#ring frame machines

[messungauto]

Enhancing Textile Machinery Efficiency with Messung's NX-ERA Xpress PLC

The textile industry, being a part of global manufacturing, has witnessed a massive transformation in recent years due to accelerated technological advancements. From yarn making to dyeing yarns with complex patterns, each process of textile production has been streamlined for higher productivity, accuracy, and efficiency. The need for high-quality products and shorter production cycles has generated fertile ground for automation, especially with the use of Programmable Logic Controllers (PLCs)in textile manufacturing.

This is where we at Messung Industrial Automation come in the picture with our cutting-edge automation solutions. With our strong heritage of delivering strong and scalable automation solutions, we have been the industry leader in industrial automation. Our innovative and compact PLC,  NX-ERA Xpress has been crafted to specifically address the specific requirements of industries such as textile manufacturingwith the ideal combination of performance, flexibility, and energy efficiency. In this blog, let’s explore the revolutionary potential of NX-ERA Xpress PLCand its impact on textile machinery, with an emphasis on how it improves operational efficiency, cuts costs, and accelerates the journey towards Industry 4.0.

The Role of PLCs in Modern Textile Manufacturing

Programmable Logic Controllers (PLCs) form the foundation of automation in textile manufacturing, especially in the "cotton to yarn" and "yarn to fabric" segments where their role is most critical. These rugged, industrial-grade controllers ensure precision, speed, and efficiency by managing machinery and processes in real time. From ginning and bale plucking to spinning, carding, drawframe, combing, ring frame machines, and autoconers, PLCs are deeply embedded in every stage of the cotton-to-yarn journey.

In the yarn-to-fabric sector, PLCs continue to play a significant role in the operation of warping machines, twisting machines, and various types of looms such as shuttle, airjet, and rapier looms. They are equally vital in fabric processing lines, managing singeing, bleaching, dyeing, and a wide range of finishing machines designed to enhance textile properties like softness, wrinkle resistance, or water repellency. Printing lines, including rotary and flat bed printing machines, also rely heavily on PLC-controlled automation.

Across these applications, PLCs are integrated with Human Machine Interfaces (HMI), Variable Frequency Drives (VFDs), and in high-speed machines like spinning lines, Servo amplifiers and Servo motors are used for superior speed and torque control.

While the garment sector (fabric to garment) does involve automation, Messung’s core expertise and solutions, including the NX-ERA Xpress PLC and NX-ERA Jet PLC, are primarily focused on the earlier and more automation-intensive stages of textile manufacturing.

Benefits of Implementing PLCs on Textile Machinery

Increased Efficiency: PLCs allow streamline operations by automating processes that were previously manual, significantly reducing downtime and increasing throughput

Improved Accuracy: The high-level precision control afforded by PLCs ensures each activity in the fabric process, whether spinning or weaving, is undertaken with perfection.

Real-Time Monitoring: PLC-based systems make equipment monitoring in real-time a certainty, where defects are flagged off early and avoid costly downtime along with plant operation performance improvements.

As the textile industry advances, compact PLCs are not an indulgence but a must-have. Automation is the key to staying competitive, and industrial automation PLC systems like the NX-ERA Xpress are at the forefront of this revolution.

Learning More About NX-ERA Xpress PLC

The NX-ERA Xpress PLC is our response to the increasing needs of the textile industry. By harnessing the capability of Programmable Logic Control Systems and the flexibility of contemporary communication protocols, the NX-ERA Xpress provides a powerful and scalable solution for numerous industrial automation applications.

Features of NX-ERA Xpress PLC:

High-Density Digital and Analog I/O: The NX-ERA Xpress PLC features a high-density I/O design that is capable of processing vast amounts of data input and output at one time. This is important for the textile industry, where real-time data from many machines need to be processed efficiently in order to optimize performance.

Programming through Codesys® (IEC 61131 Standard): Among the most impressive aspects of the NX-ERA Xpress PLC is its support for Codesys®, an open-source programming platform. This standardization enables seamless integration with industrial equipment across the board, which makes it an attractive option for PLC manufacturing companies.

Integrated Communication Protocols: With inbuilt compatibility for communication protocols such as Ethernet TCP/IP, Modbus, and CANopen, the NX-ERA Xpress PLC facilitates smooth connectivity among various machines and devices on the shop floor. This connectivity is vital for ensuring smooth operation throughout the complete manufacturing process.

Industry 4.0 Readiness: NX-ERA Xpress PLC comes with OPC-UA and MQTT readiness, making it Industry 4.0-ready. These are technologies that support data exchange over different platforms, and they simplify the integration of machines by manufacturers into a smart factory environment.

Integrated HTML Web Server for Remote Monitoring: Remote monitoring has never been simpler. The integrated HTML web server enables operators to monitor and control the PLC remotely, offering flexibility and real-time visibility into machine performance.

The high-performance features and compact PLC design of NX-ERA Xpress PLC make it perfect for the textile industry. Whether you're automating cotton spinning, weaving, or dyeing, the NX-ERA Xpress provides all the power you need to optimize your operations.

Advantages of NX-ERA Xpress in Textile Applications

The textile industry requires solutions that are capable of providing not just high performance but also cost-effectiveness and sustainability. Our NX-ERA Xpress PLC provides a number of benefits for applications in textile machinery, such as:

Energy Efficiency

In the textile industry, energy consumption is a major operational expense. The NX-ERA Xpress PLC is built to maximize control and minimize power consumption, especially in power-hungry processes such as spinning. Through automation processes and optimizing machine efficiency, the PLC ensures textile plants make substantial savings on energy.

High-Speed Processing

Textile production processes often involve rapid and adaptive control systems that are necessary for handling high-speed manufacturing lines. The processing of high speeds facilitated by the NX-ERA Xpress PLC helps data move faster to provide instant adjustment capabilities, ensuring minimum lags in manufacturing processes.

Precision Control

The clothing industry is based on the effective control of variables like thread tension, fabric alignment, and dying processes. NX-ERA Xpress PLC ensures accurate control in order to match every parameter in the manufacturing process to the prescribed specifications. The result is repetitive product quality, and less it is defective.

Scalability

As textile factories develop and expand, scalable automation systems become increasingly relevant. NX-ERA Xpress PLC uses a modular construction that means that automation systems can be expanded as they are required by manufacturers, presenting a great solution for expanding businesses in the textile industry in the long term.

Cost-Effectiveness

Automation must not be expensive. The NX-ERA Xpress PLC is an affordable solution for textile producers that offers high-end features without an exorbitant price tag. It is meant to offer high-performance at an affordable rate, so any textile firm can use it.

Textile Machinery Applications: PLC Precision for a Modern Mill

As textile factories embrace digital transformation, the NX-ERA Xpress PLC emerges as a compact yet powerful solution tailored for automation-ready textile machinery. With its robust control features and Industry 4.0 connectivity, the NX-ERA Xpress brings intelligence and agility to a wide range of textile processes.

Let’s explore key use cases across the textile value chain:

Yarn Steaming Machine:

Steaming is a critical stage in yarn preparation where temperature, pressure, and timing must work in harmony. The NX-ERA Xpress PLC ensures:

Precise control of temperature and steam pressure for consistent yarn conditioning

Regulation of steaming duration to match different yarn types and production speeds

Automation of loading and unloading mechanisms, reducing manual intervention and boosting throughput

With its real-time responsiveness and compact design, the NX-ERA Xpress PLC enhances efficiency, consistency, and reliability in yarn steaming operations.

Heat Setting and Space Dyeing Machine Integration:

In advanced textile finishing, seamless integration between heat setting and dyeing is essential. NX-ERA Xpress PLC brings synchronization and control to:

Temperature management for precise heat setting, improving dimensional stability and dye fixation

Control of dye application in the space dyeing process, enabling unique patterns with consistent results

Coordination of material flow between machines, ensuring smooth transitions and avoiding process bottlenecks

The result is an integrated, high-performance workflow for specialty dyeing applications, digitally governed for optimal output and reduced waste.

Integration with Messung's Automation Ecosystem

One of the major strengths of the NX-ERA Xpress PLC is that it can integrate smoothly with all our other products, like the XM-PRO remote I/O modules. This makes it possible to have a unified automation solution that simplifies the control and monitoring of your entire textile plant.

With a single provider for all automation needs, textile manufacturers can enjoy streamlined operations, reduced complexity, and improved support. The synergy between the NX-ERA Xpress PLC and our other products ensures that your factory is fully equipped to tackle the challenges of modern textile manufacturing.

Conclusion

In summary, our NX-ERA Xpress PLC is a game-changer in the textile sector, providing powerful, scalable, and affordable automation. With its high-performance capabilities, energy efficiency, and accurate control, the NX-ERA Xpress PLC is ideally positioned to address the changing needs of textile producers.

With the NX-ERA Xpress PLC, you can elevate your textile manufacturing process to the next level. Whether you want to optimize spinning, weaving, or dyeing processes, Messung's automation solutions provide the reliability and performance that you require to remain ahead in a competitive market.

So, why wait? Consult Messung today for a customized automation solutionthat suits your textile manufacturing needs. It’s time to embrace the future of textile production with the NX-ERA Xpress PLC - where automation meets innovation

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

PORN DIRECTOR KÖNIG

nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.

you never planned on doing porn.

you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.

but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.

you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.

camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.

you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.

but it worked.

you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.

then, your account blew up.

someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.

at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.

that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.

[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.

🔺14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment

u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf

🔺6.2k

u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment

🔺4.9k

u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life

🔺3.3k

u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?

🔺7.1k

your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.

the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.

suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.

new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.

"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)

"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)

"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)

the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.

demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.

for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.

you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.

but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.

you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.

something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.

you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.

she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."

you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.

valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."

you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.

you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.

he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.

instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.

his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.

he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.

he looks warm.

he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.

and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.

he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.

it doesn’t work.

“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.

oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.

his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.

you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.

“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.

he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.

“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.

you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”

könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”

you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.

the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.

it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.

and then your phone rings.

you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.

“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.

but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”

your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”

“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”

you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.

“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”

“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”

but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”

the line clicks.

he’s gone.

panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.

you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.

könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”

you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.

you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”

könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.

he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"

you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.

fuck.

you’re going to cry.

könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.

shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.

it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.

but there they go anyway.

because he's been watching you.

not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.

and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?

nothing personal. certainly nothing unprofessional.

but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.

watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.

könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.

‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.

and god, does he know you.

he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.

he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.

könig has jerked off to all of it.

not just once. not just twice.

so many times he’s lost count.

sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.

sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.

it drives him fucking crazy.

it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.

stop.

he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.

but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—

places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.

his cock twitches.

jesus christ.

it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—

and yeah.

he’s fucked.

his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.

"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.

but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.

"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."

he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.

his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—

"i can do it."

your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.

"what?"

könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.

"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."

he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."

it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.

it’s not like that anymore.

now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.

and this, you, would look incredible.

"are you-" you swallow hard, throat working, voice tight. "you’re serious?"

könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."

your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.

he notices. of course he fucking notices.

you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.

he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.

"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"

you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.

and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.

this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.

somehow, that makes it worse.

the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.

the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.

the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.

your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–

and there he is.

könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.

he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.

then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.

it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.

his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.

your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.

könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.

you swallow. "do i look okay?"

silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."

his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—

but god, he doesn’t stop looking.

you breathe out. "are we ready?"

that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."

you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.

"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"

a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.

he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"

"speed!"

he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."

his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’

you nod.

"action!"

the front door creaks open.

you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.

it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.

it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.

then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.

you move.

your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.

könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.

his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."

"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."

your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."

"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."

heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.

then, he kisses you.

and fuck.

it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.

"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."

könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.

his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.

then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.

"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."

his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."

könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.

he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"

his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.

his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.

you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."

the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.

könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—

slap.

he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.

you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.

"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"

your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.

chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"

"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."

your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.

"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"

heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.

"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.

he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."

you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.

he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"

könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"

your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"

"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.

your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."

your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."

so you do.

you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.

you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"

"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"

you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.

"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"

his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.

könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"

you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.

every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.

"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."

you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.

"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."

he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.

“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.

"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.

"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"

"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"

könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.

your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.

könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."

your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.

then he lets gravity do most of the work.

your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.

"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."

you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.

"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."

könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.

you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.

you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."

your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.

"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.

"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"

your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.

könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."

you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.

"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.

he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.

"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."

you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.

"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.

your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.

"kö-”

“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.

"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"

your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.

könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."

his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.

"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."

your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.

he notices. of course he notices.

"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"

your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.

"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."

you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.

"könig-"

"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."

your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.

könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.

he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"

könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"

your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.

his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."

his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.

his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.

your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.

könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.

"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.

he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.

"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."

he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”

“-and cut!”

[readwritealldayallnight]

Declined

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 9.2k words (whoopsies)

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, stalker!Simon but he does it with the intention of loving you so therefore I also tag this as fluff, the usual swearing, smut, f!oral receiving, p in v sex, unprotected sex, finishing inside

Continuation of this idea

He almost hadn’t seen you, that very first time

He was begrudgingly on his sixth day of mandatory leave, something he had been pushing Price on for too long now, the Captain finally putting his foot down and saying the Lieutenant could no longer avoid it. Following a couple of particularly brutal operations recently, the higher ups were becoming increasingly concerned as to his mental stability, stating Ghost’s actions and his own written reports reflected an impulsivity and darkness they were steadily losing confidence in.

Ghost found the claims ridiculous. They had shaped him into exactly what they needed him to be on the battlefield, hadn’t they? They’d taken the scrawny runt of the litter and shaped him into a lean, mean, killing machine who never blinked twice as the blood of those lives he’d taken became as permanent of a stain on his skin as the ink from a tattoo gun. What did they fuckin’ care how his bloody mental health was?

Price insisted that the younger man not sulk inside of his flat for the entire duration of what he tried to convince him could be treated as a well deserved rest, encouraging him to get out at least once a day, if only to stretch his legs and prevent him from going truly stir crazy.

��Ye do understand they won’t let you back until they think you’re at least tryin’ to put the work in?” The Captain had told him the last time he saw him, doing his best to remind his second in command of the situation they’d been put into. “Take up fuckin’ yoga if ye think it’ll help ye. Just find something to distract yer mind and have them clear ye to come back sooner than later.”

A distraction huh?

Now, he’s sat at a table in the corner of an already too small and too cramped cafe, nursing a less than mediocre cup of tea on his daily outing, only just looking to help pass the time faster until he could be back on base where he belonged. For no particular reason other than perhaps divine intervention, he had only happened to glance up that time the bell above the door rang rather than the other hundred times it had gone off this morning, and that was when Ghost saw you

You, who appeared as though you’d only stumbled into the shop because a strong gust of wind had pushed you in his direction, your skittish, frazzled appearance making you stand out amongst the crowd of bored looking caffeine addicts stood waiting in queue, hardly sparing you a glance as they awaited their next 5£ fix

You were pushing your hair out of your face as you caught your breath, accompanied by the sound of the bell ringing as the door finally shut behind you, a noise nearly akin to angels strumming their harps up above when Ghost caught his first proper glimpse of your visage

There was something about you that piqued his interest then and there, his eyes never leaving you as you continuously struggled with the stack of books, journals and loose papers nearly slipping from your grasp, your other arm occupied with the so full it could burst tote bag that kept sliding off your shoulder

He had to stop himself from actually scoffing at your appearance, you came across as so opposite to how he carries himself, silent and stealthy, cool and collected, priding himself on being able to slip in and out of rooms unnoticed, even with his huge frame. And here you were, stumbling in like a bull in a china shop and appearing before him like the epitome of a hot mess on legs

He watched you the entire time you stood in queue, he watched you place your order and pay, noting the way his cold, dead to the world heart tried to skip a beat when you smiled at the barista, he watched you glance about the cafe as you waited for your beverage, your gaze somehow never landing on the one that had been focused on you since you walked in

Now, there are countless explanations as to why Ghost did what he did next, many of them could be explained away as being innocent enough, no real ill-intent or harm done, the Lieutenant was simply bored and looking for something to occupy his time with, to entertain his mind, like the higher ups had ordered

Unfortunately for you, he believed he had just found his distraction

It was really almost too easy, any simple civilian could have done it, his SAS skills not even needing to come into play you were making this so simple for him, you might as well have been asking for it

First, he saw your eyes light up when the barista called your name out along with your drink order, giving Ghost the first half of the information he needed. Next, he was watching you walk by his table to collect your beverage, paying him no mind at all as he glanced towards the stack in your arms, your last name practically popping out at him from the top corners of nearly all your loose papers, granting the large men exactly what he’d been hoping to see

You were none the wiser as you happily skipped out of the cafe, bidding the girl behind the counter a happy Sunday along the way, unaware as to the pair of eyes following your every movement, and the traumatized mind behind them who had already begun his plotting

One week

Seven days go by since that first Sunday he saw you in the cafe

And in that time, Simon’s kept himself busy, learning as much as he can about his newest distraction, his new little hobby, his pet project

Equipped with your first and last name tucked into the folds of his brain, it had been all too simple, nearly comical how easy it was for Ghost to look you up online and learn all he wanted to know about you

Thanks to the world wide web, in a weeks time Ghost had been able to discover all those essential details he supposes other men would have had to learn through taking you on date after date, finding out which school you’re attending for your masters degree, gaining access to your class schedule, giving him a glimpse into your routine Mondays through Fridays, discovering which local book store you’re working at part time on the weekends

You’re evidently a clever bird, having your few social media accounts set to private mode, but you’re sweet to think something like that could keep someone like him from getting what he wants

Soon enough, he’s got access to every photo and video you’ve ever uploaded to the web through the years, happy to note that you’ve never posted anything that would hint towards there being a man in your life right now

And really, it isn’t entirely your fault that you’re so open and honest in some of your posts, believing that no one apart from your family and close friends will be reading it, as you had excitedly posted photos of your new apartment last year, writing in the caption how you were eager to start this new chapter of your life, living on your own, all by yourself, not even a dog to keep you company when the floor boards creak at night and branches tap against the windows, just and old blind cat you’d rescued

While your friends had commented on how cute and cozy your decor had been, his own eyes skipped over the overpriced pillows and throws and instead locked on to the windows and doors, noting the standard, or altogether missing, security systems in place

Ghost is thinking about what the easiest way to gain access to your flat’s floor plan would be, he could pretend he’s an interested tenant and reach out to the landlord, hmm but then he’d have to actually talk to someone, something he’s been able to avoid doing so far, avoid leaving any trace- when the sound of the bell ringing above the door lets him know you’ve walked in

Much like last time, his eyes following your figure is the only perceptible movement he allowed himself, guarded by the shadows of his hood over his head, no one would ever be able to notice the steadfast attention he pays to your every single movement

You spend a total of 9 minutes 38 seconds in the cafe this time around, from the time you enter until you’re walking back out with your warm drink in hand, each second being ingrained into Ghost’s mind

A small part of him had almost tried to fool himself in the beginning, attempting to convince himself that this would be enough, learning about a curious little bird from behind a screen and silently watching her bounce around a coffee shop once a week should have been enough to keep his warring mind occupied, to keep the Lieutenant distracted until the higher ups decided enough time had passed to offer him a chance back

That was until, he’d heard you laugh

You were nearly out of the cafe, so close to being an itch he could almost consider satisfyingly scratched and over with, when a woman and her overzealous toddler came bounding round the corner, practically knocking into you with your full arms

But rather than becoming upset at your nearly spilled drink or almost ruined academic papers, you reassured the woman, got down to the tots level to make sure they were alright, and then you laughed with them

Your fucking giggle was to him what children heard when the ice cream truck came driving by, your smile stretching further than it previously had before his eyes, your voice sounding as melodic as the bell above the door did, and that was when Ghost knew, he was fucked

All of the world’s information online couldn’t put into words what he was seeing in front of him with his own two tired eyes; you were sweet

Too sweet, tooth-achingly sweet, sweet enough to trust this cold, dark world and offer it a bright smile in return

He’s seen people killed for far, far less

But not you

He wouldn’t allow such a cruel fate to befall such a darling bird, he wanted to keep you sweet, keep you smiling and giggling without worries of predators watching from the shadows, mouths salivating and jaws itching to clamp down on something soft

Not when you’d flown to close to him twice now, near enough that he can practically feel the wind beneath your wings as you float out of the cafe again, unaware that you’ve stepped into the large, gilded cage that is Ghost’s attention

Another week passes

Ghost takes his curiosity away onto the streets for the first time and counts to sixty before he follows you out of the coffee shop that Sunday, careful to stick close to the buildings and shadows, mingling in with the crowds and keeping a reasonable distance from you as he follows in your steps

He lurks near the crowded bust stop across the street from the moment you walk into your shift at the bookshop, and remains there until the second you step back out hours later, locking up the store behind you and beginning your stroll home

He waits outside your flat, noting which window on the second floor lights up with the soft glow of a lamp not long after you venture into the building, letting him know exactly which one is yours, and which one he’ll be keeping a close eye on from now on

Another week passes

Ghost has most of your routine memorized by now

He knows what time you leave in the morning depending on your classes that day, knows you often don’t make it home until after dark on those days

He knows your shifts at the bookstore every weekend never change, with your Sunday morning visits to the cafe before work being one of the few luxuries you apparently allow yourself

Ghost hangs around your flat often enough that he allows some of the neighbours to begin recognizing him in passing, letting them assume he must live in the building as well

All the better for him really, when the nice older couple doesn’t blink twice as he carefully grumbles about being locked out one night and they grant him their key code to unlock the front doors

Another week passes

Ghost knows you’ve been complaining to your landlord about how the building’s laundry machines are giving you a hard time, though you don’t tell the balding man about how it seems your undergarments are the only thing disappearing from your loads-

He knows where you do your shopping, and how you avoid a certain cashier who never gets the hint when you don’t return his attempts at flirting

He knows your Sunday morning coffee order by heart, knows exactly around what time you’ll be popping into the cafe, always around 8:25am before your 9am shift stocking books six blocks away

Another week passes

Ghost knows you haven’t noticed yet that the nuisance of a cashier at your local grocer hasn’t shown up to work in days now, the Lieutenant having ensured that he wouldn’t be bothering you anymore

He knows you’re running low on panties, considering he has nearly an entire weeks worth of your unwashed garments tucked safely in his nightstand

He knows you’ve started to notice the door leading out to your second storey balcony isn’t always locked when you return home, even though you could have sworn it was secured before you left that morning

He knows you’ve begun to question whether you left that lamp on when you rushed out for school, or if you’d closed your bedroom curtains before bed at night, or where those leftovers in the fridge went-

Ghost knows it’s nearly time to act - his clever bird is slowly catching on as he grows less and less careful, more daring - but it’s on one of those nights that he feels bold enough to slide your balcony door ajar enough for him to slide inside and watch your chest rise and fill with each breath as you sleep peacefully unaware, that his phone rings and nearly ruins everything

It was only in recent weeks that Ghost felt confident enough, or perhaps stupid enough his Captain say, to observe you more closely, taking a more ‘hands-on’ approach. At night, he more often than not occupied the nooks and crannies of your domicile as you tossed and turned in your sleep, mere steps away from the man who simply wished to watch you dream for now

He can’t explain his fascination with you even to himself - it’s as if he awoke one morning to discover he- someone had drilled a hole into his skull and poured your liquid form directly into his cranium

He sometimes wishes you were as easy to catch as a common insect, wishes that he could examine you under a microscope, to pin your extremities down and take a scalpel to your soft flesh to finally peer inside and see what makes you tick- but he knows he must tread lightly, keep you from bleeding out on the table too soon

Always careful and sure of his movements as he inched your bedroom door open that night, he had been preoccupied on watching you for any sudden indication of disturbing and waking you, he’d been entirely caught off guard by the sudden buzzing going off in his pocket

He hadn’t been expecting anything from his cell that night, considering that this was the first sign of life his the device had shown in the month he’d been forced on leave, but he thanked whatever God might still be listening to him that the ringer was off like it always was, saving him from the disaster that would have been his ringtone suddenly waking you just before two o’ clock in the morning to a masked stranger lurking in your doorway

Though the phone call hadn’t woken you, it had startled Ghost enough to throw him off, had him stepping back in surprise and making the near fatal mistake of stepping on one of your cats squeaky toys

The cheap pet store toy goes off in the otherwise deadly silent room, only the light of the moon creeping through your curtains casts a faint glow across your sleeping figure, which to Ghost’s horror, begins to stir softly

Ghost has backed out of your bedroom, slipped out the balcony door, silently shut it behind him and jumped back down onto the street with the agility of a trained professional in their element, all before the call has even been sent to voicemail

He’s ripping the device from his pocket and slamming thick fingers onto buttons as the sudden surge of adrenaline catches up to him- as he realizes just how fucking close that was - daring to glance up and spot a single light turning on in the window he knows is your bedroom

“What?” He asks harshly into the receiver, uncaring to check what the caller ID says- only one person has his cell number anyhow

“I’ll be honest,” The Captain’s accent comes through clear as day, sounding all too chipper for the current time on the clock. “I was expectin’ at least a slightly warmer greetin’ from you.”

“After a month of hearing jack shit from you?” Ghost knows he’s being slightly crueller than he needs to be. He is happy to hear Price’s voice, but the inconvenient timing of this call has him on edge, has him wishing this conversation would end already. His body may be out of your flat, but his mind is still up there with you, wondering if you’ve gone back to sleep yet, if you were convinced it was just the cat moving around at night. “Wha’ is it, Cap?”

There’s silence on the line for a moment, shuffling and the tell-tale sound of the older man letting out a deep sigh as he settles in says, “You’ve been… quiet Ghost. Was expectin’ to have heard from you by now.”

“Ain’t I supposed to be bloody takin’ it easy? As you’d put it? Why would I call when you’re the one that fuckin’ sent me away.” He surprises even himself with his harshness towards a man he holds so much respect for, one of the few people he holds to such a high standard. But the inconvenience of the timing of this call has Ghost on edge, has him uneasy, spitting out any words that will end this call and allow him to let out the breath he feels he’s still holding in.

“Fair ‘nough.” The Captain answers, having already suspected that this would likely not turn into the most joyous of phone calls. “Though for the record, you know it was never my call, Ghost. I pushed against it, vouched for you, they just-” the older man lets another deep sigh before he decides to end that train of thought and get to the point of why he called in the first place. “They’re saying they’re willing to have you come in now, with the time that’s passed. Retake your psych eval. You tell them whatever they want to hear to pass you, and you’re back in, you hear me?”

He can almost picture it, the longer Price goes on

He could pick up the duffel bag he’s had packed and sitting ready by the door since the moment he’d been put on this mandatory leave, drive to base, bullshit his way through whatever fuckin’ questions are meant to determine whether he’s fit for duty or not (even if he risks returning with a mind even darker than when they sent him away-), and be back on the battlefield by the end of the week, gunshots ringing in his ears once more and blood under his fingernails

The thing is however, there’s an itch under his skin he hasn’t been able to scratch yet, a melody stuck on repeat in his mind he hasn’t been able to perfect the tune to quiet yet, a sliver he put into his flesh himself and hasn’t found a way to pry out without making a mess

“Wish it were that simple.” The masked man grumbles under his breath, leaning his head back against the scratchy brick of the building, staring up at the starless sky, the only light he can see is one leading him back towards you

“What was that?” Price attempts to clarify, believing he’s misheard his Lieutenant. From his perspective, this is the news his second in command has been waiting to hear this entire time and he suffered through days of boredom and inactivity. He figured this would be a quick call that ended with his missing task force member returning as soon as possible

“‘Fraid I ain’t quite ready yet, sir. Got something I need to take care of first.”

“You- how do you mean, Ghost?” He asks again, in slight disbelief that the man on the other end of the line isn’t itching to return as he believed he would be.

“Took your advice, Cap. Found a distraction. Can’t go being upset now, to find out I’m distracted.”

It takes him longer than it should, to come up with what he considers as Plan A

Every scenario he dreamt up in his head, every possible meet-cute that could occur, none of it seemed good enough for inserting himself into your life and ensuring his spot became a permanent one

What if he caught you at a bad time and you hardly spared a glance at him?

What if he intimidated you, the way he tended to throw most people off?

What if you found him strange, creepy, scary?

What if you didn’t like him and he ruined any chance he ever had at doing this right?

He couldn’t risk such a thing, not when he intended on keeping you around for a long, long time

He had to ensure that your first meeting went well, was one where you would be just as infatuated with him as he’d been with you

In order for this to work, he had to have you approach him

Either way, he was going to have you, he would just rather if you went willingly and happily

The idea had struck him on a Saturday, as he watched you and your coworker locking up the bookstore one evening, overhearing a snippet of your conversation had a lightbulb appearing above his head

You stood by the shopfront as your coworker tugged on the door handle, making sure it was locked tight for the night, before she mentioned to you; “God, I wish payday wasn’t a week away.”

“Tell me ‘bout it.” You’d agreed, readjusting the strap of your constantly slipping tote bag on your shoulder. “I hope I’ve got enough money in my bank account to cover my coffee tomorrow morning.”

Bingo

He’d shown up to the cafe extra early the next morning, though he always arrived at least a half hour before you did, wanting to fade into the background of the bustling morning crowd before you popped in

He’d considered finding a way to hack your bank cards and have them malfunction, but then thought better of it, curious if he could go about this another way that was less likely to leave a digital footprint

He knew the barista working the counter this morning was a newer hire, hadn’t even been here for a full month yet

He tried to look as non-intimidating as he could as he walked up to her, though that was no easy feat considering his stature alone

He ordered his drink, his fee for being able to occupy the corner table as long as he liked, before he told her he had a strange request to make

He was confident that she wouldn’t tell him no, that she was still new enough to the job that she wouldn’t want to deny a paying customer

He explained that there’d be a woman coming in later, and that he wanted to pay for her order

Ghost could see how the naive girl was almost fooled into believing he was sweet for a moment, perhaps caring even, asking him if he was wanting to start one of those pay it forward trains where everyone pays for the person behind them- before he cut her off

“No.” He’d clarified firmly, seeing her eyes widen only slightly before hastily putting her customer service face back in place. “Only her.”

He said he wanted to her pretend as though your cards weren’t working when you would go to pay- to tell you they had declined or something, before he’d step in and pay for you

“She’s an old friend o’ mine. Haven’t seen her in a while. Was hoping you could help me with this sort o’ … ‘prank’ if you will.”

Any hesitation the woman might have still been harbouring quickly disappeared when a 20£ note was flashed to her

Nearly a half hour later, he watches his plan unfold without a hitch

You think nothing of it the first time the barista tells you your payment didn’t go through, becoming confused when it declines a second time, and increasingly flustered each time after that when every method of payment you have can’t cover your 5£ morning drink

Ghost watches this unfold with a satisfied smirk hidden under his plain medical mask - he thought the balaclava might be a bit too much for your first meeting - enjoying seeing you flounder momentarily, unaware of how everything you know is about to change as he steps closer, extending his gloved hand next to you, close enough to feel your heat radiating through your jacket, before he’s tapping his card against the machine and speaking to you for the first time

“I’ve got tha’ for ya.”

And suddenly, as simple as flicking a switch on, as easy as waking up from a peaceful sleep, Ghost now gets to watch all his hard work pay off right before him, as your eyes meet finally meet his for the first time

He has to actively fight to hear your incessant apologies and thank you’s aimed his way over the thundering of his heart beating in his damaged eardrums, has to refrain himself from grinning as wide as a Cheshire Cat beneath his mask and give himself away too soon

Though his poker experience is usually limited to late nights under foreign stars with the 141, Ghost knows how to play his cards right, especially with you

He turns you down at your first offer to pay him back, letting you stew in the awkward discomfort of a stranger saving your ass in front of other strangers for a moment longer, before you’re saying the exact words he wanted to hear coming from your lips, as though he’d handed you the script himself

“Do you come here often? I just mean that- I come here a lot- sometimes. And if you’re here next time I’m here, then maybe I can pay you back, buy you a drink.”

With a hurried promise to meet him here at this time next week, and a sheepish smile sent his way as you duck out of the busy cafe to head to work, Ghost slips the barista another 20£ in thanks before he’s out of the shop as well, following you from a distance, each step he takes feeling lighter than the next

You can’t keep pretending anymore

Even your friends are starting to take notice

Well, if you can count the people who are forced to spend time with you, your classmates and coworkers, as friends

“You all good over there?” Your colleague asks you as you’re restocking books on the shelves one afternoon, having noticed the way you jumped in surprise when a customer rounded the corner unexpectedly

“Yeah I-” You take a steadying breath, one hand still clutching your frantic heart as it races in your chest. “I’ve just been paranoid recently. Think school’s getting to me.”

You can tell she doesn’t quite believe you, based off the way she’s still looking at you, before she decides to drop the subject for now, going to greet the couple that just walked in

You’re not sure you’d believe yourself either, if you were the one on the outside looking in

While it was true that you were in a particularly busy portion of the semester at the moment, your assignments and grades were unfortunately the furthest thing from your mind

You’d been able to play it off at first, blaming your constantly preoccupied mind and overloaded schedule, how else could you keep forgetting such silly things like turning the lamp off though you could’ve sworn you had- and believing you’d left yourself two slices of pizza when the plate in the fridge obviously only had one on it but wait you only ordered a small and ate half last night how could- and the plants that you knew you kept neglecting suddenly began blooming back to life when you knew you hadn’t watered them in ages

Those strange occurrences, those little blips in your memory were easier to pass off, less difficult to wrestle around in with in your psyche and instead pass off as moments of forgetfulness, a busy student and part time employee with too much on her plate and not enough of a social life

But then things went from being strange, to downright concerning

You knew you had locked the balcony door last night, hell you checked it every damn night, a habit you’d had long before you lived on your own in the middle of a busy city, so why were you not only often finding it unlocked, but one night you found it slightly ajar, the morning breeze rustling the curtains as though they were taunting you step closer

Speaking to some of your other neighbours in passing, none of them had anything close to similar complaints about the laundry machine stealing their undergarments as a price to pay for clean laundry, your panties apparently being the only victims, something you were trying to convince yourself wasn’t as bizarre as it clearly was, especially when you were folding laundry one day and discovered you had quite literally not a single pair of knickers left

And then there were the dreams

If you could even call them that

Dreams where a large, dark stranger creeps into your home, into your bedroom, and simply watches you

Lurks in the corners of your flat and observes your every move, your every breath, never making a single sound, as silent as a ghost

And the stranger never does anything, never says anything, only ever just stands there, until you wake up and you can swear you see his shadow disappearing out of the corner of your eyes as you open them

It doesn’t take long for you to start noticing the shadow when you’re awake too

Disappearing around bends and corners, slipping through grocery aisles and alley ways, blending amongst crowds and backgrounds, vanishing when you turn your head to catch sight of him

You feel like you’re losing your mind

“Why don’t you come out with Jordan and I tonight?” She tries again, coming to drop another box full next to your feet. “Take your mind off of school. We’re going to try that new pub down near Walton Street.”

“I would, but-” You cut yourself off, spotting your manager coming to ring up a customer at the front. The two of you exchange knowing glances and small smiles, knowing your sweet old man of a boss doesn’t truly mind when his employees chit chat together, he says he likes seeing you all getting along, but you still try to keep up appearances

You put your thumb and pinky out to look like a phone before shaking it by your ear, letting your coworker know you’ve got plans for the night as she playfully rolls her eyes at you and mouths “I see, I see” with her hands up in mock surrender, before she’s retreating to gather more boxes from the back

It’s the same plans you’ve had almost every night for going on nearly two weeks now

While it was true that the sudden strange occurrences in your life were preoccupying most of your mind these days, you were still in fact a busy student, and so while you hadn’t entirely forgotten about the stranger you’d promised a coffee to the week prior, you couldn’t hide your genuine surprise at seeing him there that next Sunday

He was sat at a table in the corner, his hands free of any drink, allowing you to pay him back, just as he said he would

What he hadn’t prefaced the last time however, was how quickly he’d make you fall for him

While he might not have been the type of guy you would have originally gone for, unable to deny the intimidating aura that follows him around, you were all too pleased to discover that behind that hardened exterior was someone you got along with without even having to try, discovering he agreed with everything you said, had a lot in common with you, listened attentively to every word you spoke, not to mention he was certainly not hard on the eyes

You weren’t able to sit with him long that morning, explaining to him that the cafe was usually your much needed caffeine stop on your way to work, though you’d walked to the bookstore that morning with a pep in your step, and a new number in your contacts, under the name Simon

It wasn’t even a full 24 hours later when he’d first called you up

You were doing dishes in your flat, getting ready to turn in early that night when your phone rang

You couldn’t help the blush that overtook you at hearing his gravelly voice come through the line, tickling your ear as he apologized for already calling you so soon, he just couldn’t remember the name of that book you’d mentioned yesterday and it was bothering him because he wanted to read it before he saw you again

Next thing you knew, close to three hours had gone by, and you felt like a teenager when you both admitted neither wanted to hang up yet, satisfying one another with a promise to call again soon

Soon, it turns out, was the very next night

And the night after that

And the night after that

And soon, you can Simon were talking on the phone every night before bed, hours and hours racking up as you learned more about each other

It was a nice distraction from the source of your anxieties you refused to fully acknowledge yet, a welcome way to take your mind off the stress you’d been experiencing

If you weren’t already so distracted, you might have been paying just a little closer attention

You might have noticed how skilled he was at deflecting personal question aimed his way, or how he was able to answer without truly answering, always quickly turning the spotlight back to you, making you feel seen and listened to in a way no man had done before, taking the attention away from him time and time again

You might have noticed he agreed with you a little too often, never actually voicing any opinions until he knew what yours was first, never taking a stance unless he knew what yours was

What you really should have noticed was the way he seemed to know things about you that you couldn’t remember telling him, chalking it up to being so tired some nights you must have forgotten sharing that with him

In the end, Simon was saying all the right things at the right time, and you were all too happy to hear what you wanted to hear

It was barely ten minutes passed 9 when you were turning the key in the lock for the night, making sure the doors wouldn’t budge before you tightened your hold on your bag and began the trek home, the butterflies in your stomach begin to flutter at the thought of hearing Simon’s voice through the phone soon enough

Luckily, you were only about eight blocks away from home, and the summer sun had only just begun setting as the last of the customers were dwindling out of the shop, meaning you weren’t walking in total darkness quite yet

Yet somehow, something in the air tonight felt different, had the hairs on the back of your neck rising as though anticipating a predator lurking around the corner, ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey

You tried you continue convincing yourself you were nothing short of delusional, paranoid, that watching too many true crime docs was getting to you

But then, just as you were waiting for the pedestrian crossing sign to change, out of the corner of your eye, you saw your shadow

You whipped your head around too quickly, straining your neck but desperate to catch a glimpse and prove you weren’t crazy, but as always, there was no one there

The small crowd around you began crossing the street, unaware of the adrenaline begin to course through your veins as you hobbled along with them, noticing with regret that no one else continued in the direction you would have to turn, leaving you to traverse the next few blocks alone

You hurried your pace, trying to shake the undeniable feeling of something being wrong, when for the first time, you heard your shadow

Light footsteps that grew heavier the more you paid attention to them, the kind that weren’t casually strolling by as you might have hoped, but rather were on a determined path, and to your utter fear, were gaining speed

You never once dared turn your head this time, fear convincing you that should you stop and look back, he would be right there over your shoulder, a shadow coming to life just in time to take yours away

With your building in sight, you said fuck it and broke out into a sprint, hurrying towards the main doors and frantically entering in your code before the worst fo your fears could come true, never glancing back as the doors unlocked and you made a mad dash inside and up the stairs

You were barely through your apartment door before your phone was in your hand, dialling the last number you’d called, the only number you called these days

He answered before the first ring had finished

“‘ello?”

“Simon.” You hated the way your voice sounded, trembling around his name and giving away the clear distress you were in, but you couldn’t help it. Your poor heart was racing a mile a minute, you had tears threatening to spill over your lash line at any moment, you were trembling like a leaf and wanted to seek out the only comfort you’d had recently

“Wha’s wrong?” He immediately asked, evidently hearing your panic through the phone

“Simon, I just-” you let out a gasp, no longer in control of the tears that were starting to run down your cheeks. You double, triple checked the lock on your door was secured before on trembling legs, you slowly made your way towards the balcony doors, blood running cold when you spotted the latch undone. “I know this sounds insane but I really need you, I- I swear someone’s been following me and I think he’s outside my flat and I- I’m so scared Simon I don’t-”

“You’re alrigh’ love.” He cut off your rambling, the confidence in his voice lending you a sliver of strength for a moment. “Jus’ breathe, yeah? I’ll be righ’ there.”

True to his word, Simon is knocking at your flat door in less than four minutes, another anomaly you would have noticed had you not been in such a frantic state of mind

“It’s me love. Jus’ me.” You hear his voice say through the door, standing up on tip toes to peer through the peephole and confirm for your own peace of mind that it really truly is your knight in shining armour, hardly paying any mind to the fact that this is the first time you see him without a mask on the lower half of his face

You’re practically banging the door against the wall as you swing it open in a hurry to get him inside, grabbing him by his jacket to pull his figure closer to yours, barely giving him a chance to shut it behind him before you’re clinging to him like a lost pet whose been returned to their owner

You can hear him shushing you, a large hand coming to soothe your hair as another grabs you by the waist and holds you tighter, trying to reassure you between your sobs that you’re alright, that he’s here now, that you’re always safe with him

There’s a fleeting moment where you can’t help but think about how this isn’t you, how you’ve always been fiercely independent, how you’ve never needed to rely on others for comfort before, let alone a man you met all of two weeks ago, but the thought is gone just as quickly as it appeared, when Simon pulls back to hold your face gently in both of his hands, thumbs carefully rubbing tears off your cheeks as he looks at you with such sincerity, you couldn’t care less if you’ve known him for two weeks or two years, right now you just need someone to tell you everything is okay, that you’re not insane

He leads you towards the couch, planting you sideways across his lap as he leans your head on his shoulder and rubs a soothing hand across your back

“Now, try again, love. Tell me wha’s happened.”

And when he’s asking you so sweetly, touching you so nicely in a way no one has in who knows how long, how could you every deny him?

You tell him everything, all of it, the bizarre coincidences you can no longer explain away, the strange happenings that you cannot chalk up to forgetfulness, the odd feeling of being constantly watched you cannot shake, you tell him all of it

And Simon, he listens to it all, every concern of yours, every worry you’d had, he nods along showing you he’s listening, never interrupting you, always rubbing some part of your skin to let you know he’s here, he’s here and he’s got you

By the end of it, you’re no longer crying, your heart has begun to slow to a more normal rhythm, the goosebumps dotting your skin only a result of the large man caressing you as you avoid dribbling snot onto his jumper

“You must think I’m crazy, right? I- I even think I sound crazy.” You admit, avoiding looking at him as you pick at a loose thread on his collar

“Not at all, love.” His words have your eyes lifting to meet his, finding nothing but honesty in his steady gaze.

“W-what?”

“Said I believe you.” He reiterates, giving your hip a slight squeeze before he’s dragging his fingers down across your thigh, rubbing soothing strokes against your flesh. “Everythin’ you jus’ told me, I don’ wanna scare you bird, but I think you migh’ be righ’. Sounds like someone’s been followin’ ya.”

He must see it in your face, the way your heart practically drops to the floor at his words, because he’s gripping the meat of your thigh a little tighter, opening his mouth to continue before you can spiral further

“But you’re so smart, love. You did exactly the righ’ thing, callin’ me. You knew I wouldn’ let anythin’ happen to ya. I’m here now, I’ve got ya.”

His words are akin to stepping into a steaming warm bath at the end of a gruelling day, the exact comfort you needed in that moment, easing you slowly back into a state of calm, though you don’t feel quite out of the woods yet

“Let me take care of ya, huh? Here, follow me.” He gives your thigh one last squeeze before he’s helping you back up onto more stable legs, never going without at least on hand touching you as he guides you towards your balcony door, making a show of peering outside for any lurking dangers before he snaps the lock in place and draws the curtains shut

“C’mon, let’s check all your windows, eh? Can’t be too sure.”

And so you follow him room to room, watching him with growing gratitude as he goes from window to window, ensuring it’s properly shut and locked before moving onto the next, scanning each room for any sign of a disturbance, letting you know everything is clear each time, until there’s only one door left to go through

Simon inches the door to your bedroom open with the toe of his boot, letting it hit the wall before he steps inside, doing a full scan before he nods towards you to follow him in

You take a seat at the end of your bed as you watch him move through your space, checking your window and closing your curtains, even going as far as to open your closet and peek under the bed, something that forces a fleeting smile on your face in spite of the circumstances

“Think that’s everythin’, birdie.” He admits, coming to sit down next to you on the bed, thighs touching, his muscled arm sneaking around your shoulders to pull you into him. “My brave girl. You’ve been goin’ through all this by yourself, huh?”

“Mhm.” You confirm, feeling too exhausted after the rush of emotions and adrenaline let down to say anything more, too tired to notice the way he’s taken to calling you his all of a sudden, especially when Simon’s embrace is so warm, so inviting

“Poor bird. Must’ve been so scary, not knowing who’s out there.” He coos into your ear, brushing your hair back from your neck, letting you feel his hot breath against your skin. “Aren’t you so glad you called? That I’m ‘ere now?”

“Mhm. Thank you, Simon.” You murmur, the events of the day really catching up to you now

“You never have to thank me, love. I’m here with ya. Not goin’ anywhere.” You feel your lashes flutter shut when his chapped lips come to press a chaste kiss to your temple, as gentle as a butterflies wings as this behemoth of a man comforts you. “You jus’ let me take care of ya now, love. Let me make it all better. Make ya feel good.”

There’s a fraction of a second where your mind catches back up to you, where logic floats up to the surface of your consciousness when you feel Simon’s hand sneak under your shirt, something on the tip of your tongue about how this is only the third time you meet face to face, how you haven’t gone on a proper date yet, how you’ve only known him two weeks-

Any common sense flies out the window however when his lips connect with yours

As his calloused fingers manage to rid you of your top before tangling in your hair, your own are grasping on tightly at his collar, allowing him to take control of the kiss, to take control of the situation, to do as he’s promised and make you feel good, make you forget about everything that’s had you so on edge and allow yourself to be taken care of

Simon hasn’t steered you wrong so far, has he? He’s been nothing but kind, nothing but attentive, nothing but sweet and caring and present and-

Fuck can he kiss

Your heart is racing for an entirely different reason as his fingers reach behind you to unclasp your bra, letting it fall haphazardly amongst your sheets before he’s pulling his lips off of yours, kissing and nipping along your jaw, your neck, down your collarbone and sternum until his hot breath is tickling one of your nipples and he sucks it gently into his mouth, teeth playfully skimming the raised bud

You can’t help the way you melt like putty in his hands, unknowingly as touch starved as he is, unable to hold back the sounds of your enjoyment when his other hand comes up to tweak your neglected breast, squeezing and pinching until it’s as taut as the one he’s still slobbering all over

Your fingers are pulling at the fabric of his jumper, arching into his touch and gasping when he lets your breast go with a ‘plop’, before his mouth is trailing wet kisses down your sternum, down your stomach, before his skilled fingers are tugging down your pants

“No panties, hm?” You never could have imagined his voice could be deeper than it already was, but the sound of his gravelly accent has chills running up your spine, blush deepening when you see the dark look in his eyes as he peers down at your bare, weeping slit

You have half a mind to explain that you haven’t had time to run to the shops and replace all your missing knickers, but quickly lose any sense of time and place when his broad shoulders are pushing themselves between your thighs, opening them up for his head to drop down and his lips to wrap around your throbbing clit

You can feel him smirk against your folds at the sound you let out, something between a moan and a gasp, before he’s pulling out more delicious noises from you with his tongue alone

“Mmm, you really do taste as good as you look.” He murmurs against your dripping folds, eyes dancing with mischief before his lips are on you again

You feel like your entire being has been pulled apart and put back together in the blink of an eye, your would be stalker having you fearing for your life, and now Simon having you holding on for dear life

You can both hear and feel him groaning against your pussy, licking up your arousal, probing his skilled tongue around your entrance before plunging it as deep as the muscle will go, reminiscent of a man starved as he devours you from the inside out, with no sign of being satiated any time soon

“Simon!” You plead, toes curling, legs shaking. You can hardly believe this is happening, that you’re on the precipice of cumming on this man’s tongue so soon, when suddenly his thumb sneaks down and slides across your clit engorged clit, rubbing steady circles until you’re seeing stars behind your eyelids, eyes rolling to the back of your head and his name the only word you know as you fall headfirst off that cliff known as ecstasy

You’re gasping for breath, still coming back to yourself when he finally pulls himself away, licking his lips as though this was a five star meal he’s just tasted, the look in his eyes telling you he’s likely to be a returning customer

With the way he’s brought you to orgasm faster than any vibrator ever has, you’re hardly in any place to protest when you hear the sound of his belt being undone, his zipper being pulled down, a ringing in your ears when your eyes land on his throbbing, erect member

You barely get a chance to gasp at its size before Simon is on you again, strong hands dragging you further up the mattress before he’s kissing you senseless yet again

You can feel him pumping his cock with one hand as he takes his time tasting you, having you taste yourself on his tongue

He pulls one of your legs up around his waist, opening your centre up to him before you can feel the head of his prick sliding through your folds, teasing your sensitive clit until you’re practically shaking, rolling your hips up against him

He’s swallowing your gasp when he notches himself at your entrance, wasting no time before he’s sinking himself inch by devastating inch, plunging further and further than you thought was possible, until he’s all the way in, hips flush with yours as he’s sheathed himself completely inside you, a perfect fit

While sweet might have been a word you used for the Simon who talks to you on the phone at all hours, who buys you coffee when your cards decline, you cannot bring yourself to believe that that same sweet Simon is the same man who begins thrusting in and out of you with such vigour, such force, it knocks the breath right out of your lungs as your headboard begins banging against the wall

“Fuck!” He’s grunting in your ear, the sounds of skin slapping and your wetness squelching echoing in the room. “Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you’d be this tight. So warm, so wet for me. Perfect fuckin’ pussy.”

“Simon! Oh, Simon!” His name is the only word your lips can make sense of, the only thing your mind can understand. You’re already headed towards another climax, your body feeling like an instrument he’s spent years mastering the art of playing

“Yeah, you gonna come again, pretty bird? Come on my cock? Just for me?” He’s picking up his pace, intent of meeting you there with his own release, grip tightening on your waist as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your tight walls increasingly gripping his cock. “Say it. Say it’s just for me. Say it.”

“It- it’s for you. Just for you, Simon! You!”

“Fuckin’ righ’ it is. My perfect girl.” He praises, sucking dark purple circles onto your neck, fingers unrelenting in their teasing against your clit. “You want it, pretty girl? Then fuckin’ take it.”

Your vision goes white, body practically going numb the pleasure is so all consuming as it shoots through every nerve ending and back, every star in the galaxy appearing before your eyes as you come on his cock. You’re so lost in your orgasm, you hardly notice when he groans out your own name, hips stilling as he shoots his load into you, rutting helplessly against your overused cunt to drag out every second of ecstasy, making sure you take very last drop he has to give you

If you were exhausted before, you’re practically dead to the world now, uncaring that Simon doesn’t even pull out his softening member as he maneuvers the two of you under the covers, smoothing your hair back as he kisses all over your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips

He rubs soothing hands up and down your naked back, telling you how good you did, how good you are for him, how good he’ll be for you, before he’s reaching to turn your lamp off, casting the two of you into darkness as sleep fights to drag you under

You’re on the brink of slumber, too spent to really think about anything that’s transpired tonight, though just conscious enough to feel the smallest of alarms try and go off in the back of your foggy mind at Simon’s words, the last of your self preservation instincts trying to weave its way to the front of your mind, waving the red flag as high as it’ll go

“Good thing I came over soon as you called. Who knows what could’ve happened.”

Your eyes snap open

You’d never told Simon where you lived

~~~~~

If you’ve made it this far, I’d like to offer you a sticker of appreciation

Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! Thank you for your patience on this fic, I cannot even tell you how many times I felt like this story was ready to be posted, but I’d reread it and wouldn’t be satisfied with how it was. This is probably the draft I’ve spent the most time on, and so again I really appreciate the patience in waiting for the upload

But here she is!!! And I hope she was worth the wait

I know this is different from the usual fluff I post, both with a darker Ghost and smut still not being my forte, but I really do sincerely hope this part 2 was everything you guys hoped for! I had a lot of fun writing it, turned into one of my longest ones, and now I’m excited to get to my inbox and answer more requests from you lovely folks

- M 🫶🏻

[cursingtoji]

the cardio machine i want is on the cardio machine

cw: gym rat toji x loser!gf - size kink, sweat kink (?), toji is a big old meanie. loser!gf series: geto gojo nanami.

loser!reader who, like a million other sedentary people on new year’s eve, said “new year new me” and proceeded to enroll at the local gym.

gym rat!toji who knew how things are in the beginning of the year, so the first week he arrives one hour earlier than usual to avoid all the lazy fucks that won’t last two months.

of course he makes a few mental bets on the ones that would quit and how long it would take, you included.

it’s easy to spot the “i don’t want lift weights cause i don’t want look jacked” type of girl.

at the breaks between one set and the other he looked around, not surprised to see you slowing down the treadmill after running not even two whole minutes.

sometimes he caught you staring at him through the mirror, not an uncommon occurrence amonst the women there, though you surprised him one day by tapping his shoulder after he finishing his weighted squats.

“can you… give me a few tips?” he looked so intimidated, from up close his shoulders looked like a wall, he stared at you from above, dark green eyes seemed to be heavily judging you, “never mind this was a bad idea, sorry” you turned around, grabbing you bottle and running off the gym.

by the time you managed to gather the courage to show your face back there two whole weeks had passed.

“consistency is the key you know” you were distracted looking down your phone while slowly walking the treadmill when the handsome man appeared beside you, the sudden presence destabilized you.

before you could become the viral video of the week when inevitably a gym employee decides to post the security footage of your ass rolling off the active treadmill, toji wrapped one big arm around your waist and pulled you to the stable floor.

“you caught me off guard the other day” he said completely unfazed by saving you from a life of embarrassment, “then you disappeared.”

“yeah i didn’t know if i wanted to come back anyways, i haven’t see any results so far” you pulled the hem of your shirt down.

toji snorted, “‘course you ain’t seeing results, sweetheart, you don’t lift.”

“well, it’s hard…” toji rolled his eyes, there was always an excuse.

though he also did a new year’s resolution of being more patient, for his kids primarily but teaching a cute thing like you could be a good exercise too.

soon enough, toji was correcting your form, texting you asking why you haven’t showed up to the gym and ringing your bell incessantly when you complained about muscle pain and said you wouldn't go that day.

“it’ll feel better once you start to move” he explained, resting on your door frame when you opened the door on your pajamas.

“let me alone, just today” you whined.

“you asked for my help now go put on something without cartoons on it” he waited for you to turn around and slapped your butt. it had been only one week he was coaching you but there was already a weird intimacy due to the fact he was pretty much always looking at your body and touching you.

to correct your form. obviously.

"what do i have to do today, coach fushiguro?" you asked from your bedroom through an ajar door which allowed toji to get a peek at your pink underwear and cute ass.

"cardio, bicycle first. get some blood flowing on those sore muscles" he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows watching you bend over to grab a biker shorts at the lowest drawer then holding back a laughter at the grunt of pain coming from you.

"once it gets better i can teach you other types of cardio" he walked around your kitchen examining your cabinets and stuff you kept in your fridge. needless to say it was all junk.

"can't wait" you replied sarcastically, failing to understand the meaning.

it took a few more days till you got used to toji's training, then he decided to focus on your upper body.

"such a simple movement, how do you manage to get that wrong?" he raised from the bench he was sitting behind you watching your form through the mirror. you almost dropped the weights at your feet when he came close. it was almost scary how much bigger than you he was especially seeing it throght the mirror. his right hand wrapped around yours on the dumbell and his bicep touched your arm as he pushed your arm closer to your body, "tuck your elbows in, straight your back" his free hand pushed your shoulders till they were touching his chest.

how come he smelled so good, so... musky and...

"are you even making any force?" he lowered his head, his reflection looking annoyed. so you decided to ignore the sudden heat between your thighs and flex your arm the way he taught you.

and just like he promised, when you were consistent enough and handling a good 5 minute run he decided to show you a more pleasing cardio.

"toji please~" you whined, thighs burning from riding him, you were using his rock hard abdomen as a support, but still.

"one more minute, come on" he looked at the watch on his wrist and slapped your ass, "haven't i prep-ed you good enough?" his thumb rubbed your bottom lip then pushed in meeting your tongue, where you tasted yourself in his digits one hour after he ringed your bell and said he was going to reward your good discipline, but he had to strech you first.

"good girl" you felt his abdomn flex when he raised from his laying position on your bed, "now leave it to daddy" he pecked your lips and quickly changed positions, putting a pillow under your ass and rolling his neck to start his cardio of the day.

[punkkture]

᧔ྀི simon being a big buff alpha military breeding machine ᧓ྀི　

{ word count: 1k }

༉‧₊˚. dead dove warning: abo dynamics, breeding, maybe a lil noncon but not really

.ೃ࿔*:· —  dressed in close to nothing, youre shoved into this cold concrete room, hearing the door fastened shut behind you. the stinging of the floor scraping against your skin distracted you from the overwhelming smell in the room. 

its harsh and ravenous, almost like the air was begging to be sucked in. a humid yet strangely cold confine. it smelled like an alpha in a deep rut. but this was stronger than anything you had ever experienced. 

a pair of sweaty hands grabbed you off the ground - choking you at the base of your neck. finally meeting with the source, his eyes were half lidded and damp hair was falling into his face. if you hadn't gasped and looked up immediately at him, his eyes would've looked all black. easily pushing close to three hundred pounds of muscle and toned fat, it was a mammoth of a man. 

stretching tendons seen under the skin on his frame that shined with sweat. his body heat alone was the sole reason the room was so humid. 

you let out a choke as his thick fingers dug onto your neck. your eyes were wide as you looked up at him. gasping for air, and not even because of the fingers around your neck, the smell alone had your body purring. 

he knew that this facility took full advantage of his ruts. besides, how could he say 'no' to being sent omega after omega with the lone purpose of making sure they got pregnant. he was already a sleaze for pussy when he wasn't in rut. 

his build wasn't even a question. arms built for strength, a body that was made to be put under stress and tension. pure submission was flowing through your bloodstream and straight into your heart and brain. his presence was infiltrating the entirety of your soul. 

and you liked it. 

it was only natural for your primal instincts to want this. especially with a man like him. he smelled like safety, vigor. being in the state you were in right now, all you wanted to be used for was to carry his kid. beyond desperate for it. 

his body was so punitive against yours. veins flexing as he ripped apart the little clothing you had on, making sure you were open for him. but ready, he didn't care if you were ready. you were made for this, right?

taking his leaking and rigid cock and prodding around until he felt your weeping hole. shoving you against the cold wall and ensuring you couldnt move more than he allowed. he really did feel like he was a passenger in his own body right now. just moving on basic instinct. and god, the growl that came out of his throat was melting you down into a puddle.

it was a sharp and loud whine that left your lips. but your mouth only kissed against the cement. there was no sense of intimacy, it was clear it was just something he needed. your body however, it was in pure elation. it was otherworldly how his pheromones were being pushed down your throat. 

he was in a frenzy. no attachment, just raw and carnal desire. the only thing he could think of was getting you stuffed full of his cum, doing anything it would take to make sure you got pregnant. 

and it was such an offensive position he had you in, your feet barely touching the ground while he kept you smushed against the wall, just bullying his cock in and out of you with no mercy. the sound of growls, moans, and squeals were too busy taking up each of your mouths. 

it hurt so fucking good. your ears were ringing the second he had you in his hands, and adding in the sensation of a thick nine inch cock filling you was making everything numb. gasps of air were being shoved out of your lungs with no time to even process what was happening. 

his palms were huge, holding you against the wall that could only be used as leverage for him to get deeper. one of his hands was just as big as your tummy, placed over it and pressing down, as if you weren't tight enough. 

in a sense of desperation, you reached back, trying to get your hand to push some sanity back into him. "s-slow down!"

the brute didnt much appreciate it. slapping your hand off of him and holding it down at the curve of your back. "shut up. dont touch me."

his hips pushed all the way against your ass. getting the fat to push up against him as your brows furrowed and such a pleading sound came out. he could barely fit himself all the way in and the pain from how he was stretching you open only made everything feel more numb.

one thing he did with you that he hadn't done with any of the women sent before, his nose was stuck against your neck. trying desperately to not bite down on the soft skin. it smelled so good it was making his eyes water. he was now the one letting out whimpered snarls, his brain was slowly eating away at itself.

every moment he made was fueled by an unfed hunger that demanded to be satiated. he had no problem holding your body down or pulling you back against his hips. he was trying to get you to keep up with him.

your cunt was just leaking against him so shamelessly, he had a slick covered pelvis that was already starting to seep down onto his thighs. it was such a disgusting sight in all honesty. nothing besides raw need and overwhelming primal desires. 

the mountain of a man only had some semblance of reality returned to him when you were stuffed full of at least three of his loads. the cold cement floor was comforting now. giving release to the dangerous body heat between the two of you. 

he was panting overtop of you, your back on the stone ground and legs that were finally let go of. the second he pulled out, ounces of his cum could be seen pouring out. so he grabbed your legs one last time, and squeezed them shut - keeping everything he could inside of you. 

there was no kiss, no reassuring words, but he gave a firm pat to your tummy as the only bit of appreciation.

ೃ࿔* tag list: @vanillarosekiss @simonskitty @cu456 @silverwoodlynx @mlthree @vint4geroses @ktmjoslin @darlingchanse @jgissle12 @asherscove @diorpar @sky-robin @ldrtypeofgirl @mentalhorror @teranya @chawitea @all-by-myself98 @jinx53 @alfiestreacle @frazzledfawn @iamtoriasworld @annierosesposts @dude1634 @happysmappy @itgetsdarksometimes35 @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @slut-lmao @theyluvlaur @bruisedfig @pinkthxt @hobiebrownenthusiast @h0lydrag0ns @cashmereandcookies

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

IN THE MORNING

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Female Reader

RATING: Explicit

WORD COUNT: 2K

SUMMARY:

Jack comes home exhausted from work. When he sees you in bed, he's suddenly not so tired anymore.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

explicit content (18+ minors do not interact), reader insert, established relationship, no use of y/n, mentions of jack's prosthetic and mental health, morning sex, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected p in v, pet names, dirty talk, a little breeding kink, a little spit kink, creampie, cum play.

let me know if i've missed any!

Jack is exhausted as he opens the door to his apartment, the kind of tired that was bone deep and left him aching all over. His eyes burn, his throat is dry, and his leg is sore from thirteen hours on his feet. His thoughts are clouded with lab values and his ears ring with the phantom beep of machines.

He drops his bag on the dining table, promising himself he’ll stick it in the hall closet later, and heads for the kitchen. He opens the freezer and rummages around until he finds a breakfast sandwich shoved in the back corner. He grabs a plate from the drying rack and unwraps the sandwich, sticking it in the microwave. 

While it cooks, he visits the bathroom and strips out of his scrubs, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He starts the shower, turning the water to near scalding, and sits down on the closed toilet lid to remove his prosthetic with practiced efficiency.

His shower is quick and clinical. He sits on the built-in bench for most of it, scrubbing his skin raw. When he’s done, he shuts the water off and gets out, leaning against the wall for stability as he dries off. He keeps a stack of clothing in the bathroom closet — a t-shirt, boxers, a pair of sweatpants — and he changes into them before fitting his prosthetic back on.

The sandwich is barely warm by the time he opens the microwave but he doesn’t care. He eats it in four quick bites and sticks the plate in the dishwasher. 

Jack heads for the bedroom and opens the door quietly. You’re lying in the middle of the bed, face down with your arms wrapped around your pillow. You’ve kicked the sheets away in your sleep the way you tend to do, prone to running hot. The blackout curtains are already shut, a thin line of sunlight seeping into the room past the heavy fabric, and you’ve got the sound machine on, the ebb and flow of ocean waves drifting through the room.

Sometimes, if his shift runs late, you’re already awake when he comes home. You’ll be in the kitchen, making breakfast, humming some tune he doesn’t recognize because he listens to audiobooks more than music, but he likes the way you fill his apartment with noise. He got too used to the quiet, the way it would weigh heavy on his shoulders, full of memories and mistakes. 

Other times, like this morning, you’re still asleep. Warm, soft, lips parted as you breathe steadily. Selfishly, he loves this more because he knows it means you have nowhere else to be, nothing else to do — you’re all his. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and removes his prosthetic again, tucking it neatly between the bed frame and the nightstand. He reaches for the sheet at the end of the bed and drags it back, letting it settle over you both. 

You left your head from the pillow, squinting at him in the dark. Your lips stretch into a slow smile.

“Hey, baby,” you whisper, voice raspy from sleep. “How was work?”

“S’alright,” he says. You wiggle toward him, head on his pillow, a leg thrown over his hip. He runs his palm up your bare thigh. 

He’s not feeling so tired anymore.

You hum, eyes drifting shut again. He doesn’t stop touching you, letting his hand wander over your waist, sneaking beneath the hem of your t-shirt. The muscles of your abdomen jump under his touch. 

He reaches higher, palming your breast. You inhale sharply, arching into the touch, and he pinches the tight bud of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He watches your face, mesmerized by the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part in a breathy sigh.

Jack tucks his head between your neck and shoulder, taking a deep breath, what feels like the first since he stepped inside the hospital last night. You smell like something sweet, like that perfume you wear to work, but also like him — his detergent, his soap. He groans, opens his mouth, drags his lips across your neck in a kiss.

His hand drifts lower, down your belly, fingers finding the elastic of your underwear and slipping beneath it. He drags a finger through your slit, collecting some of the slick gathering at your entrance. He gently circles your clit, touch light, barely there, but your hips chase it regardless.

“Know you’re tired,” he mumbles into your skin. He lifts his head. “But can I—?”

“Of course.”

Jack groans, biting your shoulder lightly. 

Sometimes he can’t believe his luck, can’t believe a woman like you would even look twice at him, let alone let him call you his. You’re so bright that sometimes it hurts to look at you, hurts to touch because he’s scared of dimming your light. 

But sometimes, in the dark, it feels safe. Sacred. He can let himself have it because in the dark he's always found forgiveness.

He lifts his head and gently eases you onto your back, hovering over you. You tilt your chin towards him and he kisses you, slowly, thoroughly. He probably tastes like burnt coffee and microwaved eggs but you don’t seem to care, opening up for him, tangling your tongue with his.

He pulls away and tips his forehead against yours. You reach up to cup his face in your palms, rubbing your thumbs over his cheeks. Grounding him, something you do without even realizing it, like it’s second nature — a hand on his arm when you’re at the grocery store, wrapping yourself around him from behind when you’re standing in line, your foot nudging his calf at a restaurant. 

He reaches for the bottom of your shirt. You sit up a little to allow him to remove it and toss it to the floor. He kisses your sternum, over the curve of your breast, then to your nipple. He drags his tongue along the sensitive bud before pulling it between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you gasp, easing up slightly to let you catch your breath before doing it again.

Jack switches to your other breast, giving it the same thorough attention. Only when you’re squirming beneath him and your quiet moans turn to whines does he move on, leaving open mouthed kisses down your tummy until he reaches your underwear.

He sits back on his knees and pulls the scrap of fabric down your thighs, throwing it in the same general direction as your shirt. You let your legs fall open wider and he reaches toward you, framing your pussy between his hands and using his thumbs to gently spread you open.

“There she is,” he murmurs. He leans in closer, gathers some spit on his tongue and opens his mouth, letting it drip down right on top of your clit. The moan you let out is wanton, desperate.

“Jesus, Jack,” you say with a little laugh. “You’re filthy this morning.”

He hums, eyes flicking to yours. He holds your gaze as he licks through your folds, one broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your head drops back against the pillow, hands reaching down to tangle in his hair. He sets a pace that’s leisurely, all broad swipes and slow circles and long pulls of your clit between his lips. He could eat your pussy for hours and still not be satisfied, still not had his fill. 

“Jack,” you moan, hips flexing against his face. He doesn’t hold you still, lets you chase the pleasure however you want. His chin grows wet with spit and slick but he doesn’t care. “Fuck—I’m—more, I need more.”

He presses two fingers to your entrance, slides them inside of you with little resistance. The noise you let out is feral, something from deep in your chest that makes his cock twitch, smearing sticky precum all over his underwear, leaking through to his sweatpants.

Jack curls his fingers, stroking you from within. You start to tighten around his digits, close to finishing, and he uses his thumb to circle your clit in tandem with the pulse of his fingers. He reaches up, grips your chin in his left hand, holds your gaze as your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as you pulse around him, impossibly tight and hot and wet.

He eases you through it, slow and steady, until your muscles unwind enough for him to withdraw his hand. You whine a little at the loss but he shushes you, crawling up to lie beside you.

“So pretty,” he says, kissing you, “so pretty when you come.”

You smile at him, a little dazed — forehead damp with sweat and eyes glassy. He turns you onto your side, facing away from him, and presses in close, kissing your neck, dragging his tongue over your pulse.

“You didn’t think I was done, did you?” He asks. You shake your head.

“I know you better than that,” you reply. “You’re gonna make me all messy and I won’t be able to go back to sleep until I’ve showered.”

He pulls your hips back against his, grinding against your ass. “I like you messy.”

“I know.”

He shoves his sweatpants and underwear down, just enough for his cock to spring free. You lift your top leg slightly, giving him space to drag his length through your slick flesh. He groans, burying his face into your shoulder.

“Come on, baby,” you coo. You reach between your legs and guide his tip to your entrance. The next flex of his hips buries him inside your tight heat, just barely. Just the tip, splitting you open, your body welcoming him inside. “That’s it, just like that.”

He sinks in further, deeper, chasing the warmth. You hook your leg over his waist, keeping yourself open to him. His sharp thrusts fill the room with skin slapping against skin, loud enough to drown out the serene ocean waves.

You tilt your face back and Jack kisses you, reaching up to rest his palm on your throat. Not squeezing, not demanding, just solid and there. 

His release builds quickly, his thrusts growing short, fast, no true rhythm to be found. You’re moaning into his mouth and he can feel you fluttering around him, little pulses around his cock that drive him crazy.

“You gonna fill me up, Jack?” You murmur. 

He grunts, reaching down to grab your hip, pulling you back against his every thrust. “You want that?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter. “Please.”

“Say it.”

“Cum in me, baby.” His cock twitches. “Wanna feel it.”

Jack comes, moaning your name, squeezing your hip, pulsing inside of you, filling you with a sudden rush of warmth. He holds you tight against him until cock starts to soften and he slips free.

You turn over, facing him. Head on his pillow, nose brushing his. He reaches for your leg and drapes it over his hip then slips a hand between your thighs, dragging his fingers through the mess he’s made. Your eyelids flutter and you squeeze his shoulder as he presses two fingers inside of you.

“You okay?” He asks. You huff a laugh.

“Better than okay,” you tell him. He smiles in that Jack Abbot way, small and secretive. 

“You got anywhere to be today?” 

“Nope.”

“Good,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes. “Stay with me.”

It’s late afternoon when Jack wakes up to an empty bed. He’s not surprised. You usually last about another hour before having to get up before him, leaving him to sleep. He finds you in the living room, on the couch, watching TV. 

You look up when he enters. He rubs his neck, stretches his arms above his head, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a bit of his stomach. He looks good when he just wakes up. His eyes are a little brighter, shoulders a little less tense. 

“I made you some coffee,” you tell him. He glances toward the kitchen but moves toward you, sitting beside you on the couch.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling you in for a kiss that says he doesn’t mean just for the coffee.

Thank you, for everything, he thinks. When he pulls back, you smile at him, bright as ever.

“You’re welcome.”

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment or reblogging if you enjoyed this fic -- they keep me inspired!

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | AO3

[michaeldark22]

Best Wire Frames From Michael Dark

Discover design perfection with the Best Wire Frames by Michael Dark! Elevate your projects to new heights with precision and innovation. These wireframes are your path to creative excellence. Explore more at https://www.michaeldark.co.uk/wire-frames/ and redefine your design journey today.

[basementcoffee]

underdog / chapter 1 ghost x f!reader / cyberpunk au / masterlist

cw: extremely dubious consent, power imbalance, alcohol, reader is in over her head, antagonistic ghost, everyone has ulterior motives, liberties taken with the cyberpunk 2077 lore/universe - full tags in masterlist

Stars flare above the crown of your head. 

The bottle in your hands sweats beneath the heat, condensation running in rivulets over your fingers as you hoist it high. The show dazzles the men crammed into the sticky booth, the light scattering across their sweat-glossed skin and the dark, thumping walls. The arms unoccupied by dates welcome you into the mix.

Their ringleader, a man in green, beckons with the click of his tongue. You tuck yourself between his spread legs and perch passerine on the edge of the low table. He leans in to get a better look, and you meet his gaze with an obliging smile as he presses a glass into your hand.

You chat. You entertain. His hand finds your knee, and you let it sit. You laugh at all of his jokes and nod when he rambles on about securities. It’s all part of the game: constructed intimacy, scaffolded by clever flirting and veiled detachment. Roleplay.

Everyone knows why they are here. It’s another night at Prism.

You get a name. Win. Short for Winston, as though that should mean something. The smile plastered to your face holds, miracle of miracles. Corny nickname aside, he’s not terrible company. A smooth-talker, sure, but you’ve endured worse. An hour passes, and somewhere between bottles three and four, he draws out the shorthand of your life story.

It’s the same tired song every transplant sings: a kid from a struggling town runs away to Night City with no backup plan. Men with money love an underdog.

When he asks what you ran for, you brace for condescension: fame and fortune. Cliché. Naïve. You rattle off your meager resume of adverts on vending machine and elevator screens, and a demo reel stitched from a handful of microbudget horror films. Painful dialogue and dated effects, but you scream like hell and look good doing it. And, being devoid of all extraneous cyberware, you’re a novelty on sets. It’s your thing. It makes directors want to cut you up.

That gets a grin.

“So you’re all natural?”

What a line.

You smile, aiming for sultry, and sweep the backs of your nails up the chrome along his jaw. You push a stray lock of hair behind his ear, quip ready—

—and a massive gloved hand snatches yours in a painful grip.

You yelp, hauled to your feet with such alarming ease it’s as though you float to the toes of your high heels. The rest of the arm seemingly materializes from shadow, and a body follows.

Big.

It speaks, low-pitched and slightly modulated. Two words scrape the air.

“That’s enough.”

A pale, hulking man looms. A brutal silhouette swathed in clothes whose tailoring can’t even hide the reinforced bulk of his frame. An expressionless, matte-black mask sculpts tightly around the lower half of his face, and above it, a thick, lowered brow hangs like a mantle over a pair of dark, depthless eyes tinged red.

Head razored down to the skin, a nasty scar rides along his hairline—a fleshy welt that begins near a temple and arcs around the skull’s curve like a failed autopsy. Crude, stapled shut with dermal rivets. A network of thin wires disappearing into ports behind his ear and snaking beneath his collar.

He squeezes. An invisible choke chain demanding your wandering focus. His optics contract, and an iridescent eyeshine shimmers for the briefest instant. 

Violation pulses in your gut.

Win rises to his feet. “Hey, Ghost–”

“Do we have a problem?” Irina’s rasp purrs like a revving engine in your ear. There’s well over a foot of height between her and this Ghost.

Win grabs Ghost’s wrist, and you inhale sharply the speed at which his eyes snap to the offending appendage. He glares at the ringed fingers as if they’re slathered in shit.

“C’mon, buddy. Be friendly.” Win chuckles nervously, oblivious. “Sorry about that. Bodyguard. A mite overprotective.” 

You snatch your wrist back once the shackle on it loosens, and gently rub. Bodyguard. Between his build and his spendthrift employer, he’s probably packed with implants. Probably could’ve pulverized every bone in your hand. That alone makes you a little dizzy.

Irina herds you with the crook of her arm. “Excuse us.”

You resist instinctually, chin tilting to catch her ear, “Our tips?” You can’t afford to forfeit an enny.

“Don’t worry. Go ice that, and tell Mal.” 

At the booth’s edge, she pats you on the ass with a wink. There’s no arguing.

You glance back at the edge of VIP. Win’s shoulders quake mid-tirade, laying into his bodyguard, but Ghost’s not paying attention. His gaze is locked on you. Sweeping down and up in study.

Creep.

Finding your overworked manager is a chore. You wade through bodies in stinking, perfumed air, fastening a cryopatch to your wrist with a pair of nylons as you go. It’s worth the hassle, though, Mal barely blinks before slapping a service surcharge onto the tab, no questions asked.

A cigarette’s clamped between your lips when Irina finds you in the alley. She kisses your cheek, then your wrist. The tenderness is a balm. Short of a housemother, more akin to an older sister. She’s been where you are.

“Your friend asked for you. Says he wants to tip you himself.”

You snort. “Of course he does.”

“Mm, he gave me a stack. Imagine what he has for you, pretty girl.”

Your neck cracks from the speed at which you turn, searching for the joke. 

“You’re serious.”

“I would never lie to you.”

Her soft laughter chases you indoors. You slow as you return to the main floor, not wanting to appear too desperate. Irina didn’t even speak to Win aside from rescuing you from his brute. You spoke to him. Touched and fawned over him. If he wants to apologize by paying your bills for a month, who are you to protest?

The booth’s quieter, thinned out. Most men have migrated to the rail to survey the crowd writhe below. Win clocks your approach, his money clip gleaming like bait on a hook. You check the corners. Ghost is gone.

Win stands with a lacquered smile. “So, she found you. I was hoping you didn’t bolt.”

Not with a month’s rent possibly on offer. “Of course not.”

“Brave. Ghost’s intense. Wouldn’t be the first girl to run.”

You’ve met your share of monsters. Been chased by them on camera, for money or exposure. “I don’t scare easy.”

Win’s tongue glides over his teeth, and he thumbs through the wad of cash. Your pulse jumps in your throat. Eyes up, like the money isn’t there at all. 

“Maybe I’ll have to replace him,” he muses. “Half his job is being scary.”

With the watchdog gone, you walk your fingers up Win’s arm and squeeze his bicep. “Let’s not talk about him,” you murmur. “Let’s toast to you. One more round. My treat.”

He tilts his head at that, smile tightening. For a second, your stomach knots—you’ve misstepped.

“Oh, babe, you really don’t know who I am, do you?”

His fingers close around the money.

Fuck.

You scan him again. His hair. The suit. The rings.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he winks. “The name ‘Goforth’ ring a bell?”

Double fuck.

Goforth. As in, The Goforth Agency.

The agency behind half of Night City’s elite—icons, influencers, politicians, idols. They don’t merely build careers—they launch them into orbit. They pluck hopefuls from anonymity and remake them into household names. Manufacture stars the way All Foods cultures meat. Their reach is long, their clients and business spotless. At least, on the surface.

Beneath that veneer? The rumors are endless. Blackmail. Extortion. Trafficking. Murder. The kind of power that doesn’t just protect its assets, but erases threats wholesale.

Any family with that many zeroes to their name has their fingers in unsavory pies, and you’ve been flirting with an apparent scion.

All your flirty bravado dissolves as realization washes over you. He’s not some run-of-the-mill spoiled kid spending daddy’s money. He’s pedigree. Legacy. Stands so tall because there’s a pile of bodies beneath his feet courtesy of his family.

“Does it?” he repeats.

You nod.

“Tongue-tied, baby?”

You force a breath, light-headed, bubbly with panic and too much cheap champagne. “I had no idea.”

He chuckles. “I see that. Well, I don’t advertise it. Don’t want to attract the wrong type of attention, you know?”

Your smile wavers. Yeah, you fucking know.

It really makes sense now, why his huscle’s a chromed-out, hand-crushing titan.

“That’s why you have Ghost.”

The money finally slips into your palm.

“Exactly. Everyone wants a piece once you’re worth something.”

After a shared smoke and no small amount of cajoling on his part, you flick him your demo reel. He watches it there and then, cigarette burning down to the filter, and by the time you’ve crushed it under your heel, he’s calling himself your agent.

On the ride to his place, he drops your robo-agent, and in the morning, you sign paperwork in his bed. No need to step foot in a Goforth office when you have direct access to the future CEO. Non-disclosures, exclusivity contracts. Things you don’t fully understand, but initial anyway. Industry standard, he explains.

That night, in the afterglow, he presses his teeth to your neck and murmurs a promise: I’ll make you a star.

And like that, you’re in. Folded into his world—and beneath him—as though you’d belonged there from the start.

Weeks pass in a blur.

The time funnels into an eight-week intensive—scene study, cold reading, and dialect. You wake early to attend classes, and crash late after work. The confidence built hustling in Prism is laughable, stripped bare under the scrutiny of instructors and a gaggle of other ambitious hopefuls. Failure, though, isn’t a luxury you can afford. You dig in. Rebuild.

Your wardrobe flips. Third and fourth-hand clothes cycle out for fabrics you’ve never worn before—silks, cashmeres, synthetics engineered to shimmer like liquid. Cuts that hug and drape right. Win parades you around to his friends, arm snug around your waist. Introduces you as the next big thing. To remember your face.

Appointments multiply—salons, spas, clinics. No mods, though. Win’s adamant. What was once something you joked about, your ‘organic integrity’, becomes your edge. Your brand. The only exception is your optics. Top-shelf Kiroshi, in any color you want. Preloaded with a trimmed-down version of his own contact net—names, affiliations. Everything you’ll need to navigate the circles he moves you through.

You jump from a ten-second clip for Budget Arms to an Avante microfilm. No lines, visage buried under makeup—but when your image appears on the side of a Westbrook tower, it almost bowls you over. Your coworkers whistle when you clock in. 

It’s a high like nothing else.

Despite everything Win gives, there are lines you’re not allowed to cross.

You learn not to pry. You don’t challenge the boundaries he draws on the city map, districts you’re to avoid unless he’s with you. Don’t protest your dismissal from conversations and meetings. Don’t question why he requires that you report any strange cars or customers that idle at the club. Don’t press when he vanishes without warning, unreachable for days, only to return with gifts and no explanation.

You don’t ask, because deep down, you already know. And knowing the wrong thing, knowing anythingat all, can get you killed.

Still—when Win’s around, things are good. Even if it means Ghost is, too.

Win repeatedly tells you to ignore his turret on legs. Easier said than done.

To Ghost’s singular credit, it is his job—hypervigilance, threat assessment—but you find yourself the subject of his near-constant surveillance. Unapologetically, unashamedly. Not an ounce of professionalism in how he stares. Dissecting like he’s visualizing how to peel you open and study whatever softness hides inside. As if you’re the biggest threat in every room.

When you meet his gaze, daring him to look away first, he doesn’t. He holds it. Leans into it. It sears, lingering even after you drop your eyes and pretend to listen to Win’s laugh. A hot, needling thing that slices clean through whatever butterflies Win manages to stir.

You catch Ghost watching from doorways, mirrored surfaces, the rearview. Especially when you’re in Win’s lap, his tongue in your mouth. He glares, repulsed as if you’re shit to scrape off his boot.

It gets worse when Win starts sending him with you on jobs.

Suddenly, he is your shadow. Your unwanted chaperone. He makes it clear he believes the assignment’s beneath him. He’s mean about it. 

Grumbles when you lag behind, sighs loud enough for all to hear. He skulks about during meetings and auditions, draining the air from every conversation. At shoots, he posts up out of frame—arms folded, jaw clenched. When stylists fix your hem or photographers adjust your posture, his brow sinks in open contempt.

You learn fast: every time Win—or anyone else—touches you, Ghost finds a way to remind you he saw.

Which is rich, considering how little he respects your space.

Booths. Bar stools. Car seats. He spreads out. Takes up all the room he can, leg pressed against yours, arm draped behind your head, elbow brushing your ribs. And when you try to squeeze past, he stays exactly where he is—forcing contact, your body dragged along his like static cling.

He doesn’t leer. Never says a lewd word. He doesn’t need to.

One night, the belt jams in the Caliburn, and you wrestle with it uselessly. Ghost watches for maybe two seconds before sighing like you’re a dense child.

“Ever ride in a fuckin’ car before?”

You bristle, poised to snap back, but he leans across you without warning. One big hand grabs the belt, yanks it into place. He pulls back, knuckles skimming your waist, your belly, your hip—deliberate and utterly unnecessary.

He slaps your thigh after, like a mechanic shutting a hood. Hard enough to sting. You yelp, more startled than hurt.

Ghost laughs. It coils in your belly and stays there.

“So I take it I’m not going to Palm Springs.”

“What? Baby, no, no. I told you last week, it’s all business—you’d be bored out of your mind.”

A slice of pain. You worry at a hangnail, peeling it until blood beads. Your thumb finds your mouth, teeth closing gently around the torn cuticle, tugging it like a loose thread. You’d hoped he might change his mind, but after losing the Jinguji Spring-Summer campaign, you had an inkling.

“Maybe, but I’d be bored out of my mind by a private pool.” 

Win steps out of the ensuite, monogrammed toiletry bag dangling from his hand. He grins, finding you perched expectantly at the bed’s edge. He chuckles, tossing the bag into his suitcase before crouching, warm palms landing on your bare knees.

“Trying to make me late?”

“Maybe. Is it working?” 

He pushes your dress to your thighs, unhurried, clearly weighing the pros and cons of rearranging his scheduled AV in real time. His eyes flicker, that peridot gleam catching the light as he kisses the corner of your mouth. 

“Not going to work this time, Stella.” He teases, sorting through a stack of shirts. Stella. His nickname for you, the one that stuck—vintage, all tied up in your inevitable stardom. It’s not great, but it’s better than—

“Princess.” Ghost flatly intones from the doorway. “Your carriage awaits.”

You don’t look, instead grabbing Win’s sleeve. “Fine. Why don’t we plan a trip for when you’re back? Just the two of us? How about Seattle—”

“Stella,” Win breezes your name through his perfect, clenched teeth, and his hands stall. “I can’t make any promises. We’ll see if our schedules allow for that, okay?”

You release his sleeve, staring at the silver in his skin. There’s a balance here, one you can’t afford to upset.

A finger lifts your chin, and for a fleeting moment, guilt flits across his features before he kills it stone dead. “Hey, I love the excitement, baby. Really. But I’ve got a lot riding on this trip, okay?”

Nothing new there. The future always hinges on some deal.

Another chance to put your recent education to work. You smile. Silly you, sticking your nose into your not-boyfriend’s business. “Yeah, of course. Say hello to your dad for me, and call me.”

He pauses, glancing past you. “I will, baby.” 

The kiss he steals is abrupt and consuming, too much tongue and enough to siphon air from your lungs. His hands close over your thighs, possessive, rings biting into flesh hard enough to mark.

Ghost clears his throat. Win doesn’t seem to hear it, but you do. A crystal clear reminder.

When he pulls away, you whisper again, creaky, “Call me.”

He nods, guiding you to your feet and nudging you toward Ghost. “Make sure she gets to the car.”

Ghost drums his fingertips boredly on the rail. You regard the floor counter as a countdown. A fuse.

You hate being alone with him. It isn’t enough for him to invade your personal space, he must always come armed with some cruel barb to stick you with. Every word’s a test, a tripwire. Designed to keep you constantly bracing for the next snap of his teeth at your heels. It’s suffocating. A loaded gun pressed to your skull. 

More than once, you’ve begged Win to dismiss him. Told him the man makes your skin crawl, but it doesn’t matter. He’s blind to his guard’s behavior. Ghost’s safe. Ghost’s vetted. Bullshit. It doesn’t account for the way Ghost looks at you. His talent for backing you into corners, physically or otherwise.

Even now, it’s a matter of time until he—

“Shame about the trip,” he sneers. “Sunshine, little umbrella drinks, sunning your arse by the pool. That what you thought was gonna ‘appen?”

You stiffen. He needs no reply to continue. 

“‘ate to break it to you, but Junior’s never gonna bring you home to ‘is daddy. Never was. Thought you’d’ve caught on by now.”

Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight.

“You’re eye candy when ‘e’s got downtime. You’re not on the itinerary. You’re a piece of meat on the menu.”

That one flays to the bone, because you can’t deny it. Because you’ve tried not to believe it. Shoved every creeping doubt down, smothered them in excuses and daydreams, wrapped them in every sweet, flattering thing Win’s ever said. You’ve clung to the idea that you matter. That you’re more than another client to manage and a warm body to enjoy when it’s convenient. That he keeps you at arm’s length from his business because he cares. Not because he’s ashamed or following some cold-blooded family playbook you wouldn’t even know how to begin reading.

But Ghost? He doesn’t share your delusions nor will he entertain them. He cuts straight to the ugly truth, and what’s worse—

You’re not sure he’s wrong.

Your shift leaves you dusted in glitter. Steeped in cologne and stale cigar smoke. You swear Muttonchops and his buddy were deliberately testing your patience. Dragging out their stay, trading smug looks over their glasses like you couldn’t hear their crude commentary. Irina nearly backhanded the younger one after the third time he called her Bonnie.

At least the commute home was painless. With Win and Ghost both out of town, you’re flying solo. Cabs aren’t a luxury you can afford every night, but tonight you indulged. Worth every eddie.

Your feet throb, your head’s pounding. All you want is a shower. The elevator hums softly, coaxing you into a stupor as it inches up the tower, floor by floor, until finally, you’re home.

But something’s off the second you step into the corridor and find it empty.

No neighbors loitering. No one passed out on the floor. No muffled music or screaming. It’s as if everyone’s abandoned ship, but you know that’s not true. The lobby was bustling when you walked in.

Then, you see it, halfway down the hall. 

Your door’s ajar.

No—not just ajar. The edge of the metal slab is crumpled. Peeled back and then slammed shut again, bent and twisted like foil. You see it clearly in the dim hallway light: four deep gouges in the frame. Finger-sized.

Your stomach drops. Déjà vu strikes, raising goosebumps with a memory from a space horror you were cut from last-minute.

For a moment, you stand there, pulse rabbiting in your ears, then reach down slowly to slip off one heel. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s the only thing in reach. You hold it tight, and nudge the door open.

Silence.

You tiptoe in—and there’s no one. No scavs. No psycho.

But the place is wrecked.

Your studio’s been torn apart. Every drawer gutted, every surface overturned. The tiny space you kept so meticulously neat is unrecognizable—your vanity-slash-dining-table a messy sprawl of open perfume bottles, the scents mingling in a sickly, cloying mist. Combs and brushes fanned out like tools. Even the bathroom’s been ransacked, med cabinet doors yawning wide, contents obviously rifled through.

You cross the room in stiff steps.

The bed’s a ruin. Pillows and duvet shoved into a corner, sheets completely gone. The wall beside it, once a carefully curated shrine of posters—movie stars, idols, your own small pantheon—is stripped. Torn down, scraps left fluttering.

The worst of it, the very worst, awaits by the wardrobe.

You move like a ghost, detaching piece by piece. It’s easier to pretend you’re watching this unfold instead of living it. Stepping over the heap of clothes tossed carelessly across the floor, your gaze locks on the open drawers.

Your underwear’s been pawed through.

Hands trembling, you count—at least three pairs of panties. The silk slip you bought with your first real paycheck. Sheer and impractical, but you cherished it.

All gone. Nothing else is missing.

Violation.

Whoever broke in didn’t come looking for valuables. They came to touch. They wanted you to see their work and for you to know they’d been inside.

The heel slips from your hand to the floor. Behind you, the door collides with the warped frame. Tries to shut, unable to latch. Thud. Again. Thud. Then it gives up.

When the fog lifts, you call Win—tears bubbling and spilling fast. He doesn’t ask, only promises Ghost will pick you up. Take you somewhere safe.

Thought this might happen. Stalkers, baby. You get used to ‘em. Sickos get obsessed. It’s time anyway, you’ve outgrown the place, Stella.

You gather the essentials. When you pull back the shower curtain to grab shampoo, you shriek.

There, wadded and soaked at the bottom of the tub, are your sheets. Half-heartedly washed and stained.

You turn away and puke.

It’s a small mercy that Ghost doesn’t say anything awful when you slip into the passenger seat, sniffling and hugging your bags.

“I thought you were in Palm Springs.”

“Clearly not.”

He’s damp, a sheen to his skin. Soap clings behind his ear, suds drying around the edge of his neuroport. His knuckles are pink, scrubbed raw along the joints and plating. There’s a gym bag tossed in the backseat, and for a brief moment, guilt twinges hot in your chest.

This clearly wasn’t how he planned to spend his night.

When he reverses, one hand braces behind your headrest, and it stays there.

It takes a few red lights before you notice the touch: a single finger brushing the back of your neck, tracing through the gap in the seat. Featherlight. Absent or intentional, you can’t tell with him.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look your way.

You let it happen.

Strangely, it helps—though whether that’s despite him or because it’s him, you’re not sure. It disarms you, comfort arriving from a man so typically merciless. It unsettles even as it calms. By the time he pulls up to a hotel, your breathing’s evened out. The trembling in your limbs gone.

You’re caught off guard when he accompanies you inside, that same hand migrating to your lower back to guide you through the lobby. You move in a fog, not fully grounded in your own body, allowing yourself to be led like a skittish animal. The unexpected gentleness soothes—until his palm glides north and curls possessively around the nape of your neck.

He tilts your head with enough pressure to shatter that fragile calm.

“You call mefirst when there’s trouble. Understood?”

You nod tremulously. He doesn’t let go.

“Say it.”

“I’ll call you,” you stammer, nodding harder. “I’ll call you first.”

Satisfied, he grunts. Taps a knuckle to your chin in odd punctuation.

“Good girl.”

The next night, Prism’s slow. Not unusual for a weekday, but it lands you in the stockroom, elbow-deep in crates of bottles. A fresh-faced barback chattering nonstop beside you.

You made the mistake of venting to Irina about the break-in, and now the whole staff knows. Every other person’s offered their own horror story, or reminded you—so helpfully—that you were lucky not to be home.

Home invasions go hand-in-hand with scav kidnappings. Which leads to organ theft and implant harvesting. Which leads to no one ever finding your body in a garbage heap.

Really sets a positive tone for the day. 

You beg the universe for distraction. Anything to drag you away from the kid babbling about where secondhand Kiroshis come from.

As if summoned, Mal rescues you.

“Small party. Upstairs. Garnet booth.”

You’re already brushing past with thanks as she flicks the details over. You check your hair, grab the selected bottle, fasten the sparkler, and head for the stairs.

You pick up speed, double-timing it as the sparkler sputters, warming up to its full show. Slowing only near the top, you adjust your grip and smooth your expression, pulling on your brightest smile. You’ve got a lost rental deposit to recover.

Small group, indeed. No overlapping voices, no bodies spilling out of the edges of the private crimson booth. Maybe it’s a promotion or deal. Whatever it is, you’ve got your lines ready.

Then you see who it is. Ghost.

Sprawled in the booth with one leg kicked out, the other propped up lazily. His arms drape along the backrest, a jacket folded neatly beside him. The top buttons of his shirt hang undone, and the ambient light catches the silver veins of wiring tracing from his temples beneath the fabric.

You hesitate. Briefly entertain the idea of tossing the demi-sec straight at his smug face.

You know he’s smirking under the mask when he crooks two fingers, beckoning you closer.

“Champagne’s shit.”

Ghost mentions for the fifth time. Sat between his legs on the table’s edge, you find yourself staring at the faint outlines of panels beneath his shirt. The champagne flute in his mitt looks more like a test tube.

“I can get you another drink,” you repeat, also for the fifth time.

The sum of his visit: you, trying to do your job, and him, a useless asshole. Whatever ounce of kindness he showed last night, he seems determined to wipe it clean from your memory.

“No.”

You glare as he turns away to pull his mask down for a drink, then look over your shoulder. The club’s still solidly dead.

“If you don’t want anything, can I at least go—”

“No.”

Your patience frays more by the millisecond. “If I’m just going to sit on my ass all night—”

“You’re getting paid. You’re comfortable.”

“Hardly. Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be with Win? Umbrella drink in hand?”

Ghost stares flatly, then slowly leans forward, forcing you to duck awkwardly to avoid contact. He sets his empty glass near your hip.

This close, you can’t help but peer down his open shirt at the exposed cyberware of his chest. At the protruding veins and cords. The champagne in his breath mingles with smoke and a twist of mint. You’d scrunch your nose if he wasn’t technically a guest and you weren’t on the clock.

“Never left,” he mutters, finally leaning back and giving you space to breathe. “Junior’s old man got plenty of security.”

“So you were bored and decided to stalk me at work.”

He snorts. “Ain’t exactly ‘ere by choice. I’m babysittin’ on account of your place gettin’ tossed.”

“That’s a terrible demotion.”

“We’re agreed.”

Your thoughts unwillingly circle, returning to your apartment. The sheets. Your missing panties.

“Guess it’s sweet of Win to care enough to send you, though, after the break-in. Did he say when—”

Ghost knocks a knee against yours. “Aren’t you supposed to dance?”

You clench your jaw so tight you might crack a tooth. “No.”

“Seen others do it, and more.”

“It’s up to the individual, and I don’t dance.”

“So, what, you just sit here?” His chin dips. There isn’t a trace of red in them tonight, only a dark, cold brown. “And if I gave you…dunno, five grand? That get me somethin’?”

Your lungs empty in a silent rush. You stare, waiting for a sign. The twitch of a brow. A tell that this is another of his sick tests or pranks. That’s all it is, a ploy to catch you out. He doesn’t want anything like that from you. Not really. He wants to watch you squirm.

The thought creeps in anyway, uninvited. You picture it. The narrow space between his legs, the roll of your hips, teasing him. Skimming your hands up his thighs and chest. His hands on your waist, gripping—

You swallow the fantasy down, seeing for what it really is, a product of his mind games.

“No way.”

“Took a second,” he murmurs. “You think about it?”

You clamp your mouth shut.

“Oh, Princess,” he chuckles. “You did, didn’t you? Bet you played it out start to finish in that pretty little ‘ead. Poor thing. Sellin’ yourself so short.” 

Drawing his legs in, he rises to his full height. The glass topples with a clink as you scramble backward. He shrugs on his jacket.

“I’d tell you not to let it keep you up tonight, but we both know it will.”

Then he jerks his chin toward the stairs.

“Go get your things. Taking you ‘ome. Got a surprise.”

‘Home’ doesn’t mean the hotel, as it turns out.

Ghost only stopped there long enough for you to grab your things before hauling you off to Win’s place—then disappearing without a word. No instructions, simply disappeared to his wing of the penthouse.

So much for the surprise.

You curl into one corner of the massive sectional, legs tucked, water in hand. You absently scroll the newsfeeds with a glazed stare, mentally adding review lease terms to your ever-growing list.

Heavy footsteps from the hall draw your attention. You double-take.

Ghost emerges from the corridor wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung shorts.

He’s patchwork. Hardware and skin fused and sewn together in layers. Stripped of his usual gear, there’s nothing to distract from the sheer force of him. Where his arms meet his torso, there are visible seams—gaps an inch wide, metal meeting synthetic tendon and wire, connectors and open ports exposed. His forearms are massive, encased in pale, durable polymer and synthskin toned to match his face. Even his knees have been replaced, joints fortified all the way to the ankle.

You can’t look away.

The familiar cables of his neck trail like roots into the panels across his chest. They disappear into the ridges and seams of plating. The scars on his skin there are more precise and cleaner than the one circling his head. But he’s littered with others clearly left by way of violence. Warped, jagged patches that he, for whatever reason, never buffed out.

From this distance, he resembles the surface of the moon. Pitted, cratered, shaped by impact after impact.

And even now, in private, he wears a mask. Plain fabric looped around his ears. Dressed down.

You snap back to the feed the second he pivots toward the living room, and feign disinterest. When he stops in front of you, you glance up like you’ve only just noticed him.

“You’re in my spot.”

You bite your cheek and shuffle over without fuss. Ghost drops into the vacated space with a groan, and sinks into the cushions. He kicks up a leg and the massive screen that dominates the far wall powers on.

He scrolls through endless titles in silence. You try not to stare, but your eyes drift anyway to his hand. The long, thick fingers curled around a beer bottle, one finger easily twice the width of yours.

“You think about it?”

A sip goes the wrong way, and you choke, coughing hard. In the corner of your eye, Ghost twitches as if to clap you on the back, but he lets you fight for your life.

“First time?” he deadpans once you’ve finally sucked in air.

“Asshole,” you croak, wiping your mouth.

“Not very nice when there’s a surprise on the line. Could decide not to give it to you.”

“If it’s from Win, you don’t get a say.”

“Maybe. I think I’ll ‘old onto it ‘til mornin’ all the same.”

You roll your eyes, but he shifts, angling himself slightly toward you, one hand resting on a thigh.

“I am willin’ to negotiate.”

The unspoken implications quarter your thoughts, wrestling them in different directions. You’d call it another stupid test, but he doesn’t look like he’s kidding around. Twice in an hour? He must be in the mood to break something. And without Win around as a safety, you’re the obvious target.

His eyes drill into you, brown irises tinged with a boiling red, dying coals hungry for a spark.

Nerves swallow you whole. You shake your head. “I’ll wait.”

He huffs, the red dulling. “Shame. Sure we could’ve worked something out.” He gestures lazily at the screen, unbothered. “Ever see this one?”

During the final act of Psycho, your eyes spot a dark splotch on the couch.

At first, you don’t understand what you’re seeing—then you spot the curve of an earloop and freeze. Your gaze darts up to confirm it. The film fades in the background.

Ghost remains as he was, locked on the screen, one knee bouncing idly. The light from the film dances white-silver over his skin. Not synthetic, not chrome, not painted and molded polymer. Flesh.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his whole face, and it’s not what you expected. 

Pale lines crisscross the bridge of his nose—surgical, maybe another full replacement or reconstruction. Scars litter his chin like buckshot, interrupted by one that cuts through his upper lip. Another traces the line of his jaw.

More than the damage, it’s the humanity of his face that rattles you most. All that modification, and he’s still so plainly a man.

“Lookin’ at me a lot tonight.” He says suddenly, still glued to the film.

You jump, stutter. “Your face—”

“Yeah? Good work, isn’t it,” Amusement pulls the scar at the corner of his mouth up as he twists to set his glass down, and with that, you get a clearer view of the other side.

Fibrous burn scars mottled with white and pink cover his cheek. A deep gouge, long healed but brutal, cuts a half-moon-shaped hollow beneath his cheekbone from what looks like a failed excavation of his mandible and molars.

“Like what y’see? ‘ave I made an impression?”

It’s unlike any prosthetic or monster-of-the-week mask you’ve seen. It’s real. Gruesome. Alluring in its own strange way.

You look away, ignoring the confusing heat tickling your neck. “An annoying one.”

He chuckles, settling back. “So you say.”

Win gives the surprise away when you call him later. His friend owns a building downtown, and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a unit free. A massive, sun-drenched loft. Partly furnished as the last tenant skipped town after she fell behind on rent. Steep discount on the rent, too, if you want it.

You scroll through the listing while he talks, near-hyperventilating at the sheer size of it. High ceilings, tall windows, polished concrete floors. The location’s perfect. One NCART stop from Studio City. Within reach of work and Win. And with the discount, it’s affordable.

No more thin walls, broken fixtures, or loud neighbors. No more non-existent security.

“Win, this is—this is incredible. Are you sure? I-I mean, I want to say yes…”

He chuckles, shooting you a wink on the screen. “Then say yes. C’mon. You think I’m gonna let my girl keep living in a busted shoebox? Nah, Stella. You’ll learn. You protect your best assets.”

Morning finds you humming as you shimmy on your day-old clothes. Your skirt’s rumpled, the glittery tights split when tugged on, and your feet protest as you shove them into heels—but none of it dims your mood. You skip breakfast, too eager to get going.

When you smugly mention that Win spilled the surprise, Ghost doesn’t say a word, just grunts. Grips his coffee a smidgen tighter. You don’t let it spoil your excitement, either.

On the drive over, you buzz with anticipation. You picture where the bed will go, how the morning light will flood the room. Rugs, colors, textures—maybe splurging on a new couch instead of another dumpster find. A window nook. Real plants. Real art.

It’s more than an apartment. It’s a leap. More tangible proof you’re making it.

“Got a tear.”

“What?” You blink, breaking from your own little world.

Ghost shifts his arm where it’s draped over the center console. Not quite touching, but near enough to edge into your space, causing you to shrink closer to the window. 

Then it moves.

Two fingers extend, and for a second, you assume he’s just pointing out the tear—until they land on it. High on your thigh, beneath the hem of your skirt. They press firm, then slip beneath the nylon.

Before anything else registers, you think: his fingers are cold.

“All tha’ money, and you wear this cheap shite?”

“Ghost—what—”

The tear widens with a whisper-soft sound as he hooks his fingers, tugging. The fabric parts without resistance. You suck in a breath, struck dumb by the sensation, the casually invasive creep of his knuckles against bare skin. His touch trails along the curve of your thigh, stoking heat in its wake despite their chill.

“Fuck, you’re soft…”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. A disconnect, a short circuit. It stutters, looping again and again, unable to bridge the gap between his shitty mood all morning to this.

“Sloppy girl,” he murmurs. “S’posed to keep up appearances, ain’t ya? Wearing tights with runs in ‘em. What would Junior say?”

His hand glides a fraction higher and drags every nerve to the surface, burning like live wires. His pinky ghosts along the inside of your thigh. Testing.

You gulp, horrified to feel your heartbeat sink low into your pelvis. “Ghost—” 

“What?” His hand flexes, pressure ticking up by a degree—just enough to make the implication clear. There’s not a thing you could do to stop him, not really. “You got somethin’ to say, Stella? ”

That stupid name again—drawled like a leash being yanked taut.

Your body finally comes online. You shove his hand away hard, and to your relief, he lets you. He retracts, humming, like you’ve done exactly what he was waiting for.

“Touchy,” he finally looks your way, the faint red glow of his optics simmering. “Relax. Curious is all. Haven’t touched real skin in ages.”

“You didn’t even ask,” you manage through a stutter, fixing your skirt and pressing your knees together tight. Willing the uninvited want, slithering under your skin and burrowing deep, to die.

“Tryin’ to figure you out.”

You turn on him, near apoplectic. “Figure me out?”

The audacity floors you.

“Yeah,” His arm returns to the console. A threat. “You wanna run in the big leagues, but you fall apart as easily as those cheap tights, don’t you?”

The words hit like a slap, flummoxing you into another bout of speechlessness. Rage and shame twist together inside you so tightly they grow indistinguishable.

“S’not worth it.” he mumbles, an afterthought drowned beneath the wail of a passing horn.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

You don’t chase it. Can’t tell if he meant for you to hear it at all. It wouldn’t matter if he had. He clearly thinks you’re an airheaded piece of arm candy. A dumb girl who’s bitten off more than she can chew.

The car finally stops outside a sleek, mirrored high-rise. You try to hop out immediately, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching your bags, but the lock won’t budge. It forces you to look at him again.

“In a rush?” Ghost eyes you for a moment, then his attention drops to your hemline. His chest rises with a deep breath, and for a second, you think he might do it again. Instead, he looks up, and hits unlock. “Don’t let me keep you.”

You hesitate too long, and of course, he catches it.

“Unless that’s what you want?”

That’s your cue. You’re out of the car in a blink, the door snapping shut behind you. But the window rolls down.

“See you soon, Princess.”

You don’t look back. The run in your tights unravels past your thigh and to your knee. The morning air bites at the exposed skin, chasing off his touch.

[lightasthesun]

Comprehensive Lexicon Guide for First-Time SW Fic Readers:

Flimsi/Flimsiplast = Paper

Flimsiwork/Datawork = Paperwork

Stylus = Pen

Datapad = Tablet

Comlink/Comm = Communication Device/Phone

Binders = Handcuffs

Chronometer = Clock

Spectacles = Eyeglasses

Chrono = Watch

Conservator = Refrigerator

Caf = Coffee

Nerfburger = Hamburger

Blue milk = Milk (literally blue)

Hubba chips = French Fries

Sweet roll = Doughnut

Flatcakes = Pancakes

Tabac = Tobacco

HoloNet = World Wide Web

Holovision/HoloTV = Television

Holodrama/Holovids = Movie/Videos

Holocamera/Holocam = Camera

Holomap = three-dimensional map

Holojournal = Newspaper

Holocube = Picture frame

Holotable = Projector

Holoscanner = X-ray machine

Holojournalist = Reporter

Flatholo/Holograph = Photograph

Sonic Damper = Active Noise Cancellation

Refresher/Fresher= Bathroom

Sonic Bath = Bath

Sanisteam/Sonic shower = Waterless Shower

Hydrospanner = Wrench

Hydro Flask = Water Bottle

Power Cell/Energy Cell = Batteries

Authorization Chip = Decryption key

Datatape = Disk

Datastick = Flash drive

(Personal) Com Code = Phone number

Datachip = SD Card

Synthflesh = Synthetic skin

Glowrod = Flashlight

Sparkstick = Match

Slugthrower = Gun

Slug = Bullet

Vibroblade = a blade that can vibrate at high frequencies, increasing its cutting power and penetrating ability (tactical knife)

Rangefinder = Rifle scope

Turbolaser = Cannon

Ion pike/Vibropike = Spear

Electro Staff = Stun baton

Blaster = Pistol/Rifle

Stun Blaster = similar to a Taser

Landspeeder/Airspeeder/Speeder = Car

Turbolift = Elevator

Slideramp = Escalator

Starfighter = Fighter jet

Rotorcraft = Helicopter

Hoverpack/Jetpack= Jet pack

Speeder Bike = Motorcycle

Skylane = Traffic lane

Railspeeder/Hovertrain = Train

Power Chair/Hoverchair= Wheelchair

Windscreen = Windshield

Podracing = Car racing

Dejarik = Chess

Sabacc = Poker and Blackjack combined

Galactic Rebels = Combat simulator

B'shingh = Dungeons and dragons

Jizz = Jazz music

Wailer = Singer (ie. Jizz Wailer)

Cantina = Bar or Pup

Para Sailing = Paragliding

Aurebesh = Alphabet

Credits = Money

Sleeping Pallet = Bedroll

Naming Day = Birthday

Youngling = Child

Galactic Basic Standard/ Basic = English

Medkit/Medpac = First aid kit

Hypo = Syringe

Medic/Healer = Doctor

Medcenter = Hospital

Bactapatch = Bandaid

Nanoweave = Fabric

Transparisteel = Glass

Plastifoam = Packing material

Durasteel = Steel

Plasteel = Plastic

Duracrete = Concrete

Slicer = Hacker (slicing = hacking)

Identikit = Passport

Minder = Therapist

Synthleather = Vinyl

Viewport = Window

Cooling Unit = Air-conditioning

Honeydarter = Bee

Slythmonger = Drugdealer

Spice = Drugs

Stimpill = Caffeine pill

Power Socket = Plug

Cutters = Scissors

Cycle = Day

Standard Cycle = 24h

Standard Week = 5 days

Standard Month = 35 standard days

Standard Year = approx. ten months

Tenday = literally ten days

Cigarras/Smokes = Cigarettes

Click = Kilometer or 'a moment'

Parsec = a unit of distance

Tweezers/Clanker/tin head/tinnie = Droid

Separatist = Seppie

Promise Ring = Wedding Ring

Body Glove = Jumpsuit

Slicksuit = Wet suit

Civvies = Civilian clothing

Carbonite = a metal alloy used to freeze a person in a state of hibernation

Hyperdrive = device that allows a starship to travel faster than lightspeed

Moisture vaporator = device that can extract water from the air, commonly used on tatooine

Glareshades = Sunglasses

Gasser = Gas Oven

Repulsorlift = technology that can create an anti-gravity field and is used for levitating heavy objects

Heating unit = Heater

Utility Droid = Roomba

Sunbonnet = a Clone trooper helmet

Bad Batcher = a defective Clone Trooper

Banthabrain = birdbrain/ a stupid person

Bantha fodder = waste of space/nonsense

Blast! = word of exclamation

Blasted! = s.o in anger or annoyance

Blaster-brained = dimwitted

Blaster fodder = cannon fodder

Blast off = Piss off

Brainless = Stupid

Bug/Bugger = used to refer to Geonosians

Forceforsaken = godforsaken

Full of Poodoo = full of shit

Poodoo = Shit

Kriff = Fuck

Jedi scum = derogatory term for jedi

Kark = derogatory expletive

Larty = LAAT/i gunship

Laserbrain = insult

Meat droid = derogatory term for Clone Troopers

Redrobes = Palpatines guard

Rookie/Shinie = newly recruited Trooper

Scum = insult to refer to bounty hunters/rebels

Sharpie = Sharp-witted

Sithspawn/Sithspit/Hellspawn! = expletive

Sleemo = Slimeball

Son of a bantha = insult

Wizard! = Cool

Spaced = dead

Hutt-spawn = Bastard

Karabast = exclamation of dismay

Stang = Crap

Buckethead/Bucketbrain = derogatory term for Stormtroopers

Bucket = Helmet

Nat-born = Natural Born

Roger Roger = affirmative/copy that

Droid poppers = EMP grenade

Sitrep = short for situation report

Backwater Planet = any planet that isn't part of the core system

Holocron = device that can project a three-dimensional image of a person/object and is used for communication or entertainment.

Kessel Run = a risky Operation. Commonly used as a metaphor in impossible situations.

Thermal Detonator= device that can create a powerful explosion like a grenade or bomb

Ray Shield/Energy Shield = creates a (protective) barrier

Rebreather = device that allows a person to breathe underwater or in toxic environments

Phrases:

Wild goose chase = wild bantha chase

That's bantha shit = that's bullshit

As slippery as a greased Dug = untrustworthy

Credit for your thoughts = penny for your thoughts

Cut the poodoo = cut the crap

to get your gills in a twist = get upset about something

Holy mother of meteors = holy mother of god

Oh my skies/ Oh my stars = exclamation of surprise

Stars' end! = exclamation of disbelief

What in the blue blazes = exclamation

When Geonosis freezes over/When it snows on tatooine = extremely unlikely

Who pissed in your power supply = who pissed you off

Blast it = damn it

By the maker = exclamation of surprise

Great karking Dragon = expression of disbelief

Lothcat got your tongue = equivalent of 'cat got your tongue?'

Sod it = expression of frustration

[zuhaism]

⊹ ｡˚ 𓂃 ♡ BITTERSWEET FEELINGS ?!

[ navigation ]

pairing : jock!reader x meangirl!jimin

synopsis : you swore on your homies life jimins car wasnt there when you reversed. now you have to face the consequences of being jimins slave for the whole summer

a/n : IM BACK GUYS I FINISHED HIGHSCHOOL WOWOWOWOWOWO. i have a sophia fic cooking up in the oven pls give me motivation to write

the sun rays burns down on the pavement. casting shimmering heat waves off the rows of parked cars infront of the supermarket. the air smells like asphalt and faintly of gasoline. tension in the air so thick it might as well be solid and yet. none of it compares to the suffocating weight in your chest as you stare, in horror, at the very expensive, very sleek, very ruined black car in front of you.

you really didn’t mean to do it.

you swear on your mom’s life you didn’t.

but the horrifying crunch of metal against metal still rings in your ears. vibrating through your bones like the aftershock of an earthquake. your hands are frozen on the wheel, white-knuckled, and your breath catches somewhere between your ribs as you take in the undeniable dent you just gifted this beautiful, angry looking machine.

“oh. oh no. oh my god. i did not just—” you breathe out. stomach twisting in sheer horror. this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to run a quick errand. buy groceries for your mom. go home and continue your harry potter marathon. not this.

“stupid,” you mutter, smacking your forehead with the heel of your palm. “stupid, stupid, stupid—”

before you can even process your next move, the driver’s door swings open with a force that makes you flinch.

yu. fucking. jimin.

the richest kid in school. the kind of rich that makes people whisper behind her back, half in awe, half in resentment.

her dad owns the most luxurious country club in town. which of course, makes her the best golfer in school. not because she loves it, but because she was practically raised on the green. probably holding a club before she could even walk. she walks through the halls like she owns them (and maybe she does).

her head high, expression unreadable, never wasting words on people she doesn’t deem worth her time. she only keeps a tight circle. four friends. untouchable. (though one of them is your partner in chemistry , minjeong whose company you enjoy alot and you dont understand how a soft girl like her is best friends with jimin).

she gets whatever she wants. people trip over themselves to be on her good side. and when they're not? well. she makes them regret it. and right now, judging by the absolute murder in her eyes, you are very much not on her good side.

your brain short-circuits, all logical thought thrown straight out the window. your vision tunnels, your stomach flips, and before you can even register what’s happening, your head tips forward, smacking against the steering wheel.

the horn blares, loud and jarring, slicing through the summer air like a knife.

you jolt upright immediately, blinking fast, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. the world is still spinning, and yet one thing remains painfully clear. you are so, so screwed.

jimin stands there, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on her head, dark hair gleaming in the sunlight like something out of a goddamn magazine. the breeze tousles a few loose strands around her face. but her eyes dark, and burning with barely restrained fury stay locked on the damage, as if she’s willing the dent to disappear through sheer force of her eyes. her top tightly hugs her frame that almost made you pass out again

she exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. the strands slip through her fingers effortlessly, like silk, and it almost distracts you from the murder written all over her expression. almost.

“you have got to be fucking kidding me,” she seethes. voice low. deadly.

her posture is stiff, shoulders squared, one perfectly manicured hand resting on her hip. the subtle shift of her weight onto one leg makes her stance look effortless, like she owns the entire parking lot and by extension, your life.

you, on the other hand, are still frozen in your car like a complete idiot.

“get. out.”

you scramble to obey. nearly getting tangled in your seatbelt in your rush. your sneakers scrape against the pavement as you finally step out. the heat hitting you full force, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of how dry your mouth is.

“okay, okay, before you, um, say anything…, i just wanna say that i deeply regret my actions and—”

“regret?” she scoffs. taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “you wrecked my car, hotshot. i don’t care about your regret. i care about my bumper.”

your nose scrunches. “hotshot?”

jimin tilts her head, mock innocence dripping with venom. “oh, is that not what they call you?”

your jaw clenches. face heating even more than it already was under the sun. “that’s uncalled for.”

“so was your car slamming into mine,” she deadpans.

“technically,” you start, trying desperately to ease the tension, “it’s my bumper that—”

“do not finish that sentence unless you want to die in this parking lot.”

you snap your mouth shut. “right. totally fair.”

jimin pinches the bridge of her nose. her patience clearly wearing thin. the sharp inhale she takes in through her nose is slow, measured, like she’s actively resisting the urge to strangle you.

“do you even have insurance?”

your stomach sinks. “…define insurance?”

the laugh that escapes her is dry, humorless, and a little terrifying. “oh, this is gonna be fun.”

you shift awkwardly on your feet. the asphalt radiating heat through the soles of your shoes. sweat drips down the back of your neck, and you resist the urge to wipe it away, because somehow, looking nervous in front of her feels even worse than actually being nervous.

“sooo… how much are we talkin’?” you try, forcing out a bright, if not completely panicked chuckle. “like, damage-wise? i-i can pay you back. eventually. probably.”

“no. no probably.”

her voice is steel, and when you look up, her arms are crossed again, her nails tapping against her elbow. she’s still looking at you like you just ran over her childhood pet, and it’s making your stomach churn.

“you will pay me back,” she continues, voice calm, controlled. and then, a smirk, slow and wicked, curls onto her lips. “or else.”

your pulse stutters. “or else… what?”

she leans in, just slightly, and suddenly, she’s everywhere. her scent, something expensive and infuriatingly pleasant, wrapping around you like a trap. your breath catches. it’s distracting, the way she moves, the effortless confidence. the quiet kind of power that makes your stomach twist.

“or else you’ll regret ever stepping behind a wheel, sweetheart.”

your mouth goes dry.

jimin is close, too close, and the sun catches on the sharp angles of her face, highlighting the slight arch of her brow, the press of her lips, the way her eyes are practically daring you to push your luck. your fingers twitch at your sides, and you swallow. you don’t know whether to be terrified or intrigued. maybe both.

“give me your number,” the warmth of her breath ghosts over your skin, and your brain short-circuits for a second. her perfume is something delicate yet undeniably expensive, the kind that lingers, the kind that’ll stick to your clothes if you stand here any longer.

you fumble with your phone, fingers clumsy, pulse hammering against your ribs. she watches, amused, and somehow, that makes it worse.

“i’ll text you all the details so get ready for one hell of a summer”

last night, at exactly midnight, an unknown number texted you. right of the bat you knew it was her. she texted you a demented and threatening text you’ve come to expect from her.

“tmrw 9am sharp at the country club. dress accordingly. don’t be late or i’ll make sure you regret ever stepping foot on a basketball court again.”

she knew exactly what she was doing, sending that text just late enough to ruin a good night’s sleep. you woke up dreading the day ahead, and now, you’re actually living it. the frustration settles in again like a second wave, thick and inescapable. you hate the stupid country club. hate the stupid sun burning the back of your neck. hate the stupid heavy golf bag on your shoulder. and jimin

…okay, maybe hate is a strong word.

but considering how smug she looks right now. immaculate as ever in a crisp white polo that fits her perfectly, tucked into an infuriatingly short skirt that only accentuates her toned legs. and goddamn those thighs– you think she deserves at least a little bit of it.

the way the country club aesthetic should be obnoxious but somehow works flawlessly on her only adds to your growing irritation. the neatly pressed uniform, the poised stance, the effortless air of privilege. even the faintest scent of something expensive. probably a perfume that costs more than your debt clings to her like an afterthought.

it's annoying.

she doesn’t even have to try.

jimin shifts her weight slightly, rolling her shoulders back as she adjusts her golf glove with slow, deliberate movements. she does everything with an infuriating sense of ease, like she knows she’s being watched and thrives on it. her fingers flex slightly before she pulls the glove snug, and when she finally turns to look at you, there’s a flicker of something in her gaze—amusement, condescension, curiosity. all neatly wrapped in a bow of insufferable confidence.

"this is actual, real-life torture," you grumble, adjusting the strap of the golf bag for what feels like the hundredth time as you follow her across the pristine green. the weight digs into your shoulder, pressing into already-sore muscles, and you know tomorrow will be hell. "can’t you just, i don’t know, get one of the employees to do this?"

jimin doesn’t even spare you a glance as she steps onto the tee box, stretching her arms above her head in a slow, languid motion. the movement elongates her frame, revealing a glimpse of her toned stomach, muscles flexing subtly under smooth skin. your throat goes dry, warmth creeping up your neck as you try, really try, not to react. you snap your gaze toward the horizon, willing yourself to think of anything else, but the image lingers stubbornly.

jimin, of course, is fully aware. she drops her arms with an easy grace, a knowing look flickering in her eyes before she turns away, the corner of her lips curving just slightly. not quite a smirk, but something close, something taunting. she rolls her wrists, settling into position like nothing happened, like she didn’t just momentarily wreck your focus with a stretch. "the employees," she says smoothly, rolling her wrist as she grips the club, "are not in debt to me for crashing into my car."

you groan, adjusting the heavy golf bag filled with clubs on your shoulder. easing the discomfort "you are never gonna let that go, are you?"

"not until you pay me back. and at the rate you’re going, that might take a while, hotshot." her voice is as sweet as honey but edged with superiority, like she’s savoring every second of your misery.

you clench your jaw. hotshot. again.

"you have to stop calling me that," you mutter, setting the bag down next to the tee box with more force than necessary, the weight making your arms ache.

except jimin isn’t looking at the bag. she’s watching you, the way your muscles shift as you move, the barely concealed strain in your shoulders. there’s something almost delighted in her gaze, like she’s found a new source of entertainment.

"oh? why? does it bother you?" she asks, plucking a driver from the bag with an ease that only irritates you further. the way her toned arms flex with the motion doesn't help either. she knows exactly what she’s doing, and judging by the quirk of her lips, she’s enjoying every second of your discomfort.

you narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. "it’s inaccurate."

she hums, lining up her shot, an infuriating smirk ghosting over her lips. "hmm. i disagree. you think you’re hot shit on the court, don’t you?"

her stance shifts slightly, feet planting firmly into the grass as she squares her shoulders. the way she moves is calculated. each adjustment precise, deliberate. you watch as her fingers curl around the grip, her knuckles flexing slightly as she angles her wrists just so. the air around her feels different in moments like this, a sharp contrast to the casual arrogance she usually wears like a second skin.

before you can respond, she swings. smooth. effortless. perfect.

the club slices through the air with a quiet whisper, and the ball soars down the course, landing dead center on the fairway. jimin straightens, tilting her head as she finally turns to look at you, self-satisfaction radiating from every inch of her.

"well?" she asks, the challenge clear in her voice.

you blink. what was the question again?

you clear your throat, forcing your expression into something unimpressed. "eh. i’ve seen better."

jimin steps closer, and you swear there’s something different in her movements now. something looser, almost playful. she twirls the club in her hands, letting it dig into the ground after catching it again. she rests on one leg as the other twists over another and leaned onto the club. "oh? who?"

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

she smirks. "thought so."

your cheeks heat for some stupid reason, and you quickly turn to grab the golf bag. except you miscalculate the weight, and the sudden shift nearly sends you stumbling forward. you barely catch yourself, muscles straining as you regain control, arms flexing instinctively.

jimin doesn’t say anything.

which is weird. because jimin always has something snarky to say.

when you glance up, you catch her staring. her gaze flickers, just for a second, down to your arms. subtle, almost unnoticeable, but you see it. the faintest parting of her lips, the quick inhale. a hesitation she probably isn’t even aware of.

you blink.

she blinks.

and just like that, her usual sharp expression returns, like she wasn’t just caught red-handed checking you out.

"keep up, caddy," she says coolly, turning on her heel. walking ahead of you

but her voice isn’t as sharp as before. slightly wavering and breathless.

you squint at her.

that was definitely something.

you hoist the golf bag onto your shoulder with a frustrated sigh, muttering under your breath as you follow after her. "this is gonna be the worst summer of my life."

she doesn’t turn around, but you swear you see the tiniest smirk.

the day only got worse from there. as if lugging around a golf bag that felt like it was stuffed with bricks wasn’t enough, you quickly learned that being jimin’s caddy also meant serving as her personal errand runner. every time she hit a ball off-course. which, to your growing dismay, was more often than you expected. she’d wave you off with a casual, “go fetch.”

and so, you trudged through endless patches of rough, waded through ankle-deep ponds, and even had to dig through bushes that seemed personally offended by your presence. at one point, you nearly lost your footing in a muddy ditch, and when you glanced back at jimin for some semblance of pity, she was too busy taking pictures. of you.

she was documenting your suffering.

"you’re actually evil," you huffed, you grumble, wiping a streak of dirt from your cheek with the back of your hand.

jimin forces her expression into something neutral, trying not to squeal at how adorable you look with a streak of dirt near where you just rubbed. ignoring the way her pulse has picked up.

"oh, come on, hotshot. i’m giving you a real athlete’s workout,” her voice comes out smoother than she expects, she can feel a slight waver in her voice. adjusting her visor with a smile that was entirely too pleased seeing you all dirty. she watches you bend down again, muscles flexing under that stupidly tight shirt. the sun clings to your skin, highlighting every sharp dip and defined ridge of your back as you drag another golf ball out of the mud.

before she can think twice she snaps another photo and sends it away into the groupchat. Her camera roll is basically just a collection of you suffering. her fingers hesitate before sending another one. she observed the recent picture; dirt smeared across your sharp jaw, shirt sticking to your back, the messy, tousled way your bangs fall over your forehead.

you look–

she presses her lips together, hard trying to shoo away the tingling feeling in her lower stomach. she swallows, shifting as you shake the ball off, sending tiny droplets flying, some landing on your shirt. the fabric clings a little more, stretched over the plane of your shoulders, and jimin lets out a slow, measured exhale through her nose. gaining her composure. her phone vibrates.

minjeong : omfg is she into women

aeri : BRO THAT BACKK

ningning : jimin why are you not on your knees begging for it

she rolled her eyes at her friends reactions towards the recent picture she sent with a caption of “asshole looking for the money she owes me”

but she isn’t fooling anyone. least of all herself. because when you push yourself up again, wiping sweat off your face with the hem of your shirt, exposing the faintest hint of your stomach, jimin’s stomach flips. she squeezes her thighs together. she needs to get a grip.

“you done gawking?”

her head snaps up. your brows are raised, a smirk playing at your lips as you watch her, amusement flickering in your eyes.

fuck.

"please," she scoffs, shoving her sunglasses back onto her face to hide her cheeks turning red. "don't flatter yourself."

she turns on her heel before she can do something humiliating. like actually drop to her knees.

jimin tells herself she’s just enjoying the entertainment. that’s all this is. watching you struggle under the weight of the golf bag, huffing as you haul clubs around like you’re in a survival challenge, is simply amusing.

but then there’s the way your shoulders flex when you readjust the strap. the way your forearms tighten when you lift a particularly heavy bag. the way your back muscles ripples under your shirt whenever you bend down to grab a stray golf ball.

it keeps the bad thoughts coming

she rolls her wrist, pretending to focus on lining up her next shot, but her mind is elsewhere. on the way you pushed your sleeves up earlier, the way your fingers curled around the soaked golf ball when you pulled it out of the pond. on the way you muttered under your breath, exasperated but still doing what she asked.

she clicks her tongue, shaking off the thought. Ridiculous. still, when you lift the bag onto your shoulder again, jaw set in stubborn determination, she feels something stupid and fluttery in her stomach.

“you better not be slacking back there, hotshot,” she calls out, voice steady, even if she feels anything but.

when you glare at her, eyes full of irritation, she almost forgets to breathe. you mutter something under your breath, probably another complaint about how unfair this whole arrangement is, and jimin should let it slide. she really should. but instead, she glances over just in time to catch the way you roll your shoulders back, shaking out the soreness like you’re on the court, like you’re about to sprint past defenders and sink a perfect shot. it’s so effortless—so natural—that for a second, she isn’t thinking about your debt or your grumbling or how much fun it is to make you suffer.

for a second, she’s just watching you move. her fingers tighten around her club.

“you’re really struggling, huh?” she teases, forcing her tone to stay light, even as something deep in her chest feels a little less steady. “should’ve hit the weight room instead of all that dribbling.”

you scoff, swinging the bag off your shoulder with one smooth motion. “please. you’d collapse if you had to carry this thing for five minutes.”and jimin should roll her eyes. should brush off the remark like she always does. but then you flex your hands, fingers stretching before tightening into a brief fist, veins barely visible against your skin.

her stomach does something weird.

she exhales sharply through her nose, turns away, and focuses very hard on adjusting her glove.

“whatever helps you sleep at night, hotshot.”

when she hears you groan behind her, she smiles to herself. but she doesn’t look back.

doesn’t trust herself to.

as you got ready for bed you read the text sent by the same unknown number from yesterday night. “7:30 sharp at the docks. eat bfr coming. im not feeding you. bring swim wear and a change of clothes.” you groaned loudly trying not to think about what she’ll be doing next.

“no fucking way.”

the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, eyes locked onto the massive yacht bobbing lazily on the crystal-clear water. sunlight bounces off the pristine white exterior, almost blinding, the sheer size of the vessel making your stomach twist with unease.

jimin stands a few feet ahead, completely at ease, like she was born to be here. her sunglasses are perched on top of her head, holding back strands of dark hair that catch in the wind. but that’s not what’s throwing you off.

it’s what she’s wearing.

the bikini is black, tiny, the kind that barely counts as clothing under the oversized white button up. the top ties behind her neck, accentuating the curve of her collarbones, the smooth lines of her shoulders. the bottoms sit high on her hips, the strings digging just enough into her skin to make something tighten low in your stomach.

the button up hanging loose off one shoulder, dipping low enough to tease the shape of her waist. it should make it less distracting, but it does the exact opposite. every time she moves, the material shifts, threatening to slip just enough to reveal more.

the teasing skin peaking from her button up that barely covers anything made something tighten in your lower stomach. you clenched your stomach muscle trying to regain grip of reality.

she finally glances back at you, raising a single brow like you’re being dramatic. “what?”

you blink, dragging your gaze up to her face like you hadn’t just been staring. “this is insane.” you gesture vaguely at the boat, trying to focus. “this is … this is some billionaire level shit. why am i here?”

her lips curl into a smirk, effortless and sharp. "because im not manning the sails this time, and luckily, you’re in debt to me."

before you can shoot back a very creative insult, a new voice cuts in, light, teasing, but with an unmistakable authority. "jimin, don’t be mean to your friend."

you turn just in time to see a woman stepping onto the dock, effortlessly elegant in a white sundress, dark hair twisted into a perfect bun. she moves like she belongs in a high end magazine, every step deliberate, eyes sharp as they take you in. and she looks exactly like how you’d imagine jimin looks like in 30 years.

"she's not my friend, mother," jimin corrects smoothly, adjusting her sunglasses. "she's my employee." smirking smugly as her mother grimaces at her oldest daughter. you shoot her a glare. "wow. charming as ever."

jimin’s mother merely smiles, amused. by how you handled her moody daughter. "well, employee or not, she's a guest today. come on, everyone's waiting on the boat."

you have no choice but to follow, your arm brushing against jimin’s as you step onto the yacht. the contact is brief, barely anything, but it makes your skin prickle, your senses hyper-aware of her proximity.

jimin isn't sure why she thought today would be easy.

it should be. she should be enjoying herself sailing with her family, soaking up the sun, watching you struggle to keep up. enjoying the sounds of your misery.

but instead, she’s distracted.

you’re sitting on the edge of the boat, legs stretched out, the ocean breeze playing with your hair. jimin watches, unable to help herself.

it’s not the muscles that have her staring, the muscles that she could vividly see from your white blouse that clings to your back, not really. it’s the way you move. the way your fingers work at the sleeves of your t-shirt, rolling them up with an absentminded ease, knotting the fabric at your elbows like it’s second nature. the way the sun clings to your skin, highlighting the gentle slopes of your arms, the curve of your shoulders. she doesn’t fail to notice the way your forearm muscles tightens as you fix your sleeve.

when you reach up to wipe at your forehead, a loose strand of hair falls into your face. you don’t notice at first, too busy squinting at something in the distance. then, with the smallest furrow of your brows, you shake your head just enough to make it shift, the motion unintentional, frustratingly endearing. and slightly domestic.

jimin’s chest tightens.

you’re adorable. ridiculously cute— no. stop it no shes not. she’s an asshole. she’s a stupid prick that crashed into your car.

and then you laugh quietly, mostly to yourself, like you just remembered something funny. the sound is soft, barely carried by the wind, but jimin feels it like a physical thing, like it reaches out and tugs at something deep inside her.

jimin looks away immediately, but it doesn’t help. because even when she’s not looking at you, she can still hear you—your quiet laughter, the soft hum you make under your breath as you stretch out your arms, the way you mutter something to yourself like you’re having a conversation in your own head.

she scowls. you’re so... you. completely unaware of the way you pull people in, make them want to lean closer, watch a little longer. it’s infuriating.

her fingers tighten around the railing. get a grip, jimin. but it’s hard when you keep doing things like scrunching your nose in concentration, tilting your head like a confused puppy at the sails above, or biting your lip in thought. completely unaware that someone is watching you, studying you.

and maybe that’s what’s getting to her the most.

it’s not the muscles, not the way you look, not even the way you carry yourself. it’s the way you exist, so utterly and completely in your own world. so unguarded. jimin doesn’t do unguarded. she doesn’t do soft, doesn’t do the kind of feelings that make your stomach twist and your throat feel tight. she does casual. she teases and flirts and doesn’t get attached.

she clears her throat, flexing her fingers before curling them into fists. she needs to do something—anything—to snap herself out of it.

“you’re gawking,” a voice beside her says, amused.

jimin stiffens. “am not.”

hanni, leaning lazily against the railing, tilts her head with the smuggest expression. “right. because you totally weren’t just staring like you forgot how to blink.” jimin scoffs, shoving her sunglasses onto her face with too much force. “you’re delusional.”

“and you’re in denial.”

jimin ignores her, choosing to focus on the water instead. the waves are steady, predictable, easy to think about. not like what she’s feeling in her chest. when she sees you dangling your feet from the yacht.

but hanni isn’t done.

“you know,” she hums, rocking onto the balls of her feet, “if you keep looking at her like that, someone might get the wrong idea.”

jimin doesn’t turn. “there is no idea to get.” she says firmly.

hanni grins. “sure. whatever you say, unnie.”

you shouldn't be enjoying this. well technically the hard labour hasn’t started yet. so you’re trying to enjoy the open water and much needed fresh air before jimin makes you her slave again. it feels nice.

"you seem to be having fun," jimin remarks, stepping up beside you. breaking the silence. here we go you thought. after ignoring her little sisters’ teasing. or, talk, you didn’t hear what they talked about but jimin looked pretty riled up after what hanni said. she’s decided to interrupt your peace and make your day worse.

you shrug, stretching your arms above your head with a dramatic sigh. "what can i say? i thrive in any environment." you said as you placed both arms beside letting it fall lazily. leaning on it. you blink your eyes open, glancing at her. her sunglasses are perched high on her nose, shielding her gaze, but you can still feel her looking. observing you.

her lips twitch, as if amused. "you nearly died on the green yesterday."

"yeah, well." you shift arms as you drawl out, shooting her a lopsided grin. "i'm an adaptable person."

there’s a beat of silence, but not the peaceful kind. it’s charged, stretching between you like a live wire. jimin’s head tilts ever so slightly, her gaze sweeping over you in a way that’s too slow, too deliberate. it makes your skin prickle, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

"apparently."

something about the way she says it makes your pulse jump. you shift under her scrutiny, suddenly too warm.her sunglasses may hide her eyes, but the smirk curling at the corner of her lips betrays her. it’s not just amused. it’s knowing, like she’s already several steps ahead of you in whatever game she’s playing. you shift, suddenly aware of how warm your skin feels. not from the sun, but from her unwavering attention.

"why are you looking at me like that?" you ask, voice coming out less steady than you wanted.

jimin doesn’t answer right away. instead, she steps in, just enough that the scent of her expensive perfume. fresh and citrusy, but with a sharp undertone wraps around you. she leans in, just slightly, just enough to test the space between you.

"like what?" she asks, voice lilting, teasing.

your voice stuck in your throat. you swallow.

"like you’re plotting my demise." you reply, forcing yourself to hold your ground.

her smirk deepens. she reaches up, adjusting her sunglasses with two fingers, and you catch a glimpse of her eyes beneath them. dark, glinting with something unreadable. "maybe i am."

the way she says it, low and smooth, sends an unwelcome shiver down your spine. you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your heartbeat picks up. "so much for enjoying the breeze."

jimin hums, dragging a slow gaze down the length of you before flicking it back up, lazy and considering. she taps a finger against her chin, as if in deep thought, before her lips curl into something far too smug.

"since you're so adaptable," she says, gesturing toward the rigging with an air of faux innocence, "you can help with the sails."

you groan, trudging over. she watches you come closer, arms crossed, lips curling ever so slightly.

she is not looking at your arms again.

she’s not.

the moment jimin smirked at you and told you to help with the sails, you should’ve known you were about to be thrown into another situation where you had no idea what you were doing. you squint at the ropes in your hands, then at the towering mast, then at the intricate mess of rigging all around. why are there so many ropes?

"you look confused," jimin says, standing just a little too close behind you.

"i am confused," you reply. "this is, like, rich people knowledge. i don’t know how to do any of this."

she huffs out a laugh. it almost sounds melodic in your ears. "rich people knowledge?"

"yes." you tug experimentally at one of the ropes, watching it pull at something above. "why do you even know how to do this? you’re not a pirate."

"my father made me learn when i was younger," she says. "he said that if we were going to own a yacht, we should at least know how to use it properly."

you snort. "wow. tragic backstory."

"just shut up and let me teach you," she mutters, stepping in closer.

you open your mouth to protest, but then her hands find yours.

your brain short-circuits.

her touch is soft– unexpectedly so. but firm, her fingers pressing lightly against yours, guiding them over the rope with practiced ease. her skin is cool against your own, which feels too warm all of a sudden, heat blooming along your knuckles, creeping up your arms. you swear its the burning sun right above you.

she leans in slightly, voice lower now that she’s right beside you. "you need to loop it like this. if you tie it too loose, the sail won’t hold. too tight, and you’ll mess up the balance."

you nod, but it’s a lie. you barely register what she’s saying.

because she’s close. close enough that her shoulder brushes against yours, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her perfume mixed with the salt of the ocean. the warmth of her breath ghosts over your skin as she exhales, sending a shiver trailing down your spine.

your fingers twitch under hers. "right. got it," you manage, though your voice is slightly higher than usual. jimin chuckles low, quiet, right near your ear. your stomach flips. she’s enjoying this. you can tell. and judging by the smug curve of her lips when you glance at her, she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

you fumble with the ropes when she moves away as the wind picks up and before you know it, the rope slips through your fingers like water. the sail jerks violently in response, the sudden shift sending a sharp ripple through the boat.

"Shit-" you let out.

jimin moves fast, instinct kicking in as she reaches for the rigging to correct your mistake. but in the process, she miscalculates and her foot catches against yours that made her stumble.

and then, so do you.

your back slams against the side of the boat, the wooden railing pressing into your spine as you suck in a sharp breath. the impact sends a jolt through your body, momentarily stunning you, but your instincts take over before you can think. one hand grabs onto the railing for support, while the other finds jimin’s waist, fingers tightening reflexively around the fabric of her shirt where you can subtly feel her curves.

she stumbles into you fully, her body pressing flush against yours.

your heart stutters.

at the same time, jimin’s arm slings over your shoulder in a desperate attempt to steady herself, the warmth of her palm seeping through your long sleeves swim suit where she grips your biceps. her other hand is splayed against your arm, fingers digging in just enough for you to feel the faint press of her nails.

and suddenly, you’re close.

too close. you could feel the curves of her body against you. and how small she is in yor arms.

her body is warm, the scent of salt and sunscreen clinging to her skin. you can feel the way she breathes, chest rising and falling against yours. every small shift sends a spark of awareness shooting down your spine, your pulse hammering in your ears as the realization sinks in.

jimin is practically in your arms and she isn’t moving. neither are you.

her sunglasses slip down her nose from the movement, revealing her eyes for the first time today. deep brown, glinting under the sun, flickering with something you can’t quite read.

your breath catches in your throat. she looks so beautiful.

the ocean breeze swirls around you, but all you can feel is the heat radiating from her skin. your fingers twitch at her waist, hyper-aware of the way the fabric of her shirt feels beneath your palm, the slight give of her small body against yours. and the way you could subtly feel some of her skin against your swim wear.

jimin’s grip on your shoulder tightens, her jaw clenched, lips parted like she’s trying to find the right words. but none come. you dont know whats going through her mind but you knew for sure she isn’t moving when you saw how her eyes flickered to your lips. somehow it made your heart flutter.

you could feel her leaning into you slightly.

and then—

"are you two gonna kiss or what?"

the words cut through the moment like a gunshot.

you jerk back, nearly losing your footing, barely managing to catch yourself before you go overboard. while jimin’s reaction is immediate. her head whips around so fast her visor nearly flies off, her expression shifting from surprise to outright murderous in the blink of an eye.

"seriously?" she snaps.

hanni, standing a few feet away, leans against the railing with the smuggest grin you’ve ever seen. jimin groans, yanking herself out of your grasp, face scrunched in exasperation. you, on the other hand, are still stuck processing what just happened, trying to ignore the way your pulse is hammering in your ears. and how you miss the closeness between you two.

after jimin left you to man the sails alone while she went to cool off, you actually got pretty good at it. her dad even threw in some pointers, guiding you through the ropes. literally. by now, you had a decent handle on things, adjusting the sails without fumbling, reading the wind like it was second nature. the boat had drifted far from shore, the coastline long gone, replaced by nothing but open water stretching endlessly in every direction.

"you can slow down here, y/n," jimin’s dad called from behind you as you pulled at the ropes, adjusting the sails to ease the boat to a gentler pace. you heard him shift, standing to get a better look at the sea. "your friend’s a natural, jimin. almost better than you!" his voice carried a teasing lilt.

you glanced toward where jimin sat, catching the way her expression twisted in surprise, then in pure irritation. she scoffed, rolling her eyes before mumbling something you couldn’t quite catch under her breath.

you smirked, triumphant, meeting her gaze.

she narrowed her eyes. then, she raised her hand and flipped you off. unhinged woman. your smirk faltered. rude.

but before you could retaliate, jimin moved. without hesitation, she stood, reaching for the buttons of her white shirt. and then she pulled it off.

your brain short-circuited.

the world around you dimmed, the sound of the ocean fading into white noise as your eyes locked onto the sight in front of you. jimin, standing tall against the backdrop of the sea, the late afternoon sun catching on her skin, making her glow.

she wore a dark bikini underneath, the contrast against her pale sun-kissed skin. her collarbones, sharp and delicate, dipped into smooth shoulders. her toned stomach tensed slightly as she tossed her shirt aside, the movement effortless, like she’d done this a thousand times before.

you were gawking.

full-on, shamelessly gawking.

your brain screamed at you to stop staring, trying to maintain your pride. but your body refused to cooperate. your grip on the ropes slackened slightly, fingers numb as your heart threw itself against your ribs.

jimin caught the look on your face and smirked.

"what?" she teased, tilting her head slightly, the picture of nonchalance. "you act like you’ve never seen someone undress before."

you opened your mouth.whether to respond or gasp for air, you weren’t sure. but nothing came out.

jimin grinned, pleased with herself, before turning toward the edge of the boat. with one quick motion, she dove into the water, leaving you standing there, still reeling, heat creeping up your neck.

you blinked.

then, as if snapping out of a trance, you stumble forward, rushing to the railing. “i—i have!” the words rush out too fast, tripping over themselves, your voice cracking at the end. you cringe.

jimin flicked her hair back as water drips from her lashes. she treads the water effortlessly, blinking up at you with an infuriatingly amused expression. “oh?” her tone is light, teasing, but there’s something smug underneath it, something that makes your stomach twist. “sure doesn’t sound like it.”

your grip on the railing tightens, knuckles paling. “what—i—" you struggle to form a coherent thought, already feeling your face burning. “i have! plenty of times! so many times!”

her giggles spills into the air, bright and carefree, and it does something to you makes your heart stutter, your skin prickle with warmth. she tilts her head back, still treading water, the sun catching in her damp hair. “right, sure. totally convincing.”

you scowl, shifting on your feet, jaw tightening. “it’s true! i’ve seen—” you pause, realizing too late that you have absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding even more embarrassing. “—a lot. like, more than you. probably.”

jimin raises a brow, cocking her head. “oh? who?”

your stomach twists into a knot, your brain sending red flags. screaming at you to abort mission immediately. you clear your throat, straightening up, forcing a casual shrug. “no,” you say, too quickly. “that’s private information.”

jimin watches you for a beat, her lips twitching like she’s holding back another laugh. then she smirks, shaking her head. “uh-huh. totally not a virgin.”

“i’m not!” you blurt, leaning forward slightly, the desperation in your voice betraying you.

her grin only widens, eyes twinkling with mischief as she sways in the water. “whatever helps you sleep at night, captain.”

you groan, dropping your head against the railing in defeat as she swims off, still laughing, while you try to cooldown after the embarrassing encounter.

“y/n! jump in!” you heard hanni yell from behind you. as you lift your head up you saw her lining up to jump in. she jumped in with a big splash. droplets sprayed onto the deck. jimin’s mom called out “hanni be careful!”

your gaze shifts slightly, catching sight of jimin a few feet away, floating on her back with her eyes closed, her dark hair fanning out around her like ink in the water. her skin glistens under the sun, droplets clinging to her collarbones, trailing down the curve of her neck. you sighed, your body got hot after the embarrassing encounter and also seeing jimin swim. you needed to cool down. you exhale sharply, shaking yourself out of it. if you stay up here any longer, you’ll combust.

you roll your shoulders back, determined to regain at least a fraction of your dignity, and then you jumped. the moment you hit the water, a sharp chill runs through you, sending a jolt up your spine. it’s refreshing, the kind of coolness that makes your skin tingle, but it’s a relief from the heat that had been burning through you moments ago.

you resurface with a gasp, shaking water from your face, and when you blink the droplets away, the first thing you see is jimin.

she’s closer now. much closer.

your breath catches as she treads the water effortlessly, dark strands of wet hair clinging to her cheeks. the sun reflects off the droplets on her skin, making them glisten like tiny diamonds. she studies you, her gaze flickering over your face with a glint of something unreadable.

“not bad,” she hums, tilting her head slightly.

you scoff, trying to ignore the way your skin prickles under her gaze. “i’d say the same for you, but you practically belly-flopped.”

jimin rolls her eyes, a smirk playing at her lips. you turn to swim away, but just as you do water hit your back. splash. you freeze. the feeling of cold water hits your back, sending a shiver up your spine.you turn back around slowly, and there she is half-smirking, half-feigning innocence, fingers still dripping from where she flicked water at you.

“did you just—?”

before you can finish your sentence, another splash comes at you, bigger this time, sending water cascading over your face. you sputter, wiping at your eyes, and jimin bursts out laughing, the sound rich and full, like wind chimes in the summer breeze.

thats it.

with no hesitation, you lunge forward, sweeping your hand through the water to send a wave right at her. she squeals, ducking just a second too late, and now it’s her turn to be dripping wet.

before you can react, she lunges toward you, fingers skimming along your arm as she tries to dunk you under. practically drowning you. instinctively, you grab her waist, attempting to shove her away, but the water betrays you both. it makes everything weightless, the waves crashing between your bodies pulling both of your boddies together. bodies tangling and shifting without control.

somehow, amongst the struggle, her arms end up draped over your shoulders, and your hands—god, your hands—find purchase at her waist again, fingers pressing into the bare skin beneath the hem of her swimsuit.

for a moment, neither of you move.

you can feel her breath against your face, warm despite the cool water surrounding you. the soft rhythm of her chest rising and falling against yours. the way her fingers tighten, just slightly, curling over the nape of your neck.

her eyes flicker up to meet yours deep brown, like melted chocolate, like something you could get lost in if you weren’t careful. they shift lower for a split second, down to your lips, before darting back up again.

your heart slams against your ribs. it looks like shes about to kiss you. a little voice in your head hoping she would and you swear the world tilts. or maybe it’s just the waves.

jimin blinks once, twice, her lashes damp and heavy with water, before her expression shifts. something playful flickers back into her eyes, her lips twitching.

and then, she shoves you under.

you barely have time to yelp before water fills your ears, muffling the sound of her laughter. when you break the surface again, gasping for air, she’s already swimming away, shooting you a look over her shoulder that’s equal parts smug and daring.

“too slow,” she calls out.

you push your wet hair back, panting, watching her retreating figure with something caught between disbelief and something else entirely. something warmer.

you remember the way her fingers curled at the nape of your neck. the way her breath fanned against your lips. the way, for a split second, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

you shake your head, forcing a scoff, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still erratic. this is jimin. jimin. the same girl who flipped you off an hour ago, who smirked as she stripped off her shirt just to get a reaction out of you.

nothing about this is different. you assure yourself. and yet, as you watch her swim away, her laughter still echoing in your ears, you can’t shake the feeling that something bloom in your chest.

[logaenhowlett]

I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - L.H.

Summary: The small things are never just small things. For Logan, they're the constellations charting the story of him and you.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff (your heart may not be able to handle this), Established relationship, Domestic AF

A/N: I'll jump at any chance to write for Origins!Logan (he's my man fr). Here's another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was ELATION. Title creds to Shelby Lynne.

MASTERLIST

“Honey, I’m home.”

“In the backyard!”

Keys follow a graceful arc as Logan tosses them into the tray by the door. And as always, they land with a soft clink, a quiet exhalation of metal on ceramic signalling the end of his workday.

The tray itself - a chipped, sun-faded thing you'd unearthed at an antique market one afternoon - bears the loving imprint of time. He remembers the way your eyes lit up immediately, declaring it "perfect" before playfully haggling with the vendor, your laughter ringing through the crowded stalls like a cascade of wind chimes.

Boots thud against the floor. As he toes them off, the memory of your gentle chiding surfaces; "Baby..." drawn out in an affectionate warning as you gestured to the offending muddy tracks.

Logan glances down, half-expecting the telltale streaks of dirt. Instead, the polished wood gleams back, pristine and devoid of smudges. And he knows, with a sweet certainty, that you'll be pleased.

His jacket sways the already-leaning coat rack, adding to the precarious balance of hats, scarves and dog leads you insisted on buying for the neighbour's German Shepherds. Those evenings - leash in hand as the dogs bound ahead, your face alight with a smile rivalling the setting sun - nestle warmly in the depths of his heart.

Couch cushions, dented from countless hours of cuddling and late-night reading, yield lightly beneath his touch as he ventures through the living room. On the coffee table, lit candles cast shadows across faint, nearly invisible rings of condensation, ghosts of beer bottles past.

The fireplace crackles merrily, chasing away the frosty air he'd braved last night to gather the wood piled neatly beside it. "Do you have to?" you'd murmured as he reluctantly unwound himself from your embrace. "I'll be quick, darlin'", the promise sealed with a kiss upon your nose.

Framed photographs adorn the mantlepiece above. One catches Logan's eye in particular: your first Christmas together. The ridiculously ugly sweater you'd crocheted with painstaking - and slightly misguided - enthusiasm encases him. He's tucked into your neck, seeking refuge from both the camera's flash and the itchy wool, but a small, happy smile betrays his discomfort.

Warm apple pie, its sweetness a siren's call, beckons him into the kitchen. A traitorous urge tempts him with visions of a generous sliver. But then he remembers your hand, light yet firm, swatting his greedy fingers away. "Dessert's after dinner, Lo," followed by his usual retort: "As long as you're on the menu, baby."

With a chuckle, he retrieves a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge, briefly studying the disarray on its shiny surface. Sticky notes, some containing important reminders such as "Bring eggs please!" and "I love you" scrawled alongside silly doodles, compose a riot of colour and ink.

Just beyond the kitchen's threshold, a laundry basket rests patiently under the hallway light. Messy sheets from the morning spill over the rim, tangling with several orphaned socks and those boxers - the unbelievably soft ones you'd gifted him - that Logan swears he can't live without.

Familiar notes sound from the record player. Whistling along, he heads towards the bathroom, the basket bumping gently against his hip. And soon, the rhythmic whir of the washing machine falls in with the melody.

The chipped bathtub stands as evidence of an incident both clumsy and intimate from last week. Steam billowed in a thick cloud as warm water lapped at your shoulders. And in the heat of the moment, Logan's claws scraped a jagged scar across the smooth porcelain. The sudden snikt had been a jarring interruption, but the shared fit of giggles quickly dissolved any tension.

All these thoughts of you urge him straight towards the backyard. And happiness hits him square in the chest, because there you are - kneeling amidst flowerbeds, hands working the rich soil as you nurture your plants.

And then, the pieces fall into place.

Nights whiled away on the porch steps, dreaming about your lives together. The letter, a clerical error addressing you as Mr and Mrs Howlett, which you'd jokingly hung on the wall, echoing a quiet promise. Musings of tiny footprints padding across the floor of what's currently the spare bedroom.

This is it. This is his future.

Without warning, his arm curves beneath you, sweeping you off the ground. "Logan!" you exclaim, clutching his shoulders.

“Marry me. What do you say, sweetheart?"

[softaestluv]

Three’s A Crowd

When you moved into your new apartment complex you thought your biggest concern would be something practical such as mold in the shower or weak water pressure. Maybe even the smell of lingering cigarette smoke or marijuana from previous tenants.

You never expected it to be your neighbors who seemed to have a sex drive that rivaled any succubus or horned college teenager.

Ghoap x Neighbor! Reader

Tags: Teasing, Flirting, Attempt at humor, Ghoap are cocky dicks, Who also have big d!cks, explicit smut in the last two chapters, double penetration, anal, butt plugs, lingerie, creampie, & all the works

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5 | masterlist

You were starting to think you had the worst luck under the sun. Or maybe your neighbors were the devil incarnate and had conjured together to ruin your life.

Your apartment complex was not fancy by any means, so tucked in the basement was a communal laundry room. You avoided going as long as possible, dreaded being stuck in the damp environment for several hours. Especially when other people were in there; you didn’t want nasty strangers to see your bras and panties, or have small talk with people you really didn’t enjoy the presence of.

A laundry room you were currently squashed in with your massive fucking G.I. Joe neighbors. It honestly wasn’t a surprise when you walked into the sight of John hoisted on a washing machine, the masked man standing between his thighs, swapping spit with each other like they were trying to suck the souls out of their bodies.

If they even had any souls.

You would’ve left, turned around, and ran up the flight of stairs to your apartment— laundry be damned. You could’ve made it work; they hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy moaning into each other's mouths to acknowledge your presence. You were even willing to go commando to work the next day just to avoid the awkward situation. Plus, you already had to hear them fucking every night; you definitely didn’t want to put an image to it.

God, did they just not care about anyone but themselves? Who makes out like that in public? You were sure you’ve never kissed anyone that aggressively or desperately before, let alone in public.

However, it seemed the gods above weren’t on your side today, or ever, really. You dropped your laundry basket in shock, dirty clothes spilling onto the concrete floor. Drew their attention with the loud thud, both swiveling their heads to the entrance, zeroing their focus on your baffled frame.

“Hi, Bonnie!” John greeted, a shit-eating grin spread across his lips.

You gulped, cursing yourself under your breath as you gave him a tight smile, bending down to gather your dropped laundry.

“What’s this, hmm?” The masked one asked, voice laced with amusement as he squatted down, looping his finger in the seams of a thong before holding it up.

Your eyes widened, mortified, thrusting forward to try and snatch it from his grasp, but he held it above your reach. You didn’t need a mirror to know your face was beet red; could already feel the heat scalding your cheeks when John cackled from above you.

It was a simple thong, pink lace adorned with two white bows on either side of the hips. The thong was dainty, you knew that, but it covered everything that needed to be. So why did it look so fucking small in his grasp?

“Do you like lace, doll?” He continued, mask still pushed to his nose so you could see the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“That’s none of your business.” You snapped, successfully ringing the pair from his grasp, the stitching tearing.

You didn’t even care. He could ruin them, rip the material in two for all you cared; you just didn’t want him examining them in the open air anymore. For anyone to walk in and see your dirty pink panties dangled from your neighbor's thick fingers.

Quickly you gathered the rest of your clothes, throwing them into the bin haphazardly before turning back to the entrance, every hope to escape the suffocating tension in the room. Though, the masked man stopped you, placing his foot in front of the door.

“Where you goin?”

“You ruined my underwear.” You remarked, tone more exasperated than you intended

“Do you want me to get you a new pair, is that it?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest before leaning his back against the door frame just as he did before. Cocky asshole. “What size are you?”

“No, I want you two to stay away from me.” You spat, irritation pulsing your temples.

“Aw, whad I do, lass? Si’s the one bein’ mean,” John whined from atop the washing machine.

He tilted his head in response, not affected by the bite in your tone. Made a show of tracing his eyes down your legs, “Medium?”

You stepped forward, ignoring his inquisition because you definitely didn’t need him imagining what kind of underwear you were wearing right now. Didn’t want his eyes to bore through your flesh any longer than they already were. Especially when you were wearing your laundry clothes, frayed and torn items you scrounged for in the back of your drawers. Clothes that were two sizes too small from your high school days when you were much thinner. Shorts you should’ve thrown out ages ago.

Though it’s not like the pair was any more decent: John was shirtless, baggy gray sweats dangling from his hips, painfully obvious that he wasn’t wearing any underwear underneath them. Nipple piercings that you somehow managed to miss the last time they were half-naked in front of you glimmered off his chest in the dimly lit basement.

At least the masked man had a shirt on this time, tight boxers practically cutting the circulation off his thighs. Like they were sharing different parts of the same outfit.

You attempted your best to push through him, pinching your tongue between your teeth in determination, but he didn’t budge an inch. He exhaled loudly, jaw ticking when you kept trying, a disapproving noise that had you freezing immediately, flickering your eyes to his face.

His gaze focused on you, smirk since fallen, lips turned into a deep scowl. Domineering stare made the breath falter in your lungs, playful teasing evaporated from the air like he had become frustrated when you didn’t answer his questions, weren’t playing along in his game.

“Do your laundry.”

His voice was lower than before, more coarse than his previous tone.

A demand.

Chills ran down your back in response, holding his stare for as long as your racing heart and drying mouth would allow.

You don’t know why you listened, why you walked to an empty wash machine and began to deposit your clothes inside. Maybe it was because when you turned around John had a warm smile on his lips as if his presence would protect you from the masked man.

Maybe it was because the mask rolled to his nose gave you a view of his jaw, and the way it clenched tightly had nerves beading at your chest. Like you were afraid of what would happen if you didn’t listen.

Maybe it was because it would be less of a hassle if you just did it, like you knew they wouldn’t let you leave no matter what you said.

“Atta girl,” John said, clapping his hands in approval at your acquiescence, the masked man humming in approval as he walked behind you.

You hated how this had your skin heating once again. You felt so stupid; who the hell did he think he was to demand you around? And why the hell did you listen?

Even worse, why did it make you excited, anticipating what was going to happen over fucking laundry, of all things.

The pair didn’t seem to notice— or care for that matter. Returning to sloppy making out with each other while you stole fleeting glances.

[abbysburr1t0]

Piercing Sevika’s labret (1)

nervous!sevika x piercer!reader

part 2 , part 3, part 4

Content: kinda slow burn, no warnings for this part it’s just cute nervous loser lesbians, obsessed Sevika (more so in the next parts), butch Sevika, soft!sevika, Sevika calls reader doll, sub Sevika with a praise kink hinted.

word count: 1,592

(This is my first fic on here so criticism is welcomed but don’t be mean :/ , also my requests are open <3)

* * *

Business was slow today considering it was a Sunday. The usual customers came in: teens eager for helix piercings, regulars adding to their setup and best friends coming in for matching nose piercings.

The most exciting part of your day was getting to do a conch piercing on your coworker to match her other ear. You’ve always loved conches, you have one yourself- easiest one you’ve healed.

On your lunch break you notice the rain pick up. It grows heavier and the constant patter of rain melts into one continuous calming sound.

The rains white noise soothes the chatter in your brain so much that you almost don’t notice the bell ring when a tall figure opens the door.

Her appearance immediately snaps you out of the slow haze you were just in. Her dark short hair was damp, almost completely wet from the weather outside. The sides of her hair shielded her eyes from your view when she initially entered the shop, but when she glanced up at you, you swore you could’ve died right there.

She had the most breathtaking eyes you’d ever seen, the type of eyes that breathed life into the saying ‘the eyes are the window to the soul’. The shining silver of her irises pulled you in like a siren song; devastatingly beautiful.

“Hiya, what are you looking to get today?” you smiled at her, barely keeping your composure in check.

When her eyes made contact with yours you swore you felt your heart stutter.

A deep, rich, gravelly voice responded “labret.”

She pointed to the underside of her bottom lip, right in the centre, allowing you to steal the opportunity to glance at her full dark lips.

“Alrighty, is that all? We have price deals for two piercings if that’s something you’d be interested in.”

Sevika’s lips tug up into a slight smirk. Alrighty. Cute.

She shakes her head, not interested in getting more than the labret right now. As you fiddle with the card machine she rakes over your frame in attempts to memorise every inch of you before your eyes could catch her. A thought dances in her mind, maybe she should come back another day and get a helix or something random just to see you again.

After she pays, you lead her into one of the piercing studios in the back. As you hear the weighty steps of her boots follow you, you can’t help but feel nervous. It’s just you and her in the shop now that you’re closing in an hour and your colleagues are done for the day. The silence is palpable and you feel your throat start to dry.

You gesture towards the leather tattoo bed for her to take a seat on, then grab the materials needed for the piercing.

Gloved up and antiseptic wipes in hand, you turn around to face the woman. “Alrighty, what’s your name?” you smile down at her.

“Sevika”

Pretty.

“Okay Sevika, I’m just going to cleanse the area and mark a placement for the labret. Could you look up for me please?” you ask warmly.

She obliges and as you continue with your job you feel her eyes searing into your skin. Her gaze is intense, forcing you to focus on the job at hand instead of meeting it in fear of crumbling right there on the spot if you did.

As you mark the spot with a black marker you notice how much taller she is than you. Even when sat she almost meets your full height.

“How’s that?” you step aside to let her examine the placement in the mirror.

“Great” she smiles up at you. It’s the first time she’s really smiled and you feel your heart sore and drop at the same time. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, and yet you’re too nervous to step outside of professional boundaries and ask her out.

You smile back at her and double check the placement from all angles, asking her to tilt her head slightly back as well as returning to her normal resting position. As she does so, a pleasant scent of strawberry shampoo emanating from her hair mixed in with the smell of petrichor she brought in from outside hits your nose. Interesting. She didn’t seem like a strawberry shampoo type of girl. You thought that a darker, less playful scent would suit her more, but that unexpected twist only enticed you more.

As you pick up the clamp and quickly organise your materials you can’t help but repeat the words in your mind.

Ask her out.

Baffled at your nervousness and overthinking you push the thought away and continue with your job. You’re usually the pursuer, the initiator. In most of your past relationships you’ve taken the lead but for some reason this woman both scares the hell out of you and draws you in like a magnet all at the same damn time.

Breathe.

You pick up the needle and reassure Sevika “It’ll be over before you know it”.

She’s not even thinking about the pain of the piercing anymore, she couldn’t care less- she’s been through so much worse, all she can focus on is your smile and your pretty eyes. How they shine under the fluorescent lights of the shop and how long your eyelashes are. And gods, your voice is addicting. For some reason it calms her, acts like a reset and washes away the stress of the past week. Her shoulders unconsciously sink, relaxed by the melody of your words.

“Okay here we go. Take a deep breath in for me”

The needle pierces through her skin yet she doesn’t flinch or make any distressed expressions at all.

“And another breath out. Good girl”

Sevika’s body stiffens and her eyes widen for a second before she composes herself. You don’t miss the reaction and smirk a little, amused at how easily you managed to affect her.

The words came naturally to you by now. After every piercing you’d reassure clients, praising them for sitting through the pain. You didn’t intend for such a sultry tone to coat your words when talking to Sevika, for a second there you froze, afraid of her reaction. But her tensed muscles, shallow breaths and that soft longing expression on her face hinted to you that she didn’t mind the comment.

You clean up the blood trickling down her chin and put in a flat back stud for the healing process. As you put in the new jewellery you notice her uneven cupids bow and take a mental note of how perfect her pillowy lips look and feel under your fingers.

“Good job” you smile again as you take off your gloves “You’re all done”.

Sevika doesn’t get up immediately, instead focused on your words and the way your hips sway as you walk to a corner of the room to place the blue gloves in the trash.

When you look back at her with that sweet and dangerous smile on your lips, Sevika practically melts.

“Do you have any saline solution at home to clean your piercing with?”, she shakes her head and almost looks like a lost puppy. So cute.

You take her through how to care for her piercing and ask if she’d like to make a homemade saline solution or purchase one from the shop. She chooses the latter and watches you grab one off the shelf. Her eyes zoom in on the way your hands wrap around the bottle and how pretty the rings you’re wearing are.

She finds herself imagining scenarios of taking you out on a date, cooking for you, buying you flowers. It’s pathetic, how you’ve barely known each other for thirty minutes and she’s already planning the rest of your lives together.

As you ring her up for the saline solution you notice Sevika staring you down with a small smile. Heat rushes to your face and the tips of your ears.

You return her gaze a few times and feel the tension in the room begin to rise. Suddenly you feel your body temperature rising and your hands beginning to grow clammy. You’re hyperaware of your movements and how loud your breaths are now that she’s observing you so closely.

Her gaze on you burns, it’s all too much- almost dizzying. But the feeling’s addicting, like the burn of alcohol down your throat or the ease that starts to set in after a few drinks.

“Here you go” you say quietly, all of a sudden shy under her watch. When you hand her the bag your fingertips graze hers and you instantly miss the contact once you part. Her eyes linger a second before she leaves and her lips part, like she wants to say something but the words are trapped in her throat.

Her lips meet, shutting down all of your far fetched hopes of what she might say.

Sevika sighs, unimpressed with her failed attempt of asking you out on a date or at the very least, flirting with you.

“Thanks doll” she says gently in a low voice.

She leaves the shop with a small smile over her shoulder and your heartbeat quickens at the pet name.

Doll.

You replay it in your mind as you watch her walk away in the rain. Prosthetic fingers wrapped around the bag you gave her and flesh hand lazily in her pocket.

As you closed up the shop, one thought recurred in your mind. Why the fuck didn’t you get her number?

[moon-ttokki-x]

hiii lovee

can you do a fic with chan with an overworked!trainee!reader, where he finds her asleep at a cafe near the JYP building, after his day of work and it’s just very fluffy and sweet

-🪻

i haven't got anything to say tbh so . . .

star in the making - (chan x overworked trainee!reader)

pairing: bang chan x overworked trainee!reader

summary: chan finds you asleep in the cafe near JYPE after a long day.

genre: idol & trainee!au, mentions of eating and drinking, chan needs to put a fucking screen filter on his laptop, reader is tired asf, mentions of injuries, self-doubt, chan is the softest mashed potato :[

a/n: i had to drag this out of my brain . . . div by @roseraris

skz masterlist

Chan left the JYP building with his head hung low.

In the dusty purple hue glowing from the late-evening sky, everything felt soft and pillowy, but he couldn't help but drag his feet in exhaustion. The scraping of his shoes against the pavement slowed to a stop as he lifted his head, inhaling a deep, cold breath of lilac air.

He groaned and stretched his back a little, feeling the satisfying vibration ring through his bones. He couldn't remember if he'd actually taken a break from working since the morning, and his eyes stung and watered as he blinked them shut.

"Ow," he huffed, scrubbing at his face. His knuckles came away wet and his vision momentarily blurred, strained from the constant focus on his screens in the studio.

Making a mental note to set his screen brightness lower next time, he looked up just as his eyes focused on the cafe across the street.

Small, golden, and cosy, it stayed open late enough for desperate trainees and exhausted artists to rest, a tiny slice of evening light in the otherwise-deserted streets of Seoul.

Chan checked his watch. He should really be heading back to the dorms; Jeongin would be expecting him. He wasn't sure he'd make it back without some sort of energy boost, though, so he looked across the streets both ways, and then crossed, pulling the wooden-framed door of the little cafe open.

The warm, golden glow of the overhead lights hit him with a soft ray of warmth, making his cheeks turn pink from the effects of the thawing cold in his blood. He sighed, pulling the door shut behind himself, and nodded once to the barista.

She smiled tiredly, wiping down the counter with a cloth, and moved away to attend to one of the coffee machines, too familiar with his face to cause much of a fuss.

Chan ordered a hot drink and paid, before stuffing his receipt in his pocket and looking around for somewhere to sit.

His gaze caught onto a small, hunched-over figure nestled in a tiny booth at the back, a cup of barely-touched tea next to them.

Chan smiled softly, the familiar flop of your hair and the usually-ruffled clothes drowning your frame pulling him like a magnet.

Sitting down next to you and shedding his coat, he draped it over your back before poking you lightly in the side.

"Mmhmff..."

"Wake up, Y/n."

Lifting your head, you groaned before rubbing your eyes with a fist. "Wha- Chan?"

He grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He didn't seem to mind the lack of honorifics, simply choosing to stroke a strand of hair out of your face in an affectionate, brotherly gesture. "Hi."

You sighed sleepily before resting your head on the cushioned backseat of the booth. "What time is it?"

"Late enough." He pushed the cooling cup of tea towards you.

Taking a small sip with a momentous amount of effort, you pushed the cup away before blinking away the remnants of sleepiness. "What are you doing here?"

Chan nodded at the barista in thanks as she set down his drink in front of him, and pulled the steaming mug towards himself. "Needed a boost before heading home. Didn't feel like getting a ride home; I've been sat on my ass all day in the studio."

You snicker, fighting another yawn. "As per usual."

"Shut it, trainee."

A tiny laugh escaped your mouth; you pulled Chan's coat around yourself a little tighter, feeling the post-sleep shiver set in, a disturbance to your previous state. "I've been sleeping since four, I think. It was packed when I came in."

"It's bad for your back to sleep like that, you know."

You fired back without hesitation. "And it's bad to be shut up in a studio all day, staring at a screen."

Chan's chuckle warmed the air between you, a musky, welcoming sound. His voice cleared a little as he took a sip of his drink, the warm liquid soothing his throat. "Fair enough. Still, you shouldn't sleep here. Go home. Rest."

You shook your head, resting it on your folded forearms as you leaned over the table. "Too tired. I had dance practice all day."

He stared thoughtfully into the distance, gaze unfocused. "It can't have been that bad."

"I can't feel my legs. I think I pulled a muscle..."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

Chan choked on his drink, hiccupping as he thumped himself in the chest. You chuckled as he exhaled, wiping the last dregs of his drink from his lips. "Average trainee experience, huh?"

You sighed and nestled further into your forearms, Chan's heavy coat like a hug on your back. "Yeah. I don't seem to be getting any better, though. Lots of my friends have dropped out already."

Chan was silent for a moment. He pressed his fingertips to the warm porcelain of the mug in his hands, relishing its warmth. His voice was soft in the golden light. "Lots of trainees do. It's not just about talent, Y/n; you have to be able to keep pushing and persevering. You need heart."

"I do?"

"Yes," Chan sat back against the cushioned seat. "And you've got plenty of it, little one."

You couldn't fight the warmth rising in your cheeks.

"Okay," you whispered.

Chan's gaze was steady, measured; he ran a finger around the rim of the mug in his hands. "Keep your chin up, hmm? It gets easier around evaluation time. Just push as hard as you can for now and it'll pay off. I promise."

You gazed at him thoughtfully; the smooth, cold-flushed planes of his face, his dark, windswept hair. His eyes, perhaps a little baggy and strained, but as full of loveliness and affection as they had been the day you'd first met.

Your voice was quiet and thoughtful, wary as if you were afraid you'd be overstepping a boundary. "Was it worth it? The struggle?"

His gaze met yours, and he pushed the mug away. "I felt like it wasn't really worth it while I was training. But now, I'm the leader of a successful group, I've learnt so much and met so many new people, I get to spend my days doing what I love-"

"And you have seven kids."

He tweaked your nose, smiling at your cheeky interruption. "Eight. Including you."

You grinned, sleep still faintly dulling your senses in a pleasant, dreamy haze. "Me?"

Chan chuckled quietly. "Yes, you. Our little star-in-the-making."

He picked up your teacup and placed it next to his in the middle of the table. He reached into the pocket of his coat, still draped over you, and retrieved his phone.

"Come on. I'll take you home."

a/n: yayy new fic (do people even read these notes? comment if you do pls)

ttokki's taglist: @emilywhyyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @sillyseob @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585 @astraystayyh @m-325 @gnabnahcbby @mbioooo0000 @akindaflora @tsunderelino @hhwangsmoon @crazyforthatbangchandude @bluebellsringinghereandthere @ladylexis @tillaboo @geni-627 @jsngprk-vhs @stellasays45 @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca

send a dm, comment under the taglist post, or send an ask to be added !

[dustofthedailylife]

How to Steal the Duke's Heart 101

→ Masterlist || → Taglist -> Next Part

Pairing: Wriothesley x (gn!) Reader

Summary: The moment your verdict was decided as guilty you were brought to the Fortress of Meropide - despite being innocent. Little did you know that the trip to prison would make you meet the love of your life.

Tags: Fluff, kissing, you're in prison (but innocent), some violence (not graphic), swearing

A/N: Due to me being utterly normal about Wriothesley I had the idea for this fic - who am I kidding I would commit a crime for this man.

“According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique d’Analyse Cardinale, the defendant is declared… guilty.”

The voice of Chief Justice Neuvillette was ringing in your ears as he read out the verdict. Your verdict.

You couldn’t believe it. You knew you hadn’t done what you had been accused of, that the eyewitnesses had lied the moment they had opened their mouths, that the evidence had been tampered with, that you had been framed for the crime – but you were innocent. And no one was ever going to believe you. 

After all, the device that had handed you the fateful false verdict was treated as infallible in Fontaine. You now at least had proof that its reputation was nothing but hollow words. But what use was the knowledge other than just a bittersweet confirmation for no one but yourself? 

And before you knew it, guards were escorting you out the back of the Opera Epiclese in handcuffs. Roughly dragging you along with them into a big elevator. Down – deeper and deeper into the depths of the ocean.

You had heard stories of the Fortress of Meropide before – the secluded place where all criminals and outcasts of Fontaine resided. The place no one had ever come back from to tell the tale. At least not in one piece.

You weren’t sure how you felt on the way down the elevator but you would describe it as something akin to hollowness.

The glances the guards threw your way out of the corner of their eyes literally screamed disgust. You were nothing more than a dirty criminal to them after all – someone who was to be shunned and banished from society for all eternity. And if you really had done what you were convicted for, you wouldn’t even blame them for their disdain.

When the elevator arrived at the bottom the doors opened with a mechanical hiss. The scent of machine oil, iron, and damp moldy cellars immediately pricked at your nose and it was the exact opposite of what you’d call homely. 

The guards turned you in at the reception, where a rather unpleasant woman took your mugshots before handing you over to yet another rather unfriendly man who led you even further down into the Fortress.

With every new step you took, you tried to come to terms with the fact that the sight of damp, stone, and ironclad walls as well as the lingering industrial smell was going to be your life from now on. 

And the dawning realization of that was painfully pulling a tight rope around your throat. You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry and most of all, you wanted to run away and pretend like all of this was a bad dream. But you couldn't.

Instead, you were trodding behind the man who was escorting you and silently began to cry as big beads of tears soon began rolling down your cheeks.

"Crying won't help you anymore, sweetheart." The man remarked almost mockingly as soon as he looked back over his shoulder at your defeated frame. "Should've thought about that before you did some shit."

No. You’re wrong. I'm innocent.

At least that was what you wanted to spit back at him. But it was as if any fierceness or strength to stand up for yourself had left you the moment you set foot into this prison. You simply had no strength left to fight.

You soon arrived in a gigantic circular room. The contraption in the middle almost looked like a giant engine, elevators were going up one level on one side and even further down on the other side of the room. The ceiling was so high up that you almost couldn't make it out at all. The light was dim and the only real light sources were yellow lanterns whose light was bouncing off of the copper-colored iron pipes, crates, and frames that lined the entire room. Gloomy would probably be the best way to describe it.

The pungent smell of oil and damp cellar was hanging in the air here as well and probably even more prominent than it had been before. Only now it was also mixed with what you thought was old sweat and… tea? The smell of the latter seemed oddly out of place and you couldn't make out where exactly it was coming from. All you knew was that it was probably the only pleasant smell you had encountered down here.

Taking the elevator up one level again the man you had been following this entire time led you into a side hallway that looked more like a vent pipe. The dimly lit room that was lying behind it was only furnished with a bunk bed and a barely functioning lantern. He unlocked your handcuffs before roughly shoving you into the room with a smug grin on his face.

"Make yourself at home." He chuckled mockingly before turning around on his heel and leaving while whistling a tune to himself that eerily echoed off the stone walls.

You lay down on the bed, exhaling in defeat. Your throat still felt like someone had painfully tied it shut and tears were dangerously pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

Now what?

You had no idea what to do here aside from sitting your time off. Where do you get food? Were you supposed to work and if yes, where do you have to and when?

You closed your eyes as a single tear escaped from the corner of your eyes, rolling down your cheek, dampening the pillow you lay on. 

All you heard around you were wet droplets falling from the ceiling onto the wet stone floor, distant voices from down below, and your own breathing. The only thing that drowned these sounds out were the thoughts in your head. 

Now that you had a quiet moment to yourself after everything that had gone down today, the realization about your situation was beginning to seep in for good. This bed, these walls, the oily smell… this was going to be the rest of your life now.

And that’s when you broke down and started crying once again.

Eventually, you must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing you knew was waking up to the smell of food wafting through the air vent in front of your room. 

You got up from the bed, took the elevator down, and followed the smell. Soon you found yourself standing in front of a Cafeteria, where fellow inmates were queuing for lunch. Or was it dinner? You’ve barely even been here a day, but the distinct lack of daylight already made you lose track of time.

You sighed and walked over, queuing for some food as well. You didn’t have any appetite but you knew you had to eat something and your grumbling stomach was screaming for food, appetite be damned. Much to your dismay, the food needed to be paid for, well, at least the stuff that looked digestible.

You ordered the only free option and sat down with the bowl of grayish, funky-looking liquid whose consistency was more akin to that of wallpaper paste. It didn’t look appetizing, but at least it was free and would prevent you from starving.

Just as you were about to lift the first spoon of gooey pap in your mouth, someone sat down at your table, making you halt your movement for a brief second. 

He placed his tray on the table with a loud bang before plopping down on the bench right in front of you. His food looked tremendously more high quality than yours. Your mouth began watering from just looking at it. Freshly made roast potatoes with rosemary, fluffy pieces of baguette with salted butter, a big juicy piece of meat – grilled to perfection, and a glass of mousse au chocolat.

He leaned forward, supporting himself on the table with his elbows, folded his hands and intensely looked at you with his piercing blue eyes. It seemed like he wasn’t in a hurry to start eating any time soon.

You pretended to ignore him and began eating. The soup, which could vaguely be identified as lentil soup, left a slimy feeling on your tongue and tasted completely bland. Every fiber of your body told you to spit it back out again but with enough willpower, you actually managed to swallow it. Not without pulling a grimace first though.

“You’re new here.” The stranger in front of you observed with curiosity.

You looked up at him, nodding slowly shoveling another spoonful of goo in your mouth before going back to ignoring him. You weren’t really interested in trying to make connections here. All you wanted was to get out of here again – even though you knew deep down that the likelihood of that was nearing zero.

“Adapting well?” He inquired, still not in a hurry to touch his food.

You suspiciously looked up at him. There was just something about this guy that was off. He didn’t quite fit in here at all. He was admittedly very handsome. He looked well groomed and his attire was way too pompous to be an inmate - or maybe he was some rich guy who got some sort of special treatment down here. Every other inmate was avoiding your table and people looked at him with an almost reverent look in their eyes. If it wasn’t for the scars that seemed to cover the majority of his body already, this just further confirmed your gut feeling to avoid this guy at all costs in the future.

“I’ll take that as a no.” He chuckled, eyeing you further with a smirk plastered on his lips.

“What do you want?” You asked, now slightly annoyed.

“Just trying to strike up some friendly conversation. You know, seeing how lost you were while ordering food, not knowing about tickets, and just dashing around like a scared blubberbeast, led me to believe that no one gave you a rundown of how this place works. So, allow me?” He remarked with that same smirk.

When you wordlessly motioned for him to continue, he began explaining the workings and rules down here in detail. Unspoken rules, general rules, what and who to avoid, how jobs worked, work times, payment and money, general daily schedule, and a lot more. There was simply so much you were beginning to feel lightheaded as soon as he had finished speaking and you could feel the lump in your throat grow in size with every minute that passed. You would never be able to live here.

“That should about cover the basics.” He finished explaining as you swallowed thickly.

You opened your mouth in order to speak but he swiftly lifted his finger to shut you up. 

“No need to say anything. I know it’s not easy to adapt to a new environment. Especially not one you feel trapped in. But that feeling will fade eventually. Trust me.” He threw you a genuine smile before lifting himself up from the bench and pushing his tray with the food in your direction, pointing at it with an offering gesture.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Meropide.” He said, before striding away.

“Wait-” You jumped up from the table causing him to halt in his tracks and turn around once more. “What’s your name?”

“Wriothesley.”

After this strange encounter with the mysterious and admittedly attractive man, you didn’t see him around for a long while. This came as a surprise because you’d assume someone with his looks and attire would stick out like a sore thumb wherever he went. But it was as if the ground itself had swallowed him.

You wanted to see him again, mostly because you thought you could learn from him for your life down here. And despite your gut telling you that he was a walking red flag you had developed a strange curiosity for him.

You had begun working at the ship dockyard where a big window was offering a view into the ocean. You could somewhat make out the sky and time of day from there and it was the only thing that kept you from going completely insane in here. All you had done was sleep, work, eat, and repeat since you came here. Some people had tried speaking to you and some asked what you were here for, but you didn’t have any interest in conversing with them – especially not after you had tried telling someone that you were innocent and they had just laughed at you. Needless to say, you had no desire to connect with people – although he was the only exception seeing as you were craving to talk to him again, as much as you tried to deny it.

Today you were working at the docks again and found yourself longingly staring out of the large window. Your mind drifted off and you wondered how it would feel to simply swim back up to the surface where your lost freedom lay.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” A familiar voice reached your ears from behind. 

“Wriothesley!”

The man in question walked up to you and came to a halt right next to you. He looked out through the window himself before looking at you from the corner of his eyes with a slight smirk.

“Still longing for the surface?” He inquired, crossing his arms over his chest. “It never fully goes away but once you get used to the Fortress you’ll find yourself unable to want to leave.”

“Is that so?” You ushered quietly, scoffing. You were simply unable to believe him, not when your freedom had been taken unjustifiably. 

“Thank you for the food the other day, by the way. I didn’t have a chance to thank you yet.” You attempted to divert the topic.

“Don’t mention it.” He waved dit off with an unwavering smile. “It is almost time for lunch, have you eaten yet? We could head to the Cafeteria together. My treat.”

“Oh, you absolutely don’t have to, I have enough credits for food now that–”

“Please. I insist.”

And so you found yourself sitting at the table with Wriothesley again, with the most exquisite meal that tickets could buy down here. 

You were surprised he was able to fork over nearly four thousand credits to buy the meals as if they were nothing. And especially since he treated you to such a meal as well, while everyone else down here held onto their credits as if their life depended on it. And of course, you also didn’t miss the stares of the others again when you sat down with your fancy meal.

You carefully eyed the food and then Wriothesley as if you didn’t deserve to be treated to something like this. He looked back at you with a genuine smile as he continued nibbling on his baguette.

“Anything wrong?” He asked with curiosity.

“No. It’s just… why–?”

“Why am I treating you to something?” He raised an eyebrow in amusement as if he had read your thoughts. You nodded slowly in reply.

“You’re interesting. That’s all there is to it.” He admitted with a smirk.

“I’m interesting? Me?” You raised your eyebrows in surprise. “You say that when you’re the one I could say that about. You don’t look like you fit in here at all, you have a truckload of credits to spend, and everyone here looks at you like you own the place.” 

You paused for a second, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’ve been here for a long time already, haven’t you?”

“You… could say that, yeah.” He replied with a chuckle, dipping his baguette into the rich sauce on his plate.

“Why are you here?” You continued prying.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He replied with a smug grin before he continued eating.

You couldn’t quite decide if he was a red flag you should run as far away from as possible or if you wanted to get to know him closer. But either way, your first priority for now was not letting the food go to waste so you began eating the heavenly-tasting meal.

A silence settled between you two that was surprisingly pleasant as you both quietly ate with the occasional glace thrown at each other. 

Once you were both done he took your tray with him to put it into the tray cart before turning back around with a smile.

“Same time tomorrow?” He asked.

“U-uh… yeah, sure. I don’t see why not.” You stammered a bit taken aback, still confused as to why he wanted to hang out with you so much. You were a nobody with nothing to your name – not even a criminal record technically.

“Great. See you tomorrow then.”

And with that, a habit would slowly form. You would meet up for lunch each day and not long after, also for dinner. He often picked you up at the docks and bought a meal for you and only sometimes you were able to deter him from doing so and insisted that you bought your own since you were genuinely beginning to feel bad even if he seemed well off. 

You sometimes sat down for a long time talking even after you both had finished eating. You chatted just about anything and as it would turn out you two seemed to share similar interests. You found out he really loved tea and had extensive knowledge in that regard. And it just so happened that you too were a fellow tea aficionado. Not only that though, you two shared a similar taste in music, books, food, and more. After a couple of weeks had gone by it felt like you had already been friends for the longest time. And much to your surprise, not once had he attempted to ask you why you were here or pried into your private life.

On another such day, you were just heading out of the dormitories towards the Cafeteria to meet up with him. But before you could arrive there someone forcefully yanked you behind some iron crates. You crashed against them with the back of your head with a loud bang, momentarily losing consciousness as pain shot through your system.

"What kinda big shot are ya, huh? What're ya sitting for?" A man yelled at you aggressively. 

As soon as you got a grasp of your surroundings again, even though now extremely dizzy, you saw a big bulky guy with a missing front tooth who was pinning you against the boxes by your throat with an iron grip. He was accompanied by two other, less muscular guys who were staring at you in the same aggressive manner. His lackeys, you assumed.

"I have- I have no idea… what you're talking about." You struggled the words out due to the applied pressure on your vocal cords.

"What're ya here for, asshole?!" The man yelled at you even louder now, a few beads of spit flying right into your face through his tooth gap.

"I… I didn't do anything. I–" You gasped breathlessly as you clutched your hands around the hand around your throat, trying to alleviate some of the pressure being applied to it.

"Bullshit! You don't land here for twiddlin’ ya thumbs counterclockwise. And if the Duke's got the eye on ya already, ya've to be some VIP or some shit!" The toothless man spit on the ground between your feet.

“Duke?” You asked confusedly. 

“Tch, don’t fuck with me here, shut ya trap. Now, tell me. What’ve ya done? Be honest or I might’ve’ta polish your visage a lil’.” He viciously cackled in unison with his two lackeys who were cheering on him.

“I didn’t. Do. Anything.” You bit back through clenched teeth, putting a strong emphasis on each word. And before you were able to react, a stinging pain shot through your system as a fist connected with your face, sending your head flying back against the crate once again.

You immediately began to see stars and could feel your consciousness quickly fade away. The ringing in your ears and the accompanying dizziness from the impact was overbearing everything and all you could make out before you passed out was a flash of white light and pleas for mercy. Then everything faded to black.

The next thing you knew was waking up with a bandage around your head and an intense migraine. You felt like a horde of boars had trampled over you. The omnipresent pain got worse when you instinctively tried to sit up on the bed you found yourself on.

You hissed in pain and immediately felt a pair of big hands push you back into the fluffy bedding.

“Stay.” 

You recognized this voice. You had heard it so often in the past couple of weeks that, despite your delirious state, you had no issue placing it.

“Wriothesley.” You uttered weakly with your eyes still closed.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

He took hold of your hand with a reassuring squeeze and the feeling of his warmth on your skin made you feel tingly all over and the all-present pain immediately felt like it was being alleviated ever so slightly. Out of all people you were glad it was him by your side.

“What? Where?” You rasped, attempting to slowly open your eyes.

“We’re in a separate room at the Fortress Infirmary. Someone roughed you up real good and you fell unconscious. I arrived just in time to prevent worse. You’ll probably have a nasty bruise on your face for a while and you’ve got quite the concussion as well as a cracked rib. But nothing some bed rest and a good cup of tea wouldn’t be able to fix, hm?” He tried to reassure, brushing a strand of hair out of your forehead.

"Your Grace, here is the medicine you asked for." A guard suddenly came rushing into the infirmary with a small satchel that he handed to Wriothesley before quickly leaving again after a courteous bow towards the man by your side.

You furrowed your brows in confusion at the display of submissiveness of the guard towards a fellow prisoner when you've been treated with nothing but disdain and… wait a minute.

Your Grace. The looks he got from the others during lunch and dinner time. The Duke. It's him?!

The memories suddenly came rushing back to you – how you had been slammed into the metal crates, how the toothless man had mentioned the Duke while threatening you and how his fist had then ultimately painfully kissed your face.

You didn't have all the puzzle pieces to connect everything into a clear image yet but it was enough to feel that there was an epiphany just mere millimeters out of your range.

You startled and sat up on the bed with wide-blown eyes once more as pain shot through you again from the abrupt movement. Pain so bad you thought you would have to throw up for a second.

"I-I… your Grace? The Duke? It's you! He meant you and– who? W-what?! I-I– he threatened me and I-I'm innocent. I don't belong here I–I'm innocent–" You incoherently stammered nonsense because your mouth couldn't match up with the speed at which your thoughts were racing.

Just who was he?

But before you got to properly ask that question a pair of soft lips gently connected with yours, rendering you speechless and cutting off the words that were spilling from your mouth relentlessly like water from a leaky faucet. He squeezed your hand a little tighter while the other gently found comfort on your cheek. Cradling it so carefully as if you're the finest piece of porcelain in the world and could break any minute.

The gentleness of his touch, the warmness of his lips, and the smell of Earl Grey on his breath made your body explode into a sea of fireworks. It wasn't until this moment that you realized you had developed feelings for Wriothesley that went beyond the casual acquaintance you met up with after work for food in the prison cafeteria. It was just that you had been too occupied and lost in your own thoughts about your predicament to realize it.

Your curiosity and cravings to see him more and more often weren’t just born from a place of loneliness. Your heart had craved for him all this time.

Your hands found comfort in his hair as you leaned into the kiss more, prying a low chuckle out of him and you felt him smirk against your lips.

"I know you are." He whispered against your lips when he separated from you again.

"What?" You asked in confusion, already forgetting what he was replying to.

"That you're innocent."

"N-no I don't mean just in this case… I didn't commit any crimes I was sent here despite being innocent I-" 

You didn't even realize you had started crying until he gently wiped a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

"I know." He reiterated firmly.

You looked up in his face and his eyes were filled with nothing but sincerity. He must be the first person you ever encountered who didn't see the sentence of the Oratrice Mechanique d’Analyse Cardinale as infallible and unquestionable.

"How?" You quietly breathed out in disbelief.

"I knew it on the first day I saw you. My beliefs were just further confirmed when I talked to you for the first time. I've been working behind the scenes to get you out of here again ever since." He admitted, wiping another stray tear from your cheek.

That's why he was gone for days after your first meeting and suddenly arrived again behind you at the docks.

"You went above ground?" You rasped, making the question of who he actually is even bigger.

He nodded, taking your hands in his and placing a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

Is that why he also said you would find out who he is soon enough that one day? But you still didn't know… who actually is he?

"How are you allowed to go out? Who are you?"

"You still didn't figure it out?" He smirked. "I'm Wriothesley. Warden of the Fortress of Meropide." 

And at that moment everything fell like scales from your eyes.

His attire, the looks of other prisoners, the abundance of tickets to spend, randomly disappearing for days, the Duke… the Cryo Vision dangling from his shoulder despite not being allowed to carry any in here.

He was the one who saved you earlier.

He must've noticed your glance because he squeezed your hands a little tighter and reassured you: "They won't ever bother you again. I took care of it."

You didn't dare ask what he meant by that and simply nodded in acceptance.

"I can also tell you that things are going well. I pulled some strings and you might be out of here by the end of the week again with no criminal record to your name."

But what if you actually didn't want to leave anymore? At least not without him.

"Will I be able to see you again?"

A question that spilled out of your mouth before you could properly think about it. But the deafening silence that followed told you everything you needed to know. He rarely left the underground and was occupied down here most of the time so the possibility of you and him seeing each other again was low.

"Certainly." He replied after a while avoiding looking into your eyes.

A white lie. He wanted you to return to your old life again, out of the confines of this prison you had unjustifiably been thrown in. He didn't want to keep you here only for the selfish desires of his heart that he had unplannedly given to you along the way. Maybe he would find a way to be with you once you returned, maybe he didn't – But that didn't mean he couldn't indulge in what you had for the remaining time you were here with him.

And that's when he pulled you closer once more, one hand resting on your waist, gently massaging your skin through the fabric of your shirt while reuniting your lips as if it was the last thing he would ever get to taste.

And maybe, if it was what it took to see him again, you wouldn't mind actually committing a crime.

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments, and asks about Genshin or my fics are always greatly appreciated and motivate me! Maple dividers are mine - do not copy.

[skywalkoverme]

𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞

a/n: Here is the threesome I mentioned yesterday!! I hope you enjoy!! Sorry, Ewan's photo wouldnt load :(

𐙚 Anakin x Fem x Kenobi 𐙚 THREESOME 𐙚 || 18+ MDNI

Summary: You spend the night at your friends dorm.

Warnings/contains: College AU, Anakin + Kenobi are athletes, smut, p's in v, double penetration, sex tapes, multiple creampies, face fucking, slapping, hair pulling, choking, marking, hickies, sex modeling, sexual teasing, proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 4.1k // More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

Athlete’s Dorm: ‘9:02 PM'

“What do you mean, broken?!” He stood in his dorm hall with his roommate. Soon, the hall was filled with students fanning themselves and chattering.

“I mean, there’s a guy here to fix the AC, Skywalker. Just bear with me, ok?” Anakin folded his arms, and leaned back onto the door frame as more people asked the RA questions. “Alright, everyone! Calm down! There are fans in the lobby! You’re welcome to—” The students began to push past the RA to the elevators. “Whatever.”

“I hate this building.” Anakin groaned, pulled off his shirt and left the door to his dorm open.

‘10:12 PM’

He sat at his computer, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, and two energy drinks by his keyboard. The fan on his shelf blew warm air onto his sweaty, shirtless torso. After procrastinating for a week, his essay for his government class was due as well as a handful of chemistry assignments. As he typed, he thought of all the time he wasted crashing in other’s dorms or jerking off after class--- “Ahg!” The young man grumbled and folded his arms. “I’m goin’ to the vending machine, ya want anything?” He asked his roommate, Kenobi.

“Empty calories. No.” Kenobi said with his back to Anakin as he went over his biology notes with a highlighter.

Anakin sucked his teeth and grabbed his wallet before heading to the elevator. I fucking hate this old ass building…stupid fucking government class. Interrupting his thoughts, the elevator took him down to the lobby.

Every area was filled with sweaty and complaining students. Some lay on the floor and others, across furniture and against walls. Anakin was quickly distracted by a group of his teammates who stood together. “What’s so funny?” He placed a gentle hand on one of the guys.

“Girl in your room?”

Kenobi would kill me. He thought. “I’m writing an essay.” He called over his shoulder as he got a water and something sweet from the vending machines.

“That can wait. We’re about to take a walk~” A friend of his raised his eyebrows.

“Tempting. But no.” A few of the guys groaned, some sighed.

“You’re missing out!” One guy called out.

“Oh, yeah?” Anakin continued to walk around the lobby, eventually finding his way to the RA telephone on the desk behind the counter. He walked around the desk and started to dial a number---

“Skywalker! What do you think you’re doing?!” One of the staff asked with a groan, trying to avoid staring at his bare torso. He raised a finger to his lips. The woman gasped and stormed towards the coordinator’s office.

After a few rings, you picked up the landline on your nightstand. “Hello?”

“Hey, beautiful.” Anakin said smoothly after taking a sip of his water.

You turned over your left wrist and smiled at your watch. “It’s late, Mister Skywalker. What is it? Ran out of Red bull?” You speak into the landline as you remove your jewelry for bed.

He chuckled, playing with the phone cord. “An hour ago, yes. But that’s not why I’m callin’, Sweetheart.” You rolled your eyes, a hand on your hip. He was a known sweet talker and did nothing to hide it. You’re sure he could convince you to balance fine China on a tightrope with a simple smirk. “How was your day?” He leaned on the desk of the lobby.

“It was good.” You bit your bottom lip, a lock of hair around your fingers. “Yours?”

“Rather lonely, can you believe that?” He asked softly.

You shook your head before realizing he was simply on the phone. “U- Ahem, no.”

“Do you want to know why, Sweetheart? I didn’t see you in class.” He whispered the last part; your lips spread with need. “Where were you?”

“Doctor’s appointment.”

“And you thought to tell no one?” He asked sweetly, your feet swung under you as you sat at the end of your bed. “You should know, I sent out a whole calvary to find you. I was worried.” That charming sarcasm always grasped you so tightly.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, handsome.”

“Tsk, well you did.” He sighed, “You’ll have to make it up to me, Sweetheart.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“As the Teacher’s Assistant…it’s your job to help students in need, right?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, “I suppose. It depends on what that student needs.” Breathlessly, you spoke while imagining him on the phone with you. Making that sly smirk, toying with something that didn’t belong to him.

“My essay. Will you come help me?” You knew he’d have you in his dorm until morning. Not that anyone cared in his dorm, but this was looked down upon. A TA sleeping with her student; you should be ashamed but thank God you aren’t.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He chuckled, “Bye now…”

You arrived in lobby only four minutes later and quickly walked up to him, holding an armful of books with crooked glasses on your face. He could tell you put on a subtle amount of makeup in the car. Pajama pants waved in the wind created by the fans in the lobby, your tank top clung to your distracting figure. His eyes traced down your body. “Why is it so warm in here?” You asked while glancing over the groups of students.

“Shit. I forgot to tell you: the AC blew.” He shook his head, walking closely as you went to the elevator.

“Damn, I’m sorry. But that explains…all this.” You took a long look around the room again at the shirtless men and women in sport bras. You muttered, more needy than you expected, “You are…so lucky to live in this dorm.”

“Tsk, get in the elevator.” He lightly slapped your ass. You quickly shuffled into the elevator; your books in his arms as the doors closed. “Kenobi’s likely still in there. Midterms are knocking him on his ass.”

“He’s not the only one, I’m guessing.” You shrugged and Anakin ignored the comment before entering his dorm.

“I was thinkin’ more…write a paragraph, get some head in the study nook down the hall. Y’know, alternate between the two.” You rolled your eyes faster than he could get the words out.

“Hey, Ken.” You hugged his shoulder before sitting at Anakin’s desk. He hummed a ‘Hello’ and continued highlighting. Anakin rolled his eyes as you pushed his trash into his already full wastebasket.

“Alright, Interior decorator.”

He leaned over you as you sat, his palms on the top of the desk. “You should…get a new rolodex…” You whispered as a drop of his sweat dropped and slipped down your right breast. “It’s full.” Your heartbeat thumped quickly in your chest before you looked up at him and he was smirking.

“It’s been filled for a while now.” He added. You turned your attention to his computer. “It’s an argumentative essay over state law and federal…who should have more power or somethin’.” He waved a dismissive hand and opened your government textbook to the unit. “You’re my TA. Don’t you have the answers?”

A single line of sweat ran from his adam’s apple down his collarbones, to his pink nipple. “A- uh.” His tanned skin continued to draw your eyes back, “It’s an essay. Not a multiple-choice test.” You mumbled, “Did you keep the rubric?”

Anakin ran a hand through his hair and looked through his mess of papers from his desk. “Maybe I dropped it.” He went to Kenobi’s desk and picked his government binder from the shelf.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“See, I knew you wouldn’t mind. I just need it for a few seconds.” Anakin offered you Kenobi’s binder as you began to type his essay onto the file. “Make sure you include a few spelling mistakes.” He said while leaning over you.

'10:59’

Minutes passed and he began blabbering about his game and spinning a ball on each of his fingers—or at least trying to. “…with Notre Dame. Coach said tighten up but I’m not stressing. Half of ‘em are on coke anyway.” He shrugged, “So are you coming?”

You turned from the computer and to him. “What?”

He groaned and rolled his eyes, “Are you even listening?” He tossed his ball into a laundry basket across the room. “Come to my game!” He groaned again, his head tucked into your neck, his nose buried in your hair. “Ken’s gonna be there.”

Kenobi rolled his eyes, “I must be there. I’m the team manager. Don’t guilt trip her.” His broad shoulders strained against a sweat-soaked cotton shirt. Ken blew cool air into his shirt before he pulled it off his body. “Fuck, it’s hot.”

Anakin ignored his friend, his hands on your sides. “I can’t focus on you right now, Anakin.” You whispered as he playfully licked your neck.

“I’ll let you work.” He said, resting his chin on your shoulder as you wrote his essay.

“I expect to be paid handsomely for this.” You referenced Kenobi’s notes and your textbook as he simply watched you work.

He peered over his shoulder to be sure Ken wasn’t listening, “How about a few rounds of leg-shaking head?” You slapped one of his hands softly, “Oww!” He whispered, hugging you tighter. “For my girlfriend, you are quite feisty.”

“I’m not your girl, Ani.”

“Why is that again?” He asked before slipping his large hand into your pajama pants.

You whipped your head in his direction, “What are you doing?” You hardly whispered.

He pressed his lips against your temple, “I’m helping.” Before you could disagree with him, he moved the chair closer to the desk to conceal the location of his hand. “Just some motivation.” He whispered into your hair as his fingers ran up and down your slit. You decided to give your attention to his paper. “See? It’s working.” His fingers rest over your warm slit. “Someone shaved~”

“Oh stop! I did that before you called.” He snickered, “Ken, I need your help.”

“Don’t call him over here.” Anakin groaned and took his hand from your pants.

“Yeah? What’s the matter?” When you turned your head, your eyes were met with Ken’s bare torso. His chest covered in blonde hair as he rubbed his mustache. You stuttered for a moment before Anakin turned your head towards the computer by your braids.

“Uhm…c- could you both read this? I want it to sound natural like Anakin.”

“Sure thing.” Their hands rest on the back of the chair as they read through the paper; “You mind?” You took the warm mouse in your hand and scrolled down some. “The paper looks good…just…” Ken leaned down until his chest hair rubbed your shoulder and he began to make a few changes to the conclusion.

“Sounds like me.” Anakin shrugged.

“Alright, we can print it before class on Monday.” You began to stack your books and offered Kenobi his resources.

“Where are you going?” Ken asked as the room’s fan tossed the young men’s hair, sweat ran down their tanned bodies as you fixed the strap of your tank top. “Home already? I thought you’d stay.”

“Really?” Anakin turned his head to his dormmate. “You never let me have guests.”

“This is different.” He shrugged and organized his books on his shelves. Your eyes shifted between the two and ran down their toned backs. “She’s a TA, a good influence.” Anakin could feel that Kenobi was trying to butter you up. And right in front of him?!

You weren’t focused on the unspoken words, just the two figures, glistening with sweat under the faint desk lights. Both men were powerfully built, their muscles taut under tanned skin. Kenobi, a stockier man with a porno mustache (that you suggested), wiped a hand across his brow, leaving a streak of sweat. Anakin ran a hand through his damp, dark hair. His chest heaved slightly with each breath, revealing the network of muscles beneath his skin. 

Both men, clearly uncomfortable in the stifling heat, radiated an almost palpable aura of sexual frustration.

‘12:04 AM’

Anakin offered you his jersey and in the bathroom, you changed out of the heavy pajama pants and sweaty tank top. The airy jersey and panties gave you room to breathe as you lay in Anakin’s bed with an ice pack over your head.

“How about you stay still so I can kill you!” Anakin snapped as they leaned over the console; fingers shifting on their controllers.

“He never wins.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Anakin barked behind him as you lay on your side, observing the two. After a tussle, Anakin covered Ken’s eyes and won the in-game match. He smirked and tossed his controller on his beanbag.

“No, no, no! Rematch! That was cheating!---” Anakin followed Kenobi’s gaze to his bed. You were bent over while adjusting his puffy pillows for your head. When the room fell silent, your attention shifted to them.

“What’s wrong?” There was only silence as their hungry gazes ran over your tanned thighs and round ass up to the open sleeve of the jersey; your perky breasts showed from the side before you quickly covered yourself with a pillow. “Don’t stare!”

“You look like a model.” Anakin drooled.

“An indecent one.” Obi-wan sneered before putting his hands up, “I meant no offense!”

Anakin folded his arms over his chest, “What did you mean? Y’know, she’s my girlfriend.”

You chuckled and moved hair behind your ear. “No, I’m not.”

“Tsk, Y/n!” Kenobi was messing with something by his bed as Anakin began to beg, his face on your warm, thick thighs. “You’re the only girl I’ve seen this month!” You rolled your eyes and pushed his forehead, “I want to take us seriously. Why are you so hesitant?”

“Because you’re a man-whore.” Ken said over his shoulder as he slipped a new battery into his digital camera. You curiously sat up on your knees as he turned it on.

“What’s that for?” You asked as your hand ran through Anakin’s hair and down his back. His eyes were shut as your nails gently scratched his skin. Kenobi pressed a finger to his lips to shush you and raised the camera to his face. You discreetly moved the fabric of the jersey over and flashed a tit at the camera.

Behind Anakin’s back, you’d been fucking Ken. Only when Anakin had class and even then, he’d find any excuse to skip so it wasn’t easy. It’d been two weeks since you last fucked Ken; he’s starving for you and your teasing didn’t help. The man bit his lip as he stared at your hard nipple.

When Anakin picked up his head, you quickly kissed him. He was fairly distracted by your gesture but as the flash of Obi-wan’s camera went off, he pulled himself away. “M- mhh! What are you doing?”

“Taking pictures of my pretty girl.”

Anakin was angered as you bit your nail, a knowing look traded between you both. “What is he talking about?” A pause. “You slut.”

“Like you’re so different.” Anakin didn’t find you funny. “Just come here, Ani.” You pat the bed, crawling backward to make room for him.

“I don’t want to share.”

“You’ve been doing it for months.” Ken adds while taking more pictures of you. In the covers, Anakin couldn’t lie, you looked stunning. More than that, you looked like a woman straight out of his Playboy magazines. Anakin took the camera from his dormmates hands and began to go through them. The two turned to each other and back to you. “I have a camcorder.”

The light flashed red as it rest on the bookshelf, pointed to the bed. You rest on your hands and knees; Ken pressed his crotch against the front of your face as you left messy kisses along his cock and full balls. The two had suckled on your neck and attacked the flesh with passionate kisses. Already, the purplish-red bruises marked your skin. You’d experienced groping before but nothing so possessive. The two men groped, licked and slapped the curves of your breasts, thighs, ass and throat.

Anakin’s hands gripped your hips as he moved against you, the pace was fast and rough, but it felt so good while you arched your back. Your clit bumping into his pelvis while he bucked into you harshly, the sound was slick and wet. “You feel so fucking good~”

Ken took your tit into his hand, pinching and rolling the nipple over again in his forefinger and thumb. His breath was hot as he murmured, “Take that down your throat.” His cockhead pushed past your lips and deep into your mouth. Your fingers clung tightly to the covers as your eyes watered. “Don’t bite me.” He warned as he grabbed you by the braids and guided your hot mouth along his shaft. His head threw back as you swirled your tongue around his shaft.

The room was filled with a symphony of sounds - the creaking of the bed, the slick slap of skin against skin, and your combined moans, chokes and gasps. Obi-Wan's eyes met Anakin's, a look of shared pleasure passing between them.

As you were turned by Obi-Wan's strong hands, he took a moment to admire your curved back and the plump flesh of your rear. Ken’s blue eyes darkened with lust as he positioned himself behind you, his muscular frame hovering over your smaller form. He leaned down, his blonde hair brushing against your back as he pressed hot kisses along your shoulder blades.

Anakin fisted your long, dark hair, pulling your head back and exposing your neck as he positioned himself at your plump lips. The scent of sex and the musky aroma of the men’s arousal filled your nostrils, making your head spin. Anakin rubbed the slick tip of his cock against your soft lips, smearing them with his pre-cum. “Hm,” He chuckled, slapping your face with his cock. “Of course you want two cocks in you. I should’ve known.”

“Open your mouth.” As you parted your lips, Anakin pushed forward, sliding his hard length into your warm, wet mouth. He groaned at the sensation, his grip tightening on your hair as he began to move, fucking your face with deep, steady thrusts.

Obi-Wan matched Anakin's rhythm from behind, his hips rolling forward to bury himself deep inside of your tight heat. The dual sensations of having both men pleasuring you was overwhelming; you could feel yourself being pushed closer to the edge for the first time tonight.

Obi-Wan took the camcorder into his hand and filmed the sight of your jiggling ass that slapped so lewdly against his hips. His hand slid down to slap your ass a few times; staining your cheeks with red marks. Your pussy tightened from the slaps and unique grind of Ken’s hips. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of their balls against your skin, and their ragged breaths and moans. “Haha!” The man filmed the sight of saliva on your face and in your hair as Anakin treated you roughly.

Anakin continued to thrust into your pretty mouth, his grip on your hair tightening as he found his sweet spot in your throat. “Look at me.” Your eyes lolled up to meet Anakin’s gaze. He could feel you choking and whining; your throat vibrating around his sensitive cock, only serving to make him cum faster. Ken drove into you with deep, and quick strokes that had you seeing stars.

Obi-Wan's hands slid around to your front, finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub. You pulled your head from Anakin’s cock and broke down trembling, pathetic squeals left your lips. “Shhh.” Ken chuckled past your ear as he filmed your face. He could feel your walls starting to flutter around his hard length, and he knew you were close.

Anakin couldn’t care less about your helpless whimpers. He took the camera and pulled you by your hair, his balls pressed onto your face. You lapped at the swells and took them into your mouth.

Anakin placed the camera behind him and pulled his balls out of your mouth with a groan, a string of saliva connecting his package to your swollen lips. He flipped you over onto your back, holding your legs up and spreading them wide for Ken. Obi-Wan followed suit, never breaking his rhythm as he continued to drive into your hot, tight core.

Together, they worked in tandem, their bodies moving as one as they brought you closer and closer to your orgasm. Anakin leaned down, capturing your swollen lips in a lewd kiss, swallowing your gasps. Ken’s fingers began to work your clit once more, rubbing and circling the sensitive bud as he felt his own release approaching.

Before long, Anakin’s cock filled your tilted mouth again.  Your back arched off the bed, your nails digging into Anakin's thighs as you finally let go. Your orgasm crashed over like a tidal wave, your inner walls clenching and spasming around Ken’s pistoning length.

As you lay on your back, Anakin gripped your hair tightly and picked up the pace of his frenzied thrusts into your mouth. His hips snapped forward rapidly, slamming his thick cock deep into your throat with each stroke. “Good girllll…” Ken continued to drive into your fluttering, over-sensitive pussy from below, extending that perfectly intense orgasm. As you purred, he could feel your walls still clenching and unclenching around him, milking his own release.

Anakin's pace became erratic as he neared his own climax. With a strangled groan, he pushed himself balls-deep into your mouth and held himself there, his cock pulsing as he spilled his hot seed down your throat. His balls covered your nose as you began to search for air. Obi-Wan followed seconds later, spilling his own release deep inside your quivering core with a low, deep moan of your name.

“M- more.”

Anakin and Obi-Wan exchanged a glance, a look of surprise and renewed arousal passing between them at your plea.

Some time later

Anakin sat up, his sculpted abs glistening with a sheen of sweat. He scooped you up into his arms, his hand gripping your thigh possessively as he positioned you to straddle his lap. His cock, already hardening again, prodded against your cum-covered entrance.

With that, Anakin pulled you down, spearing you onto his hardening length in one smooth, deep thrust. At the same time, Ken pressed against your back, his own fat cock nestling between your warm ass cheeks as he began to grind through them. Your hands cuffed around Anakin’s face as they exhaled onto your sweaty skin.

Anakin gripped your hips, slamming you down onto his thick cock with each powerful thrust. Behind her, Obi-Wan's hands slid around to grope your breasts, kneading the soft flesh and rolling your stiff nipples between his fingers. He caught your lips in a passionate kiss, swallowing each cry of pleasure as the sex grew more intense. “You want me to cum in your ass?”

You could only moan and whimper in response, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of being so thoroughly taken by the two athletes. You could feel Obi-Wan's hard length pressing insistently against your backside, grinding in time with Anakin's relentless thrusts.

Their pace grew more intense, more urgent, as they chased their next releases. The small room was filled with the sound of their harsh breaths, and of course, your needy moans. You could feel the coil of another orgasm building low in your belly, your walls started to flutter and clench around Anakin's plundering length.

“Please…I- I” Your voice quieter than you expected as they each took a side of your neck into their mouths. Ken gently slipped inside of your tight ass; his hand pressed on the back wall behind Anakin’s head.

Anakin watched your twitching features. “Cumslut.” Your body convulsed, back arching as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. Your pussy clenched and spasmed around Anakin's pistoning length, milking him for all he was worth. “A- hmp!” His head hit the back of the wall as he buried himself deep inside of you. Ken’s cock pushed past the tight rings of your asshole as he came within the perfect, suckling heat.

Your lips were taken by Ken’s before given to Anakin. You tried your best to keep your mind still as their cocks nestled inside of you. Anakin’s tongue rubbed against yours; Ken’s tongue licked up and down your neck as their sweaty skin pressed against yours.

a/n: long one, hope you enjoyed!! I wrote this a month-ish ago so pls ignore the mediocre writing here.

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