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rememberwren · 4 months

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Skin Deep

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

Sequel here.

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

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

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

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

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Five. Don’t be late.”

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

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

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

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

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

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

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

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

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

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

“The water is for you,” he says.

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

“This is your first tattoo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

His thoughtfulness touches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

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

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

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

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

Masks are cute, you say.

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

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very glad of it.”

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

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

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

I’m a little nervous.

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

It’s not that.

What is it?

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

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

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

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

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

You bring the pasties anyway.

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

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

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

“Hi,” you squeak.

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

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

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

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

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

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

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

“Ready?” he asks at length.

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

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

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

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

“I’m just teasing you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?” He asks.

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

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

“Thank you,” you say softly.

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

“I’m not backing out.”

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

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

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

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

“Let me know when you need to break.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

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

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

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

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

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

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

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

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

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

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

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

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

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

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

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

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

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

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

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

“Worse than getting it.”

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

“Twenty minutes from now?”

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

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

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

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

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

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

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

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

“No,” you admit.

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

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

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

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

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

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

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

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

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

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

“Maybe.”

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

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

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

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

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

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

“What else do you need?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

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

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

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

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

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

“Good,” you breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your cock—want it—please—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

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

“Ghost!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

“Regretting it already?”

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

“Dinner?”

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

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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alshiba · 2 years

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#Car Sway bar links

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ink-n-shadow · 1 month

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Angel reader and demon Simon first argument.

He storms off and leaves for countless of days, till he comes back with some fruits to ease his way into her forgiving heart..

this might be my favorite thing i've written for demon!ghost yet...

[ TIME APART ] 𝜗𝜚 the one where angel!reader and demon!ghost get into their first argument

𝜗𝜚 pairing: broken angel!reader x demon!ghost, brief incubus!soap x angel!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: mature themes (no smut but minors still DNI), angel!reader being a brat, ghost disappearing 𝜗𝜚 link to all my works in the demon!ghost au can be found here

"y'still fuckin' poutin'?"

the feathers at the base of your wings bristle at the sound of his rumbling voice, but you refuse to turn to face him, instead letting your legs dangle out over the bottom of your new cage once again suspended up above the expansive living room. your arms are locked tightly around the hand-welded bars, cheek smushed against one of them as you let out a rather petulant sigh.

all you had asked of ghost was if he would ever let you out—allowing you to walk the expanse of his palace with little restriction. it wasn’t like you would try to run away!

ghost just scoffs bitterly, muttering something about you being difficult under his breath before disappearing through the monstrous living room doors and slamming them shut behind him. the force is enough to rattle your cage slightly, causing it to sway from side to side and jostling you around a bit.

“don’t do that, ghost!” you scream after him as your fingers curl tightly around the bars, trying to keep yourself upright and stable amongst the tremoring movements. “you…you asshole.”

and that would be the last time you saw ghost for days. he would send one of his buddies (an incubus who you learned was named johnny) to lower your cage and feed you at the same times every day. at least johnny was more chatty and lenient than ghost, letting you roam around to your hearts content under the guise of “promise y’won’t tell ‘em? he’ll have my fuckin’ head on a bloody pike if he knew i let his bird out.”

you got to see places you’d never been able to before, like the large kitchen filled with gourmet meals and ingredients courtesy of Hell’s finest. you also found a smithing shop tucked outside near the labyrinth, stocked with the finest metals and blown glass you ever could’ve imagined. that’s where you see the scraps from when ghost made your new cage, multiple ruined plaques where he’d written things like “GHOST’S SWEET ANGEL” and promptly scratched through them.

but you know ghost is coming back one day when johnny’s delicately placing you back inside of the gold cage, latching the cuff around your ankle as his other hand gropes at the fat of your outer thigh (“so fuckin’ soft. how’s the bastard not takin’ care of ye yet, hen?”).

you can hear the distinct and heavy thumps of ghost’s steps before you see him, ambling into the living room with a large wicker basket full of goodies hidden neatly beneath a white silk cloth. you scramble to the other side of the cage, brows pinched together in reignited anger as you listen to ghost quietly moving to the other wall and beginning to turn the crank to lower you.

it’s silent as the chains suspending you groan with loud creaks, cage slowly descending from the ceiling until you’re once again safely on the living room floor. ghost doesn’t even breathe a word to you until he’s gently pulling you out of the cage’s bares, clawed hand pulling the cuff from your ankle and soothing the slightly raw skin with a gentle massage.

“y’have fun with johnny, i take it?” ghost muttered under his breath as he manhandles you with ease until you’re perched on one of his muscled thighs once more, thick arm looped behind your back to keep you upright and the other moving to card through your hair with an unseen gentleness.

you don't bother responding verbally, offering ghost a halfhearted shrug as you unconsciously sink deeper into the comforting touch of his hot skin against yours. as frustrated and angry as you are with ghost, you know deep down that you had actually missed him while he was gone.

ghost simply hums at your shrug, nodding his head gently as he pulls the wicker basket closer to his other thigh. "brought y'some new snacks to try—dunno if y'like 'em, but they looked good."

the demon doesn't wait for you to respond before he's uncovering the basket and letting your eyes fall upon the right feast he brought for you. it's stocked full of your usual favorites—ripe plums, pomegranates, peaches, wheels of different cheeses, freshly baked loaves of bread, and fresh cuts of meat and jerky. but he's also brought you an assortment of what looks like baked desserts, different cakes and cookies wrapped neatly in red ribbon. there's also different candies, sugared gummies and hard jawbreakers in neat pouches.

"don't be shy, angel. try somethin' f'me," ghost coos softly in your ear as he points to one of the small desserts, pulling your hand over and letting your small fingers rest on the edge of the basket.

another petulant huff leaves your lips before you're complying with his command, reaching out to pluck one of the cakes from the top of the basket and bringing it to your opened mouth. you can barely stop the soft moan of content that follows, eyes fluttering closed and a soft smile flickering onto your lips as the flavors of chocolate and peanut butter bleed out onto your tongue.

and ghost lets you eat in peace (and allows you to feed yourself for once), simply leaning back against the arm of the couch and placing a thick arm behind his head as he simply watches you indulge in the treats he brought. once you're full and satiated, he's pulling you up off his lap, standing up to his full height and taking the still almost full wicker basket up with him.

he's almost to the open kitchen door when he peers at you over his shoulder, noticing you toying with the gold cuff and trying to secure it around your ankle. "the hell 're ya doin', angel?"

"getting back into my cage?" you answer meekly under the heated gaze ghost is casting your way, trembling fingers letting the cuff clatter to the floor as you peer up at him with big eyes. you barely catch the soft shake of ghost's head before he's going into the kitchen, calling after you.

"no more cage, 'lright? why don't you go out to the garden for a bit? or y'can go lay down in my bed."

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley headcanons #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #call of duty #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #iNs Simon “Ghost” Riley 💀#iNs demon!ghost ⭒#iNs requests ⭒

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notmyneighbor · 5 months

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sway | female doppel reader x francis mosses

rating | explicit

words | 4.2k

alcohol, cigarettes, sexual content

ao3 link

The hotel cocktail lounge is like an open buffet for doppelgangers.

You’d really lucked out cloning that young, attractive, newly hired lounge singer, disposing of the original before she could cause any trouble. While so many of your brethren struggled to get into the heavily guarded, overcrowded apartments for shelter (and food, of course) you had the better fortune of landing a job at the swanky city hotel with the added bonus of a room upstairs to reside in. Working smarter, not harder.

Sure, you might not enjoy the aftertaste of all that alcohol that’s saturated the humans’ systems but hey, it’s still easy pickings for a hungry invader like yourself. You have a set of genuine documents that verify your identity, pilfered from your victim. No one even bothers to screen in the lounge, because if you’ve made it that far inside, it was too late to worry about it. The identification cards are still required, though, ensuring you’re the legal age to drink. Funny, what humans thought important, when their world was being devoured right out from under them.

Perhaps the most impressive feature of your stolen life is the fact that you actually like your new employment.

At first you’d balked at the idea of working for the humans, but you’ve really started to warm to it lately. You enjoy the music. The pretty gowns you get to wear. The admiring stares which you return easily. Meat regarding meat, right? The ones you liked the least became your next meal, lured to the parking lot, the side alley, hell, you’d even snacked on one in a housekeeping closet. You were careful to space feedings apart, though. Discreet. You’re not going to fuck up a good thing like this.

There’s a new customer at the bar tonight. You’ve been here long enough now to recognize who’s a local and who’s passing through, the regulars and the fleeting visitors. Another reason this was such a good place to hunt for prey—so many people coming and going. You tried to leave the locals alone and fix your sights more on the traveling folks instead. Their absences could be more readily explained. No one would notice them missing right away, and by the time they did, well, it was much too late.

In spite of the fact that he’s a newcomer to the establishment, you recognize the milkman that’s seated at the far end of the bar as a local. He looks as if he’s come straight from his job, with undereyes so smudged it seems as if he’s been working in a coal mine, not delivering dairy products. The bowtie around his neck is loosened and draped in careless wrinkles, the top button of his shirt undone. His cap is on the counter, next to a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. After a few rounds the man serving alcohol had finally just left the bottle. You’ve been served free vodka between sets, clear like water but damn, that taste. You’d have to be pretty desperate to force that down straight on the regular.

Still, you nod your thanks and glance at the stranger again. He’s completely focused on the drink. Shame that, because the more you look at him, the more you find yourself appreciating his appearance. As wretchedly exhausted as his features are, there’s still something oddly appealing about his face. You study the way he swirls the liquid in the glass before taking a contemplative sip, the movement of the pronounced arch of his throat as he swallows it down. You’ve never thought of the humans as attractive before, but this one…

It wasn’t completely unheard of for doppels to have some fun with the inhabitants of this planet. It wasn’t always just copying, killing, eating. You yourself have never indulged. No one has captured your attention like this. Maybe it’s because he disregards you so strongly. Immune to the charms you’ve replicated. What was it he liked in a girl? You could make yourself look like anyone he might desire. The ideal lover, really. A new face and body to suit every mood.

There are other customers already gathering at your elbows, praising your singing talents, your beauty. You smile and murmur polite gratitude but you’re not interested in any of them. It’s that milkman you want.

Your target polishes off the last of the glass in front of him, dragging the back of his wrist across his mouth. He reaches for the sealed pack of cigarettes now, tapping the box against his palm to pack the tobacco tighter before peeling off the plastic wrapper and flipping the cardboard top open. He withdraws one of the cylinders inside and tucks it between his lips, next seeking out the book of matches. Red phosphorous struck, you can detect the faintest scent of it as the match is lit, the end of the cigarette now aflame, the match shaken violently until it’s extinguished, then tossed into the ash tray nearby.

Now your eyes follow the path of that lit paper roll, tucked between the middle and index fingers, brought to his mouth, the deep inhale and then exhale, a thin white stream of smoke clouding the air in front of him.

For a moment you allow yourself to indulge in imagining yourself sitting next to him. Lifting that cap off the counter and placing it on your own head, teasing him to retrieve it, staying just out of reach. Getting closer. Walking your fingers up his sleeve. Playfully tugging the cigarette free from his fingers and slotting it into your own mouth. You don’t truly understand the humans’ fondness for the nicotine laced tubes. You’ve never tried one yourself, only in a second hand kind of way after you’ve chomped on someone who indulges in the habit. But this man made it look appealing. You’re wondering at the taste. At the way it feels to breathe those substances inside.

Your name is called—not your real name, of course, but the identity you’d stolen. The manager, reminding you it’s time you retook the stage, break time over. There is some polite clapping, some whistles. The lighting changes as you take up your position behind the microphone on the stand, nodding to the musicians behind you. You have copies of all of the artist’s whose songs you’re covering in your room, an extensive selection of records. You’d learned the lyrics easily, and if you messed up during performance, no one seemed to mind much. The place was more about a feeling. A relaxed, languid kind of atmosphere. Unwinding after a long day of work. Taking a respite during travel. It’s Dean Martin’s sultry crooning you adopt now, your fingers stroking the stand as gently as if you might caress a lover.

When marimba rhythms start to play

Dance with me, make me sway

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore

Hold me close, sway me more

You move your hips gently in time to the music. The light catches on the sequins of your emerald gown, making them sparkle. It’s low cut, molded to the curves of your body. You glance over at the man still seated with his back to you. You’re going to get this man to turn around and pay attention, one way or another.

Like a flower bending in the breeze

Bend with me, sway with ease

When we dance you have a way with me

Stay with me, sway with me

You’ve descended the stage, bringing the microphone with you. Each table is draped in a white cloth, with a candle centerpiece. You move around the room, gifting attention to patrons at random, batting your eyelashes or blowing kisses from your painted lips. It’s all for show, all smoke and mirrors, concealing what your true intentions are.

Other dancers may be on the floor

Dear, but my eyes will see only you

Only you have the magic technique

When we sway I go weak

The range for the wireless mic is limited, so you can only travel so far. Your milkman is frustratingly out of reach, for the moment.

I can hear the sounds of violins

Long before it begins

Make me thrill as only you know how

Sway me smooth, sway me now

You return to the stage, and the tired looking human has finally turned on the bar stool to regard your performance. He hadn’t been here during your first set. It seems you’ve finally made him take notice. Your eyes lock with his as you sing the chorus.

Other dancers may be on the floor

Dear, but my eyes will see only you

Only you have the magic technique

When we sway I go weak

The stage lights snap off in time to the music, your fellow artists pausing for a dramatic effect before resuming playing as you reach the final verse, the lights now focused solely on you.

I can hear the sounds of violins

Long before it begins

Make me thrill as only you know how

Sway me smooth, sway me now

Applause. More wolf whistles and cat calls. You smile and thank the patrons, your gaze once again flicking toward the man at the bar. The cigarette in his mouth has been forgotten, the charred end lengthening, threatening to drop off on its own. He hasn’t touched the glass that he’d poured before you began singing.

You’ve got him.

***

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about the males of any species, it’s that the more you ignore them, the more they pursue you.

So you don’t follow up on the progress you’ve made with the milkman that first evening. Truth be told, you’re starting to get hungry, and the sweating man with the shifty eyes at the rear of the lounge looks like he’ll keep you satisfied for a couple of days, at least. It’s all too easy to convince the human male to follow you into the recesses of the alley between the hotel building and the warehouse next door, your actions concealed by the rows of dumpsters when your impromptu ‘date’ turns into a meeting with teeth and claws.

You get a night off from work in between sessions, allowing other acts the chance to perform, but word of mouth is quickly spreading your borrowed name as the favorite. It’s you the customers really want to see.

Wednesday evening arrives and your milkman is back. A beer in front of him now. No cigarettes today. He looks a little less rumpled. Bowtie fastened. His eyes are still bruised looking, though. Did the man ever sleep?

You’ve got a little time before you’re due to begin. You’re not supposed to favor any one particular patron, but you figure you’re a big enough attraction now that you’ve earned a little autonomy. You saunter to the bar—he’s chosen the same seat again—and lean against the counter. Today you’re clad in ebony. Same shape as the dress you’d worn previously, hugging your figure and leaving little to the imagination with its tight fit, the teasing bits of skin exposed through the slit of the skirt, the low dip of the bodice and the narrow straps keeping the sparkling garment hooked on your otherwise bare shoulders daring anyone to resist that offered temptation.

This delivery driver doesn’t look. He’s too polite for that, apparently, even though the way you’re leaning would allow him a great view of your décolletage. Or maybe he’s too shy. There’s a nice bit of color in his cheeks, blossoming after you’d approached, and you don’t think alcohol is solely responsible for that effect.

You reach for the ID card he’s left beside his cap, dropped there after entering the lounge. “Francis Mosses,” you read out loud, thumb smoothing over the DDD logo in the corner, eyes roving over the expiration date. The cards and the entry requests were tricky to get just right, especially if you didn’t know your target well enough or if the doorman was too astute. Or just plain overzealous. You wonder how many innocent humans had been unintentionally eradicated by the very person that was supposed to be screening for invaders and protecting them from harm.

“You go by Frankie? Or Frank?”

“My…my mom used to call me that. Frankie,” he adds for clarification. His cheeks are scarlet now.

You smirk, tapping the card on the counter. “Hmmm. But you’re not a little boy anymore, are you, Francis? All grown up now.” You boldly reach for the beer on the counter, taking a swig directly from the bottle. It tastes as putrid as all the alcohol you’ve sampled thus far, but that’s not why you’re imbibing it. The milkman stares at you, transfixed by your every movement.

“Better keep this somewhere safe. Wouldn’t want this to fall into the wrong hands—or claws—would we?” You rest a hand on one shoulder, tucking the card into the pocket of his work shirt. You see the nervous gulp of his throat, feel the warmth radiating from his body in that brief touch.

You complete your first set—five songs, running your total time performing just under a half hour—and begin making your rounds again, schmoozing with the attendees. Saving Francis for last.

“Wait for me by the elevators after I’m done. You know where they are?” Your lips are close to his ear. You can still smell his aftershave from what must have been early that morning. You hate rising before dawn. You much prefer the nights. Easier to hide. Take what you want. Feast.

“Yes,” he manages to croak out softly.

“Good. See you then, honey,” you purr into his ear, making him shiver.

***

The man sticks out like a sore thumb.

Francis is pacing restlessly back and forth in front of the elevator doors when you arrive later that evening after your last set, rubbing the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable until you approach and then he freezes, standing rigid. Maybe a little of his natural instincts were kicking in, prey sensing predator. You’re not going to harm him; at least not unless that’s what he wanted. Maybe shy boy liked it rough. You would soon find out.

Wordlessly you push the button for the elevator and step into the carriage, gesturing for him to join you when it seems as if he is truly welded in place, forever stuck to the hotel’s carpets. You reside on the third floor, at the rear of the building. The room is generously sized and nicely furnished. You step out of your high heels gratefully as soon as you’ve cleared the door, one of the nuances of fashion that you don’t appreciate quite as much. They were really quite uncomfortable to walk in.

The human male hovers just inside the doorway, his nervousness radiating from him. You’re starting to wonder how much experience he has with females in general. Maybe you should have waited for a night when he’d been a little more intoxicated, when his inhibitions had been a little lower. But you’d been impatient. Careful about all those other details when it came to consumption, but this type of hunger, this lust, is a demanding mistress you aren’t accustomed to dealing with.

“Have a seat. Get comfortable.” You switch on the living room lamp and gesture towards the plush white couch and he sits stiffly at one end, his cap clutched by the brim in his fidgeting fingers.

You pull the hat away gently and toss it onto the coffee table, then sink down at the opposite end, not wanting to intimidate him too much just yet. You can see the pulse jumping in his neck. Such a lovely throat. You’re willing to bet the blood inside would be sugar sweet.

“You got a girl?”

“Uh…no. I’m single. I live alone. I have a daughter. Her mother and I…we all live in the same apartment building.”

“Hmmm.” Your polished nails drum on the arm rest. “That delivery job of yours stresses you out, huh?”

“It’s just the hours. Longer days. A lot of people don’t want to leave the house anymore, now that…” His voice trails off.

“Now that the doppelgangers have invaded,” you finish for him.

“Right.”

“You ever see one?”

“No. I mean, not that I know of. Kind of seems like the last thing you’d ever see if you did. That’s another part of what makes the job difficult. You don’t really know what’s on the other side of the door. Have you ever…?”

Every day when I look in the mirror, you think. You merely shake your head for his benefit.

“You know how to give a massage? My feet are killing me.”

“I, uh…”

“It doesn’t take much skill. You’re just rubbing.” You lift the train of your dress and shift positions so your nylon clad feet rest on his lap, stretching out across the length of the couch. You see the slightly alarmed look on his features and your voice is soothing, patient. “It’s okay, Francis. You’ve got this.”

His hands reach tentatively for one foot, placing one over the top and the other underneath. His movement are stiff, brisk, awkward, until you begin to hum that Dean Martin song he’d seemed to enjoy, making his hands slacker, softer, caressing the sore areas. You interrupt the melody to groan appreciatively, stretching further, letting your heels grind against his thighs. It’s starting to feel good. He has nice hands. You want them on you in other places.

You slide one foot closer to his crotch, gently stroking. He’s gone immobile again, startled. You drag both feet back and stand, now moving in front of the seated man, lifting your dress so you can straddle his lap. His hands reflexively reach for your waist. You dig your hands into his thick russet hair, tugging his head back slightly.

“You ever have any of those lonely housewives ask you to come in? Make a special delivery?”

“N…no. It’s just business. No one notices…”

“You sure about that? Maybe you’re just too polite to notice when a woman is hungry.” Your free hand tugs on the bow tie, loosening it. You undo the first two buttons of his shirt. You want a taste of that gorgeous throat of his, even if it’s only the top layer and not the succulent fluids below that you’re after.

The pleasant scent of that aftershave assaults you again as soon as your face bends to sample the arch. His skin is slightly rough, the facial hair he’d scraped away reclaiming its territory at this late hour. You lick from the base all the way up to his jaw, and the fingers on your waist tighten.

“You think maybe you’ve got one more batch you need to deliver, honey?” Your hand dives straight for the fly of his pants, pleased to feel he’s already becoming aroused.

A choked sound escapes the man’s lips. Maybe an attempt at a word that becomes garbled with incoherent pleasure. Your impatience is growing. Too many layers. Earthlings insisted on wearing so many. Your species didn’t care about that, in your natural habitat. You could shred them to pieces so easily with your claws, but that would mean revealing what you truly are, and you don’t want to do that just yet. The man is anxious enough as it is.

So you settle for using the human hands you’ve replicated to unfasten the belt and zipper and undo the button, reaching beneath the waistband of his underwear and dragging his cock free. Ample. Leaking. You stroke over it and he hisses, a feral sound not unlike one a male of your species might make. Your teeth nip his earlobe, tease his bottom lip before you finally sink your tongue inside his mouth. There’s the faint, lingering taste of alcohol, but you ignore that and instead concentrate on the feeling of that wet maw, stroking cheeks and tongue and teeth and palate, exploring thoroughly. You don’t even have to guide him to the straps of your dress, feeling them slid over your shoulders, then moving to the front of your dress to knead the further exposed globes of flesh there.

“That’s good, doll. That’s really, really good.” His fingers are beneath the fabric, pinching and rolling your nipples, making them erect. You like it, but it’s not where you need him most. There’s a wet heat between your legs that’s throbbing. A hollow space waiting to be filled, and the prick in your hands is perfect for the job.

You gently push on his forearm and he takes over from there, snaking beneath the slit of your dress, the seam ripping a bit as it’s still partially tucked beneath you. He pauses. “Shit, sorry…”

“I have plenty of other dresses. I don’t care. Touch me, Francis.” The lingerie you’re wearing is skimpy. Nearly indecent. Clinging, and he tears more fabric in his urgency to work beneath the pair of panties. His digits find moisture and you moan into his mouth. That was what you needed. The pads of his fingers rolling across your clit. Parting your lips. Digging into your entrance. He’s becoming bolder now. The desire coded into DNA so long ago to ensure the propagation of the species continues taking over.

Your head tips back as you gently ride a pair of his fingers. You’re still stroking him, keeping him slick and hard. Back at his mouth again. You like kissing him. A lot. It makes your insides flutter. You’re getting even wetter.

Eventually you move away. You have to, if you’re ever going to get what you need. You lift your dress and bend over the armrest of the couch, your panties dragged down just past the lace edge of your thigh high stockings. The milkman’s dick finds your opening and slides in smooth, straight to the hilt, stretching and filling you. Your nails dig into the fabric of the couch. You’re so tempted to let the natural claws peak out, to allow the gentle incisors lining the front of your mouth shift to the genuine, sharper cuspids. It takes tremendous effort to keep the monster within restrained. The bloodlust mingles with the other, surprising you with its intensity. You’d fed so well. You shouldn’t be this hungry again so soon.

The man’s hands grip your hips, aiding him as he thrusts in and out. He’s still holding back, still gentler than what you’d like. “Fuck me harder, Francis. I want that cock in as deep as it can go.”

He grunts, maybe a little surprised with how aggressive your words are. Nice young women didn’t talk like this. Then again, you’re not a nice young woman. Not really. You just look like one, bent over with your ass cheeks spread, letting a virtual stranger violate you. You fucking love it.

His hips slap against you a little faster now, a little rougher. You push back to meet him, matching his rhythm, driving him in even further. So good. He’s hitting a tender spot inside just right. You’re getting close to achieving orgasm.

Francis is, too. You feel it in the tremors that make his hands shake on your body, the breath that stutters in rasping pants.

“Fill me up, honey. I want every drop of that milk.”

Spurred on by this last request, he moans and you feel the wet heat of his release painting your insides. You tip over the edge at that exact moment, the walls of your canal contracting and squeezing his cock, making sure to extract every bit of his seed.

If the man had looked tired before, he looked absolutely exhausted now. Spent. Drained. He flops wearily onto the couch after pulling out. You drag your panties back into place and let your hem fall down, sliding the straps of your gown back over your shoulders as you join him. You’re a little tired yourself, after that brief, intense session.

“What time do you have to get up in the morning?”

“Four.”

You clench your tongue with your teeth, sucking in a sympathetic draft of air. “It’s midnight now.”

“Yeah.”

“You want to stay? I’ll make sure to wake you up on time. Set the alarm.”

“No. It’s too far from work. I still have to load up the truck in the morning. I’m better off going home.”

“Alright.” You’re not particularly upset at him declining your offer. You are curious about something else, though. “Are you coming back to the hotel on Friday? That will be my last performance of the week.”

He looks over at you. “Yes, I will.”

“Maybe you could stay over that night. You don’t work on the weekend, do you?”

“No. Someone else has that shift.” He reaches out tentatively to touch your cheek, his thumb stroking your bottom lip. “I’ll stay that night, if you want.”

“Yes. I want.” You lean over to kiss him, the gesture gentle this time. Soothing, like the song you’d hummed earlier. “Go get some sleep, doll. You’re going to need the energy for Friday night.” For just the briefest, fleeting moment, the glamour shielding your true eyes from view slips, and the milkman’s own flare in alarm. But then you’re disguised again, so swiftly you know he’s questioning if he’d really seen what he thought he’d seen, or if it’s just fatigue that’s making his eyes play tricks on him.

You couldn’t possibly be a doppelganger.

#francis mosses x you #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses #milkman #thats not my neighbor #milkman x reader #milkman x you #the milkman #that’s not my neighbor #tnmn francis mosses #tnmn smut #divider @saradikagraphics

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eddies-ashtray · 1 year

Note

Okay but: Eddie and fem!reader. Maybe they’re lab partners or friends or something, and Eddie has had a crush on reader FOREVER, so long that he’s just about given up on it being reciprocated. Like “I’ve come to terms with it, I’ll just pine from afar forever.” But one day reader just flat out says she likes him, or like “are you ever going to ask me out or????” and he is just absolutely floored.

Thank you for the request, anon! I hope you like what I came up with!

(Content: Lots of oblivious Eddie, a splash of oblivious reader, childhood bullying, pining Eddie, vague references to biology shit I know nothing about (sincerely, a humanities major), & a completely unnecessary backstory).

WC: 2.2k

♡*♡*♡

Eddie hadn’t always lived in Hawkins, Indiana with uncle Wayne. For his first few years, he lived with his mother and father in the city of Indianapolis. Then, when his mother passed away when Eddie was seven, and his father could no longer afford to live where they had always lived, they moved back to his fathers hometown of Hawkins.

Eddie knew right away he disliked being the new kid at Hawkins Elementary. He knew no one and no one knew him, but they all knew each other. He felt like a zoo animal; something foreign and strange for the other kids to gawk at from a safe distance, but never someone to approach, never someone to play with at recess. He was ignored and simultaneously singled out and picked on constantly.

One chilly October morning at first recess when the leaves had just begun to turn, Eddie perched on the swing in the playground, once again alone. As he stared into the damp sand beneath him, the grating sound of a familiar voice shouting took him off guard.

Instinctively, he looked up, small hands clutching the cool chain links of the swing and watched as Andy approached. He felt his stomach drop like it had when his mom took him to the fair and let him ride the kiddie coaster when he was five.

“Get off the swing, it’s my turn now,” demanded Andy when he stopped in front of Eddie on the swing.

“But…there are other swings,” Eddie said meekly, pointing to the other three swings to his left, gently swaying in the breeze.

“Yeah, but you’re on my swing!” Andy argued.

Eddie felt something else bubbling up inside him, different from the usual humiliation he felt when confronted with Andy or any of the others who saw him as an easy target. Something that quickened his breath and made his fists tighten on the chains.

“It’s not your swing!” Eddie argued back. This was the first time he had ever done so in his weeks at his new school.

As soon as he’d said it, as soon as he’d let the anger bubble over, he regretted it. Because Andy took two steps forward and before Eddie could even process what was happening, Andy shoved Eddie off the swing.

He fell into the sand with a thud, a dull ache immediately throbbing on his tailbone. And though he’d had worse injuries and the soft sand helped to break his fall, he still felt hot tears brim in his eyes and his bottom lip wobble as Andy cackled cruelly and took his seat on his swing.

But before the tears could spill over and cause him further humiliation, a small hand came into view, one outstretched to him where he lay in the sand. The hand was attached to an arm, a body, a face which he had never seen before. This girl was not in his class, though she looked to be about his age.

Eddie didn’t trust the hand, worried this was going to be another cruel joke. So he continued to lay in the sand, unmoving.

“C’mon, let’s go play over there,” she said, looking back at the play structure with the rusted monkey bars and silver metal slide.

And because she just seemed like she wanted someone to play with, Eddie decided to trust her. So, he took her hand and she helped him up, both of them grunting with the effort of it.

“I’m Y/N, what’s your name?” The girl said as they walked away from the swings.

“Eddie,” He sniffled.

And, so, ever since you had shown him that small kindness, Eddie had been quite enamoured with you. Though you had not become close friends after that day, Eddie remained grateful for what you had done for him. You had shown him that he wasn’t alone and that people could be kind.

Eventually, he found his people, but you always had a special place in his heart.

***

About a decade later, Eddie finally, miraculously, gets paired with you in biology. After all these years of admiring from afar and (as much as he hates to admit it) pining after you, he finally had an excuse to talk to you, to get to know the very first person in Hawkins to ever show him kindness.

“Hey, did you want to come over after school so we can finish filling out this worksheet? I know it’s not due until the end of next week, but if we get this done today, we can get to work on the final assignment,” You say, absentmindedly shuffling through weeks of notes and worksheets.

But Eddie doesn’t hear what you’re saying despite the fact that his eyes are on you. That’s the problem, really. Of course, he loves the sound of your voice, is eager to listen to anything you have to say, thinks he could listen to you talk about all the different shades of white in the colour spectrum or the different types of bricks that there are for hours on end.

But today, you wore a new lip gloss that made it nearly impossible for Eddie to focus on anything but the shiny pout of your lips.

Finally, you look up from your assorted papers, your pretty eyes (God, you have such pretty eyes) connecting with his.

“Eddie? You okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, yeah. Totally…What were you saying?” He asks, head dipping lower so he can hear you over the din of the busy classroom.

You lean in slightly, unconsciously, before you repeat yourself, and he can feel your soft breath on his skin. Eddie forces himself to suppress a shiver as goosebumps raise on his forearms.

Yes, yes, he knows he’s pathetic; nearly sighing in satisfaction at the feeling of your breath on his skin. But inevitably, his feelings for you have only grown stronger since you became lab partners at the start of the term. But he doesn’t want to screw this up. And he has to admit, he feels silly for pining after you all these years, so he doesn’t want to confess his feelings, especially when he can’t be sure that you feel the same. He couldn’t face that all too familiar feeling of humiliation if you rejected him–which, in all honesty, he feels is fairly likely; you’re his polar opposite, you would look ridiculous together.

So, he’s trying to convince himself he’s okay with just being friends.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Eddie agrees to your plans.

He inhales the scent of your strawberry shampoo as you shift away and neatly stack your papers together.

Clearly, he is not.

***

Somehow, Eddie has the great misfortune (and pleasure) of ending up doing your shared homework in your bedroom. He must be in hell. More to his true feelings though, he must be in heaven.

He had assumed you would sit down at the kitchen table and get to work, but when Eddie began wandering in the direction of your kitchen, you called out to him.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh,” Eddie says, turning to see you halfway up the shag carpet stairs. “I just thought we’d be working in the kitchen.”

“My bedroom is better. C’mon,” You say, turning and continuing your trek up the stairs. And what can he do but follow?

But Eddie can’t imagine what you’d meant when you said your bedroom was ‘better’. Is sitting on your bed, your bare right thigh grazing his denim clad left one, better than sitting on separate chairs in your kitchen? In some ways (in fact, in many ways), this is definitely better. But it is definitely not better for his concentration. Or his sanity.

“So, this one here,” You say, your shoulders brushing as you lean over his lap to point at the diagram on his worksheet. “Is the superior articular process, and this one is the inferior articular process.”

Eddie might pass out.

He watches you as you scribble the words onto your worksheet in small print and proceeds to inscribe the same words onto his worksheet in the same place.

He suffers through the afternoon, surrounded by artifacts of your life, dying to pick up every last trinket on your dresser and request a detailed history of the object, dying to unpin the photographs from your cork board and examine every last square inch of the image. He resists the urge to lean even further into you or to rest his head on your shoulder when he gets bored. He stops himself from staring as you pick out a cassette and begin swaying to the music as it croons from your cassette player.

After all that suppressing and resisting, you finally conclude, “Alright, I guess we’re done.”

And Eddie swears that despite your chipper tone, your satisfaction with finishing the homework, there’s a hint of something else. Something akin to disappointment. But he couldn’t imagine why.

He ignores it as he packs up his things, shoves his pens and his doodle-cluttered papers into his backpack. He ignores it as you walk down the stairs together. He ignores it as he laces his boots up. He ignores it as you open the door for him. And he ignores it as he says goodbye to you and walks out your front door.

He only gets halfway down your driveway before he stops in his tracks at the sound of your voice.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Eddie!” You shout. You don’t quite sound angry, more fondly exasperated than anything.

This, he cannot ignore.

He spins around on his heels.

You’re strolling down your driveway towards him with determination.

You’re stopping in front of him, looking up at him, hands on your hips like you're about to admonish him for tracking mud in the house.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Still not getting it as you stand in front of him in your frilly white socks without shoes.

“Were you ever going to ask me?” You wonder genuinely, eyes searching his for answers he isn’t giving you.

“Ask you what?” Eddie replies, genuinely perplexed.

A soft smile creeps onto your face, like a reassuring realization is coming to you.

“You really don’t know?” You ask softly.

Eddie shakes his head. You look down at your socks for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

“I wanted you to ask me out. Y’know…on a date?” You explain, swaying nervously, hands held sweetly behind your back.

Eddie’s lips part gently in shock, all his synapses firing at once. He cannot comprehend that his childhood crush–this girl who he’s been absolutely smitten with since he was seven–has just confirmed that she feels about him the same way he feels about her.

“Eddie? You alright?” You ask, reaching out to place your hand on his bicep. He hadn’t known he needed steadying until your hand met his skin.

With that touch, a sudden surge of confidence rises within him.

His dimples pop into his cheeks as he grins. It’s not self-satisfied or cocky. How could it be? He never would have thought she would want to go out with him.

His heart pounds against his chest as he says sincerely, “Just give me a time and place and I’ll be there.”

“What?” Now it’s your turn to be oblivious.

“For our date,” Eddie replies simply, like he isn’t about to pass out asking the prettiest girl he’s ever seen on a date.

For a moment, your eyes light up and then an embarrassed smile spreads across your face before you bury your face in your hands. Then they slide around to frame your face and you look up at him, clearly embarrassed about your lack of understanding.

Nonetheless, you reply, “Friday, 7PM? Pick me up here? I don’t really care what we do, I-”

But you don’t complete the sentence. Instead, you glance at your socks again.

“You what?” Eddie wonders, dying to hear what you have to say.

You meet his gaze again. “I just wanna see you.”

Butterflies erupt in his belly. But he tries his best to keep his cool, to not squeal like a schoolgirl right now. That, he can save for later when you’re not standing in front of him, eyes shining in the setting sunlight.

For now, Eddie gasps in faux flattery (though he really is quite flattered) and proceeds to fan himself with his hand, like a demure princess. “Well!”

“Oh, shut up,” You say, lightly shoving his shoulder. “I had us doing homework in my bed and you still didn’t get it!”

Eddie laughs softly at your willingness to tease him back and his face flushes at the reminder of his obliviousness.

“In my defence, that’s pretty damn subtle,” Eddie quips and you roll your eyes fondly.

“Just pick me up on Friday, you idiot!” You shout as you begin making your way back towards your house.

“See you Friday,” Eddie confirms, shouldering his backpack as he watches you walk back inside and he starts slowly walking backwards down your driveway. He’s still watching before you shut the door, nearly in disbelief that any of this actually just happened, that you’re even real.

You wave as he reaches the end of your driveway. He waves back.

Eddie starts planning your date on his walk home and by the time he gets back to the trailer, he knows exactly what you’re going to do this Friday.

♡*♡*♡

Thank you so much for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!

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alientee · 7 months

Text

This is a 3 shot series inspired by the amazing writer @gyoongim. They did amazing with my ask and I’m in love with Alastor x Jessica rabbit .🤣

Fun fact It’s said that Jessica rabbit is also asexual!

Charlie felt defeated, she tried her hardest but there wasn’t shit she could do against that damn Adam or the council. Sera took pity on her stopping her for a moment “Charlie…… while you were not successful maybe we can come to a compromise?”

Charlie looked back up with her with hope in her eyes while Vaggie continues to glare.

“How about this we send an angel down with you, they spend a day in your hotel and we get to learn about all your progress. Maybe that will help sway the masses and myself.

Charlie instantly nodded thanking them over and over again. “So where’s the angle joining us”

“Emily has gotten her….. ah there they are”

Emily bounced forward happily introducing you

“Charlie this is y/n she’s one of the angels that actually believe In your cause!”

Sera looked down at you giving you a stern look.

“You’ll stay there for 1 day and then come right back y/n. Stay safe and good luck”

You walk into the portal with Charlie and Vaggie leading to the hotel. The demon princess didn’t stop talking about how she was going to give you a tour, show you everything they have to offer, even take you to the few nice places in hell. She started to ask you questions. She seemed really sweet and excited to get to know you. “Can I just say you look absolutely gorgeous, you’re like wow!”

You giggled. “Thank you hun I used to turn a lot of heads when I was alive. Too bad I only had eyes for one man.”

Charlie looked even more excited “ Oh my gosh tell me everything!”

You went on and on about your past, how you were a singer and a model, how you were married to a radio host. How you got married and ended up retiring to be a housewife. You stopped your story when you ended up in front of a hotel looking around shocked.

“So this is hell huh? Now tell me more about the hotel”

Charle links her arm with yours pushing the doors of the hotel open. “This is the hazbin hotel! Were we have 2 residents ready to rehabilitate and reform there life into good! It may not look like much but I garuntee you everyone here is dedicated to making there life better!”

Vaggie scoffed “not everyone”

“Okay almost everyone hehe” Charlie rubbed her neck nervously.

You look around and see the interior with a scary looking bar there were a couple of demons one looks like a spider the other a snake, two cyclops and the last one was…. a bird cat?

“Everyone this is y/n! She’s gonna be staying with us for the day to prove to heaven that demons can change!”

They all introduce themselves and the spider named angel comes up to you, looking you up and down. “ Beautiful and Busty they should’ve never sent you down here toots! Now you can give me a run for my money”

You laugh it off giving him a wink “I’m a tough lady I can handle myself. It’s nice to meet y’all”

Charlie gives you a tour of the hotel and you meet up with group once more “So what do you think y/n!”

“I think y’all have something really nice going on here”

“Thank you-“

“Charlotttttteeee~ why is there an angel in our premises didn’t I tell you the couldn’t be trusted”

You turned around at the sound at the static like voice.

“Y/N… is that you?”

Alastor still keeps his signature smile but his eyes are wide with confusion. He walks up to you pulling you into his chest. Alastor kisses both your cheeks putting his forhead against yours. “It’s me mon amor”

“Alastor!? Honey you look so different and your smile is even bigger than I remember”

“Well you know you’re not fully dressed without a smile. Y/n darling what are you doing here? Someone sweet as you doesn’t belong down here”.

You hold him close snuggling into his chest “oh Al it’s alright I’m just here to see the hotel on behalf of the council. I missed you so much ! What are you doing here honey ? I was so confused when I never met you in heaven what on earth got you down here?”

Alastor looks away sheepishly “Well about that-“

“UM EXCUSE ME!”

You both turn around to see everyone looking at you both in shock. After a long silence Charlie speaks up.

“So you two know eachother huh”

You looking at everyone shyly “You remember how I said I was married to a radio host”

Alastor smirked pulling his arm around your waist. “This gorgeous gal has had my heart since I first laid eyes on her” He kisses your forhead

None of them could believe it! You were Alastor’s wife?!

Vaggie moves forward while everyone else is looking at you in shock. “Hold on, wait a minute let me get this straight. You! A gorgeous, kind hearted, helpful angel…… are married to that thing?!”

Alastor squints his eyes his static going off “what are you trying to say Vaggatha”

Angel interrupts her before she could speak

“ it means she’s waaaayyyyy out of your league smiles. I mean Vaggies right, she’s hot and your….anyway, how and the hell did a dame like you end up with old freak face anyway?”

Alastor rolls his eyes “ I won her affections with my charm and manners. Something you clearly don’t have my feminine fellow”

Angel looks at him uninterested “yea I ain’t buying that. Toots why you with this stuck up prude?”

You hold alastor arm cuddling up to his side “He makes me laugh, how could I turn him down when he always put a smile on my face” you giggle softly

Everyone was still shocked by your answer none of them could really see someone like you with someone like alastor but decided to accept it (everyone accept Angel and Vaggie) Angel smirks

“Ok so I was right it definitely wasn’t for his looks”

“Well beauty isss in the eye of the beholder, I guesss he jussst got lucky”

Alastor rolls his eyes “Are you miscreants quite done”

“Now we always know why Mr fancy talk creepy voice is always smiling. Thinking about his busty wife gets him through the day haha”

“Angel dust if you wish to redeem your soul and make it into heaven I suggest you watch your mouth before I end your life.”

“Oh Al leave him be he’s just joking, now tell me why your down here”

Alastor sighs giving you his arm. You grab it not questioning it as he walks you both to the door. He doesn’t even look back at the others .

“I’m talking my wife for a walk we’ll be back shortly”

As the two of you walk out everyone stays silent until Angel speaks up. “I don’t care what any of you’s say, he was definitely not hitting that right”

As you both leave Alastor stays silent. You don’t rush him to talk, you never did. You two never fought when you were alive you always talked it out and took it one step at a time.

“You should know that I didn’t tell you this because I didn’t want to hurt you or scare you. You were the only good thing I had left after my mother. So I hope you can forgive me for keeping it from you.”

“Go on hon I’m listening”

“The bayou serial killer, that was me doll….i died getting shot in the head with a rifle, being mistaken for a deer while I was burying a body. And I may of…. ate a few people, but they were never in your food!”

You looked at him in shock but you never let go of his arms. “Oh my gosh….. that’s what you were doing out there, they never told me, just said it was a hunting accident….. I should’ve known! You would always go one these nature trips at night when ya barley had friends plus I shoulda known someone like you doesn’t like outdoor activities like that! How ya wouldn’t let me in your tool shed because it was to much “dangerous” stuff in there. How you’d come home from the radio tower early hours in the morning. I thought you were stepping out on me for a time but you still showed me all the same amount of affection so I pushed that thought out the window”

Alastor laughed a laugh track playing in the back ground “Oh daring why would I ever step out on the most beautiful woman in the world. I’d be a fool to have eyes for anyone but you”

He squeezed your hips pulling you into a hug “Do you regret marrying me, please tell the truth?”

“Oh Al of course not, even if you are a killer you were so sweet and gentle with me I’ve never felt safer than when I was with you. Your a wonderful husband I’ll never regret you honey ”

Alastor pulled you close his smile getting wider. “How about I make it up to you darling let me take you out on the town, it’s been a while and you deserve to be spoiled doll.”

“I’d love that Alastor”

You both walked down the street in silence with you both linked arm and arm as always. Until Alastor spoke up again”

“And by the way sweetheart Tu portes l'enfer hors de cette robe, j'ai raté ces courbes”

You blushed “Still a charmer I see”

Part 2 comming soon~

#hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor the radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel x you

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ratedfleur · 7 months

Text

heaven and back

aespa karina x fem!reader 2k word count genre ౨ৎ explicit

🎥: your roomie, karina just wants to be a helping hand to get you to unwind, but then lust pays a visit once liquor is in your systems.

🎀: requested work.

🏷️: smut (MINORS DNI), fem bodied reader, pwp (no plot me thinks), drinking / liquor, grinding / dirty dancing, brief petting, thigh riding, cunnilingus, brief stomach pressing, fingering, heavy on narration.

🔞 / nsfw links: imagine mood boards (1) & (2)

🎼: heaven and back - chase atlantic

going out with karina on a weekend meant dealing with the devil, she always turned into some type of maniac when she was out and about, getting drunk after drinking a bottle or two.

a quarter past 2 am, you found yourself sitting by the bar, attempting to sober up despite your roommate ordering more drinks from the bar, even holding up the glass rim to your lips, making you drink it as she drunkenly smiled and giggled, cooing when she sees that a slither of liquor slipped from the corners of your lips when she tilts the glass a little too high.

“o-ooh! sorry baby!” karina hiccuped as she giggled, wiping the drop of liquor with her thumb before popping it into her mouth, sucking it clean.

then you watched as she drank another glass of whatever liquor she purchased, downing it as if it was a glass of water.

karina shot you a look before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “y/n, you need to loosen up! why are you so boring!” karina asked as she held onto your shoulder, shaking you back and forth as she spoke in a slur.

shaking your head at her, you looked over at your watch before looking right back at karina who suddenly had a new row of glasses in front of her, all filled to the brim.

“you need to loosen up, darling. come on, drink up and let’s have fun!” karina’s voice started to increase in volume when the music in the club started to get louder.

maybe karina was right, you thought as you reached for a glass, eyes suddenly shy when you caught of karina’s expectant ones.

she watched you with intent, a smile forming on her face as your lips touched the rim of the glass as you threw your head back as you downed the glass of liquor.

proudly smiling as you took another glass, karina immediately grabbed a glass for herself and drank before downing another with you as she linked arms with you, cheering out loud before pulling you onto the dance floor.

her body was smoothly moving against yours, karina always turned into a swan when she was on the dance floor, body immediately knowing how to move along to the beat.

karina had her front against your back, swaying and even subtly grinding against you as she played it off as if she was simply dancing.

she always had a thing for you, especially when she met eyes with you when you knocked on her door asking if the spare bedroom was still up for rent.

you could feel her hands plant themselves on your hips, pulling you closer to her as she grinded against you shamelessly. from the way karina was pressed against you, you could feel every bump and curve of her as she moved against your back.

karina even moved your hips against hers along to the beat, singing along to the songs to her heart’s content as she shamelessly moved and danced.

swiftly turning around, your hands made their way around karina’s neck, hands meeting each other as you pulled karina closer towards you, singing along to the song as you both swayed along to the beat, slowly inching closer towards each other, leaving no space between you two.

by now, the close proximity between you two was getting to your heads, making your mind go cloudy as they filled up with lust as you both pulled each other closer towards the other, faces merely a few inches apart from each other.

karina’s eyes shifted from your lips and your eyes that stared at her own cat like eyes that moved up and down your features, lips slowly etching a smile before she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss as she closed her eyes.

it was short and yet impactful, her lips fit like a puzzle piece, fitting perfectly against each other’s. karina’s teeth sunk into your bottom lip as she pulled away, making you whimper as she let go of your bottom lip, smiling at you with such a teasing look in her eyes.

“let’s get outta here and unwind, yeah?” karina said as she leaned into your ear, quite literally screaming into it as the music blasted against the walls of the club.

watching as you nodded in response to her question, karina quickly placed a kiss on your lips before pulling you out of the dance floor and towards the bar, not forgetting to pay with one of her hands heavily pressed against your ass, shamelessly groping you in public as she smiled at you sweetly before pulling you out of the club and into a cab that drove you both to the apartment.

her hands were planted on your body the moment that you both stepped foot into the apartment, lips pressed against each other’s as you two blindly walked in the hallway as you kissed, teeth clashing against each other as you both attempted to nip at each other’s lips, giggling when it fails.

you pull her towards the living room, pushing her to sit on the couch before you quickly shrugged off your top, doing the same with your long skirt as your eyes were transfixed on karina who was clumsily taking off her tube dress, throwing it on the ground along with your clothes that you dropped.

you went over to hover on top of karina’s lap as her lips latched themselves on your skin, kissing your skin softly as she went from your under boob, over your breast and nipple that she popped into her mouth briefly before moving upwards, stopping at your neck as she sucked and nipped, putting a few marks on your skin as you sighed in content, hips grinding against her lap as you shivered.

feeling you shamelessly moved on top of her, karina slouched a bit before grabbing a hold of your thigh, lifting it before shifting you over for you to sit on her thigh, smiling at you when she feels your wetness hit her thigh.

blushing as you sat on her thigh, your eyes cowered under karina’s gaze as she held you closer towards her, encouraging you to rock on her thigh.

moaning when you do rock on karina’s thigh, she even helps you move and grind harder on her thigh, rocking you back and forth.

karina flexes her thigh, making you gasp when you grind harder against her, hips hurriedly moving back and forth as you held onto her shoulders for leverage.

her eyes were drunkenly watching you, liking the sight of you on top of her as you pleasured yourself using her body. inching herself closer to you, her mouth found your tits, one hand teasing the other as she sucked and flicked her tongue on tit she had in her mouth.

all you could do was whimper, your hips started to shake as you rocked against her thigh in a broken rhythm, mind focusing on how her mouth felt against your breast.

your hands hastily went and held the back of karina’s head, pulling her closer to you as you went back to rocking back and forth her thigh, moaning out her name in ecstasy.

she smiles against your tit before popping off and switching over to the other, playing fair and square as she touched you. karina’s other hand was wrapped around your waist, still helping you to move back and forth against her.

“haahh.. rina-yah, i’m close!” you gasped, feeling karina flex her thigh again underneath you. she hums against your tit before speaking with a mouthful of you, “then cum, we’ve got all the time to ourselves.” karina replies.

sighing in content, you shake in her hold, legs quivering underneath you as you soaked karina’s thigh with your cum and slick, making a mess on the couch.

karina rubbed your hip in comfort, feeling you pant against her as you placed your head on her shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist for comfort.

“i— i wanna make you feel good too, rina-yah.” you mutter, lips placing kisses on her shoulder as karina hummed, “up to you, baby. tonight is all about you though.”

you shake your head, shakily sitting yourself up before you looked right into karina’s eyes, “i want it to be about us both.” you say before leaning in, kissing her softly before pulling away, getting on the floor in between karina’s legs which you pushed open, watching as her sweet slick dripped on the couch.

you reached from underneath her thighs before pulling her towards you, having karina’s lower half just dangling off the couch with you right in between her thighs.

inching closer, you blew on her pussy briefly, making karina shudder before blushing when you chuckle, coming closer towards her cunt before sticking your tongue out, flicking her clit back and forth with the tip.

her moans are rich in volume, sound bouncing off the walls of the apartment you both shared. karina’s hands gravitated towards your head, strands of hair getting lost in between her fingers as she grabbed a hold of them, pulling at your hair to pull you closer towards her cunt.

your eyes were fixated on karina, watching as she threw her head back, eyes closed as she moaned wantonly, feeling your fingers slip into her cunt before slipping in and out as you curled them inside of her.

your fingers continued to work with magic as you felt karina’s cunt pulse around your fingers, thighs shaking as the tips of your fingers started to press against her gummy spot, making karina’s eyes roll back as she moaned in content, eyes turning teary when you press too hard at her spot whilst your other hand pressed her stomach, putting just enough pressure that has karina whining and moaning your name.

she gasps when you poke deep into her cunt whilst your tongue busily licked at her clit, still flicking back and forth at her swollen nub that slowly grew red after all of the touching and sucking on it.

karina’s whimpers start to gradually increase in volume, slowly erupting into loud moans as she called out your name, nearly screaming as you picked up the pace and fingered her. your fingers are busily curling in and out of her cunt, reaching deep inside of her as you slurped up her slick that dribbled out of her hole, not letting a drop get wasted.

you licked her up with a glint in your eyes, fixated on her pleasured expressions as she looked down on you, watching your face that was hidden deep in between her thighs, squeezing the sides of your head as she squirmed underneath you.

karina shuddered before she warned you, voice shaky as she spoke to you, hands pulling at your hair to pull you closer towards her cunt as your tongue inched even closer towards her if it was possible.

“are you close already?” you murmur fondly against her cunt, watching as karina nodded tearfully, now rocking her cunt against your face, flesh rubbing against flesh as you moaned when you get a mouthful of karina’s cunt.

soon enough, karina couldn’t resist but prop her thighs on top of your shoulders as you knelt closer towards karina’s body, moaning as you pulled your fingers out of her before you delved deep into her cunt with your tongue, stilling it deep inside of her as you hummed, vibrating tones spreading all over karina’s body which causes her to shake and moan your name with a screech before she started to shake as she came all over your mouth, eyes rolling in ecstasy when she feels you slurping and drinking all of her cum up.

“just went to heaven and back, yeah?” you say with a smirk, pulling away from in between karina’s thighs with your lips all glossy from her slick and chin damp which yuo wiped away using the back of your hand, watching as karina blushed profusely as she nodded.

#mikha’s works #aespa #aespa yoo karina #aespa karina #aespa yoo jimin #kpop smut #kpop hard hours #kpop hard thoughts #kpop imagines #girl group x reader #girl group smut #kpop girl group #aespa hard thoughts #aespa hard hours #aespa smut #aespa imagines #karina x reader #karina smut #karina imagines

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naomihatake · 1 year

Text

In search of freedom (Ch. 1)

1. They're bad news

Chapter 1 ; Chapter 2

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's been searching for freedom her entire life and everytime she thought it was laying right in front of her eyes, she was mistaken. She was running around the East Blue, seeking herself and her dreams, meeting people she never forgot. No matter how much she traveled, she could only catch a glimpse of peace before realizing everything would crumble at her feet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe it was destiny that brought her on that ship with three strangers — foolishly, that's what she tried to believe when the moon shined beautifully and hope settled in her chest, squeezed by the same ribcage where feelings were blooming.

Pairing: female!reader x OPLA Zoro Roronoa. This chapter follows the events of the first episode.

Warnings for this chapter: physical violence (fights), mentions of deaths, fluff, some cursing, mentions of tarot and palm readings

Word count: 3,6k

Theme song: “Loreley” by Blackmore's Night (click on the link)

A/N: This is the first part of a fanfiction I was thinking of since first watching One Piece Live Action. I started the anime too and I'm around episode 64 already. I'm using the OPLA course of action for now and I have no idea for an ending, but enough scenarios to write and share. I don't know how far this will go, but I'll have fun writing it and considering how much I like Zoro (born anime and LA), I'm using both of them as inspiration. Sorry for the lack of interaction between reader and Zoro, but I promise things will change.

The reader will be referred to as "Witch" especially in the next chapter, because I have no intentions of using "Y/N". There will be more information revealed about her past and abilities in the next chapter.

I'm open for comments and opinions <3

"Excuse me," she smiled sweetly while swaying away from someone who was standing right in front of her and a table she had to serve for. "Here," she carefully let the plates down.

She received a large smile coming from the young man with dark curls and a straw hat hanging around his neck. His pink haired companion seemed very shy, barely glancing at her before looking back at his plate, thanking in a small voice.

The tavern buzzed with a peaceful energy in the late hours of morning, the big windows letting the warm rays of sun in, lighting up the place. There were men sitting at a few tables, no sign of any other woman except for her and the very owner of that place, who just finished cooking something — were those cookies? It smelled divine.

Her dress fluttered around her knees as she moved away from their table to take other orders, a strand of her hair falling against her cheek after running around for so long. When she finally stopped in her tracks by the bar, intense eyes searched for anyone else who might've needed something. Lucky for her, she could finally breathe for a few seconds, resting her hips against the bar.

However, her eyes fell on the tall figure who just chugged down his throat a shot of alcohol. His green hair made her frown to herself, looking away before she could get caught ogling some stranger. After a few seconds, she looked at him again, this time at the three swords resting against his hip.

Three swords? What can someone do with three swords?

Everyone probably had the same question whenever they saw him for the first time. However, he felt somehow familiar, as if she's heard of someone like that before. A pirate? No, wait, a pirate hunter? The owner told her of so many things and so many people it was impossible to remember each one of them, but she was pretty sure she mentioned some pirate hunter only a few days ago.

Her thought process was interrupted when a man with blonde hair and suit walked by in front of her. Considering the men dressed in white uniforms who entered with him, they must be marines and he was probably their superior — he was walking like he owned the entire port.

She held back from rolling her eyes in annoyance. Her thoughts ran back to what her friend said about pirates last time, the way they argued back and forth about how pirates aren't good. However, she had her own reasons for claiming that not all pirates were ruthless monsters, without elaborating.

She flinched lightly when she heard the thud of a metal plate falling on the floor, snapping her head towards a little girl who was stuttering apologies to the blonde man. Her eyebrows were pulled together at his angry and loud voice mocking the child who had tears in her eyes, fear seeping through her very bones at the exaggerated reaction.

Apparently, they knocked into each other. Oh, there were two cookies on the floor. One of them got crushed under the man's foot.

She smoothly made her way by the side of the little girl, smiling at her as she crouched down to her level.

"Is everything alright, little one? Did you apologize?" the woman's hand squeezed the girl's shoulder warmly.

Rika's only response was a nod.

"Good job. It's alright, I'll help you clean up. Why don't you bring me a broom, hm?" she coaxed the girl with a gentle voice.

Once the girl walked away, she stood up straight again, arching her eyebrow questionably at the arrogant man by her side.

"Is there anything else I could help you with?"

"What, are you working here? If the answer's positive, then you better teach those stupid kids some manners," he huffed.

"You should teach yourself how to behave," she commented right back, her sharp gaze sizing him up and down.

"Take that back. Next time I won't be so nice," the blonde marine grinned.

Oh, and what an ugly grin it was on that fucker's face.

"You dropped my food," a low voice from behind interrupted.

The young woman turned her head towards the voice, confusion written on her face as she made a few steps back, out of his way. It was the green haired man she noticed earlier, now sitting on one of his knees on the cold floor.

Rika came back with a broom almost twice her size, the object quickly taken from her hold by the woman who smiled at her again. While they exchanged glances, the pirate hunter let himself down on one of his knees, taking some of the crushed cookie into his palm.

A sly smile tugged at the woman's lips. A pirate hunter or not, he had more dignity than a marine even in that kneeling position. She was more satisfied to see the little one smiling.

"Your turn," the green-haired man lowered his voice, a dark glare thrown at the astonished marine.

The pirate hunter raised back up and placed the metal plate on the bat, his intimidating height against the arrogant blonde monkey in front of him telling enough.

"Apologize to the girl," he demanded in a relaxed tone.

"Me? It was her fault for bumping into me. The lady should apologize for disrespecting me."

Apologize, my ass, she thought to herself, one step away from bursting out laughing. What did he take her for?

"Do you want a fight or what?" he drew his sword out, a knowing grin curled on his face. "I don't need three swords to fight."

The woman looked down at the little girl who was still by her side, ruffling her hair.

"Why don't you go to your mother, hm? And stay there until I call you back."

Her stern voice didn't give space for arguing; Rika complied, going to the kitchen.

She heard some muttering and next thing she knew, both of the men in front of her had drawn their swords out. Apparently, the green-haired one decided to advance closer to the marine, in an attempt to keep the fight away from the lady.

Hmph. Swordsmen and their unusual gentlemanly behavior.

Squeezing the broom in between her fingers, she moved away, furrowing her eyebrows in a scowl.

"No fights in here, you jerks!" she scoffed.

Expertly, while the other marines attacked one man — how unethical of them — and swords clashed against each other after sharp whistling noises, the woman swept away the cookies on the floor. She faked doing her own duties, like the good employee that she was, throwing careful glances at the fight happening right next to her. If she wasn't careful enough, she could get sliced in two.

"I advise you to get out of the way," she heard the swordsman's voice growling right after he threw a chair into three men, making them fall to the floor.

"You'll destroy the entire place if I do."

Right after saying those words, without anyone noticing in that damned agitation, with a quick movement of the broom, she made one of the marines trip.

Just like the idiots that they were.

"Oh my god, you should be more careful!" she placed a hand over her lips, fake surprise and fear coloring her features.

Who would believe such an innocent being was capable of such malicious actions?

With a strong creak followed by a thud, one marine was thrown into a table that turned the both of them upside down, groans filled with pain vibrating through the tavern.

She was right about them destroying the place.

However, the commotion didn't cause too much distress to the woman still moving the broom around, acting as if she had business with that newly found weapon. It might not be lethal, but she couldn't be spotted while she was intentionally making the marines' jobs harder. In the month she's been working there, she saw more than just one fight and used everything that she saw fit to stop it — be it a broom or a kitchen knife.

Now that she analyzed the fight better, it seemed like the pirate hunter barely even had to draw his sword out of its scabbard, at some point knocking someone's head into the bar. He used his raw strength and the objects surrounding him, thankfully without destroying any of them. The can he threw into another man's stomach seemed so effortless.

That must've hurt, though.

The blonde marine was quickly pulled by the back of his collar, back colliding with the bar, and an angry swordsman towering over him. She didn't hear anything nor paid attention anymore, eyes focused on the tavern that was ruined only half way through.

She sighed after watching both of the men walking out of there, biting her lower lip to hold back a fit of laughter at the marine who stumbled while being dragged by the bounty hunter.

"Why do men always fight in this tavern?" she talked to herself, raising one of the chairs and putting it back in place. "One day of peace is all I want in this port, only one day, and I can't get even that."

She sighed again, only for that long exhale to get stuck in her throat once her eyes fell on the table that was almost sitting in the opposite way rather than how it should be. Once she approached it, stepping by the marine who was trying to get up.

She would never help someone who had less dignity than a dog following some orders from a brainless monkey. Heck, even those animals were smarter.

Instead, she tried to move the table back in its place. Her fingers were so close to gripping at one side of the table before someone appeared at the opposite side. The young man with a straw hat and a square smile she served only a few minutes ago raised the table by himself, carefully arranging it until he was satisfied with its position.

"Thank you so much for the help," she smiled at him. "Be careful where you step, I think a glass also broke."

There were some shreds on the floor somewhere close to the table the young man sat at earlier.

"Thank you for your concern," he smiled just like the first time.

Gosh, has she ever seen such a beautiful soul? His eyes sparkled and the happiness suited him like it did to a little child who has no clue of the harsh world. However, he didn't seem phased or scared by what happened earlier — his hands weren't shaking at all and there was no fear lingering in his stare.

She turned to take the broom and came closer to his companion, who was sitting under the table. She bent her torso to give him a hand, helping him get back to his feet.

"Careful with the glass, check your hands," she warned again.

"I saw what you did there."

She turned towards the straw hat guy, blinking owlishly at him.

"I don't really get what you mean."

She started sweeping the shred of broken glass, not paying attention to the curious and insistent gaze she was receiving.

"You surely do. I'm Monkey D. Luffy and I'm gonna be King of the Pirates!"

Her eyes widened at the second part of his speech, snapping her head back at him. Without even realizing, her fingers were squeezing the broom quite harshly, fingertips going white.

"That's—" she started in a small voice, blinking like an idiot and staring at him.

She's heard that before. She's heard the same dream before and it brought so much suffering.

"That's dangerous," she finally got the courage to continue, still hesitant.

"You're brave for interfering with their fight."

Luffy looked into her eyes as if he could guess the thoughts running through her head, as if he could read her very soul, drinking in her features and reaction.

"You must've seen wrong," she let out a light chuckle, getting a grip on herself. "I'm just clumsy sometimes."

She was thankful she stopped herself from cussing out the Marines, because in less than a second after she finished her sentence, a few other men dressed in white uniforms appeared to help their comrades back to the base. She casted a skeptical eye at each one of them, like silent warnings.

They were pathetic, some of them still stumbling while trying to get up, their swords thrown around carelessly. After they all disappeared from her sight, her shoulders obviously relaxed again.

"I have to admit I hated each second of staying so much with these idiots around," she huffed quietly. "That spoiled child who takes advantage of his father's status was getting on my nerves."

"That's why you helped that swordsman, right?"

Luffy continued with his supposition, not letting go of what he thought he saw — it was the truth, but it would be dangerous to admit.

"I didn't help anyone, really. That was unintentional."

"Don't press it too much, Luffy," his companion's voice trembled.

"Koby, I know what I saw," Luffy pulled his lips into a straight line.

She resumed what she was doing, sweeping at the pieces of glass, seeing almost each one of them in the light seeping through the window.

"If you want to become King of the Pirates, I suppose you also want to get the One Piece, right?"

She was foolish. She was stupid for asking, for getting herself in such business that somehow always ended with too many deaths, with broken dreams. However, something was nagging in her gut. Deep down, it felt so right to ask.

"Yes! I need the Grand Line map for that and I intend on getting from the Marine Base here."

"You're insane, kid," her shoulders shook with her light laughter.

It was a sour sound.

She stopped, leaning her weight into the broom, looking down at the glass in front of her. She shouldn't help them. She should stay in her place if she wanted those young men to survive. What they were trying to do was basically suicide, they just didn't know. Koby seemed to be more fearful, hesitant and so, so shy. Luffy didn't say "us"; he said "I" — the pink-haired guy was not really part of the plan.

Against better judgment, she raised her head at him, promises sparkling in her eyes just like the shreds of glass.

"You can't just ask for that map and I hope you know that. What you want to get yourself into isn't just dangerous, it's like jumping into a suicide mission," her voice strained, pouring all of her hope in her next words: "However, I can help you get inside. Be careful, you have to make sure no one catches you."

"So I was right about you!" Luffy beamed.

"Right about what?"

"That you're brave."

Her lips opened, but no sound came from between them. It was pointless to deny it when he seemed so stubborn about what he saw and believed.

"I think this is a lot to say about someone who's helping you steal secret maps," the side of her mouth curled upwards.

Koby was left astonished. Stealing from the Marines was suicide.

"Listen here, kid," she lowered her voice, stepping closer to whisper. She set her gaze on Luffy's. "You have to get out of there alive, no matter what. Lie if you have to, but I have a feeling you're very bad at that, so be careful. That isn't a place to fool around in. You could get yourself killed in a blink. The Marines are very sneaky."

"There are good Marines and bad Marines," he shrugged. "Maybe I'll meet someone who's willing to help."

"I like your enthusiasm, but that unit base doesn't fit," she shook her head. "Both Captain Morgan and his son aren't the good kind of people."

She squeezed the broom in between her fingers again, an ugly feeling clawing at her throat. She didn't want a kid to die for following his dreams, but freedom was something she always craved.

"I'll tell you a way to get inside the base from underneath. You have to keep your lips sealed — I don't worry about myself, but about the owner and her daughter. I don't want word spreading around."

"You can count on me!" he placed his hand on his heart, as if he sealed the promise there. "Who are you? I want to know who's helping me."

Damned be his sincerity.

"I'll give you my name after you get out of there alive."

She smiled, eyes sparkling with delicious mischief.

"That is a promise. I'll be around the Marine Base and I'll tell you my name after I see you get out of there alive."

That seemed to stir something in Luffy's soul, inhaling with pride. A man of his word, indeed, just like she thought.

"Deal.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

Her name left the lips of a scolding mother, even if it wasn't her mom.

"I saw you." The second time she heard tthat same phrase in one day.

Annie patted the tip of her shoe against the floor repeatedly.

"I was just lucky enough not to get myself in trouble," she shrugged.

However, her eyes fell on the floor, guilty about getting caught like a deer in the light.

"You could've gotten yourself in big trouble!" the owner of the tavern raised her voice.

Rika pouted up at her mother, trying to sweeten her reaction.

"She just wanted to help, just like—"

"Rika," this time, the scolded one firmly spoke her name. "Don't take me as an idol. It's true that something could have happened."

The little girl shouldn't worry about such a bloody world just yet and she wanted to help it for as long as possible. Being stubborn was a death sentence, even if she would always get herself into trouble if it meant to stick to her principles.

She'd rather die on her feet than live on her knees.

"Just because this time everything was fine, it doesn't mean next time will be the same," Annie exhaled loudly, frowning.

"There won't be a next time," the young woman sank her chin in her chest. "I should leave these days. Soon enough, word will spread out about my tarot and palm readings. I don't want to cause you any more trouble."

"You little witch," the usual scolding was replaced with a warm nickname.

She raised her head again, struggling to smile. Leaving after she got attached always hurt.

"That man was Roronoa Zoro, wasn't it?" Annie asked, her body suddenly tensing.

"Most probably," she shrugged. "Three swords, three earrings. He put on quite a show, to be honest," the words were followed by a chuckle.

"I see the way your eyes are sparkling. Don't even think about getting into some conversation with such a troublesome person."

"What could do some adventure to a poor soul like me?" she teased.

"It could bring you six feet under."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

"I'm no witch, you idiots!" she struggled against the harsh grip the two men had on her arms.

She hissed when one of them sank his fingertips in her upper arms, glaring at him.

Shithead marines.

She continued writhing and struggling, stomping her feet into the ground in an awful attempt to stop them. She intended on keeping her promise after she helped the straw hat sneak into their base. She waited for as long as it was necessary after she gathered her things in a bag that hung around her shoulders. She was supposed to leave that place after she made sure the kid was alright and alive.

"God dammit!" she shouted. "How many times do I have to explain I'm not doing anything wrong?!"

"You're lying to people and receiving money, filthy witch. You're a thief," one of the men commented as they continued walking her away from the port.

"I didn't steal shit!" she snapped.

"Watch out!" she heard a familiar voice.

Instantly, she bent her torso down. The man on her right was punched in the face with so much force he released her grip on her and stumbled into the marine on her left, both of them now on the ground.

She didn't even get enough time to process what was happening, something curling around her waist carefully, but so fast. A yelp left her lips when she realized she was being lifted off the ground, turning her head towards the source.

It was the straw hat's arm. He ate a devil fruit, didn't he?

He was on a boat that was sailing a few meters away in the sea and she was being pulled towards him. She also recognized the pirate hunter from earlier and a woman with orange hair, both of them far too relaxed for what was happening.

That guy was made of rubber!

She recognized Koby who just got to his feet after she got past him, her feet finally touching something solid again. She blinked confused at the straw hat.

"You can't bring everyone that you like on this ship," the swordsman let out a hopeless sigh.

She busted out laughing like a maniac, the colorful and rich sound filling the air. Her shoulders shook and she had to place her hand over her stomach, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Obviously, her reaction was met with an especially questionable look coming from the swordsman, who most probably thought he got on a ship with another insane human.

"You're insane, kid," she wiped the tears in her eyes with her fingers, still smiling widely.

She hasn't felt such relief in years.

"I guess I gotta fulfill a promise, right?"

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

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demoness-one · 10 months

Text

i NEED it to snow already if i dont do some wild fucking donuts in my car soon im going to lose my mind

#i also definitely need to replace that broken sway bar link so i dont roll it doing said donuts that would be embarrassing

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fanaticsnail · 1 year

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Remember Me

This was requested by @aishabbbb, which I linked back to here for the full description of the prompt.

Word Count: 6,600+

Masterlist Here

Echoes of gruff laughter lingered in the air as tankards of ale clanged against one another. It had been a while since the Red-Hair Pirates had made port and as they viewed a rowdy port full of lively music, contagious laughter and bursting at the seams with a variety of pleasurable company; they could not resist.

This port had been known for some time to be a lawless town, accepting of any journeymen as they resupplied their vessels, sailors selling their wares and even the odd Marine here or there had graced the town with their presence. The World Government paid no mind to the comings or goings, knowing should the port be shut down; their supply of rum would slowly dwindle away.

The Captain of the Red-Hair Pirates sat upon a stool at the rear of the room as he stared into the bottom of his tankard, watching the amber liquid slosh from side to side. He withdrew into himself; his former joy and carefree attitude no longer present on his features this night.

A woman with a painted face sauntered over towards the captain, swaying her hips as she overemphasized her intentions.

“Care for some company, sweetheart?” she asked him in a sultry tone as she took his hand in hers that still clasped the tankard. He made eye contact and smiled from the corner of his mouth before withdrawing the hand from her grip and drew his drinking vessel to his mouth.

“Not today, love,” he said, taking a drink from his tankard, “but I can point you in the direction of someone who would be more than happy to share your time.”

She smiled as Shanks gestured to his senior officer, who had a black bandana featuring a white jolly roger insignia atop his lengthy blonde hair. His expression was one of a displeasing grimace, black glasses concealing more of his irritation behind them.

“See if you can bring a smile to his face, would you?” he laughed slightly as she nodded as she made her way to her next target.

Plonking two fresh pints down on the table before him, Benn Beckman sighed as he sat on a stool facing his Captain; taking one of the pints and gesturing for Shanks to do the same.

“You turned her away?” Beckman questioned his Captain, “I thought you’d enjoy a pretty blonde giving you attention this time.”

“I’m not as open today as I have been any other day to the company of a painted lady,” Shanks laughed in response raising his pint and clanging it against his First-Mate’s, “or any other man or woman you’ve since such sent my way. You know this.”

“Oh,” Beckman uttered, eyes widening before looking down at the table, “I didn’t realise it was today. Sorry Cap’n.”

“Don’t apologise, Beckman,” he smiled at him before drinking from the tankard. He moaned slightly as the cool, bubbling liquid hit his lips and he tasted the bitter flavour of the hoppy amber ale.

“How long has it been since-?” Beckman began, halting his words in search for the more appropriate way of phrasing it.

“How long has it been since my bride was claimed at sea?” Shanks offered to complete his First-Mate’s sentence. Beckman nodded in response, gesturing with his pint for Shanks to offer his answer.

Shanks sighed and leant back in his stool, his back thumping against the small railing at the back.

“This day marks ten years,” he added with a sad smile. A silence fell between them as they reminisced the day the Captain of the Red-Hair Pirate’s wife was lost to him.

After a brief pause, they commenced their drinking as they surveyed the movements of the patrons and crew interacting with one another.

Beckman raised his tankard to his lips and begin to gulp with gusto at the frothing liquid. He trailed his eyes throughout the bar as he did so; looking to Limejuice as he grit his teeth tightly at the blonde woman’s incessant and unrelenting flirtation was thrust upon him.

He continued his assessment of the room before his attention was caught by a group of sailors laughing amongst each other, a woman throwing her had back at the joke uttered by one among them. Benn Beckman spluttered into his tankard, coughing as the amber ale entered into his wind pipe and corrupted his lungs with it. He continued to draw in his breaths while maintaining visual contact on the situation unfolding before him.

“Benn,” Shanks addressed his choking crewman, “you alright?”

The First-Mate continued coughing and spluttering, managing to relieve his lungs of the bitter substance and gasping in a long breath. His pigment all but fled from his face as he continued staring blankly at the bar in horror.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Shanks laughed, placing his tankard down on the table before clapping a hand against the upper arm of Beckman’s shoulder.

“I-I think I have,” Beckman stuttered slightly before bringing his attention to his captain, “look to the bar and tell me if you can see her too, Captain.”

Shanks furrowed his brows in confusion, laughing lightly at the confession of his crewman before turning and immediately having the playful expression pulled from his lips.

“You see her?” Beckman asked him in a voice just above a whisper.

The Captain wordlessly rose to his feet, almost toppling the stool over in the process as he made his way to approach the woman. His bride, his queen. His whole world was carelessly and unaware of his presence as the melodical laugh fell from her lips; a sound Shanks never thought he would once again experience.

------------------

You tapped the chest of the older sailor in front of you as you continued to laugh at his joke.

“Harold,” you gasped, wiping a tear from your eye, “and that’s the reason you only have three toes on your left foot?”

“Honest to goodness, lass,” he continued to rumble laughter, his eyes twinkling with utter mischievousness, “the bloody crab nearly carved the whole lot off, if not for my quick thinking!”

He imitated the pinching movements of a crab’s claw and crooked his head to make himself look as crab-like as he could, prompting another roar of laughter to erupt between the sailors and yourself.

“Alright, I’ll get you that drink then,” you teetered your laughter and turned to address the bartender you had come to know, “Mary, give us a couple schooners of ale- the pale stuff if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Right you are, my love,” she acknowledged your order and began pouring the foamed liquid into two smaller cups.

It had been ten years since you found yourself lying upon the shore with no recollection of who or what you were before your arrival. Thankfully enough, your body was strong. You knew how to hold your own when it came to unwarranted and unreciprocated attention, often brawling with men to assert yourself among them.

As you needed a job to afford food, you managed to bully Captain Harold of the Angelfish Shepherds Fishing Crew and would accompany them out to sea, bringing in several catches a day and selling their many items throughout town. It was only when the sun would disappear behind the horizon, you would come home to the tavern: "Mary’s Resting Track" and make yourself comfortable with your crew at the bar; drinking well into the night.

Just as Mary had finished pouring from the keg, you felt an arm placed upon your left shoulder, prompting you to turn to face it's source.

“My bride,” a tall, red-headed man gasped in a voice above a whisper as he drew you in to place his lips against yours. You squealed at the tender impact, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth at the sudden softness and passion you felt from the unknown man. You pushed on his chest slightly before creasing your brows in confusion.

“Steady on, Sailor. Save it for your wife,” you laughed at him, collecting the two schooners from the bar and placing one into the hands of Captain Harold, “or at least buy me a drink first!”

You laughed, prompting your crew to do the same as they raised their glasses and took a drink. You rose yours to your lips and drank from it, keeping playful eye contact with the sailor before you.

He was handsome, his red hair immediately drawing you in. He had a black cloak shrouding his left arm from view and a three-point claw mark over his left eye. His face held a shocked, sobering expression on it as if he was staring at something extra-terrestrial in make.

“Y-You,” he stuttered out, “Y-You’re.”

The words caught in his throat as he again reached his right hand up to attempt to secure a fallen strand of your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. You swatted his hand away from completing the action.

“No,” you said firmly, playfulness leaving your face as your eyebrows collected themselves with a frown, “no one touches my hair. It’s out of bounds to even those who know me, and know me; you do not.”

You swiped his arm away fully away from your face while keeping a warning, reprimanding look on your features. He continued to stare at you, his eyes swelling slightly as they fluttered between your own; pleading with you and searching within them for a small shroud of recognition.

“She’s saving it for her beloved,” your crewman mocked you in a high-pitched tone, bringing humour once again to the room. You laughed at his jest, prompting you to turn away from the red head to scold his imitation.

“I don’t sound like that,” you laughed at him, prompting your crewman to again mock you by wobbling his head from side to side and scrunching up his face.

You turned back around to see the man again gazing with a fierce intensity born deeply into your eyes and managed this time to tuck a strand of your hair behind your left ear with his right hand. At this, you brought your own hand firmly up and struck the side of his face, all humour once again leaving you.

At the crisp strike, chaos erupted at the bar. A crew of pirates drew their pistols, pointing it towards you; while your crew of sailors pulled their own from their belt and aimed it at them in response. You kept your eyes completely fixed on the red-haired pirate as his face continued to hold a yearning expression.

“She gave you a warning, Sailor,” your Captain spat at him, “I don’t care how much ale you consumed, you respect the wishes of a lady.”

This seemed to shatter whatever illusion was held on the redhead in front of you as he looked to the assortment of pirates behind him. He held up his hands in defence of himself, taking a step back from his proximity near you and nodding his head in a deep bow.

“Easy, lads,” he smiled, “put them away. We don’t bring out our guns at one little slap.”

The crew focussed their attention on you as you shook your head and creased your brows at his address. He again turned to you, and bowed his head slightly deeper as an apology.

“You’ll have to excuse me, miss,” he uttered, “I didn’t mean to cross your boundary. It was reactionary, and for that I offer my most sincere apologies.”

Your gaze softened at his words as you gently used your pointer finger to raise his chin to look at you once more.

“Apology accepted on the condition of buying me and my friends a round of drinks,” you scrunched your nose with a small wink. He laughed at your remark, shaking his head and smiling once more.

“I would have to agree, miss. Definitely the next one on me,” he continued to gaze into your eyes as you withdrew your finger from his chin and tapped his nose with it playfully.

-----------------

You didn’t remember him. That must be the only reason you didn’t hoist yourself into his single arm and cling yourself against him. Why you didn’t lean into the kiss and allow him to lace his hand into your hair and relieve your face from it shrouding your vision. The act so intimately solidifying your relationship in the early days, holding onto it as you spoke your wedding vows.

No-one was to ever touch your hair apart from yourself and your beloved were the words you spoke while dressed in your white, lace dress aboard the Red Force; Beckman performing the ceremony all those years ago.

You were married in your youth, relationship blossoming from friendship to something more on the Oro Jackson under the watchful gaze of Gol D. Roger. The subtle glances turned into subtle touches, turning into kisses stolen from within the hidden halls of the Oro Jackson as you would press each other against the walls and roam your hands along your bodies.

He was obsessed with your hair, and with each caress, each embrace, he would find himself absent-mindedly playing with it. You vowed alongside your commitment in matrimony that only he and he alone would be allowed to tuck your hair behind your ear in adoration; and you be the only one permitted to place a kiss atop the crown of his head.

Shanks had to contain himself as his soul screamed within the chasms of his chest to embrace you, to hold you against him and cry out in joy at your return. He didn’t touch another woman in the ten long years it had been since your last departure; the notion turning to ash in his mouth at the mere suggestion. It had only been until recently that Beckman prompted him to seek out someone to relieve his tension, but he felt it would’ve been an insult to the beautiful memories you shared with one another.

You were even in the process of early conversations on what starting a family would look like aboard the Red Force with his assortment of rowdy crew.

You would bicker at having the ship make birth permanently at a port, returning every two weeks to the solid shore as Shanks refused to halt his travels. He wanted you and the children aboard, rearing them alongside his crew; an idea you immediately shot down as you understood infants waking and crying at every interval and the disruption would not be fair to bring to the crew.

Shanks remembered Beckman adding to that conversation with: “We’re already getting sleepless nights from the sounds echoing the halls originating at your quarters!”

He chuckled at the memory before he remembered the fear on your face as the storm threw you overboard in your attempt to raise the sheet from the topmast and secure it in place. The black sky and torrential winds making it impossible to see your form as you struggled against the waves. He didn’t see what happened, only noticing your departure once they successfully made it through the storm and into the central eye of it.

The roar-like scream rumbling throughout the chest of the Red-Haired Captain still reverberating within the ears and memories of the entire crew as they recollect it every year. The pain shared amongst them as their captain bore his grief openly; drowning in rum every night before Beckman pulled him out of his rut with the reprimand: “this is not what she would have wanted.”

It mattered not what happened to him from that point. The pain of loosing you was far greater than any earthly injury could bring forth. He didn’t even bat an eye as his arm was claimed by a great Sea-Beast; consuming his flesh within it’s belly. He was more upset by the fact his golden wedding band perished at its disappearance.

And here you were, not a scratch upon you; laughing as if you had not a care in the world.

You had no memory. That was the only explanation Shanks had as he gazed lovingly at you, drinking your free ale at his expense.

----------------

You shook your head at a comment made by one of your crewmen as they suggested to hold a drinking competition between the red-haired pirate’s crew and your own.

“I don’t think I have enough booze in the house for that,” Mary laughed from behind the bar.

You smiled at her comment, turning back around to see the far off look in the red-head’s eyes.

“You know,” you nudged him with your shoulder, bringing his attention back towards you, “for someone that leads in lips first, you’re awfully quiet.”

He chuckled at your comment, expression softening but with a hidden depth you couldn’t quite understand.

“I’m not usually like this,” he scrunched his nose up with a smile.

“Rough time at sea, then?” you asked him, gesturing to Mary with two fingers to indicate your intentions of purchasing the next round for you and the red-head.

“Not particularly, its just-,” his words trailed off, prompting you to gaze your eyes; flittering them between his own two deep brown orbs before he took a deep breath and looked forward at his crew interacting with your own.

“You gestured for the good stuff, right?” she asked, placing two short, round glasses down on the counter; spiced rum swishing in the base as she did so.

“That I did, love,” you replied, placing down your berry on the counter and taking the glasses from it. You went to place the glass into the red-head Captain’s hands, noticing it was already occupied with a half-drunk tankard of ale.

“You keen on a rum?” you asked him, bringing his gaze up. He gasped out a quick hum, raising the tankard and downing the remainder of his ale with haste and placing the empty vessel atop the bar. He rose his hand to accept your offer and his fingers brushed against your own as he claimed the drink from your hand.

He looked down to your collar bone and noticed a single gold ring hung from a piece of fine leather around it. He furrowed his brows at it as to inspect it from his great distance.

“The gold band around your neck,” he gestured down to your left hand, “are you married?”

“Not to my knowledge, Sailor,” you laughed at him, “I was found with it.”

You sipped at the rum and creased your brows as the heavy alcohol entered your system.

“I apologise for slapping you,” you uttered, “I, uh. I made a promise, you see. I don’t really know what about or to whom, truthfully.”

He hummed at your comment, fixing his eyes on your face as you spoke. He trailed his eyes over your body, looking at you with an expression completely unreadable. Somewhere between: bewildered, surprised, great sorrow, relief, curiosity and apprehension.

“I don’t actually have a lot of that – knowledge, I mean,” you reiterated with a smile, “For the better part of ten years, I’ve been building back what I think I used to be like. I have no idea, though. I could’ve been some prissy young lass with a string of twelve children; or some standoffish, uptight cow-.”

“-You were never like that,” the red-head interrupted you, prompting you to snap your gaze up to meet with his.

“Do you know me, Sailor?” you asked him, your brows creasing together.

“Shanks,” he corrected you, “my name is Shanks.”

“Alright, Shanks,” you corrected yourself, “Do you know me?”

He sighed, drinking a small amount of liquid from his glass and looking to the rowdy crowd as their boisterous laughter echoed throughout the walls.

“If you want to talk about it, I’m going to need two things,” he said, downing the remainder of alcohol from his glass in one quick swell, “another drink, preferably a bottle this time.”

You laughed at him, before asking; “and the other thing?”

“Privacy,” he uttered with a small hint of sadness. You expressed concern within your eyes before patting him on the back and rubbing small circles in comfort to him.

You weren’t sure why you brought your hand up to comfort him, it seemed almost reactionary. A natural instinct of familiarity; organic.

“Alright, Shanks,” you began, making eye contact with Mary once more, “I’ll buy you a bottle under one condition.”

“And what might that be?” he chuckled warmly.

“That you give me a small glint of information before we proceed to the beach,” Mary placed the bottle on the counter and you placed down more berry in response, “I need to know if you are threatening me with a good time, or if you plan on executing me to reclaim some debt.”

“Were we enemies?” you asked him, bearing your gaze at the wall behind the bar.

“Sometimes,” Shanks shrugged his shoulders, prompting you to snap your gaze back to his. He erupted a full belly laugh from his diaphragm at your reaction. He let out a deep sigh before he suggested; “let’s make to the beach and I’ll fill you in.”

Mary smiled, looking between the two of you before the beckoning of Captain Harold and several bottles of the cheapest rum called her from her place before you.

You nodded, neglecting to collect glassware while you grasped the neck of the bottle; not once removing your eyes from the red-head next to you.

You made your way down towards the beach, walking in step with Captain Shanks, as the crew bid him goodnight. You noticed several members of his crew gawked at you as if they had seen a phantom or something of the make.

Once gazing into the open sea, the Captain plonked himself unceremoniously on the sand, legs spread wide as he sat with his knees bent upwards. You smiled at him before crouching down to sit beside him, uncorking the fresh rum bottle in your hands and offering it to him. He smiled as he took it from your grasp and brought it to his lips.

You trailed your eyes over his form, trying to conjure a whisp of memory from the recesses of your mind. After having no image return to you, you rose up your voice.

“So-,” you began, only to be cut off my Shanks.

“You were – are,” he started to relay, laughing at the fact he spoke over you. You nodded to him to continue.

He paused, sighing before again voicing what he was attempting to confess to you.

“It’s been ten years to the day since I lost you,” he sighed, looking down to the sand near his knees, “and not a day went by that my thoughts were not drawn to you.”

You looked at him, puzzled at what he was telling you.

“Your gold band,” he gestured with his hand towards your neck grasping the bottle, keeping his eyes fixed on the sand below him, “was gifted to us by our former Captain we served under: Gol D. Roger. He had a lot of love for you and I.”

“The King of the Pirates?” you asked him, eyes wide before adding, “and us. What do you mean, us?”

He sighed again, this time bringing his head to slouch back as he gazed at the dark and cloudless sky above you.

“I can’t tell you what happened right now. It’s-,” he paused between the words, prompting you to inch forward and look at his face. He turned his face away from you as you attempted to gaze into his eyes; “-it’s too painful today.”

You frowned and instead reached down to the hand placed upon his hand, and swiftly reclaimed the rum bottle from within his grip. He turned his head towards you at this and trailed his eyes up to yours as you placed the lip of the bottle and downed two large gulps of the liquid. You squeezed your eyes as the strong alcohol burned its way down your throat and into the pit of your belly.

He laughed at your actions, finally the forlorn expression eclipsed by glee.

“You haven’t changed,” he uttered, reaching his hand up to your hair before recoiling it back again. You watched him do this, as processing the boundary you expressed earlier still lingered within his thoughts. Instead of reaching your hair with his hand, he fell his grasp to your hands as they held the rum bottle.

“Is there truly nothing you remember of me?” He asked you, looking down to where his single hand rested upon your own. You furrow your brows and search your mind through closed eyes, willing yourself to remember any aspect about him. You hissed out a growl in frustration as you found no recollection.

“I want to,” you whispered to him, “you seem a decent kind of man, if not a little forward with the kiss and all.”

He chuckled at your comment, his laughter building to a rumble. His shoulders began to quake lightly as his laughter died and morphed into soft sobs. He attempted to conceal them from you by raising his hand up from where it rested atop his knee and turned to face away from you. You were overwhelmed slightly by this man becoming wrecked with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, bringing yourself to rest on your knees as you pulled yourself closer to him.

You opened your arms and shimmied your legs forward, hoisting them over his bent knees and found a comfortable spot on the sand to rest between them. Your arms circled his shoulders as you felt his right arm wrap beneath your waist and hook up your spine. He held his face flush with your stomach and squeezed his hand to grasp at your body as if you were to slip away at any moment. You felt his shoulders begin to relax into your embrace while inhaling your scent. You looked down the top of his head before absentmindedly bringing your lips down to place a chaste kiss against his hair. He flinched slightly at this impact, tension building in his shoulders before he slumped them forward.

You heard him sigh into your diaphragm as you did so, bringing his face away from its hidden position against you and resting his chin atop your chest to bring his sights to look up at you. For some reason, this man as he held you in an intimate proximity did not have you thrusting him away from your with excessive force as you did with so many others.

You unwrapped your left hand from around his shoulders and set it against his cheek. His youthful smile returning as you caressed him. You warmly smiled in response, feeling the gruff of his stubble against the palm of your hand before he turned his head and placed a brief kiss atop your inner hand.

“I am willing to dedicate the rest of my life to getting you to fall in love with me once again,” he whispered against your hand before turning his head to meet your gaze, “this I swear.”

Your eyes widened at the comment with a small smile toying at your mouth.

“I gather my undying devotion is overwhelming for you,” he chuckled, prompting you to move your hand away from his face and place both hands atop his shoulders.

“It is, to be perfectly candid with you,” you giggled at him, smoothing your arms over his shoulders and tracing circles against them with your thumbs, “I have tried everything to bring a small fragment of the person I once was to the forefront of my being.”

He trailed his hand from its place at the small of your back and rested it atop your left hip, grasping it firmly within his palm and kneading the flesh beneath it.

You brought your attention to the gold ring on your leather necklace as you held onto his shoulder, narrowing your eyes at the metal slightly; pleading within your own mind to bring forth any memory of the man cradling himself against you.

“To put myself in your hideous sandals,” you uttered, prompting him to quirk his head slightly to the side, “you found me, and it’s almost as if you did so only to lose me again.”

“Aye, it is,” he nodded, looking down again and meeting his eyes with the flesh of your forearm. He ghosted his lips over your left arm, dragging it higher within the crook of your elbow. Your hair follicles stood on edge under his ministrations, as he continued to not kiss your skin; but rather feel the way your body tasted below his lips.

“And you looked lovely in my highly practical sandals, last time you wore them,” he smirked his lips against your flesh before placing a kiss against it. He trailed kisses varying in intensity back down your forearm and against your wrist, prompting your breath to hitch in your throat.

That comment was it. After a variety of interpersonal and intimate words shared regarding your prior relationship with the man beneath you; it was the ugly sandals that brought a flitter of memory to grace behind your eyes. Any other comment; the hand in your hair from earlier, the wedding ring gifted by Gol D. Roger before he was executed, anything else; it was the ugly sandals he found in the run of the mill town that he purchased and, much to your horror, wore in public.

You remember taking them from his room and fleeing above deck with them in an attempt to throw them overboard to rid yourself of their ugliness forever, only to have your waist caught by your husband as he twirled you around to face the deck again with playful reprimand in the process of doing so.

At the request of your husband, you placed them on your feet and experienced the absolute comfort they bore you; almost shrieking in disgust at yourself for relishing in the feeling; as he belly-laughed at you.

“We’ll get you some at the next port” you heard his voice within your mind, “then we can be matching.”

You remembered him wiggling his eyebrows, prompting you to place your closed fist against his chest and tap him slightly.

“We can even get tiny little ones for when you relent and let me put a child in you,” you remembered his tone, causing a blush to rise presently to your cheeks.

“Something the matter, love?” Shanks' voice brought you from your singular memory and back into the present moment you were sharing so intimately with your husband.

No other memory sprang forward, only a few whispers of certain smells: sea water, spiced rum and stagnant drinking water with the natural smell men aboard a boat. You circled your arms around his shoulders and again pressed him against yourself, smothering his face against your sternum between your breasts. Your mouth fell slack as you pressed your face into his hair and inhaled the aroma of the fragrance he favoured to utilise in his red locks: sandalwood and ginger prominent with his natural scent lingering beneath it.

You began to feel a rough flurry of taps from the man beneath you as he indicated for you to release him. His laughter was unrestrained as his eyes twinkled with mischievousness.

“As happy as I am to once again have my face pressed between your breasts,” he heaved his laughter, “I do require air to sustain me.”

He brought his eyes to meet yours as you stared your eyes on the crashing waves of the beach as the tide began to come in further. Your eyes remained wide as you continued to will a semblance of recollection to come to you.

Once you offered no rebuttal at his comment, he again reached his hand up towards your hair only to halt it once more.

“What is it?” he asked you, now placing his right hand atop your left arm, holding it lovingly.

“I-,” you began, the words now halting between your lips. You brought your eyes down to look down and you continued to flitter them between each of his own.

“I-,” you again said, leaning in closer to him; prompting him to have a sense of seriousness overcome his features, “-will never own a pair of those ugly sandals.”

Immediately his seriousness fell away and his face split into a wide grin as his laughter rumbled within his chest one more.

“Yes, you always hated them. I think they’re wonderful,” he gasped while stifling his laughter. You continued to hold his shoulders as his laughter teetered off into a dull rumble.

“I tried to throw them overboard,” you uttered almost inaudibly, “and you threatened me with buying more of them.”

“You remember,” he gasped out a breathy sigh, “you remember me.”

He brought his torso up further to bring your foreheads to rest against each other. He nuzzled your nose slightly at the impact and squeezed his eyes shut with delight. He began to lean in to graze your lips with his, only to be halted by your gentle touch to bring him back.

“I don’t remember anything else aside from your disgusting sandals,” you whispered, closing your eyes before reopening them again and looking at him half-lidded, “and the way you looked at me when you suggested we begin trying for a child.”

A small gasp left his lips as a single tear fell from his right eye. Immediately he pulled your head against his further, seeking out your lips with his own. He moved his hand from its place at your hip to snake around your waist and hold you firmly against his lap. You felt him moan against your lips as you reciprocated his enthusiasm by lacing your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly at the new growth at the back of his neck.

As your proximity was so flush against one another, you had no choice but to press your full weight against him as he laid with his back against the sand; his hair sprawling out atop the course surface. He expertly maneuvered his right leg beneath yours without breaking the kiss, gasping into it as he darted his tongue out to meet with your own.

A soft whimper flung itself from your lips as he relentlessly attacked your mouth with his own; flittering deep and hungry kisses while trying to taste as much of you as he could with his tongue. You unlaced your fingers from his hair and raked them down his shoulders to his chest, massaging the hard muscle beneath them as you continued in your exploration. He gently rose his hand from its place around your waist and drew itself beneath your shirt and groaned when he felt your tender flesh beneath the material.

Placing your right hand below his cloak, you raked your fingers further along his ribcage and drew them up towards his left arm – halting your movement as you found none residing there.

You squealed into his mouth, feeling him smirk against your lips. You attempted to break from the kiss, only to feel his hand climb higher beneath your blouse and lie flat against your spine between your shoulder blades and continue passionately exploring your lips.

“Shanks,” you murmured a warning reprimand against his lips. He smiled while maintaining his lips against your own, feeling the soft pearls of his teeth as they made contact with your mouth. He continued to chase your lips each time you attempted to flee from his embrace.

You brought your hands up to ball the material of his white shirt within your fists and held him further against yourself, prompting him to let down his guard as he whimpered into your lips at your sudden domination. As soon as you felt him relinquish a small spectrum of control, you pushed hard on his collar bones and pried him from your lips. He first groaned in frustration before his body was wracked with uncontrollable laughter. He collapsed against the ground, prompting you to roll your body from above him to onto your own back in the sand as his laughter became contagious.

And as earlier, the heaving of your shoulders in fits of laughter evolved into heavy sobs from the both of you as you mourned the time lost between you.

“My bride,” Shanks called from beside you as he placed his right hand upon his eyes in an attempt to control his emotions.

“Yes, my groom,” you said as more of a whimper than an address.

He rolled over onto his side and hovered his face above yours, as the tears freely fell down the faces of the two of you; the moonlight cascading over your lover’s hair. Hesitantly, he reached his right hand up to your hair and slowly brought some loose strands from your face and wove it behind your ear. He sighed in relief as he watched you close your eyes and lean into his touch, taking your quivering lip between your teeth as you did so.

“You are as beautiful as the day I lost you,” he whispered with a slight hitch of his voice. You reopened your eyes to watch him smiling through his sorrow. You returned his expression and caressed his chest and ghosting your fingertips over his left shoulder.

“And you are one arm less than I remember,” you beamed a wide smile and giggled a little at your prod. He joined you in your laughter and pressed a chaste kiss against your hair before rising to his feet and offering you his right hand to hoist you up to meet him. You took his hand and allowed him to hoist you to your feet, before he dipped his shoulder down to make contact with your waist and lifted you over his right shoulder. He secured you in place with a crisp slap upon your left ass-cheek as he effortlessly crouched down to retrieve the forgotten, half-drunk rum bottle. He rose again to his feet and began to walk with you over his shoulder, using his teeth to uncork the rum bottle and spitting it against the sand.

“Is this quite necessary?” you asked him, mock annoyance in your tone.

He laughed and took a long swig from the rum bottle and gasped in joy as the liquid burnt its way down his throat.

“Not only is it necessary,” he called to you over his left shoulder, “it is also compulsory.” You laughed at him as he almost jigged back towards the tavern, him joining you in your laughter upon arriving at its steps and flinging open the door with his feet.

The arrival of the two of you had cheers erupting and reverberating from every corner and crevasse of the wooden building. Tankards were thrust into the air, foam sloshing carelessly from the top and onto the floor; much to the many protestations of Mary.

Shanks placed you on the floor after setting aside the bottle of rum atop a cylindrical raised bar table.

“Alright lads,” he addressed the room, “let me reintroduce you to my wife!”

He extended his right hand out for you to place your left hand within. As soon as you did so, he effortlessly spun you into him, your left arm laced over your front as he cradled you against himself.

You looked up to his face, your neck laying against his shoulder as he brought his lips down to meet your own for the first time publicly in a decade. Applause, shouts of glee and delight, more sloshing of ale and verbal reprimands from the tavern keeper echoed the hall as you smiled against the lips of your beloved. Your husband, and his bride.

#one piece #opla #x reader #shanks opla #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks #one piece live action #opla fic #amnesia trope #my playlist broke me #angst #angst with a happy ending

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lucifersgirl · 28 days

Note

Some Halloween legends say that demons will walk among people.

Imagine Reader meeting Lucifer Morningstar on Halloween night; he’s so alluring in the midst of everyone in their costumes.

“I like your ringmaster costume. It stands out.”

He grins. All of his teeth look so sharp in the moonlight. Was it part of his costume?

“So does your Devil costume.”

“Thank you. I love Halloween.”

(Could be SFW or NSFW if you want.)

I LOVE THIS!! Keep these amazing requests coming, my friends!! Enjoy!!

Happy Sinful Sunday by the way ;)

Halloween

⚠️WARNING⚠️ - THIS WRITING CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT. SMUT BELOW. MDNI.

————————

As you opened the door to the party, the smell of cheap perfume, booze and cigarettes came rushing to your nose. Vampires, werewolves and other various creatures roamed around the room, dancing and laughing. You yourself were dressed as a devil. Your short dress was swaying as you walked to the bar, faux tail bouncing and horned headband sitting proudly atop your head.

“What can I get you, ma’am?” The bartender, who was dressed as a zombie, asked you.

You ordered your usual and, after you received it, took a long sip.

A man walked up to the bar and took a seat beside you. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he said.

The bartender nodded and walked off.

“I like your ringmaster costume. It stands out,” you complimented him.

He grinned. All of his teeth looked so sharp in the moonlight. Was it part of his costume?

“So does your Devil costume,” he nodded at your attire.

“Thank you. I love Halloween.” You took another sip of your drink, your mind relaxing as the alcohol kicked in. “What’s your name?” You asked curiously.

He smiled that toothy smile of his again. “Lucifer. Pleasure to meet you, my dear.” He held out his hand for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you too,” you replied as you took his hand. “I’m ______.”

“Well, hi, ______,” he said, taking a sip of the drink he had ordered. He shuddered. “Oh, man,” he laughed, “that’s good.”

You giggled. “Strong too, huh?”

“Yeah,” he laughed again.

You spent a few more minutes talking, laughing together at the bar. You had both ordered three more drinks.

Lucifer moved his hand to your knee. “I’d like to take you home,” he slurred.

“Be my guest,” you flirted, finishing your last drink and standing up.

Lucifer linked arms with you and walked with you out the door.

“My place is just around the corner,” you told him. “We can go there.”

Lucifer nodded before moving his arm around your waist. “Alright with me.”

————————

When you finally arrived at your place and locked the door behind you, Lucifer pulled you in for a kiss. He groaned, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip. He smiled against your lips when you granted him access. Your clothes seemed to disappear as your tongues wrestled with each other, each one fighting for dominance.

“Wait a minute,” you pushed him backwards. “Do you have a split tongue?”

Lucifer grinned before he stuck his tongue out. “Wanna see what it can do?” He asked in a sultry tone.

You nodded, smiling cheekily. You led him to your bed before collapsing onto it.

Lucifer pushed you even further up the mattress before picking your thighs up and resting them on his shoulders. He pressed a few teasing kisses to your thighs before kissing your cunt.

You moaned in want, earning a chuckle from the man between your legs.

Lucifer immediately dove into your cunt, sucking on your sensitive nub and licking stripes up your clit. His tongue slipped in and your of your hole quickly. He moaned at the taste of you, suckling on your every part.

You whined, the coil in your stomach snapping. “L-Lucifer!” You cried as you came undone on his tongue. You ground against his tongue, riding out your orgasm.

Lucifer groaned, not letting a single drop of your cum go to waste. After you had calmed down, Lucifer set your thighs down.

You finally got a look at Lucifer’s dick. “God,” you whispered.

He giggled. “Is it up to your standards, ______?”

You nodded, now creeping towards the man. You took Lucifer’s cock in your hand and stroked it a few times before pressing a kiss to his tip.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his head tilting back slightly. “That’s-ahm-that’s nice…” His moans increased in pitch, turning into whines and whimpers as pleasure overtook him.

You licked at his slit, effectively teasing him. You stroked the parts of his cock you couldn’t fit in your mouth and gripped his balls in your hand, squeezing them slightly.

Lucifer gasped, his hands fisting the sheets. “Mnnh!” He whimpered as his tip hit the back of your throat, making you gag around him. “Oh, ______! I-AH!-I’m gonna-MPH!-I’m gonna cum! Oh, fffuuuuuuck!” He cried, bucking his hips up as his own coil snapped.

You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on swallowing the seed that filled your mouth. You sucked him off through his orgasm, riding him through it. Once Lucifer’s hips stopped bucking wildly and he had calmed down, you pulled off of him. “Feel good, handsome?” You asked him teasingly.

He nodded, a blush spreading over his face. “Lay back, darling,” he said breathlessly, gently pushing you down on the bed. “It’s my turn to play.”

You giggled, reluctantly laying down.

Lucifer climbed on top of you, his eyes glazed over with lust. He put on a condom, a small gasp leaving his lips as he gently touched his sensitive dick. He gripped his length, slowly rubbing it against your dripping cunt. He finally slipped his tip into your waiting hole, a groan leaving his lips as his head tipped back a bit.

You gasped as Lucifer thrusted into you slowly, his cock reaching deeper into you each time he pushes in. “Oh, god…” you moaned as he bottomed out inside of you, his length filing you up completely.

“Oh, you feel so good,” Lucifer groaned, his hands gripping your hips harshly. His face was contorted in pleasure, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if he were focusing. “D-d’ya need a mi-minute?” He gasped as your pussy clenched around him involuntarily.

You shook your head ‘no’. “‘m ready, Lucifer.”

Lucifer nodded as he pulled halfway out. He thrusted into your cunt, a moan escaping the both of you. He bit his lip, a trickle of blood flowing out. He took one of his hands and placed it above your head, leaning over you and pressing kisses to your neck, sucking gently.

You whined lowly as Lucifer continued to thrust into you. “Oh, fuck, Luci~!” You moan as his dick hits that spongy spot inside of your cunt.

“I-Ahm!-I like that title,” he moaned into your ear, pressing a kiss there as well.

You took his face in your hand and pulled him in for a kiss. Your tongues fought each other once more as you drank in each other’s moans.

“Hugnh, ______! I’m g-gonna-ANGH!-cum! Oh, fuck! MPH!” He whimpered, the coil in his stomach building up once more.

“I’m c-close, t-AHM-too, Luci! Oh, FUCK!” You cried out as you came on Lucifer’s cock, cunt spasming around his length.

“Fffffuuuuuuuck, YES!” Lucifer nearly screamed as his second orgasm of the night ripped through him. He bit your neck as he ground into you, riding both you and himself through your orgasms.

When the both of you had calmed down, you tilted your head to look at Lucifer.

“Round two?”

————————

#hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #hazbin #lucifer hazbin hotel #smut #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer smut #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel smut lucifer #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer x you

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trulyhblue · 9 months

Text

MISS AUSTRALIA (PART TWO)

Katie McCabe x Aussie! Chelsea! Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+, jealousy, praise kink, semi-public sex, coarse language, Chelsea mentions, little age gap, humiliation, drinking.

Masterlist

______________________________

You don't know what coerced you to spend the night in Katie McCabe's bed, but it felt amazing.

Chelsea's loss against Arsenal sent shockwaves through the WSL side of social media, with a skyrocket of tweets spreading the news regarding the Blue's greatest defeat in five years.

It was not a surprise to see your name mentioned in thousands of these messages, and your connotation to Katie hadn't seemed to surprise anyone either. Lots of people were reeling over the interactions between the two of you on the field, but you wondered what their reaction would be if they found out what happened off the pitch.

Somehow, you didn't want to know.

Despite the thrashing you received from Emma, you, Jessie, Erin, Millie, Sam, and Guro all found yourselves in a pub in North London. It seemed hypocritical — the location — but the vibes were good, and it was a well-known, crowded bar, so the chances of you being seen were slim to none.

While Jessie was the designated driver for you that night, the rest of the girls didn't hesitate to start drinking. You were playing with the straw of your third vodka cranberry, savouring the taste between your teeth, smiling at the quips and jokes the girls would pose, checking the time on your phone as the hours passed later in the night.

"I just know I'm going to regret this tomorrow." Guro sighed, shooting down the last of her drink before standing up. "My shout now, what do you all want?"

Sam and Millie ordered a bulk of shots. Jessie and Erin chose the drinks they had before. You shook your head towards Guro, lifting your half-full drink that you were still nursing.

Sam wrapped an arm around your shoulder, waving Guro off. "You've been on the same drink for an hour. C'mon, have a shot with me."

You glanced across the table to find Erin shuffling a deck of cards. Jessie was on her phone, leaving you sandwiched between Bright and Kerr. You were a football player, an athlete, but you weren't as bulky as your two Chelsea companions. You tried hard in the gym, and anyone could tell that it paid off, but too many drinks would sway you in the wrong direction.

"Are you old enough to drink?" Millie asked, half sincerely, ruffling your hair when you gave her a pointed glare. "I'm only joking, Kid."

"I'm twenty-two. I just like taking care of my body." You spoke with a huff, throwing your arms over your chest, eyes dancing between your two skippers.

"Oh, and all those hickeys are taking care of you, are they?" Guro retorted, Erin's smirk matching hers as she returned with the tray of drinks. You watched her slide a shot towards you, which you took instantly at the looming eyes on your neck from your Australian Captain.

"Since when were those there?" She swooped, her hand reaching out to poke at the marks. You hissed, the exposed blotches still sensitive, shrinking in your seat as all five of your teammates caught your reddening cheeks.

"Fresh ones, eh?" Millie grinned.

While the girls found this new susceptible mystery a highlight of the night, Sam continued to prod at the marks, her protectiveness prominent by the furrow in her eyebrows.

"Who gave you those?" She let out, and you felt your face flame up.

"I'm not talking about it."

"You didn't have them this morning." Guro quipped, earning Jessie to push her scoldingly, feeling slightly sorry for the interrogation you were receiving.

"Jesus, y/n/n, I didn't know you had it in ya—"

"— had what in her?" A voice called out from beside the table, making each of your friends move their eyes away from you and to the source.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, you thought. Great, just your luck.

Katie was standing behind Beth, who was linking elbows with Jordon Nobbs. Caitlin, Leah, and Steph all stood among them, Steph being the one who spoke.

"Nothing. Where's Ky?" You sounded, your voice meek underneath the prying Arsenal eyes.

"Wrong side of London, Skipper." Caitlin laughed.

Sam rolled her eyes. "Good drinks, though."

You shuffled across the lounge you were sitting on, attempting to maneuver yourself over Jessie's lap to escape. You felt a hand grip the back of your skirt, causing you to plop on one of Jessie's legs.

"You can't just avoid the conversation."

"Sammy, stop." You squirmed over Jessie, who used her hands to lift your waist up. "Where's Kyra?" You asked again, hopelessly avoiding the Irish woman's levering eyes. She was watching Jessie's hand on your waist; how her fingers played with the hem of your top as you battled to fight Sam's hand away. Katie noticed how Jessie spread her legs out, engulfing your body weight more comfortably, as if she was used to having you in that position.

The Irish woman wanted to mock the playful whines that left your lips as everyone questioned what the two Australians were fighting over. She caught sight of the bruise she had left under your ear, recalling the heavy whines and desperate breaths that followed as her lips lapped over the delicate skin. The mark offered Katie some comfort in your current situation. The grand display of pink smearing across your freckled cheeks was admirable to most, but Katie found you much more pleasurable when you beat red at the sound of her voice, when you were grinding against her knee, not Fleming's.

"She went to the bathroom, I think." Beth Mead spoke, her friendly, maternal smile glowing back at you. "Actually, she could be anywhere. 'Can never sit still, that girl."

"Alright, let me go check."

You didn't wait for anyone to stop you, stumbling off Jess' lap, head spinning from the alcohol running through your system. You could handle your liquor to some extent, but it was after this that you went beyond tipsy. Your journey to the bathroom was quick, wasting no time to find your best friend, wherever she may be.

The cubicles were all empty. You tried calling out her name, calling her on your phone, but the little shit didn't answer. The pub was now reeling with people, with all levels of tipsy and drunk being shown by the dancing of the crowd. You were struggling to find your way back to your girls, forgetting the way you came. You gave up trying after five minutes, turning around and opening the bathroom doors once more.

Your breath hitched in your throat when you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist, pushing and pinning you against one of the cubicle doors. It slammed shut, your back planted against the wood. You felt your hands fondle together, your heart racing at the hungry, lustful eyes of the woman in front of you. Her breath fanned over your face, causing your lips to fall agape, a loss of words leaving you speechless. It wasn't long until Katie's lips were on your neck, this time on the opposite side, nibbling on your pulse point.

"You really can't hold it in, can you?" She uttered, her accent rasping as she spoke. You groaned at the notion of her fingers latching onto the top you were wearing, tugging it in warning before discarding it on the floor.

"What?" You sighed, hands wrapping around Katie's neck as she lifted you up, gripping your thighs as they swathed around her waist.

"On Fleming's lap, Kerr's hand on your arse. Are you always so desperate for attention?"

She wasted no time in moving her lips down to your breasts, freeing one of her hands from your thigh to massage the one she wasn't sucking.

"Katie—"

"Shut up."

You grind your hips against hers, hoping it will relieve the growing tension between your legs. With your bra still on, Katie laughs at your flushed state, pushing up the fabric of your skirt so it would bunch up against your hips.

"Did you shake everyone's hands?" She asked, her lips leaving your chest to move up to your face. She hadn't ever properly kissed you, so she made sure to hover as she waited for a reply, her fingers slowly squeezing the column of your neck.

You nodded, still trying to gain some friction, but were met with nothing. The only noise that came from your lips was a whine. Katie shook her head, kneading your thigh as she rubbed her nose up against yours. The action was intimate, but somehow Katie found a way to make it sensual.

“Use your words, Baby.” She made a point of tapping your neck with her finger, toying with your skirt as her hand crept up your thigh.

“I- mh… I did, Katie.”

“Good Girl.” She whispered, and you pushed your lips forward to catch the girl in a kiss. You were grateful she reciprocated with just as much force, asserting her dominance by bringing her hand up to your lips, dragging your bottom lip down, making you audibly cry out.

“You like that, do you?” She chuckled, her hand inching closer to your heat. “Had to shake everyone’s hands before getting off on my thigh, didn't you? Had to make sure you did as you were told.”

“Katie, please—”

“But good girls don't sit on other people’s laps, do they Baby?” She whispered, ghosting her hand over your underwear. “Answer me.”

“No, Katie.”

You pushed your head back against the door, groaning as Katie ran one of her fingers through your folds teasingly. Your legs gave way, no longer trying to hold yourself up around Katie’s waist. Despite the lack of warning, the Irish woman wasn't fazed at the sudden shift, instead using it to her advantage.

“Look at you… so desperate for attention. Is that why you landed on top of me today? Bent over for me and everything in a sold-out stadium weren't you?”

You felt her hand rub your clit, making you squirm. “You tripped me.” It was a whisper, but Katie heard it all the same.

Her eyebrows raised. “I did. But you went off before I could show everyone how well you could take me.”

Without warning, she slipped two of her fingers into you, gnawing at your neck as she thrust in and out of you rhythmically. You moaned, and blushed furiously because of it.

“Does Fleming touch you like this?”

“Can you fuck off about Jessie for one second?”

Katie scoffed, adding another finger, inserting her fingers into you until her knuckles were kneading your clit. You moaned at the sting, crying out when Katie didn't wait for you to adjust. She did this for a while, and you felt the coil in your stomach churn as she curled her fingers inside of you, slamming them as deep as she could, resonant and rigid strokes leaving you writhing in ecstasy.

“Katie— Katie—”

She stopped, her fingers leaving you clenching around nothing. You were so close, feeling your high fizzle out the moment her fingers moved to her lips.

“I asked you a fucking question. ‘Spose you just get too dumb when you're being fucked.”

You whined, your hands clawing her biceps, beyond annoyed by the way she left you. “I- Jess and I are friends.”

“I bet Fleming wasn't too happy when you scored that double against her in the World Cup.”

You gaped at Katie, legs shaking and lips puffy. “You definitely weren't when I scored against you.”

Katie was off you now, standing against the bathroom sink, watching as you tried to fix your skirt.

“What happened today then, hm? Miss Australia lost her touch as soon as she was bent over.”

“Stop calling me that. And I wasn't bent over, you tripped me!”

“Did I tell ‘ya to fix your skirt?” She ordered, crossing her arms over her chest when you sauntered in front of her.

“You’re not the boss of me, McCabe.”

“Then how ‘bout you show me some personal autonomy and get yourself off?” She quipped, lust flooding her eyes. She propped herself on the sink, watching intently as your eyes widened at her suggestion. It seemed that all of your prior confidence had dispersed.

“I'm not doing that in here.” You muttered, suddenly repentant of the setting you were in.

“You nearly just came on my fingers. What's the difference?”

Whatever dominance you seemed to gain over Katie didn't work, the woman making no sign of backing down from her proposition.

“I— Katie… I'm not going to beg.”

She simply hummed, causing you to sigh. You were desperate for a release ever since that afternoon when you had been too stubborn to get off her knee, feeling the desperation of your hormones haunt you ever since. The thought of getting yourself off in front of the girl you hated so much made you squirm. The thought of someone walking in and seeing such an illustrative sight would've sent you into a frenzy.

But all of these thoughts dispersed at the sight of Katie in front of you, leaning against the mirror with her signature smirk. You reeled in the jumper she was wearing that hit the veins and muscles of her arms you always looked at during games. You noticed the crumple of her trousers, where you had inevitably been. Her hair was sweaty, her cheeks tinted at the sight of your unruliness. It made you repent. It made you want Katie even more.

“I want you.” You stated matter of factly, walking forward so that you were standing in between her legs.

“Do you now?” She looked down at you possessively, pretending to be in deep thought.

You nodded. She leaned in, taking hold of your chin. “Beg for it, Baby.”

She moved down from her place on the counter, dragging you to face the mirror. Pushing your hips against the cool marble surface, you watched as Katie caged your figure, sucking gently on your shoulder, taking her sweet time to reach your preexisting hickeys.

“Please, Katie, I need you so bad.” You whined, feeling her hips grind into you from behind. “I need you, you— you make me feel so good. Want you really bad.”

“Mhm, what else, baby?” She continued to place wet, sloppy kisses up your neck, licking across the new bruises, smirking at the mess she was turning you into.

“Wanna feel you inside of me. Wanna cum so hard from your fingers and your mouth, everything. Just want you to touch me, use me. Please use me, Baby, I‘ll do anything.”

The nickname she had been calling you fell from your lips before you had the chance to stop yourself. You knew that Katie would never let you live this down, but, for utterly selfish reasons, you made sure your voice was extra whiny, extra innocent, hoping your plea would help you get off.

Katie stopped kissing you, turning you around and smashing her lips up against yours. You knew your begging had worked when her fingers worked their way back into your underwear. When she entered two of her fingers this time, you weren't surprised at the lack of warning. Instead, you relished the feeling of pleasure shivering through your body. You moaned as her knuckles grazed over your clit, her hips pushing her further into the counter, making you lean back on your elbows.

“Bent back for you, Baby.” You moaned, hoping she’d keep going if you were louder. “I want to be— wanna be good.”

“That's it, nice and loud for me. Wanted me so bad you needed to beg. Good girls get rewards; don't they, baby girl?”

You groaned as she pounded into you relentlessly, her spare hand holding your hips in place as you neared your high. Katie felt your walls clench around her fingers, the wet juices of your arousal squelching in and out, coating Katie’s fingers. The sound of your wetness, alongside your moans, echoed throughout the bathroom, earning Katie to groan and the smell of sex surrounding you two.

“I’m— close.” You chocked out, feeling your clit grow sensitive as Katie’s knuckles pinched it hard.

Katie groaned, the sight of her head falling back bringing you to the brink of falling over the edge. “Ask nicely.”

“Please, Baby, I need to so bad. Want to cum around your fingers, please? Please, Baby.”

“Be a good girl for me, baby girl. Let it out. Show me who makes you feel this way.”

You felt Katie thrust into you harder and faster, causing you to let go of the pent-up climax closing in on you.

She continued to hit your G-spot deeply as you rode out your high, feeling your orgasm leak all over her fingers and into her hand. You cried out at the relief of it all, trying to catch your breath by settling into your elbows. You found Katie watching you recover, her lips swollen and eyes fully blown in euphoria at the sight of you post-sex. Her hair was messier than before, her smirk widening as you tried to stand up properly, whining when your legs violently shook.

She kissed the alcove of her neck, taking off her jumper to reveal a vest that displayed her arms in the perfect way.

“Should've taken that off before.” You managed to breathe out, accepting the way Katie scooped you up onto the counter, grabbing tissue paper and running it underwater, letting you fix your clothes up. You did this by putting your shirt back on and fixing your underwear.

“Put that jumper on.” She muttered, moving over to you, using her hands to open your legs. She began to clean up your thighs, which had been covered in sweat and arousal that couldn't have been concealed underneath your short skirt.

“Why?” You sighed at the cool temperature of the tissue, turning the top half of your body to face the mirror, nearly choking on air when you saw the number of hickeys decorating your neck.

“Oh my fucking god, Katie. I've got training tomorrow!”

Katie straightened up after cleaning you, flushing the tissue down the toilet. She walked up to stand between your legs, smiling at the bruises littering your neck and chest.

“Will Fleming be there?”

You scoffed, observant of the way Katie rubbed your thighs. “Obviously.”

“Then I've done my job well.”

You tried to hide your smile by picking up your phone, eyes bulging when you saw the missed calls from Kyra.

Now you were fucked.

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