….i wanna see my brothers so bad.”

you quickly take the can of beer from him just after he takes a sip and held it close to you. choso just made a face as if he weren’t very fazed by your action.

“i expected that…”

“talk to me,” you query, “what about the dream that’s bothering you, is it that it’s repeating over and over again?”

“it repeats so much in my head that it drives me insane.” choso replies. “earlier i almost screamed at yuji because i was thinking too much and it made me nervous and upset. it’s hard to go to sleep because i can hear my brothers calling my name.”

choso stops talking, seemingly expecting you to add your input on the situation but you’re completely stunned. hearing him basically say he wanted to kill himself was bothering you enough.

you throw your arms around choso, disregarding the smell of alcohol mixed with cigarettes on his body. choso was looking down at you with his hair covering his eyes. hesitantly, he put his arms around you.

“please don’t hurt yourself over this,” you whisper. “i know it’s tough and it bothers you so much but your brothers wouldn’t want you to end your life for them…especially while you’re drunk. they’d want you to keep going. and who would take care of yuji?”

“i trust you to take him…he really likes you.”

“i can’t replace his brother.” you softly combated, your hand now rubbing his lower back, trying your best to comfort him. “talk to me choso. how did the dream go?”

“do you want me to…sleep?” he asked. you were expecting him to just recite what he remembered but you could tell he needed some shut eye anyway. you nod and let him lay on the couch.

again. the same thing over and over. it’s so vivid choso could feel the environment. he could feel a change if there was one. the cold hands of his brothers touching his face and their wispy voices filling his ears.

it’s a beautiful day. but he hates this day. for some reason it makes him happy. maybe it’s so twisted because he’s so intoxicated.

it happens again. he’s lying in the grass, crying and smiling with nothing beneath him. not even his brothers to hold onto him like they used to.

but he felt something finally put their arms around him. it made his tears fall faster and his face was hot.

“i feel horrible,” choso mumbled. “i’ve done too many attempts to die but they don’t work. why won’t it work?”

“it’s not your turn. keep going.”

his eyes opened and he was teary eyed all over again. you hugged him again and when he hugged you back, it felt more secure and alive than before.

“did you figure anything out?”

“i can’t throw my life away. not yet.”

you smile softly and you kiss his cheek, wiping his tears away as you did.

“don’t cry, you’re okay.” you whispered to him. the way choso was holding onto you, it seemed like he didn’t wanna let go of you.

later on that night, choso finally sobered up a bit, being able to handle himself instead of you carrying him around, giving him assistance. the two of you were lying on the bed together, talking about whatever came to mind to remove the tension in the room.

topics switched consistently from movies to what would it be like to be living someone else’s life who’s got it all together.

“are we like…a thing now?” choso asked you, his head turning slightly into your direction after blowing cigarette smoke up towards the ceiling.

you smile, “do you wanna be a thing?”

“uh…i don’t know, i never had a girlfriend…or talked to a girl before besides my teachers back in high school.” he said quietly. you giggled.

“look, let’s try it out and see how it goes. if it doesn’t go well, we can always be friends, okay?” you said in a suggesting tone. choso looked nervous.

“what if you don’t like it right away, what if it goes bad?”

you kissed him on his lips, quickly taking his breath away. his cheeks were hot and flushed. when you moved away from him, he looked like he had just seen stars.

“can you do that again?”

ending notes. OKAY SO ….apparently the desire disease did pretty good for its first part so i’ll write another part and see how that goes. if ya wanna be tagged for that, lmk. i’ll have another part for this up soon. uhhh sorry for any mistakes if i made any. bye byeee and remember;; reblogs and comments are appreciated

tags. 🏷️ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ @sad-darksoul @aiyaaayei @a1-ic3 @exinqiu @sex4vivienne

#jujutsu kaisen #𝐄𝐗𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐈𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𖦹゛#anime #jjk #choso kamo #jujutsu kaisen choso #jjk x reader #jjk choso #choso x black!reader #choso x reader

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leslie-lyman · 10 months ago

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Menagerie

Part of the Euclidean Geometry ‘verse

Summary: Early on in their relationship, when everything is new and exciting and uncertain, Pero introduces their girl to his work as a glass artist.

Pairing: modern!Pero Tovar x Frankie x Jack x nameless!OFC/f!reader (written in third person, reader is only referred to as she/her, with no physical descriptors)

Word count: 3.9k

Rating: Explicit 🚨 absolutely no minors!

Warnings: smut; mentions of sex between everyone in this polycule (Frankie x Jack x Pero x reader), but the actual smut is just Pero x reader; unprotected PIV; completely unregulated POV switching; that thing where I write all the dialogue in italics instead of using quotation marks because it just feels right for this series for some reason?; everything your author mentions here about glassmaking she learned from YouTube/Google

a/n: look mom, I actually finished a fic again! Maybe my ability to write hasn’t abandoned me after all…?

Masterlist.

———

She notices the sculptures the very first time they take her home. (Though not, she must admit, until the morning after, having been awfully distracted the night before by the attention Frankie, Pero, and Jack lavished her with on the way to their bed.)

Three glass animal figures sit together in a proud display in the living room built-ins next to the fireplace: a falcon, wings spread wide and claws poised to attack; a rearing horse, tall and magnificent; and a bull, one hoof raised and head lowered as it prepares to charge.

They are Pero’s work. In his post-Army career he now runs a small but highly regarded workshop of glass artisans, all veterans like himself.

His talent is obvious. Each feather in the falcon’s wings is rendered in exquisite detail. The horse stands on just his back two feet, perfectly balanced. The bull’s pose denotes a gracefulness underlying all that brute strength. They feel alive.

It’s the three of them, they tell her.

Frankie, the pilot, is the falcon. Precise, controlled, deadly. Vigilant. Protective.

Jack, the cowboy, is the horse. Proud, independent, wild. Confident. Courageous.

And Pero, of course, is the bull. Strong, stubborn, fierce. Masculine. Powerful.

There’s evidence of his work elsewhere in the house the three of them now share. Their kitchen cabinets are full of mismatched glasses, bowls, and plates, many of them early versions of new techniques or designs Pero worked to master before offering them as options to clients. The base of an end table in the den is a cresting glass wave nearly three feet tall. Brilliantly colored vases that sell for thousands at the workshop line either side of the back deck steps, filled with impatiens and begonias carefully tended by Frankie.

Pero asks her to come to the workshop with him one day, and she can sense without being told that such an offer is significant. It’s still early on in…whatever this is between her and the three of them. Early enough that it hasn’t solidified yet, it hasn’t settled. She wants them, all of them, and they want her (all of her), but whether the fantasy can manifest as reality is uncertain. Can they all rearrange their lives enough to build something lasting, something real?

Pero has been the hardest to figure out. He is the quietest of the men, the least quick to laugh, the last one to betray what he’s thinking. He fucks like he wants to consume her, devour her, and yet he can be as gentle as Frankie or Jack when he’s done, silently cradling her to his chest as long as she wants as they come down from their highs. He’s much less forthcoming about himself than the other two are, and she’s far less sure about what he wants.

It’s a chilly Sunday morning when she meets him at the workshop. It’s the first time she’s spent any real time with him alone, her stomach full of an odd combination of excitement and nerves.

He takes her in through the gallery of finished works at the front of the building. Bright lights and mirror-backed shelves show off the many pieces, from large imposing sculptures to tiny coupe cocktail glasses that sparkle and glimmer. The middle of the space is dominated by a sculpture of a dragon-like creature larger than she is, its many-fanged mouth open in a roar and its skin a rich rippling green.

Pero doesn’t give her time to linger, however, leading her quickly into the back where the workshop itself is housed. A tension in his shoulders loosens when they enter, and she gets the sense that he isn’t interested in showing off his finished pieces. It’s the process of creating that he likes, that he needs.

If the gallery is bright and shiny and polished, the workshop is a dark, gritty warehouse-like space. Multiple forges line one wall, and it is clear each artist has their own space set up here. Pero’s space is near the back, tucked into a corner. Various tools and implements hang from the walls and rest on tables: blowpipes of every length, tweezers, pliers, clamps, paddles, torches, molds. It looks a little like a medieval torture chamber.

Despite the cavernous feel of the space, it’s warm inside; the forge nearest Pero’s corner is already lit and glowing. She sheds her jacket, leaving her in a soft chambray button-down shirt and black leggings. Pero gives her a gruff explanation of safety basics and insists that she wear a pair of enormous clear safety glasses.

Really, Pero?

Do not argue with me, querida.

The endearment is new, and makes her shiver.

You make all the girls you bring here wear these, hm? She says it playfully, but there’s curiosity behind it.

I have only brought two others here, and Jack and Francisco wore the glasses without complaint.

That pulls her up short, but Pero merely hands her the glasses and busies himself with his tools.

She’d assumed at first that this would be entirely a demonstration on Pero’s part, with her as mere spectator. Normally the idea of a date spent watching a man show off some skill to try and impress her as a one-woman audience would make her roll her eyes. But Pero isn’t boastful about any of this. This isn’t about his ego. He’s letting her in, showing her things that are important to him rather than telling her.

And, she quickly discovers, she’s hardly expected to sit idly by and observe.

Pero loads the tip of a pipe nearly as tall as she is with a glowing lump of molten glass the size of a softball.

Glasswork is rarely a solo endeavor, he tells her. Large pieces often require an entire team of people working in sync. Even small pieces necessitate a partner. It takes not only speed and skill, but also constant communication and trust to successfully bring a piece to life.

As he speaks, he rests his pipe against the edge of a table and rolls it back and forth, helping the glass to keep its roughly oval shape.

Give it a try, querida. He offers the end of the pipe to her.

It’s heavier than she’d anticipated, the heat of the glass sinking through her clothes like the rays of a tiny sun. Her first few rolls of the pipe are too fast, but after a minute she begins to get the hang of how to keep the glass from bending and morphing under its own weight.

Good, Pero says, and suddenly there’s a flare of heat in her stomach. Keep that steady turn all the while, and bring it over here.

There’s a large tray set out on the end of the table, filled with tiny squares of glass in shades of blue and green and milky white. Pero instructs her to roll the glass on the pipe through the squares like a lint roller until there’s a rough coating covering it. It’s an oddly satisfying sensation, the molten glass acting like putty or taffy that grows steadily less pliant as it cools.

Now we take it back into the forge, Pero says, and she gives him room to take the pipe from her, but he merely gives her an encouraging nod of his head toward the forge.

The opening into the heart of the furnace isn’t terribly large, maybe a foot or so in diameter. But the heat roars from it with a power she can feel, rather than hear. It throbs and beats at her like a warning.

She hesitates, but then Pero’s arms are around her, gently but firmly grasping the pipe on either side of her hands.

Like this, he murmurs in her ear as he guides the ball of glass into the belly of the forge. She’s intently aware of every inch of him pressed up behind her, the firm wall of his chest and his slightly softer belly, so close she can feel him breathe.

He likes to fuck her from behind, she’s found.

Every time they’ve had each other, in the handful of times they’ve been intimate thus far, Pero’s put her on her hands and knees, his impossibly big hands holding her down as he fucks her with his impossibly big cock. He likes to wait until Frankie and Jack are done and spent, their cum dribbling out of her or dripping down her skin, before rolling her over and sinking deep into her heat. His grip is firm and possessive, his fingers insistent at her clit. He never fails to make her come with a pace just the right side of too much, the other men soothing her with soft praises of good girl and you take it so well for him, sweetheart.

It’s an automatic response now, the fire that blooms in her belly when she feels him at her back that has nothing to do with the flames licking the molten glass in front of her.

————-

She somehow manages to concentrate on the tasks at hand enough to safely move through the rest of the process.

Fire the glass, roll it, shape it, fire it again, push, pull, fire, roll, shape, fire…

How did you learn to do this? She asks Pero, holding the pipe steady for him while he plucks at the glass with a massive pair of pliers.

My father, is all he says at first. She lets the ensuing silence be, lets him decide if he wants to elaborate. He does.

My father was a glassmaker. When I was a boy in Spain, I would spend every spare minute in his workshop. He taught me everything he knew. I would watch him craft beautiful things out of nothing, shaping and coaxing the glass to his will in an act of creation. He was like a god in my eyes.

She tries to square this information with the little she already knows about Pero’s life.

Why did you leave Spain?

He plucks the pipe from her hands and returns to the forge. His grip is so sure, his movements so fluid. When he returns to her, he passes her the rod and picks up the pliers.

My father died. I was fourteen. My mother moved us to America, and I was full of grief and teenage rage. A combination I was all too happy to let the US Army exploit.

This part she’s heard. Twenty years in the Field Artillery, operating mobile rocket systems and infantry support guns, leading men and their weapons into combat zones across multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. A life lived under fire.

But you found your way back to this, she says.

He looks up at her from where he crouches over the glass, now taking shape as a small vase.

It is the only other thing I know how to do.

She frowns at his modesty, but before she can respond he beckons her around the other side of the table they’re working at. He’s rolled and pulled the glass until no more than a slim column connects the bottom of the base to the pipe. He puts on thick heat-resistant gloves and cradles the vase, instructing her to tap ever-so-gently at the connecting sliver of glass with a small mallet.

With a barely perceptible chink the column breaks, freeing the vase. Pero then fires the bottom of the vase with a handheld blowtorch to smooth it out, and settles the vase into the bowl of a large round kiln for the final cooling process.

The vase stands maybe ten inches high, vaguely v-shaped with a flat bottom. The once bright orange ball of molten glass is now a brilliant turquoise, speckled with the tiny green and blue and white fragments she’d rolled it in. The rim is uneven, pulled and twisted by Pero’s pliers and it makes her think of the edges of a crashing wave.

She stands next to him and looks down at it before he closes the lid to the kiln. It’s small and simple and doubtless less polished than what Pero could have made with a more experienced partner, but it’s theirs.

We made that, she says, turning and giving him a shy smile.

His lips quirk up - not quite a smile, but there’s a softness to his expression that makes her breath catch.

A satisfying process, no? He asks. She nods. The moment stretches between them, the silence not awkward, but instead full of a warm, quiet intimacy.

Come on, pretty girl, Pero murmurs, reaching up to gently remove the safety glasses from her face. Let’s clean up.

Somehow she finds even the sight of him returning every tool back to its proper place, knowing exactly where each piece goes so that it’s ready for the next time he needs it, terribly attractive.

She catches his hand after everything’s put away, pulling his focus.

Thank you, she says, for this. Thank you for letting me in, for revealing this part of you, she doesn’t say, but hopes he knows that’s what she means. I’d…I’d love to do this again sometime.

He brushes his other hand across her cheek.

Anytime you like, querida.

She moves in to kiss him and it’s soft in a way she hasn’t felt from Pero before. He pulls her flush against him and simply holds her there, lazily exploring her mouth. He smells like sweat and heated metal, and she turns her head to lick the salt from the skin of his neck. A sound rumbles from deep in his chest, and the moment goes white-hot in an instant.

Touch me, Pero, she whispers. Put your hands on me.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides one hand to the back of her neck to yank her lips back up to his, the other disappearing into her leggings to grab a fistful of her ass. He swallows the pleased little gasp she makes, greedy for more.

He backs her up against the side of his workbench, moving to unbutton her top. Once he has access he pulls down the cups of her bra and turns his full attention to her breasts, kneading the soft flesh with his hands and laving his tongue over her nipples.

Her fingers run through his hair, longer than Jack’s but with curls less unruly than Frankie’s. His hips press against hers and she squirms against the bulge in his jeans, searching for friction.

Need more, baby? He coos up at her, a wicked glint in his eye.

Need you, Pero, she whines.

He straightens and turns her around to bend her over the workbench, curling his fingers in the waistband of her leggings to yank them down and expose her gorgeous ass to him…

Wait.

He freezes.

Could we…I want…

He runs a soothing palm over her hip.

What do you want, pretty girl?

She twists back around to face him. He lets himself be nudged backward until he feels the edge of a nearby chair behind him and sits. She towers over him now, and he looks up at her with one brow raised.

I want to see you, she says shyly, and his blood heats. He slowly spreads his legs in invitation.

She slips out of her shoes and shimmies her leggings and panties off, then similarly loses her shirt and bra. He reaches for her with a growl and hauls her into his lap. She goes willingly, wrapping herself around him as his hands rove over every inch of her skin. This time their kiss is messy and desperate, and when Pero trails a hand down her stomach and finds the soft hair of her mound to pet at her clit, she whimpers into his mouth.

You want it? He rasps. She nods frantically, their noses brushing.

Then take it out, pretty girl.

She undoes his jeans and frees the stiff length of his cock, pumping him slowly, drawing bead after bead of precum from the tip.

But then her grip falters.

This is okay, right?

Pero frowns at her, confused.

What I mean is…I know we talked about it, and you all said it was okay, that we don’t always all have to be together, but…

Ah, so that’s her concern. Something wild and beastly claws at his ribcage in triumph at the realization that he’ll be the first of them to have her all to himself.

It is more than okay, he reassures her, smoothing a thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. We told you we can each take our pleasure from the others whenever we wish, and none of us is a man who says things he does not mean. Least of all to those we care for.

He can feel her body relax at that, and he tilts her chin and draws her in for another kiss. Her hand starts to move up and down his cock again, the tip of him grazing the pillowy skin of her inner thigh with each pass, and a hiss leaves his mouth at the sensation.

This will not go the way you intend if you keep that up, he warns her. A newfound deviousness unfurls itself in her grin.

Maybe this is what I intend, she says. Maybe I want you just like this, hard and aching in my hands until I make you come all over yourself -

He cuts her off by crashing his lips to hers, stilling her movements on his cock and hooking one hand under her ass to push her up until his length prods against her entrance.

Perhaps, he murmurs, perhaps one day if you’re a very, very good girl, I’ll let you have such a way with me. But for now - he notches himself just inside the slick rim of her pussy - put me inside you.

She obeys, working herself down on him inch by inch. When he’s fully seated inside her she sighs as if in relief, a dazed look in her eyes. There’s a distant thought in the back of her head that despite the workshop being closed today, one of the artists could still walk in unexpectedly at any moment, but she can’t bring herself to care.

They make twin sounds of pleasure at the first swirl of her hips. As her body adjusts to his size she finds her rhythm, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she rides him.

And god, what a sight.

She knows what sex with Pero feels like. She knows what it sounds like, smells like, tastes like. But none of those things has prepared her for what it looks like. What he looks like, as they move together, face-to-face for the first time.

The clench of his jaw, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. The tendons that pop and strain in his neck. The dewy sheen of sweat across his brow. And his eyes…

She could fall forever into the endless black abyss of his eyes, she could lose herself entirely in their depths and never look away and would be thankful for it. How could she not be, when he looks at her with such unrestrained want that she feels it like a physical thing…

She brushes a thumb over the scar that bisects his left eye, as if she could soothe the long-ago wound with present tenderness. She knows it’s far from the only scar he carries, and would that she could heal them all through sheer force of will.

Pero swirls his thumb around her clit, bracing his feet as he begins to meet her hips with thrusts of his own. Her movements stutter as her control over her body wavers. She becomes nothing more than molten desire in his hands, to be molded and shaped and consumed by flame as he sees fit. The pressure he puts on her clit is unrelenting, and this is familiar, the way he doesn’t coax an orgasm from her, but demands it. It builds and builds in between her legs and when she would close her eyes and tip her head back to welcome it he grabs her chin to stop her.

Look at me, he pants. Look at me when I make you come, querida. Look…

It starts as a command, but ends as a plea.

The tension bursts inside her, and her cry of his name and the way her climax tightens her pussy around him like a vice pulls him headlong over the edge with her. He cums with a roar, pulling her down on his cock as he empties himself as deep as he can inside her.

It’s a long minute before they both fully come back to themselves, breathing hard as their bodies milk every last drop of pleasure from each other. She collapses into his chest, and he’s content to hold her there for as long as she wishes.

We can do that again anytime you like too, he says quietly in her ear, and she smiles into his neck.

——————

There’s no big reveal, no fanfare or presentation when it happens. She simply comes home one day (and funny, how she’s started to think of it as home, how her apartment has become merely a place where most of her things are, including the vase she’d made with Pero, but not where she lives) and there it sits on the shelf, catching her eye immediately.

The falcon, the horse, and the bull, now clustered around a fourth statue.

A lioness.

She moves towards it as if pulled by gravity. The beauty of it steals her breath. The great cat is posed sitting, tall and elegant, her body at a three-quarters position but her head turned to look straight out at the viewer. Her tail is wrapped neatly around her, and her tiny delicate ears are alert.

What do you think? says a soft voice behind her. It carries an uncharacteristic hint of uncertainty.

She doesn’t turn, doesn’t need to look to know the man behind her is the one who made this.

She’s gorgeous, she murmurs.

Pero hums low in his throat, and comes to stand over her shoulder.

You can ask, he says. I want to tell you.

Why a lioness? she whispers.

Pero is silent for a moment.

She is strong, and graceful. Clever, and brave. Loyal. Beautiful.

A tingling warmth floods her chest. It feels like too much, the implied praise too high.

They’re remarkable creatures, she replies.

They ain’t the only ones, darlin’, Jack drawls from the doorway. He’s flanked by Frankie, who has one arm wrapped casually around Jack’s waist.

I don’t know what to say. Tears prick her eyes as she turns to face them.

You don’t have to say anything, Frankie tells her.

Just be ours. Pero says it so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. As we are yours.

She pulls Pero in for a kiss, her answer whispered like a vow against his lips:

I already am.

———

Fun fact I learned about glassblowing equipment during my research for this fic that I wasn’t able to work into the story but absolutely need to share with you anyway:

Did y’all know that the furnaces like the one Pero uses here to heat the glass are called GLORY HOLES?!?!?!? Swear to god. Be careful googling that if you don’t believe me. 😂

#Pedro pascal #pero tovar x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pero tovar fanfiction #the great wall fic

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macgyvermedical · 2 months ago

Text

Ibuprofen

Natasha patches Yelena up at a safe house after a fight.

Don't ask me where this intersects into canon, because I don't know.

Also, if anyone can tell me why it might not be a great idea in this particular situation to use the combination of medications recommended by Mason, you win the satisfaction of being right.

Also, this is how I teach WRFA students to pack wounds, not how I teach nursing students. There's a difference. Chill.

"You call this a safe house?" Yelena asked.

It was late in the day by the time they approached the entrance to the old dacha. It was a dirty brown color, weeds overgrowing it's visibly decaying chipboard siding. Natasha stopped and adjusted her grip on the arm Yelena had over her shoulder.

She had been taking an increasing amount of the younger widow's weight since the car they had commandeered had run out of fuel on their way to the safe house. By now it was dark enough that the details were missing from the landscape. Dark enough they didn't want to be out too much longer.

"I don't recall you finding anything better." She quipped back. She looked at the stairs leading to the door. Old boards that could have been as rotten as they looked. If she was right though- and she hoped she was- the house was as well maintained as any of Mason's properties.

"Oh- forgive me. I was only lying on ground bleeding to death."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "You seem pretty alive to me. If the complaining is anything to go by." She shrugged Yelena off her shoulder and eased her onto the step. Then she set about fiddling with the combination lock set discreetly into the side of the house.

"Ow." Yelena said flatly.

Natasha entered the first combination, waited a moment, then did a second one. There were two faint clicks as the door unlocked itself.

"Come on, inside." Natasha said, hauling Yelena up again. She opened the door with her free hand. Inside it was pitch black. She felt along the wall for a light switch.

The lights flickered on, warmer than Natasha had expected. The house was older and smelled dusty. The decor was decidedly late Soviet. If someone had gotten in, they wouldn't have questioned it.

The house was a single story and three rooms- a living space, kitchen, and bedroom. Natasha helped Yelena to the bed and again eased her down to the edge.

"Ugh." Yelena let out a sigh and gingerly worked her way to a prone position over the covers.

"What, no complaint about the bed?" Natasha said.

"What? It's surprisingly comfy." Yelena replied, her face pressed into the quilt.

Natasha took a breath as she surreptitiously scanned her sister's body. Small shards of glass sparkled, embedded in the back of Yelena's vest. Below it, dark blood welled up. Some of it was dry, but some of it was still oozing through the fabric. She might not be bleeding to death as she had said, but she was still bleeding. She had also moved her leg to the top of the bed slowly and though she had tried to hide it, painfully too.

Natasha scanned down to her ankle. Nothing looked amiss, but that didn't mean much. Yelena would have had years of training ignoring pain, and the fact that she wasn't hiding it from Natasha meant she was either worse off than Natasha had calculated, or more trusting of Natasha than she was probably comfortable with.

Natasha went to the kitchen. Even though Mason had a variety of safe houses, he kept them all pretty universally stocked. Despite the age of the place, there were signs that he had been there, and fairly recently too. There was several weeks of food for two people, all in date. Not all of it looked particularly appetizing, but his preferred off brand of canned meat product had gotten Natasha through plenty worse than this.

The cabinet to the left of the sink was where the first aid kit was in every house Natasha had ever found herself. And unlike his meat products, first aid was a place Mason did not skimp.

Natasha pulled the large white metal kit from the cabinet and opened it on the kitchen table. She took stock. Inside was the same as she had always found- gloves, wound dressings, a thick instruction manual she knew from personal experience contained everything from bee stings to minor surgery, chest seals and darts, clotting agents, and meds.

The meds weren't prescription- even Mason with his list of contacts the length of his arm couldn't trust the black market on prescription medications. But you could do a lot more with OTCs than most people knew, and he had access to pharmacies in every country.

She pulled the med pack out and unfolded the instruction manual Mason included with it. She skimmed it to get to the pain control section, then dug in the med pack for 2 acetaminophen/codeine, 4 ibuprofen, and 2 diphenhydramine. It looked like a lot, but Natasha planned to dig glass out of Yelena's back. It was the least she could do to keep the kid comfy.

She pulled a two liter bottle of water out of the food cupboard and brought it and the handful of pills to Yelena, who hadn't moved since Natasha had left.

"Got something for you." Natasha said.

"Not hungry."

"Not food. Though there's that too if you want it." Natasha said. "If you like canned meat at least."

Yelena pushed herself carefully up on the bed, her curiosity getting the best of her.

"What am I, a horse?" She said, looking at the pills in Natasha's hand.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You don't have to take them if you don't want them."

Yelena gave her a wary look. "I want them." She said matter of factly. "You going to tell me what they are?"

"Acetaminophen/codeine, ibuprofen, diphenhydramine." Natasha said, pointing to each of the pills in turn. Yelena's eyes narrowed.

"Why diphenhydramine?"

"It was on the list. You want to see the list?" Natasha asked.

"List for what?"

"Pain."

"Who's list?"

"Mason's. I trust him." Natasha said patiently. "When I cut my tracker out the wound got infected. Took something similar while Barton packed it." She knew trust was easier to borrow than to create out for oneself out of whole cloth. Yelena looked at Natasha's face, then to the tablets in her hand. Her eyes narrowed.

"Okay, okay, I'll take them. Gimme." Yelena had a flash of uncertainty- maybe guilt- cross her face. She reached out for the water and meds and swallowed them in one go.

"Great. I'll let those kick in and then I'll come pull glass out of your back."

"Sounds like fun." Yelena said sarcastically.

Natasha went back in the kitchen and spent some more time with the kit. She pulled out a set of hemostats, a few ABD pads, a packet of clotting agent and a package of gauze 4x4s. She also pulled another 2-liter of water out of the cabinet. Then she sat down for a while in the living room with the instruction manual.

Forty-five minutes went by and Yelena hadn't spoken in a while. Natasha collected the supplies and hauled them into the bedroom. Yelena's eyes were closed and she looked asleep.

"Come to hurt me now?" She said, not opening her eyes.

"Try not to scream too loudly." Natasha said, partially teasing. "Can you take your vest off?"

Still not opening her eyes, Yelena rolled onto her side and gingerly shrugged an arm out of one side of the vest. Natasha helped slowly pull the fabric away from her undershirt, taking some of the glass pieces with it. Yelena tensed but made no sound.

Under the vest, her formally white undershirt was soaked with blood. The glass pieces that had come out with the vest left small holes that welled up with fresh blood. Natasha put on some gloves and cut her way through the back of the shirt with trauma shears.

"Deep breath." She warned, cringing as she pulled some of the larger pieces with her fingers. Once again, Yelena said nothing and didn't move.

Natasha picked up the lamp on the bedside table and held it so she could see the glints of the smaller pieces of glass against the blood. She dribbled some water over the area. A few of the pieces washed away without too much issue. Yelena tensed again.

"You doing okay?"

"Fine, fine." Yelena retorted, still not opening her eyes.

The last couple of pieces yielded easily to the tweezers.

"Okay, gotta wash some of this blood off, you want to come to the bathroom, or?" Yelena finally opened her eyes, but it was to glare at Natasha pointedly.

"Right on the bed it is." Natasha relented. She got up to grab some towels and tucked them under Natasha's torso. She then poured the water over The area of her back that was soaked in drying blood. Fortunately, the blood that was still coming out of her was sluggish. The glass hadn't gotten so deep as to be concerning.

As the water washed away the blood, Natasha pressed gently on the multitude of bruises that became visible, making sure none of them had anything crunchy below them. Fortunately for Yelena, it didn't seem to be the case. When the blood was mostly washed away Natasha covered the area with gauze and then taped ABD pads over the area where blood still oozed from the glass cuts.

"Okay, what else hurts?" Natasha asked. Yelena was quiet for a moment. "Yelena?" Natasha asked.

"So you know when you mentioned your tracker wound getting infected?" She asked.

"Yes..."

"Don't be mad, but I think mine is too."

Natasha's first reaction was to ask why she hadn't been told. But the difficulty Yelena had had while walking suddenly made a little more sense, and she was trying to build trust as much as she could.

"Show me." Natasha said instead. Yelena sat up slowly, easing her cargo pants down without standing up from the bed.

The cut was small and deep. It gaped about a half inch. All around it, hot, red, swollen skin extended an inch or more, and greenish-white pus oozed from it. The beginning of streaks were forming at the edges.

"How long has it looked like this?" Natasha asked.

"Ooh, it looked better this morning." Yelena said. "But pretty much a few days after I cut the tracker out."

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

"Wasn't a lot of time to sit down and chat, you know?" Yelena said. "Wasn't like 'oh by the way Natasha, I cut my tracker out with a dirty knife, can we pause this fight to unpack that'."

"Okay, okay." Natasha said. "I'll be right back."

Natasha went through the kit again, getting more gauze and another ABD pad. The only antibiotic in the kit was penicillin, with a note from Mason that if the pills didn't work in a few days, or an infection got worse, to seek real medical care promptly.

When she returned to the bedroom, Yelena was still sitting up, but looked like she would like nothing more but to go to sleep. Natasha popped the pills into her hand. This time she took them without question.

"Okay, this is going to hurt some." Natasha warned. She opened the gauze package and dumped some of the water on it, then squeezed it out in gloved hands. "Ready?"

Yelena frowned, bracing herself, but she nodded in agreement.

Natasha pushed the damp gauze into the wound as deep as she could get it, layer after layer. When the wound was full of gauze, she covered the top of the wound with another ABD and taped it into place.

"Better?" She asked.

"No. No it's not." Yelena said, a hint of a smile playing on her face.

"Anything else I need to address before you go to sleep?"

"Please no." Yelena said, easing herself to the bed.

"Okay. You want any canned meat, there's plenty." Natasha said, cleaning up

Yelena mumbled something in response, but by the time Natasha thought to ask about it, Yelena was asleep.

#whump #fanfiction #black widow #natasha romanoff #yelena belova #marvel #avengers

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eddiebabygirldiaz · 1 year ago

Note

Hello Beloved 💙💙

1 and/or 28 for the soft prompts if it sparks joy ✨️

The soft, sultry croon of Dizzy Gillespie’s trumpet filters through the kitchen, its gentle and heartrending notes caressing the floor and cabinets and every inch of Buck’s skin.

Buck hums along as best he can, letting the vibrations settle in his bones and sweep him away, the combination of sounds turning into a collection of sparkling orange and deep maroon and rose gold inside his chest, painting his flesh with the same feeling and colors of the setting sun, whose final touches spill through the window above the sink.

He never feels more settled or peaceful than when he is here in Eddie’s kitchen, preparing food for his boys and listening to the jazz playlist he reserves solely for cooking.

Buck isn't sure why, but the syncopated rhythms, husky timbres, sharp pitch changes, and the raspy voices of jazz artists like Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald, and Miles Davis, always heighten the cooking experience for him. The sounds of it rattle pleasantly through the room and his veins, grounding him and allowing him to focus solely on the task at hand.

He joins in with Gillespie’s crooning, softly singing, “Swing love, sweet cadillac, comin’ for to carry me home,” repeatedly under his breath as he brings the edge of the knife down swiftly, slicing through pieces of carrot, potatoe, bell peppers, and squash in a steady, soothing rhythm.

The music carries him through each movement, weaving into his muscles like vibrating threads that tug him from place to place, his hips swaying with the beat and feet gliding across the floor as he deposits the chopped vegetables into the chicken stock simmering on the stove.

A soft laugh breaks through the music, skittering through the air, reaching out for Buck like the winding tendrils of a plant’s roots or the final rays of sunshine that kiss the horizon. It’s a sound Buck cherishes, the dips and valleys of it tattooed on his heart, held dearly in the very center of him. A sound that at times was hard won, only breaking past gritted, bloody teeth when Buck reached inside and yanked it out, but now it falls easily from lips curved in the shape of love and fondness, spilling out freely and genuinely like pure, clear water from a spring.

Buck turns around, guided by the sound of that laugh and the thread that connects him to the person it comes from.

Eddie is leaning against the frame of the entryway, arms and legs crossed, his body angled in a slant that has no right being as hypnotizing as it is. The lines of him are long and lean and strong, his legs lengthened by his position and the breadth of his shoulders wide, pulling at the seams of his white t-shirt in a way that makes Buck’s mouth go dry. He’s had his hands and teeth and lips and tongue all over every inch of those legs and shoulders, but it’s never enough.

He’ll never get enough of Eddie for as long as he lives.

Eddie looks like he’s been there for a while, comfortably settled against the wooden frame, his eyes dark and hooded, a lazy smile stretched across his face.

Buck huffs and leans back against the counter, eyes narrowing at Eddie’s form. “How long have you been standing there?”

Eddie hums and shrugs, tilting his head to the side and resting it against the frame. The corner of his lips twitch and his bottom lip pokes out a little bit, tell-tale signs that he is fighting off a smirk. “Long enough.”

“Well, you could have come in and helped me,” Buck grumbles.

That laugh flows out of Eddie again, light and breathless, not weighed down by anger or hurt. He pushes himself off of the entryway’s frame and strides over to Buck. “Sorry, babe,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all, “I just love watching you like this.”

Buck levels Eddie with an unimpressed look as he slots himself along Buck’s side, hand landing hot and heavy on Buck’s hip, thumb automatically dipping beneath the edge of Buck’s hoodie to stroke over his skin. A shiver runs through him, tiny trembles sparking in his cells beneath Eddie’s touch and spreading along his entire nervous system.

Eddie grins, wild and pleased.

Buck nudges him in the chest with his elbow. “What exactly do you love watching? Me slaving away in your kitchen? Doing my very best to provide you and your son with a hearty meal after a long day? You got a housewife kink I need to know about, Eddie?”

A sharp pinch to his hip makes Buck jump and yelp.

Brown eyes shine with mirth, a glittering darkness that is more dazzling than the night sky, as Eddie laughs bright and loud. Buck smiles because Eddie’s joy is the sweetest thing he knows, but he still slaps at Eddie’s chest in admonition. Eddie catches his hand and holds it against his chest, flesh and bone fluttering beneath their hands as his laugh dies down.

“You’re such a little shit,” Eddie says, his nose scrunching the way it does when he’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “Though, the thought of you in a little dress and dainty apron is rather compelling.”

“Mmm, yeah?” Buck steps in a little closer to Eddie wraps his arms around his shoulders, linking his hands together behind Eddie’s neck. “I’d look good in any dress, but definitely in a little one.”

Eddie’s hand slips from Buck’s hip to the small of his back, settling into the slight groove there with an intimate familiarity, his fingers curling into the fabric of Buck’s hoodie. Buck’s soul sighs in relief and sings with the first sparks of pleasure as Eddie presses against Buck’s back, exerting just enough force to pull Buck into Eddie until there’s only a few inches separating them.

“I don’t doubt it.” Eddie leans in and nudges Buck’s nose with his own, a sweet brush of skin, a kiss so serene and intimate that it makes Buck’s knees weak. “You look good in anything, baby.”

Buck slides his nose along Eddie’s then shifts his head until he’s nosing at Eddie’s cheek, giggling a little at the scratch of stubble. He kisses that beautiful curve and feels the slow smile that spreads across Eddie’s face, blooming underneath Buck’s lips like a flower coming to life on the first day of spring.

“You keep flattering me like that and I’ll go find the daintest, laciest apron I can find and wear nothing underneath. Really make those housewife dreams come true.”

Eddie huffs and shakes his head, dislodging Buck’s lips which were dragging across his cheek and jaw.

When Buck pulls away to look at Eddie, happiness is painted across his face bright and vivid, but there’s an edge of seriousness that makes Buck pause.

Eddie sighs softly and gives Buck a crooked smile. “Not housewife. But husband sounds pretty good.”

Buck’s breath hitches in his chest, the air that keeps him alive rattling around in between his heart and breastbone, fluttering around like hummingbird wings.

“W-what? Eddie, are you–”

“Not yet,” Eddie rushes to say. “But, would you–I mean, is that something you would be interested in?” A tiny grimace pulls at his face and even though awe is dripping through Buck like spiced honey, he can’t help but laugh and drop his head so that their foreheads are pressed together.

“Is that something I’m interested in?” Buck parrots back.

Eddie groans. “Shut up. I’m not great at this.”

“No, no,” Buck reassures, dropping a quick kiss to Eddie’s lips. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs.

Eddie hums and pulls Buck into a deeper kiss, licking into Buck’s mouth quick enough to grab a taste, but not staying long. Buck whines into Eddie’s mouth as he pulls away, pushing his lip out in a small pout just to hear Eddie’s laugh, but also because he’s a little disappointed that the kiss didn’t last longer. Kissing Eddie is one of his top five favorite things to do and if he had his way, at least twenty-two hours of the day would be spent doing just that.

A sweet peck is placed upon Buck’s pouting lips as Eddie places both of his hands on Buck’s hips and moves them away from the counter, guiding them into a gentle swaying motion set to the slow rhythm of the music still playing in the background.

Buck tightens his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and shuffles along with him, tucking his face into Eddie’s neck as they dance through the kitchen.

“So that’s a yes?” Eddie asks quietly.

The sultry jazz music spilling from Buck’s phone has nothing on the lilting melody taking residence in his chest, something bright like the sun and sweet like honey and bubbly like champagne beating in his blood and marrow, all of it blending together to sing Eddie Eddie Eddie.

“Yes,” Buck murmurs against the skin of Eddie’s neck before planting a kiss there. “That is a yes to you eventually asking me to marry you.”

Eddie’s laugh is quiet this time. Buck doesn’t hear it but he feels it rumble through his own chest, a piece of Eddie’s joy sinking into him, and he hopes it weaves itself into his DNA, a part of Eddie forever held inside Buck, more beautiful than the music they are dancing to and more colorful than the sunlight bathing them in its warmth.

soft prompts

also on AO3

#buddie #buddie fic #buddie ficlet #soft prompt #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 #ryan writes #MUAH ILY RO

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