#that's the kind of mistake you just have to laugh at

[rmview]

they try to win you back, SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — a reaction of how the stray kids boys try to win you back after a fight/break up! ( can be read as part 2 of this )

contents — mentions of past fights, reconciliation and fluff.

bang ღ chan

bang chan wasn’t the type to let things slide, especially when it came to you. after the breakup — a fallout caused by his relentless work schedule and lack of communication — he knew he’d messed up. but when you finally agreed to give him another chance, he vowed not to let you go.

bangchan started small. one morning, you woke up to a playlist he had sent you titled “for my love,” filled with songs that reminded him of you. the accompanying message read: “just a little something to start your day. i’m still learning how to do better, but i’ll make it worth it. – chan.”

later that week, he surprised you with a handwritten letter. the envelope smelled faintly of his cologne, and inside, his neatly written words laid bare his heart. he wrote about how he’d never stopped loving you, how the breakup had forced him to reflect on his mistakes, and how he wanted to be the kind of partner you deserved.

“have you been sleeping better?” he asked one evening when he showed up at your door with a basket of your favorite snacks and a plush blanket. “i remember you saying the nights feel colder now. thought this might help.”

you couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtfulness, despite trying to keep your guard up. “thanks, chan,” you said, accepting the basket.

his smile was soft but tinged with nervousness. “i know actions speak louder than words,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “so i’m going to keep showing you how much you mean to me.”

one night, he invited you over to the studio where he spent countless hours. the space felt intimate, with dim lighting and a cozy setup. “i wrote something for you,” he said shyly, gesturing to the microphone.

as the music filled the room, his voice poured out lyrics that spoke of regret, hope, and an unwavering love. when the song ended, he turned to you, his eyes filled with vulnerability. “that’s how i feel,” he said softly. “i hope i can keep showing you, every day, just how much you mean to me.”

felix ღ

felix had always been the sunshine in your life, but after the breakup, you noticed his light dimmed. when you finally agreed to give him another chance, felix made sure he poured his heart into showing how much you meant to him, determined not to make the same mistakes again.

the first sign of his efforts came in the form of baked goods. one evening, after a long day, you came home to a neatly wrapped box on your doorstep. inside were cookies shaped like little hearts, each one perfectly frosted. a note attached to the box read: “i know i hurt you, but i’m not giving up on us. let me make things right. – felix.”

the following weekend, he invited you over to his place. the moment you walked in, you were greeted by the warm aroma of vanilla and butter. felix stood in the kitchen, wearing an apron dusted with flour, a sheepish grin on his face. “i thought we could bake together,��� he said, holding up a whisk.

you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “you’re really trying, huh?”

“i have to,” he admitted, his voice soft but earnest. “you’re everything to me, and i won’t lose you again.”

as the two of you mixed dough and laughed over his attempts to juggle eggs (which ended in a sticky mess), felix stole small glances at you, his heart swelling at every smile he managed to coax from you and how easily your guard managed to lower.

later that evening, as you sat on the couch sharing a plate of freshly baked cookies, he turned to you, his deep voice filled with sincerity. “i’m not perfect, but i promise to keep trying for you — for us. you’ve always believed in me, and now it’s my turn to prove that i’m worth it.”

the most touching gesture came one rainy afternoon. felix surprised you with a scrapbook he had been working on — a collection of photos, handwritten notes, and little mementos from your time together. on the last page, he had written: “our story isn’t perfect, but it’s ours. i want to keep writing it with you.”

tears welled in your eyes as he took your hand. “i know i hurt you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “but i love you more than anything, and i’ll spend every day proving that to you.”

lee ღ know

lee know had never been one for grand gestures, but when it came to making things right with you, he found himself stepping outside his comfort zone. the breakup had been his fault — his blunt words and tendency to shut down during arguments had driven a wedge between you. when you agreed to give him another chance, he knew he had to approach things differently.

the first sign of his efforts came subtly. one morning, you found a neatly packed lunch waiting for you at work, complete with a note that read: “eat well. i know i didn’t always take care of you like i should have, but i want to do better. – minho.”

later that week, he surprised you by showing up at your favorite café. “thought you might like some company,” he said casually, sliding into the seat across from you. but the way his eyes lingered on you betrayed the nonchalance in his tone.

over time, his gestures grew more personal. one evening, he invited you over to his apartment. when you arrived, you found the place meticulously decorated with fairy lights and a small spread of your favorite dishes on the table.

“you cooked?” you asked, surprised by the spread as the warm scent made you smile.

“i wanted to do something for you,” he said simply, pulling out a chair for you. “i know i’m not the best at saying how i feel, but i hope this shows you.”

as the two of you ate, minho watched you closely, his usual sharp demeanor softened considerably. “i’ve been thinking a lot about us,” he said suddenly. “about how i didn’t handle things the way i should have. i’m not good with words, but i need you to know that i’m trying.”

the dinner together was amazing and true to his words, he brought you to the dance studio where he spent most of his time one day, a glint in his eyes. “i have something to show you,” he said, his tone almost shy.

he played a track and began to dance, every movement purposeful and filled with emotion. it was a side of him you hadn’t seen before; raw, vulnerable, and completely open. when the music stopped, he stood before you, slightly out of breath.

“this is how i express myself best,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “i don’t want to lose you again. i’ll keep trying to be better, for both of us.”

hyun ღ jin

hyunjin had always been passionate, wearing his heart on his sleeve. but that same intensity had been the cause of your breakup. so when you decided to give him another chance, hyunjin knew he couldn’t rely on words alone to win you back.

the first time he saw you again after the breakup, he showed up with a bouquet of your favorite flowers. but these weren’t just ordinary flowers — they were intricately painted on a canvas he had spent hours creating. “i wanted to give you something that lasts,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “like how i hope we will.”

hyunjin’s gestures were deeply personal. one evening, he invited you to his art studio, where a single easel stood in the center of the room. “i’ve been working on something,” he said, motioning for you to sit.

you watched as he unveiled a portrait of you, painted in soft, dreamy hues that captured the way he saw you — radiant and full of warmth. “this is how i see you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “even when we were apart, you were always in my heart.”

you were touched to nearly the point of tears, as his sincerety was making it harder to keep your guard up. another night, hyunjin surprised you with a private dance performance. he led you into a dimly lit studio, where soft music played in the background. “this is for you,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours before the music swelled.

every movement of his dance told a story — of regret, love, and a desperate desire to make things right. as he finished, his chest heaved from exertion, but his gaze never wavered. “i’ve made mistakes,” he admitted, stepping closer to you. “but i’m learning. you’re the one i want to share my life with, and i’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.”

hyunjin also made an effort to handle conflict differently. one evening, when a small disagreement arose, he surprised you by calmly sitting down and saying, “let’s talk about this. i don’t want us to go back to how things were before.”

his growth, combined with his heartfelt gestures, slowly chipped away at the walls you had built around your heart. hyunjin knew it would take time, but he was willing to be patient. after all, loving you was worth every effort.

i.n ღ

i.n had always been mature for his age, but the breakup — caused by his occasional aloofness and failure to recognize how much you needed reassurance — had shaken him to his core. though when you agreed to give him another chance, he knew he couldn’t take it for granted.

the first sign of his determination came when he surprised you with something simple yet meaningful: a framed photo of the two of you from happier times. he handed it to you one evening, his expression both nervous and hopeful. “i wanted to remind you of what we’re working towards,” he said softly. “this is the version of us i want to get back to.”

from that moment on, i.n’s actions spoke louder than any apology he could offer. he started paying closer attention to the little things that made you happy. one afternoon, he showed up at your place with a playlist he had carefully curated. “these songs remind me of you,” he explained, plugging in his headphones to share the music with you. as you listened together, he held your hand, a quiet promise in the way his thumb traced gentle circles on your skin.

his gestures extended to your everyday life. knowing how stressful your days could be, i.n would occasionally leave you handwritten notes in your bag or on your desk, each one filled with words of encouragement and love. “you’re doing amazing, and i’m so lucky to have you in my life,” one note read.

but i.n’s biggest gesture came one weekend when he surprised you with a small picnic at a secluded park. the spread included all your favorite foods, and he had even learned how to make one dish from scratch. “it’s not perfect,” he admitted with a shy laugh as you tasted it, “but i figured you deserved the effort.”

as the evening wore on and the sun set, he turned to you, his eyes earnest. “i know i’ve hurt you,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion behind it. “but i’m learning to be better, and i’ll never stop trying. you mean too much to me.”

his sincerity and consistent efforts slowly began to rebuild the trust between you, showing you that he was willing to do whatever it took to make things right.

han ღ

han wasn’t one to do things halfway, whether it was his music, his humor, or his love for you. the breakup had left him heartbroken, but when you gave him a second chance, he threw himself into proving that he was worthy of your trust.

his first move was to apologize in a way that only han could: through music. late one evening, he sent you a voice note. the melody was soft and heartfelt, and the lyrics spoke of regret, love, and the hope of a new beginning. at the end of the recording, his voice came through, unpolished and raw. “i wrote this for you. it’s not perfect, but neither am i. i just… i want to make you smile again.”

from then on, han made a point to be present in your life in ways that mattered. he started showing up to your favorite café during your lunch breaks, bringing little treats he knew you loved. “thought you might need a pick-me-up,” he’d say with a cheeky grin, placing a pastry and your favorite drink in front of you.

one evening, he invited you to the studio where he worked. “i want to show you something,” he said, leading you inside. on the wall was a collection of sticky notes, each one with a memory, a thought, or something he loved about you. “this is my reminder,” he explained, “of why i can’t mess this up again.”

despite his playful nature, han wasn’t afraid to get serious when it came to making amends. during a quiet moment one night, he looked at you, his usual mischievous expression replaced with a rare vulnerability. “i know i joke around a lot,” he said, his voice soft, “but you’re the most important person in my life. i’ll spend every day proving that i’m worth this second chance.”

han also worked hard to communicate better, often catching himself when he started to get defensive or overwhelmed. “wait,” he’d say during a disagreement, taking a deep breath. “let’s figure this out. i don’t want us to fall apart again.”

with every sweet gesture and heartfelt conversation, han slowly reminded you of why you had fallen for him in the first place, proving that even the most impulsive hearts could learn to love with patience and care.

seung ღ min

seungmin wasn’t the type to let emotions cloud his logic, but the breakup had been a wake-up call. when you decided to give him another chance, seungmin didn’t take it lightly. he knew he couldn’t rely on his usual reserved nature; he had to show you how much you meant to him.

the first sign of his effort came subtly. he started paying attention to the smallest details about you, things you thought he might not have noticed. one morning, you found your favorite drink waiting for you on your desk, a neat note attached: “thought you could use a boost. have a good day. – seungmin.” it was practical, understated, and so very him.

a few days later, he surprised you with something more personal. “i know i’m not great at saying how i feel,” he said one evening, handing you a leather-bound journal. inside were pages filled with his handwriting — entries where he reflected on your time together, what he had learned, and the moments he cherished most. “this is me trying to do better,” he admitted, his voice steady but his eyes vulnerable. “you deserve to know how much i care.”

seungmin also worked on being more emotionally available. during quiet evenings together, he would ask how you were feeling, genuinely listening and responding with thoughtful insight. “i want to understand you better,” he’d say, his tone sincere. “i don’t want to make the same mistakes.”

his biggest gesture came one chilly evening when he invited you to a quiet spot by the river, where a small portable speaker played a playlist he’d curated just for you.

as the two of you sat wrapped in a blanket he’d brought, seungmin turned to you, his expression uncharacteristically tender. “i know i’ve been distant before,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “but i’m here now, and i’ll keep being here — for as long as you’ll let me.”

chang ღ bin

changbin had always been passionate — sometimes to a fault. the breakup, caused by his tendency to act out of frustration and say things he didn’t mean, had left him devastated. when you gave him another chance, he threw himself into showing you how much you meant to him, channeling his fiery energy into thoughtful gestures.

the first thing he did was apologize, not just with words but with actions. one day, you came home to find a handwritten letter on your table, accompanied by a small box of your favorite snacks. the letter read: “i know i’ve hurt you, and i’ll never stop trying to make it up to you. thank you for giving me another chance. – binnie.”

changbin also started showing up for you in ways he hadn’t before. if you mentioned being stressed at work, he’d surprise you with a quick visit, bringing something small to cheer you up. “i figured you might need a break,” he’d say, his boyish grin disarming any tension.

one evening, he invited you to his studio. “i’ve been working on something,” he said, gesturing toward the equipment. as the music played, you realized he had written a song for you — its lyrics raw and honest, capturing both his regret and his deep love for you. “this is how i feel,” he said when the track ended, his voice soft yet firm. “i want to be better, for you and for us.”

despite his big gestures, changbin also made an effort to be more patient and open. during one of your conversations, when emotions ran high, he surprised you by taking a deep breath and saying, “i don’t want to argue. let’s talk about this. i want to understand how you feel.”

his most heartfelt effort came during a casual evening together. as you walked through a park, he suddenly stopped, pulling you close. “i know i’ve been intense at times,” he said, his tone unusually gentle. “but that’s because i love you so much. i’ll keep working on myself because i don’t ever want to lose you again.”

with every gesture, big or small, changbin showed you that his love for you was as unwavering as his determination to make things right.

notes: i’ve never really been in a relationship so i mentioned a lot of things i’d personally want a guy to do for me (T^T) i hope yall enjoyed either way!

[supercimi]

Your friend has always been a bit carefree

Whenever he gave you those gifts, he basically just shoved them into your hands as If giving you some candy or something

He liked to joke around and get you in dumb situations all the time, sometimes those shenanigans got you in trouble, other times it ended in a rather underwhelming repercussions, like the flower bed incident when you were small.

Lucky for the both of you, the neighbourhood community had already wanted to get rid of that flowerbed, so you only got cleaning duty for three months because of what you two did

Maybe because of this, he would sometimes give you these gifts? He is a trickster and gets in trouble a lot yea but not a bad friend, u know?

Just yesterday, he told you that his next gift was gonna be awesome!

But why did he need you to wait in the square park for that?

...

It's been so long now...

How many hours have you been waiting?! And you were just praising him! He should just wait until you are back!! You shall not have his back!

Trudging away in anger and saddled with annoyance you finally reached your home

I mean homes, you two are neighbours after all,

"Hey! Where did that idio-"

Just as you snapped the gate doors open, the sight before you sucked any words you had left out of your mouth

"Oh, ops I got caught huh?" Your friend sheepishly confessed

"...." your gaping mouth couldn't catch up with your brain fast enough to close, but that was the least of your concerns right now

"You don't have any questions? " that same carefree tone and face yet, just what was going on?

There in front of you he stood, shimmer by shimmer he was fading away,

Words could not form, thoughts would not churn.

You could only stare

"Hey now, don't make that face," he laughed sheepishly like he did when he felt at loss

Why? What? How?

You could not say any of that

You couldn't even close your mouth

".....h..w..what?...how?" You finally managed to let out

Looking at his stupid face you wanted to claw the answers right out of his mind

But you couldn't, you wouldn't, even if you could.

"....because I made lots of mistakes?" He hummed as if thinking to himself

"So what! Why would this happen?!" Your confusion ignored, but that ignited your still mouth, and it finally spun its cries

"Because i made up for them all!"he boasted cheerily as if he wasn't fading more and more

"Wha?" Your confusion only multiplied but your words lost their strength

The passing time was only proved by his fading eyes

"...please just tell me your reasons" you tried a final time your earlier annoyanc and grievance at being stood up long forgotten

Looking at you for the uptenth time tonight, quite and kind, he wasn't someone who would have such a gentle look

"....because i care," smiling widely he answered vaguely yet again.

Streching your arms to grab that stupid figure, you barely had your words!

"That doesn't explain anything you doofus!"

You cried as your hands caught air

Your friend wasn't here anymore

.

...

....

.." ghr..dang..it...you.." blabbering your words, you could not speak anymore

You only cried in confusion

And that's okay

Despite every reality we had, you were always there for me.

You always went along with me

You had my back even when you didn’t recognize me

Be it in the past ir the future, or even in the present

You were my family

My friend

My teacher

My partner in crime

My only constant in the world

When you were gone, my world was gone

I searched for you, countless worlds and times, but they all aren't you

Well, they are you, but not you at the same time... Maybe that's why eventually i gave their original friends back to them

Because they were not my friend whom i lost

Maybe because i did that, i found you again

One final time

I had my family again for the last time

If the price for that was my life, it didn't really sound so bad

I hope you live on much more happily this time

We only had one life after all

Farewell, my friend.

Your friend keeps giving you very random gifts at completely random times. It seemed like an odd but nice gesture, until you realise each gift has saved your life from any sort of incident some time after accepting it.

[nagis-wife]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇: Nagi Seishiro, Eita Otoya, Rin Itoshi 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 3k 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈: Accidental confessions - I love you. 𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: fem!reader, fluff, comedy, pet names used, could be a little angsty at times but nothing over the top but figured I should mention it.

--- Authors note: I may have gotten carried away with these. But I hope you enjoy them nonetheless. It was not proof read either so if there's any mistakes apologies ♡

Eita Otoya ✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ Eita nearly always wore his headphones to drown out the city sounds that never seemed to stop. He was sure he would have hearing loss by his 30’s if he kept listening to it as loud as he did. But it was the only thing that would drown out the beeping cars and someone yelling at someone for bumping into them. Eita loved his music more than anything yet somehow almost every single song he would play somehow reminded him of you. He wanted to rip his hair out, he wondered if you ever got so fucking tired from running around his head. Eita was sure, you did this purely to torture him.

“Eita.. Hey look at me yeah?” You spoke, voice sounding like an angel. Loud in his ears as if the people in the movie you guys were watching were just speaking in whispers. Eyes setting on your face, seeing your kind ones looking back at him with such a gentle gaze. He's never felt this way before. Sure he's been around a few times but nothing has compared to the butterflies twirling around in his gut begging for him to say how he truly felt. 

Things were casual, having met in a music store and going out on a couple ‘dates’. Eita saw them as dates, never knowing if you did. The two of you never discussed what either of you wanted. Eita didn't even know how you felt about him, let alone if you were even interested in him, more than just being friends anyways. Yet here he was, his hands clammy, feeling a lump in his throat and he felt faint. Eita tried to tell himself he was just being dramatic. That the worst you can say is no.

Eitas hands reached out to yours as he looked down at you as he blinked “Yeah? Sorry. What were you saying?” He said, as if he wasn't fully distracted by his own thoughts as they were seemingly in overdrive. As if his heart wasn't currently pounding in his ears, nearly drowning out you entirely. “I asked if you were okay, you don't seem well.. Do you wanna take a raincheck and come back tomorrow? I promi-” You were cut off by Eita sighing, not that he was irritated, he was, but with himself. “No.. no that's not it. I swear. I do have something I need to tell you though” He trailed off as he took a deep breath. “I have feelings for you. I could go as far as saying that my feelings are so strong one could possibly call it love. I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I'm not sure what to do about that.” 

You let out a laugh, Eitas veins running cold, not that it lasted long as he felt your hands wrapping around his waist, nuzzling your face against his chest. “Silly boy, ya know for someone who was a playboy, youre really bad at reading women” You teased as even you felt warm, weeks of courting Eita turned into this? One would say you were the winner here. 

Relief floods his pretty green eyes as he chuckles a bit, wrapping his hands around your waist resting his face in the crook of your neck. He felt so light, as if a ton of bricks was lifted from his shoulders. He closed his eyes for a moment enjoying the warmth that radiates from your body. “I think I should be the one saying that, my love. You have no idea how much you lift me just by being next to me, my beautiful muse” Rubbing his back as you sighed gently, 

“Yeah I can tell.. You flirt much less now with others, only with me huh playboy?” You joked as you pulled from him just enough to see his face as he stood straight up again with a knowing smile “Yeah yeah thats because of you idiot” Rolling your eyes you reach up to press a kiss against his cheek. “Whatever you say ya simp.” You joked as you grabbed Eitas hand watching from his apartment window the city below you, the snowflakes falling steadily. Eita grumbled something as he moved to sit behind you wrapping his arms around your midsection and resting his chin on your head. “That was rude” 

“Yeah yeah, you'll be okay playboy” You teased as he groaned. A laugh leaving your lips, yeah you two will be perfectly fine. 

✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Nagi Seishiro  ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Nagi didn't think he needed anyone, and how wrong he couldve been. After befriending not only Reo but you.. Nagi soon came to realize that maybe everything isn't a hassle. Maybe.. Just maybe.. He actually enjoyed having you around. It wasn't often that he would pause his game just to respond to your text, hang out with Reo more often than normal, or even leave his apartment willingly just to see you. Nagi didn't understand his own feelings with this, looking up stupid articles about his feelings to try to understand them. One word kept showing up, “love.” Nagi was confused by this development. Did he actually love you? It wasn't the same rapid beating in his chest when he was hanging out with Reo, not that his heart skipped a beat when he was with Reo. That has to be it - right?

He wasn't sure how it happened or why his chest had felt so funny when you were around. Maybe it was the humidity in the air, yeah it was just the heat. Rather the heat that would raise on his cheeks when you so much as looked in his direction with a soft gaze, or even said his hair was cute and complimented him well. How his grey toned eyes fit his features so nicely. Nagi didn't know what to do with himself when these things happened, his face would get just hot, his stomach would do so many flips he felt sick. Nagi couldn't even handle your gaze, how would he be able to even hold your hand, to press his lips against yours. They looked so inviting, so soft. He would stay up thinking about you, how you would taste.. Shaking the thoughts as he tossed and turned. 

“Seishiro!? Earth to Seishirooo!” You waved your hand in front of his face as you sat across from him as he blinked a few times at you, his cheeks heating with a soft hue. Clearing his throat as he looked back down at his phone. His reaction made you stifle a laugh before leaning back in his bed, your back against the wall “Hmm something on your mind?” You questioned as your gaze drifted to your own phone as you scrolled through your feeds. Yeah, you. “Hell no. I was.. was distracted by uh.. something going on in my game. Don't worry about it. It's gone now anyways.” He lied through his teeth as you raised a brow and tilt your head to the side, almost as if you were calling his bluff. “Mm, right. So what was I talking about then?” Nagi couldn't recall a single thing you had said, too distracted by your lips and how the sun beams that seeped through his curtains hit the gloss that was on your lips. “Uhm.. uh..” He looked at everything but you as he tried to come up with something. 

An amused grin curled at the corner of your lips, leaning on your elbows. “I was talking about Reo and how he looked really hot, all dressed up y'know.” You too, lied through your teeth but that was not the point right now. Nagi felt an unfamiliar sensation flooding his veins as he clicked his tongue against his teeth before tossing his phone aside, a pout on his lips. He turned to you as he huffed. Jealousy and insecurities flooding his body. “I'm just teasing Seishiro I cou-” He cuts you off as he looks at you with eyes filled with determination which shut you up quickly as he opens his mouth several times before shutting it again. 

With his feelings being higher than he ever thought they could be he blurts out words you half expected to never fall from his lips “I love you okay!? I don't want to hear about Reo or h-how hot you think he is, or how strong he looks. I-I know I wouldn't match up to him. I've been alone most of my life. I don't know what these feelings are. I just know that.. I can't match up to him for you. I'm not Reo.” 

Looking at him with a shocked expression as a soft sigh left your lips reaching across the table grabbing his hands into your own. “That is the insecurities talking, Sei..” You moved closer to him as a hand rested against the top of his head, nails grazing against his scalp, earning a soft groan from his throat as he leaned into your touch.

You sighed softly as you felt the anxiety radiating from his body. “Sei. Do you really think that if I actually wanted Reo that I would be here with you all the time? That I would wait for you to come online just to be able to play games with you? Seishiro.. The feelings I have for you would outweigh anyone like Reo. No amount of money would change how I feel about you. I talk to the stars about you, whispering to the wind hoping you would hear how much I love you. Not even the Gods could keep me away from you Seishiro. I'm sorry if talking about Reo that way made you upset.” 

Nagis eyes searched for yours, as if he was looking for something in them. However he's only met with a soft gaze that was filled with nothing but adoration. He moves to sit up as he nearly tackles you back against the mattress, his arms wrapping around you rightly his head finding its place in your chest. A laugh pulled from your throat as he nuzzled against you. 

“You mean it?” He murmured, his voice muffled. 

“Yeah, I mean it, Seishiro.” You spoke as you reached to card your fingers through his hair as he gave your frame a squeeze falling in love with the way you felt in his arms. Yeah, maybe not being alone is nice.

Rin Itoshi ♡･ﾟ:｡.:･ﾟ♡･ﾟ:｡.:･ﾟ

Meeting Rin was purely an accident and neither of you remember how it happened. Well Rin did, he fully remembers the moment you walked into his life standing by his side even when he was the lowest he had ever been. Rin did not however remember when he fell for you. Maybe it was when he first saw you, maybe it was after. Maybe it was when you first breathed his name rather than calling him Itoshi. That didn't matter to him anymore. All he knew is what he wanted to protect you no matter the cost or consequence of his action. He would move mountains if you asked him too. 

Rin has always kept to himself, he found it hard venturing out, let alone understanding how he felt about you. Let alone he found it hard to even think with how he was that you would ever feel the same about him. Did you too feel the same as he did? Rin knew he was good at one thing, and still had his own self doubts. 

Now the two of you were on the train home, having gone to see a new horror movie Rin had convinced you to go see. You had been scared out of your mind the whole time while Rin didn't seem to even move a muscle while watching it. However the movie still ended up being really good. Rin had invited you over to his place for some dinner, and you weren't going to say no to his cooking. He somehow was amazing in the kitchen. Not that you knew how, but you weren't going to complain at all. 

The setting sun casted beautiful hues of pinks and purples in the sky. Stopping as you pulled out your phone, Rin had stopped looking back at you as you snapped the photo. Friends dont look at friends that way. However the thought passes as quickly as it comes into your head. 

“Rin wait, stay just like that, look up towards the sky.” You told him as he sighed but still entertained your request. Humming as you tisked before walking over to him grabbing his cheeks as you adjusted his head. His cheeks felt cold under your touch. “There just like that dont move pretty RinRin” You teased as you took a few steps back again taking a few snaps as you smiled at your phone. 

“Sometimes you should listen to me Rin” You mused as you showed him the photo, it did look great as he playfully rolled his eyes “Sure, I'd rather not do that. A bit too.. Lukewarm for me doll” 

A gasp passed your lips as your jaw slacked at his harmless insult. He most definitely did not see you as lukewarm. “Ouch I'm wounded, might need some homemade cookies and ice cream to fill the wounds you've caused me” You said dramatically as you gripped his jacket falling to your knees, giggling the whole way down. Rin couldn't help but to look at you with a raised brow and an amused expression. A chuckle being forced from his chest as he grabbed your hand pulling you back to your feet. 

“That was the most dramatic thing you've done, however if you want cookies you're gonna make them yourself or at least help me.” He spoke, a smile, albeit small, still on his lips. “Rin.. the last time you let me in the kitchen I almost burnt down your apartment and I also ruined the baking sheet. That's not a good idea.” 

Rin remembered this happening, the screaming of his name, and panic in your voice. Trying to waft out the smoke all while to get the smoke detector to stop beeping, crying out how the fire department was going to show up if he did help. All the while he was doubled over holding his stomach as belting laughs rippled from his throat. Rin was not helpful at all. It was one of his favorite memories the two of you shared. 

“Yeah I'd prefer if you didn't do that again. I'll take care of it” he spoke with a monotone voice as he grimaced.

Finally making it back to his apartment, with you not in the kitchen while he made dinner, choosing to just pull out the store bought cookies hoping it would be enough to appease you. Idle conversation filled the air as the two of you ate. However, getting a notification on your phone stating there had been an accident with the trains and you were now going to be stuck or get a taxi in hopes that it wouldnt take hours to get you home due to the amount of added traffic due to the trains being down. 

“You could always just stay over. I think you still have some clothes here, if not you can just wear mine.” Rin stated as if it was the only option. Not that he was wrong, however it did sound better than dealing with the hellish drive home. 

“Fine but you better keep your boyish hands to yourself” You teased as you skipped to his bedroom and flicked on the light. Humming as you changed into lounge wear, it was much more comfortable than what you had on before. 

Peering out from the door once you were in your Pj’s “Come on, I'm ready for bed. It's a damn good thing I have clothes over here from the last time I stayed over. I'd hate to be in your stinky clothes” You teased. Rin has never smelled bad. In fact you bought the cologne he had worn and even when he got low he would buy the exact same one again. You did say it was our favorite afterall. 

Rin let out a groan as he stood up and walked over to you, and entered the room. Following you into the bed, watching you wiggle around to find a comfortable spot as his hands came to his hips with raised brows, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You're somethin’ else I swear.” Rin walked into the closet to change in there as he stopped out. Seeing your chest steadily rising and falling. His gaze lingering for a moment. Taking out his phone as he took a few photos, to tease you with later. 

Finally climbing into the bed, he was sure you were in a deep sleep as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him. Selfishly he knew his feelings. Rin pressed a kiss against your forehead as he sighed. “I love you so much. You have no idea what you do to me, you little minx.” Although Rin couldn't have been more wrong as he blinked a few times as he felt you shift under his weight, peering up at him with wide eyes. “Ya know, confessions are best given when someone is awake RinRin.” You teased, as he avoided your gaze only for you to bring it back to you as your hand was pressed against his cheek. 

“And you're awake, so it makes it easier for me too.” You murmured as you leaned forward, lips locking together as if it was the most perfect puzzle pieces locking together. “I love you too. We will talk more about this in the morning and what that means for us, however, for now. Protect me from the monsters under your bed, yeah?” Rin only nodded, his cheeks tinted pink as his heart raced in his chest. Feeling you adjust yourself in his arms, your face in the crook of his neck. 

This was perfect. You were perfect.

♡･ﾟ:｡.:･ﾟ♡･ﾟ:｡.:･ﾟ

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[mermervi]

a christmas secret

✎ If you knew your boyfriend turned out to be such an asshole, you wouldn't even look at him in the first place. You'd have called off the engagement, of course, but you chose to stay for the sake of someone who sweetened your days and that someone is none other than your fiancé's brother. Leon. So how challenging can a family Christmas gathering be?

cw: MDNI, shameless smut, p in v, cheatingz!, unprotected segs goes hard ngl, bre3ding mayhaps, family drama aka kennedy family is the new kardashians, not proofread, sorry, praise kink, stomach bulge!, finger!ng, fem! reader, MDNI

find this work on ao3!

For Leon, this Christmas is overly festive, too much of an extravaganza. He has always hated family gatherings and has always been the type of boy who would retreat to his room after grabbing his share of the dishes his mother cooked for the house guests. No girls to bring home for his parents, no serious talks with them at all, and the concept of marriage has always been a total can of worms. For him there was Ada and the many nights he shared with her, nights of “oh, yeah. We fuck each other, and we don’t put a name to it.” This was more than enough for him but nothing to last forever.  

Until one day the tide completely turned the night he happened to meet you. He was quite surprised when he heard that his little brother, the one he thought was nothing but a good-for-nothing, had finally met “the one” a year ago. Quite frankly, all Leon could think of was a body mass with every known sexual disease in the world collectively stored in his nuts and sperm. Yes, he was clearly not very fond of his brother.  

He did, though, at the request of his father and mother, show up at last year’s get-to-know-the-new-girl-in-law dinner.  

And that was the night he saw you for the first time. The truth of the matter is you were far out of his brother’s league, along with the girls from all over the States, but Leon could only see an incapable man next to a pretty girl like you. Still, for the sake of pretending to be the good brother, he did the laughing and ate the food cooked that night. He pulled off a good Kennedy act, the best version of Kennedy his father could muster. Whatever his brother was, Leon was the opposite, and his father couldn’t have asked for anything more. He didn’t care what exactly was going on between his sons. The Dad of the Year, absolutely.  

Nobody could blame the old Kennedy. Leon was alright. Whatever. The other boy, however, is the equivalent of a child who was supposed to be jettisoned from the beginning and who, despite the condoms and the pills, was still accidentally conceived one night. He’s the headache itself. The only problem is that he has been so fucking blind to see this kind of unpleasantness and discomfort he has created for years. The guy lives in his own fantasy world.  

How he found someone like you is a veiled story behind the scenes.  

Leon really wanted to ask, quite a few times, but something stopped him, and the subject remained like a chest of unspoken family secrets. It went as far as getting your engagement with his brother.  

It was only a summer night when Leon found you crying alone by the pool outside the house that the tables were turned. The mother of your tears: his moronic brother. But why? Because he will never understand you. Thinking that you might actually find true love now seemed like a rookie mistake to you. So you cried. For Leon, it was just sad. Who knows how many times he had to comfort and sometimes even hug his brother’s female friends?  

Oh, and of course there was also the part of providing the most important detail that his brother was missing. Fucking those pretty girls. Hugs and heart-to-heart talks always led to the same thing. You, like the other girls, had found yourself in the same trap—the trap you had willingly walked yourself into—on top of him on a night of poolside fucking in a lounge chair. Doesn’t that make Leon an asshole? Perhaps, but at least Leon’s the kind of guy who has a sense of reverence for the women he sleeps with, whereas his brother... Well, Leon can’t find the right words in English for that guy.  

No beating around the bush, Leon wants the same thing tonight. The sex. Your sex. Why would he come to this stupid Christmas dinner anyway? For you, that’s the answer. Couple that with the fact that his job has kept him away from you for a couple of weeks—from the scattered things in life he likes to do—and you’ve got a man who’s been feeling peckish for many weeks.  

“Come on, big boy. Jus’ have a bite to eat.”  

Leon’s brother’s soused tones interrupt the eye contact between you and Leon, the one that has been covertly lingering on and off. He’s a piece of shit. It’s scarcely seven, and already he’s drunk as a doornail.  

Like a demented child, he leans over the table and brings his fork to Leon’s mouth, making artificial train noises in midair.  

“Now, now, my boy. Show me your mouth. Honk hooooooonk! Toot toot!”  

Your beloved fiancé forces the fork into Leon’s lips, which are pressed together to smooth matters over despite the sour expression on Leon’s face, as if he had just bitten into a lemon, and he doesn’t do much to hide it.  

At this point in your life, what could be more embarrassing than witnessing your fiancé doing this in front of all his relatives? And that’s coming from you—someone who usually doesn’t give a shit about relatives.  

Mercifully, Leon’s father saves the day when he raises a full glass of wine to draw the attention of the guests at the table to him.  

“Here’s to my beautiful family and to many happy years with them. With you guys. I love you all.”  

A sweet harmonization prevails around the table courtesy of this man. At least the eyes are where they should be, on the table, on the food, on whatever the good things are. What of your eyes? They are hunting for certain shades of blue, and when they locate them, the same kind of serene smile sits on his lips as on yours.  

Why is it that you feel so safe around him, but so bare around his brother and his kin? He’s their blood, but he acts just the way you always need him to be.  

Blending into your vista and turning the picture upside down, a red face suddenly intervenes between you and Leon. As it always does.  

“Heyyy.” He orates garishly and kisses your cheek.  

That’s not serious. Why must he butt his nose into absolutely everything? Sometimes you just want to throw away the ring and give a basket, then spit in his face and run like hell.  

Apart from the striking blue gaze, far away from Leon’s gaze, your fiancé’s attention is focused on you. More precisely, down your cleavage, or even exactly at the low-cut level.  

“What?”  

“What what what?” He’s parroting you, yammering.  

“Stop drinking like a horse and quit clowning around.”  

“Why? Tits the size of my head—”  

“Why don’t you shut your mouth? There are kids around. Screw you.” You look askance at him, but all to no avail. Yes, everything happens out of the prying eyes of the relatives—except for one person (Leon!), you and your fiancé are bickering at the mouths of each other. An outsider would even make a compliment about your idealistic relationship, saying something like—what a romantic lovebird these two are."

“Ha. Nice.” Your lover almost burps with a bitter taste on his tongue. In your face. “Huh. How about making them new cousins?” And as if his sobriety wasn’t already bad enough, he, of course, dares to dare to think about anything that pertains to his dick. What an idiot. Like he can even fuck you. This guy has been dead for some time. The alcohol does that shit, he says, but he’s always been all thumbs, dick down.  

“Get lost. Seriously. I’m on my period, anyway.” You lie, and within a split second your fiancé responds with a horrified scowl that is woven across his face like a tapestry. Of course you’re engaged to a misogynist and a guy who’s allergic to the subject of menstruation.  

“Yuck. No way. ‘m going to go now.”  

“What? Where to?”  

He stands up heedlessly, scrambling up the chair with the back of his shoe as you pelt him with a barrage of follow-up questions.  

“Hey, guys! I’m outta here.”  

He waves to everyone like a famous singer at a concert hailing his fans from the stage.  

This fucking guy...  

The assembled folks watch in silence for a spell as your fiancé staggers along in a drunken swagger. Even Leon watches him, and he knew from the moment he received the invitation that he was going to be subjected to such a moonstruck stunt. More or less, he could have guessed that the main character would be his stupid, dickhead of a brother.  

You try to recover from this situation with a short ha! of laughter without even letting the situation escalate into a real problem. “He’s too busy. Even on New Year’s Eve. Got... a call... from work. Yeah. He did—God. What a man. He makes me so proud.”  

What a shock.

Leon’s holding his laughter like it’s a sneeze at your eye-watering performance. Turns out everyone in this house who has or is about to have the last name Kennedy is always obliged to deal with the chaos created by that mindless pain in the ass. Tonight was no different from any other disaster, and Leon knows you’re a real Kennedy now.

“Yes, indeed. He’s just recently qualified. The boy is quite overwhelmed with business.” Mrs. Kennedy, sitting next to Leon and across from her husband, is quick to gloss over her young son’s asinine mistakes. It’s hard not to admire her as she does so. It’s her aura that speaks, not her, and it’s at that particular minute that you decide that some of Leon’s facial features descend from her. Like mother, like son.  

The table stills after another parental rescue drill. Not a bad kind of night, you might say. The conversation circulates. You make the acquaintance of people who aren’t so black and white. Turns out the Kennedy bloodline isn’t all bad, sort of. American as apple pie, Italian as... pizza?  

All this talking, socializing, and blah blah blah goes right through your social battery. That’s enough people and new faces. It wouldn’t hurt to venture out into the garden and catch some air. Maybe light a cigarette. You never know.  

Excusing yourself from the throngs of people, you finally step out of the back door of the kitchen through the patio door leading to the backyard.

The bracing air from yesterday’s foot-deep snow is wafting sweetly across your face. The ground beneath your feet is still dewy, and the caked snow sticks to your soles. Too much on your mind to give a crap. That stupid boyfriend of yours is the culprit of it all. Easy.

Raising the joint in your hand, you roll a cigarette and cradle it between your lips. You dig in your pocket for the lighter you think is in your dress pocket, but no luck so far.

Within a scant few seconds, the gentle gusts of breeze blow into waves of bone-chilling cold and spray your skin under the thin fabric of your dress. Silly you are. It’s a recipe for disaster to be going out in such weather without even putting on a single jacket.

You’re kicking yourself from the inside.  

Luckily, the sliding door behind you flings to the side. It’s none other than your soon-to-be brother-in-law. Squinting at you in the twilight, as if he’s judging you. Yes, yes, yes, yes. What a way to be out in the cold, damn it. He most likely will lecture you. You know the drill.

“Is this the way to go out in this cold, sweetheart?”  

Called it!  

You just shrug your shoulders, and Leon lines up next to you. He looks at the cigarette between your lips with a bogus hint of titter. “You know these things will kill you.”

What a wiseass.

As you flick your lighter, he takes off his brown jacket, which you think is new and pretty. He looks good with it.

Unexpectedly, the gesture is a small token from his heart. He slides the jacket over your shoulders, and you notice the flashes of sparkles that fill his eyes. Tonight, especially after yesterday’s bellowing of flaky snow, there is a distinctive gale in his eyes under the arch of the constellations and the blue-gray moon—like two small globes of blue-sky moon.  

“You must really like staring at me.”  

This man is a dab hand at deflecting attention with a comment that will definitely ruin the whole moment. It must be a family thing, you decide.  

“No, I’m surprised. Look at you looking like such a show-off. You’ll catch cold.” Your voice is laughable and blurred from the cigarette between your lips.  

“Don’t even think about it.”  

Just as you’re about to take the jacket off you and return it to his arms, Leon holds you by the arm and then intercepts you. Doesn’t take you seconds to register that you have been missing his touch all along in your memory. It’s so distant yet so fresh.  

The stillness of the night falls between you, leaving a familiar glow inside your bones—white and aurelian. It’s all the same to Leon. Moments like these are potentially precarious, and it’s usually Leon who does something to diffuse the situation in those peak seconds of emotional overload. Practical wit.  

He takes the lighter from the palm of your hand and with a few flicks, ignites the cigarette’s stub. His free hand instinctively cups around the bluish, wavering flame. He watches and waits until you take a drag — notwithstanding the sharp, burning wallop searing through his palm. Worth it, he figures. The agony in his hand is only temporary, a demising singe. Yet the fire inside you? That’s something else, something you both share. You’re burning in your lungs. He’s burning in his hand. Unquestionably, with an esoteric surrender. 

“Thanks.” You exhale away from him. In his case, Leon fiddles idly with the same lighter. He looks contemplative.  

Must be an acquired connotation to that expression on his face. Sometimes you really wonder what on earth is going on in his head. You would have sacrificed your fiancé to cut open Leon’s head and find out what’s going on inside his head during such hush-hush intervals, really. It wouldn’t be half bad. The world would be rid of a piece of shit, and eventually, you would have peeled back the layers and understood who Leon Kennedy really was.  

You raise your brow at him and grill him while he snatches the fag he robbed from your lips. He takes a long draw. By heart he knows the taste of your lips, all paper-wrapped and kissed.  

“Whatcha got there? Cherry lip gloss?”  

“Yup.” You hum in approbation, and now you watch the heady vapors drifting from his lips, frost-kissed red as fresh grains in a pomegranate against the biting cold.  

What is clear is that you both crave to be with each other. Why, Anna wants Vronsky like Vronsky wants Anna, like Vronsky has that mad, demeritorious longing for Anna. And for Leon, you’re what they might label that weird thing inside him.

“Come with me to the greenhouse. Now.”  

“What? N-now? The surge in your speech ripples, either from the cold or sheer astonishment.

With the last puff, Leon throws the cigarette on the snow-carpeted ground and treads on the glowing ash with the sole of his shoe. The next thing you know—  

He grabs you by the wrist and drags you behind him to the glass vestibule of his mother’s one and only conservatory. All this silence, all these initiatives are the signs that he has a master plot in his head, and you’re just getting the hang of it.

“This is insane. House is teeming with people. We... we should wait for them to sleep.”  

Your words make no sense, at least for Leon, and yes, they are sensible, but Leon’s a recalcitrant one. He’s straight in his head.  

“Oh, that’s it?” He lets you in and zooms out the door behind you. Naturally, he first snoops around to see if the place is empty or not. He doesn’t have to search every corner. The survival instinct that comes with his profession assures him that the place is pretty vacant from the moment he steps foot inside.

Your tentative steps are no different than trekking through a minefield. You trust him, but getting nabbed is always a contingency.

“Yeah. Fat chance, sweetheart. It’s now or never.” Leon whispers a brickbat, mimicking the way you croon your words when you feel imperiled. The two of you cross a lane, and Leon turns to you. Curling his fingers around the delineation of your waist, he lifts you onto a sturdy mahogany tabletop that his mother usually decorates with lovely flowers. Show off.  

“What if someone—”  

He heckles you obliquely with his index finger, pressing it just slightly to your lips.  

“I’ll be completely honest when I say this to you. Everybody knows that we’re fucking.”  

“They do?”  

Leon offers one affirmative shake of the head. “My dad and ... my mom... well, she knows everything.”  

“Christ.”  

How much more scandalous information can Leon reveal about his family, you ponder, as your darling brother-in-law rucks the hem of your dress up and you, with what must be muscle memory, spread your legs apart to give him more room to do his thing.

“I knew it.”  

He makes a subtle jab at the sheer wetness staining the frilly seam of your panties. Inoffensive, alright. Call a spade a spade; you’ve been sitting wet from the very beginning of the evening—or rather, from the second you glanced in Leon’s direction. Kind of like a stupid baby who peed her pants.  

“You’re wet, missy.”  

Don’t mind your panties skimming down to your ankles, just around your heels.  

His touch, the one you have been yearning for, sinks into you in two fingers, scissoring your pussy with his middle and ring finger, and your heart nearly pops out of your throat. He could have taken out his phone and taken a picture of a memory he didn’t want to forget, a cover photo that could have been the most memorable snapshot of your face—the most beautifully captured moment of the year.

“So tight,” his whisper sears your chest, “he could never give you what you want, and he will never give you what you want. Gotta be thankful that you have me.” 

Well, you’ve never been a thankful person, but maybe now is the time for a character transformation. Maybe you really should thank your brother-in-law for his very existence this year as he fucks his fingers into your velvety folds.  

“Hmmm? What you say? Don’t you fuck him just to keep yourself for me?”  

“Maybe.” Your breath touches his cheek, like a summery kiss, as he thumbs the spot that makes you squeeze down on his digits.  

“Not the answer I expected, though not that I care. I have more important things to do.”  

He’s talking about important things like you, to be sure, or your lovely cunt where the slick is bleeding on his fingers.  

When he’s sure he can fit himself in, he samples his glistening fingers himself, in his own mouth. A familiar taste, yes, but it leaves a trace of saccharin on his tongue that he has been denied for quite a long time. When it’s forbidden, it’s the lushest.  

“Maybe I’ll eat you tomorrow morning after breakfast.”  

How funny. No offense, but he sucks at these quip games.  

Neither he nor you have the patience to wait any longer in the rush of this. Whatever this is. Quick as it is, Leon wraps your legs around his hips, which he grasps by your calves.  

You do the rest and release him with your hand, loosening the belt around his waist and running your hand down to the zipper of his pants. Either it’s something in your imagination, or tonight he seems bigger to your eyes than you can ever remember him being. That, and the scars, which you can now observe so vividly for the first time. They’re emblazoned on his pale hide and mar him in angry pinks and ultraviolets. As much as you want to touch them, to plant those healing kisses, it’s Leon who stops you.  

“We don’t have time.”  

You already know that. In his defense, Leon and you have made one thing clear from the beginning: no feelings attached!  

So maybe in another universe you had the right Kennedy, and you were the one who lay with him in the same bed. You had a life beside him, with a cat and a dog, plus a roof over your head. Tragically, in this universe you were the cheating slut who cuckolded your fiancé, and he’s the asshole who banged his brother’s fiancé.  

“We don’t have time,” says the smartass, as he strokes the reddish tip of his cock back and forth over your wet entrance and repeats it like a looped movie script. It’s enough to piss you off, but your impatience is through the roof.  

“Please. Please, Leon.”  

The first thing he’s anticipating is the begging stage. But he wants more than that. And you know it.  

“Expecting better words from that witty mouth.”  

You bite your lower lip, and no, that’s not what he’s expecting nor what he aspires to.  

Leon pulls back a little and lays hold of his cock by the shaft. It’s leaking from the tip, and he smears the pre-cum by gliding the fat head of his dick into your slit. Smart saving, no wasted material.  

“See?” He massages the fluids with his ring finger, rubbing everything inside. “How your little pussy loves me. Your body wants me, sweetheart.” 

He then spits on his palm, garbing the dew over his cock, and proves his practical acumen even if he comes up with a solution that is not particularly hygienic.

“Now you tell me. Want me to fuck a little Kennedy in this pretty pussy?”

You should be ashamed of yourself. That you’re dying for this. Synonyms for these images of humiliation, however, don’t even cross your mind during those abandoned seconds.

You don’t know how many times you have shaken your head at him, positively, but it’s so worth it to see that boyish grin on his face. 

“I want it, Leon. Nothing but you.” You are no longer begging but spewing the truth as almost a last resort.  

Leon feels a thrill of elation at the way you squeeze him as he slides into you, tighter than sin. Your lips are sucking in a delicate puff of breath, and he’s not even inside you.  

The table beneath you is virtually slipping out of your palms, but fortunately you have him. He always holds you and always gives you whatever you want. He pulls on your hips, and moonlit tears well up in your eyes, stinging your lashes.  

“Damn, gorgeous. Can barely fucking fit.” The rasp of his lilt in his voice, the rush of his fingers on your hips. It’s all turning your head topsy-turvy. Slow, perhaps lazy thrusts push inside you, and your fluttering walls memorize the shape and outline of a cock that fucks you up inside and out. He leans back and groans as his dick melts into you—inch by inch, deeper and deeper, and the parting of his lips breaks into a grin as you near your limit with a newly forming bulge inside your stomach.

Only then do you auscultate the scratchy urge seething inside him.

“Look at this. Too big for ya? God—missed this pretty pussy so bad.” 

More than you have missed him?

Or does he even realize how wretchedly you tighten around his cock when you hear the subtle eulogy out of his mouth?

This is Leon you’re talking about. Of coure, he feels you. The guy worships you.  

He knows and reads your body, your soul. Goes further when you gently repel back to meet his hips, to less when he realizes that your hand is curling into a fist on his abdomen, and tenses up when he lashes your cervix with a very hard stab.

Everything is for you: every error he has made and will ever repeat and every right he will ever do.  

So is the way his lips quest for yours. The kiss rips out everything in your brain that belongs to survival instincts—rough and soft in equal measure—utterly debauched. His demanding hands play with your right tit poking out of your dress as if it were his own personal meat and vein toy. Hands reach up from his biceps down to his forearms, helpless, and you cling tightly to his shoulders because his body is the only thing that is holding you on the end of the table right now. He’s the only thing keeping you here, against the freezing degrees outside, against the happy house imaginary, against the people in it.  

Your mutinous whimpers choke in your own throat in an audible volume, and you recoil from his lips as if you are screaming in a nightmare but happen to have lost your voice. Eyes glazed, and both your lips are alizarin to the point of bleeding.  

“Look what I fucking do to you, greedy girl.” He reaches down your neck. Doesn’t choke you, though.

He’s the one who made you this way. Tonight he’s just more cynical than you’ve ever known him to be. Dirty talk will definitely rattle around in your brain in the most unlikely of places—maybe during a briefing, or maybe when you’re sitting with your beloved husband-to-be, sipping coffee or hot chocolate together.  

“I can’t. Leon. I think I—” The little words you’re trying to say just won’t come out of your mouth. You push so hard, but there’s simply no way through. Those mental words linger in your mind like clouds of rumination, leaving you mouth agape.  

“Yeah, me too.” He whispers quite musings as his thumb finds the pearl of your clit.

That’s exactly where the hell breaks loose. You no longer possess the vigor to spring up on the table, nor does he have the stamina to be sucked into the molten lava in which he’s melting and kindling.  

Drunken mistakes or impulses often drive people to make a choice they will regret. Your ineptitude is a down payment. Right there and then, you blanket his still throbbing cock, and he’s blinking his eyelashes together. All that ponderous, stinging thrusting, now numb and sporadic.  

“I’ll give you, give you—my baby.”  

Famous last words.

Still, he’s the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Really, the very essence of male beauty must have been invented for him, or you’re just too fucked up here.

To him, you’re so beautiful, and you take his cock so nicely. Absolutely worth its weight in gold.

With his face sunk into your neck, he moans, making a note of total bliss as he bottoms out, filling you as intensely as possible. Leon betrays a breath of air and closes his eyes for a second as your lovely pussy sucks in every lingering drop.

Your pulse is as senile as an oldie; you’re flushed and panting, gripping the edge of the table beneath you.

The rank ham-fistedness of your conduct dawns on both of you as you both only just regain your composure.

“Merry Christmas, beautiful.” So effortlessly, as if what happened between you hadn’t even had a spare moment to touch you—both emotionally and physically—as if he isn’t still inside you, he gives you his New Year’s wishing.  

“Merry Christmas, Leon.” Back at him, you sigh exasperatedly. No harm done. Can’t help wishing that the new year will be spent right next to him.

“Are you ready to get up, or should I carry you?”  

“Have I told you how hilarious you are?”  

“Oh, honey. The girls love it. So do you.”  

He crowns his comedy rehearsal, which is guaranteed to get a standing ovation, with a conical hat that he finds on the table at a random and very absurd moment and plonks it on your head. You nearly flinch.  

“There you go. Now you fit the theme.” 

[akimiiyo]

-> COMFORT

⌗synopsis: how genshin men comfort you.

⌗characters: diluc, kaeya, albedo, zhongli, childe, baizhu, xiao, thoma, itto, ayato, heizou, wanderer, kazuha, tighnari, cyno, alhaitham, kaveh, neuvillette, lyney, dainsleif, dottore, pantalone, capitano, pierro.

⌗cw: gn!reader, not proofread, lowercase intended, ooc? not so sure.

he can tell something’s up with you with a single glance your way. he won’t waste time, he’ll ask you what’s on your mind and trust me when i say that lying won’t get you out of this situation. he won’t stop until he found the source of your unhappiness before pulling you in a tight hug. his hugs usually last a bit during these moments, between his hands running up and down your back and his sweet, whispered words to your ear. if your heart is particularly heavy, he’ll kiss your tears in such a delicate way just to tickle you and bring back a smile on your face. he’ll make sure you know he’s by your side and you won’t have to deal with things all on your own.

diluc, kaeya, zhongli, baizhu, kazuha, thoma, tighnari.

his first instinct is to cheer you up as soon as he starts noticing your mood. what would his world be without his darling’s smile? he’ll try to make some jokes and squeeze you into his arms a little more until he hears your lovely laugh once again before starting to ask you about your worries. sadly enough, his attempts fail to prevent you from breaking down in front of him, his heart aching at the sight of your tears. he wipes away your tears while encouraging you to talk before smothering your face with sweet kisses and reassuring you in the meantime. you best believe he won’t let you leave his side for the rest of the day, that’s just the kind of guy he is.

childe, itto, thoma, heizou, cyno, kaveh, lyney.

he doesn’t really pick up on your mood at the very beginning, but he slowly begins to notice a couple of things which results in him trying to figure out what could possibly be upsetting you. he feels a little embarrassed to go up to you and comfort you out of the blue, but he does anyways because it’s you. he might sit beside you and hold your hand or even hug you without saying much. he’ll let you decide wether to open up or not, but he lets you know that whatever your decision may be, he’ll be there. later that day you’ll find him preparing you a snack and a drink for you with the intentions of staying by your side in the coziness of your own home.

albedo, xiao, alhaitham, wanderer, neuvillette, dainsleif.

he can see your saddened eyes. there’s never a moment when he’s not looking of you, so how could he not notice? he’s quite the strong man and his partner isn’t less than him, so he’s sure you can deal with anything. that is not to say he wouldn’t help you, he just knows that whatever it is, if it was serious enough you’d know to look for him. once you do though, he’ll offer you whatever you need to help you feel better. a hug? reassurance? solutions? whatever it is that is troubling you, dear, you’ve come to the right person. and although he may seem a little distant to some, you know that this man would move mountains to ensure your happiness and he reminds you everyday.

ayato, dottore, pantalone, capitano, pierro.

⌗a/n; wow, i sure love posting with consistency! 😸 this was rushed, i hope you cant tell that much and that you still like it. i noticed that they werent posting a lot of dottore content recently, so i took matters into my own hands 😈 anyways, if there are any mistakes, plsss tell me!!!

want to see more? take a look at my masterlist!

©2024 akimiiyo. do not repost, translate, plagiarise, or modify in any way, shape or form.

[enderlovez]

Big Secret

Spencer Reid x BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 2100+

Summary: You've tried to hard to keep your daughter a secret from Spencer after her father left, but what happens when this secret finally comes to light?

Content Warning: fear of abandonment, abandonment of pregnant woman, reader gets anxiety

A/N This was requested, and I'm not to sure how I did here. There'll probably be a bunch of mistakes because I'm really tired right now.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The first time Spencer asks if something's wrong, you almost laugh. Not because you find it funny in any sense of the world, but because there is something wrong, and you can't find it in yourself to tell him.

He's studying you with those piercing eyes, like he can read every thought you've ever had. His brow is furrowed in that way that makes him look younger than he is, and for a split second, you wonder if he really can hear your thoughts.

"You've been a little off lately," he says, the concerns in his voice too subtle for most people to notice, but you hear it. "Is... everything okay?"

You smile, forcing the curve of your lips to stay steady. "Everything's fine, Spence. Just a lot on my mind, you know?"

It's the truth. Sort of. Work is, as always, chaotic as hell. But there's something gnawing at you, something you can't make yourself say out loud.

Spencer doesn't push, but you know he's watching, waiting for you to say more on your own. That's the thing about him—he's patient, a quality you greatly admire. But when he wants something, he tends to get it.

You've had a few drinks together after work, spent quiet hours in coffee shops, talking about cases, about books, about life. You think you're starting to let yourself like him.

You think he might be starting to like you, too, even though the lines between friendship and... something more are still blurry, and you haven't yet figures out how to cross them without making a mess.

Then, of course, there is the little secret of your daughter—the very secret that keeps you up at night, wondering if you've already ruined whatever future could happen.

"Is everything really fine?" Spencer asks again, his voice a little softer now, like he's trying to coax the truth out of me without making it feel like an interrogation. It feels like one anyway.

You nod quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Yeah. Really. Just... personal stuff."

He watches you for a beat longer, clearly not entirely convinced, but also not going to press for more. Spencer isn't like that. He respects boundaries. He respects you, in a way that makes your chest tighten every time he looks at you, like you're something he can lose if he doesn't handle you with enough care.

And maybe that's it. Maybe you're afraid of him seeing the part of you that isn't as easy to love, the part that you're still learning to love yourself.

Maybe that's why you've kept Isla a secret, but you've never mentioned her in passing conversations, or even when he asks about your life outside the job.

You want him to see you as someone who can go out for a drink after a case without having to worry about a three-year-old waiting for her mother to come home.

But that's not you. You've got Isla. You've got your little girl, and one day, Spencer's going to have to know, as terrifying as that thought is to you.

You're not ashamed of your daughter, you could never be ashamed of your little girl.

But the last man who found out about her—her own father—ran for the hills before she was even born. The thought of Spencer doing the same, of him walking away the second he finds out about Isla, has been eating away at you from the first time you went out together.

You tell yourself it's not about him being a bad guy, because he's not. Spencer's kind and thoughtful and he doesn't seem like the type of man to judge.

But it's not like you can help the fear, that he might not want a woman with a child, especially one as young as Isla. She's the center of your world, she will always come first, and you can't risk losing Spencer for the same reason you lost Isla's father.

"Are you sure?" Spencer's voice cuts through your thoughts, soft and insistent. He's still looking at you, like he's waiting for the truth to slip from your lips, like he knows it'll happen eventually. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it a little difficult to breathe. His words, so simple, so caring, somehow makes the weight on your shoulders heavier.

What would it feel like to tell him?

To let him in, to share this huge part of yourself with someone who could very well walk out of your life when he finds out?

It's easier to just nod and pretend everything's fine. It's easier to lie, to keep him at arms length, than risk him seeing who you really are—a mother, sure, but also someone who's terrified of being left again.

But Spencer doesn't deserve that. You know he doesn't deserve that, to keep wondering what's going on inside your head when he's done nothing but be there for you, day after day.

"I..." You hesitate, your breath catching in your chest. "There's something I should tell you, but it's really... it's going to complicate things."

Spencer doesn't say anything right away. He just watches you, and for a brief moment, the distance between you feels impossible to manage. You take a step forward, closing that space as best you can.

"You don't have to tell me if you're not ready to," he says finally, his voice so gentle that it almost breaks you. "You never have to feel obligated to tell me anything, I just want you to know I'm here if you wanna talk."

And right then, something shifts.

You're not entire sure what, but something deep inside wonders if maybe—just maybe—it might be time to tell him about the life you've tried to hard to keep hidden. About your precious little girl, and about her father who she's never known, and about the fears that keep you awake at night.

About the little girl who's waiting for you at home, her smile the only thing that keeps you going when everything else is so shaky.

"I have a daughter," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "She's three. Her name's Isla."

He blinks, processing, before his expression softens. He doesn't say anything at first, just watches you with (gorgeous) eyes of his that feel almost like they can see right into your soul.

You hold your breath, waiting for his reaction. You're expecting him to step away from you, to give some polite excuse and walk out the door.

But instead, he surprises you. "I'd really like to meet her, if that's something you'd be okay with."

You blink at him, feeling your heart skip a beat. "You... you would? You want to meet Isla?"

Spencer smiles, just a little, but it's blindingly bright in your eyes. "Of course, I want to meet the little girl who obviously means so much to you."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You stand outside your apartment door, fingers nervously playing with the strap of your bag, suddenly feeling like you're about to do something you can't undo.

Which, you are, but that doesn't stop your heart from thumping uncomfortably, or your stomach from fluttering with anxiety.

Spencer's standing beside you, his eyes scanning the hallway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks calm, maybe even a little curious, but you can tell he's waiting for you to make the first move, to invite him inside where everything will change.

It helps knowing that, if you happen to change your mind, he'll leave the second you ask him to.

The familiar hum of the building's old pipes is the only sound between you. You're about to let Spencer see Isla. You're about to let him into this part of your life you've kept so carefully hidden. And it is terrifying.

It's one thing to share a drink or talk about drinks. It's an entirely different thing to show another person the most vulnerable part of yourself.

The next door over swings open, and your neighbor, Maria, steps out. She looks up from her phone when she spots you, waving with the hand that's holding Isla's favorite stuffed bunny—she probably left it there at some point.

"Hey, just finished feeding her a few minutes ago," Maria says with a smile, but there's a hint of urgency in her voice as she checks her watch. "I was just 'boutta call you, gotta head out. You good here?"

You nod, forcing a smile as you take Isla's stuffed animal from Maria. "Yeah, thanks. She's been good today?"

"She's always good, she's a sweetheart," Maria says before turning on her heel, heading towards the stairs with quick steps. She glances back at you once to make sure you're alright before she's gone.

You watch her go, your breath catching in your throat as you unlock the door.

Every part of you is screaming that this isn't a good idea, that you're making a huge mistake by letting Spencer in, but you push those thoughts away as best you can, forcing yourself to step inside and gently pulling him by the sleeve of his jacket.

"Come on in," you say, trying to sound casual, but the words sound all wrong in your own ears, and they surely sound the same to Spencer.

Spencer hesitates for a moment before stepping through the doorway. The second his foot crosses the threshold, something in the air shifts, though neither of you can name what it is.

Isla's small shoes are lined up neatly by the door beside yours, and you can hear her humming softly from the living room. It's the sound of home.

Some of the anxiety fades away. It's more strange than anything to have Spencer here, where it's all real and in front of him.

You move towards the living room, trying to steady your breath. There, sitting on the floor with a coloring book spread out in front of her and a variety of markers and pencils at her side, is Isla.

Her hair's a bit messy, the way it always gets after a nap, but her wide eyes light up the moment she notices you.

"Mommy!" Isla calls, her little face breathing into a grin as she scrambles to her feet. She's barely two and a half feet tall, one of her little hands clutching her stuffed bunny tightly, the other wrapped around your legs.

You plop down on the sofa and ruffle her hair affectionately, a soft smile gracing your lips.

And then, she sees Spencer.

For a moment, Isla just stares at him, wide-eyed and quiet. Spencer's already crouched down, his hands resting gently on his knees, not moving, simply waiting for her to decide if she'll approach him or not.

You hold your breath, watching the moment unfold in real time—you've never had to share this part of your life with anyone. You've never had to share her with another person. And for a brief moment, you're more worried about how she'll react.

And then, like she's made up her mind, Isla takes a few tentative steps toward Spencer. She looks up at him, her face a picture of innocent curiosity, and before either of you can say anything, she reaches out, quickly offering him her stuffed bunny.

Oh, thank God.

Spencer looks at the bunny, then back at her, his expression softening. "Thank you," he says, his voice gentle, as it's as if a part of you clicks into place. Like he's not only accepted you, but now, he's accepting Isla, too.

He's accepting your baby, and you feel like you're going to cry.

She smiles up at him, and for a second, it feels like everything's going to be okay. He doesn't look at her like she's an obstacle, or like he doesn't know what to do.

He looks at her the way he always looks at you—with patience, and something else that you have a hard time naming.

Isla giggles, her small hand still holding the bunny, as then she shyly crawls into your lap, hiding her face against your chest.

Spencer chuckles, the sound low and warm, as he sits down beside you, observing the interaction. You rub your hand up and down Isla's back and press a firm kiss to the top of her head.

After another quiet moment, Isla crawls off you again, sitting back on the floor in front of her coloring book.

"So, uh, do you like coloring?" Spencer asks, his voice carefully light, as he looks over at Isla, who's now holding a crayon like it's the most important thing in the world.

She nods solemnly, but then grins up at him. "I like pink," she says, matter-of-factly, and then she goes back to her drawing.

Spencer's eyes twinkle with amusement. "Pink's a great color," he agrees, and you can't help but smile.

Maybe this isn't so bad after all.

[oldsoul007]

whispers

joel miller x reader

summary: y/n sees someone she’d thought she’d never see again

joel miller masterlist

The world had changed. That was something me and Joel knew all too well. Decades had passed since the outbreak—since everything we once knew had crumbled. But, as with all storms, there came a time when the skies cleared, and the silence after the chaos was almost as deafening as the screams had been.

I hadn’t expected to find him, not here, in this small town where I had relocated to escape the past and search for peace. I lived in a modest house on the outskirts of what used to be a bustling city—now a quiet, semi-abandoned place. It was one of the few communities where life seemed to have some semblance of normalcy again. People worked the fields, traded goods, and occasionally gathered around campfires in the evenings, sharing stories and building new memories. But I had never imagined I would run into someone from my old life here.

I had heard whispers of a man named Joel Miller—a name I hadn’t thought about in years. Joel. She remembered the way his laugh used to fill a room, his strong hands, the kind of man who could hold a gun as easily as he could hold a child’s hand. The memories of him came flooding back, but with them, came the painful reminder of the world that was lost.

It had been over twenty years since the outbreak, since everything had fallen apart, and I hadn’t heard his name once in all that time. He’d been a part of my life before the chaos, and then, just like everything else, he’d disappeared into the dark recesses of my mind, buried under the weight of survival. There was no time for reminiscing then. There were only the daily battles for food, shelter, and safety.

But now, here we were—two people standing on the other side of that storm.

It was late one afternoon when she saw him. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the dusty road that led to the town square. I had just returned from trading some produce at the local market when a familiar figure caught my eye.

Joel.

It took a moment for my mind to register the sight, but when it did, my heart skipped. He was older, of course, his hair graying and his face lined with age and hardship. But it was him—there was no mistaking those broad shoulders, that confident stance. He looked as if time had been kind to him in some ways, cruel in others.

My heart clenched as I hesitated, not sure if I should approach. I had to remind myself that the person I once knew was likely long gone. The man standing in front of me had survived the same brutal world I had—perhaps even in the same way. We had both adapted, changed, become someone else entirely. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. The past, the scars, the brokenness—we all seemed distant, like something trapped in another lifetime.

He looked up then, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, he just stared, as if he too were unsure if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. And then his face softened. “Y/n,” he said, his voice rough but familiar.

My breath caught. It felt like a lifetime had passed since anyone had called me by that name in a way that mattered. A name spoken in love, in comfort, not survival.

“Joel,” I whispered, taking a tentative step forward.

His eyes searched mine for a moment, as if to confirm that I was real. Then, with a small, half-smile, he closed the distance between us. His presence felt like both a weight and a relief, grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said, his voice low.

“Neither did I,” I replied, my voice almost a whisper.

We stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to say next, unsure of who we were now. But it didn’t matter. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of history, full of shared memories that neither of us had ever been able to talk about.

Finally, Joel spoke again. “You… you still remember the old days? Before everything changed?”

I nodded slowly. “I try not to. But, yeah, I remember. Sometimes, it feels like a dream. Or maybe it’s the world that’s the dream.”

Joel chuckled softly, his gaze distant for a moment as if remembering the same things I was. “I remember when we thought we had time. When we thought the world could never get so bad. How naive we were.”

I smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “I remember our first date. I didn’t even know if it was a date at the time. I thought you were just helping me out because I was new in town.” I paused, shaking my head. “Turns out you were a lot more than that.”

Joel’s face softened. “Yeah, I guess I was. You were always good at making things feel normal, even when everything around us was falling apart.”

We both stood there, processing the weight of the words and the years between us. There was no rush to speak, no need to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter. We had already shared enough in our lives—grief, loss, and survival. What they had now, what they could build, was something new. Something fragile but beautiful.

“I never thought I’d see a place like this again,” I said after a moment, glancing around at the now-quiet town square. “I thought I’d spend the rest of my days running from everything that happened.”

“You’re not the only one,” Joel said quietly, his eyes flicking down to the dirt road beneath our feet. “But, somehow, we’re still here.”

I took a deep breath, my heart aching with all the things we hadn’t yet spoken. “Do you think it’s possible to go back?” I asked, my voice small.

Joel’s eyes met mine again, and this time, there was a softness there that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t know. But I think we can find something new. Something worth living for.”

We stood together, looking out at the remnants of the town we once knew. The wind whispered through the trees, and the sky was still—peaceful, for the first time in a long while.

And for the first time in decades, I allowed myself to believe in the possibility of a future. Not the one I had once dreamed of, but one where the echoes of the past could coexist with the hope of something better. Maybe, just maybe, the storm had passed, and there was room for something beautiful to grow in its place.

Joel’s hand brushed mine, and I took it, feeling the warmth and strength in his grip. No words were needed. Our past had shaped us, but it didn’t define them. We had each other now, and that was enough.

The world had changed, but so had we.

[givethemsmut]

Cody Rhodes x Reader

Made of Gold | Chapter Seven

I had grown accustomed to living on Cody’s bus, exploring the city during the day and at night watching the monitors showcase his talent. I was thriving while I hit the ignore button for the millionth time on my father calling.

Shoving my phone into the back pocket of black skinny jeans with rips in the knees I headed to catering while Cody warmed up.

I had been avoiding Brandi, keeping myself on high alert, every turn backstage I was scanning the space for her. I b-lined it for the coffee when her voice sent goosebumps over my arms.

“Still around? I’m shook.”

Reminding myself I was still a few days away from eighteen I still had to channel every ounce of adulthood to argue with anyone backstage. “Sorry I made it impossible for you to shoot your shot, sweetie.”

She laughed and my eyes snapped up to hers, “You being here doesn’t stop anyone for shooting their shot. That’s your first mistake - thinking you’re his only until you have a ring on that finger.”

“I am his only, exclusively.” I quipped my words right back so quickly I even impressed myself.

She smiled, a shit eating grin, like she knew something I didn’t. “First mistake.”

Brandi left me there after her calculated attack and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had missed things. Cody was top dog here, talented, paid handsomely, and his body was rivaling Greek statues how could woman not be throwing themselves at him.

How could I miss that?

Wandering the maze like hallways of backstage I tried to find Cody but my mind was its own distraction. Wondering how anyone maintained a relationship with their partner on the road, that kind of trust and lack of cracks in their self esteem seemed impossible now that I knew how lingered back stage.

Coming around the corner I stopped short see Cody and his boss in a heated discussion or what looked like it. Pressing myself against the wall to listen I heard their exchange loud and clear.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Cody? She’s seriously fucking seventeen? You’ve been parading her around like a goddamn lucky charm.” Hunter, the weathered man still sporting muscles and champion rings spat in his face with his words.

Cody was fresher but none less a street dog ready to fight. “Her age doesn’t matter. She’s legal in a few days. Big deal.”

“Are you fucking insane? This could destroy your career if anyone else found out. You’re lucky it was just me.”

I watched their faces get so close I felt the weight of their argument sit directly on my chest.

All the ways I wore being Cody’s like a badge of honor felt cheap. Almost like I didn’t deserve it at all, not with people acting like I was poisoning his dreams. Everyone was trying to pull us apart and it felt like I should fall in line instead of fighting fate.

Hurrying with my cup of coffee I scurried away as fast as I could, taking shelter behind the first door I saw. Letting it close slowly, I let my forehead press against the cold door, and an expatriate sigh leave my lips.

“Well that’s one way to make an impression.”

Slowly looking over my shoulder, all the tattoos came into view and his gruff voice seemed to fill the room. “I’ll be gone in a second. I’m just hiding from your boss.”

I kept my voice casual and my body relaxed even though he only had a towel hanging around his waist. A gallery of tattoos decorating his skin, his hair slicked back and this grimace attached to his face that kind of made you want to slap him.

“You can make whatever excuse you like.”

“I’m with Cody…” I almost added duh because everyone knew Cody and by extension me as his.

His sinister laugh had me take a step back into the door. “Not friends with Cody. Not even close.” Ignoring him I clamped my eyes shut and waited out their argument when he spoke again. “How old are you? Are you his sister?”

I could feel the way his eyes were digging into me and pressuring me to answer. I rolled my eyes and yanked the door open but not before slinging a remark back. “Maybe you’re just used to old pussy.”

“Look at Mister WWE himself breaking the rules. I could almost be proud if I didn’t hate him so much.” He started pulling on his sweats under his towel and I could feel my cheeks burning.

“Mister WWE? He just came back.” I quipped at him, wholly offended and letting the door close again.

Ripping the towel from his waist I let myself analyze hin, the messy hair, and the way he was the opposite of Cody. He wasn’t all American, clean cut, he was rough around the edges.

He chuckled, pulling his cut up shirt over his head, “you don’t know him at all. How did you even meet him?”

Crossing my arms I stood there, barely grasping my coffee. “I know what you’re implying… I’m not some one night stand.”

His elbows dug into his legs as he leaned forward on the couch that sat against the wall. “You really don’t know him. He’s always been the good soldier, the golden boy here, and when he left he didn’t have to play by the rules anymore. Making us all look bad when he’s keeping a jailbait secret.”

I stood there, my shoulders pinned against the wall and my face smeared with guilt. I was too young, no matter how good I made it sound, and that could end everything he worked for.

He took my silence as contempt when he looked up at me, his baby blue eyes shimmering against the florescent lights. “The real question is what are we going to do about this.”

It wasn’t really a question, it was a clear intention that I owed him if I wanted him to keep my secret.

A secret Cody wasn’t ashamed of but his boss and career depended on me being legal.

“It’s not a big deal. I turn eighteen in a month.”

“That’s why you look as pale as a sheet? This isn’t high school anymore, babe. You’re playing with the big dogs now.” His voice was the perfect villain, laced with edge and charm.

I spewed snark, “Are you saying I can’t hang? I eat assholes like you for breakfast. Grow some tits then talk to me about holding your own in a man’s world.”

He chuckled like what I said was funny before he sat back. “Okay, spitfire, let’s see if you can hang. This is gonna be fun.”

“Whatever,” I rolled my eyes at him and cracked the door open to scan the hallway to make sure neither of them were in the vicinity.

Looking over my shoulder he waved with a big smile plastered across his mouth. “Have fun out there.”

I safely made it back to the gorilla area cluttered with monitors and tech things that kept the production going. Between his ex-finance, his boss and his enemy I ran into it felt like I had no allies here. The loneliness I didn’t feel until now felt like a weight on my shoulder I didn’t expect to carry.

Not while surrounded by people.

Without touching me I felt a hard chest scrape my shoulder blades and a warm mouth practically close over the shell of my ear. “I gotta talk to you.”

Cody’s voice was full of dark clouds and I knew it was about to pour.

All the ways we were safe in our bubble at his house no longer existed.

Taking his hand I trailed behind him, letting him lead the way with a melted expression. He lead me back to the bus and stood in the aisle with his arms crossed.

Standing in front of him I let our soon-to-be argument a wide birth. “Fucked me out of your system.”

I wasn’t going to wait for him to break it off, I was going to beat him to it.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” He paused, his eyes half mast and full of unhinged rage. “Fucked you out of my system? You really think I can fuck the kind of poison you are out of my system?” His arms unfolded and his palm ran over his crotch before giving himself a hard squeeze.

I bit the inside of my cheek, staying silent while I waited for him to continue.

“Your dad called Hunter. He wanted to let him know that was kidnapping you, raping you and WWE would be found as an accomplice. As much as being told I can’t have you makes me want to fuck you more… we need a game plan. One that doesn’t involve you ending things between us.” His stern voice hit me like a pillow case full of bricks.

Taking out my phone of my back pocket, I tapped my missed calls and dialed. Telling his boss? That’s just foreplay, my dad just wanted a way to force me to call him back and it worked.

“Father.”

“Daughter,” he repeated. “Have you come to your senses?”

“What is it going to take for you to back off?” I slice my words making sure it’s all business, no pleasure.

There was a pause of silence but it felt like it was for my benefit instead. “Sweetheart, he’s taking advantage of you. I’m just looking out for your best interest.”

Fighting the urge to pace I sat down on the edge of the seat, leaning forward into my phone when I hit speaker. “You’re ruining his life. He’s not some predator, I threw myself at him numerous times and he rejected me like a gentleman.”

“I don’t need to hear all the ways he forced you to act like a slut. You’re lucky I haven’t involved the police. Get home - before I do.”

The line went dead and I fought every urge to scream when I gripped my phone so hard I was willing it to crack.

I knew we were doomed. At least until eighteen.

“I’m gonna go… he’s not going to stop until he gets his way. I’m gonna go pack.” I brushed by him, letting the reality of us set in when I closed the door behind me.

A few moments later the door sprang open and Cody was making demands while I sat on the floor with my open suitcase. “Delete your socials. All of them. Anything with your birthday that the public can access. Unfollow everyone. No one can prove shit if they can’t find you. Two can play that game.”

I looked at him confused not sure how deleting my online presence was going to satisfy my dad.

Or his job.

“That doesn’t change anything, Cody. I’m still not eighteen and too many people know now.”

I kept packing, avoidant but still filling my suitcase when Cody sat on the end of the bed. “Too many people know? Who else knows?”

I could see his eyes slant and the wonderment scatter across his features. “Some guy backstage… I didn’t say anything. He just knew. He thought I was your little sister.”

Scrubbing his face he paused before speaking again, “Who? Who was it?”

Continuing to pack I stopped, kneeling between his legs, I looked up at him. “Tattoos, slicked back hair, said he doesn’t like you…”

“Phil fucking Brooks? Are you kidding me?”

Looking at his in confusion I rested my hands on his knees waiting for him to elaborate.

“He hates me. Not for the sake our keeping storylines authentic but deep fucking hate. How did he find out? What were you doing around him? He never leaves his dressing room.”

Letting my head drop and my arms press even more against his legs I explained. “I overheard your boss and I accidentally ended up in his dressing room. He was pleasent enoug.”

Not that it helped Cody feel better but I tried to smooth it over, playing it down and leaving out the blackmail part.

Standing up eruptly I stumbled backwards, catching myself on my hands, and looking up at the god like tower of his body. "I'll figure it out. I gotta get warm. I booked us a hotel already, no shows tomorrow and we could use a bigger shower. Take a rental and I'll meet you there after the show."

He wasn't so much asking but making demands. It wasn't going over my head that I was being banished to the hotel to hide out, where no one could question my age or mistake me for his little sister.

I nodded my head, agreeing, and watched him walk back off the bus from the back suite.

Continuing to pack, I filled up a suitcase with everything I needed before escaping off the bus and heading inside to snag some keys for a rental. Security looked more intimidating than most of the roster for WWE, big, burly men with stern features that begged you not to speak to them.

"Just snagging keys for a rental?" I spoke softly, hoping he didn't ask too many questions because I didn't have answers.

“Badge.”

Pushing up my phone to his face I showed his the plastic stuck inside the clear plastic case. Looking down he nodded and slide to the side grabbing a pair of keys before handing them to me.

Beeping the alarm I found the car pretty quickly, shoving my bag into the passenger seat, and climbing behind the wheel. Realizing I had no idea what hotel where or where I was going I sat there full of frustration until all of my cracked.

Startled by the knuckles tapping against the tinted window I jumped back against the soft leather. Trying to control my breath I pressed the button to roll the window down when the stranger in a cap looked up.

Revealing him and his familiar voice I let myself shift right into annoyance. “Can I help you? Phil, right?”

“You’re going to the hotel?” His eyes were bright, piercing the over cast day and I felt hypnotized.

Nodding I bite my tongue.

“I’ll bum a ride.” He rounded the car and yanked the car door open, sliding right in to the passenger seat. “It’s a mile away.”

I scolded him, “is this the favor I owe you?”

His grimace smile took up room on his face when his hand pushed his hat off. “Oh, no, sweetheart. You’ll know when I cash in that favor." Pausing only long enough to iritate me he continued, "I'm not into jailbait. Stop worrying."

"I'm with Cody."

Backing up and flooring it around the building I merged onto the street. Forcing him to cough up the directions I had no problem aimlessly driving around a strange city when he finally pointed out each turn.

Pulling into the hotel I slipped out before he could and slammed my door. I could hear his footsteps against the pavement trying to keep up with me. "Let me guess, he wants you at the hotel since Hunter found out you're under age? Out of sight, out of mind?"

I ignored him even though I already had the same thought. Standing at the desk, smiling politely, I gave Cody’a real name when the woman smiled back and came up empty.

Stepping to the side I had to call Cody, first I didn’t even know the hotel and now I couldn’t check in without whatever name he uses to check under.

It rang a few times before he answered, “What’s wrong?”

“Apparently you don’t book under your name…” I let my annoyance disappear as I spoke.

I could hear Phil checking in next to me, pouring through my ears as much as the phone.

"Is that Phil?" His voice was cut, sharp but less damaging. "Stardust, don't ask. It was a bad time in my life."

The way he trailed off made me thing there was so much more to the story. "If it was a bad time why do you use that name?"

"Don't change the subject. I thought we talked about staying away from him."

"I can't help he is at the same hotel, Cody. Don't worry, I am staying out of sight." I meant it as a dig when I rolled my eyes aggressively before dropping my phone down to the counter and hitting end call. Phil's intrusive thoughts had crept in and made a home right in my insecurity.

Not so gracefully, I gave them Stardust and she handed me two key cards. I felt exhausted when I dragged myself to the elevator, standing there I hit the button for my floor when Phil narrowly escaped being asked for photos. As the doors closed I watched their disappointment grow against their features.

“So you’re a dick to everyone. Cool.”

“Self preservation, sweetheart. If you take one photo you have to for everyone so I don’t take any. This is actually your first rodeo so I would really keep your opinions to yourself.” Crossing his arms he leaned against the rail lining the elevator.

“He’s not keeping me a secret.” I tried to sound cruel but it came out sad instead.

He silently chuckled, the way your mouth opens but you stay silent, “How long until you turn eighteen?”

“17 days…”

He laughed out loud, knowing he was right. Part of me knew too but I wanted him to be wrong. “His image is everything to him. The second you don’t comply with that good boy act, he’ll kick you to the curb, sweetheart.”

"I'm just suppose to believe you? Aren't you his enemy or whatever?" The elevator dings, the doors opening and a large family continued to pile in even though we were going up. Still waiting for my answer, Phil, better known as CM Punk, swiftly moved closer, invading every inch of my personal space.

I could smell his cologne mixing with burnt black coffee he was so close. Swallowing hard against my dry throat I tried to keep my eyes focused ahead instead of analyzing every tattoo cover his exposed arms.

"That's exactly why you know I'm not lying. He's kicked every woman to the curb for not being the perfect trophy wife... or getting knocked up... You don't strike me as the kind who sits in a hotel room waiting on some guy."

The suitecase bubbed into my leg and I felt my knees buckle as I fell right into Phil. Catching me, his arm wrapped around my waist while his hand braced against the elevator railing. "Good thing you don't know me," I quipped back.

The large family got off, we had missed our floor or maybe the elevator never got there, who knows. I was distracted by the way Phil smelled and was reading me like a book. I was drunk off it even though my heart belonged to Cody.

Pushing past him I faced the doors, leaning against the cold surface of the wall and trying to ignore him.

Phil kept his distance, taking the hint, when the doors pried open on our floor. "Alright trophy wife, see you at hell in a cell, if he lets you watch, of course."

I watched him walk down the hall, waiting for it to be a safe enough distance before I stepped out. Going the same direction I scanned the numbers on the door until I found mine. Of course his was next door.

Behind the closed door I finally exhaled in relief.

Phil had delivered the ultimate insult and I wasn’t about to let him be right.

I didn’t see Cody at all that night and when I stirred awake I felt my ass hit every hard inch of his body tucked against mine. His arm was lazily draped over my waist and our legs were one movement away from tangled when I rubbed my eyes awake.

Without a word I heard Cody’s sleepy voice, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re tense and planing an escape. I’ll ask again, what’s wrong?” His voice was soft and his eyes were still closed as I looked over my shoulder.

Twisting towards him, “I’m not a trophy wife… I don’t wanna be banished to a hotel and hidden.”

His hand hadn’t stopped roaming my body as he crept closer to me. “I’m not hiding you, I’m keeping the peace until you turn eighteen. As for trophy wife, sounds like Phil got under your skin.”

“Under my skin? How about grating every insecurity and nerve?”

Cody’s lips caught mine in a simple peck as his hand cupped my face. Pulling away only enough he whispered, “Everyone had opinions. Everyone is going to hate us, you have to ignore it.”

“Why does everyone have to hate us?” I barely managed to ask when his mouth found my neck, covering my sensitive skin in kisses.

His hand fell down my body, cupping my breasts and feeling my hard nipples scrape his palm. “Because I unapologetically want you. I’m not hiding it. People love misery, not happy endings baby.”

Cody’s hand drifted further down me until I felt his fingertips smoothing against my panty covered slit. I gasped right into his chest as my hands clutched onto him.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me what you want.”

My legs fell open and I was biting my lip as his fingers pushed my panties to the side. “More, please, more.”

“More what, baby?” He teased me and my hips pressed into the firm mattress.

His warm breath cascaded down my bare pussy and all of me shook. With an exhale I said, “Fuck me.”

Cody didn’t need to be told twice when he pulled down my panties, flinging them at the floor and taking up the space between my legs. The backs of my thighs rubbed against his while his hands worked over himself like a pep talk he didn’t need.

“Why do you do that? Like you aren’t hard already…”

I was hypnotized by his lazy hand jerking himself off between my legs.

“Because your little, tight, pussy gets so much wetter when you watch me baby. I need you as wet as I can get you if I want to fit…” he trailed off while lining himself up. With one hard thrust I felt Cody take up every inch of vacancy my pussy had and gasped at the thickness.

“Oh my God,” I clamped my eyes closed and moaned through the way he felt inside me.

“That’s it, baby. I love the way your pussy chokes my cock. Fuck.”

His dirty mouth only made me wetter when he held himself above me, our mouths full of friction without kissing.

Cody fucked me until I was screaming his name and begging him to not let me come again. My legs were still shaking and I could still feel the orgasm lingering by the third time he made me come all over him.

Kissing my temple he sat back on his heels. “Fuck, I’m gonna end up getting you pregnant, I like making you come too much. Look at this mess you made all my cock, baby.”

He was looking down at himself, still hard, covered in my orgasm still and I felt the iron butterflies in my stomach flutter again.

My cheeks burned and nothing could have felt further from the truth. Cody wasn’t hiding me, he was enjoying me and the two couldn’t both be true.

After Cody showered off he headed to the gym when I got dressed to explore what shopping was near by. As I opened my hotel room door I didn’t see anyone in the hallway as I got on the elevator.

Charging towards me Phil stopped with millimeters between us, barely making it before the doors closed. “Do you think you’re funny? Fucking him so loudly I can hear you coming in my room?”

[feyd-meowtha]

“Do you know the German word for airplane?”

“I do not.”

“Flugzeug,” Uli said with a smile, “Flight thing.”

“Very creative,” Bucky mumbled. He sounded half way to comatose. Maybe Uli shouldn't have given him those valiums he asked for, that might have been a mistake.

Uli looked over at his Zippo on the bedside table. He picked it up and flicked it open, feeling the warmth of the flame on his face. He considered holding it up to a lock of Bucky's hair and watching it singe.

“You know what the word for lighter is?” He asked, the flame a centimetre away from Bucky’s ear.

“I do not.”

"Feuerzeug. Fire thing.”

“Logical,” Bucky nodded, he pressed a kiss to Uli’s stomach, his tongue flickering over his naval. A stray curl of his messy hair almost touched the open flame but he didn't seem to notice.

“What does that make me then?” He asked with a lazy smile. “What kind of thing am I? Huh? What's the German word for Bucky?”

Uli laughed, stroking Bucky’s hair as he thought about his answer. It didn’t take long, the answer was almost too obvious.

“Spielzeug,” he said. Plaything. Toy. He smiled to himself as he scratched the other man’s scalp and earned a hum of contentment.

“Oh yeah and what does that mean?” Bucky asked, Uli just laughed again and shook his head as Bucky looked up at him.

“I'm not telling, you should work it out for yourself.”

Snippet from 3am Eternal Ch11, coming sometime in the New Year.....

[taelyn-ds]

Taelyn tilted her head thoughtfully at Alina's words, her fingers fidgeting slightly with the edge of her notebook. "I guess you're right," she said softly, her tone carrying a mix of wistfulness and uncertainty. "It's... freeing, in a way, not having those kinds of expectations. But it also feels like I'm always trying to prove that I'm worthy of... I don't know, just being seen as more than the mistakes of the past?" She gave a small, self-conscious laugh and glanced at Alina. "But I guess we both have our own kinds of pressure, huh?" Taelyn added, her voice gentle. "We're both just navigating it the best we can." She paused, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks. "Not that I mean to compare or anything. Just, you know, thinking out loud."

"As much as I wish I could help you, I'm kind of stuck in the middle of ever becoming a clan leader, and my parents are still in charge and you are much older than me, so I don't know when that will ever happened," Alina replied. "So, you could say I was born into it too. I mean, there must be a part of you kind of glad that one day you'll be able to love whoever you want to love." Alina knew in the end she would have to marry another clan member and elf.

[marlynnofmany]

Today's typo of the day is OVERPOOPULATION! You're welcome. I'll let you think up a definition for that.

[txrks]

Tag Dump 1

[giantkillerjack]

Not a problem just say it anyway but preface it with some variation of "so I know this was like 5 conversation topics ago, but I'm gonna say it anyway so I can get it out of my brain"

#AutismWinsYetAgain

Or, "Okay I know I'm late saying this, but sometimes I take longer to speak, and so I'm gonna say it anyway."

#AnotherPointForTeamTism

Or, "If it's okay, I just thought of something I wanted to say about the previous topic, and then once I've said it, my brain will move on."

#AllismFansCryingInTheStands

Or, "Ah. I finally figured out what I was going to say in response to what Alisha said. I was gonna say, '______'. Thank you for bearing with me even when I take longer to talk sometimes."

#NoApologiesJustAutismBaby

Or, "Real quick, not ignoring what Brody just said, but I wanted to say _____ in response to what Alisha said. Okay, thank you now I can focus. Here's what I think about what Brody said:"

[NOTE: If Brody just shared something deeply vulnerable and personal, then this response might come off as dismissive to him. In which case you might need to hold on to your comment.]

#AutismCleanSweep

Or, "Hey, allistic social rules are frequently arbitrary and needlessly complicated, and if my interjection here seems a little awkward, then I trust you guys to understand that sometimes I will communicate in a way you are not used to because I trust that you really want me to be able to communicate too because you are good kind people that I appreciate. I also would like to point out that if I am not hurting anyone by being kind of awkward, then treating me like I'm doing real harm is a real judgmental asshole thing to do. - Anyway, here's what I think about that shit Alisha said like 5 minutes ago because I am an unstoppable being of light who cares naught for the needless trappings of precise social protocol that serves no one, and I intend to reroute the conversation back to Brody's point afterwards so he feels included too."

#OkayDontSayThatOneButYouGetTheIdea

----

P.S. If the people you are talking to are acting like dicks to you, that this is not your fault as awkwardness is not inherently harmful, but shaming and excluding people for harmless awkwardness very much is a harmful thing to do.

It isn't your fault when other people choose to be unkind to you, and it isn't your fault if finding a group of kind and non-judgmental people is actually really hard or is just not possible for you right now.

You are still allowed to mourn the loneliness, RSD, fear, and pain that social anxiety due to autism can cause. You are valid for feeling those things because your feelings are important.

You are also valid if none of the stuff I said appeals to you at all. Since every person and every social interaction are in some way unique, there are very few pieces of social advice that are actually universally applicable. What I have said simply may not fit for your circumstances, and that is okay.

I just saw "autism won today", and I started thinking about all the ways a more autistic approach to that situation might actually "win." So I drew on all the times this has happened to me and the responses I've used that people seem to like and accept.

It is genuinely stunning to me how much allistic people's typical way of interacting can cause both them and us enormous stress and confusion for the sake of completely smooth social interactions. (Just look at the social protocols for dating! You're not supposed to say anything out loud, and it's terrible! Which is one reason I mainly end up dating autistics who just SAY THE THING THEY WANT.)

"Smooth" is so overrated. Some people need to learn what a little texture looks like!!

#AutismForeverBabyyyyy

i think its so awesome when you were gonna say somethin in a conversation but you took too long to speak up & someone else says somethin first that renders your unspoken contribution obsolete but your brain wont recalibrate so instead of moving on like a normal person you just get all sad about it #autismwontoday

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Rafe was so hot this season. Need more of him plsss Can you do Topper sister reader getting caught touching herself and then they start sexting and she ask him to fuck her? reader is 18, of course!

I have a few more Rafe requests in the work. Please keep them coming, I miss this man (and JJ!!)

Warnings: 18+, smut, brother’s best friend, sexting, daddy kink, protected p + v, 

—

Rafe never bought your sweet and innocent bullshit you put up in front of people. He knew that under your appearance, under the preppy clothes, the big doe eyes and the angelic laugh, you were anything but innocent. 

Him and Topper have been friends for over ten years, and have been hanging out almost everyday. He watched you grow two feet taller, and when your little girl body turned into a woman’s. He saw you. He studied you. 

It wasn’t until that afternoon the boys came back from the golf course that Rafe had his confirmation. Topper told him to use your bathroom since the main one was being reconstructed, thinking you weren’t home, but when Rafe walked into your room, he saw you naked on your bed, humping your pillow. It wasn’t just any pillow. It was the one with the face on it — a pillow pet, you had called it. The nose of the turtle was rubbing perfectly on your clit, drawing out the softest whimpers and mewls. 

He watched for a few seconds in silence as you rocked down on the pillow back and forth, a smirk curling on his lips. 

‘’Having fun here?’’ he said in a teasing tone, snapping you out of your bubble.

‘’What the fu—’’ You turned around, startled, and saw Rafe standing in your doorway. ‘’Rafe! What are you doing in my room?’’ 

‘’Just needed the bathroom,’’ he explained. His eyes trailed down your body, seeing it for the first time. ‘’Didn’t know you were busy.’’

You threw a plushie at him, hitting him square in the chest. ‘’Get out!’’ 

Rafe laughed and obeyed, closing the door behind him. ‘’If you want to do some naughty things and not get caught, you should lock the door.’’ 

୨୧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖୨୧

Since that afternoon, Rafe couldn't help but shift his eyes to you whenever you were around. Now that he knew what was underneath the skirts and girls tops, his imagination had free rein. He was careful, though, making sure your brother never caught on —Topper would kill him if he knew the things he was thinking about you. He made it crystal clear to Rafe and Kelce: you were off-limits.

You didn’t care about your brother’s rule though. Rafe was your brother’s hot best friend. Every girl in Kildare was begging to get in his pants — and now you got it too. But it didn’t cross your mind until the other day when he walked in your room. Maybe it was because you’d always known him, seen him as a kind of second big brother. But now? That image had changed, and there was no going back.

One evening, Rafe was hanging in his bedroom, ready to go out with nowhere to go since Kelce had bailed on him for a Tinder hook up. The asshole. Rafe was annoyed, but there was nothing he could say to make Kelce choose beers over sex. To be fair, He would choose sex too.  

He had texted Topper, but he was at Ruthie’s, which meant Rafe was completely on his own tonight. He’ll probably smoke a bit of weed and watch some porn later, a cozy evening. But Wheezie was still home and Rafe promised her he had quit smoking. 

As he waited, his phone buzzed on his bed where he left it. Rafe picked it up, confused when he had received a picture from an unknown number. It was a faceless girl in a delicate sheer pink cami, and her tits looked fantastic. He frowned as he typed ‘who’s that?’. Must be a mistake.

A reply came five seconds later.

You: You don’t recognize my tits Rafey?

Instantly, he knew it was you. It was a nickname you gave him when you were younger. No one but you called him that — Rafey. 

Rafe: How did you get my number?

You: Stole it from Top’s phone 🤭

Rafe: Naughty girl 

You: Did you like it?

Rafe: Like what?

You: My pic! 📸

You: [picture attached]

It wasn’t the same picture. Not exactly. This time, your sheer cami was pulled up and your tits were completely out. 

Rafe cursed and ran a hand through his hair. How did that happen? It was clear that you sent this picture with the intention of initiating something with him. But why was this happening now? What made you go and send him a picture of your tits tonight? You never flirted with him before, or showed signals that you were interested. 

He reached down to rub himself over his pants as he typed a reply. 

Rafe: Fuck those are nice 🥵 

You: They’re cold…🧊❄️ Can you come warm them up? 

Rafe had to do a double take when he read your message to make sure he hadn’t misread it. Can you come warm them up? It was right there on his phone screen. He looked down at his pants, tented and tight, and groaned. He wasn't sure if he should go through with this or not. Did he want to go to you? Absolutely. Should he break his best friend’s trust for a good fuck? 

Rafe: As long as you warm me up too. 

He sent a picture of his tented pants, which he was incredibly hard under.

You: Waiting for you 💕 

 ୨୧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖୨୧

When he arrived, Rafe turned off the truck’s headlights and made sure the neighbors didn't see him. The lady that lived in front of the Thornton house was a country club member and loved to spread gossip around. It wasn’t unusual for him to be at the Thornton’s, but Topper’s truck was not in the driveway. 

The last thing he needed was her spying through her curtains. 

You were sitting on your bed in a pair of panties your mom didn’t know you owned and your pink cami, waiting for Rafe to show up. Tannyhill was seven minutes away, he shouldn’t be long.

‘’Hi, Rafey,’’ you greeted with the most innocent smile and doe eyes.

Rafe shook his head, tsking. ‘’Uh, uh. Don’t play that game with me.’’ 

Your lips curled into a smile. ''Took you long.''

He rolled his eyes. ‘’What’s the hurry? Are your parents coming home soon?’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’I’m just so fucking horny.’’ 

Rafe laughed out loud. He never heard you speak like that, so raunchy and bold. 

You stood on your knees and lifted your cami off, leaving you topless. Your nipples were peaked and pretty, as if greeting Rafe. ''Are you gonna come and warm them up?''  

No need to ask twice. Rafe pulled you onto his lap and put his large hands on you, groping and playing with your tits. His calloused fingers kneaded into the soft flesh expertly. He found your hardened nipples, pinching and rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers, causing you to whimper at the sensation. 

‘’You like when I give your tits attention, uh?’’ he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You nodded, shifting so your needy cunt would come in contact with Rafe’s rock hard erection. He noticed what you were trying to do, and a smirk played on his lips before he attached them to your neck. 

‘’Can't get enough?’’ Rafe asked between kisses. ‘’Didn’t know you were such a needy little thing.’’ His hips rocked up into yours, grinding his thick cock against your clothed cunt. 

The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body, making you whimper and cling to his shoulders. ‘’Rafe.’’ 

‘’I'm going to fuck this sweet cunt until you can't walk straight,’’ he promised darkly, nipping over the sensitive spot where your pulse raced, making you gasp and arch into him. 

You’ve thought a lot about Rafe touching you these past days. You knew from overheard conversations with the boys — and talks around the island — and that he was experienced, that he knew how to please a girl. He had a reputation. And goddamn he didn’t disappoint. 

One of his hands left your breasts to slide down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties to rub over your folds...which were slick with arousal. Rafe groaned. ''Fuck, you're already soaked.'' He rubbed slow circles over your clit, feeling how swollen it had gotten. ''Did you grind on that turtle of yours before I arrived? Turtles are an endangered species or some shit, can’t torture them like that.’’ 

A laugh bubbled out. ‘’Rafe…’’ 

‘’What?’’ 

‘’Don’t want you to make me laugh. Want you to fuck me,’’ you said, looking right into his blue eyes. 

Rafe raised an eyebrow, holding your gaze. ‘’You want my cock, babygirl? Want me to fill this pussy up real good?’’ His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance before pushing inside. 

Your walls clenched around him. 

‘’Rafe…’’ you whined again. 

‘’Okay, okay.’’ He kissed your jawline sweetly, then removed his hand from your panties and swiftly stripped them down your legs. ‘’Might keep these as a keepsake,’’ he joked, holding your lacy thong.  

If you hadn’t been so horny, you would have argued with him to get it back — you didn’t have many and you really liked this pair  —, but all you could think about was the beast in Rafe’s pants pounding into you and making you scream. He could get you on your fours like a dog or fold you like a little pretzel if he wished. 

You just needed him.

You reached for his belt and worked to unbuckle it, but Rafe pushed you back and told you to bend over your vanity. His request surprised you, but you complied. The cool air on your wet cunt made you shiver. You never tried that position before. 

You could hear the sound of Rafe undressing — the rustling of fabric, the undoing of a zipper and the clinking of his belt buckle on the floor. You wanted to look at him — at his cock, more precisely —, but he was already behind you, a hand on your back, making you lean down lower, and nudged your legs further apart. 

The air leaked out of your lungs in a squeaky rush when he pressed the tip, gently tearing through your tight walls. The sensation had you gripping the edge of your vanity. 

‘’You okay, baby?’’ he asked with genuine concern in his voice. 

You nodded. ‘’Y-yeah.’’ 

Once the first uncomfortable thrusts passed, you forgot about the initial pain and felt the pleasure flow through your body. Rafe gripped your hips tighter, fingers digging into your soft skin as he picked up pace. The vanity creaked, a rhythmic beat that matched your increasingly frantic movements.

Your tightness enveloped him like a vice as he pounded into you mercilessly. Christ, you felt incredible. Each deep stroke dragged a gasp from your lips, and he reveled in the sounds of pleasure you made.

''You feel so fucking good, baby,'' he grunted, gripping your hips and digging his fingers into your soft flesh. ''Is this what you wanted when you stole my number through Topper's phone? For me to fuck your tight cunt?'' 

Tears were pricking your eyes, your mouth hanging open while wanton sounds kept spilling out. ''Yes, Daddy!'' you uttered out.

The word slipped without noticing, sending a jolt straight to Rafe’s cock, making him throb inside you. ‘’That's it, baby,’’ he growled, even more turned on. ‘’Let Daddy know how much you love being fucked.’’

He pistoned into you harder, the force causing your breasts to bounce with each thrust. The obscene slapping of skin against skin echoed through the room, adding to the soundtrack of your other sounds. It looked like a scene straight from a spicy booktok romance.

Rafe brought a hand around your neck, forcing you to look up. “Look at yourself.”

You lifted your eyes to the reflection in the mirror. It was a view that was erotic. Seeing yourself nude and flushed along with him, and feeling it at the same time was nearly mesmerizing. The look on your face was hazy, strained, and blissful, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. You locked eyes with Rafe through the mirror, and he kissed below your ear.

Behind you, sweat was sticking to Rafe’s smooth chest, but he didn't slow down. He must have really good stamina. You locked eyes with him through the mirror, and he kissed below your ear. 

‘’Are we putting on a good show?’’ he asked, his voice hoarse and low. His words made your cunt clench around Rafe like a vice. He threw his head back with a groan, his whole body tightening. ''Fuck, you're gonna cut my blood flow if you keep squeezing me like that.''

You wanted to stop, but you couldn’t. You had lost all control of your body, gasping and clenching and rutting hard against Rafe until you came with a drawn-out moan. You shivered through your orgasm and Rafe's steady thrusts. 

When he started to shake, you swallowed hard and found your voice. ‘’Come on, Rafey. Fill me up. Cum deep in my pussy, Daddy!’’ 

That pushed him over the edge, his whole body spasming, cock forced all the way in and filling up the condom. Your chest heaving, trying to catch a breath as he rode out the high, grunts and groans leaving his lips. 

You've never heard anything sexier. 

When he was finished, Rafe pulled out and stepped back, leaving alone on your wobbly legs. You started to lose balance, and quickly grabbed the vanity's edge.

‘’Shit, you good?’’ Rafe asked, his tone hovering between concern and smug satisfaction.

You gave a small nod. You just needed to sit. 

His eyes scanned slowly down your body. ''Fucked you that good, uh?'' he said with a smirk, teasing. 

You shot him a playful glare, going to sit on your bed. ‘’Fuck you, Cameron.’’ 

Rafe laughed as he removed and tossed the condom in your trash. ‘’Just did, Princess.’’ 

God. Could he be more exasperating?

He checked on the way back, reading something that made him frown. ‘’Eh, I gotta go.’’

‘’Now?! We just fucked.’’ 

Although this was a casual fuck and that it’s usually how it ends, you didn’t want him to leave right after. You didn’t expect him to cuddle, but you had hoped he would stay a little. To talk or watch something on Netflix. 

Rafe dressed quickly, explaining that Wheezie needed to drive her to her friend’s house because Rose’s car was not starting. 

Before exiting your room, he called your name. ‘’You sound so pretty when you cum.''

Your cheeks flushed and you hid your face with a pillow. ''Rafe...'' 

The corners of his lips curved into a smug smile. He wasn’t done. ‘’Oh, and I liked when you called me Daddy. It's hot.''

—

OBX taglist: @moralina@eudximoniakr @toylewestinnyc @rottenstyx@sweeterheartxamerica  @jordierama @viridwityy @izzy-laufeyson @kenzi-woycehoski @lilaconner @Katsukis1Wife   @hawkegfs @mommyruuetrue   @acornacreacure @snownjune @nmedina8611 @slvtherinseeker   @slvtherinseeker @poppet05 @1stevelacyfan @illf4iry @withbeautyandrage   @maybankslover @sunflowerziva @laylasbunbunny @Honey-marvel15 @leoluvsur-pappy @slytherhoes @kcskye123 @outerbanksacc   @pedrosprincess   @mikaelsonsstuff  @skyesthebomb   @a1mzcruml3y @iluurmom   @popeheywardssecretgf  @madelynie  @loverofdrewstarkey   @radiant-whore  @outsider-at-hogwarts @luci1fer @bbycowboi @rafecameronsbadussy @urbfsbitchlol @nomorespahgetti @bloodyhw @Veescorneroftheworld   @papayaboyluvr @slytherinambitious @darylscvmdumpster @tommysaxes @johannelis2302nely @lynbubble   @straberryshortcake143 @beth-gallagher22 @doestalker @rubyliquor @theflcwer @angelxxrose @sierraluvzz @cruzgrecia @evelestrange @sunnysunny133696  @under-seasoned-pasta @hoeforsirius   @buckyswhxre @emerald-09   @simonessolarsystem @rehead1180 @stvrkey  @ynmunson @riddle18  @love4ldr @withfireandbl00d @wonderland2425 @blublock404 @eddieslut69

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, dubcon, yandere, omegaverse, forced/accidental bonding, subjugation

♡ part one

♡ fem reader

Once you wake up in the morning, you feel… changed.

Your body feels full—as though you’d indulged too much last night—heavy and sticky and sore all over. There’s a strange taste in your mouth—sweet, somewhat salty, and metallic. Geez, you’re head’s pounding—how much did you drink last night? No, this feels different from a hangover—more full-bodied than that—a withdrawal of some kind or another. You must have done more at the party than drink, and yet, you can’t remember having stayed there all that long. No, you left with someone. That’s right. You went with… that overgrown Omega.

Oh no.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

He comes in only wearing a pair of snug boxers—body stacked with brawn, not a single hint of Omega-like softness aside from his tousled bed hair. There’s a big toothy smile on his face—eyes are creased in cheer while carrying an overfull breakfast tray. You know you’re hungry, and yet you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but sick to your stomach by the horrid sight of his flaunted neck, decorated by a gory ring of your bitemark.

No. No, no, no, no, no! Fuck! “Tell me that’s not what I think it is…”

He laughs lightly with an awkward smile, apologetically scratching the back of his neck while balancing the tray in the other hand. “I’m afraid so…”

The world stops spinning, and for a moment, you think it might actually never start up again. Your throat snares, and you think you might throw up. How the fuck could this happen?

He sets the tray down next to you, then himself. The whole bed takes waves upon his weight. You remain still—eyes unrest and mouth hung.

“Hey, I know this might not be what we had planned, but…” he starts.

But you don’t let him finish before declaring, “I’ll take full responsibility.”

There’s nothing else to do, you think. The red string of fate has tied the two of you together. It’s sealed.

“There is no going back now.”

His face expresses shock, but if you’d taken a closer look, he’d probably not be able to hide it—the overwhelming sensation of victory. Oh, bless your Alpha pride. He knew you would say that.

He smiles softly. “I’m in your care then.”

It’s a work in progress after that—slow in the beginning, but that’s to be expected. You never pegged yourself to be the type who got caught up in the unmendable mistakes of a one-night stand, but then here you were—mated with a stranger, moving into his apartment because it’s bigger and closer to work, sharing the same bed and eating the same meals and helping each other through one another’s ruts and heats.

He's still no closer to being your type. In fact, he’s the total opposite—too giant to give you even a semblance worth of superiority over him. A couple of days ago, when he’d been searching for the remote in the couch you were lying on, he’d taken to pick you up instead of just asking you to move. It was completely humiliating. He’s so brazen, and it’s starting to become clear he’s doing it all on purpose!

He doesn’t get fussy when you state your claim of being the one on top—no, but what he does instead is somehow worse, going along with it with snide praise, grinning up at you, his big hands weighing heavy on your haunches as you roll them, calling you his good girl. It seems to humor him how it angers you—chuckling behind your hands as you layer them both atop his mouth, growling at him to “Shut up!”

No, he doesn’t mind letting you take charge. He rather enjoys the view of watching you ride—working so hard to appease him while he rests pretty and admires your body—all soft edges and plush curves. You tire quickly, though—poor thing, why don’t you leave the rest to him?

You had rejected it the first few times he’d offered. Your bruised pride simply wouldn’t have it—you’d rather you both stop than let him finish you off. But a couple more nights and you’d quicker come around than either of you expected—perhaps worn down by his constant nagging or simply fed up with your own failure—you let him assist by bouncing you on his lap.

You wouldn’t admit it to his face, never, but you’d enjoyed it far more than you could have ever thought…

Thankfully, your face in and of its own glory told him all he needed to know. It didn’t take long before he’d taken full advantage of it, nor for you to begin allowing it without being asked. Soon you were letting him fuck you against the wall, making the entire room shake—wall creaking and shelves rattling, pictures falling down. You hold your tongue and hold on tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him—moaning sweetly right by his ear. Fuck, you even bite him again.

As time passed, you came around to indulging more and more of his antics. Letting him fuck you from behind—hard and heavy and deep—thrusting into you while grappling your waist. You even go down on all fours when he does it—digging your claws into the sheets.

Lying belly-up beneath him still makes you feel nervous—and slightly ashamed—almost convinced something’s wrong with you for liking it. And yet you can’t help it. You know any other Omega wouldn’t fuck you like this. They wouldn’t have the stamina, the drive, or the desire. Not like him, who does it all like it’s his nature even when it shouldn’t be.

Guess you’re both freaks.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[rememberwren]

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.”