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rememberwren · 10 months ago

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Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 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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deathandrenegades · 2 months ago

Text

The L Word

Summary: You and Bucky have an agreement, but you can’t help but to push his buttons.

Word Count: 2297

A/N: Smutttt, all of it, Bucky is dominant and jealous.

lmaooo it's been 5 years and i've discovered the original link is broke, so here's a reupload.

You stood at the bar, heels completely aching at the pumps stuck to your feet. You sipped your rum and coke, turning back to Sam who stood with you at the bar. He looked insanely handsome, wearing a blue suit instead of a traditional black, and opted out of a tie.

“Wanna dance?” He grinned mischievously, offering you his hand. You shrugged, giggling in response and throwing your drink back before taking his hand and getting on the floor. The avengers were stuck at yet another one of Tony Stark’s fancy parties, too fancy for your liking. Everyone was rich and snobby, something you could never manage to be even if you wanted to. You shook your head at the people circled around Tony like sharks, presumably laughing at a joke they didn’t quite get.

Sam pulled you to him, his hand taking your waist and the other holding your hand up as your two swayed slowly back and forth.

Your eyes scanned the room for Bucky, finally landing on him standing in the corner, suit jacket off, his hand clutching his drink. His own orbs were already on you, burning into you as you swayed with Sam slowly. He brought his drink to his lips, his eyes never leaving your body as Sam picked up the tempo slightly, and slid his hand to the small of your back. Bucky set his drink down briefly to roll up the sleeves of his white shirt, picking his drinking back up again. You leaned up to Sam, your breath fanning over his neck, you were dangerously close, smirking as you continued to watch Bucky. He clutched his drink so hard it looked like it was one squeeze away from shattering. You smirked at that possibility, parting your mouth and sliding your tongue out slightly as if you were going to lick Sams neck.

Sam jumped to the sound of shattered glass, turning around to find out where it came from. Bucky stood there, visibly fuming at you before he bent down to clean up the mess. Sam turned back to you, giving you a quizzical look, you shrugging in response at an attempt to brush him off.

“You look amazing by the way.” Your back stiffened briefly at his comment, worried you’d taken flirting with Sam slightly too far. He chuckled above you, seeming to have heard your thoughts. “Don’t worry, I know you’re after Barnes.” He murmured into your ear. You lifted your head to look at him. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” He replied, reading the concern and anxiety on your face, “But you’re trying to put on a show, right? Make him jealous?” You gulped, barely swaying with him anymore, debating if you should answer or not. “I’m just saying, I could help with the show.” His mouth crooked up into a smile. You thought for a minute, then shrugged, I mean you had come this far, why not have help?

He dipped you then, one of your legs coming out of the slip of your dress as Sam ran his hands up to your calf, pulling your leg almost around his waist. You wanted to giggle, feeling almost giddy at the feeling of putting on a show, but resisted. Sams mouth ghosted over your neck and collar bones, pulling you up slow to twirl you.

“So has anything happened between the two of you?” He whispered into your ear. So he didn’t know anything. You felt yourself relax, but refused to answer. “I see how it is.” He pulled you against him, chest to chest. “Laugh with me, like I’m funny.” He spoke urgently in your ear suddenly.

“What?”

“You want him jealous or not?” He hissed. You threw your head back like you had just heard the funniest thing, a high pitched laugh escaping you, Sam chuckling beside you you. Once the laughs had settled more he gently cupped your cheek, bringing your face close to him. For a brief second, you almost panicked, not wanting to go that far as to actually kiss Sam, but then he stopped, just inches from your lips.

“Here comes your boy now.” He breathed.

“Mind if I cut in?” Bucky spoke gruffly behind me.

“I don’t know, James,” Sam toyed, “Her and I were having a lovely conversation.” He smirked.

“Well it’s done now.” Bucky growled, gripping your elbow and gruffly pulling you to him, Sam raising an eyebrow at you. You bit your lip, clearly loving Buckys reaction and Sam rolled his eyes in response, turning to head to the bar.

Bucky pulled you to face him, taking your waist and hand, starting a slow steady paced as you danced.

“Something wrong, dear?” You couldn’t resist, his mouth was set into such a hard line you thought he might crack, jaw clearly clenched.

“Why were you all over Sam like that?” He gritted out.

“What’s it matter?” You scoffed. Bucky had made it abundantly clear that though the two of you were sleeping together, not only was no one in the compound to know about it, he didn’t want it to go any further than just sex. No commitments, no feelings, and yes, no strings attached. Whether you agreed to that, or wanted it was out of the question. If Bucky didn’t want anything more than that, what good is the use of you trying to change it, only to get rejected? At least you got to be around him, even if it was just for sex. Sometimes if you got lucky he’d wind up staying the night, exhaustion encompassing him. But he’d always be gone when you woke in the morning, no matter what.

His eyes casted over, unwilling to give you an answer. He dropped his hand, and instead grabbed you by the elbow yet again and steered both of you out of the party without a second glance.

“Where exactly are we going?” You huffed, turning down a hallway. You both made another left, you recognized this hallway as his. Your stomach flopped, almost not wanting to know what would happen behind the closed door of his bedroom. He stopped in front of the door, grabbing the handle and sending you a glare that shook you to your very core, before opening the door. You knew you were in trouble.

As soon as the door closed, he was on you, your back pushed up against the door, either of his hands on the side of your face. You have no where to go.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?” He purred, his face a mere inch from yours, breath fanning over your cheeks, “What this has been doing to me?” He snarled, fisting a handful of your dress. You let out a tiny squeak as he hiked your dress up further, grabbing your thighs and yanking you up to lock your legs around him, his hands gripping your ass for support. You felt his arousal already, his erection pressing directly against your heated core.

“I already had to jerk off this morning, after watching you in the pool, purposefully wearing a bathing suit two sizes too small.” He panted, his mouth traveled to your ear, now starting to rock his hips against you. You stifled a moan, trying to gain your composure.

“Nearly had to run out of the fucking party twice, thinking about bending you over the bar in this pathetic excuses for a dress.” He promptly shoved himself into you harder as the word dress slithered through his lips. You slammed your head back against the door, a cry escaping your throat, your arms resting on the bulge of his biceps. He groaned in response to your mewls, his hips grinding against you faster, you could feel his cock rubbing directly against the little bundle of nerves, your walls almost begging for something to be in you. You yanked his shirt out of his pants, tugging it over his head so you could marvel at his bare chest and metal arm, his lips parted slightly as he watched you run your hands down his chest and shoulders.

Bucky slid a metal hand between the two of you, the other still tight on your ass as he started to rub you through your panties, a whimper escaping your lips. You already wanted to cum, the burning desire low in your belly. He slid his cold metal fingers underneath, feeling your slick wet folds. You sucked a breath in at the contrast between your hot skin and the cool metal. You brought your lips to his shoulder, sucking a purple bruise in hopes to stifle your moans.

“God look at you,” He breathed, running the back of his two fingers up and down your sex, lingering over your clit barely before he moved back down to spread your juices around. “You’re so fucking wet.” He groaned, sticking a metal digit in you slowly, your light sucks turning into an aggressive bite on his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him, hands traveling up into his hair and gripping it as if it were your life line. He worked his finger in and out of you slowly, and you yanked on his hair in response to the sudden penetration, though it felt absolutely delicious, your body already acting out in a plea for more. Air was coming to you in sharp inhales now, you knew your release would be quick as he set you on the edge now, not supplying enough stimulation to let you cum.

“Do you want to cum?” He whispered into your ear, your teeth coming off his shoulder. You settled your head back against the door again, both hands still in his hair. You could feel your eyes hooded over as you thought about Bucky inside you, fucking you relentlessly, and you being able to scream out as waves of pleasure rippled through you. “Answer me, baby.” He growled softly, you opened your eyes, not even realizing you had closed them. A sheen layer of sweat beaded on his forehead, his pupils blown on with lust as his eyes rested on your face, traveling to your mouth.

“Yes.” You whispered. You wanted to say more, you wanted to tease him, but that was all you could manage. The heat was growing inside you so intensely, you craved a release, especially from him.

“I don’t know, have you deserved to cum after the shit you pulled earlier?” He snarled, shoving another metal finger inside you and you cried out, biting your lip. His fingers crooked inside you, finally warmed up to your temperature, rubbing your gspot teasingly. You breaths were pants now, nearly gasping for air.

“Please.” You begged. You didn’t care how you looked anymore, and you knew you looked like a weak, pathetic mess to him, but you stopped caring. You just need him to fuck you at this point.

“So fucking greedy, why am I not surprised that you’d beg this early?” He leaned in closer to tickle your neck with his lips, peppering soft kisses up and down before he reached your ear again. Your eyes snapped shut, trying to get your bearings together as his tongue flicked your lobe, then gently bit it. His lips traveled back down to your neck, biting it slowly and a low moan escaped you. You felt him chuckle against your skin.

Your hands traveled from his hair, going directly for his pants as you undid the belt buckle, ripping his pants open and shoving your hand inside to wrap around his large member. Bucky stilled against you, you pumped him in your fist, a mixture of precum and sweat already on his cock.

“Doll,” He growled, clearly pissed you had taken some control of the situation, but you knew as soon as you started touching him he couldn’t resist, and he’d need to fuck you just as badly as you needed him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I want you.” Your voice small, he groaned into your neck, biting it harshly this time making you gasp.

He brought his other hand to rip your panties, quickly pulling his pants and boxers down farther so his erection could happily spring free. You licked your hand, then went back to pumping him lazily in your hand, leaning in to moan his name softly in his ear, driving him fucking inside. You felt his cock twitch in your hand as his name left your mouth, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’re sure he’d manage to leave bruises.

“Sergeant.” You whispered, a shit eating grin on your face that he couldnt see. He groaned, his chest rumbling, as he finally kissed you so hard he shoved your whole upper body up against the door, his hand replacing yours on his cock and lining himself up briefly before he slammed into you. You had no time to adjust as he set a brutal pace, high pitched cry leaving your throat as he fucked you harder and harder with every thrust, somehow managing to not break the door.

“Fuck.” He grunted as he felt you clamp down around him, your release building rapidly and he knew it, his thrusts getting sloppier as he slid a hand between the two of you, rubbing your sensitive clit. You gripped his shoulders, your nails tearing into him at the sudden contact.

“Cum for me.” Bucky breathed, and that was all it took to send you over the edge, your whole body clenching as your orgasm riddled through you. Bucky’s name echoing through his room in a scream as his pace didn’t falter in the slightest, almost too much to bear.

Bucky grunted, you knew he was close. You slid your hand to grip his bulging bicep, digging your nails in, and let the other hand fall back in his hair, giving it a hard tug. He cried out, his pelvis slapping against you harder, your name falling off his lips before he finally stilled inside you. You panted, covered in sweat. He finally looked up at you, you brushed the hair and sweat from his face, leaning in to press your lips to his in a tender kiss.

“I love you.” You whispered without thinking, pulling away to adore his face. His expression changed, and you realized what you had just let escape your thoughts. Your legs fell from around him as he took a step back from you, barely able to hold yourself up. His eyes never left you as you stood there in front of him with your mouth agape, you wanted to say something, you wanted to assure him you didn’t mean it, but nothing came from you. His face was almost pained, like you had slapped him or betrayed him. You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #the winter soldier #marvel #marvel smut #the winter soldier smut #the winter soldier x reader

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rubyvhs · 3 months ago

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who’d believe? | dean winchester

summary. dean finds you six years after you ‘died’. tags. wc 2.3k, angst, mentions soulless sam. lailas notes. this is for my ‘stuck on you’ by meiko square for @jacklesversebingo + actually got inspired by @little-diable ‘s not a ghost fic. so so beautiful and i think everyone should go read it! ++ for my 500 celebration, so happy i got to it so quickly && the title is the translation of the song title. and most importantly, beta’d by the incredible @copperboom82 who made it much more readable and enjoyable.

You were never really a bar type of person, mostly because of the loud noise and smell, other than that, you liked a good party. But you decided you needed to celebrate getting your dream job, or, okay, whatever, your friend is forcing you to.

"I'm not taking no for an answer," she said, handed you your outfit and went outside to get the car started, not even giving you time to reject the idea. Though the second you stepped foot in the lively place, you were glad you came.

The drinks and music were exactly what you needed; a nice night out with no responsibilities. And especially no men (at least none like those you work with, you're honestly over them).

An hour into dancing with your friend, two more strangers join you. When the last song ends and another less 'pop' and more 'rock' one starts, they suggest going out to smoke for a second. Despite not once in your life trying it, you agree.

You should really work on saying no.

Thankfully you're sensible enough to refuse when they try to hand you one, just standing next to them, linking your arm with your friend's. "Where do you work?" You ask one of the girls. She has shorter red hair that almost reaches her shoulders, black eyeliner and a septum piercing. In other words? Fucking sexy.

"Police." Your eyes widen and you stand up straighter. "Oh, stop it! You're fine."

You laugh but shake your head, "No, no, that's not what I meant, you're just so— cute, I guess. Wouldn't have taken you for the assertive cop type."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs, dismissing the thought. It's obvious she gets it a lot. "Saw the hottest guys today, by the way—"

Her friend interrupts, beautiful brown pin-straight hair, pale skin, a gorgeous smile; "God, he was pretty. And his brother too…”

"Oh yeah. Agent something and Agent whatever, I don't remember, I was too busy looking through the shorter one’s shirt." You all laugh, a sway in your demeanor. You're pretty sure it's the alcohol that's got them saying all this but it's funny either way.

"Yeah, he was amazing. Like, those green eyes, honestly—" Your smile drops fast. Green eyes had always been somewhat of a trigger for you ever since Dean, especially that specific beautiful shade. Then again honestly everything's been a trigger: hunting, black cars, vintage cars, food, pie— you could go on.

"Oh and the way he walks? The little outward bounce of his leg, so cute!"

You shift, a little uncomfortable. How many guys do you know with bow legs, green eyes and are cops? They're probably not allowed to tell you he's FBI.

The red-haired girl touches your arm making you jump. "Shit, you okay, honey? You seemed out of it."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, just reminded me of someone. Old…" Dean.

There he is. Alive and in the flesh. You don't become a hunter and not hear about the Winchesters, you, on the other hand, fly under the radar. Especially since you try to stay away from any and all hunters.

But you heard nothing of how gorgeous he has grown up.

The girls catch your drift mid-sentence and look back to see what you're staring at. A dumb-struck Dean. "Oh! Agent…" Her friend elbows her stomach and Dean doesn’t peel his eyes off of you to speak.

"Right, yes. Hi, Officer."

She blushes under the dim light but Dean apologizes before breezing past them and holding your arm roughly to drag you away behind the bar. Your friend makes sure to motion to you if you need help before you let her know she should just get back inside. It’s pretty damn obvious you know the guy.

"Are you fucking serious?"

You let out a shy smile, "Dean, hey, how are you?"

"'How are you?'" He mocks, letting go of your arm aggressively, "'how are you?'"

"Is that not what they say anymore?"

"Are you serious?" He seems to enjoy repeating sentences much more than when you last saw him. "I looked for you, I mourned you." You mourned him too, in a way.

You and Dean were acquaintances, occasionally hunting together until you stayed at Bobby's place for a week and he came to visit coincidentally. You both started talking more that night, exchanged phone numbers and became somewhat friends.

Sam left for Stanford and you guys stayed together more frequently. Sam came back and you 'died'. Not on purpose, obviously, but Dean thought you died. You did, for a second, before you were brought back for some twisted, fucked up reason. Not that you knew it but if you did you're sure it would be fucked up.

By the time you woke up Sam and Dean had been long gone and your body had been buried. Didn’t burn your bones like he should’ve, no. He buried you. You're not sure which is worse.

"Look, I don't know what happened—"

"What does that even mean? You magically come back to life; you fucking call me! Ever thought of that?" A thousand times.

But Sam had finally decided to come back and hunt with Dean, Dean buried you, and so, you'd reasoned he was fine. You knew that if you were Sam, your body would've been preserved in the Impala for months before he'd ever allow himself to do that, to put you six feet under. The fact that he didn’t hold on to you had to mean he was okay.

But neither of you deserve more guilt. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"That's really rich. Real rich comin' from you. Grieved you for goddamn years. Six." Huh, that's a lot longer than you’d have thought. You were sure it would be six minutes. You knew he cared about you, but Deans also a 'what's done is done' kind of man.

"I'm—"

"If you apologize, I'll kill you. Again." You're about to crack a joke but his glare sets you off. Oookay, tough crowd, whatever.

"I wanted to call, I swear I did," how do you explain to the king of 'I don't deserve good' that you don't deserve him. He'll think it's a cruel joke. "I didn't know if you'd want me to reach out, I thought you were moving on with Sammy, okay? Going on with finding John. Me calling wouldn't have made a difference."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "I went to hell." You bite your bottom lip between your teeth. He sighs, a mix of emotions on his face. "You knew?" Your nod makes him turn around in anger (disappointment? hurt?), kicking the cardboard box as far as it'll go, another plastic one breaks and you flinch at that one.

In your defense, everyone knows.

"I couldn't do that to you and Sam, you moved on, Dean, I heard about you and Lisa and Ben—"

"Where the hell did you hear that?" Hunters talk. And he knows it. He turns around in an angry haze. "I didn't fuckin' move on, alright? I did what Sam wanted me to do when I didn't have you. Because my goddamn brother was in a cage with Lucifer, and now he's walking around without a soul!" He raises his voice until it gives out and so does his breath. You can't help the way your heart clenches, not even because of the words, but the tired look behind Dean's eyes.

Subconsciously, you move forward until you can hug him, and like he always used to: Dean throws himself into it, his head in your neck as he breathes you in. "I missed you." He whispers.

You don't believe how easily he's adjusted to this. If you were in his place you wouldn't hesitate to kill him, thinking he's a demon or a shifter.

He chuckles, his whole body rubbing against you. "Haven't hugged anyone like this in— ever. Was waiting for you."

He's never been safe, always made everyone else feel protected, you could only hope you built a safe place within yourself for him. You're at least close.

"I missed you too, De. Every single day, I swear."

You don't know what about the sentence sparks anything in him, but it does. He pulls away to smirk and push you against the hard wall. You gasp, doing nothing but turning him on more and giving him an entrance to your mouth.

He kisses you like he's lost his mind. He has.

His touch is electric as he pulls you closer, the heat of his body searing your skin, the raw intensity of desire saying more than words ever could. The kiss evolves, turning feral, almost carnal. He holds you, firm but tender, and rediscovers your mouth like a starving man. He is, he hasn't tasted you in… ever.

This is your first kiss with Dean, but the explosive chemistry between you makes the blood scream in your ears. It was never a secret that you and Dean were more than just hunters to each other, and it seems you dying was his last straw.

"We— Dean, can't here—"

He agrees. Or he doesn't. He's still kissing you and you're not sure if either of you are breathing.

Eventually he lets go. "Yeah," he whispers against your lips, moving for another kiss, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, leaving a peck and panting out, "right."

"'M sorry." God, why are you apologizing? Why are your bodies so far away?

He shakes his head, moves away (even if it looks like he's struggling to do so), "it's fine, what— you were here with friends? Are you staying?"

"Are you asking me to not stay?"

He smiles, leans down for another kiss and you decide to say goodbye to your friends now or else you're never getting the chance.

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mariasont · 24 days ago

Text

We Reap What I Sow - S.R

you fight, you burn, you break apart, and then you pull him back in — again and again, as if love is something that can't exist without wreckage

pairings: s6!spencer reid x reader warnings: reader is a villain (sorry yall), toxic relationship, emotional manipulation & gaslighting, obsession, codependency, unreliable (heavy on this) narrator, angst, toxic sexual dynamics mentioned?, sex and violence closely linked, mentions of rough handlings? (nothing crazy), alcohol use, no clear resolution wc: 2.3k request: here

Your fingers move faster than your conscience, like an invocation. You text without thinking, apologize without meaning it. You're sure if you type hard enough, fast enough, maybe you can summon him from the ether, resurrect him from silence. Silence is worse than anger.

Spencer, please. Send.

Spence, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean it. Send.

Are you seriously ignoring me right now? Send.

Don’t be an asshole. Send

Your drink is half-melted and too sweet now, but you drink it anyway. The bar lights bleed across the counter, flickering in and out like dying fireflies. Your friend is saying something – was saying something — but you weren’t listening. Work gossip, maybe. A guy. You nod when it feels right, laugh when you think you should.

Your phone vibrates — Spencer. No. Just your banking app reminding you how much you’ve spent tonight.

You down the rest of your drink, tongue flicking out to catch the last traces of whatever the hell this was supposed to taste like before firing off another text.

I know you’re mad. I just need to talk to you. Please. Send.

“Hello? Earth to psycho girlfriend?”

The bar sways, or that might just be your stomach catching up to the alcohol. Okay. Maybe you’re drunker than you thought. You close your phone, pushing it under your clutch as if that’ll erase the texts you’ve already sent.

“I’m fine.”

Your friend snorts, swirling what’s left of her own drink. “You’re, like, four seconds away from showing up at his apartment.”

“I am not. God. I’m not that desperate.”

“Babe.”

“I’m not,” you insist, crossing your arms. “I’m just… considering all my options.”

“Right. And one of those options isn’t showing up at his apartment?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Okay, but why is it always on me? Like, why do I have to be the mature one and not do the thing I want to do?”

“Because you’ll regret it?”

You scoff. “Yeah, well. I’ll also regret not doing it.”

“So I think what I’ve gathered is you both enable each other’s worst behaviors?”

You blink at her for a second before smiling. “I mean, we have fun though.”

That's a lie by omission. It’s not fun by normal standards. Not in the way people mean when they say it. It’s just… habitual self-destruction. The way you press your palm against a hot stove, just to see how long you can hold it there. The way you drink on an empty stomach, knowing you’ll feel it sooner, harder, faster.

It’s last summer, a nameless hotel hallway that smelled like bleach, his hand bruising your wrist, voice a slow-burn — you want me to lose my temper? And something inside you thrilled at threat because yes, yes, let’s stop pretending, let’s make this hurt, make me matter enough to break you.

It’s that fight in the car, rain slashing sideways, nails biting into your palms as you threw the words like glass — why don’t you just leave me, then? And his hands slammed the wheel, voice breaking apart when he begged you to shut up.

It’s the night you deleted his number, not because you were done, but because you wanted to see if he’d crawl for you. If he’d go mad wondering where you were, what you were doing, who you were with.

And he did.

It’s tonight, when you let another man lean in too close, let his lips brush your ear, let him say something forgettable, disposable, background noise. You didn’t hear him. You didn’t care. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about Spencer. It’s always about Spencer. About pressing on the bruise until he flinches, making sure he sees.

And Spencer did.

Right before he turned, before he walked away, before you could decide if you wanted to chase after him or let the wound fester.

You’re good at this. You’re an artist. A sculptor of narratives. A surgeon of half-truths.

You don’t lie — not really. You just bend the story with careful hands, carve the angles sharp enough to dismantle, tilt the light until Spencer’s face is shadowed as the villain. Until he is the one who obsesses, who picks and picks until he draws blood. Until he is the one who turns love into madness.

And sometimes, sure. That’s true of him.

But what you never say — what you never let yourself say — is that you planted the seeds yourself. That you fed them. Watered them. Built a trellis for them to climb. You created the house, laid the foundation, furnished every corner with suspicion and longing, and then stood outside and called it a prison.

And now, tonight, you’re rolling your eyes, laughing too loud, shaking your head as you tell your friend he always does this. You make him sound crazy, childish. Like his anger isn’t justified. Like his absence wasn’t the only thing that ever made sense.

But deep down, beyond the haze of liquor and the comfortable show of self-righteousness, you know the truth.

Spencer didn’t lose his mind on his own. You put it in his hands and asked him to break it.

You don’t remember making the choice to leave. Not really. One second, you’re laughing at something dumb, and then, your lips graze your friend’s cheek, a murmured get home safe, and you’re already moving, barely hearing her say your name, barely acknowledging the question in her voice.

Then it’s Spencer’s address, burned into your brain. The driver nods. The city twists and sways outside the window — yellow blurs, red smears, streetlights flickering across your hands. Your eyes close, and for just a second —

Then, oh. You’re there.

You barely hear the door slam behind you. You barely thank the driver. You don’t even think before your feet hit the pavement, before you’re walking up the steps.

And then there’s the door. His door. The one that’s been thrown open with a scowl, slammed shut mid-sentence, locked just long enough to make a point. The one that never stays closed for long. Not when it’s you on the other side.

You knock, giggling as you wobble, nearly toppling over while yanking off your heels. They hit the ground haphazardly somewhere behind you, forgotten the second they leave your hands.

The knocking turns into pounding, palm smacking against the door between raps of your knuckles. It’s almost funny, the way impatience surges through you like a second heartbeat, the way you know he’s there — standing just beyond the wood, watching, hesitating, chewing over whether to let you in.

The door swings open and you’re already falling. Already tipping forward like your body knew he’d be there to catch you. Your limbs have learned that Spencer Reid is your safety net, your buffer, your inevitable landing.

“Whoops,” you murmur, the alcohol humming pleasantly beneath your tongue, making everything feel slower. “My bad.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t sigh, doesn’t scold, doesn’t react at all. He just steadies you, brief and impersonal, fingers curling at your waist for less than a second before he looks away.

He bends, picks up your heels from where you left them, places them neatly on the entryway table. Cold air fills the space where his hands were. He shuts the door.

“Did you not see my texts?”

Nothing.

“I said sorry.” Sharper now, words clipped, fingers drumming against your arms where they’re folded tight across your chest. “Jesus, Spencer, you’re being —”

Ridiculous.

You almost say it, the word a loaded bullet in the chamber. But then his jaw tightens, his throat works through a swallow and you bite down, tasting blood instead.

“You said sorry?” He spits it back like it burns, like he wants it out of his mouth as fast as possible. “You said sorry, and that’s supposed to mean what, exactly? That I don’t get to be mad? That I don’t get to be upset when you spent the whole night deliberately pissing me off?”

You sway slightly. “Oh, right,” you say, words dripping bitter sarcasm. “Because you never do anything to piss me off, right? You’re so fucking perfect. You don’t overthink, you don’t obsess, you never turn nothing —”

“Tell you what,” he cuts in, voice flat and final. “You’re right. I do overthink. And apparently, I was stupid enough to think you gave a shit about what that does to me.” His gaze sears into you. “But tell me,” he continues, “when have I ever overthought something you did and reached the wrong conclusion?”

God, you know he gets off on this. On delivering those carefully crafted sentences, watching you flinch without raising a finger, precise enough that he never appears anything but calm and rational.

And he knows you have nowhere to go. Silence damns you just as much as fighting back. He knows you’ll open your mouth anyway. You don’t have any other options.

“Maybe if you didn’t dig into every goddamn thing I do, I wouldn’t have to keep explaining myself.”

Spencer barks out a laugh, the kind that sounds more like an exhale than anything amused. He looks like he might punch the wall. Like he might slam his fist straight through the drywall, let his frustration exist somewhere outside his body. But he doesn’t, just shakes his head, jaw screwed so tight you can practically hear his teeth grind.

“Oh, that’s good,” he mutters, thick with disbelief, bordering on disgust. “That’s actually — wow.” He looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s seeing you for the first time. Or maybe the last. “You really just said that with a straight face, huh?”

It wasn’t always like this. You used to be good. Really good. The kind of good that made people jealous, the kind where he’d brush a hand over your back in a crowded room, where he’d wait up for you even if it was stupid late because he wanted to hear about your day.

Then there was that party. The one you dragged him to, the one he didn’t want to go to because he hated loud music and small talk and watching you drink yourself into bad decisions.

You’d rolled your eyes at him, called him uptight, and he’d muttered something about how you were just looking for an excuse to start a fight. And maybe you were.

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. It started over something small — maybe the way you kept refilling your drink, maybe the way he kept checking his watch like he was timing how long he had to tolerate you.

You’d scoffed, rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Spencer, if you don’t want to be here, just go.”

And he’d shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

And that had pissed you off. More than it should have. Because you wanted him to fight you on it. You wanted him to care, to stay because of you, not out of obligation.

So you pushed a little harder. Tipped your drink back, let the alcohol scrape down your throat, and smirked when you said it. “God, you are so boring sometimes.”

That had done it. Spencer, who usually let things slide, who usually held his temper like a clenched fist, finally let something slip through his teeth.

“Yeah?” he had said, just this side of cruel. “At least I don’t get drunk and make an idiot of myself for attention.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than the sting of vodka on your tongue. You should’ve been mad, should’ve stormed off, should’ve let the hurt take over. But instead, you smiled. Because there it was, finally, a reaction. The thing you’d been pulling at all night was finally splintered at your feet.

And it didn’t stop there. It followed you home, back at your apartment, where the anger snapped into something hotter. The fight spilled into the walls, into hands grabbing too tight, into gasps swallowed by teeth and tongue. You remember the way he shoved you onto the bed, the way you laughed through it, drunk on the fight and feeling, gasping when he pinned you down, when his hands pushed your wrists into the mattress. You don’t remember what you said, only how it ended — with your back arching, his name breaking off in your throat, pleasure slamming into you so hard you thought you almost mistook it for pain.

“Fuck off, Spencer."

You need him to press you into the doorframe until it bites. To swallow the venom straight from your tongue. To lace your skin with fingerprints, because nothing else sinks deep enough to matter. That’s how this works. That’s how you two translate love.

But he doesn’t move.

Just stands there, chest rising fast like he’s been winded, fingers curled, crushing the impulse in his palm, the impulse to fix this the only way you both know how.

“Jesus. You really think this ends your way?”

He’s bluffing. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you have to tell yourself.

“You can stand there and act all righteous, but we both know you like it,” you sneer, chin tilting up. “You like chasing me. You like losing your fucking mind over me.”

He stares.

“Get out.”

No shouting. No shoving. No hands in your hair. No bruising grip on your wrist to make you stay — just two flat, empty words and a door that suddenly feels like a death sentence.

Your fingers close around your shoes and you barely notice how steady they are. How clear everything feels. No alcohol to blame it on now. Just you.

You don’t look at him. Not when you knock your shoulder against his, not when you open the door like you don’t actually care if he stops you.

You’re halfway down the hallway when you hear him move.

You turn. He looks at you like he’s already buried you. And you stand there waiting to be exhumed.

The door doesn’t slam. It just closes. Not locked. Not deadbolted.

You walk away.

A week. Two. Three, if you’re feeling patient.

Then you’ll send the first text. You’ll plant the next seed.

And he’ll let it grow.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid toxic relationship #spencer reid situationship #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds fic #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds angst #🌺 maria writes

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mythicalmaven · 5 months ago

Note

Helloooo love, could I have nr 1, 13, 23(reader) and 28 with Daniel ricciardo?🤍 so needy for him

Forbidden - Daniel Ricciardo (requested)

As requested: a Daniel Ricciardo fanfic with a few prompts from the list! It's my first Ricciardo fanfic, so I hope I wrote it like you hoped lol :) It turned out a little longer than I expected, but I honestly like how it turned out! (I didn't proofread it, so excuse any mistakes lol)

masterlist | promptlist ↳pairing: daniel ricciardo x female!verstappen!reader ↳word count: 7,7K ↳prompts used: 1 - 'Use my thigh", 13 - "You're fucking soaked". 23 - "I..Uh.." - "I have never done this before" & 28 "We shouldn't do this" ↳warnings: friends to lovers, brothers teammate trope, age gap (8 years), kissing, alcohol, drunk, explicit sexual content, 18+ (MDNI!), jealousy, sexual tension ↳summary: In which it's 2017 and Max Verstappen's twin sister gets a little too involved with her brothers teammate

You honestly had no idea how you'd come up with the not-so-clever idea of getting wasted in a Monaco nightclub, but right now, you couldn’t care less. The music thumped through the room, blending with the haze of alcohol and dim, colorful lights, and a certain curly-haired Australian who had slipped off to the bar for another drink lingered in your mind.

As the beat softened into something deeper, sultrier, you found yourself moving with Carlos once more. His hands rested casually on your hips, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of your dress as you swayed together. Ever since your twin, Max, joined the Formula 1 grid, Carlos had become one of your closest friends.

Carlos leaned in, his lips close to your ear, his voice a low murmur against the music. "So… when are you finally gonna hook up with Danny?"

You scoffed, playfully swatting the back of his head. “Oh, shut up, will you?”

Carlos only grinned, knowing exactly how you felt about Daniel. He'd been trying to push you toward him for ages, but as always, you deflected. “I don’t think Max would be thrilled if I hooked up with his teammate,” you replied, though a part of you knew that wasn’t the real reason you’d been holding back.

Carlos shrugged with a smirk. “Did you forget how convinced Max was that we were hooking up back at Toro Rosso? He didn’t seem too bothered by that idea, did he?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling as you swayed in rhythm with him, your fingers linking behind his neck. “Yeah, vividly. But that was different…” You let out a laugh, trying to keep your tone casual. “For one, our age gap was a lot smaller than Daniel and mine.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “You’re 20, who cares? Daniel’s 28—it’s not like he’s ancient.”

Sighing, you dropped your forehead against Carlos’s shoulder. “Besides, even if he would consider hooking up with me, he’d probably be disappointed. I’ve never… well, you know. I’ve only gone as far as giving a guy a blowie in a club bathroom, and even that was a drunken disaster. Somehow, I doubt a 28-year-old is looking for a hookup with a 20-year-old virgin.”

Carlos chuckled under his breath, rolling his eyes as he shook his head. “You're really that blind, aren't you? The guy is absolutely head over heels for you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Carlos shifted his grip, spinning you around so your back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist to guide your movements. To anyone watching, it looked like a slow grind, intimate and close, even though he left enough space to keep things comfortable.

He steered you both around the dance floor, inching you closer to the bar. “Look at him,” Carlos murmured in your ear, lifting a hand to tilt your chin ever so slightly. “See for yourself.”

Your gaze landed on Daniel, and your breath caught in your throat. There he was, leaning against the bar, drink in hand, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you hadn’t seen before. His jaw was tight, his lips set in a straight line as he took in every shift of your body against Carlos’s, his gaze dark, brooding, and unmistakably heated. The way his eyes drifted, tracing the curve of your legs, lingering on your hips as they moved, made your heart race. He wasn’t just watching; he was studying, every look brimming with tension and frustration.

Carlos’s laughter hummed against your back, pulling you out of your trance. “The guy’s been staring daggers at me since the second we started dancing.”

“No way,” you murmured, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. “He’s just… looking. Nothing more.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he leaned down to murmur against your ear, “Who are you trying to convince? Me… or yourself?”

“Fuck,” you huffed, feeling your cheeks flush under Daniel’s gaze, heat spreading through you in a way that felt as dangerous as it was thrilling. “I need more alcohol.”

⁺⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺ ⋆⁺

Hours and too many drinks later, you’d long since shed your usual shyness, finding a brazen confidence in the music, the crowd, and the glimmer of alcohol-fueled ease in every movement. The world felt hazy but thrilling, every pulse of the bass reverberating through you as you let yourself sink into the beat.

Carlos watched your transformation, amused at how you threw back shots and laughed a little louder than before. At one point, you looked back at him over your shoulder, eyes bright and mischievous, completely oblivious to the intensity with which a certain Australian had been watching you both.

With a chuckle and a playful push, Carlos nudged you forward, aiming you right in Daniel’s direction. “Go on, dance with him already,” he teased, his smirk saying he knew exactly what he was doing.

You stumbled into Daniel, feeling his hand steady you, his fingers lingering just a second too long as you regained your balance. “Well, fancy seeing you here, Ricciardo,” you quipped, your voice carrying an edge of flirtation that you didn’t usually dare with him.

Daniel’s lips curled into that easy, charming smile, his fingers still on your waist. “Fancy that. You’re looking a little… spirited tonight,” he replied, his eyes raking over you with a mixture of amusement and something darker, something almost hungry that you couldn’t miss, even in your haze. He was trying to play it off, keep things casual, but his gaze lingered just a bit too long, drawn to the curve of your hips, the dip of your collarbone, and the dress that had ridden up just enough to reveal more of your thigh.

“Oh yeah?” you leaned in close, fingers grazing up his arm, catching the way his eyes followed every movement. “What do you mean, ‘spirited?’” You were close enough to catch the hint of his cologne, something warm and subtly spicy, like he was, and it made you feel just a little bolder.

Daniel chuckled, but his fingers tightened slightly at your waist as if grounding himself. “Just saying,” he replied, “I don’t usually see you dancing like that.” His eyes sparkled with a mix of fondness and something a little more conflicted. He was trying so hard to keep things cool, but you could tell he was affected. “Especially with Carlos. Didn’t know he was your type.”

You laughed, moving your body a little closer to his, playfully ignoring the tension that brewed between you. “Carlos? Nah. He’s more like… a dance partner for the night. Besides,” you added, looking up at him through your lashes, “I think my type is just a little taller… curly hair.. and definitely Australian.”

A flicker of something like surprise crossed his face, his eyes briefly widening before he collected himself. He swallowed, looking away, almost as if to compose himself. “Is that so?” he murmured, his fingers curling at your waist, his voice low.

Just then, the music changed to something slower, a sensual rhythm that had you pressing a little closer against him. Daniel’s hands slipped to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his heartbeat thrumming fast under your hands as you settled into a rhythm together. You let your body sway, your hips pressing against him as his hands guided you, holding you steady and closer than he should.

“Gotta stop moving like that,” he mumbled, his voice tight, a strained note of amusement as he tried to mask how breathless he sounded.

You looked up at him with a smirk. “Why?” you asked, feigning innocence, though the mischievous gleam in your eyes told him you knew exactly what you were doing.

He swallowed, his gaze darkening as his grip on your hips tightened, pulling you flush against him. The movement brought you closer than before, and in that instant, you felt him—hard, pressing against you through his jeans, undeniable and unrestrained. A thrill shot through you as your eyes met his, your gaze drifting downward for a fleeting second, then back up to find his expression transformed, conflicted and charged. His voice was rough, edged with that undeniable tension. “You know very well why,” he murmured, his tone thick with barely restrained desire and frustration, his fingers gripping your waist as if to hold himself back.

Your lips parted in surprise, but you didn't move away. Instead, you let a slow smile spread across your face, your body swaying against him just enough to deepen his predicament. Daniel’s jaw clenched, his gaze darting down to where your bodies pressed together, his expression shifting between longing and resistance, the internal battle clear as he tried to keep himself grounded, even as you blurred every boundary between you.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the subtle hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers trembled slightly against your waist.

⁺⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺ ⋆⁺

Hours later, you stumbled out of the bathroom, trying to make your way back to the dance floor but feeling far less coordinated than before. The world tilted slightly as you bumped into a table, a stray chair, and even a few club-goers who offered you amused or annoyed glances.

“Alright, I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night, darling,” came a familiar voice from behind, warm and steady. Before you could turn, a hand wrapped around your upper arm, steadying you, and the familiar scent of Daniel surrounded you, grounding you.

You turned to him with an exaggerated pout, his arm still holding you up. “I… I’m definitely… not,” you managed, words slightly slurred as you tried to shake off his grip, failing miserably. He chuckled softly, clearly amused.

Daniel’s gaze softened, his eyes roaming over you with a mix of tenderness and barely concealed desire. Your dress had shifted, one strap sliding off your shoulder, the hem hitching up to reveal more skin than you intended. He took in the sight, pausing for just a moment too long before swallowing hard and composing himself.

“Let’s get you sorted out here,” he murmured, reaching to fix your dress. His fingers brushed over your shoulder, grazing your skin, and he swallowed hard, the gentle touches sending a thrill through you. His hands moved lower, trying to straighten the hem, and his fingers brushed over the curve of your thigh, a touch that made you let out a soft, involuntary whimper. His eyes darkened, and he hesitated, looking like he wanted to pull away but unable to tear himself away from the way you looked at him.

“Mm… feels nice,” you murmured, leaning into his touch, your gaze half-lidded as you looked up at him, lips parted slightly. You noticed how he tensed, his jaw clenched, clearly struggling to resist.

“Come on,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice a little rough. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

He led you through the club, supporting you with one arm wrapped securely around you. As you stumbled along, your hand brushed over his chest, lingering a little longer than necessary, your fingers tracing small patterns as you walked. He glanced down, swallowing, his throat bobbing as he tried to keep his focus. Along the way, you nearly collided with Max, who took one look at you and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm bringing your sister back to the hotel," Daniel explained, nodding toward you with a hint of amusement. "She’s absolutely hammered."

Max smirked, his eyes flicking between you and Daniel. "You sure? I can take her back if you’d rather stay. I know she can’t hold her liquor."

“Hey!” you interjected, stumbling slightly as you tried to regain your balance, waving off your brother with a slurred, “I-Ik ben niet eens d-dronken…” (I’m not even drunk). You gave him a half-hearted glare, rolling your eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

Daniel glanced at Max with a small, amused shake of his head. “I have no clue what she just said, but don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he reassured him. “I was planning to head home anyway, and besides,” he added with a smile, “our apartments are in the same building anyway, so it's no hassle”

Max nodded, giving you a quick pat on the shoulder before turning back to Daniel. "Alright, mate. Get her home safe."

With that, Max watched as Daniel guided you gently but firmly toward the exit, his grip steadying you as you leaned against him, too tipsy to resist.

When you reached the curb, he helped you into a cab, sliding in beside you. You leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder, your hand slipping to rest on his thigh, your fingers drifting ever so slightly higher, sending a rush of heat through him.

“You’re drunk,” he murmured, his voice low and strained, trying to keep his breathing even.

You looked up at him with a playful, tipsy grin, fingers tracing the fabric of his jeans. “So?”

He bit his lip, fighting a losing battle against his own desires, his hand covering yours to stop its teasing ascent. He’d never seen you this forward, this flirtatious, and though it thrilled him, it terrified him all the same. The line between you had always been thin, but tonight, with every touch, every brush of your skin against his, you were slowly erasing it.

When you arrived at the apartment building, you had began starting to sober up a tiny little bit. Still wasted obviously, but it seems as if you had a little bit more control over your own actions.

As you fumbled through your purse, your expression shifted from confidence to frustration as you realized your keys weren’t there.

“I… I had them,” you muttered, searching again, only for the reality to settle in. “I must’ve left them with Carlos or Max.”

You looked up at Daniel with a mischievous glint in your eyes, swaying slightly on your feet. “Guess that means I’m staying with you?”

Daniel hesitated, his resolve weakening as he searched your face, taking in the way your lips quirked in that daring, flirtatious smile. He was already in too deep, the familiar ache in his chest too hard to ignore. After a moment, he let out a resigned sigh, offering a small, reluctant smile as he nodded.

“Yeah, alright,” he said softly, his hand brushing over your back as he guided you inside. “But you’ve gotta promise me you’ll go straight to bed.”

You leaned in, closer than necessary, your breath warm against his cheek. “We’ll see about that,” you murmured playfully, sending one last spark of heat through him as he led you toward his apartment, both of you caught in a delicate balance of desire, restraint, and the thrill of the unspoken between you.

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Daniel led you to his kitchen, pulling out a stool by the bar, gesturing for you to sit. But you had other ideas. Following him over to the sink, you leaned back against the counter, lifting yourself up onto it. Your dress slid up as you settled, exposing nearly everything to anyone watching.

Daniel turned off the tap, glass in hand, and was about to pass it to you when he caught sight of you. His gaze trailed over your bare thighs, and his breath hitched, eyes widening as he muttered, “Fuck.” His eyes lingered, and he dared to glance lower, noticing the smallest glimpse of black lace between your slightly parted legs.

Swallowing hard, he gripped the counter edge, his knuckles whitening as he fought the overwhelming urge to close the distance between you, his lips already tingling with the desire to claim yours. Forcing himself to look away, he pressed the glass into your hand, his voice husky and tight. “Drink this. It'll help,” he murmured, barely able to keep his composure. “I’ll… I’ll go grab a shirt for you. So you don’t have to sleep in that dress.”

You downed the water in one swift gulp, letting your gaze drift back to him. The proximity hit you both, close enough for you to see the tension in his jaw and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. But what captured your attention most was the unmistakable bulge in his jeans, straining against the fabric, betraying the restraint he tried so hard to maintain.

A slow smirk crept across your lips as you reached out, letting your fingers graze his arm, traveling in a slow, tantalizing path up to his shoulder, then down his chest, inching ever closer to his belt. But before you could reach it, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist firmly. “We… we shouldn’t do this,” he muttered, voice low and rough as he gently pushed your hand away, though his touch lingered just a second too long, his resolve wavering.

Undeterred, you hopped down from the counter, stepping forward until there was barely any space left between you. Confidence you hadn’t realized you possessed surged through you, and you reached out, cupping him through his jeans. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, his resolve crumbling under the pressure of your touch.

Bringing your lips close to his ear, you whispered, your voice a hushed, sultry tease, “That’s what you say… but your body’s telling me something else entirely.”

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Daniel forced himself to gather every shred of self-control he could muster, putting a few steps of distance between you before he turned on his heel, heading to his bedroom to grab a shirt from the closet. His mind raced as he moved. He wanted you—God, he wanted you more than anything—but he knew you were drunk, teetering on that edge where even a soft touch or glance was hazy with the thrill of it all. And as much as he ached to feel your lips on his, to let every longing he’d harbored for so long finally spill over, he didn’t want to take advantage of your current state.

Yet, you were making it damn near impossible to keep his composure. Every touch, every glance, every whisper made his restraint crumble bit by bit, leaving him clinging to the last threads of resolve.

When he made his way to the bathroom with the shirt in hand, he stopped in the doorway, noticing you struggling with the zipper of your dress, your back turned to him. The zipper was halfway down, leaving a tantalizing glimpse of your bare skin, and his heart pounded harder, fighting between propriety and desire.

“Danny, can you help me with the zipper, please?” Your voice was soft, but the note of longing was unmistakable, each word sparking something primal within him.

He hesitated, but before he could stop himself, he stepped forward, leaving the shirt on the sink, and positioned himself behind you. His fingers brushed your skin as he reached for the zipper, feeling the warmth radiating off you. You shivered at his touch, a soft, involuntary whimper escaping your lips that sent a jolt through him. He dragged the zipper down slowly, his fingers grazing your skin, unable to resist lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

Once the zipper was down, you slipped the straps off your shoulders, the dress falling effortlessly down your frame, pooling at your feet. Daniel’s breath caught in his throat as he took you in, standing before him in nothing but your black lace lingerie. He clenched his jaw, feeling a wave of heat course through him, the last of his rationality slipping as his eyes traced over every curve, every inch of you laid bare.

You turned to face him, the look in your eyes a mixture of vulnerability and desire, a silent plea that tugged at the very core of him. Reaching up, you let your fingers graze the stubble on his jaw, caressing his cheek as you held his gaze. “Kiss me, Daniel,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a soft, desperate invitation.

It was all he needed. His restraint finally shattered, and he closed the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers threading through your hair as he captured your lips in a kiss that was fierce, urgent, filled with all the pent-up emotion and longing he’d been holding back. You melted into him, pressing closer, every brush of his lips igniting sparks that spread through your body.

His hands slid down to the small of your back, then lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you onto the countertop of the bathroom sink. He stepped between your legs, his body pressing firmly against yours, grounding you in the heat and solidity of him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The slight tug on his hair drew a low, guttural moan from him, his chest heaving as he leaned into you, lost in the feel of you against him.

His hands roamed over your body, sliding along your curves, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You gasped against his mouth, a sound that turned into a soft moan, each note pushing him closer to the edge of his composure. He deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips, exploring, tasting, savoring every second. You could taste the hint of whiskey on his lips, warm and heady, mingling with his natural, intoxicating flavor. Every brush of his tongue against yours sent a surge of heat pooling between your legs, each movement building the need that pulsed through you.

Daniel pulled you closer, his grip tightening as you felt his hardness pressing against you, undeniable, unmistakable. The sensation made you dizzy, your entire body responding to him, the ache between your thighs intensifying as you instinctively rocked your hips against him. His breath hitched, and he let out a soft, unrestrained groan, his head dipping to press heated, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot behind your ear. His lips left a trail of warmth, each kiss setting your skin alight, making you ache for more.

“Daniel,” you murmured, voice barely a whisper, breathless as you held him closer, “I need… I…”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and filled with a barely contained fire. “Use my thigh, love,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, encouraging you, his words laced with both restraint and indulgence. The suggestion was almost too much, the heat in his eyes spurring you on, each word sending another pulse of arousal through you.

You didn’t hesitate, shifting your hips to grind against his thigh, a soft moan slipping from your lips as you felt the friction, your panties already damp against his jeans. Daniel’s hands gripped your waist, guiding you, his own breath coming faster as he watched, the sight of you losing yourself in the pleasure unraveling him bit by bit.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough as he pressed a kiss to your temple, his hands urging you to move, encouraging every motion. “Been wanting this… wanting you… for so damn long.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin as he spoke, his voice shaky, every word spilling out in a way that only fueled the fire between you.

“Seeing you with Carlos tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, “it drove me crazy. Couldn’t stand it. I wanted to kill him for touching you” He paused, lifting his head to look into your eyes, his gaze raw, vulnerable, every wall he’d built around himself now shattered. “I’ve wanted you like this… needed you like this… for so long.”

Every word, every touch, every heated gaze pushed you further, his encouragement spurring you on as you moved against him, feeling the delicious friction, the warmth spreading through you as you both succumbed to the intoxicating pull of each other.

Daniel’s breathing grew ragged as he watched you move against his thigh, each roll of your hips sending a wave of heat through him. The way you looked at him, with that mixture of need and adoration, was undoing him in the best possible way.

Your breathing came in shallow, needy gasps as you looked up at him, eyes heavy with desire. “God, Daniel… you have no idea how good you look right now,” you murmured, your voice thick with arousal.

Your soft moans and whispered praises only fueled him more, each one pushing him to explore, to give you everything you were craving. His gaze darkening even more as he captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of pent-up desire and affection into it.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid you back a little on the counter, his hands gripping your hips firmly. You gasped as his fingers traced the edge of your panties, his touch light but electrifying, and he paused, his gaze meeting yours as if asking for permission.

You gave a small nod, your breath catching as his hand slipped beneath the lace, his fingers brushing over you, his touch igniting every nerve ending. His breath hitched when he felt just how wet you were, a low groan escaping his lips as he murmured, “God, you’re soaked.”

The words sent a thrill through you, making you arch into his touch, craving more. His fingers moved with deliberate slowness, exploring and teasing, drawing out your reactions, each moan and gasp fueling his own desire “The way you make me feel… God, it’s like you know exactly what I need.”

Your words lit a fire in him, a spark that deepened the hunger in his gaze as he pulled you closer. His lips curved into a smirk, fingers dipping lower as he murmured, “Yeah? I think I could get used to hearing that.”

He watched you intently, captivated by every expression, every sound that escaped your lips as he continued, building the tension higher with each movement.

You clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as his fingers moved with perfect rhythm, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. He whispered soft words of encouragement, his voice low and full of affection. “That’s it, love… you’re doing so well. Let go for me,” he murmured, his tone both comforting and enticing.

And then, as his touch pushed you over the edge, a wave of pure ecstasy washed over you, and you cried out his name, your body shuddering as he held you through it, his gaze never leaving yours.

Once you came down from your high, your hand started making their way to Daniel's jeans, intending to return the favor, yet your movements where halted once again by his fingers around your wrist "I won't be able to hold back if you continue" he mumbled, his lips pressing soft kisses against the skin of your neck.

"Maybe that's the point" you whispered seductively.

He shook his head "As much as I would love to, I'm not sleeping with you while you're drunk" he whispered as he pressed one last kiss against your cheek, before he pulled away, grabbing the shirt that was still on the sink with his free hand, assisting you to pull it over your head "We'll talk about it tomorrow, and then we'll see"

As if the post orgasm haze started to kick in, you felt yourself getting tired, giving yourself over to the Australian driver as he carefully lifted you off of the sink and carried you over to his bedroom, placing you down onto it.

He was intending to get up and sleep on the couch, just in case you wouldn't remember things tomorrow, or worse, remember it, but regretting things. But the soft plea that left your lips stopped him in his tracks "Please, stay with me?"

It was as if his legs moved on their own accord, slipping into the bed next to you, feeling you crawl into his arms, your head resting on his chest. Once he noticed you were sound asleep, he grabbed his phone from his pocket and send Max a quick text:

Daniel: Your sister is sound asleep btw, she's crashing here, since she apparently forgot her keys or something.

Max: Figured as much indeed, Carlos came over and handed me her keys, said she forgot to take them before she left. Max: Thanks for letting me know, I'll torture her tomorrow about her headache ;)

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As the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, you stirred, feeling the gentle warmth touch your skin as you blinked awake. It took a moment to piece things together, the room unfamiliar, the quiet hum of an unfamiliar space settling around you. When realization dawned, it hit all at once. This wasn’t your apartment—this was Daniel’s.

Your eyes widened, and you scanned the room, momentarily panicked. But the bed beside you was empty, the sheets cool to the touch, which brought a small wave of relief. Sitting up slowly, you took a breath, glancing down to see yourself dressed in one of Daniel’s shirts. The soft fabric brushed your skin, and you realized, with a sudden blush, that you were only in his shirt and your lingerie.

Heart pounding, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, trying to clear the fog of last night’s hazy memories. The details were elusive, flashes of warmth, laughter, and maybe… something more. You felt oddly refreshed, but the lack of clarity gnawed at you. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to find him, needing some answers.

Moving carefully down the hallway, you made your way to the bathroom, hoping to splash some water on your face, collect yourself before facing him. You twisted the doorknob, assuming the room would be empty. Instead, steam filled the space, and you froze, the faint outline of a figure behind the frosted shower door capturing your attention.

Your gaze locked on the silhouette, recognizing Daniel immediately—the shape of his shoulders, the familiar line of his back. A rush of heat flooded through you, your mind replaying a rush of emotions from last night, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively, trying to banish the sudden surge of desire. You knew you should turn around, slip out quietly, but you were rooted to the spot, utterly transfixed.

Before you could retreat, Daniel turned off the shower, reaching for a towel and wrapping it low around his waist before stepping out. His gaze landed on you, his mouth curving into a smirk, droplets still trailing down his chest and abs. His dark hair was wet, small drops sliding from his curls, and the steam radiated off his skin, casting him in a hazy glow.

“Well, good morning to you too,” he said, his voice a rich, low rumble, his signature smirk making your pulse race. “If you wanted to see me naked this bad, all you had to do was ask. No need to sneak up on me.” His tone was teasing, though his gaze held a hint of something deeper, something almost daring you to respond.

Your cheeks flushed, and you raised your hands to cover your face. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” you stammered, feeling a mix of embarrassment and that same lingering heat from last night.

You heard him chuckle softly, and when you dared to peek through your fingers, he’d already dried off and slipped into a shirt and a pair of boxers. He stepped closer, gently pulling your hands away from your face, his expression softened, a trace of warmth in his morning-rough voice. “No need to be so shy, darling,” he murmured, the words filled with a quiet affection that sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced at him, unable to ignore how close he was, feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed that he was now dressed. You couldn’t deny how good he looked, fresh out of the shower, the lingering scent of soap and warmth filling the space between you.

But the question weighed on your mind, and finally, you managed to ask, “Please tell me we didn’t…?”

Daniel’s gaze softened further, his eyes flickering with an understanding smile as he placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, letting it linger for just a moment before he replied. “If we slept together? No, we didn’t.”

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slipped out in relief. Before you could fully process it, though, Daniel added, “But I’m also not gonna pretend that you didn’t try to… and I’m definitely not going to act like nothing else happened.”

His words hung in the air, and you felt your breath catch, a wave of both nerves and arousal coursing through you. “Oh God,” you mumbled, lifting yourself onto the countertop by the sink, feeling a little dizzy, staring at the floor as you tried to piece together what he meant. “What did I make you do?”

Daniel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze steady and entirely too knowing as he took in the expression on your face. “You didn’t make me do anything, darling,” he said softly, his tone gentle yet firm. “It takes two to tango.”

The words lingered in the quiet, settling over you with a weight you couldn’t ignore. He shifted, stepping closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “Let’s just say… this isn’t the first time you’ve sat on that countertop in the last 24 hours. Although, last night it was for… different reasons.”

As soon as he said it, memories rushed back in vivid, unfiltered flashes—the feel of his hands, the press of his lips, the way he held you as if he’d waited forever to do so. Your cheeks flushed deeper, the weight of those memories flooding you, the reality of what had happened leaving you breathless.

“Oh God,” you murmured, looking down, struggling to meet his eyes. The blush deepened, and you tried to banish the embarrassment, but it was impossible to hide the way your body reacted to just being near him, recalling every detail of last night.

Daniel watched you, his gaze contemplative, and he let out a small sigh, pressing his lips together before speaking. “Look… you were drunk. I’d had a bit to drink too. I understand if you regret it” His voice was steady, but there was a subtle tension underneath, as if he was holding something back.

You took a deep breath, fiddling with your hands as you struggled to find the right words. "Yeah, about that.." you said, taking a deep breath before continuing "There might be a slight problem to that"

Daniel studied the way you were acting, unsure of what to expect “We can pretend it didn’t happen, if that’s what you want. That's no problem” he offered, though his tone held a hint of something unresolved, something unsaid.

Finally, you looked up at him, your gaze meeting his, the sincerity in your expression clear. “Well… I guess the problem is that..” you whispered, voice barely audible at first, but then you gathered your courage and continued, “I don’t regret it, Daniel… not at all.”

The words hung in the air between you, thickening the silence, every hidden feeling and unspoken desire now out in the open. His eyes widened slightly, the guarded expression slipping as something raw and vulnerable crossed his face.

Daniel's eyes softened at your words, the vulnerable confession drawing him closer, dissolving any remaining space between you. He stepped forward, situating himself between your legs once more, just like he had done last night, but this time you were both sober.

His presence warm and steady, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment. His hands reached up slowly, one gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing a soft line along your skin, the other tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze was deep, intense, and full of affection as he looked into your eyes, his face only inches from yours.

"Good," he whispered, his voice low and tender, “because I don’t regret it either.”

Without another word, he closed the distance, his lips finding yours in a gentle, unhurried kiss. There was no urgency, only a steady, deliberate affection that conveyed every unspoken emotion he’d held back. His kiss was soft and careful, full of warmth, each touch of his lips conveying the depth of his feelings as he held you close.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and you both shared a quiet, contented breath, wrapped up in the warmth of the moment. But the tenderness only fueled the lingering desire that had simmered between you both, and with a sudden burst of confidence, you grasped the collar of his shirt, pulling him back to you.

This time, the kiss deepened, your lips moving in sync as the restraint melted away, giving way to something more fervent, tinged with longing. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you even closer, his fingers splaying against your skin. The gentle intimacy turned heated, your mouths exploring, tongues teasing as the passion escalated with each passing second. You could feel his breath hitch as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned softly against your lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

Without breaking the kiss, your lips began to wander, trailing a path from his mouth to his jaw, where you lingered, pressing soft, teasing kisses that made him shudder under your touch. You could feel the subtle stubble against your lips, the warmth radiating from his skin as you moved lower, planting slow, lingering kisses along his neck, tasting the faint hint of his cologne mixed with his natural scent. Each kiss seemed to draw a deeper, ragged breath from him, his chest rising and falling as he leaned into every touch, unable to hold back the quiet sounds of pleasure escaping his lips.

You let your hands roam freely, exploring the strong lines of his shoulders, fingers tracing down the curves of his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. His pulse thrummed beneath your touch, quickening with each passing second. He swallowed hard, his breathing growing heavier as you continued, savoring every inch of him.

“God, Daniel,” you whispered against his neck, letting your lips brush the words over his skin. “You have no idea how good you look like this… or how good you feel.” Your voice was soft but laced with genuine admiration and a suggestive edge that had his grip on your waist tightening.

“Fuck…” he muttered, his voice thick with need as your words and touch clearly had an effect on him. He tilted his head back, giving you more access, his eyes closing for a moment as he absorbed the sensations.

Your lips brushed his ear, and you could feel him shiver as you whispered, “I’ve wanted this for so long, wanted to feel you… just like this.” Your words spilled out as you continued trailing kisses, his low groan fueling your confidence as you let your hands drift lower.

You let your fingers slide down his torso, tracing every line and curve of his body with deliberate, teasing slowness. Your hand finally ventured to the waistband of his boxers, and you pressed your palm against him, feeling the unmistakable hardness through the fabric. His breath hitched, a deep, guttural sound escaping his throat as he instinctively pushed into your touch, his fingers digging into your waist.

“God, you feel incredible,” you murmured, palming him gently, feeling his arousal grow beneath your hand, hardening with each brush of your fingers. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Daniel… wanted to know how you’d feel like this,” you admitted, voice a mix of admiration and desire.

“Shit… you’re… you’re killing me here,” he managed, his voice a strained whisper as he looked down at you, his eyes dark and filled with unrestrained want. His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer, his breathing growing heavier as he lost himself in every touch, every word you murmured against him.

You continued your slow, deliberate movements, letting your fingers trace along his length through the fabric, a satisfied smile crossing your face as he groaned in response, his hips pressing into your hand. “God, you look so good like this,” you breathed, meeting his gaze for a moment, taking in the way his face was flushed, his expression filled with raw, unfiltered desire.

“Keep talking like that, and… fuck, you’re gonna drive me insane,” he rasped, his voice low, rough with need, his hands gripping your hips with more intensity, clearly unable to resist the effect you were having on him.

Emboldened by his reaction, you slipped a hand inside the waistband of his boxers, your fingers wrapping around him, and his entire body tensed, a shuddered moan escaping his lips as he exhaled sharply. As you started running your thumb along his length, savoring the way he twitched in your hand, his face contorted with pleasure as he bit his lip.

“God… that feels so good,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and arousal. His hands roamed up and down your back, and you could feel the effect of every touch, every word, as his breathing grew heavier.

Between breaths, you whispered softly in his ear, “I want you, Daniel. All of you.” The words tumbled out, filled with a raw honesty that made him draw back just enough to meet your gaze.

In one swift, effortless motion, he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to his bed. He laid you gently onto the soft sheets, hovering over you as his lips met yours once more, igniting the same passion that had brought you here. Each kiss was heated and lingering, hands tracing and memorizing every line, every curve, savoring every moment that had led to this.

As his lips left a trail of kisses along your collarbone, your breaths came faster, and the anticipation tightened around you. But then when Daniel started removing your panties, you felt a familiar wave of nerves rise, and your voice trembled slightly as you spoke.

“I… uh…” you began, hesitating, feeling vulnerable but needing him to know. “I’ve never done this before.” The words left you in a shy, almost apologetic murmur, your cheeks heating as you admitted it. You lowered your gaze, fidgeting slightly under his gaze, before adding, “I mean, I’ve done… other things. Just… never got to, well, this part.”

He paused, taking in your words, his expression softening instantly. Cupping your face gently, his thumb brushed along your cheek, his gaze reassuring and kind. “Hey, there’s no pressure here. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he whispered, his voice steady, genuine. “We can take it slow. Or… we can keep things just like this.”

You bit your lip, the vulnerability still lingering as you met his gaze. “You’re not… disgusted, or something?” you asked, feeling a wave of self-consciousness bubble up. “I mean, I probably won’t be… any good. You’re… you know…” You trailed off, your face warming as the words left you.

He let out a soft chuckle, leaning forward to kiss you gently, his lips reassuring as he lingered for a moment before pulling back to look you in the eyes. “Disgusted? Not even close,” he murmured, a faint smile on his lips. “And I promise you, that thought never even crossed my mind.” His thumb brushed along your cheek again, his gaze warm and encouraging. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me. Not at all.”

You took a steadying breath, feeling his words soothe the nerves that had crept in. A smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him, heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and newfound confidence. “I don’t want to take it slow,” you admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper, but the words full of determination. “I want it to be with you, Daniel. I’ve… I’ve thought about this more times than I dare to admit,” you confessed, the warmth of your cheeks betraying the shyness that lingered, but you held his gaze.

His eyes softened at your words, a slow smile spreading across his face as he leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Then I'm all yours,” he whispered, his voice filled with affection.

Without another word, Daniel leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deeper, hungrier, every ounce of restraint between you both slipping away. His hands roamed up your back, pressing you firmly against him as your bodies melded together, the heat between you palpable. His lips moved over yours with an urgency that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat, each kiss filled with the passion that had built up over all this time, all the unspoken moments leading up to this.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer as you felt his quiet groan against your mouth, his own hands exploring your curves, fingers tracing your waist and pulling you flush against him. His body hovered over yours as his gaze met yours, filled with both desire and a lingering tenderness that made your heart race.

His lips found yours again, and you welcomed him with a fervor that matched his own, your mouths moving in perfect sync as the kiss grew deeper, more intense. You could feel his body pressing into yours, the weight of him grounding you, making the moment feel all the more real. His hand traveled down your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around his waist as he settled between your legs, his hips pressing against yours in a way that made your entire body ache with anticipation, before slowly but surely entering you inch by inch.

Between kisses, his hands caressed every inch of your body, learning and savoring every curve, every response he drew from you. His mouth left a trail of kisses along your jaw, down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spots that made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he continued his slow, intoxicating descent. Each kiss, each touch seemed to stir something deeper within you, the desire building to a crescendo with every shared breath.

“Fuck…” you whispered, your voice soft and laced with longing, and he looked up at you, a question in his gaze, waiting for any hint of hesitation.

But you only pulled him closer, guiding him to you as your hands roamed his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. He leaned down again, his lips finding yours as the kiss deepened, turning into something that went beyond words—a culmination of everything you’d both been holding back.

In that moment, every barrier fell away, and you lost yourselves in each other, the moment filled with soft murmurs, quiet laughter, and the tender, passionate intimacy you’d both waited far too long to share.

masterlist

#daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo smut #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #smut #formula 1 smut #friends to lovers #fluff #redbull #red bull racing #danny ric #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo fanfic #kissing #making out

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hometowne-auto-repair-and-tire · 5 months ago

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Sway bar end links are torn and cracking on a Lexus.

By replacing them soon, we can avoid more damage.

Worn sway bar end links can cause knocking or rattling noises.

#suspension #torn sway bar end links #lexus #hometowne auto repair and tire #prince william county virginia

0 notes

gloomwitchwrites · 3 months ago

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Morning After: Bonus Chapter

Alejandro Vargas x Female Reader

I know there was a request for this. It was sitting in my inbox for ages. But somewhere along the way, the physical ask disappeared when I went to make the draft. Thanks a lot, Tumblr. But this user knows who they are! (They saw it on Ao3 first).

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Morning After - 141 Imagines Link

Content & Warnings: brief alcohol mention, one night stand, brief cock warming, unprotected piv

Word Count: 944

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

The hint of stale cigarettes lingers on your tongue. Outside, you hear the lull of traffic, of people, of horns, of noise. It drills into your skull, leaving behind a throbbing sensation that might have been there upon waking. Thin rays of morning sunshine peek through the shut blinds, providing just enough light to see by.

Rubbing at your eyes, you stretch, the soft sheets twisting around your body further. A silent yawn follows, the joints in your knees and shoulders popping, muscles gently resisting. Within all of that is soreness, not only in your limbs but…between your legs. Shifting, the tenderness spikes, and you wince slightly.

Last night starts to come back in fragments—pieces.

A smokey bar. Music. A man kissing your neck as the two of you swayed to the beat.

For a moment, you smile, and then reality comes crashing down like a boulder. There was a bar, music, and plenty of liquor, but you went home with someone.

Slowly, you turn your neck, finding that someone.

Alejandro.

That’s his name. The one he gave you, the one you moaned while he was balls deep and licking stray droplets of tequila off your nipples.

He’s asleep and on his stomach, one large, muscled arm bent under the pillow to support his head. The bedsheet pools at his hips, revealing his bare back and portions of his legs.

More memories follow.

You straddling his lap, lips connecting, grinding on his thigh as he told you how pretty you looked. There was tequila—a river of it. A walk back to his place. There was no pause. No space for breath. When he had slammed the door shut, you were already reaching for him, the two of you shedding clothes quickly, fucking on the floor before eventually making it to the bed.

The soreness between your legs makes itself known again. As you adjust, a sticky residue rubs at your inner thighs. Reaching under the sheet, you examine the area, only for your fingers to come back with a substance you know all too well.

Alejandro groans, and then the bed beneath you dips slightly as he rolls onto his side, stretching. Those dark eyes open, and immediately find you.

“Good morning,” he purrs, a husky quality to his voice.

Your pussy immediately clenches in anticipation. The two of you might have fucked like animals trying to reproduce last night, but what’s a morning of doing the same? Even though it’s returning in fragments, you did enjoy yourself.

“Morning,” you reply softly.

“You moved away in your sleep,” he says, and it sounds like a complaint.

You open your mouth to reply but Alejandro is already reaching out for you, using that brute strength to roll you onto your side and pull you against him. His warmth instantly greets you, wrapping you up, muscles relaxing into that comfort.

He sighs, nuzzling your neck. Lips brush just behind the shell of your ear, making you shiver. One large hand slides to your front, lowering until it almost grasps your sex. His other arm curves just under your neck, that hand lightly resting at your throat.

Like this, your body responds, wanting closeness. And it’s clear that his body wants you too. His dick rests against the curve of your ass, all hardness.

Alejandro’s mouth shifts, his lips pressing kisses to the exposed portions of your neck between his fingers. “Let me in,” he murmurs. “Warm me up.”

His hand against your pelvis shifts to your thigh, and you lift in invitation. Hooking your foot at his calf, you create enough of an opening for Alejandro to shift his hips. The head of his cock drags over your skin and then settles at your entrance. Alejandro’s breath is warm against your skin.

He gently rocks forward. Though the tenderness flares slightly, your pussy eagerly accepts him, adjusting like it’s remembering the memory of him inside you. The moan you let out is more a whimper as he sheaths himself entirely.

Alejandro holds there, not thrusting, not moving, only kissing your neck and shoulder. His fingers gently clasp your chin, shifting your face enough that he can find your lips. You melt under that connection, accepting it like a refreshing glass of cold water.

As your hips press back involuntarily, Alejandro squeezes your thigh, keeping you still as he holds himself inside you.

“Not yet, mi vida,” he croons.

The hand upon your thigh relaxes, shifting lower until he finds his prize. You gasp against his mouth, pussy clenching around his cock as Alejandro’s index finger circles your clit.

He hums with contentment. “That’s what I want.”

A few more strokes and your thighs quiver.

“Almost,” he whispers.

The slick sound of his fingers sliding over and around your clit overshadow everything else. An orgasm builds—sharp and ready to strike. It doesn’t take much until your breath hitches and your cunt clamps down on him.

Alejandro begins to move, hips rocking back and forth in a steady motion. But he never ceases touching you—never stops teasing your clit with his fingers. Every moan and gasp you give him is greedily consumed, his tongue delving into your mouth for a taste.

It is intimate. Passionate. And you hardly notice when his pace increases.

Not until he gently shifts you onto your stomach, his cock never slipping out once as he adjusts.

The pillow is cool against your cheek.

Your arms are pinned above your head by the wrists.

Alejandro pumps savagely, murmuring in Spanish like he’s sending a prayer to the heavens.

You lift your hips, spread your legs a little wider, and smile.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @unhinged-reader-36 @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

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@itsberrydreemurstuff @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

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skztext · 3 months ago

Text

Kiss & Make Up

𝑯𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑯𝒚𝒖𝒏𝒋𝒊𝒏 ❤︎︎ 𝑲𝒊𝒎 𝒀/𝒏

< Messages: Operation Confession

Recipient: Fem. Y/n

A/N: this ofc is not meant supposed to be taken seriously. this is a work of fiction. short story at the end. app social maker

Warnings: Sassy King Drunk Hyunjin

Word Count: 736 ❤︎

Y/n sat in her car for a moment before getting out, she walked into the bar hugging herself as she went past the crowd of dancing people. She bit her lip looking at Hyunjin who was leaning over Changbin, she raised her eyebrow with a small smirk of amusement forming as she got closer to their table.

Hyunjin was swaying, moving Changbin with him as he leaned on him. Mumbling slurred words about Y/n, “M’ want her.. Iss not fair..” Changbin wasn’t as drunk, sober enough to keep an eye on Hyunjin. When he noticed the young Kim walking their way he helped straighten out Hyunjin. The drunk boy whined until he noticed the girl he been crushing on for the past few years. When his fellow member introduced his twin to the group, he was so drawn to her all so naturally. He was worried that one of his best friends would hate him if he ever disclosed that information so he kept it to himself. However Changbin knew about the crush, he was his wife after all so he knew all his secrets.

When the drunk boy caught a glimpse of her his pout turned into a grin, “Y/nnn!!” Hyunjin wrapped his arms around her tightly, nuzzling his face on her temple. “Mm’ sorry… Don’t be mad at meee… I hate it when we don’t talk..”

She melted at how his slurred sleepy voice whispered in her ear, she hugged his waist back humming in acknowledgement to his words. She pulled away slightly to look at him, her arms linked with his to help him walk out the bar to her car. “I’m not mad at you Hyunnie… Don’t worry your cute kiwi head about it, okay?”

Once they were settled in the car she drove to HyunBin apartment, the car ride was quiet as the two didn’t speak. The radio played lowly in tune with his soft snores as he napped in the passenger seat. Arriving at the apartment, she stayed seated, not by choice but since she tried to wake him up but failed each time. Around the 30 minute mark she finally got him to wake up, Hyunjin groaned feeling his head pounding in his skull.

“Fucking hell… I’m never drinking again..” He grumbled out in a rough deep voice as he rubbed his eyes. He leaned back in the seat turning his head to look at her with a defeated frown. “I’m so fucking sorry for making you come pick me up… And for yesterday..—”

“It’s fine.. Please no more apologizing…” Y/n looked over at him with a small reassuring smile. She gazed her him with a fond shine in her eyes, which he shared. He looked at her feeling like time stopped, it was the two of them and that’s all that ever matter. His eyelids lowered as his gaze turned sharp, he leaned over kissing her forehead gently. The feeling of his lips on her forehead made her shy, she looked at him with a soft expression as her pupils dilated.

“Your boba eyes… So fucking cute..” He spoke in a dreamy tone, which had her captivated. Before they realized it they were leaning in, their eyes fluttered closed as their lips connected. Y/n moved a hand to rest on his chest while the other moved to hold the side of his face.

Hyunjin’s hand reached over so his palm was flat against the window to hold himself up and the other held the back of her neck. His lips moved in sync with hers, Y/n let the kiss linger until she pulled away shyly, her head lowered to hide from his eyes.

A breathy chuckle slipped out as he placed a soft kiss on her head, “Don’t hide from me know Y/n… Stay the night with me please… I promise I’ll keep it PG13.”

“You’re such a boy Hyunnie…” She chuckled at his joke looking up to meet his soft loving gaze, “I’ll stay the night…”

He chuckled softly sitting back in the passenger seat and nodded his head slightly in agreement. He got out of the car, went around to the driver’s side and opened to door for her. She thanked him, putting her keys in her sweater pocket as she followed him up to his apartment. Her heart racing with excitement, they shared their first kiss and now she was spending the night with him.

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eempyreall · 2 months ago

Note

I am craving more of your hybrid yandere writing, on my knees begging 🙇

maybe something with the haitani brothers my beloveds? but honestly I'd be so happy with anything and anyone, fandom or original!

thank you for even considering I absolutely adore your work 💘

Thank you for your request!! <3

༺————————————————————————༻

♪ 𝐵𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑦 𝐷𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑛 ♪

༺ The Auction ༻

Oneshot ~ Hybrid Haitani Brothers x Female Reader

Summary ~ You work for an auction house that illegally sells exotic hybrids.

Featuring ~ The Haitani Brothers

Extra Notes ~ This is the fandom version of this story. If you want to read the non fandom that provides original characters, press this link.

This story should only be posted under eempyreall on my tumblr, ao3, subscribestar, and patreon. Report if you see it posted under anyone else but me.

l apologize if I get any Japanese etiquette or culture wrong, I literally have to research the culture for some of my fandom stories so if anything is wrong, please excuse my ignorance.

Warning ~

You and the characters are 21+. Although I picture the reader as a black cis-gendered female, physical appearance will not be described at all.

Content within this story may not be realistic or factual.

I do not condone any of the behavior displayed within the story.

There may be dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit content, sexual content, etc.

That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

Despite your job as a maintenance caregiver for the hybrids, your morals do not match that of your role. It is your belief that, although hybrids are deemed monsters and creatures, they should be treated like any other human. However, the pay is undeniably convenient and quicker than any other regular career you could work for.

You never expected to get attached to any of the hybrids at the auction house. Your only job was to maintain their care before they were sold to the highest bidder. You had succeeded with your logical approach since you began working at the house a couple of years ago.

It wasn’t until two snow leopard hybrids appeared in a way that was hard to ignore.

“These are the new captures,” the gruff voice of the broad, middle-aged man states. “Clean ‘em up.” Your boss turns to leave the room as you examine the two men through the bars of the large cage.

The one on the left is tall, leaning against the cold metal wall with his arms lazily crossed over his chest. His long, black-and-blonde hair drapes over his shoulders, a few loose strands framing his sharp jawline, smeared with dried blood. The blood is also streaked down his fit torso, staining the large tattoo on his skin. A sly smirk spreads across his face as he eyes his extended claws.

His droopy, heavy-lidded purple eyes shift to yours, the weight of his gaze heavy despite the lighthearted expression on his face. His ears are perked as his tail sways slowly. If you look closely, you can even see the stained crimson on his black pants. You notice that he doesn’t look wounded, so you wonder where the blood came from.

Next to his standing figure is a man with similar features, sitting on the ground. One arm is draped over his raised knee while the other is planted on the bottom of the cage. His blue-and-blonde hair is cut short at the sides but longer at his neck. His body has matching ink, though on the opposite side. Blood stains him just as much as the former.

His expression is indifferent, bored, as his heavy-lidded gaze sticks to the side, never meeting yours. His tail lies over the leg that’s flat on the ground, his claws extended as the dim light casts a glow over them.

Neither of them seem to be in pain. It makes you wonder what could’ve happened on their way here. If the older male had stayed, you would’ve asked so you’d know what to expect.

There are hybrids who are violent, indifferent, and scared. In your two years of working at the auction house, you’ve never come across anyone violent. You’re mainly consistent with those who are indifferent and scared. These guys don’t look scared. If anything, they look bored—but the blood says otherwise. It’s definitely not their own.

“You just gonna stand there and stare, or are you gonna clean us already?”

Your attention turns to the male sitting on the ground, whose eyes are now on you.

Day one was interesting, to say the least.

“You're handling me with such care, human~” the long-haired man drawled, the suds of the bath covering his lower half, his hair dripping with moisture as he watched you glide the cloth against the skin of his arm. “You like me or somethin'?”

You give him an unimpressed look as you release his wrist, tossing him the wet cloth before grabbing a clean one. “You can clean your own balls.”

The blonde male snickered as you began to wash his back, while the older male whined, “Aww,” in response to your statement.

Once they were completely dried off and you had used the blow-dryer on their manes, you secured the collars around their necks and walked them to their new cage, the leashes in your hand.

They watched your figure as you walked in front of them, leading them to the cage which had futons, clean and ready for their temporary stay.

Once they were secured inside, you unhooked their leashes and locked the cage behind you.

The taller one leaned against the bars closest to you, his arms crossed above his head. “I wonder if you taste better than our lunch from earlier,” he said with a smirk.

You ignored him, suppressing the slight churn of your stomach so as not to give him the reaction he was looking for. It was best to pretend you didn't care what he had just said.

“Probably. That meal was ass,” the younger one stated as he relaxed on the futon.

You rolled your eyes and waved them off as you walked out.

When day two arrived, you entered the holding area in which the brothers were caged. The auction house was grand enough to have individual rooms, each holding at least two hybrids, secured behind bars.

The younger one sat on the futon, his back leaning against the back of the cage, arms draped over his bent knees as he idly flicked his tail. His blue-and-blonde hair was slightly messier than before, and his sharp eyes followed your every movement.

The older one stretched out across the futon, hands tucked comfortably behind his head as he cracked an eye open at your presence. His ears twitched, his tail flicking once before settling.

You unlocked the cage, stepping inside with ease. You didn’t say anything as you placed a tray of large raw fish inside.

“Room service, huh?” the older one smirked as he pushed himself up on his elbows.

You exhaled through your nose, unamused. “Eat.”

The following days became routinely consistent as you took care of the hybrids. You would arrive at their cage, feed them, monitor their vitals, bathe them, and feed them once more. Despite their playful behavior, you kept your responses short—yet somehow, they always found a way to pry a reaction out of you.

The older male, Ran, had a habit of watching you too intently. He’d study your movements and expressions while lazily draping over the futon or leaning against the bars. Despite his laid-back persona, there was intent behind every word he chose, amusement reaching his expression as he smirked whenever your lips twitched at something he said. Although Rin was quieter, he was blunt, slicing through whatever wall you tried to keep between yourself and them.

They were different from the other hybrids brought to the auction house. They weren’t scared, angry, or hopeless—though you couldn’t blame the others for feeling how they felt. If anything, they seemed to enjoy their situation a bit too much, as if it were a game.

As time went on, you continued to do your job, but at some point, your indifference began to slip.

The first time you laughed, it caught you off guard.

It wasn’t intentional. Ran had made some offhand comment—something absurd but delivered with such a straight face that you couldn’t help it. The sound barely left your lips before you caught it.

Ran’s grin widened as Rin’s lips curved into a smirk. You rolled your eyes and turned away, shutting down and replacing the mask you hide your real personality behind. After that, they continued to try and get a rise out of you, their amusing behaviors becoming more frequent.

There were a couple more times that you failed to keep your composure, despite your better judgment. You’d even make a few sly remarks in return that would make them raise an eyebrow with an amused gaze, their ears perking up and tails upright with a curve at the tip.

Regardless, you still remained professional. You didn’t linger longer than necessary. You didn’t acknowledge the way Ran’s eyes followed you when you walked away or how Rindou’s tail would twitch whenever you got too close. You ignored the way their bodies would subtly lean in your direction when you bathed them or checked them over.

You even ignored that you were beginning to enjoy their presence. You knew it was best not to get attached—soon enough, you’d never see them again.

You stood in the bathroom after bathing the males, using the blow-dryer on Ran's hair as he sat on the wooden chair. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he crossed a leg over along with his arms. His tail was low under the towel that covered his lower body, though it twitched slightly when you guided the bristles of the brush through his mane. The leopard almost drifted off to sleep as you worked through his long strands.

Rindou, on the other hand, stood off to the side, leaning against the door with his arms crossed.

A towel covered his lower half, but his tail thrashed slightly underneath. His posture was tense as he eyed you.

Suddenly, you felt a strong tug on the back collar of your top, yanking you back with a sharp force that caused you to drop the blow-dryer onto Ran's lap and the brush to hit the floor.

A gasp escaped your lips as Rin lifted you up, his claws gripping your thighs and hoisting you onto the sink. He wedged himself between your legs as his head dipped between your neck and shoulder. Your hands reached his shoulders as he caged you in, his towel dangerously low.

“What the fuck?” you questioned, startled by the sudden movement as you leaned back, holding onto him. His nose pressed into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm as he slowly nuzzled your skin, his hands caging you in on either side of your hips.

His tail flicked behind him as his lips barely dragged along the lining of your neck, your body frozen as you stared across the room with wide eyes.

“Rin…” Your voice came out softer than you had wanted it to, a chill crawling up your spine as your nails pierced his skin.

He pulled back, a sharp gaze meeting yours, irritation clear in his expression. His ears were slightly pinned back as his grip on the counter tightened.

“You reek of mutt.”

Your brows furrowed with confusion as you pushed him back further, though he stayed in place.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He ignored you as his head dipped low again, a hand reaching up as he brushed against your jawline.

“Fixing it. You smell filthy,” he said, his voice rough.

Your breath hitched when you felt the moisture of his tongue as the muscle slithered up your neck, essentially grooming you of the scent of another hybrid you had tended to earlier that day.

Ran set the blow-dryer on the counter as he stood from the seat. “Damn, Rin. You just gonna leave me out?”

You yelped as the older brother's claws snatched your jaw up, forcing you to face the ceiling as his face dipped low from the side, wedging himself between the counter and your thigh.

Heat rushed through your body as your other hand grabbed Ran's shoulder in reflex. Despite using your strength to push them away, they were like stone walls.

It was late when you had entered their cage to check their vitals.

The other hybrids had you backed up as you completed all of your assignments the best you could in a timely manner. You approached with careful steps so as to not wake either of the sleeping men.

Once you knelt next to the older male, you reached for his wrist, only to be surprised when an arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you onto the futon.

His warmth pressed against your back as he wrapped his tail lazily around your thigh, his arm holding you in place as he curled against you.

“Ran!” you whispered sharply, attempting to twist out of his grip.

“Just lay with me for a bit,” he said, his voice drowsy with sleep as he nuzzled against your neck.

Despite the logical part of your mind screaming at you to leave, you hesitated and figured that staying for a moment longer couldn’t hurt, as long as he fell asleep.

Time passed before you finally heard his breathing even out, allowing you to ease out of his grip.

You ignored the cold of your back from his absence as you kept your head straight toward the exit of the cage.

Three days had passed since you last stepped into their cage. You had switched assignments with another caregiver, distancing yourself from the Haitani brothers in a way that felt both suffocating and necessary. You had allowed a line to be crossed that should've never been breached.

It was going smoothly—or so you thought. You hadn't heard anything from or about them. You forced yourself not to worry about how they were doing or how they felt about your absence.

In the midst of beginning your shift, your boss, who had first introduced you to the Haitani hybrids, yanked you to a stop as you walked toward the designated hybrid room for the occupants you had been tending to recently.

“You—,” He exhaled sharply, sweat streaming from his forehead and soaking through his shirt. “Come with me. Now.”

“What?” you questioned, confusion knitting your brows as concern crept in at his antsy behavior.

The man gripped your wrist, dragging you down the familiar path toward the Haitani brothers' room. Before you could question him again, he threw the door open and pulled you inside.

Your eyes widened at the display.

Blood was everywhere.

The cage door was locked, yet inside, the floor was slick with crimson.

The scent of torn flesh thickened the air as your gaze landed on the scattered human remains—entrails and half-eaten limbs strewn across the cage and spilling just beyond the bars onto the wooden floor.

Bile threatened to rise in your throat as you lifted an arm over your mouth, leaning forward slightly before your gaze shifted to the hybrids inside.

Rindou sat on the futon with his knees raised, arms draped over them, his head bowed low. Despite his face being hidden, you could tell he was tense by the thrashing of his tail and the way his claws flexed against his arm. The skin visible to you was streaked with blood.

Ran stood at the bars, forehead resting against the cold metal, his hair partially veiling his face, claws curled around the bars. You caught the glint of his irises through the strands—dark, heavy-lidded, unreadable. His body and face bore the same smears of blood. His tail hung low, his ears flattened against his head.

The middle-aged man shifted nervously beside you. “They won't talk to anyone. They haven't even moved from their spots since we found them hours ago. They bonded with you, didn't they?”

You hesitated before giving a slow nod. Keeping your eyes on the floor, you stepped forward carefully, attempting to avoid the red puddles and strewn remains—though failing the closer you got to the bars.

You made sure not to get too close as you met Ran's gaze.

“Why have you been avoiding us?” His voice was calm, his expression stoic and dark as he looked down at you.

“Have you abandoned us?”

The words alone sent a chill up your spine, dread coiling in your stomach at the mess you had created by getting too close to them.

Someone innocent had died because of your mistakes.

The air in the bathroom was thick with steam and tension from the moments before. You carefully scrubbed Rin's arm, his skin still streaked with traces of blood. Both brothers sat silently in the bathtub, their expressions unreadable and dark. Their wet hair hung over their faces, dripping with water that trickled down their features.

“I... I'm sorry for not staying as professional as I should've,” you said softly, your voice strained with the tension. “And for leaving without saying anything.”

Rindou's jaw tightened, his body barely moving as his fingers curled against the edge of the tub.

His calm expression flickered with irritation. His tone was rough, but controlled. “You don't get it, do you?”

You were caught off guard as his claws snatched your wrist, pulling you forward with your arm stretched out. He leaned closer, eyes boring into yours. “You're an idiot. This is about you leaving us. Abandoning us for other hybrids while we waited for you to come back.”

Your heart started to pound against your chest as you tried to yank your arm out of his painful grip. “You're misunderstanding the situation! You shouldn't be so fucking attached to me. You're gonna be sold today! This isn't appropriate-!”

Ran's hand snatched the back of your neck, forcing you to face him. Moisture from the bath water dripped down your skin. “You think we give a fuck about what's appropriate?”

Suddenly, he threw you back, and you landed harshly on the floor. You watched with wide eyes as they stood up from the tub, water streaming down their bodies, their wet ears and tails flicking the moisture off as they took a step forward.

You scooted back gradually as they walked toward you, staring down at you with cold gazes.

“I think you've got this shit all wrong, Y/n.” Rin's voice was low and predatory as their tails thrashed around, ears flat against their heads.

It was traumatic.

The entire auction house erupted into a bloody massacre. With their claws extended, fangs as sharp as daggers, and bodies bare of any clothing, they mauled and shredded apart all of the employees, audience members, and hybrids that they smelled on you. One by one, the people who had been part of the illegal auction were maimed, killed, and toyed with—entrails and body parts scattered around the room.

The bodies piled up, but they didn't care.

Despite their calm demeanor and stoic gazes, a smirk or two here and there, they were feral. You could see it in their eyes—they absolutely enjoyed shredding everyone apart. The carnage lasted for at least an hour, though you hadn't kept track of the time. You were too distracted by the bloodshed playing out in front of you.

You even freed some of the hybrids from their cages in the hopes of the innocents escaping.

You recognized the middle-aged man, your boss, in an unrecognizable pile of guts, torn flesh, and blood.

Eventually, the chaos ended. The cries and screams of terror had finally died down.

You sat with your knees drawn to your chest, too paralyzed to escape. You hoped they would finish you off like they had the others, considering the guilt that weighed heavily on you for all of this. Rin and Ran finally approached you, their faces and torsos streaked with crimson. Their eyes held an eerie calm, but there was a glint of amusement there.

“Y'know, we were gonna do this the day we were captured,” Rin muttered, a smirk curving his lips as he crossed his arms. “But we stayed for you. It was fun while it lasted, playing as strays in a cage and all.”

Tears streamed down your face as you looked up at them. It felt as if the control you had all along had been stolen away from you. All of your emotions burst out in a hysterical outburst, your weeping uncontrollable as you covered your face and bowed your head.

“I-I can't believe this..” you sobbed, your voice shaky.

Ran's claws gently, but firmly, pulled your wrist away from your face, forcing you to stand. His bloody thumb smeared crimson against your cheek as he wiped away your tears. “Cry all you want, sweetheart. We're not done with you, yet,” he smirked.

Ran dragged you with them as they made their way toward the exit, stepping over the corpses of the dead without a second glance. Their smug expressions didn't falter as they moved through the carnage. The air was thick with the stench of death, but they seemed unaffected, as though they had done this a thousand times before.

As they stepped outside, Rin pulled out a phone from one of the corpses, dialing a number while smearing blood against the screen.

The phone rang, and you could only watch, too overwhelmed to react, as they spoke to their friend. The brutality they'd shown was nothing more than a prelude to what they had planned next.

“Done playing pretend?” The voice on the other end spoke with a condescending tone.

“Yeah. Just get Kaku to pick us up, Koko.” Rin's voice was smooth.

It had been weeks since the incident. You were deemed one of the unidentified victims—nothing but an unrecognizable pile of flesh and guts.

That day still haunted you, the memories of the chaos, screams, torn flesh. The smell of death was the worst of it.

Now, you sat between the two hybrids in the large bathtub. Your back rests against Ran's chest, his hands holding your breasts apart as Rin, sitting in front of you with your legs over his raised thighs, slides a wet cloth against the middle of your chest.

"Relax," Ran breathed as you felt his hard cock press against your lower back. Understanding what he meant, you tilted your head back against his chest, tilting to the side enough for his lips to press against your neck. His fangs nip your skin, causing you to shudder as Rin continues his motion against your skin.

Rin's hand moved lower, slowly disappearing under the sudsy water as he released the cloth, a sudden pressure of his finger meeting your clit. He leaned forward, lips parted as they pressed against yours in a slow, passionate kiss, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth.

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thef1diary · 3 months ago

Note

Thinking about dirtbag! Carlos once the piercings are fully healed…. Thinking about the CLAMPS😩 (ps theyre amazing🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️)

Happy friday!! I hope you have an amazing days gorgeous

- ❄️

— Carlos is a boob guy, you cannot convince me otherwise. Of course he’ll bedazzle your piercings 🤭 18+ content below

Carlos’s grin is pure sin as he tilts his head back against the couch, his dark eyes fixed on you perched in his lap. His cock is buried deep inside your pussy, filling you completely. The heat of him is relentless as you sit there to warm him, bare and trembling.

He reaches for the box sitting on the coffee table, his cock thrusting deeper in you as he moves, earning a sudden moan from you. Settled back, he lifts the lid to reveal the jewelry he’s picked out. Your breath hitches when you see it—a delicate, intricate set of silver chains. The centerpiece is a choker-style necklace with a dainty heart and crescent moon charm. From the necklace, two thin chains cascade down to attach to the new bars for your nipple piercings. Every link gleams under the light, teasingly sensual yet elegant.

He smirks, watching your eyes widen at the intricate design. “You got these pretty little things for me,” he murmurs, leaning close to brush his lips over your ear. “It’s only fair I get to dress you up, isn’t it?”

You nod, your breath catching as he takes the first barbell and tilts your chin up. “Hold still,” he orders, his voice a deep rasp that shoots straight to your cunt.

With one hand, he gently holds your tit, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, making your nipple pebble beneath his touch. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you gasp softly as he carefully twists out the old barbell. The new one slides into place, cool and slightly heavier, and he takes his time securing it. His fingers graze your heated skin, his movements deliberate, almost torturous.

When the first chain drapes down, the metal kisses your chest, the weight pulling slightly as it links to the choker around your neck. Carlos hums in satisfaction, his free hand gripping your thigh, pulling you impossibly closer against him.

“Look at you,” he says, his eyes flickering with something dark and possessive. “Sitting so pretty for me, letting me play with you like this. You’re my little fuck doll, aren’t you, nena?”

You try to respond, but the words catch in your throat as he moves to your other nipple, repeating the process with maddening slowness. By the time he’s done, your chest feels heavy, your nipples hypersensitive from his teasing.

Carlos leans back to admire his work, his hands trailing down your sides, stopping just at your hips. “Not done yet, princesa,” he murmurs. “I’ve got something else for you.”

He picks up another object from the box: weighted nipple clamps, both adorned with a small dangling weight. The weights are subtle but heavy enough to promise that every move you make will remind you of their presence. Carlos’s smirk widens as he watches your reaction, his hand sliding up your thigh, finding your cunt stretched around his cock. He teases your clit, circling around it, feeling your wetness drip further down his cock, soaking his thighs.

“Carlos,” you rasp, already feeling the anticipation of the clamps on your nipples.

“Relax,” he says, his voice dripping with lazy confidence. “You’ll love it.”

His fingers pinch your nipples, the sensation sharp enough to make your thighs tremble against his. The first clamp snaps into place, the weight dragging just enough to send another jolt of sensation straight to your core. He does the same with the other, each tug and adjustment drawing whimpers you can’t hold back.

Carlos hums, watching you with open hunger as the weights sway and shift with every subtle movement. “Look at you, nena,” he says, gripping the chain to pull you flush against him. “So perfect, completely mine.”

He tilts your chin up, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that leaves you breathless. The weights move with every grind of your hips, the constant tugging a delicious torment that only makes you want more.

Carlos grips the chain connecting the piercings, giving it a gentle pull that has you whimpering. “Feel that?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Every little tug, every pull—that’s me reminding you who you belong to.”

You can only nod, your thighs trembling as his hand moves to tease your clit, his touch maddeningly light. The chains sway with every movement, the weights pulling on your sensitive nipples as Carlos toys with you, his cock twitching inside you.

“Ride me,” he growls against your lips, his hands guiding your hips into motion. “Show me how much you need it.”

The weights bounce and shift with every roll of your hips, the added sensation making you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. Carlos grasps the chain again, using it to pull you closer, to control the rhythm until you’re completely at his mercy.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough and filled with praise. “Take what you need.”

And you do, losing yourself in him, every movement pushing you closer to your orgasm.

want more dirtbag!carlos? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

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spiicii · 3 months ago

Text

the usos / guard dogs (part two)

x fem!reader word count → 4.3k summary → after the last incident at the bar, the twins have become even more territorial. despite keeping a close eye on you, a stranger crosses a line. can you stop the twins from losing their temper? do you even want to? links → masterlist / guard dogs (part one) tags → possessive behavior (lowkey toxic, but you love it), public displays of affection, hickies/bruises, violence, blood and gore (yes, the twins are feral), light dom/sub, praise kink, the twins are only submissive for you, some of its dark but i had a vision ok?

The bass from the music was vibrating through the dancefloor, making your eardrums rattle and your head thrum in time with the beat. You felt drunk, and maybe you were, though whether it was from the alcohol or Jey’s hands on you, you weren’t sure. His touch was intoxicating, his hands roaming your body as you both danced, your body pressed to his as you enjoyed the night.

You leaned back against Jey’s strong chest and closed your eyes, your hips still swaying in time with the music as his hands gripped your sides. You felt his lips ghost the shell of your ear, slightly breathless from how long you’d been dancing. He was saying something, but you could barely hear it, the music drowning out everyone and everything. The only thing your senses could zero in on was how warm his hands were and how sturdy he felt behind you.

The song began to wind down and your body slowed, Jey’s voice now much clearer in your ear.

“You feelin’ good, baby?”

You nodded, your limbs gooey and warm from the shots you’d taken early in the evening as you reached an arm up to wrap around his neck. When your eyes met you saw that they were almost black, his pupils blown wide with desire as he looked down at you.

“Our pretty girl,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your lips. His touch, combined with the feeling of his strong arms around your waist had you moaning, though the club was too loud for anyone else to hear it but him.

He chuckled and the sound rumbled in the large expanse of his chest, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes flickered to the right and you already knew he was looking at his brother.

You glanced over and met Jimmy’s equally hungry gaze from where he sat at the bar, drink in hand as he watched the two of you with interest. Even from here, you could see that his eyes were just as dark as Jey’s, his heated gaze taking in every inch of your body as you continued to grind against his twin. You knew he would come over to join the two of you when he was ready, but for now he was content to sit back and watch, enjoying the show.

The music picked up again and you felt your hips roll in time with the music, Jey’s hands still warm against your sides as he kept you close. You heard yourself laugh, the sound carefree and happy. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had this much fun, the alcohol making everything fuzzy while your vision swam with bright colors and flashing lights.

You felt yourself get pushed closer to Jey and you realized that the dancefloor was becoming more and more crowded, the spaces between bodies closing as everyone squeezed themselves together. Your cheeks were flushed, sweat beading your forehead, but you didn’t mind, pressing yourself against Jey and feeling his clothed erection nudge against your hip.

You felt another body move against you and your first thought was that Jimmy had finally abandoned the drink he was nursing to join the two of you. You leaned into the new body on instinct, your vision still hazy as the brightly colored lights pulsed around you.

A hand was grabbing your arm, but it didn’t feel right. It felt too small, too soft to be Jimmy’s. You looked up and quickly recoiled when you met a stranger’s eyes. He was smiling, saying something to you, but you were disoriented now, quickly wrenching your arm from his grasp once you realized that he was trying to hold you.

Alarm bells were going off in your head, your skin burning from where the stranger’s hands had been. You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever laid a hand on you besides the twins. It felt uncomfortable. Strange. Wrong.

“Aye, yo, what the fuck, uce?”

Jey seemed to finally realize what was happening, no doubt too distracted by the noise and movement around you to catch the man before he’d gotten too close. He was quick to yank you away, instinctively placing his body between you and the stranger.

The stranger seemed unconcerned and you quickly realized that he was drunk, his stance unsteady as he faced off against the much taller Samoan.

“Come on, dude. I saw her first.”

He reached out towards you again and Jey was quick to shove him away, his eyes burning with rage.

You were sobering up quickly at the sight, your mind flashing back to the last time the three of you had gone out. You remembered the sickening crunch of bone beneath Jey’s fists, Jimmy’s manic laughter and wild eyes as he licked blood off his knuckles. The night couldn’t end like that again. Not if you could help it.

“Jey,” You murmured, curling your fingers into his arm in an effort to get his attention. “Come on. Ignore him. It’s no big deal.”

Jey didn’t seem to hear you, though you were unsure if it was because of the noise in the club or his own blood roaring in his ears. He had his fists clenched at his sides, that predatory gleam back in his eye as he stared the drunken man down. He had his body between you and him like a bodyguard, the grill on his bottom teeth glinting in the flashing lights of the club as he curled his lip in anger.

“Jey.” You pleaded, the grip on his arm tightening. “It’s alright, really. Please, don’t make a scene.”

But Jey wasn’t listening, his knuckles blanched from how hard he had them clenched. He took a step forward, his eyes burning with such hate that you felt your heart drop at the sight. You were beyond relieved when Jimmy pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed his brother’s arm, his face a mask of concern.

“Come on, uce. Relax. It’s alright, man.”

Jey whipped around to look at his brother, now enraged by the interruption.

“Let me go.” He snarled, attempting to jerk his arm from Jimmy’s tight grasp.

“Yo, uce, chill.” Jimmy insisted, tugging him back to his side in an effort to keep him close. “We can’t get kicked out of another bar, man. Besides, you know our girl don’t like it when we fight. Just let it go, uce. Come on.”

Jey’s eyes met yours and you could see that although his gaze was still angry, there was something else there too. His brow was furrowed, his eyes almost pleading as he gazed at you. He wanted more than anything for you to remove the leash and let him cave the man’s face in, his hands itching for something to hit. Something to hurt.

You shook your head in response, taking his much larger hand in yours.

“Please, Jey,” You murmured, noticing that he was practically trembling in rage. “Just let it go.”

Jey’s jaw tightened in response, but he didn’t dare disobey. Instead, he whipped back around to face the drunken man, who by now had finally realized the gravity of the situation, watching with wide eyes as both Samoans turned the full brunt of their anger and attention back to him. He stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with fear.

“Hey, hey, my bad, guys,” The man stammered, his hands raised as if he were surrendering. “I’m just a little drunk. That’s all. I’ll…I’ll leave you alone now.”

“Good.” Jey snarled, hate in his eyes. “You put yo’ hands on what belongs to us again and you gon’ see what happens.”

The man was nodding in understanding, nearly tripping over his own feet in an effort to leave. “You got it, man. Understood.”

And then he was gone, swallowed up in the crowd as if he had never existed.

*****

You wished things had ended there.

The twins had been quick to check on you, their hands roaming your body as if they were searching for injuries. You tried to reassure them that you were fine. That he had barely even touched you and that it wasn’t anything to get worked up over. Jimmy didn’t seem convinced, his hands running down your arms as if to rub away any evidence that you’d been tainted by another man’s touch while Jey kept your hand in his, interlacing your fingers as he mumbled apologies in your ear.

You knew that the twins were protective, but sometimes you forgot just how deep their devotion to you ran. After the last incident at a bar, their protectiveness had turned more into possessiveness, barely letting you leave the house unless one of them was by your side, leaving bruises on your neck to satisfy that primal urge to mark you as theirs.

Even now as both twins kept you close, their bodies shielding you from the other people on the dancefloor, you were reminded of just how territorial they’d become. And perhaps it was getting out of hand now. Maybe they were doing too much, going overboard on what they deemed as protection (you couldn’t bring yourself to call it jealousy). Perhaps it was time to…

All thoughts flew from your head the second you felt Jey’s mouth on your neck, his teeth sinking into his favorite spot below your ear. He’d kept that bruise there for months now, ensuring that it would never fade - a reminder to everyone that you were his. That you were claimed. And when Jimmy leaned down to worry his teeth into the similar bruise he kept on the other side of your neck, right under your jaw, you couldn’t help but be grateful for the loud pulse of the music to hide your groan.

Your knees felt weak, something dark simmering inside you as they kept their mouths to your neck, the smallest prickle of pain blossoming beneath their lips. You felt wetness forming between your legs at their ministrations, your eyelids fluttering as one of the twins reached up to tangle their fingers into your hair, tugging slightly just to hear a surprised gasp fall from your lips.

They loved doing this to you. It was a game to them, seeing how much you’d let them get away with in public just so they could fuck you into the mattress when you got home. And even though you knew you should push them away, maybe make some comment about reducing public displays of affection, you couldn’t deny just how good it felt to have their hands on you, the feeling addictive.

They released their mouths from your neck at the same time, their movements perfectly in sync as they leaned back to stare at you. You felt dizzy meeting both sets of dark eyes, grateful for their strong arms keeping you from melting into a puddle on the floor. You felt one of them chuckle, another’s lips brush across your forehead as they held you close.

“You wanna go home, baby?” Jimmy’s voice was smooth in your ear and you could hear the smile in his words. He knew, just as his brother did, what they were doing to you. They knew how badly you needed this. How badly you wanted this.

You nodded, allowing them to lead you from the dancefloor, hovering almost protectively around you as you walked on unsteady legs back towards the bar. They were quick to pay the tab, their hands gentle as they urged you towards the back door where they had, no doubt, already called an Uber.

“Hey, asshole!”

Looking back, you could almost laugh at how you immediately knew the words were directed at the twins. You didn’t know what it was about the Usos that made other men so eager to pick a fight, but you couldn’t say you were particularly surprised. You let out a long-suffering sigh as the twins stopped dead in their tracks, already turning around to look for the source of such open disrespect.

The man was tall, but not as tall as the twins, his face a mask of anger as he approached the three of you. He was flanked by two other men, one of them vaguely familiar. Ah, yes. The man who had grabbed you on the dancefloor. He was hanging back behind his other two friends, his eyes narrowed as he met your unimpressed gaze.

The twins were quick to push you behind them, placing their bodies protectively between you and the others. Jey’s fists were already clenched again at his sides and you knew it was taking all of his willpower not to attack the men on sight. Jimmy, on the other hand, already had his lips quirked into a smile, the tell-tale sign that he was secretly pleased by the confrontation. You didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched as he adjusted his jacket, no doubt just as anxious as his brother to draw blood.

“Heard you fucked with my friend.” The taller man was saying, his cheeks splotched with color as he approached the twins. You watched him with interest, undeniably curious. Was he brave or just stupid?

You reached out and closed your hand around Jey's arm, giving it a gentle tug. It was a reminder. A small pull on the proverbial leash. You didn't want a fight.

“Aye, I don’t know who you think you talking to, but you better go on and get the fuck outta my face, uce.” Jey’s words were scathing, his eyes burning with that familiar rage as he stared the group of men down. Jimmy was already chuckling, the sound low and sinister as he moved closer to his brother, almost protectively.

The lead man, who you now decided was just stupid, stepped closer. “Nah, you put your hands on my dawg. Now we got problems.”

You fully expected Jey to lunge forward at his words, but he didn't. He had felt your hand on his arm and knew you didn't want him to, so he had obeyed. For now.

Jimmy’s laughed at the man's words and the sound was cold. “Oh, we got problems?” He looked over at his twin incredulously. “You hear this shit, uce?”

“Yeah, I hear it.” Jey’s voice was nearly a growl. “But he got about two seconds to get the fuck outta here before I whoop his ass.”

The man’s face went crimson at his words and you were quickly reminded that not everyone wore anger as beautifully as the twins did.

“Oh, you wanna fucking go?” The man seethed, spit flying from his thin lips. “All this over some stupid slut who-”

He never finished his sentence. The second the insult left his mouth, both twins’ fists connected with his jaw. You’d never seen a man collapse so quickly, his legs immediately giving out as he lost consciousness. His head hit the floor with a sickening thud, his eyes rolling back into his head. His jaw was twisted at an awkward angle and you knew it was broken. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead, but the bloodthirsty look on the twins' faces had you thinking that maybe he would be if you didn’t intervene.

Jimmy wasn’t laughing anymore, the sight of his anger making your blood run cold. Normally he laughed as he fought, obsessed with the feeling of bones breaking beneath his bloody hands. This was different. You rarely saw him like this, his dark eyes burning the same way his brother’s did, his lip curled in hate.

Jey was already moving forward towards the other two men, his face twisted into something hardly recognizable. He was snarling like an animal, his gold teeth flashing as he lunged forward. The smaller man threw up his hands in a pathetic attempt to protect himself, but Jey was already bludgeoning him, blood spraying from a broken nose as the man cried out in pain.

Before you could stop him, Jimmy was moving forward too, his fist connecting with the final man’s face with enough force to send him flying into the wall, his body crumpling on impact.

You wanted to stop them. You knew you should - it would be the right thing to do - but you didn’t. These men had touched you. Disrespected you. Threatened you. The twins were your protectors. Who were you to stand in the way of this?

You felt something twist inside you, something dark and primal at the sight of the twins splattering blood across the tile floor. In that moment, you realized just how devoted they were to you. They were willing to kill for you. They were willing to die for you. You felt breathless, your heart thundering in your chest at the thought.

It was sick, yet you couldn’t deny the feeling curling at the base of your spine, something so dirty and wrong that you didn’t dare give a name to it. You tried to find the part inside of you that was good and kind but all you could think about was how beautiful the twins looked: wrathful, furious, and covered in blood.

You heard a woman scream and you were suddenly very aware that you were in a club full of witnesses, people backing away in terror at the sight of the twins’ murderous expressions. You felt fear grip your throat. This was more than just a bar fight. The twins fully intended to massacre these men, blood already staining the floor red. They’d go to jail if you didn’t leave right now.

“Jimmy.” His name came out of your mouth barely a whisper, your voice small. You pressed your fingers to your lips and you realized that your hands were shaking. You felt powerless to stop them. Powerless to deny them this. It wasn’t until your brain conjured the ugly image of the twins being led away in handcuffs that you finally felt the courage to step forward, your voice much stronger now.

“Jimmy!” You hadn’t expected your voice to come out so commanding and neither did he, immediately stilling mid-swing to stop and stare at you. That righteous fury was still there, but he seemed more hesitant now, his fist clenching and unclenching as he resisted the urge to complete the punch he’d reeled back for. He seemed to be waiting for you to speak, waiting for your next command.

Meanwhile, Jey was still landing blow after blow to the unconscious man on the floor, his knuckles bloody. You watched in horror as the man’s eyes fluttered, blood trickling from his mouth. You took a step forward.

“Jey, that’s enough!” Your tone left no room for argument and Jey instantly obeyed, releasing his grip on the unconscious man and allowing his body to fall back to the floor. Jey was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his face as surveyed the bodies at their feet. But when he met your gaze you were surprised to see that most of the anger was gone now, his eyes almost remorseful.

You motioned for Jimmy to drop the man he still held in his grasp and he did so immediately, no hesitation in his actions. You tried not to lose your courage as both twins kept their dark eyes on you, seemingly awaiting your next order.

“We need to leave.” You said, forcing your voice not to shake. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You saw movement behind the twins and knew it was only a matter of time before club management and bouncers arrived, no doubt with the police in tow. You extended your hand, motioning for them to follow you.

“Come on.”

The twins obeyed, stepping over the unconscious bodies they’d left on the floor without so much as a backwards glance. They seemed completely docile now at your side, their bloody hands on you instantly as if to reassure themselves that you were alright. That you were safe. You took both of their hands in yours in an attempt to comfort them, trying not to react to the feeling of blood squelching between your fingers.

“It’s alright.” You murmured, tugging gently on their arms to lead them out of the club. You tried to ignore the horrified gazes of the remaining patrons of the club, keeping your eyes steady on the twins as they obediently trailed behind you. “It’s going to be alright.”

You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince more: them or yourself.

*****

The Uber driver hadn’t said anything about the blood, though you were sure he wouldn’t be leaving Jimmy a five star rating. Regardless, you were just glad the car had been there waiting for you, a quick getaway from the violent scene the twins had left behind. You tried not to think about if anyone had been recording. If there were cameras. If anyone had recognized them.

As you sat crammed in the backseat of the Uber, you felt both of the twins lean into you, nuzzling against your neck and pressing sweet, chaste kisses there. They were both completely nonverbal now, though you weren’t surprised. They sometimes got like this after a particularly brutal fight, adrenaline and anger mixed with shame and remorse: a delicious, terrible combination.

You knew if they had the words they’d be apologizing right now. About how they lost their temper. Again. How they’d jeopardized their careers. Again. How they beat some random strangers black and blue. Again. You’d heard it all before.

After leaving the driver a fat tip and leading the twins back up to your apartment, you found that they were practically clinging to you, dark eyes searching your face for your approval. They seemed desperate for reassurance, their touch almost hesitant against your skin, as if they wanted to be greedy but were holding back for fear of your rejection.

When you made it back to your shared bedroom, you watched as the twins sat you down on the bed, their eyes still wide and searching as they stared at you. You weren’t sure what to think when they both knelt at your feet, Jey nuzzling his face into the inside of your thigh while Jimmy leaned against your leg, his eyes hopeful as he looked up at you.

You felt tenderness swell in your chest at the sight, reaching out to cup both of their cheeks with your hands. Jey’s eyelids fluttered, leaning into your touch, while Jimmy pressed a sweet kiss to your palm, his forehead brushing your knee. They looked so cute now, more like docile puppies than the menacing attack dogs you’d seen at the club, meeting your touch with eagerness.

“It’s alright,” You heard yourself murmur, watching as the twins perked up at your words, their brown eyes sparkling. This is all they had wanted: a pat on the head. A simple word of praise. Some knowledge that they had pleased their master.

“You did so good.” You continued, scratching your fingers into their beards just to watch them preen with happiness. “So good for me.”

You kept your one hand in Jey’s beard, continuing to scratch there as he made a pleased sound in the back of his throat, his eyes shut in contentment. With your other hand you reached up to comb through Jimmy’s long hair, scratching gently at the scalp until his own eyes were fluttering, bringing his cheek to your lap.

It felt strange to have this kind of power over them. Normally you were the one weak to their touch, the reins of control in their very capable hands, but tonight was different. They needed your soft touch and praise, something warm to appease that cold, violent hunger inside them. You knew them too well.

You gave Jey’s beard a gentle tug and his eyes flew open in response, his pupils swallowing the soft brown of his eyes. He looked up at you with adoration, his mouth parting slightly as you tugged again, a small gasp escaping. You’d never heard him make that sound before and you were enamored at the sight.

“Kiss me.” You whispered, but it was a command. One that Jey was happy to obey. He quickly leaned up to press his full lips to yours, the kiss desperate and urgent. You heard Jimmy make a mournful sound beneath you and when you looked down you saw that his eyes were pleading, as if he too wanted to kiss you but would only do so if allowed.

With your fingers still in Jimmy’s hair, you were able to curl your fingers close to his scalp and tug, watching as his back arched in response. He felt pliable beneath your hands and the feeling was new. Empowering.

With the slightest incline of your head, Jimmy was leaning up beside his brother, capturing your lips in a kiss of his own. It felt just as desperate, just as needy as his twin. And when he pulled away you saw that his own eyes were blown wide with desire, dried blood speckling the warm copper color of his cheeks.

“Good boy.” You murmured and Jimmy made a pleased sound, leaning forward to kiss you again, desperate to make you happy.

They were gentle as they fucked you, taking turns sliding into the tight, wet warmth between your legs. Their kisses were wordless apologies, each thrust inside you a plea for forgiveness. They atoned for their sins the only way they knew how, worshiping at your altar to be cleansed of their wrongdoings.

But you knew it was only for tonight. Once the guilt and remorse had faded, you knew it was only a matter of time before their temper flared again. That hunger inside them was insatiable, that craving for violence a fire they couldn’t put out even if they wanted to. They would cross the line again, triggered by that primal instinct to protect you, and you would allow it. Maybe even encourage it. How could you not? You belonged to them. And you would allow them to kill whoever they wanted to prove it.

_____

next part: guard dogs (part three)

previous part: guard dogs (part one)

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