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bi-writes · 7 months ago

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what you want you cannot find. so you let someone else find it for you. (18+, dark!simon x curvy!fem!reader, arranged marriage)

you don't really know what you were thinking when you answered the ad. it is many things, maybe, why you chose to apply. why you were grateful to be chosen.

the loneliness, it aches. you cannot find yourself in anyone else, you cannot find the thing that should move you and hold you. you cannot find what it is that should ignite what is asleep, the thing nestled between your ribs that feels like it beats to a rhythm that you cannot hear.

the bitterness, too. there is something sour that you taste. there is acid under your tongue, something rotten between your teeth, and you wish for anything that you would stop tasting it because it reminds you of how alone you are, how alone you'll remain, the inevitable thing that you wish you weren't but that you unfortunately are.

it is the thing you cannot die for because there isn't anything to die for. you live, and you breathe, and you exist, but there isn't anything there. this is nothing that makes you want to gnaw on your own flesh, there is no life you would take in sake of another, there is no purpose to your existence except the hope that perhaps there is still time to have what you want more than anything.

but you don't know what you want. you don't know because everything that you thought you wanted, you do not want any longer. you never feel anything with other men. they are beneath you. they maim what they shouldn't. they complain about things that they can fix. they stare at a problem head-on, with the solution at their back, and they chase their tails. they do not know their right from their left. you hate them. but you want it. you want something. you want one of them, but you don't know which, so maybe if you don't choose, you will find what it is that you don't know you're looking for.

you're alone in the room. they gave you a bouquet of white roses. you hold them nervously between clammy palms. you wear a silk white dress that skims the floor, fabric falling soft over the curve of your waist and gentle along the swell of your cleavage. your hair is loose, and there is a short veil over your head, covering your face.

you stare at your handler. he's dressed in his military fatigues, tactical vest still strapped with the Union Jack across his chest. he has introduced himself as captain john price, and he is the one who arranged for your arrival. he is the one who told you to wear white, and he is the one who gave you the roses.

captain john price is rugged. captain john price is kind. and captain john price is not what you want. you are grateful that you are not yet disappointed with your match.

the door opens behind you. you straighten your posture that extra inch when you hear his heavy gait. there is a pause as the door shuts behind him, and you see his captain nod to a figure that you cannot see. his boots hit the floor low, and you swallow when the sunlight that comes through the window is blocked entirely by the size of him as he stands at your side.

the vows are short. you say your i do first, soft voice that hits his ears in a way that makes him nearly purr. when it is his turn to say i do, your eyes sparkle. he speaks in such a low voice, a Manchester accent that makes your toes curl in the white kitten heels that you wear. a drawl that you can feel in your chest, an accent that ticks a corner of your brain you did not know was there.

"you may kiss your bride."

you turn away from the captain. you tilt your head to look up at him, and you let out a soft breath when you realize the sheer breadth of this man.

he is barely a man. he must be something else. he is dressed all in black, and he wears all of his gear. his tactical vest is stocked well, magazines tucked into their pockets, a grenade dangling from one strap, a handgun tucked into its holster on his chest and around his thick thigh. his belt is heavy with more, knives in sheathes, devices in their places. even without all of the weight, you know the size of him won't shrink.

you cannot see his face. he covers it with a mask, one that resembles the front face of a skull. it is dirty. you aren't certain if it is blood or soot or dirt. maybe it is all of that and more. you cannot see his eyes through the veil either, but they are dark, and they are intense.

you keep your eyes fixed on his as he lifts your veil. the delicate fabric settles over your head, and you see him without obstruction.

there he is.

it is like seeing a man for the first time. it is like being in the presence of the dream you've always had and could never remember.

he tilts his head to the side, curious. he is seeing your face for the first time, too. soft eyes. glossy lips. the curve of your mouth. the untouched skin of your cheeks, the unmarred flesh that you wear. he follows the line of your throat to the peek of your tits dressed in silk. you are a present wrapped in luxury. hand delivered goods, of the finest quality.

his bride. his wife. something he will have forever. he does not know if he has ever been able to say that about anything else. he's never had anything except for his life. nothing except for himself has ever belonged to him, but even now, not even his life is his own, it belongs to someone far away, someone in an office somewhere, who moves the chess pieces of his world around, where he cannot do anything but follow.

you stand on your toes to get closer to him. he thinks for just a second you will ask him to remove his mask, but you don't. you cant your head, and you kiss him over the mask, sticky gloss leaving a light imprint on the fabric. you settle back onto your heels, and your breath hitches when one of his gloved hands comes to settle at the dip of your waist.

"she's all mine now, eh, cap'n?"

you blink, your eyes still on his. you don't move, and you don't say anything. you wonder, if you could see his face, if he would smile.

"all yours, simon."

you let him drag you closer, shuffling on your feet until your hips press against his. your back arches gently as he uses both hands, gripping you around the middle and feeling the soft flesh underneath your silk dress. he is a rabid dog, his next meal at his fingertips. she is his, and he wants to take her home. if his captain was not standing at his back, he knows he would take you on this very floor.

she is mine. she is mine. she is mine.

he has studied your picture. he has memorized your name. he has been waiting for you. he is too awkward to leave base. he is too quiet to attract birds, birds that matter, birds that sing. he is too ravenous to be anything but permanent, he isn't capable of the mundane, of casual. it is everything or nothing at all, and at the sound of permanence, he foamed at the mouth.

at the thought of something to keep, he was blinded. when beasts lose control, they call their keeper, and he had none. this change could be good. this change would do him well. when he ignores the order of a commanding officer, he will bend to yours, because he is bound, wrapped, tied to you with something invisible that weaves between his bones.

you do not know what you were before, but you know what you are now.

you follow after him. he turns to leave, and you let him lead. your heels click as you walk, and when it is hard for you to keep up, you reach for his hand. he grunts when you do, but he doesn't push you away. you hold wilting roses in one hand, and you clutch him in the other. recruits and privates stop to salute or step out of your way, and they stare when they see a trailing angel behind their lieutenant, a pretty girl in a pretty white dress with a veil fluttering against the breeze as you try and keep up with your husband's long strides.

the door he stops in front of is plain and unmarked. he fits a key into the lock, turning it and opening it, and he invites you over a threshold that no one else has ever stepped over. you stand on the other side, holding the roses to your chest. he turns when you don't follow him inside. you get a glimpse of him as a whole, the man that he is, big and menacing and taken. you wonder if he will wear his ring under his glove or if he will put it on the chain that holds his dog tags.

"is this where you live?" you ask. you stay on the other side, looking in, a little timid as you stand there.

he nods, silent. he crosses his arms over his chest, and you admire the bulge of them, the paint of skeleton bones along the fingers of his gloves. you look him up and down before smiling a little.

"is this where i will live, too?"

he shakes his head, a no.

"can't have a thing like y'here," he murmurs. "boys'll eat y'up."

you tilt your head to the side.

"i find that hard to believe," you quip. "do people often eat what's yours, lieutenant?"

he snarls, narrowing his eyes. "no one takes wot's mine."

"then what are you so afraid of?"

"that 'f y'r 'ere, i won't get any fuckin' work done."

you break out into a big smile, pearly white teeth flashing, and he clicks his tongue at your reaction. he reaches up and lifts his mask, pushing it up until it rests over his nose. his nose is crooked from being broken so many times. his face is scarred, as if someone took a blade and carved out the skin and muscle. a deep one stretches from somewhere under the mask to his lip, where it looks as if the skin was haphazardly stitched back together. another long jagged grey streak comes over the line of his cheek down his jaw, as if someone tried to peel his face off.

he grins. it's ugly and unsettling, as if he sees prey that he knows he will catch. your own smile does not fade. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you want to taste him. beast, bear, killing machine, the boogeyman, a ghost that haunts, you do not know exactly what he is, but you know, immediately, that he is what you have been searching for.

you do not know him. you do not love him yet, but you will. you are sure of this. you are sure that he is missing piece. he will fill the spaces that you have always felt hollow. he will scratch a place in your head that has always itched. there is something in his eyes, you're not exactly sure what it is, but you can't wait to discover it. you can't wait to explore, to indulge, to lick the salt of his skin and know that everything he is has been waiting for something like you.

you did not choose him, but he chose you, and now you see it clearly. you see this thing, and you know the truth of what's been hiding from you all your life. the curtain has been taken down. the veil is off. the walls are invisible.

"come 'ere," he says lowly. "won't ask so nicely next time."

you drop the flowers onto the floor, crossing the doorway. you kick the door shut, hearing it click, and he comes closer, until you can feel his breath fanning your nose.

"will you love me?" you ask, wringing your hands together nervously. "do you think maybe...do you think maybe that's possible?"

he licks over his teeth, humming. he leans down, knocking your chin up, and your breath hitches when he licks up the side of your jaw, taking in a whiff of your perfume and the sweetness of his bride.

"what a stupid word," he mutters, biting at the curve of your bottom lip. "meaningless. love. bloody hell."

"w-what...what?"

"a meaningless fuckin' word for the things i would do for ya," he continues. "the things i would kill. the heads i would step on. the sorry fucks i would get rid of...just to see y'smile."

your eyes flutter. yes, yes, yes--the unconditional devotion. the terrifyingly beautiful reality of through sickness and in health, until death do us part.

"is it really that easy, simon?" you ask. his gloved hands slip over your throat, sliding low and skimming the silk of your dress before he cups both sides of your ass and squeezes, drawing you closer until you are uncomfortably pressed up against him. his gear digs into your softness, sharp edges cutting into you, but you ignore it as he begins to draw up the skirt of your dress. "is it really that easy to say you'll do all of that for me? isn't it...it's wrong, isn't it? to do those things for me?"

he laughs. humorless, condescending. as if that is the stupidest thing you could have ever said.

"'s olright, swee'eart. gonna take all those ideas outta y'r pretty lil' head."

you relax when you feel his gloved hand under the hem of your white lace panties. your eyes shut, and you reach forward and grip his vest for stability.

"christ..." he hisses. "y'r soaked..."

you are. you have been since you first laid eyes on him, on everything he is. you know why you are here, and he knows why he is here, and that is because there were two people so desperate to find one another, that they let someone else choose. the gods, fate, whatever they want to be called.

matched by design, together by choice.

you lean forward and kiss beside his lips, and you whine when his big fingers slide between your folds, soft on your clit before he fits two fingers inside of you. his gloves are warm, and you wet them easily.

"wot a good girl," he breathes. "knew y'were the right one."

"y-you did?"

"could see it in y'r eyes, dove. could see wot y'needed. could see it plain as fuckin' day. dyin' inside, just like me, aye?"

you shake your head.

"n-not anymore...not anymore..." you gasp, and he tsks as he steps backward, the weight of him heavy as he takes a seat on his perfectly made bed, bringing you with him. you fall into his lap, unafraid to because you know someone of his size can carry you easily, and he hums as you spread your thighs apart. you straddle him, pressed up against the gun holstered to his chest, and you moan softly against his scarred face as he fucks you open with three unforgiving fingers.

"not anymore," he echos, baring his teeth as he pumps his hand. the squelch of it is filthy, but it isn't enough. he wants you to soak his arm, his thighs, his bed, let the slick of you stain him from the outside in. "not anymore. not as my wife."

you scramble. you rip the veil out of your hair, untie the corset of your dress. there's a naked angel in his lap, perky tits and soft figure, giving way to the gorgeous place you keep hidden by white, wet lace. the place that is his, the place that belongs to him, a pretty pussy that will keep him satiated until he breathes no longer.

after he tears apart his enemy, he will have you. after he tastes the blood he desires to see run, he will have you. the adrenaline, the fire, the shout of every order and the sound of their cries, it won't exist anymore in this place, he knows it.

"y'll never want for anythin'," he mutters. "y'll never be lonely. always get wot y'want...wot y'need...wot y'deserve..."

you reach up and cup his cheeks gently, pressing your mouth to his as you ride his fingers eagerly. you want him, you want this, you want all of it, even if it isn't what's right. but something brought you here, right into his arms, and this is what you deserve.

he's not even human, you don't think. he must be something else. with how good he makes you feel, with the sheer precision that he rocks his fingers into you, the way he smiles, he must be made of only something synthetic, something not organic.

you feel so small underneath him. he tosses you onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow gently. you giggle, and his grin widens. he has a warm pink tongue, and it's between his teeth, and you giggle again when he moves his head from side to side, staring down at you. he's studying you. you assume he has seen photos of you, but this is his first time seeing his bride for all that she is. soft, pretty, unscathed by war. at least on the outside--but on the inside, you are not as you seem.

there's a parasite in you. something that slithers behind your eyes and settles in that corner of your brain that only he can touch. he knows that feeling well. he feels it every time he is in the field, and he feels it now, with you. he chases this tick when he works. it knocks his senses just right, makes him feel good and big, like the reaper that he really is. he can be this with a rifle in his hand, and he can be this without it, with the weight of his wife in his hands.

you smile, biting your lip, and you spread your legs for him. his eyes fall between your thighs, and he chuckles. he brings his gloved hand up to his mouth, the one that smells like you, and you watch as he slips it inside, sucking on it for a moment before he uses his teeth to take both gloves off.

he bends, still in all his military glory, and he sticks his tongue out, licking a fat stripe up the seam of your cunt, using one thumb to pull the puffy lip apart and suckle on your clit for just a moment.

you gasp, arching your back, and he stands to his full height again, laughing.

"oh, y'taste sweet," he purrs. "y'taste good. hard t'believe i'll have this cunny for m'whole fuckin' life."

"believe it, baby," you coo, and he sighs. he nods his head, reaching low, gripping himself through his cargo pants and squeezing his cock. you follow his movements, watching him pay special attention to the tip of him, running his finger over where you guess the slit is as he watches you squirm. "why are you so far away, simon? don't you want me?"

he laughs again, smiling wide, and he nods.

"course i want ya, swee'eart. who wouldn't want ya, huh? who wouldn't want this?"

you meet his eyes. the question is a sound one, but it never mattered that you were wanted, what mattered is that you never wanted. not really. not until now.

you watch him as he reaches for his zipper. he undoes it easily, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them low. they won't go very low, thanks to the holsters around his thighs, but it's enough that you watch his cock stand at attention, the red tip of him leaking down the sides, making the bulging vein on the underside of him shine.

you whine a little, and he growls happily, watching as you cup the swell of your tits and squeeze them in anticipation. perfect, perfect, perfect girl, practically a mail-order bride that checks every single fucking box.

he grips you by the thighs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. you whimper when he slides the tip through your folds, letting it catch at the entrance before smirking down at you.

"'s big," you hiccup, and he tsks, shaking his head.

"y'can take it, swee'eart," he murmurs. "y'r a riley now, luvvie. y'know what tha' means?" you shake your head, your eyes a little watery, and he smooths a hand up your sternum, gripping you around the throat gently. "gonna find out...gonna find out how well a riley takes wot they're given."

"simon--"

"'s alright, luv, we'll start nice, yeah?" he breathes. you grip onto his forearms when he feeds you his cock, slowly, and your back bows at a sharp angle as you squeeze him for everything he is. "fuckin' hell...yeah, just the tip, yeah? oh, good girl..."

good girl, yeah...i'm a good girl--

you cry out, digging your nails into him when he mutters fuck it and bottoms out. his palm flattens just under your belly button, a choked groan leaving him as he presses down, a rush of something fucking glorious running down his spine. it's a high--he's so fucking high, as if he is popping fucking pills.

"feel me here, yeah?" he drags his hips back, smoothing a hand further up your stomach until he paws one of your tits, squeezing it firmly. you nod, sliding your hands up his arms, fisting the fabric of his mask at the base of his neck. you feel him everywhere, you feel him in your chest, running down your spine, you feel him in your mouth and in your head, and it feels so good, it feels so so so so good.

"yes--yes!" you gasp. fuck, he's huge, he's putting a shadow over you. you're naked, bare underneath him, and his gear rocks with every thrust, and it's filthy because you wonder if he worked, you wonder if he didn't even change before he went to marry his perfectly-picked bride, you wonder if he got off the tarmac not even an hour after killing his target to go and take what is his.

how long ago was it that he last fired his weapon? the gun on his chest, did he use it before he saw you?

i bet he did. i bet he used it. i bet he smoked the cigarette that i smell on him, and i bet he came here, and then he married me, and now he's all mine, and he's fucking me six ways to fucking sunday--

you think you're drooling. your lips are wet, and with every smack of his hips against yours, you feel a little more trickle down the side of your face. you're moaning, gripping his neck, pulling him further down on top of you. you want him all around you, you want him inside, you want him to come every day wearing this terrifying fucking uniform and to fuck you so stupid, you forget everything except for the name he has given you.

you want to know nothing except for his name. simon. riley. simon. riley.

you want to know nothing except for what you are. his wife. his wife. his wife.

it's so hard to remember to breathe. his hands grip you tight around the hips, and he's losing momentum, hissing, letting out choked groans as he brands the shape of his cock into you. he never wants you to forget what he feels like--he never wants you to know anything except for him, for the rest of your life.

"simon--" you whine, and he smirks, reaching up to hold your face in one big hand, keeping you still as you chase the grind of his pelvis against your puffy clit. "simon--!"

"tha'sit, luvvie...yeah..." he nods, "look at me--look at me," he leans down, a big weight over you, suffocating you, "good girl, yeah..." he clicks his tongue, "cum f'me, swee'eart. cum f'y'r husband, yeah?"

you lean up, chasing after him, gripping onto the sides of his face as you kiss him hard. it is the first time you really kiss him. slotting your mouth over his, slipping your tongue into his mouth, the sting of your wedding ring cooling his warm face as you taste him for the very first time.

it is gone. the bitterness that you always taste, the acid and the sourness and everything that always is so unpleasant under your tongue, it is gone when you have him. he takes it out of your mouth completely, and you chase after this just as you chase after the harsh grind of your clit against his pelvis.

he is carrying you. you're lifting, coming over some kind of sweet, exhilarating euphoria, and you're blinded by it, by the feeling, by him. you want more, more, you want it all, and he said you could have anything you want, that you'll never need anything ever again, he said, he said, he said--!

he laughs when you come. he swallows your moans, hisses when you soak his pants. you are the prettiest thing he could ever hope for, the personification of the things he does not deserve and could never have, and it is selfish that he has taken you this way, but he does not fucking care.

the things we cannot have are the sweetest, the most desirable. and simon is nothing if he isn't a thief.

he is nothing if he doesn't just take what he wants. he likes to think that perhaps he adopts the "ask for forgiveness, and not for permission" philosophy, but he does not ask for forgiveness. and he has never asked for permission.

"please--simon--" you gasp, looking up at him. your eyes are wet, and a few tears wet his hand around your face. "please--inside me, please..."

"'s olright, luv--" he grunts, pumping faster, his pretty little wife just begging for him, for more, and how could he say no to that? "easy, baby...i'll give it t'ya, don't worry, fuck--" he hisses, "lieutenant's wife gets woteva she wants..."

"please--inside--" you choke. "simon, inside, i-i want it inside--"

fuck, that is all he needed. he nestles deep, pressing his hips to yours, and you kiss him once more when you go blind again. a second high, when he stuffs you full. just as you should be. just as you always should be.

"yeah, fuck--" he breathes. "tha' wot y'wanted, yeah? nice and full, good girl..." he licks his lips, standing up straight, and just when you think he is pulling out, he yanks you back towards him, cum leaking down your thighs as you cry out from being so sensitive.

"simon!" you gasp, giggling, and he grins, patting your ass gently before pulling out. you let your knees fall onto the cot, swallowing hard as you watch him tuck himself back into his pants and zip them up. he brings the mask back down, and you watch as he slips his gloves back on. "hmm..."

he tilts his head to the side, sighing as he watches you settle there. something warm settles in his stomach, something satisfied.

"like havin' y'in my bed," he says lowly. "look nice there."

you smile, and he holds out one hand, beckoning you to sit up. you do, slowly, a little shaky as you try and compose yourself, and he leans down and kisses you through the mask. you close your eyes, humming, leaning into his touch.

"so i can stay?" you ask, and he chuckles.

"mmm...y'r so cute, luvvie..." he rumbles. "a doll, yeah? can't say no to ya."

you look down at the ring on your finger, a solid gold band complete with a precious diamond. you will have to get used to this--you are his wife, you can ask things of him, and you don't think he'll say no.

you look up at him when he tosses something at you. an army green shirt of his, and you slip it on, letting the fabric fall, and you lay back down in his cot as he moves around his room. you lay in comfortable silence, watching as the thing that calls himself your husband looks for files on his desk, adjusts the gun strapped to his thigh, shuffles his boots across the linoleum. you are mesmerized by what he is, and you haven't known him even a day.

you don't believe this is your vision askew. the honeymoon phase. the sugary sweet moments in time at the beginning where nothing is wrong, where all is well. simon riley is a practical man. he does not lie. he does not do things he does not want to do, and he does not say things he does not want to say. he is not in the business of comfort and ease, that much is clear to you.

simon riley is practical and resourceful. you think maybe he counts his words. that he doesn't say more than he has to. waste his energy on things that don't require it.

his wife. i'm his wife. his wife.

"why..." you swallow. "why...why did you pick me?"

he pauses as he stands in front of a locker. when he opens it, you see shelves of personal weapons stashed away, handguns of different sizes and shapes, knives of differing steel, toys that with a small push of a finger could destroy whatever building they went off inside. you don't flinch, don't blink, don't feel fear. you don't know why, but you just don't. you don't think it's possible.

he doesn't look at you as he surveys what lines the walls of it.

"just knew y'were the one f'me, swee'eart," he mutters. he shuts the locker, and the lock clicks. he comes closer, twirling a small blade between his fingers, and you don't cower away when he flicks it towards you, holding your chin up with the sharp tip of it. he hums appreciatively at this. "in all honesty, had no idea really until i saw ya, 'f you'd be mine."

he bends down, leans close, and you follow the curve of the blade with your head, keeping your eyes on his. there is no timidness in your gaze, and for that, he beams under the mask. perfection in one woman.

"and what would you have done if i wasn't the one?"

he shrugs.

"would've killed ya, luv."

"just like that?"

"just like tha'."

the tip of his blade drags, sliding up the length of your throat, along the line of your jaw. your lips part as he traces your mouth with it, and you tilt your head to the side as you trace the edge of it with your tongue. he leans forward more, pressing his forehead to yours, and you can see where the eye-black around his eyes fades into his pale skin under the balaclava. you see yourself in those eyes. the you that you have been waiting for. the you that you have missed for your entire life. the you that has been hiding, too scared to come out, too afraid of what might be said if someone saw the real you.

she had not been hiding. just lying dormant, in someone else, waiting for you to come home.

you smile, big, and simon presses his mouth to yours again through the mask, kissing you there, growling from deep in his chest, a purr that only emanates the contentment and the relief he feels because he has found that thing to live for. it is so easy to die. it is so easy to give oneself for what they believe. it is not hard to give the best of yourself away, he knows that.

what he has never been able to do is find something that will keep him alive. he has only ever lived because he found dying pathetic. he found it cowardly. but the alternative had been just as unforgiving, just as unfulfilling. but not this. not you.

you will make it difficult to die. you will make death a challenge. and when he eyes that smile, this one that you give only to him, he is happy to be given this new objective.

"but don't worry y'r pretty head about all tha', luv."

you give him those eyes, and he drinks it all in, all that you are. finally, finally, finally--

"until death do we part, yeah?"

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msgexymunson · 8 months ago

Text

The Ink Shop

Description: Desperate for a job, you answer an advertisement not knowing it's a tattoo shop. It's not particularly difficult work, except for one thing: having to deal with Eddie Munson.

Warnings: NSFW, minors DNI or I'll tell your parents, fem reader, thick sexual tension, angst and smut. Fingering.

A/N: I finally wrote it! The teach me fic I've been day dreaming about forever. This will be part one of three, and honestly this is one of the hottest things I've written. If you enjoy it, please comment and reblog, it means the world to me.

8k words

Masterlist Part 2

Screwing your nose up in confusion, you look at the meticulously cut snippet of newspaper neatly attached to your resume with a paperclip. Sure enough, receptionist and administrator wanted for a place called ‘The Ink Shop’.

The outside of the building looks a little bleak, all decked out in black with frosted windows, but the fading lettering above does indeed spell out ‘The Ink Shop’.

Weird. This does not look like a printers.

You smooth down a minor wrinkle in your white shirt and open the door with unsure hands, the bell above ringing out loudly.

Oh.

This is not a printers. This is a tattoo shop.

The thought hadn't even crossed your mind. The noise is a cacophony of buzzing, rock music and loud conversation. Art hangs on every available wall, the wallpaper underneath a royal purple, faded over time. There's frames upon frames of predesigned pieces for people to choose from, and an enormous wooden counter, black and gouged with use, directly in front of the doors.

Taking a confidence boosting breath you march forward, pencil skirt stretching and heels clicking on the black and white linoleum, and stand by the counter. No one seems to have noticed your arrival, and a polite cough is not going to cut it.

“Hello?” Calling out to the shop, a devilishly handsome tattooed man in a ripped band shirt, black jeans and scuffed army boots turns his head. Loose dark curls escape a low bun and swivel with him, framing his animated face. He saunters over to the counter and towers over you, giving you an appraising look.

“You old enough to be in here sweetheart?” He asks, amused, as he points to the sign on the wall that states ‘Strictly Over 21s, no exceptions’.

“Yes?” You're trying to be confident but it comes out as a question, entirely taken aback by the strength of his stare.

“Oh, well then I'm Eddie,” he holds out a hand and you're forced to reach up to shake it, but to your surprise he doesn't let go. The skin is rougher than you thought it would be, and absolutely covered in small tattoos. “What is it today? Let me guess, cover up an ex boyfriend's name? I can help you forget all about him.”

The grin he shoots back is nothing short of predatory. All you can think of is that old childhood song, never smile at a crocodile…

“No, no, I'm here about the job?”

He looks genuinely surprised, taking in your outfit in another flagrant stare.

“Really? You?”

“Yes, me.” You respond, cheeks flushing in annoyance.

“Hey, Mac!” He calls over his shoulder and a big guy with a shaved head lowers his tattoo gun, glancing over at you both. “This girl's after a job?”

Mac stands up slowly and begins to walk over.

“You can let go now princess.”

Staring at Eddie dumbfoundedly, you realise his grip on your hand has softened completely. Whipping your hand away, you flash him a defiant eye. It's ineffective; he merely grins wider and winks at you, poking his tongue out playfully. You see a hint of silver, a tongue piercing.

“Hey there, I'm Mac, the owner.” another handshake, but gentler and brief. You introduce yourself and go to hand him your resume.

A phone rings on the counter and Mac shouts “no!” just as Eddie picks it up.

“Mac’s Roadkill Café, from your grill to ours.” Eddie delivers the line as smooth as silk, never taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, it's Eddie, of course. Oh, I'll tell him. Thanks.”

As Eddie turns to Mac he's given a small but effective slap to the back of the head by Mac.

“What did I tell you, stop answering like that!”

Eddie just grins wider and looks at you again, a fake pout on his full lips.

“You see that? Harassment in the workplace. Wanna kiss it better?”

Mac shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, then turns to face you again.

“Are you immediate start?”

“Er, yeah. I've got my resume, and references here-”

“Listen Miss, if you can read and write, answer a phone, and put up with that-” he says, gesturing a thumb at Eddie, “then you've got the job.”

Thank God, two of those references were your best friend with different names. Stunned, you just nod fast.

“Great. Tomorrow morning. We open at 10am.”

Saying goodbye, you turn to exit, and risk one final glance over your shoulder. Eddie's still at the counter. A disarming wink, and then the door shuts behind you.

********************

So, not exactly what you expected, but a job's a job. After getting a degree, you'd assumed doors would open, but a string of coffee houses later and here you are. You'll take it.

It's 9:30 am, and you stand outside, wondering whether or not to try the door. Keen, but not too keen. It's a line you're trying to toe without much experience, especially with an establishment like this.

A pretty woman with an undercut and a butterfly neck tattoo stirs you out of your calculations.

“Hey, I'm Chloe. You're the new girl, right? Eddie bet you'd be early.”

Blushing at the entirely accurate first impression, you try to stop your nose scrunching in distaste. As if reading your mind, Chloe chuckles.

“Ah, don't worry about him, he's an idiot. Come on, I'll show you the ropes.”

Chloe is the piercer that basically rents a place in the shop, where she's been for around three years, she explains. There's also Julio, who does more realistic tattoo work, and Miranda who works part time.

Chloe turns out to be warm and welcoming, showing you how they book clients in, how to take payments, and the phone note system. It's straightforward work, stuff you'll master in no time. In fact, you feel comfortable enough by 10 am to sit at the counter on your own.

Mac arrives on time, giving you a quick check in and taking down all your information on a yellow legal pad.

“Do you not have a computer in here?” you ask, genuinely puzzled.

“Oh no, not yet. I don't know how to work those things, Miss.” Mac chuckles, and gets to his station to prepare for his first client.

At 10:45 am Eddie walks through the door as if he owns the place.

Your eyes widen at his brazen lateness, but no one seems to bat an eyelid. It boils your blood; to be that disrespectful and clearly not care. How could someone act like that?

“Hey princess, didn't think you'd come back,” he smiles, reaching for your hand.

Oh I'm not falling for that again.

You pull your hand into your lap, expecting trickery from him. A smug grin smears across his face at the gesture, as if he knew you'd do that. It makes you even more annoyed.

“Eddie, the book says you start,” you say, flicking through the tome in front of you, “ah, at 10 am today.”

“It's walk-in Wednesday sweetheart. There's no one here.”

He's got a point. Chloe had explained the tattoo artists work a shift of Wednesdays, someone is always available for walk-ins for small and pre designed pieces. Today is Eddie's turn, and he's right, no one is here.

“Well, there could have been,” you snark back, folding your arms.

He crosses into the shop, pushing the little gate open and stands next to you, arms crossed. The height you had is now lost, forcing you to look up at him.

“As far as I know, you ain't the boss of me. I suggest taking the stick out of your ass before you come here.”

Mouth falling open in outrage, you move to reply but he's already turned away.

“Oh, and princess, there ain't a dress code.”

He's gone, disappearing upstairs. Blushing crimson, you cross your arms as if you can hide the conservative outfit you're wearing.

You're beginning to see why Mac asked if you could put up with Eddie.

********************

Halfway through the day, you realise just why Mac puts up with Eddie.

“Hey! Seeing if I can book with Eddie?”

“Any appointments with Eddie?”

“Just checking to see if Eddie had any cancellations?”

It seems most calls are about him. As you check his schedule, it's not only fully booked for the next 6 months, they've even started a waiting list at the back.

“Any walk-ins?”

The words next to your ear make you jump bodily, almost losing your place on your chair in alarm.

“You scared me! No, I would have said,” turning to him, you're sucked into those deep brown eyes once again. “Why do you do walk-in Wednesdays if you're so… so popular?”

Eddie flashes a smile at you, full of self importance. “I don't know sweetheart, Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle!” Shouting the last part at the back of Mac's head, he turns to you. “We just divided the shifts, so it was fair, that's all. Why, want a tattoo?”

You roll your eyes. “No, I was just wondering.”

“Do you have any, princess?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but no, I don't.”

The laugh that rips from Eddie's chest is hearty and full of amusement.

“You work in a tattoo shop and you don't have any? That's practically blasphemy!”

The little bell above the door rings, and a nervous guy looks around before walking in. Before you see what he wants, you shout to Eddie's retreating back.

“Van Gogh was only famous after he died, you know!”

It's a little later on in the day; you've done a stock take, ordered more ink, and neatened up the consent sheets three times. The phone hasn't rung in a while, and you're bored out of your mind.

Chloe walks over, coat in her hand.

“Hey, how you getting on?”

“I'm good, just bored.”

She laughs, “it's not always this quiet, mid week and all. Mac's done for the day, and I'm heading off. You gonna be OK?”

You glance over to Eddie, who to your surprise is tattooing his own fingers.

“What, with the untrained monkey? I'll live.”

She laughs harder at that, “he's not so bad, once you get to know him.” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “he's good at some things, you know.” The conspiratorial wink fills in what she isn't saying. Cheeks flushed, you gawp at Eddie and back at Chloe.

“Huh? W-what, are you like, an item?” You ask, entirely thrown.

“Oh no, he's not exactly boyfriend material. It was just one night, but bloody hell. Anyway, it's not like that anymore, we're just friends now. Maybe you two should just, you know.”

A blush floods your face, almost reaching the roots of your hair. “I don't- I don't, do that.”

“I'm just saying, it's an option. It'd stop the bickering at least. I can sense the tension from all the way over there.”

Without a further word, she leaves you sitting on your stool, trying to remember how to breathe.

Right, let's just play nice.

Walking over to his station, you try to glimpse what he's tattooing.

“I thought Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle” you quip, trying to keep it light.

“This is different” he responds, not looking up at you.

“You know, that's a waste of a needle.”

Eddie turns the machine off and rolls his eyes at you.

“Who made you Princess of the Needles, hmmm?”

“Mac did actually, when he asked me to check the stock,” you reply hotly, folding your arms. Stopping for a second, you take a breath. Play nice, you're supposed to be playing nice.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to-”

Eddie turns the machine back on and continues with his impromptu tattoo.

“Can't you just be… professional?” You ask over the buzzing.

“Can't you just relax for a second? No ones here. Fuck, you need to get laid.”

Mouth dropping open in shock, you grab your bag and stomp out of the store, anger fuelling every step.

********************

Right, be calm, put together. You've dealt with worse people.

It's true. At the coffee shop you had on edge caffeine addicts shout in your face almost on a daily basis, but none of them got under your skin like Eddie did. Then again, none of them had spat truths like venom in your face.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Taking the leap, you walk into the shop, coffees and a tray of donuts in hand; a small peace offering. To your surprise, he is already at his station, sorting through ink pots.

You make quick work of handing out coffee and donuts to everyone, until you reach his side. There's plastic wrap around one of his fingers, you assume from his little tattoo session yesterday. It only serves to remind you of how tetchy you were.

“Morning Eddie.”

“So you came back. Tough little princess ain't ya? Remove the stick from your ass yet?” The grin he flashes you is wide but there's a bite to his words.

He's trying to rile you up, but you ignore it, thrusting a coffee at him.

“I'll be nice if you will.”

Tension laces the air as he stares at your outstretched hand, but he takes the coffee.

“I'm sorry Eddie.”

Opening the box of donuts, you gesture for him to take one. He does, stuffing half of it into his mouth.

“What about you?” you ask.

“Huh?” He mumbles through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Are you sorry…?”

“What for?”

Setting your jaw, your hand is about two seconds from slapping the shit out of him, but you need the money. So, you huff and walk away.

“What did I do?” He huffs, shouting it to the shop.

“You should just say sorry, you've clearly upset her.” Chloe calls over to him, a slight smile on her face.

“Yeah, how do you know?”

“You upset everyone Eddie.” She laughs, and stands to greet her first client.

It's a tense kind of day, with neither you nor Eddie backing down, only speaking to each other if absolutely necessary. By the time everyone's left it's just you and him again.

He's finishing up with a client, telling them about aftercare as they gush about their new ink. It's difficult to deny, the guy is talented. This phoenix tattoo looks like it's popping right off of the skin, the flames so bright and detailed you could swear you saw them move.

Once they've left, there's an awkward pause. Eddie breaks the silence first.

“Listen, I'm sorry sweetheart. I shouldn't have been rude to you. So I'll make you a deal. I'll give you a tattoo, for free, and we ask each other questions, get to know each other. What do you say?”

Smiling in spite of yourself, you turn to face him. “And why would I want a tattoo?”

He visibly relaxes at your grin, and flashes one of his own. “Come on, I'm the best. I promise I'll be gentle.”

“We close at six, so it'll have to wait.”

Eddie looks at the clock, and bobs his head with each tick. Twenty seconds later he turns to you, eyebrows raised.

“Fine, I suppose it is a bit silly to work in a tattoo shop with no ink.”

He punches the air with glee, forcing you to smile despite your better judgement.

“Well then, what are you thinking, got any ideas in mind?”

“I want a heart on my hip” he groans, putting his face in his hands, “hang on, before you judge, I want one like this.”

Pulling a book from your bag, you turn to the page neatly bookmarked. It's an anatomical heart from a textbook you own, a line and dot drawing.

“Oh.” Eddie's eyes light up, “that's pretty metal, actually. So, you just happen to have this on you?”

“No, I've been thinking about it for a while. It's… not what people would expect. And when I got the job here, I was working up the courage to get it. Carrying around the book was a promise to myself, I think.”

He busies himself with getting a stencil ready, the drawing supplied speeding up the process.

“Right, climb on up princess, show me where you want it.”

Blushing, you unzip your skirt at the back and roll it down slightly, shifting your blouse up high. The smile Eddie gives you is salacious, but he doesn't say a word.

“Right here?” Softly his fingertips graze you, making you jump. That simple act crackles over your skin in an electricity unknown to you.

“Y-yes,” you practically whisper it, face crimson.

“So, questions. Can I go first?”

“Sure” you nod, feeling vulnerable flashing this much skin.

“OK,” he starts, pressing the stencil down, “I'll start with an easy one. How old are you?”

“23.”

He nods, prepping the needle, “your turn princess.”

“How old are you?”

“Ah, copycat,” he grins, testing the gun, the sudden noise making you jump, “I'm 30 sweetheart. I know, I look younger.”

Act younger is more like it.

“I'm gonna start, you still alright?”

“Uh huh.”

“Atta girl. It'll feel like a scratch.”

He leans forward as his words burn your insides. Atta girl? Part of you wanted to tell him you're not a fucking horse, but another, deeper, part keens at the praise, kicking it's feet and twirling its hair like some dizzy schoolgirl.

The needle touches and you jump, but it's fine. It's easy. If anything, it's rather nice? You gasp at the feeling, your feet wiggling.

“Right, next question. Why here, why this job?”

The gun is moving across your skin, consuming all rational thought. You could lie, but a part of you feels like he'd know somehow.

“I thought it was a printers shop, or a copy place.”

He laughs briefly, but continues to focus on your new ink.

“I knew it. Pretty, innocent thing like you, wandering into this den of depravity? Too good to be true.”

Glazing over his comment, you think of a question to ask.

“How did you start working here?”

Eddie scoffs and turns off his machine for a moment, “you need to get creative, stop using my questions.”

“I really want to know!” You say, meeting his derisory look.

“Fine, quid pro quo and all that shit. Been here seven years. I begged. I begged Mac for an apprenticeship everyday for a week. He gave in, and here I am. Ask something else, that was boring.”

You wrack your brains, trying to think of something original, far too aware of the steadying hand that he's pushing onto your abdomen.

“What band is that?”

It's the only thing that pops into your mind. He follows your eye line to his t-shirt.

“Oh this? This is my band, Corroded Coffin. You should come see us sometime.”

“Oh, what do you play?”

His face lights up, “I sing, and play guitar. That's why my fingers are so rough-” he holds one up, covered in black latex, “-oh yeah, gloves.”

After you both share a chuckle, there's a breath of quiet between you, except for the sound of the tattoo gun.

“My turn,” he says, smiling at your hip, “I gotta know, are you a virgin?”

It's a miracle that he's as responsive as he is, since the question knocks you sideways. You sit up in shock, but he's already moved the needle off and away.

“You can't just ask that, it's… it's rude!” you splutter, face glowing red.

There's no trace of apology on his face. In fact, his grin only widens with your reply.

“I thought so. Don't worry, I'm not gonna tease you about it.”

Laying back down, you try to think of something to say, but it just doesn't arrive. He can read you like an open book and it's deeply unsettling, not to mention embarrassing.

“Your turn princess.”

“I don't want to play anymore.”

“Oh come on, I'm being nice! Ask me something.”

“Fine. What was your last wet dream about?”

To your dismay, he smiles yet again.

“You, sweetheart.”

Huffing, you cross your arms in annoyance. “Fine, don't answer.”

He's focusing on your tattoo, tongue poking out in concentration, “I'm nearly done, then you can go back to hating me.”

“I don't hate you. I've never hated anyone,” you respond in truth. Eddie's eyebrows raise, but he remains focused.

“Really? You must have had a much better childhood than mine.”

It's quiet for a bit. You're not sure how to respond to that, feeling the cloud of his memory hanging thickly in the air between you.

“All done.”

“Huh?”

He chuckles and points at your new ink, “take a look.”

It's beautiful. All line and dot work, like it was pulled from the book itself and glued to your hip.

“It's amazing Eddie. Thank you.”

The grin he shoots you is warm as he wraps your new ink and then removes his gloves. “No problem. I'll lock up, the sheets on aftercare are right there. But you knew that.”

Smiling affectionately, you take one and stand up, hovering for a second.

“Eddie what do I owe-”

“-not a damn thing. See you in the morning, princess.”

********************

The next few days were much more pleasant. Eddie was flirty, yes, but he seemed to understand when to stop. You had been nicer to him, biting back on the comments when you could. There was a rhythm to it, a constant dance of him flustering you and you annoying him.

Things really felt like they were falling into place. Until Eddie decided to cross the line.

Walk in Wednesday again, and the shop was dead. Julio was on shift, sitting in the back having a nap.

“Hey Mac, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it Miss?”

“Well, how do people know about our Wednesdays?”

“Mostly word of mouth. We handed out flyers before, but it didn't really pick up. Honestly, I'm thinking of scrapping it.” He shrugs, taking a sip of coffee.

“Before you do, I have an idea. I can design some flyers, get them out to the coffee shop I used to work at. It's by campus, I'm sure a few students would jump at the chance. You could offer a student discount, get them in the door?” You stare at him wide eyed, hoping he likes the idea. The little speech was one you'd practised about fourteen times before actually saying it to him.

He stares at you for a moment, then smiles. “You know, that's a good idea. I like it. Tell you what, you make it a success and I'll give you a raise.”

“Oh, thank you! I'll get on it.” You beam, and start planning the flyer.

Ten minutes later you have your head down, your attention entirely on the paper in front of you. The noisy shop was purely a background soundtrack, including the approaching footsteps. Then, there's a whisper, directly in your ear.

“What you up to, princess?”

“Fuck!”

You scream it out and jump so high you fall off your stool. Eddie's in bits, laughing so hard he's clutching his stomach.

“I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” he says, looking the least sorry you've ever seen a person look.

Clambering off the floor to berate him, your mouth flops open when you hear a rip. As you desperately turn your head to look down, you see where your pencil skirt has torn right next to the seam nearly up to your ass.

“Fuck's sake Eddie! What the hell am I gonna do!”

Hands shaking, you clench your jaw in panic, trying to frantically come up with a way to rectify it. Eddie holds his hands up to you as if he were approaching a wild animal.

“Just calm down princess, it's only a skirt.”

Pouting, you hit him on the arm.

“It's not just a skirt! I can't work like this, how can I go home and change, I won't be able to fix it and-”

Eddie smiles and holds one of your hands.

“It's gonna be OK, we can sort something out. You seriously need to chill, have a big O or something.” He chuckles, clearly meaning for it to be a joke, but it's hitting too close to home.

It's never happened for you. You've kissed guys, sure, but whenever they reach into your pants, it's either uncomfortable or downright painful. Even your own desperate fumblings haven't got you there. Most of the time you just feel stupid and awkward trying to touch yourself. So, you'd given up, thinking you're broken. That it'll never happen for you.

Tears well immediately in your eyes. He knows he fucked up, it's written all over his face. As he opens his mouth to speak you rip your hand from his grasp and run to the restroom sobbing.

It's stupid, it's so stupid. You know that, but the tears won't stop falling, face hot and scrunched as you sit on the closed toilet seat with your head in your hands. Your breath is heavy, gulping and wet; you dimly wonder if you can just stay here until the shop closes.

There's a gentle knock on the door.

“Sweetheart, can I come in?” It's Eddie, voice softer than you've ever heard it.

“Go away” you manage. It's shaky and pathetic sounding, but it's out there.

“I'm not going anywhere. Talk to me, you'll feel better, I promise.”

He tries the door, turning the handle before you get a chance to lock it. Jumping upright, you go to push him away but he grabs your wrist and pulls you into him. His embrace takes away that edge and pretty soon you're just sobbing into his chest.

As he strokes the back of your head, he makes shushing noises, his other arm wrapped tight around your shoulders. You're not sure how long you stay like that, in the warmth of his hold, his body pressed against yours. The tenderness calms you down until your tears stop, but he doesn't pull away.

After a while, he whispers, “feel a little better?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, voice returning to itself.

Only then does he release you, rubbing a thumb under your eye to wipe moisture away.

“I didn't mean to hurt you. You wanna go somewhere and talk about it?”

“I- I've never- I don't talk about- I-” you shake your head as if to clear it. A part of you wants to hit him, to shout at him, but his gaze is so concerned that you agree. Your shoulders slump, losing a bit of tension. “OK.”

Smiling at you, he whips his flannel shirt off, leaving him in a white vest, and ties it around your waist.

“For your modesty. Come with me.”

Puzzled, you follow him out of the bathroom and back into the shop where Mac is sitting looking worried.

“What's going-”

Eddie interrupts, “emergency late lunch needed, alright? Can you cancel my 3 o clock?”

Mac seems confused, but looks at Eddie's earnest face, and your emotional one, and nods.

“Not a problem.”

“Thanks, man.”

Before you can ask where you're going, he pulls you from the shop by the arm and across the street into a dimly lit bar, depositing you in the nearest booth.

“I'll be right back.”

If he's uncomfortable by his appearance, he doesn't show it. The way he strides up to the bar, it's as if he owns the place. It's remarkable, the sheer confidence he embodies like a second skin.

“Hey, John!” He hollers, knuckles knocking on the wood of the bar.

John appears, a gruff, stocky guy with a buzz cut and a sour face.

“What the fuck are you doing here.”

“Oh come on, you know you missed me.”

John's face screws into something akin to a smile. “What do you want, you little shit.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Eddie grins and winks, “two beers please.”

A grunt and a nod, and John puts the beers down on the bar. As Eddie reaches for his wallet John waves a hand in dismissal.

“Put that away boy, your money ain't good here. Besides, your lady friend looks like she needs it.”

You flush and tear your eyes away, embarrassed. Eddie walks back over and puts a beer in front of you.

“Eddie, we're still working I-”

“It's one beer. It's alright.”

You shrug and take a sip, nodding at the bartender, “he knows I'm upset, do I look a mess?”

Shaking his head so hard it releases some of his wayward waves from their confines, he tips his beer at you, before he takes a long chug.

“No,” he says enthusiastically, “you look just as pretty as you always do.”

Scoffing, you turn your eyes downward. Eddie ignores your response, instead pressing on what happened earlier.

“Sorry again,” he says, sounding genuinely distressed, "I don't want to see anyone hurt from something I said, least of all you.”

Meeting his gaze, you smile incredulously. “Oh? And why me?”

“Come on, don't make me say it.”

Staring at him, you fold your arms in an act of defiance. He rolls his eyes and looks at you.

“I like you. You're uptight, and mean to me, and a little conceited, but I like you. I don't want you to hurt. Can we just be friends? I'm a pretty good listener, you know? I can help.”

Heat floods your insides. Eyes scanning him for any sign of a joke, you come up empty.

‘I'm not conceited,” you counter weakly, clinging on to the familiar push and pull.

“And I'm the Easter bunny.”

Giggling, you take another sip of beer.

“Come on, friends? Talk to me.”

Sighing deeply, you fix your gaze at the table, forefinger tracing patterns in the condensation from your drink. “Promise not to laugh?”

“I promise.”

You can't tell how genuine he's being, as you don't dare look at his face, nerves controlling your every limb. His voice seems honest enough.

“I- I have a problem, something I can't physically do. You reminded me of it. It's not your fault.” Shrugging in an attempt to make this look less serious than it is for you, you take a pull out of your beer bottle once more.

“Wait, are you saying…” he chuckles a little in disbelief, “have you never… had an orgasm before?”

“Eddie, be quiet!” You urgently whisper, looking around the bar.

“No one's listening sweetheart, no spies in here,” he says in a low tone, hand reaching out to grasp yours. Your first instinct is to shake his hand away but he holds firm, rough fingertips rubbing against your knuckles.

“Eddie, I'm broken,” you whimper, voice breaking, “I can't do it.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he responds, chock full of emotion, “you're not broken. You are perfect.”

Pulling your hand away, you keep your eyes away from his, unwilling to meet that burning gaze of his. Unwilling to lose yourself in those sultry dark eyes.

“I can't do it. Anytime some guy tries, it hurts. I've given up to be honest. I just wasn't made for it.”

He laughs again, dragging his hand over his face.

“Fuck, sweetheart, the problem ain't you. Have you- have you tried, fixing it, on your own?” The last part is a whisper, you assume to protect your feelings.

“Yeah, but I just feel stupid and awkward. I don't know.”

There's a little silence between you as you both dwell in the suffocating fog of your confession, neither of you willing to clear it.

“Listen, this may be way out of your comfort zone, but I'm saying it anyway. If you don't like it, we'll forget it, and I won't mention it again.”

Finally looking at him, at the vulnerability on his face, you nod, not trusting your voice.

“I can… maybe I can help you. Show you you're not broken? As a favour between friends.”

You laugh mirthlessly and finish your beer. “That's a little more than a favour, Eddie.”

“We can keep it professional.”

You stare at him wide eyed. His messy hair and dark glittering eyes. At the way he slumps in his seat like a king or a delinquent, you can't decide which. At his taunt frame, the tattoos spackling every available inch of his skin. Your eyebrows raise of their own accord.

“Professional? You?”

“Yeah, me! I can do it, you know. I could make you come.”

A shiver forces its merry way down your spine at his words.

“You're really confident.”

“You haven't seen what I can do.”

Blushing hard, you attempt to control yourself. “Look, if we're going to do this, I need you to promise some things.”

“Ah, of course, you would have rules,” he grins, as he leans back and spreads in his seat, “continue.”

Searching your mind for a moment, you try to glean what you need.

“First of all, we need to be discreet, and professional at all times, clear?”

“As crystal,” he grins wolfishly, “anything else?”

“Yeah- I think,” you wrack your brains, trying to come up with something that would make this less intimate. Anything. But the roguish nature of his presence makes it hard to even think of a thing. Finally, your eyes widen at the idea that suddenly crosses your mind.

“Final rule. No kissing.”

He pouts, looking at your chest and back up, “no kissing anywhere?”

“N-no, no kissing on the mouth.”

Grin returning, he winks at you, a gesture that flips your stomach inside out.

“Kinky. Alright, deal,” he leans forward to give his hand to yours. A hand covered in ink and calluses. Roughness and tenderness.

You shake it.

********************

For the next couple of days, your little arrangement isn't brought up. A wild thought hammers itself into your mind; either he wasn't serious, or you imagined it.

Those theories are put to bed on day three.

After you let Mac know about the flyers and the bonus poster you designed, you sit back and enjoy the praise given to you. It's funny, the feeling of being told a job has been well done makes you happier than you care to admit.

Eddie turns up at the counter, whistling through his teeth. “Sweet looking flyers, how'd you swing those?”

“I designed them. I've got a degree in design and marketing, if you didn't know,” you sniff, rearranging the stationary on the counter to avoid his eyes.

“Maybe you could help me design some for my band. These look pretty metal.” He says, picking one up and looking at it closely.

“Maybe.”

Eddie leans in close, so close you feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

“If you're still up for our arrangement, I'm free tonight.”

Heat immediately flushes your face. Ignoring him entirely, you write your address and a time on a notepad, and thrust the paper into his hands.

“Covert, I like it. See you then princess.”

By the time 9pm rolls around you're a jittery mass of nerves, having changed clothes no less than four times, tidied your apartment, changed the bedsheets and paced so much you're surprised there's not a groove in the floorboards.

In the end you'd decided on a baggy band t-shirt and your sleep shorts. It was a rational calculation to make Eddie think you're just wearing what you usually would at home and therefore show you're not nervous. I mean, you are wearing what you'd usually wear at home. He didn't need to know about how long it took you to reach that decision.

The sound of the intercom buzzing sends your pulse into overdrive. Pressing the button, you let out a strangled “Hello?”

“Hey princess.”

“Come on up.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…

A soft knock at the door and you count to five, trying to remember how to breathe. When you open the door, you're stunned. He's leaning on the doorframe in a fucking button up shirt. It's black, and clings to him deliciously. His hair looks a little damp, loose around his shoulders, and his aftershave is making you feel dizzy.

“Oh, you didn't need- I mean-” you point at his shirt, and he looks down and chuckles.

“Just came from band practice. Took a shower, and this was clean,” he shrugs and shoulders into your apartment. “Nice place. Where's all your stuff?”

You look around at your sparse apartment. Everything in order, down to the fresh flowers on your tiny dining table.

“This is all my stuff,” you say, confused, “I don't like clutter.”

He chuckles, walking over to you. “No wonder I annoy you. I am clutter.”

He's close now, close enough so that you have to look up to see his face. His rough fingers ghost your arm, sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin.

“Nice seeing you in something casual. L7, right?” He asks, pointing at the t-shirt.

“Yeah, you know who they are?”

“I'm surprised you do. Thought you'd be a Mariah Carey kinda girl.”

You scrunch your face in distaste. “No, not at all. You don't know everything about me.”

He leans in, warm breath a whisper in your ear. “I know some things about you.”

Squirming hotly, you lead him to your room before you lose your nerve.

“So, the princess's bedchamber. It's nice,” he remarks, flopping down on the bed as if it were his own.

“Take your boots off,” you snip, folding your arms.

“Ah, there she is.” He smiles, but does as instructed. Once more he's laying back into your scattered pillows looking perfectly at ease. You, on the other hand, stand there, spine a vertical rod as you stare back at him.

“Come on then, sit down.”

Nervously you sit at the foot of the bed with your legs crossed.

“Now princess, what do you do when you touch yourself?”

Blushing furiously, you stammer out, “what, do you expect me to like, show you?”

He chuckles, diffusing some of the tension. “As much as I'd like that, I don't think you're ready for that kinda shit. Just tell me, what's your thought process?”

Staring at him for a little too long, you open your mouth and close it again. He rolls his eyes.

“Look, if you want me to help I'll help, but you gotta give me something here.” He looks as if he's about to get up and leave; your arm shoots out on its own accord, grabbing his leg to stop him.

“Sorry, sorry. I just, I've never spoken about this kinda stuff. I don't know about any process, I just… reach down and fiddle around?” You blush even more.

“So you don't like, watch anything? Or read anything?” He looks a little amused.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Porn, sweetheart.”

It's so blunt that you jump a little. “Oh no, I've never, oh no no.”

“Christ,” he whispers, “right, you can like, set the mood. Look at something to turn you on? It'd probably help you feel less awkward.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And do you ever just like, slouch? I feel like I'm back at school looking at ya.”

“Huh?”

“Just, come here.” He pats the little space between his spread legs and you hesitate for a second before you crawl over to him.

“How do you want me to sit, like cross legged or-”

He grabs your hips and spins you, forcing your back into his crotch.

“Stop trying to control every little thing,” he says in a hard tone, one you're too embarrassed to admit makes your insides tingle. Softer, he continues. “Look, if you're ever gonna get there you need to relax, stop trying to control it, and stop overthinking.”

“Great, all of the things I'm shit at.”

His laugh is loud, it vibrates into your spine. “I'll help you, OK? You trust me?”

“In a very limited sense of the word, yeah.”

“Lemme rephrase. You still OK to do this?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Just relax.”

You're not sure what you are expecting, but it certainly isn't his hands winding into your hair, fingertips rubbing softly at your scalp. It shoots tingles down your spine, your entire head feeling fuzzy and warm.

You stifle a whimper, biting your lip. His fingers stop.

“If you want to make noises, you can. Tells me I'm doing a good job. That goes for everything else too, alright?”

“Alright.” You whisper.

“You comfortable?”

“Yeah it's just- well-”

“Tell me.”

“I think it's your shirt buttons, they're digging into my back a bit,” you admit, feeling the sharp points down your spine.

“Easily fixed.” He taps your arm and you lean forward. Some rustling, and he throws his shirt to the foot of your bed.

“Now just chill sweetheart.”

His fingers begin rubbing at you again, thumbs sinking low to pop at the bubbles in your neck.

“Fuck, that's really nice.”

He hums appreciatively, working his hands lower and dropping them to your shoulders. The massaging continues, and you feel yourself melting, your body moulding into his. Your legs, once ramrod straight, have bent a little and parted of their own accord, the muscles loosening. Even your breathing has slowed.

“That's better, atta girl,” he says and you whine at the words, a little pathetic mewling sound that tumbles past your lips.

“Oh, you like that, don't you?” The smile is evident in his voice, a smug tone smeared liberally across each word.

“You, you're so-” you begin, but his hand drags across the front of your shirt, just over the tops of your breasts.

“I'm so what?” He whispers in your ear.

“So, so arrogant,” you huff. He laughs, a husky chuckle, and dances the tips of his fingers over your clothed nipple. Gasping, you grasp at his thighs either side of you.

“Yeah? What else am I?” He says, nibbling at your earlobe.

“You- you're cocky, and- and self assured- Oh God!”

Rudely interrupted by him tweaking your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, you swear, back arching off of him for a moment.

“You know,” he says in a gravelly tone directly in your ear, “those are pretty much the same thing.”

“You drive me crazy,” you huff, squirming a little against him as his hands explore your chest over your shirt.

“Good crazy or bad crazy?” He smiles, then bites softly at your neck.

“I- I haven't decided yet.”

“Good. I can say the same about you,” he admits, his hands trailing lower, pulling your shirt up so he can stroke at your bare sides. The touch of fingertips on your skin sends a river of sensations through you that run deep into your core.

“Are you going to- what are you doing, exactly?” You breathe, starting to move against him.

“I'm warming you up sweetheart. Why, don't you like it?”

Genuinely curious, you try to ask what you want to know without using the words.

“N- no, I do. Do you have to, erm, get warmed up? When you, you know.”

He lets out a little huff of a laugh. “Guys are a little less… complicated, than girls. For the most part.”

“Oh. OK, so you can just. I mean, you just, get excited?” Your breathing becomes more ragged when the tip of his thumb grazes the underside of your breast.

“Sweetheart, I got hard seeing you in these little shorts.” Running a finger down your stomach, he lightly pings the elastic of your sleep shorts as if to accentuate his point.

“Really?”

There's no denying it when he moves his hips up and you feel his solid bulge press into the small of your back.

“Really. Can I take this off?” He asks, twisting the hem of your shirt in one hand.

“Yeah.” It's a whisper. You're a little scared of being bare chested, but not having to see his face helps. Plus, he's wound you up so much you're on the verge of begging for his touches, pleading for more.

He guides your top up, up, up, revealing you slowly. Coaxing it over your head, you move your arms up so he can remove it. It ends up in a heap on top of his shirt. One tattooed arm wraps around your waist, pulling you toward him more, his hardness pushing against your ass.

His breathing is unsteady as he grinds his hips, pushing onto you further. Gasping, your fingers are vices, firmly attached to his thighs in a vain attempt to anchor you.

Suddenly his hand is winding into your hair, tugging your head aside so he can run a fat tongue across your neck. You shudder at the sensation, feeling the hard ball of his tongue piercing against your throat When he takes his pillowy lips and sucks at the spot between your neck and shoulder a moan slips out. Grunting in approval, his hands are on your bare tits, fingers pinching at your hardened nipples.

“Holy hell!”

He laughs, running rough fingers down your body, circling your new ink, then dipping down past your waistband. Those tattooed fingers barely brush your pubic hair, teasing you, then glide back up to your stomach.

“Eddie, please.”

Your voice is small, not your own. Eddie groans low in your ear, rubbing his length into the fat of your ass.

“Fuck, princess, I like you saying my name like that. You want me to touch you right here?” he says, pressing down hard over your clothed clit.

The sheer relief of having his touch where you need it gets you close to tears; a gulping shudder of a sob rips from deep in your chest.

“See, you're not broken, sweetheart. Can I take these off?”

Shaking, you hook your fingers into your sleep shorts and pull them down your legs, air hitting your most intimate area. Eddie huffs in your ear, his inked hands rubbing up the insides of your thighs.

“You're so fuckin’ sexy.”

Before you can retort, his fingers dip down to your entrance, gathering your slick. You can hear how wet you are, but it's not in you to think about it. You can't think, only feel.

When his fingers run up and start rubbing circles into your clit, your response is visceral. Bucking up, you chase the feeling, searching for even more.

“I'm gonna slip a finger in, alright princess?”

You nod, waiting for the pain, wincing before it even starts.

“It's OK, you're fine, you gotta relax baby.” He strokes your stomach with his free hand, pressing kisses to your temple.

The tip of his finger breaches you, and the pain doesn't come. Your soaking wet cunt invites him in, warm and pulsing with arousal. He slips it into the hilt, his palm pressing into your clit, and your moan is long and loud. It's never felt like this. Never has it stoked a fire in your gut, bubbled your insides like pop rocks and Coke, turned you into a writhing mess.

He fucks his finger into you, slipping a second in to join the first, and you move your hips, chasing the building tightness in your belly. Each thrust of his hand has you bucking, and in turn rubbing against his member trapped within its denim prison.

“That's it, good fuckin’ girl.” His voice is strained, as if he's trying hard not to lose control.

“Eddie, oh fuck, f-feels so- good, yes, please, please-”

You're not sure what you're begging for, and Eddie doesn't seem to be in any state to ask, but it doesn't matter. His fingers fuck into you in earnest, stroking hard against some spot inside that has you babbling and quivering around him.

“God, you're so tight, this little cunts gonna drive me crazy. So wet and perfect, Jesus Christ.”

The feeling seems too much and not enough, and it grows higher and higher, flooding your body with a pleasure so intense you're sure you black out. The only thing you're aware of is your voice screaming out his name as your body thrusts wildly into his grip. Finally, it dissipates, your body melting against his form, sweating and spent.

You take a breath, and another, trying to gather your wits enough to speak. Eddie speaks first.

“So sweetheart, everything you dreamed it would be?” He asks as he strokes your hair.

“Better. Fuck, Eddie. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Seriously. Any. Time. Day, night, weekends, holidays-”

You giggle, slapping his thigh, and sit up, grabbing your discarded shirt to cover up.

“Sorry, that was probably a little er, frustrating for you.” You say as you glance at his bare torso, drinking in the sight with your eyes for the first time. He's lean, but ripped, a faint sheen of sweating making his tattoos glisten in the low light.

“What do you mean sweetheart?”

“Well, doing that, not getting anything in return...”

He chuckles lightly, “Oh I wouldn't say that,” he glances down, gesturing to his jeans, “full disclosure, I came in my pants.”

“Really?” your eyes widen, staring at him with disbelief.

“I ain't lying. Wanna check?” He waggles his eyebrows at you, making you laugh again.

“You seem better already. Right, I better go.”

Shoulders deflating, you pout, “I suppose you better.”

“Hey don't look at me like that. I hoped that helped. Sleep tight, drink some water. I'll see you tomorrow princess.”

And just like that, he leaves. Of course he leaves, it was just a deal you struck, nothing more. A favour. you wipe stray tears from your eyes and try not to focus on the sound of the front door shutting.

As you collapse on the bed, exhausted, you think about his hands, his words. There's something screaming inside, telling you you're playing with fire, but as you drift off you can't find it in you to mind.

Taglist

@liminalpebble @eddies-puppet @rip-quizilla @micheledawn1975 @vanilla-demon @millercontracting @roanniom @josephquinnsfreckles @leelei1980 @mrsjellymunson @usedtobecooler @eddiesprincess86 @ali-r3n @choke-me-eddie @littlebebebunny @big-ope-vibes

#ms gexy writes #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x you #tattoo artist eddie munson #tattoo artist!eddie #teach me/show me Eddie #eddie my beloved #eddie x fem reader

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shotmrmiller · 4 months ago

Text

Big man, Big mouth

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader (because demeaning girl usage) WC: 4.9k it's just gross smut and simon gets kinda mean sometimes nothing crazy :) ty to the brain to my pinky @xoxunhinged and precious beta @waves-against-a-cliff catching my errs

The smile you’d had on your face all morning is subsequently wiped once you’re told that you won’t, in fact, be spearheading a team meeting with air conditioning and a cup full of your favorite medium roast, but instead, you’re being sent somewhere where practical experience trumps theoretical, textbook knowledge. And alone, at that.

Guess your travel mug is about to make its big debut.

The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.

You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.

Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)

Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.

Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.

"Ya lost?" he grunts.

There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.

"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."

You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.

John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.

"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.

John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.

Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."

Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.

"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.

"It's Soap, hen."

“...Right.”

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.

"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.

Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.

Unlikely.

John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—

your shoes?

"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."

Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."

Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.

Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.

Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.

Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."

The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."

You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—

The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.

But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.

"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.

"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?

"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.

Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.

"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.

Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.

"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.

"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.

You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"

Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.

"They're red."

You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."

The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.

"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?

"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.

Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?"

The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.

"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"

Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"

Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.

He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.

He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."

No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.

He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.

"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.

"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.

Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."

You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"

His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."

Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.

The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.

"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."

Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.

"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.

What a way to break this year-long dry spell.

He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."

Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.

It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—

And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.

Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.

"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."

Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.

"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-

"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?

For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.

The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.

The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)

But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.

Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?

And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.

"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.

But then John calls out to you too.

"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”

Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.

Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."

When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.

"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."

Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."

"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.

"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.

"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.

The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.

Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.

Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside.

You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.

"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.

"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here.

It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.

(Are your feet still hurting or can he fuck those too? No? Next time, then.)

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #cod smut

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snowballseal · 3 months ago

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How they react to you feeling insecure (LaDS)

Summary: How the Love and Deepspace boys react to you feeling insecure about various things. Includes Rafayel, Sylus, Zayne, and Xavier. Lots of fluff.

Word Count: they're all around 1000 roughly

Note: Warnings of different kinds of insecurity, ranging from physical to mental. I'm not sure of how well the Xavier one turned out, he's harder for me to write, but I couldn't leave him out!!! Anyways, hope yall enjoy!

Rafayel

His ended up being a lot longer, so it's posted separately.

here

Sylus

Being partners with Sylus is a…daunting position to be in.

You always considered yourself a fairly average person, more focused on who you are than what you look like. It’s not that you don’t like the way you look - you do - and you don’t like comparing yourself to anyone, but you don’t plan on being a model anytime soon. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Then you met Sylus, a man who looks like he was carved from the marble of ancient architecture. He could stand in a room of masterpieces and people would still look at him instead of the art. And since you’re by his side now, that means they’re also looking at you.

Being stared down by wanderers in one thing. Being stared down by the most powerful and prevalent members of the N109 Zone? You hate to admit that it gets to you. In fact, it gets so under your skin, that even when you’re dressed in the most extravagant dresses and decadent jewelry, you can’t help but feel…insecure.

Twisting in front of the mirror, you eye every detail of the dress Sylus bought you. It’s perfect, of course. The man has an annoying knack for getting you the most beautiful things and knowing exactly what fits you. The color compliments your hair and it’s comfortable to boot.

Still. You can’t help but feel like a kid trying to fit in at the adults table, wearing your mother’s heels even though they don’t fit. A bit ridiculous.

“Do you not like it?” Sylus appears behind you, dressed in a matching, lavish suit.

You jump a little, eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror. His eyes burn into you, reading the hesitation on your face as you curl your arms around your stomach. There’s no fiery retort or witty comment like usual. You just look back at your dress, the tips of your ears tinging pink.

A frown pulls at Sylus’ lips, his voice softening, “What’s wrong?”

“...Do you really think people believe us? That we’re together?” You ask quietly, shuffling your weight back and forth. “That I’m a good match for you?”

You’re keenly aware that you’ve never had a conversation like this with Sylus. For the most part your relationship has been filled with teasing and playful bickering. It’s always light. Or about work. This is new, and while you trust him more than anything, you hate not knowing how he will react.

Sylus hums, low and thoughtful, as he curls his arms around you, “Does it matter to you what others think?”

You let out a sigh, leaning back into his touch thankfully. You want to say no. You want to keep up the air of confidence, but that quiet voice of doubt keeps worming its way through your thoughts.

“I just…I feel like I’m not what people expect. And…” you try to explain, hesitating. Sylus presses a kiss to your shoulder, offering a hum of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, you add, “It bothers me. It feels like I’m being forced into the spotlight but I’m not meant to be there. Like I don’t fit.”

“Hmm, so you feel like an odd duckling.” You give him a small jab, and Sylus chuckles. “My apologies. I think you misunderstand the attention though.” He pulls you closer. You shiver as his lips trace along the crook of your shoulder, pressing delicate kisses up the side of your neck, until he can murmur lowly into your ear, “You’re too humble, kitten. When you walk into a room, all eyes turn to you, not out of judgment, but out of jealousy. Afterall, you’ve tamed the leader of Onychinus. Even if you walked in with your uniform, they’d look at you the same. And I get the pleasure of walking around with the most powerful-” He presses his lips to your jaw. “-beautiful-” His lips trace against your cheek. “-woman of Linkon City. Don’t let the attention of those lesser than you make you doubt, otherwise I might have to find another way to show them just how well we fit together.”

Sylus’ eyes catch yours in the mirror again. They’re dark, like coals surrounded by flickering cinders. So intense you can almost feel the flames licking along your skin. There’s not a doubt in your mind that he’s being genuine. And that sets your heart racing. Along with the way he holds you so close, equal parts possessive and reverent. Like worship.

“Your devotion might scare some people, Sylus,” you whisper, glancing sideways at him.

He flashes a dangerous smile, “Does it scare you?”

You cast one final glance at your reflections before turning around in his hold and curling your arms around his neck. Sylus raises a challenging brow.

“I’m not. I like how you stand up for me, even when it’s against my own insecurities.” You draw him down, pressing a kiss to that carnal smile. Sylus softens immediately, cupping your jaw to draw you into a deeper kiss. The warmth that simmers in each and every touch leaves you a little breathless when you pull away. Pressing against his chest before he can drag you in again, you make sure to say one last thing, “Thank you, Sylus. I’ll make sure to remember all of that…especially the part about you being wrapped around my finger.”

“Hmm, such a cruel mistress, indeed.”

“And you love me.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest, “Yes, I do. So, will you accompany me to this auction now?”

---

Zayne

“Are you sure it’s okay that I’m going?” You ask, voice wavering with nerves as you straighten Zayne’s tie for him.

“Isn’t it natural to bring one’s partner to these kinds of events?” He tilts his head, brow perked ever so slightly.

You nod, but can’t seem to erase the frown on your lips.

A week ago, Zayne had asked if you would accompany him to his medical school’s class reunion banquet. He had been asked to give a special word, given the reputation he had developed in his time at Akso Hospital, not to mention winning the Starcatcher Award for his work.

At first, you were ecstatic to have an opportunity to learn more about his old life. He has such a thing about living in the present, you hardly get to hear any stories about his time in med school, or when he was doing rotations at the hospital. You were eager to meet the people who he used to spend time with and hopefully catch a few stories you could tease him with later.

But as the night drew closer, you started actually thinking about all the people you would be around, all of whom graduated from the same medical program Zayne did. You can only imagine how smart they all are. And how you’ll get lost the moment any medical jargon comes up.

The more you think about it, the more nerves you feel buzzing under your skin. You know you’re not the smartest, not compared to Zayne at least. He’s a genius, after all, and could probably outsmart most anyone. You’ve always been better at the physical stuff. That’s what makes you such a good pair.

It’s not like you can impress everyone by whipping your gun out and fighting, though. All you’ll have are your words, and you’re not particularly good with those…

You blink when a large hand suddenly circles your wrist. Glancing up, you find Zayne looking down at you, brows furrowed ever so slightly.

“While I appreciate your attention to detail, I believe you’ve been straightening my tie for five minutes now.” Heat creeps up your neck. You hadn’t even realized you had been lost in thought. Zayne’s eyes narrow inquisitively. “What are you thinking about that has your mind so preoccupied?”

His thumb brushes casually along the inside of your wrist, not so subtly checking your pulse. A strangely endearing habit of his when he’s worried about you. You let out a long sigh and hide your face against his chest, feeling the heat bleed across your cheeks.

How are you supposed to tell him that you’re insecure about how smart all his friends must be?

Zayne doesn’t push right away. He knows you’ll explain when you want to, and if you don’t, then he knows you’re not ready to. It was an unspoken rule between you, something you started with him because you noticed he likes to think his words out. It felt natural to offer you the same when you struggle to express yourself. Like now.

Ultimately, you figure it’s better to just be straightforward. That’s how he would do it, and it’s better than dancing around the subject.

“I guess I’m nervous because I feel like I’m going to be the dumbest person in the room tonight,” you mutter against his coat. Your fingers tap out an anxious beat against his abdomen. “It’s silly and I know it shouldn’t matter, but I just don’t want to make you look bad.”

Zayne remains quiet for a long minute. Your fingers move a little quicker, matching the stuttering rhythm of your heart. His hand slides up, gently trapping them against his body.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Physical tics are a common result of anxiety,” he hums dismissively, thumb smoothing over your knuckles. “As is your rapid heart rate. This truly bothers you.”

“Of course it does,” you sigh, a bit exasperated, ”You’ve worked hard to get where you are, Zayne. I love you so much, and I respect your work more than anything. I don’t, I don’t want to say something stupid and have it reflect on you badly.”

The doctor clicks his tongue, “First, I would prefer if you stop using that language to describe yourself.”

Your heart falters when his cool fingers touch your cheek, drawing your face up to his. He looks upset, but not exactly at you, the sharp line of his jaw contrasting with the softness of his eyes. Like it pains him that you think this way. Which it does.

“Those words don’t suit you. I wouldn’t allow another to call you them, so why would I allow you to?” He asserts, the corner of his lips twitching with distaste. “I don’t want to hear them again, do you understand?”

“Okay.” A thread of warmth curls around your heart when Zayne nods approvingly. His protectiveness really knows no bounds.

“Second, I do not agree with your diagnosis.”

Your brow furrows a little. What? What does he mean, he disagrees? He’s literally surrounded by geniuses, you can’t match up to any of them if they’re anything like him.

Seeing you start to overthink, Zayne shakes his head and gently pinches your cheek. You jolt back a little. The corners of his eyes crinkle, making you pout.

“Meanie,” you grumble, “Fine, explain your reasoning, Doctor Zayne.”

“It’s simple. Intelligence is made up of more than just academic knowledge, which, I assume, is what you are thinking of when you make such comments.” You nod. He’s not wrong about that, you guess. “Intelligence also includes the knowledge of how to use one’s strengths to achieve the best outcome. It is true that for some, this means using academic reasoning. However, it also includes those who develop the skills and discipline to maintain their bodies and fight for those who can’t, like…”

He pauses and gives you an expectant look.

“...me,” you finish slowly.

“Yes,” he hums, stroking the redness of your cheek, “I believe, under these standards, you are far more intelligent than most of the people you will meet tonight, darling. Though there is no comparison in the first place.”

His words sink in slowly but surely, filling in the cracks of your doubt. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he probably has some kind of healing magic, because you can already feel the burden of your insecurities melting away.

Leave it to Zayne to know exactly what to say, but in the most complex sounding way.

“You always know how to make me feel better, huh?” You ask, finally cracking that smile he loves.

“I am simply telling you the truth.” Zayne leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “There is not a lifetime in which my reputation will be more important than you. I would gladly throw it all away if it meant reminding you of that.”

You snort, “Don’t do that, please. I can only imagine the fit Doctor Greyson would throw. He’d be so mad at me.”

“I can handle Doctor Greyson, in the same way I can handle everyone tonight.” He slips his fingers between yours, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles. You wiggle your fingers happily and Zayne can’t help but grin to himself. “If at any point you find yourself uncomfortable, just stay by my side and I will act as your distraction. Though, I’m sure they will all love you, just as I do.”

“...Thank you, Zayne.”

“Of course, my jasmine.”

---

Xavier

Working with Xavier is a blessing, as much as it is a curse. You couldn’t ask for a better partner. Someone who you know will always have your back, who can handle himself completely, who is probably the most talented hunter you’ve ever met in your entire life. He’s undeniably amazing.

On the flip side of that, though, you often fall into the trap of thinking about how he deserves better. Wondering if, maybe, the only reason he chose to stay with you was because of the aether core in your heart. If that’s also the reason you’re in a relationship now…

And some days, these thoughts win out over the rest. Like today.

“What’s wrong?”

You blink, eyes flickering up from the bowl of ramen in front of you. Early on, you had started a tradition of eating a meal together after a successful mission, to just enjoy the peace of your home and each other. But today, you weren’t feeling that hungry, just…tired.

Xavier tilts his head, concern furrowing his brow - he noticed your mood start to shift days before, but didn’t want to push since you didn’t seem to notice it yourself. Now, though, it’s too obvious for him to ignore.

“I’m fine,” you sigh, flicking your chopsticks back and forth to watch the noodles swirl around in the broth, a small frown capturing your lips. It’s a horribly obvious lie.

“Is it something I did?” His voice isn’t accusatory or upset. It’s just a rational question to help him figure out what’s wrong. Still, you feel guilt tug at your chest, and you set the chopsticks down with another sigh.

You don’t want him to think that. You’d never blame Xavier for something like this. That would be like asking him to be a worse person, which is stupid. It’s just you. Your problem. Dragging him into it will only make you feel worse.

“No, Xavier, you didn’t do anything, promise. I’m not upset…with you.”

“But you are upset.”

Chancing a glance up at him proves a bad idea, making it all that more difficult to keep your thoughts quiet. Behind his normal sleepy expression, worry gleams in the deep blue of his eyes, unyielding and undeniably calm, like waves lapping gently at the beach.

The sight makes your heart ache and the words are tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them, “Do you think I’m actually a suitable partner for you?”

Surprise flickers across the hunter’s face. Of all the things he was expecting you to say, that wasn’t even on the list. He doesn’t laugh though, or take your question lightly.

“Do you mean, as a hunting partner? Or as a romantic partner?”

You shift uncomfortably, eyes falling back to your ramen, “I don’t know. Both, I guess?”

He hums softly. You try to ignore the nerves fluttering in your chest as Xavier gets up, watching him out of the corner of your eye as he circles the table to stand next to you. The hunter drips his head, catching your gaze.

“May I see your hand?”

A small frown pulls at your lips, not exactly sure where he’s going with this, but you offer him your hand anyways. Xavier takes your wrist, touch featherlight, and moves it so your hand is held up flat, facing him. Your brow furrows.

“Xav-”

“Look.”

Pursing your lips, you let out a little huff. He really hates giving direct answers, doesn’t he? Still, you’re in no place to really judge him, or expect anything for that matter. He’s always been a bit of a mystery to you.

You watch as Xavier places his hand against yours. His palm is warm and you can feel the calluses from who knows how many years of hunting. Your hand looks tiny in comparison, his pale, delicate fingers long enough to curl over your own a little. The sight makes your heart squeeze, fondness competing with the feeling of being so…small.

“They’re pretty different,” Xavier hums, voice still calm, his own eyes fixed on your hands. “Your fingers are always cold, and your hands are small. You have a scar here.” His free hand grazes the side of your palm, along your pinky. “And here” He traces another along your knuckle. Your breath falters at the tenderness behind his touch, like you’re delicate porcelain. “Mine are in different places. Yours are skilled at weaving silk balls and mine can…open jars.”

You snort. Xavier’s eyes dart up to yours, sparkling with humor, a brow raised. You try to smother your laughter, rather ineffectively, and motion for him to continue.

“They’re different, but-” His fingers spread apart, and you mimic him instinctually, only for his fingers to slot between yours in one fluid motion. You inhale softly, laughter dying in your throat. It’s like two puzzle pieces fitting together, a perfect embrace that washes over you with a comforting warmth.

Xavier watches you, keenly aware of the way you squeeze his hand tightly, desperately, like you’re worried it might disappear. He gives yours a tender squeeze in return, thumb brushing over your knuckle.

“I think they’re a suitable match. Don’t you?”

God, how could you go without this man? The worries that have been pricking at the back of your mind all week seem to melt away. It leaves you with that warmth, the kind that only comes from Xavier, that he offers you over and over again.

You give his hand another squeeze, finally smiling, “Yah. I do…Thanks, Xavier.”

The hunter leans down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. You can feel his lips brush against your skin as he murmurs, “Let me know if you ever feel this way again, angel. I’ll be more than glad to remind you.”

“I will.”

---

This was really fun to write!!! I really hope you guys like it! There are so many freaking tags on this puppy.

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muddi-gutz · 2 years ago

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I present to you,, my ultimate autism outfit ft. Happy stims

#lol for my suicide squad oc remake they’re an autistic telekinetic #we got the capris and tank top for temperature regulation #bc I always get too warm #and the comfy boots that have stretchy around the ankles so you don’t even know you’re wearing them #and the heel is wedged so they’re easier to walk in #and the ballerina gloves are just there for fashion lol #fun fact the name Eleanor exists bc people kept being named it. It comes from Aenor which we don’t know the meaning of because it’s so old!#and the last name Mallory means unfortunate #my ocs #my art #OH and the dress is just so the feeling of being fully covered is there. ✨autism✨#and I made sure to give all the clothes low necklines bc high necks always feel so uncomfortable unfortunately #feels chokey :\ I wish I could wear chokers and like. smaller necklaces #this oc is honestly going to be me unmasked abhvdjsbavhkdsbhvk #wip #Eleanore Mallory

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eowynstwin · 1 month ago

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Lilies

Price x f!Reader. - Dom/sub dynamics. whipping. vivisection as a metaphor for love. boot riding. throat-fucking. angst. aftercare. 18+ MDNI.

The bedroom is dim when you enter, lights turned low. Price watches you stop in your tracks at the unexpected darkness; watches you look around and catch sight of him.

He’s in the chair in the corner of the room. Hasn’t been waiting long—expected you to arrive, in fact, around this very moment. Your schedule and all of its minute quirks, tiny variations you might insert out of hunger, or boredom, or fixation on some new hobby, play out like clockwork in the back of his mind, no matter when or where he is.

A mnemonic. More accurately, a memorare. Entreaty to some higher power, as if to remind Death that he has someone far more important to get home to.

You take him in. His ankle is propped up on the opposite knee, glass of scotch hanging carelessly from his fingers, crystalline bottom brushing the carpeted floor. Your eyes focus on the orange-red cherry of his cigar—

—you startle a little when you meet his gaze.

He doesn’t blame you. His pulse beats heavy through his veins. Every breath he takes is slow and controlled, miasmic as it leaves his lungs. He feels less a man and more a vessel for something seething and wrathful, smog rolling in and in again on itself, eddying when it hits the boundaries keeping it contained.

Noxious. Fetid.

The glow of his cigar probably reflects in his eyes.

Borderline pyrolic.

You look at the coiled whip resting ophidian and black over his thigh. His free hand rests along it, thumbnail toying with the braided leather.

“Not a word,” he says evenly. His voice leaves him like it’s coated in sandpaper, debriding the column of his esophagus.

Your gaze snaps back up to his. Holds it.

Searching, maybe.

Your lips do not part. Instead, you wait.

The next breath he takes comes and goes a little easier—but only just.

“Strip,” he says, “and cuff yourself to your post.”

On a better night—a kinder one—he would’ve asked if you needed more directions. Checked in first, even, or warned you ahead of time of his intentions. This thing that exists between the two of you was cultivated in the open, fertilized with his own candor as he told you what he wanted, needed, like turning over a rock to see what squirmed beneath it. It grew as you trellised it together and discovered, through trial and error, what you needed to survive it.

Reward incentives. Good reason to give a damn about what he tells you to do.

But tonight is not a kind one. Venom pumps through his veins—caustic. Acrid. Hissing and spitting in his chest, already drawn back and ready to strike.

Maybe you can tell, as you stand there, watching him. Maybe you don’t feel like protesting. Or, just maybe, you need this, too, need it in the way you’ve begged him for in the past when the present moment felt ephemeral and unreal—because you obey.

You toe out of your heels. Pull your shirt over your head, your skirt down your legs. It’s an outfit he’s expressed appreciation for in the past; the wide drape of the collar exposing your clavicles, the long seams down your hips that buckle as your thighs hold the fabric taut.

You fold everything like a good girl and set them aside on the bed, and then remove your bra and panties—nude silk, no lace, sensible and comfortable and paid for with his card—to place them atop the pile.

Price isn’t in a mood to care why you acquiesce. All that matters to him is that you walk to your nightstand and remove the padded cuffs from the drawer, then to the bedpost on your side of the bed. You remove the endcap hiding the loop of steed embedded into the wood, fasten yourself with a padlock only he has the key to—

And then you kneel, naked, on the carpeted floor.

Giving him your bare back, the dim light sinking shadows into the notches of your spine.

Price says nothing. He doesn’t have a kind word anywhere in his alveoli. There usually aren’t any, when he first comes home, nor could a single one get past the bars of his vocal cords if it tried. This has grown too nacreous, too hypergranulated in his mantle, and it demands excision. He taps the ash from his cigar and sips at his scotch, the dregs burning a line hot and corrosive down his throat.

He sets the glass aside. Rises.

Brandishes the whip once with a sharp snap.

You flinch; your skin is filmy and thin in the gloaming. Horripilation lifts the follicles along your bare arms; the scant light of the bedroom catches your hair standing on end.

He watches a slow tremble work its way to your suspended fingers. Your back expands as you take a deep breath in, and contracts as you exhale, shadows the width of his fingers pooling into and draining away from the valleys between your extruded ribs.

You pull in another deep breath, one, two, three, four, five, and let it go at the same meter. Calming the anticipation the way he taught you.

He draws his arm back, lunges, and the whip cracks against your bare back.

You gasp sharply and go rigid in shock. Price watches the pain spread outward from the lash into your limbs. Bleeding down into the fibers of your muscles; sinking through osseous matter into your marrow like dye takes to cloth. You shift on your knees, a shiver snaking its way up your back.

It’s always cataclysmic, that first bite of pain. Every nerve ending suddenly alive and on high alert. Charged up. Inadvertently destining the next strike to fall even harder by sensory comparison.

Then, the welt appears, rising in reply to the scourge. A clean, sharp return stroke, an echo of the braided leather just beginning its reverberation.

Something cleaves in Price’s chest. Some tight membrane splits open, seeping felsic, hot and black, dripping steadily into his bloodstream. Effusive. Not a dam breaking, but a fissure in the stone.

Your breathing quickens—

And then he whips you again, harder, laying the stroke right next to the first. You cry out when it lands, but he leaves no time for you to prepare for the third, drawing, lunging, and lashing again at unspoiled skin.

You shake in your bonds. He whips you again, laying another diagonally from shoulder to hip as fog blooms across his vision. You wail like breaking glass, china falling from the cabinet, cut crystal flowering in pieces on hardwood floor.

The same tenor he hears when he has you on your back, cock burrowed in your cunt and bullying the plug of your cervix.

Too much, too hard, but your nails dig into his arse and you cry even harder when he lets up.

He whips you again. Welts lift across the known topography of your back—intersecting every angle of your shoulder blades, orogenies shifting and transforming the landscape into something new.

Only passing familiar with the dips and curves he often walks the tips of his fingers across.

Again. The planes of your back tighten, as if solidity will lessen the impact of the lash. Again, right across the tight line of your shoulders—you shriek, thrashing, hands fisting as you pull and swing futilely in the cuffs.

Geography added to. New land raised like it was beckoned by the hand of God. Hot and magamatic on the inside, too delicate to touch without collapsing in on itself.

Again. He snaps the whip, shaping the parabola with the jerk of his arm, shaping the line of a hill like a child’s drawing, then brings it down, sharply, cutting the fall across the meat of your hip. A hillside he often dwarfs with the ugly size of his hands.

Price envies the whip sometimes for its privilege. He’s never been able to lay hands on you directly for its purpose; not easily, at least. The flat of his palms have known the meat of your arse, have made ample flesh ripple like tossing stones across water, but he can’t employ them for much else without turning his own stomach.

He can pull your hair, wrap your throat in his grasp, shackle your wrists or the slopes of your hips in an iron grip, dig his fingers into your thighs and stomach like trying to tunnel through wedges of clay. Often afterwards he’s transfixed by the marks he leaves behind—dotted bruises aligned with the arc and spread of his fingers, or blotchy oblongs fitted to the heel of his hand.

Indelible evidence that Price Was Here.

He’ll try to match the grip that left them, his touch as light and gentle as a dove’s wing; a paintbrush without pigment, remembering the strokes it left behind. Synapses in his brain firing colors to match, claiming them for himself.

He put them there. That makes them his. That makes you his.

But striking you barehanded is beyond even his limits. No matter that you’d allow it. Have allowed it—

He whips you again. Draw. Lunge. Crack. You jolt against the bedpost, throw your head back, buck your entire body to work the pain through it.

One scene, similar to this, tephra building up in his craw and threatening to catalyze if he didn’t find some hurried way to exorcise it.

Some mission gone bad; some idiot disobeying his orders. People dying who didn’t need to.

He’d slapped you across the face, after forcing you to your knees with his fist in your hair—sent you tumbling to the floor. The next thing that had occurred to him had been to swing his foot back—

And the bile had risen so quickly up his throat that he’d frozen. He’d stared at you, on the floor. Lying there, sprawled and waiting. Fear in your eyes—but you weren’t moving.

His collapse after had been swift. He’d fallen to his knees and crawled to you, gathered you up like a stuffed toy and buried his mouth in your hair and hadn’t let you go for nearly three hours. Price can count on one hand how many times he’s cried in his adult life, and this had added one more to the tally.

It’s one thing to send his fury along through leather or wood or crop, and quite another to deliver it to you like you actually deserve it.

So, the whip.

You moan as the next stroke hits. Something long and stretched-out. Caramelized—molasses subducting the bite of the fall, sucrose splitting in the phreatic churn of draw, lunge, lash.

He pauses briefly to look you over. Claw-mark weals, like he’s been dragging his blunt nails down your back, hatch the skin paralleling your spine. Your heels press divots into the bare cheeks of your arse; you squirm in his gaze, drawing them together as you tighten your thighs.

There’s a moment when pain transforms. When heat fills the empty spaces between moving, frantic particles and melds in around them. Capturing them in place.

The calcaneus of one foot finds its way between your folds as you shift; your whole body twitches from it, and you lift your hips a little. There’s an obscene squelch as you settle down again, slick dribbling down your heel into the arch.

Price lunges. The whip cracks. You low like a trapped animal, grinding, and the pitch of your voice swoops upward when he lays another lash right on top of the previous.

Dangerous. Taunting something welling up to the surface, testing what it can take before it breaks. Price knows better.

Knows better, but the roil and hiss in his gut yawns wider with every lash, trembling as a fed appetite is only whetted. Horrible feedback loop—the cry of your voice, he often thinks, is the only thing that could possibly satisfy him, but when he gets it, Price can’t be satisfied.

A taste demands mouthful. A meal demands a banquet. When he hears you wail, he wonders how many different ways he can make you do it, how many octaves are there, hidden away, for him to tease out of you.

He knows everything about you. Everything. He knows every dip and curve of your body, every jutting bone, every creaky joint, every fold and roll and wrinkle. Sometimes he thinks he's got individual hair follicles memorized.

With the whip, or the scourge, or any other tool, the reward for his greed is ephemeral. The known plains present themselves as blank canvas, and for a while, after his work is wrought, there’s something new for him to fixate on. New patterns to trace his fingers along.

Sometimes he thinks he wants to cut you open, just to see what more of you he’s been missing.

Stomach. Lungs. Intestines. Arterial pathways leading to your soft, beating heart. All he wants, he thinks, is to see them. Say hello to them. Run his tongue along their membranes, caress each tiny capillary webbing them together with the lightest brush of his teeth, if only just to organize his experience of them into the archives of you that he keeps locked behind his ribs.

More of you. He always wants more of you.

He lunges again. The whip sings in the air, and the cracker bites again into your flesh. You undulate like rippling water, breath coming out in erratic stops and starts, and then you give a full body yank against your cuffs—

This time, he’s broken skin.

You curl in on yourself, suddenly going still. Your thighs tighten; your scapulae rise, shoulders touching the lobes of your ears.

As you’re if holding onto something that will escape; balancing, on an unsteady surface, something fragile. Delicate as spun glass.

It isn’t deep. A pearl of crimson wells up in the trough, collapsing when the mass betrays the surface tension. It trails a thin, straight line down your back as it slips between stark weals still yet to split open.

You haven’t moved; your body is a trembling fist.

Price takes a long, ragged breath. He asks the question, although he already knows the answer.

“Did you come?”

You shake your head.

Of course not. His good fucking girl—you’re waiting for permission.

Price extracts the little key from his trouser pocket and goes to where your wrists hang limp from the bedpost. The lock turns with a small click, and your arms drop like heavy stones. A breath of relief, involuntary, leaves you.

Price wraps your hair around his fist and yanks you back a little like pulling a dog on a leash. He rounds you, looming above your kneeling form, and wedges the tip of his boot between your knees.

It’s not a new pair. He’s had them for years, and the leather shows it, even despite regular maintenance. They’re brutish things, squarish and unkindly shaped, rough at the edges. Meant to trample underbrush and kick through teeth. A scratched-up battering ram between the soft skin of your thighs.

You lift your hips immediately to open the way for him. Automatic. Pavlovian.

He lifts the toe against your clit in reward, circles it, dragging your folds around. Your lips fall open; glittering, rheumy eyes stare up at him as your cuffed hands circle his knee.

Something soft in Price’s chest touches the inside of his sternum.

His hand goes to the zipper at his groin, and he draws his cock out. In the furor of the lash, he hadn’t even realized how hard he was, but he feels blistering in his own palm, the head ruddy and ugly with it, the veins thick and pulsing. Equally as inappropriate to subject you to.

He drags your head to his cock with his firm grasp in your hair. You don’t need to be told—your mouth drops, and he pushes in without preamble, grunting short and hard when the flat of your tongue melts along the broad artery on the underside of his shaft.

“Rut,” he husks, shifting his boot beneath you, “until you come.”

You moan around him. The vibration of your vocal cords travels up his cock, reverberating with an intensity that has him shoving into your throat with a snarl. You choke at the intrusion, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth, but your hips bear down on his boot, thighs clenching it at the sides.

Your whole body rolls and humps against his leg, cuffed wrists coming up so your hands can wrap around the meat of his thigh. You scrabble at the canvas, dig your nails into the weave of his trousers like you want to tear through it to get at his skin underneath.

The whole time, your eyes never leave his, glistening with tears that shiver on your lashes as they threaten to fall. He grits his teeth as your lips pull out around him as he withdraws, and then thrusts short and hard into your mouth in time with the frantic cant of your pussy up and down his boot.

He can feel the heat of your sex even through the leather, could swear that he can count the contractions as you clench around nothing, the tiny bud of your neglected clitoris rasping against the unkind fibers of his boot laces.

Obedient to perfection.

You’re past the threshold as you lean back a little, levering your body to change the angle at which your pussy engulfs his foot, and he half-steps forward to follow you so his cock doesn’t escape your mouth. You roll against him, a full-body wave that lifts chest, then stomach, then hips—

And then he sees it take you as you freeze in place, muscles tensing all at once.

Your eyes roll back, throat convulsing around him as quick, reedy mewls travel up his shaft in quick succession. Your whole body shakes with it, frenetic as you hump his boot to prolong it, loosening the knot he’d tied with your vigor.

He pulls out a little to let you breathe through the end of it, but when you realize what he’s doing you dig your nails into his thigh, following him back. You catch his gaze with yours, eyes pleading, brows knitting together in entreaty. The claws become cupped hands, stroking up and down, and you bob your head a little, hollowing your cheeks.

Price huffs a breath. He hadn’t planned for an orgasm for himself for this. Rewards are for people who earn them.

This—this isn’t that.

But your eyelids lower in pleasure as you take him deeper, saliva slicking the way to his base, and Price has never been able to deny you anything.

His grip around your hair becomes a soft palm on the back of your head, guiding you steady, and he props his shin up along your stomach, knee between your breasts to give you balance.

It’s an orison; tossed into the caldera, something precious given to gravity and the incandescent fate at the other side of it. Your lips melt around him softly, tongue skimming his length like the reaching strand of a candle flame twirling around the tip of his finger.

He loves you so frightfully much.

“That’s it,” he huffs. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You moan in your throat, eyes closed, lashes against your damp cheeks.

“Yeah,” he continues, digging his fingers into your hair. “Too good for the likes of me—mmm—”

You suckle around him, pulling all the way back to mouth at the head of his cock before engulfing him again, cuffed hands rising higher to nestle one into the crevice of his groin and thigh and to spread the other over his hip. His breath quickens, and he brings his other hand to the back of your head, digging the fingers of both into your scalp.

You accept the roll of his hips with a little laugh that escapes through your nose, opening your jaw wide; making room for him to take what he pleases, again, how he pleases, as he thrusts faster, harder, taking what you give freely and delving harder for even more—

The head of his cock bullies your soft palette as his pubic hair tickles your lips, and then it shoots through him, up and down his spine, and he rams into your throat, forcing your nose to his mons as his cock pulsates, erupting hot and viscous, heartbeat forcing his cum out in deep, rhythmic pulses he feels across his whole body.

When you swallow around him his whole body heats up, balls clenching as they empty themselves into you, and he punches his hips in again short and hard as the last vestiges of his climax play out.

You hold him in your throat until he pulls you away, and then you take a long, wet gasp, hot breath fanning across his softening cock as it falls down, drained out. Tear tracks are silvery down your face, lashes stuck together with lipids and salt.

He brings one hand to your cheek, caressing beneath your eye gently with one callused thumb. Sweat beads along your hairline, and your skin is sticky and humid, glistening with perspiration that pools in your collarbones.

He feels his own sweat running down his chest, along and around the follicles of his chest hair and down toward his navel. Your eyes follow each drop; he thinks you’d lean forward and lick them up, if he told you to, even though he can see the exhaustion pulling at you.

“You good?” he finally asks, his voice coated in grit, but steady as it leaves him.

It’s what he always says, after.

You open your eyes to meet his, and this, too, is a moment repeated. He searches. Waits for doubt or fear or dismay to flicker in your gaze, some omen that he’s gone too far, that this, finally, has been too much for you to take from him.

You grace him with a little smile. The lines of your face are slack and loose. Your expression is smooth—languid, floating on satisfaction.

“I’m good,” you say, calm and tranquil—

And the smoke clears from his eyes.

He rubs the indent around your finger, branded by your wedding ring in your clenching fist, and brings the knuckle to his mouth to kiss his apology into your skin.

“What happened?” you ask.

You’re boneless, splayed on the mattress with your belly to the duvet. Your head rests against the pillow, face turned toward him.

Even in the haze of afterglow, filaments of oxytocin and dopamine unspooling, your eyes are sharp. Insightful.

You know him too well.

John kisses your ring finger again and returns to the oblations he owes for his violence. The lines on your back are ugly, dotted with broken capillaries and set to linger for weeks. He applies aloe gel, cooled in the fridge, in a thick, generous layer with a soft brush. The kind your aesthetician uses on the rare occasion you treat yourself to some time at the spa, dragging the bristles lightly across your face, around the apples of your cheeks and the corners of your lips.

Softer than he can possibly touch you right now with his callused fingers. A consequence of his vice; flayed skin, lifted weals, cannot tolerate the weight or heat of his hand, no matter how curative or contrite. He destines his own gentle touch to futility.

The one place he broke skin will probably take a month to heal.

A puff of air zips by his ear again. So close as to be your gasp. The rock behind him explodes around a .50 caliber round. Fragments of dry stone, osseous and pale, shower his neck and back.

“The usual,” Price says.

With a q-tip, John dabs bacitracin along the open gash down one side of your back. It isn’t very long or very deep. It might not even scar.

When John is gone—deployed or dead, the difference is negligible, really—there will be no evidence of his presence in your life that you can’t get rid of. It kept occurring to him throughout his deployment, after the near miss.

Everything of his in the house you share, you can box up and donate. Deep clean the place to eradicate whatever traces of his scent are left behind. You can cut your hair in some new style he’ll never see, wear all new clothes, choose a new perfume.

You can take off your wedding band. Shove it in a box in some forgotten drawer, or just pawn it.

It’s childish. Downright adolescent. Snapping your bra like a pimply cunt in secondary school, because the only way he knows how to etch himself into the bedrock of your memory is with pain.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching out with one lolling hand.

He leaves the q-tip on your back and clasps it between both of his own, bringing the curl of your fingers to his mouth. He kisses down the side of your palm, trails his lips down the soft skin of your forearm. Squeezes so hard he feels the bones in your hands shift.

You’re sorry. He took a whip to your back, made you hump his boot like an animal, and fucked your face like a whore, all because he couldn’t stand the thought that you would someday be without him. And you’re sorry.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs, scratching at the soft part of your wrist with his beard.

It seems even the softest version of his affection must somehow be abrasive.

There’s a little smile playing across your lips as you close your eyes. A deep, serene breath leaves you.

He places your hand back on the bed and dips the brush back into the aloe, loading it generously up to the ferrule. The brush make little furrows in the gel as he lays it down, the layer already thick; he floats the flat of the bristles overtop, smoothing over his contrition, and then, idly, he wedges them in again, carving runnels down through the clear to your skin.

You must fall asleep as he does, or at least you enjoy it enough to indulge him. John follows the lines of each lash from beginning to end, tracing their length, mapping the way they’ve changed your skin.

In a few weeks, as he cares for them, they’ll fade away completely. Left only to memory—both his and yours. But for now, you’ll feel them every day. Feel him every day, even when he’s not there, brushing along the inside of your shirt, stinging with every light touch.

Remembering the hand that held the lash.

He smooths the painted lines over and begins again.

a/n: this started as a casual one-off and became a loose masterstudy of @yeyinde's writing style. Lev, affectionately, you are insane. I know this because in writing this I also went insane.

Also dedicated to @391780. Please never stop being kinky online. I live for it.

Also that one part was inspired by this piece of art.

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price smut #john price cod #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price smut #captain john price x female reader #cod smut #madi writes #mwritesprice #i'm not exactly satisfied with this one but if i spend any more time on it i'll never want to write again

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lalalychee-x · 6 months ago

Text

"Bad Idea!" Boothill x Reader ft. his hat

CW: NSFW! MDNI! fem!reader; sex where ur on a window sill; squirting + licking it off again lol; slight exhibitionism (the door's open); biting; Boothill's tongue has its own warning; clothes ripping; fingering; robo-dick and cyborg fingers lmao; creampie; blood from biting is mentioned like twice and barely; teasing; braless; begging; edging; sweet and soft Boothill bc he's a cutie; empty warnings; he can't breathe since he doesn't have lungs?? word count: 3415 oopsie

song4this Bad Idea by Ariana Grande

♡ Whenever Boothill's hat goes missing, he knows you're responsible, so it ends up with him hunting around for you. You run away with his hat on to tease him, and he runs after you, playfully nibbling at your cheek. It's all fun and games until the hat is the only thing you have on.. ♡ Basically, you steal his hat to tease him, but end up getting fucked silly until you apologise to him. With the hat on. And only the hat on. "Ya wanted to wear it so badly, darlin', so ya got it."

inspo post from @madamofthestars (psst, check them out! They super cool!) art creds: skoukax on insta

"C'mon now, sugar, ya know that ain't yours…!" Boothill called out behind out, his voice a mixture of frustration and amusement.

You rolled your eyes, quickly glancing back through a spin on your heel; the hat wobbling slightly as you held it in place with one hand.

You look back at him, sticking your tongue out, before giggling and darting off. You sharply turned a corner, your heart racing as you waited for the perfect moment to lead him down a wilder chase.

Boothill scoffs, an amused smirk tugging at his lips, "Oh, gettin' smart now, are we?"

You spin back around, your heart racing as the clicking of his boots gets closer and quicker, "I am smart!" You taunted him a little, the brim of the hat bobbing as you picked up speed.

"Ya little fudgin' minx," Boothill muttered under his breath, his curses amusingly censored as they reached your ears. "I swear, when I get my hands on ya…"

"You can't even swear properly!" You call out again, turning your head as you ran, setting the hat askew.

You catch a glimpse of him running towards you, the sight beyond amusing to see when running at such speed. You attempt to call back, but your voice dissolves into a fit of giggles and gasps for air as you ran.

You snapped your head back, facing forward to drag out the chase. It was all fun and games until you realised you'd diverted your attention for too long and cornered yourself in a dead-end room. Boothill's imposing figure filled the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips as he took in the sight of you. You were panting but your index and thumb firmly gripped the brim of the hat, assuring it stayed on your head.

A room was an overstatement; a storage room, just maybe, with a singular horizontal window panel that stretched about a meter wide at most. It let in a few spells of moonlight.

Boothill leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed over the metal plates of his chest, "Gotcha now," He laughed, the star-shaped insignia on his jacket clicking against the metal of his torso as he did so. "My hat looks mighty fine on ya, but I think it's time ya give it back."

You adjusted the hat, spining it on your low on your brow.

"Come on, just a little longer—?" You teased, batting your eyelashes in a futile attempt to charm him.

"No can do, darlin'," He chuckled again, pushing the door shut behind him. The room dimmed as the light from outside blocked out. "But if ya apologise, I'ma let you have it a bit longer."

"Ok ok, sorry!" You smile sheepishly, reaching a hand to the hat. "There, can I keep it for longer?"

Boothill looked at you with a raised eyebrow, as if you were joking. "That it?"

"Well, else do you want me to say?" You stood there, a bit dumbfounded.

He stared for a second longer before edging himself closer, his face close to yours, bionic fingers tracing up and down your neck. "C'mon, apologise properly."

He tipped the hat up by the brim to expose your eyes better to him. He leaned down, the sharp edges of his teeth latching onto the soft skin of your cheek, pressing hard enough that they'd definitely leave jagged crescent-shaped scars in the morning.

He moved some hair away from your neck, his voice low against your ear as he nibbled across your jaw, "C'mon sweetcheeks, I know ya can work that mouth better than tha't. What happened to all tha't smart talk from before, hm?"

A flushed heat crawled up your neck, dusting your cheeks a rosy pink even in the dim light. It took a moment, before your quickening gasps dissolved into stutters, "A-ah, that was a j-joke…"

"A j-j-joke?" He laughed low against your ear, playfully mocking your stutter, "But you look to be takin' it real serious, sweetheart."

He paused, before licking a long stipe down from your jaw down to your collar bone. "M'still wanting that pretty lil' apology. C'mon."

God, his tongue was going to drive you insane-

You let out a shaky breath, lowering your hand from the hat on your head to place comfortably on his metal shoulder plates. "Hey hey, sorry sorry, I won't steal your hat again, ah—!"

You gasped, almost buckling over as Boothill planted a particularly mean bite through the thin skin of your collarbone.

Glancing down through hazy eyes, you watched as he swiped his tongue over his teeth, licking away the small beads of blood across his jagged dentures. "Ya said that last time too, darlin'."

Your grip tightened on his shoulders, "C'mon, I mean it this… t-time-!"

Your eyes widened, watching Boothill's teeth latch onto the neckline of your dress, yanking it roughly until it ripped. You yelped at the sudden rush of cool air against your bare chest, nipples hardening under the sudden exposure.

"Boothill!" Your arms snapped around the obnoxious tear in your clothes. "The door's practically still open!"

He chuckled, tracing a line with his sharp teeth along your breast.

He raised an eyebrow, "No bra? Yer askin' for it now, sweetheart."

Your face felt really warm again, excuses coming out nothing more than mutters, "I-It… was really warm, today…"

"Aight then, darlin'," he cupped his metal palms under your thighs, hoisting you up until you sat on the window sill, your back pressed against the pane of the window. "Besides, if we get caught, then they jus' gonna havet' give us some privacy…"

You gulped away any nervousness as he shyed away your arms from your chest. He trailed his mouth down your teared bodice, ripping fabric as he went, until he reached the waistline of your dress. He paused for a moment, before ripping a tear down it, right to the hem of the skirt, the sliced fabric falling either side of your thighs.

Goosebumps raced up the exposed skin of your thighs, eyeing when he knelt down, two loud clanks as the metal joints of his knees hit the floor.

He grinned at the sight of the thin fabric of your underwear, running his teeth along his teeth again.

"What pretty panties, hm? Was half expectin' yer to be bare down here too, sweetheart." He lifted your right leg over his shoulder. "Shame 'm gonna rip 'em so soon."

"Hey—! Come on, c-careful!" You shivered slightly as his canines hooked around the stretchy fabric, piercing a hole in them.

"Right darlin'. It's ya punishment for not apologisin'."

"H-huh—?"

There was a staggered ripping sound as your underwear ripped from top corner to bottom corner, the material coming off with the dragging of his teeth.

You yelp, gripping his hair, "You—! Are you going to fucking shred everything I'm wearing—?!"

"Yeah, am plannin' on it, darlin'." He chuckled before trailing his tongue up your slit, already a drooling mess between your legs.

You shiver, your fingers gripping his hair tighter, the door cracked open only making your heart race faster. Oh Aeons, if someone were to see you exposed to him like this, pressed up against the window—

"Shh, relax sweetheart. The thrill's the best part. Jus' breathe for me, ok?" He began to rub up and down your slit, his voice soothing and his thumb lingering at your clit for a moment too long just to force a whine out of you. "But if I were ya, I'd start apologisin' if you wanna cum this time."

"H-haah—?!"

He didn't respond to your breathless protest, but circled two fingers around your entrance, watching amused as slick pooled on his fingertips. "Stubborn? Y'need some encouragement, do ya?"

He licked a long stripe up again letting tongue swirl around your clit before slipping a finger in, his mouth still hot against your folds.

He grinned and looked up at your nervous expression melting into pleasure, his head leaning against the inside of your thigh. "There y'go, sweetheart, ain't that feel good?"

"Hnngh—!" You desperately tried to roll your hips on his finger, only to fail and your body halt into a series stutters.

"Really fudgin' desperate, are we?" He laughed a little, sucking in a breath. "Hol' on, darlin', I'll find it."

He slid his finger in and out tantalisingly slow, his tongue brushing over your clit; you could feel the steel of his teeth occasionally that irked your body with shocks of pleasure. Content with your faltering ego, he slipped another finger in, the stretch making you wince before whining.

"B-boothill, 'm sorry, please-let-me-just, a-ah—!" Your eyes widen, one hand curved over and gripping the window sill and the other firmly on his hair.

"Hm, what's that darlin'?" He stupidly grins, his bottom lip glossed over with spit and your arousal. "Didn't quite hear ya…"

He curled his two fingers upwards, the rubber pads on his fingertips pressing firmly against that sweet spot deep inside you.

"F-fuckkknngh…" Your eyes roll out of focus, hips subcounciously rocking against his bent fingers and your back arched until your head pressed against the window pane — with the hat still on.

He clicked his tongue. "There. 'M found it. Now where are my sorries and Iwontdoitagain's?" He began to pump the two fingers in and out, roughly pressing against that sweet spot every thrust of them. "Still want a proper apology, sweetheart—"

He stays substantially quiet — amiss a few amused hums and chuckles — listening to your flurry of apologies and letting you listen to the sloppy squelches of your cunt.

"God, I'm sorry— I won't—"

"Oh, is that so, darlin'?"

"H-hn, god, I won't do it again—!"

"Sure ya won't, darlin'…" He sucked in a breath, voice shaky between your legs, before picking up the pace with a stupid grin on his face, flashing his shark teeth. You whine, rocking your hips in helpless stutters, your pussy openly accepting the change in pace and clenching around his digits while he curls them deeper and quicker inside of you. "Fuckfuckfuckk— I'm sorry, sorrysorry— pleasejust—"

Boothill grinned at your mush of words. Your mouth hung open, chewing at your bottom lip in a desperate attempt to muffle the drunk blabbles that spilled out of your mouth.

He mutters, his voice low between your trembling thighs, "C'mon sweetheart, y'mouth can beg better than that." He rolls his tongue over your clit again, pumping his fingers in and out, sticky threads leaking from your cunt and sprawling between his fingers and the sides of your thighs.

You clenched your eyes shut, tears pricking at your eyes, "Boothill, c'mon, 'm sorryyy— w-won't do it again— promise—!"He lets out a low hum, gently flicking at your clit with the tip of his tongue— oh god, his damned tongue. A flash of panic spread across your face, feeling him begin to slow down.

"Or what, sweetheart?" He experimentally twisted his hand agonisingly slow as he pumped in and out, pistoning your cunt with his fingers at deeper angles, rubbing your clit with his thumb.

"Please, 'm gonna — hic — c-cum—!" Tears began pricking at your eyes, "God, please, fuck, I've learned my lesson —!" Your pleas come out in choked sobs, "Please don't — hic — slow down—!"

"Attagirl," He grinned, the flat steel of his teeth pressed up against your slit as his tongue flit over that bundle of nerves at the tip that drove you insane, quicker this time, "Jus' a bit more, yeah?"

He slid in for a final time and jerked his hand upwards, settling his fingers into you, firmly hooking repeatedly into that sweet spot. His voice and laugh were teasing, vibrations low and tempting between the plush of your thighs. "C'mon — make a real fudgin' mess on m'face, sweetheart."

"B-boothill, 'm gonna—!"

Your fingers grip the smooth locks of his hair, head pushed against the glass, his name shamelessly spilling out of your mouth. Specks of white flash from behind your eyes, vision going hazy and choked moans straggering from your throat.

You hear him chuckle lightly underneath you, cooing at the clench around his fingers and the gushes of viscid liquid coating his tongue, lips and fingers so well.

He slowly pulled away after rubbing strangely vexing circles a few more times inside you. He glances up at you with a satisfied grin, his mouth and chin glossy with your fluids.

Lowering your thigh from his shoulder, he let it dangle back over the window sill before standing up with a loud scrape of his metal joints against the floor.

He cleaned his fingers clean of the sheeny, pretty slick with his tongue and making sure to roll them around in his mouth before taking them out with a 'pop—!'

"Real mess y'made, sweetcheeks." He grinned, flashing his teeth at you, as he used the back of his hand to wipe away any remnants. "Tastes real good, though."

"H-hnn…" Your voice came out rough and croaky, your head lolling to one side, setting the hat to tumble off your head.

He snapped a hand to the hat, placing it back on your head with a mischievious smile, "No no, keep it on. Ya wanted to wear it so badly, darlin', so y'got it."

You blink for a few moments, regaining your breath, "Oh, fuck you—!"

"With pleasure—"

"What am I going to wear when getting out of here?! At least you're clothed!" You motion to the sliced fabric on either side of your legs, and the ripped bodice of your dress hanging on dear threads.

With your comment, he slipped off and discarded his jacket that didn't even cover much anyway.

"Ya won't need anythin' for a while now, darlin'. Think of it when we get there." Boothill laughed, flicking away the torn rags. "Besides, y'look good with just the hat on. Think I've put your mouth to enough good use too."

You lick your lips, opening your mouth to say something but quickly shutting it again at the swift unbuckling of his belt; it heaves down to his thighs from the weight of the cartridges hung on it.

His fingers travel, hitching onto a cock of metal plates, the edges of them encased in thick black rubber right from the girth until reaching a swollen tip of black rubber.

You sharply breathe, eyeing the scale-like texture, taking note of every rib on it as it lined up against you. You suddenly blush at the realisation of mouth almost salivating, muttering, "You so owe me a new dress after this—"

Boothill let out an amused hum, one hand wiping a line of drool from your lip then trailing down to your tits, cupping the flesh with cold metal fingers. You shiver, the skin on your chest pebbled with goosebumps before gasping at a sudden bite along the sensitive skin.

"—?!"

The quick spike of pain quickly subsided into a tingly sort of pleasure as Boothill's tongue drove around the swelling mark, peppering a few more as he went until he was so bent over into you that his cock pushed up against your pussy, the metal cool against your puffy and swollen clit.

"Ah, fudge, darlin'—" He grits his teeth, feeling the warmness of you just on his tip. He huffs a little, barely fitting it in voice raspy as his face is buried into your neck. "Open up a bit, sweetheart will ya—?"

He backs away for a moment to grab both of your legs, hooking them firmly over his shoulders. You groaned at the stretch, keeping both hands on the window sill in desperation. He grinned at your pussy spread wider over his tip now, clenching around it and sheening the bulb of rubber with slick. "There y'go…"

He groaned, breathing shaky as he slid it slowly. "A-ah, God—"

"A-ah, God—" Your eyes widen, rolling out of focus from feeling every metal rib of his cock push into you, forcing it thick and hard into your cunt until it reached the base. You tense, locking your legs around his neck. "Fuck, I told you to be careful—!"

He let out a shaky laugh, "Sorry 'bout that darlin'—"

He places one hand on the window sill for leverage, the other coming to press the hat down on your head. With a sharp breath in, he begins to move, deep long strokes at first to make sure you felt every bump along the scale-plating of his cock against your walls.

And, god, did it drive you insane; the texture was too much, almost sending your sending your already-sensitive pussy into overstimulation. "Hnn, t-too much —! Boothillholdon, itsgonnahmph—!"

"Jus' relax, darlin', you've taken it before…" He whispers low into your ear, stressing the pace of his movements, losing himself in the warmth of your cunt and grinning at your indecipherable mush of words spilling from your mouth again. Muffled groans escape as he listens to your moans, picking up the pace.

You subconciously roll your hips against the thrusting of his cock, every metal plate rubbing smooth and hard against your walls, the thick rubber of his tip hitting hard against your g-spot.

"Killer hips y'got there, baby—" He cooes breathlessly in your ear, his own voice breaking as he thrust in and out of your sopping cunt. You flush a deep red, your face now hot and bothered when you realise how desperate you were against his cock.

You open your mouth to reply, probably with something smart but your lips are greeted with the stark taste of iron and your own slick on his tongue as his mouth kisses yours shut. You whine through his lips, feeling his tongue deep in your mouth until your whole body shivered and tingled. You tried to keep your eyes open, only to end up crossing them over in a fucked-out haze.

Your legs trembled over his shoulders, locking him tighter in place to bully his cock deeper into your cunt. His eyes widened at the lock, then he grinnned.

"Fudge, y'not lettin' m'get away, are ya—?" He groaned before huffing out a laugh, finally lowering his hand from the hat on your head to place them both on your hips, roughly slamming them onto him to target that sweet spot inside you.

"Hnn — hic — god, m'gonna—" Your words come out slobbery, your lips glossed over and drooling.

"C'mon, pretty, cum f'me…" He dug the metal of his fingers into your hips, his own beginning to stutter and shake as he moved. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against your clit in uneven circles to drag the orgasm out of you. "Make a real mess, sweetheart—"

Patches of white and yellow flash behind your eyes, your hips buckling forward. You let out a long choked moan that stuttered with every slackening thrust of his hips that gummed your insides with thick ropey spills of cum.

Gently, he slowed until the stimulation against your slit burned off, leaving you tingly and weak. Weak enough to finally let go of the leg lock you had on his neck.

The grip on your hips slackened as he pulled away, whistling at the mess between you both. He took a moment to watch the white slick drip between your legs. "Feel full as a tick yet, darlin'?"

You tried to respond, but your whole body almost lolled to the side, only stopped quickly by his arm. He gazed down at you, stupidly grinning and laughing at the sight. "What'd I say, darlin'? I did shut up that smart mouth of yours." He clicked his tongue in thought, "Even got m'self the cutest little apologies—"

With any remaining energy you had, you playfully whacked him on the arm and cut him off, to which he faked a wince. He had forgotten the bodily difference in stamina between you two.

"Ouch— fudge, darlin', at least you got some spark left in ya. Fine, 'ma buy you a… no, ten dresses in turn, 'kay?" He pressed a small kiss on your forehead then eyed the dimly lit room, catching sight of the hat that had tumbled off your head at some point and the jacket he had teasingly thrown off. "For now, 'm jacket and that hat are gonna have to do."

"Oh, fuck you—" You scoff, your head in the curl of his elbow.

He smiled, running his hand through your hair. "C'mon, y'wanted to wear that hat so badly. Y'looked real good in it…"

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

#lychee<3 #lychee's sillies #boothill #boothill x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr boothill #smut #hsr smut #Boothill's tongue my GOD.#oopsie it a bit long

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asraxfile · 10 days ago

Text

ғᴀᴠᴏᴜʀɪᴛᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ

sypnosis the hatred that had been pouring out for years between your and Karina's mafia was a bit exhausting. But your bad relations change one day when you and Karina decide to meet and change everything, alone.

pairing mafia leader!Karina x mafia leader!fem!reader

genre smut, fluff, enemies to lovers

warnings: sexual activity(strap-on, pussy eating, dirty talk), kissing, cursing, teasing, mentions of reader smoking, Karina and reader as switches

word count: 2.8k

It was a clear day in Seoul. Various clouds covering the bright sky as Karina made her way towards your building. With her men in black suits she looked at the camera on the front door. As it scanned her pretty face, she pierced with the look in her eyes, knowing you were the one watching on the other side of the camera.

Karina was the boss of the 2nd most powerful mafia in Korea. She wasn’t the type to get her hands dirty as long as she could keep the business going, but you were totally the opposite one. Surpassing the number of crimes committed compared to Karina’s mafia made you the number 1 in Korea. No one ever dared to step on your path, except Karina herself.

That’s the exact reason why both of your families have been longtime enemies throughout the far distant history. Both of you followed your family’s steps but many things need to be cleared on this day.

As she made her way out of the elevator’s long ride to your office that is positioned on the last floor, 12th floor, Karina walked through the long hallway with seriousness, kinda scaring your guards. But still they welcomed her in your office, eyeing her mysterious figure.

Karina wore a black short sleeved dress, with half of her back exposed, with laced black thighs and of course her detailed black suit with thin white stripes. Her dark brown hair was let down, matching the professionality in her face. The stomping of her thick heels on her boots stopped as she waited for your office door to open.

“Don’t come inside with me, I’ll be fine on my own.” Karina hissed at her guards, strict and sharp but they obeyed with her exact word. She watched your guards finally open the door as she stepped inside, being enlightened by the light out of your large window.

You were turned with your back as you sat on the chair, a little smoke could be seen coming out from behind. "So Karina," you began as you spun your chair towards the person you were expecting. Taking the last puff of your cigarette. "we meet again, who would’ve thought, right?" you smirked at the mafia president, Karina, as she slowly walked towards your table.

“Don’t be silly, both of us knew this day would eventually come.” Karina chuckled, holding her expensive Prada bag. You turned your gaze to your now long gone cigarette as you squeezed it into the ashtray. “That’s a really nice bag you have there.” you complimented as you got closer to the table and rested your arms on it, looking up at Karina. Curiosity splattered all over your face.

“It indeed is,” Karina starts, putting the bag in front of her on the dark wooden table of your office. “There’s a present for you in it,” you raised a brow at her state. “But you will get it later.” she released her fingers from the bag and crossed her arms, sizing you up carefully.

“A present? from Miss. Yu Jimin? for me?” leaning back on your chair, you mocked. In response Karina rolled her eyes. “Must be my lucky day, but should I be concerned or flattered?” you asked.

Karina’s lips slowly turned into a cheeky but a teasing smile, making you furrow your eyebrows. “It should be…pleasuring.” she exclaimed as you tried to understand what she meant by that. She slowly walked closer to you, the low click of her boots slicing through the silence like a knife.

Your eyes followed her every movement, and for a brief moment, the air between you felt heavier, thick with unspoken distant words. Karina placed her palms on the edge of your desk and leaned closer to your sitting figure, her face inches from yours.

The room seemed to get even quieter as Karina leaned into your space, the cool scent of her perfume blending with the faint smoke of your cigarette lingering in the air. Her gaze locked onto yours, the weight of her presence bearing down on you.

Through it all, Karina was always so unpredictable from your point of view, always so quiet but so unforgettable. That’s the reason why you were kinda terrified of her, but you loved her like that. Perhaps one of the main reasons to clear up all the bloodshed between your families is not just to make eternal peace between them, but to make you and Karina the most unforgettable and fearless duo, ever.

Her lips curved into a faint smirk, one that you loved to see the most. “You talk so seriously, yet you tremble when I’m this close.” her words pierced through your mind like a dagger, surprising you but you refused to show it. “Am I?” you mocked, slightly turning more towards her. “Cause I thought we were playing the same game.”

Karina’s breath hitched, slightly darkening her eyes, but keeping her teasingful grin. You straightened your back, moving forward to your enemy. “What is it, Jimin, looks like this game isn’t yours to own.” you teased, watching Karina’s chestnut brown hair fall to one side of her shoulder as she moved ever forward to you.

She placed a hand on your shoulder as a signal for you to move backwards with your chair. You didn’t flinch, you just obeyed under her touch. Karina’s smirk deepened, her confidence unshaken with the same serious look from the start. With a swift move, she leaned in to whisper into your ear.

“If I wanted to own you,” she said, her voice sounding like a predator trying to catch his prey, like a cat going for a mouse. She looked at you “you’d already be mine.” with the last said word, she quickly pulls you into a rough kiss, making you grunt in surprise. She groped your shoulders as she continued to kiss your soft lips, messing your face up with her lipstick, also crumpling your white shirt.

To obtain control, you roughly pull her in your lap as she sits on the middle of your thigh with her legs spread open, her dress lifting in a sudden movement. Your arms exploring her torso as Karina puts a hand on your neck, making you choke a little. Slowly she pulls away as she softly opens her eyes to look at you. Breathless, you could just smirk. “You’re always full of surprises, dear.” you flirt as you suddenly lift Karina up. Moving away all the things from your table and slamming her body down.

The sudden movement made Karina moan in slight pain in your ear which only aroused you more. Her legs wrapped firmly around your hips as she held your shoulders tightly, digging her black nails in your back. You attacked her neck with wild and rough kisses, sucking on her sweet spot leaving a fresh hickey.

“Hahh…L/n…” she moaned your last name out, trying to think but she couldn’t. As you move your kisses to her collarbone, you raise your head to face her. “Why so formal, it’s not like we’re strangers.” you exclaim, slowly tracing your fingers to the zip of her dress.

Karina gulped bluntly as she could feel the heat started to rise in her the slower you unzipped her black dress. “Who’s trembling now?” you teased, checking Karina out as you took off her boots and slid her laced thighs off her too. Karina now in a bra and panties.

You checked her out as Karina quickly sat up and pulled you closer by your black tie, making you kiss her all over again. She unbuttoned your shirt through the kiss and after she did, you started to slide them down her body again.

Karina enjoyed this too much, getting lost under your touch. You traced hot kisses down her chest, her stomach and finally you came to her panties. The coldness of your hands sent chills down her spine as she couldn’t wait anymore. She needed you, right this instant.

Slowly, you looked down in between her legs and brushed your cold thumb over the fabric of her panties, right over her pussy. Loving the little sounds Karina makes. Now it was her turn to tremble under your touch.

You slowly slid down the laced black pair of panties down her legs and did not hesitate to leave Karina waiting. Kissing her inner thighs, Karina rested one leg on the edge of the table and the other on your shoulder. You kneeled on the floor and pulled her hips closer, placing a tender kiss on her clit. Sucking and slurping Karina could feel the heat between her legs rise up even more with your each lick.

She gripped your hair, looking down at you with a furrowed expression as she moaned in pleasure. Karina rested on her elbows, rolling her eyes. You sure knew how to get this woman to obey.

Slowly sliding your tongue across her clit, you moved your head around a constant rhythm, making Karina’s already shaking. Then, slowly you insert 2 of your fingers deep in her cunt, making her release a loud moan. “Y-Y/n…right there…please, more-ah!” you pumped your fingers in and out of her, hitting her sweet spot as you looked at her. “C’mon dear, cum for me.” you whispered as you started licking her clitoris once again. A tear of pleasure sliding down Karina’s eye as she breathed out, finally cumming on your fingers.

You kiss her inner thighs as you raise your head up to face her, obviously smirking. “Cat got your tongue?” you teased as you watched her catch her breath. “Whoo….that was…hahh…really good.” Karina stuttered out, getting her legs off you and sitting up. You proudly chuckle as you sit in your chair.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing, baby?” she stood up, slowly walking to the front side of the table as you watched in confusion. “Tell me who said that…” she rummaged through her bag before looking at you again. “We were done…?” she pulled out a strap out of her bag, widening your eyes. “Ahh, so that’s my present.” Standing up you take off your black pants, throwing them aside as you walk towards Karina. “I’ll be glad to use it.” as you try to take the strap away, Karina back it away from your grip.

“Dear, you don’t use gifts, you receive them.” she exclaimed nastily, smirking widely at you.

The next thing you knew that Karina was fucking the shit out of you with that goddamn strap of hers. She bent you over your table and thrusted inside of you like she’d done it numerous times. “You like this?? Oh I know you like this, baby,” she teased, slapping and groping your ass tightly. You were a moaning mess, but you didn’t care, you wanted to show Karina you were hers and hers only. Suddenly, Karina slows down her pace, moving your hair to one side to kiss your neck.

Breathless, you couldn’t think. “Such a good girl for me, not even caring that our guards might be hearing your sweet little noises from behind the door.” she whispered deeply in your ear. “I’m gonna make you realize we belong together.” getting into position again, she started thrusting slowly, passionately and once again, roughly.

“Ahh…hahh…K-Karina…faster please!!” you begged and moaned Karina’s name, making her chuckle. Slapping your ass again she fastened her movements. Fucking you rotten like a bunny. Enjoying this view a little too much, looking down on you was always her job anyway.

“I can feel you’re close, y/nn, c’mon, cum for Karina.” she fastened her thrusts even more as your moans got louder before you finally came on her strap. Your legs shaking as Karina pulls out, staring down at your gift and all the juices you splattered on it.

“Fuck Y/n, that was so hot.” Karina exclaimed as you tiredly sat on the edge of the table. Softly, Karina smiles at you as she kisses the top of your head, hugging your naked body. “So this is how we fix both family conflicts?” you asked, both of you chuckling.

“Be for real now, you are too desperate for me.” Karina teased back as you kissed her shoulder before looking at her once again. “And you’re nothing without me.” you peck her lips as both of you fall into a chuckle again.

When both of you got dressed up, you said your goodbyes with Karina and walked her towards the exit of your building. Feeling proud that both of your mafia’s are now on good terms all because Karina was your favorite enemy of all time. She had always been the one who pushed you to your limits, testing your patience and well being. Yet, there was a strange sense of tension between the two of you that no one could quite understand but you dearly cherished with only her.

#asraxfile #aespa #aespa x fem reader #karina #aespa karina x reader #karina x fem!reader #aespa x reader #aespa karina #aespa x fem!reader #yu jimin #kpop imagines #aespa smut #aespa imagines #writing #karina smut #karina x reader

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