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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 1 month ago

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3: The House - Jack Abbot x reader (Life imitates art Series)

Summary: 5.6k words. Domestic moments & milestones in Jack’s happily ever after ❤️ Life imitates art Series masterlist

The Art: “My House” (1938) is an oil painting by Johanna W. Hailman (1871-1958), an artist from Pittsburgh, PA. The Carnegie Museum of Art houses several of her works. I really enjoyed researching Pittsburgh art and artists for this series. I highly recommend checking out her body of work.

Warnings: 18+ish content. Nothing too explicit, but mdni anyway please :) Age gap,, gen X, millennials, and gen Z are all catching strays. sorry :) colorful language, angst, fluff, everything in between.

a/n: So this might be my favorite thing I’ve ever written. I took my time with her and I maybe waxed poetic at certain points, but I really love this. I listened to “Unknown / Nth” by Hozier while writing this. do with that information what you please. Divider credit!

It isn’t long before you take the liberty of adding some zest to Doctor Abbot’s apartment. It looked like a barren bachelor pad. If it weren’t for the larger than necessary flat screen TV and luxe sofa, you might’ve compared it to a prison cell. It was bare bones, with an exposed ceiling and concrete floors—that was part of the appeal of the “historic” building Jack moved into. "Rustic”, the realtor had called it. Unfinished, Jack corrected in his mind. Nevertheless, Abbot moved in and paid more money than he ought’ve.

You start small. A throw blanket laid across the back of the couch. You claim it was one from your smaller apartment that you just happened to bring along. You don’t admit that you bought the blanket at a recent art market from a local knitting vendor with the specific intention of bringing it into Jack’s space.

Things really snowballed when Jack gave you a key to his apartment. He liked coming home to you and often invited you to sleep at his place when he worked. His apartment was in a safer neighborhood and he felt better knowing you weren’t sleeping alone at your apartment—despite the door chain, two comically large and loud locks, and the doorbell camera he installed for you.

A singular knitted throw blanket turned into multiple decorative pillows on his couch and king bed. One morning he came home to see a coffee and tea bar cart had been assembled in his kitchen, complete with more ornate mugs than either of you needed.

During a night shift, he got a text from you that made him pause.

23:14 How emotionally attached are you to the sanctity of your bare walls?

Oscillating bubbles danced at the bottom of his phone screen as you typed out another text.

23:15 Follow up question: If I were to have hypothetically nailed multiple holes in some hypothetical drywall and studs to hang some art on a hypothetical whim, would you be opposed? Should I patch it up with some plaster and paint and we can pretend we never had this conversation? Hypothetically?

Jack chuckled and received a not-so-subtle stare from the charge nurse. Since when is Doctor Abbot the type to look smitten at his phone so late on a weeknight?

The one thing you don’t touch in your decorating crusade is Jack’s medical journals. The organization system—or perhaps lack thereof—is beyond you. It makes no sense, and you’re honestly not sure if there is any rhyme or reason to it. You don’t want to add anymore chaos to Abbot’s life, even in the minute form of shuffled journals. Instead, you wordlessly placed thrifted book ends and trinkets on his book shelf, thinking he might take it upon himself to migrate the medical journals to the shelf himself.

He does, after you’ve gone to bed. There is an order to it, a method to the madness that is the array of journals, however not even Doctor King is likely to decipher it.

Jack eventually slipped under the covers next to you and pulled you close to his chest. He kissed your forehead and muttered a soft “thank you.” You don’t hear him in your deep slumber, but you did nuzzle closer to his warm body. Even in sleep, you gravitate toward his safe and steady figure.

One night, Robby came over to Abbot’s apartment for a post-shift beer when Pittsburgh’s winter made it too cold to sit outside in the park.

Robby eyed his surroundings. You’d clearly been here, blessing the walls with your touch as you went.

There’s a framed photo of Abbot and Robby displayed on the couch’s end table. Based on the frame’s ornate details, Michael seriously doubts that Jack had anything to do with it. Abbot has a good sense of humor, but he’s often otherwise cool and clinical. His style is… utilitarian. It was only recently that Robby noticed something other than a spare set of scrubs and some Advil in the night shift attending’s locker. A single 4x6 photo of Abbot and his girlfriend, taped to the inside of the cold metal door alongside a polaroid picture of you painting.

Robby smiles warmly at the framed photo in Abbot’s living room. You weren’t decorating to transform Jack’s apartment into your place, but rather, you hoped to make it a place that felt like home for him, complete with pictures of his closest friend.

It was a good look, both on the apartment and Doctor Abbot. The night shift attending was the happiest Robby had seen him in a long time.

You arrive at Jack’s apartment following an after hours private tour at the museum. It’s a few minutes past 8 when you show up. Jack and Robby are resting their weary bones in the couch’s plush cushions watching the puck drop of a Penguin’s hockey game when you waltz through the door. A few tiny snowflakes linger on your parka, the rest have since melted in your hair. Despite the below freezing temperature outside, you refuse to abandon your dresses, so you compromise with thermal flannel leggings underneath to preserve your warmth (at Jack’s gentle behest). Your boots aren’t nearly as functional as they are fashionable, but they get the job done until you strain to remove them at the door. Jack is just about to get up and help you before you resolutely tug the last one off, settling to your feet a few inches shorter than you were with the boots on.

“Hi Robby!” you greet as you round the back of the sofa, wordlessly pressing a soft kiss to Jack’s curls. You continue through the apartment toward the kitchen, mindlessly lighting a candle as you go.

“Tea, anyone?” you ask, pouring water into the kettle. You’re considerate not to distract from the game, even though you know Jack would’ve turned the TV off completely at the drop of a hat to give you his undivided attention.

“No, thank you,” Robby responds, your name warm and kind on his lips. “What a nice host.” His voice is soft, the compliment about you directed to Abbot. “Unlike someone…” he jokes, dodging a piece of popcorn Jack aimed at his head. There were many years Michael was left to fend for himself whenever he visited Jack’s apartment.

“You have two legs, you can walk to the damn fridge and get your own beer,” Abbot says pointedly, his eyes not leaving the flat screen TV.

“Touché,” Robby ceeds.

Jack left your apartment with no time to spare before his night shift. What was supposed to be a nap in your bed quickly evolved into something much more stimulating. He did eventually get some shut-eye with your naked form pulled against his after he took care of your worn-out body in the shower. Abbot supported your weight on his sturdy form when your legs were too shaky under the hot stream of water.

He was pleasantly aroused from his sleep when your featherlight touch morphed into your legs straddling his hips, challenging the “old man” to round 2. Unfortunately, quickies with Jack were never really quick. Hence, why he was tying the drawstrings of his pants as he jogged into the Pitt at 18:59.

You laid in bed, satiated after the evening’s activities. Just like you had left your mark on Jack’s apartment, evidence of him lingered in every room of yours. A quarter of the closet had been cleared out to make room for his stuff, though he insisted he really didn’t need that much space. Two drawers in your bedroom dresser served as the permanent residence of his essentials. Scrubs, socks, underwear, and his watch.

His watch.

Abbot never worked a shift and seldom left home without it. The tactical watch was set to 24-hour time and was outfitted with a 3-axis compass, LED flashlight, precise GPS coordination, and biometric tracking. It was a little over the top, in your opinion. There were very few situations you could fathom him needing a compass in the ED, as if he couldn’t navigate the halls blindfolded.

Jack didn’t really need the watch to get through this one shift. There’s large digital clocks in each trauma bay, and the nurses and residents around him are bound to have watches of their own. The med students would jump at the opportunity to tell him the time if needed.

Abbot doesn’t need much to survive. As long as he had a few MREs and his police scanner, he was set. His watch, though, was far up on the list of essentials.

You don’t think twice before getting out of bed and throwing on some clothes and fixing your hair; you want to at least look semi-presentable when you show up at the Pitt—not like you’d been freshly fucked within an inch of your life.

Jack didn’t have time to eat or pack food when he stumbled out of your apartment with his pants barely pulled up to his hips. You’re not sure what he calls the meal he scarfs down at 3 a.m., but the cafeteria certainly isn’t serving it at that hour. The food you whip up for him is a simple, quick dish. The sooner you and his watch get to him, the better. The food gets packed into pink tupperware and you slip a handwritten note alongside it in his lunch box. His watch is carefully tucked into your tote bag for safe keeping before you set off.

19:47 I’m on my way to the ER

In retrospect, you could have worded that text much better. Especially since your phone died right after you sent it to Jack.

Abbot doesn’t see the message until ten minutes after you sent it. He would’ve seen it sooner if the notification came through on his watch, he gripes internally. His blood runs cold when he squints enough to decipher the small text on his phone’s screen. Jack immediately calls you, but it goes straight to voicemail. Shit.

He’s instantly on edge, to the point where he brushes past an otherwise innocent med student who begins to ask him a question before they clam up at his shift in demeanor. Abbot’s head starts spinning as his mind goes to worst case scenarios. He’s an attending trauma physician, for Christ’s sake, but a seven word text has him ready to spin out.

Jack’s tunnel vision shifts to the Pitt’s internal lobby doors, where the triage RN calls his name as she leads someone toward him. He’s breathing heavily and he’s not masking his panic nearly as well as he hoped when you emerge from behind the nurse. The smile on your face quickly drops and turns to concern. Jack looks… unwell, for lack of a better term.

“Hey, honey,” you tread lightly. Abbot’s shoulders rise and fall unsteadily as his eyes rapidly dart over your unharmed body. The doctor grips your hand and drags you to a private area in the ED where he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. You squeak in surprise but ease into his hold nonetheless.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he mumbles into your hair, showing no signs of letting go soon.

“I- what?” you’re confused, eyebrows scrunched together as you lean back to assess him. Jack begrudgingly allows some distance, but his hands never leave your hips.

“I’m on my way to the ER?” He parrots back at you.

Oh. You wince. Poor choice of words is an understatement. You frown apologetically, before shifting your weight to your tip-toes, pressing a lingering kiss to his firm-lined lips and assuring him you’re okay. Jack sighs heavily and pulls you back into him, resting his chin atop your head. His breathing evens, syncing with yours, and you both relish in the quiet, though neither of you dares to utter the Q word out loud.

When Jack is back to his baseline—when he’s okay because he knows you’re okay—you clear your throat and poke at his taught obliques to get his attention.

“Before you get whisked away to a trauma, I brought you something.” You hold up the black lunchbox into his view and dig the watch out of your tote bag.

Jack smiles despite his settling anxiety.

To be loved is to be known.

He accepts both gratefully, securing the watch around his wrist in a few swift moments. He’s still not ready to let go of you, though he knows the tide of the Pitt will drag him back any minute now.

“You know, I much prefer it when you come here, not in a gurney,” Jack half-teases. You scoff.

“Funny you should say that, because I also like not experiencing a medical malfunction,” you poke back.

Two residents come running around the corner, searching for Doctor Abbot. He hesitates with you still loosely tucked into his side, but you gently push him toward the action with the promise that you’ll put his lunchbox in the employee lounge and you’ll see him at home.

A few weeks later, it’s Jack’s unscheduled turn to visit you at work. You meant to lend your copy of The French Revolution as Blasphemy to a coworker, Beth, in the thick of their masters program. Frustrated rifling through your tote bag proved that you had left the book at home. You begin to apologize to the woman, offering to bring it to her after work tonight, when Jack appears in your periphery. He smiles that boyish grin as he walks towards you. His limp is infinitesimal, barely noticeable to anyone but you. Hypocritically, you wonder when the last time he took a break from his prosthetic was.

Jack comes to a stop beside you with a paper bag of aromatic Union takeout in one hand and the exact art history book you left at home in the other. The doctor offers your coworker a polite smile and nod before his attention is back on you like a gravitational pull.

You’ve told him a few times that he has a staring problem.

“I saw it on the entryway table and I knew you meant to bring it in today,” Jack explains, raising the book in his hand as if it’s featherlight. “Besides, I was in the neighborhood,” he finishes with a kiss to your forehead and you lean into him instinctively. Your eyes flutter shut briefly before his words register and you pin him with a disbelieving look.

“No, you weren’t,” you call him on his bluff immediately. You know him, and you know that he should be sleeping right now after working a night shift.

“No, I wasn’t,” Jack admits quietly, a soft smile gracing his leathered, weathered face. “But I missed you, so who am I to pass up an opportunity,” (read: excuse) “to visit my beautiful girlfriend.” He seals the statement with another kiss to the crown of your head.

Beth looks on in awe. She doesn’t mean to intrude on a private moment, but she’s dumbfounded at the stunning specimen before her. You’ve mentioned your boyfriend, multiple times in fact, but she’d never actually seen him in the flesh, despite his frequent visits to the museum. Beth thinks that you also never mentioned that he’s a devilishly handsome silver fox that could make any woman with a competency kink weak in the knees.

A quiet cough from Beth pulls you back to your senses and manners. You introduce the two.

“Beth, this is Jack, my boyfriend. Jack, this is Beth, future museum director and my lovely coworker,” you smile kindly at the younger woman.

Beth sputters something that sounds like nice to meet you with a blush. You get it, you were her once too. Jack pretends not to notice her bashfulness and instead reaches out his hand to shake. He doesn’t comment on how clammy her palm is.

You can’t remember the last time you slept alone when Jack wasn’t working. The one year dating anniversary flew by and you looked forward to all the years with Jack to come. During one of your visits to the Pitt, a new nurse called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t correct her. It felt right.

Not too long after your anniversary, Jake mentioned going to some open houses.

“Like… real estate open houses? Like residential homes?” You laid the book you’d been immersed in for hours down on your lap, memorizing the page number and turning your full attention to your boyfriend.

Jack stood at the kitchen counter fidgeting with a mug of hot black coffee.

“Mmmhmm,” he confirmed around a sip. He’s trying to act casual, but you can sense the underlying hint of unease in his body language. He might be the doctor, but you had an unparalleled skill for assessing him. Abbot’s shoulders are tight, like he’s preparing for a rejection. As if his taut muscles will soften the blow. Your face softens and you patiently wait for him to continue.

“You and me. Looking at houses. To live in. Together.” He’s walking toward you now and he never breaks eye contact. That damn staring problem again. Jack has his plain coffee in one hand and a glass of your fancy iced latte in the other. He’s no barista, but he’s pretty damn close to perfecting your favorite home coffee recipe. You smiled wide at Jack. He thinks your cheeks might crack if they stay in that position much longer. Thankfully, you narrowly avoid it when you gently grip the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss. Balancing two cups of coffee with his eyes closed as he leans into your sweet lips is a bit harrowing, but this isn’t his first rodeo, and he’s certain it won’t be the last.

“I’d love to,” you say it against his lips like a promise. When he reluctantly pulls away, he passes the iced latte to you and you take a sip, appraising his work. It’s perfect.

Two months later, you and Jack move into a two bed, two and a half bath home equidistant from the hospital and art museum. It’s a quaint brick home built in the 1960s; modernized enough for comfortable living with the home’s original character still preserved. Abbot doesn’t bat an eye when the real estate agent shares the list price. Meanwhile, you nearly sprayed a mouthful of water everywhere. The only place you’d personally seen a dollar amount so large was on your cancer treatment bills. It’s a significant change from Jack’s apartment’s open concept floor plan and vaulted ceilings, but as long as he got to share a bed with you, surrounded by nearly a dozen decorative pillows that you handpicked, he would be happy. It would feel like home.

When you first toured the home, it was more square feet than you knew what to do with—three times the footprint of your current “shoebox” apartment, as Jack called it. You quickly warm up to the layout when you note the abundant wall space, perfect for displaying art work.

The first order of business upon moving in—besides christening every surface—is building a new bookshelf to accommodate all the medical journals and art publications you could ever dream of owning. You and Jack were neck and neck tying for who had the most items of your respective academic interests claiming residence on the stained wooden shelves. The new ornate bookshelf proudly erected in the living room dwarfs the original one in your old apartment. It comfortably houses all of the reading material with room to grow.

Aside from your contributions to Jack’s previously bare bones bachelor pad, he doesn’t have much to contribute to the home’s interior. Before you, he didn’t spend much time there anyway; it was just a place to crash and bide time in between the borderline unhealthy amount of overtime shifts he picked up to keep himself busy. Abbot’s therapist informed him that simply not sleeping to avoid night terrors was not a healthy adaptive coping strategy.

The spare room of the new home is turned into your art studio. Robby and Abbot are careful to not disturb your supplies when they install a Murphy bed along the wall for when Michael inevitably stays over.

“Gone are the days when I can just cuddle up with you in bed after too many beers, brother,” Robby jokes as he passes a power drill to Abbot. Jack doesn’t find it funny nor does he laugh, but the deadpan look on his face makes you snicker as you walk past the room.

Real Housewives plays at a low volume on the TV opposite the foot of the master bedroom’s king bed at the end of the night. The his and hers closet doors had been removed from their hinges. A stained glass-inspired upcycle door project came to you in a fever dream, or maybe a targeted ad on pinterest. The two were one in the same, lately. Inside the closets your prosthetic leg stands side by side with Jack’s. The appendage with floral designs and pastel details contrasts Jack’s monotone prosthetic.

Abbot felt out of place in the big brand jewelry store. Most of the men in the store wore gaudy Rolex watches and flashy cufflinks, a far cry from his laidback style for a day date with you. This store is the first stop of however many it takes to find your engagement ring.

Apparently, there were taboos about a woman being directly involved in shopping for her own engagement ring. Reddit and Facebook users had a lot to say about the dos and don’ts of proposals, rings, and every other topic under the sun. None of the noise mattered to Jack though. Ultimately, he knew you would marry him regardless of what ring he proposed with, but he wanted it to be perfect. You deserve nothing less.

A sleazy salesman with greased back hair and a superiority complex approached the couple with a wolfish grin. As you spoke about ring styles you were interested in looking at, the man’s eyes never met yours. Instead, his gaze burned on your body, staring at places only Jack could touch.

You had to repeat yourself twice now to the salesman. Words were going in one dense ear, bouncing around his empty skull, and straight out the other. Abbot’s breaking point was when you leaned over the glass display case to look at a ring and the salesman used it as an opportunity to view your cleavage, complete with a pervy lip bite. Jack’s balled up fists remained steady by his side

The sharp click of Abbot’s tongue from the roof of his mouth got the salesman’s attention. The satisfied smirk on his face dropped at the deadly cold glare he received from Abbot. The two of you don’t stay in that store much longer.

“It’s a shame they didn’t have that many marquise cuts,” you said passively while looking up directions for the next jewelry store, not that Jack even needed them.

“Yeah. Shame.” Abbot’s jaw is clenched, but you know he’s not frustrated with you. You pressed a series of short and sweet kisses along his jawline, your fingers’ grip on his chin gentle but firm. You felt the tension leave his body in waves as you continued your ministrations. Your soft eyes meet his hard ones and he melts toward you in the middle. Jack understands all your unspoken words.

The next store offers better luck with the staff, but they don’t quite have what you’re looking for. Jack thinks he knows what you want. He’s seen your pinterest boards; he notices styles you eye curiously and others that you disregard. He knows you.

The third place is a bit of a hole in the wall. The antique store wasn’t on Jack’s mental itinerary of Pittsburgh’s jewelry store offerings, but your gasp at the eye-catching OPEN sign had Jack pulling a u-turn and parking the truck before you could even ask to stop.

“Maggie’s” is a local mom-and-pop vintage shop, owned by a husband and wife nearing retirement. You float through the aisles with Jack on your tail. The treasure trove of homewares and art long forgotten made you forget why you walked into the store in the first place until you came upon a glass jewelry case. In the very center sat an elegant ring—a sturdy but simple gold band supporting a two carat marquise diamond surrounded by smaller colorful stones—perfectly illuminated by the store’s sparse soft yellow lighting. It looks like a spotlight and feels like a sign.

Jack feels you squeeze his palm and he knows this is your ring before his eyes even meet the kind, tender gaze you share with him.

Doctor Abbot takes some uncharacteristic PTO and whisks you away to Nowhere, Pennsylvania for New Year’s weekend. The quiet rural cabin is far from fireworks that might trigger Abbot. It’s a picturesque place where the two of you can just be. The stars have never looked brighter.

There’s no cell service or GPS way out yonder. Halfway into the drive, when four bars of cell service dwindle to one, Jack pulls an atlas and a handful of folded paper maps from the truck’s glove box in front of you. His eyes flicker between the two lane road traveled only by the two of you and the stack of maps until he finds the one he needs.

CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA. One of the map’s edges has curled into itself. Symmetrical scored indents from the map’s folded position expand across the surface. The ink isn’t as vivid as when it was first printed, faded by time and use, but it still gets the job done.

“Honey… what’s this?” You ask, eyeing the materials splayed on your lap.

“A map.” Jack states it matter of factly, offering no further explanation before returning his calloused palm to your inner thigh.

“What, like from the 1900s?” Your side-eye becomes a full body rotation to stare at Jack across the truck’s bench seat. He pinches the skin of your thigh and you yelp, not expecting the harmless sting.

“Don’t act like your birth year doesn’t also start with ‘19’,” Abbot pokes, placing emphasis on the number. At this point in your relationship, he’s long gotten over any insecurity about the age gap, but that didn’t mean you weren’t still going to have fun calling him archaic.

“Barely,” you mutter with your face scrunched. Caught in between millennials and gen z, you’re equally intrigued and disturbed by whatever the fuck is wrong with both generations.

The winter weather is forgiving enough to allow you to enjoy fireside s’mores under the stars as the clock winds closer to midnight.

Your head rests on Jack’s lap beside the campfire he built by hand. Your mind drifts to visions of him that afternoon prepping. You offered to help him carry the firewood, but Abbot scoffed at the insinuation, as if he was offended you suggested lifting a finger. You can give it as good as you can take it, so he compromises by allowing you to carry the box of matches. In retrospect, it’s a good thing you weren’t holding 20 pounds of firewood anyway, because you can’t tear your eyes away from how Jack’s arms flex as he carries the load from the cabin’s shed to the stone firepit. Watching Jack build the fire was hot, even with the windchill. Your man was good with his hands—something you were well aware of, but it didn’t hurt to see it in action. Abbot positioned the firewood to a tipi position over kindling interwoven between the larger blocks before gratefully accepting a few matches from you. Jack was an eagle scout before he entered the military, but both ensured his fires were flawless. You’re certain you’ll smell the smoke in your hair tomorrow morning, but it will have been well worth it.

At 23:57, Jack’s thigh twitches and shifts underneath you. You hum softly, eyes still trained on the sky with Jack’s warm hand still encapsulating your smaller, colder fingers. Out here, there’s no light pollution—just you and Jack, endless trees, the aromatic expertly-built fire, and stars. So many stars. You see constellations that otherwise could’ve been disregarded as fictional if you’d never seen them like this.

Abbot clears his throat and says your name. Not honey, or love, or sweetheart, or baby. The depth of love in Jack’s eyes, his tender stare and gentle hold of your bundled body let you know that this is it.

You knew the proposal was coming, obviously. You picked the ring out yourself.

As the holiday season winded to a close, you never pushed Jack or asked him when he’d finally pop the question. Abbot would ask when the time was right. You trusted him implicitly, and this was no exception.

Once, he came home to you watching a Hallmark movie, half-asleep with an empty mug of peppermint hot chocolate balanced on your abdomen. The first of many throw blankets you introduced to his home was draped over you, pulled down just far enough to offer a view of your festive sweater. Doctor Abbot’s night shift nurses kindly gifted you a custom pullover for the Pitt’s ugly holiday sweater party. The deep navy blue sweatshirt was covered in multicolor snowflakes with cut-outs of Abbot’s face sprinkled across the fabric. Jack isn’t even sure where they got the picture from, but it quickly became your favorite piece in your ever-expanding wardrobe.

The film played on a low volume as the predictable corny ending scene wrapped up. The ridiculously attractive lumberjack proposed to the business woman who swore she’d never leave the city, in front of a Christmas tree farm with a beautiful ring. Not as beautiful as yours, though.

Abbot admired the scene for a minute—the film, you sleeping soundly, and his winter wonderland of a living room—before he carefully scooped you up and carried you to bed where he knew you’d rest much more comfortably.

Soon, he promised with a kiss to your temple.

Jack carefully shifts you off his leg, cradling your head with care. He supports you to stand, and you hold his hands while he settles down on one knee. Jack’s eyes are watery before he’s even begun his speech. They match the happy tears on your waterline. Your smile is wobbly, and you’re trying your hardest to be patient. Abbot worked on his speech for a long time; like the ring, it needed to be perfect.

Abbot’s speech is beautiful. For a moment, you forget how cold it is. You can only focus on Jack, handsome as ever, kneeling on one knee, extending the ring you picked out together as the winter’s wind blows embers through the night.

The fire illuminates the marquise stone and the jewelry box’s soft light highlights the smaller complementing stones. On the inside of the gold band, there’s a date engraved on the ring that wasn’t there before at Maggie’s. In small script, the day of your first date is followed by a heart. It looks exactly like Jack’s scrawly handwriting.

When you say yes—because of course you do. Yes a million times over, in every universe and lifetime with Jack—he wastes no time slipping the band on your left ring finger. The fit is perfect, and it clings to your finger like it has always belonged there, like it just found its home.

It’s midnight now. A new year, a new ring, embraced with a kiss.

Abbot would be more than happy to find Nowhere, Pennsylvania’s nearest courthouse on New Year’s day and get married right then and there, but he knows you dream of something different.

A late Spring wedding with a small ceremony at the botanical gardens. The Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens wedding venues are booked out over a year in advance, but you know a guy who does event planning for the Carnegie Museum of Art and Phipps.

In May, you walk down the aisle in an elegant white gown that drapes just shy of kissing the nearby florals. Detached ornate tulle sleeves match your veil; the veil’s dainty beaded edges complement the dress’s embroidered bust and train.

Jack has never been happier, he thinks as a tear streams down his cheek before you’ve even met him at the altar. On his wedding day, he traded his black scrubs for a light navy blue three-piece suit. Doctor Jack Abbot is your something blue.

For the wedding reception, you host close family and friends in the house’s backyard.

Abbot was on a first name basis with many local hardware and home improvement store employees after his numerous trips in early Spring to revive the yard from Pittsburgh’s winter. Thriving raised garden beds lined the back perimeter of the yard, serving as a picturesque backdrop for the stone fire pit Jack built. You helped by ogling him as he worked from the porch with a glass of lemonade in hand.

The stringed lights above the garden illuminate your loved ones, along with the blazing fire, built with ashes from New Year’s eve. The first dance flows into several songs played by a string quartet (your biggest splurge for the wedding). Jack holds you in his arms like you’re the center of his universe while you sway together as husband and wife.

The next day, you and Jack are on a flight to Europe for a three week honeymoon. Jack handed a gate agent boarding passes with your new last name on it and you couldn’t help but smile.

Abbot looks pretty damn good on your passport.

a/n 2: Growing up, my Girl Scout troop had this campfire tradition; We saved ashes from each campfire and would dump them into the next one, so each fire burned with ashes of all the ones that came before it. I like to think that Jack and his wife have that tradition with the ashes from their New Year’s Eve fire.

Comments, asks, reblogs, feedback, etc. mean the world to me!! Please share your thoughts & feelings mwah ❤️

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rememberwren · 1 year ago

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A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 2

A continuation of Skin Deep. Part one of this sequel is here.

About this: previous warnings apply, oral sex (f receiving), alcohol, gross imperfections, not a single nipple unfortunately, an eyebrow though. For @/moody-alcoholic, I hope this manages to quench even the tiniest portion of your thirst. 1 more part left. 7k

“Simon?”

“Hm.”

“Are you seeing anybody else?”

Simon looks up at you. His hair is getting long, falling over his forehead and looking nearly brunet in the dim lighting. You don’t think he’s cut it since the two of you have started dating.

He’s been drawing for half the night, hunched over with the sketchpad in his lap, doing terrible things to his own posture and blocking his own lighting all at once. When he answers you, it’s in that dry tone that lets you know he thinks you’ve said something funny or clever: “No.”

A knot in your chest loosens. It’s hard to believe you worried over such a question for so long just to receive such a simple, earnest answer. He goes back to sketching.

You content yourself with this and stretch your legs out until your toes touch his thigh at the other end of the sofa. His mouth twitches, but he keeps working.

Six months pass, and how do you celebrate? You climb topless onto Simon’s lap, eager and anxious in equal measure. Your nipple piercing had stopped hurting months ago (save for the time you had snagged it on a cable knit sweater and nearly seen Jesus), but you had read online that piercings heal from the outside inward, and as such you had made every attempt possible to leave the thing alone even when all you wanted to do was play with it.

In his own way of celebrating, Simon had bought you your first new barbell: a black one with black gemmed studs at each end. You couldn’t help but notice that it looked similar to his, only with a more delicate, feminine touch.

“Will you change it for me?” you ask him. Your hands are shaking.

“Alright. Let me wash my hands.” He shifts you off of his lap and disappears into the bathroom where you hear the faucet turn on. You cross your arms over your breasts, feeling silly being half naked without Simon in the room. Your foot bounces impatiently, but you know that if cleanliness were a love language, it would likely be Simon’s.

Not that he had told you he loved you—nor had you told him. You had promised yourself that you would wait until he said it first (the only sure-fire way to avoid coming across as overeager and scaring him off). Still, there were a thousand ways in a day that Simon made you feel as if he loved you: the way he would go out to start your car in the wintery mornings when your remote start stopped working; the way he always offered you the first bite of his food if you weren’t sharing a meal; the way he’d crack open your drinks before handing them to you. Was it wrong of you to try to read between the lines?

Simon comes back and tugs you onto his lap again. His hands look huge compared to the jewelry through your breast as he dexterously works the ball free from the barbell. He has the hands of a surgeon: steady and calm. You close your eyes in anticipation of pain, but there is none; it just feels alien, sensitive whenever his calloused fingers brush over your pebbled nipple, even as he removes the barbell itself.

Taking the sanitized jewelry, he carefully puts it in and screws the stud in place.

“That didn’t hurt at all,” you say, reaching down to tug softly on the barbell. Still, no pain.

“Great,” he says, eyes on your breasts. He grips your hips. “Up, now. C’mon, up.”

He tugs you up onto your knees so that you’re the perfect height for him to take your nipple into his burning mouth. You shiver, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other burying itself in his hair, gripping softly to keep his mouth in place. If you had worried that getting the piercing would make you less sensitive, you were wrong. He tugs on the jewelry gently with his fucking teeth and God, holy shit, fucking hell, definitely not less sensitive.

“Been waiting to do this,” he says, nuzzling the skin between your breasts as he gives you a moment to catch your breath. “Six months of hell.”

“Yeah?” You pant lamely, chest heaving.

He hums. His thumbs stroke beneath your breasts along the sternum tattoo he gave you—a favorite part of you for him to touch—as his lips find your nipple again, lashing softly with his tongue. His hands have begun to tremble where they slide down the curves of your sides and to your hips, touch soft and worshipful as he brings you down to rest your weight against the hard line of his cock still confined in his jeans. The shaking says more than a thousand of his words ever could.

“I want you,” he mutters. “Say yes.”

“Yes, God, yes.”

Simon guides you off of his lap, kneeling down into the space between the couch and the coffee table. He pushes the table backwards with a little more force than is necessary when there isn’t enough room for his long legs and accidentally sends a cup full of charcoal pencils tipping over onto the carpet. You snort with laughter. He peels your leggings and panties off and drags you to the edge of the couch, pressing your thighs open wide.

Getting head from partners in the past had been a fraught, mostly unenjoyable experience. Even your first few times with Simon had been tense, with him quickly moving on to something else after noticing your inability to relax. A less eager man might have counted his blessings and moved on, but Simon’s gentle persistence had gone a long way toward reassuring you that he truly wanted to please you this way. It had gone a long way toward reassuring you that you could let him.

He spreads you apart, thumbs slipping against your slick folds, heated gaze pinpointed on your most intimate parts before he leans in and licks a broad stripe over your entrance and up to your clit. You shut your eyes (and cover your face for good measure). His warm breath fans against your pussy as he laughs. He could be mean and pull your hands away, but he lets you hide this way and you are grateful for it.

Simon takes his time mapping each part of you with his mouth, nose brushing your clit whenever he doesn’t have his lips sealed over it. Your thighs shake, toes curled, as he pulls whines and choked gasps from your throat.

You peek through your fingers when you feel him shifting beneath you to find that he’s worked his cock from his jeans and is jerking off, only noticeable by the tell-tale rhythmic motion of his arm against your calf.

“Jesus, Simon,” you whine.

He makes a little sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, shifting on his knees to change the angle of his mouth against you. Something about him so unashamedly enjoying himself makes it easier for you to enjoy yourself too, to let your hands come away from your face and thread them through his hair.

“Can we fuck?” you breathe, aching inside deep where his tongue can’t reach.

He nods against you and kneels up to kiss you. You still aren’t used to the taste of yourself in his mouth, but it’s growing less foreign—and nothing could ever make you turn away from one of Simon’s kisses.

He pulls you off the couch onto your knees, his legs spread to either side of your own. You arch your back, feeling his cock brush against the back of your thighs. Two of his thick fingers slip inside you, testing your give and your wetness. He twists them; turns to hook them against that soft, vulnerable spot inside you that makes your legs shake. Simon works a third finger into you, a stretch that your body struggled to take before but which it accepts eagerly now, the sting welcome and familiar.

“Fuck. I need a condom,” he rasps.

“Just pull out,” you say.

You can sense him rolling his eyes. Your fondness for the (dangerous) pull-out method had been formally noted by him and thus far rejected at every turn.

“Don’t insult me,” he mutters. He grabs your hand and guides it between your own legs. “Be good and keep yourself warm. I’ll be right back.”

He’s barely gone long enough for you to stroke your fingers through your folds, but when he returns (flashing the intact condom package at you like he always does), he watches you for an endless, lingering moment.

“I like that,” he says at last, taking his spot behind you again, condom in place.

“Like what?”

“Watching you touch yourself.” The head of his cock nudges your entrance. He finds the right angle and slips inside you, stretching your walls to make room for himself. You groan, your fingers digging into the couch cushion. It stings a little, right towards the end, but he just softly saws himself in and out of your pussy, soothing the ache with pleasure. His words go completely over your head.

He reaches so deep inside you, like with his every thrust his cock bullies the air out of your lungs. The slick sounds are lewd, keeping time with your moans and sighs as his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips, manhandling you further onto the couch to the perfect height for him to fuck into you, your knees barely skimming the carpet.

Your hand ends up crushed between your pelvis and the couch. You let your fingers find your clit and the touch reminds your body of how close it is, that coil deep in your belly stretched tight and ready to release. Your fingers trail down to where his cock pistons in and out of you, and at your touch he groans, slows to a smooth drag, his length slippery with your own arousal.

“Touch yourself, not me,” he chides, his voice rough. “I’m close enough.”

“I’m close enough,” you say.

He flops against your back, nearly crushing you with his weight to hook his chin over your shoulder and ask: “Then what the fuck are we waiting for?”

You can barely draw in the breath to laugh, and it’s only worse when you cum. You bury your face into the couch cushions, giggling, fingers rubbing a gentle, hectic rhythm against your clit as your pussy spasms around him. He snorts at your laughter, a soft quiet exhale against the back of your neck. Then he cums, his thrusts sloppy and hard, turning his head at the last moment to bite your shoulder lazily.

“Sex makes you so weird,” you pant. Your face hurts from smiling.

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

He ties off the condom and throws it away. The two of you sit naked on the couch together, curled up. It’s a little alien to be this open about your body with someone and to have them be so open about their body in return, but it’s a good strangeness. So much about loving Simon is.

“I need to get the other one pierced now,” you mention, toying with his unpierced nipple. “Have to complete the set.”

“I never did.”

“You’re incomplete. Don’t you know?”

He snorts. “I feel quite fulfilled, thanks.”

“Please Simon?” you ask. “I want to.”

“Don’t ever say please. I’ll text Soap in the morning,” Simon says, trailing his fingers up and down the length of your arm, making goosebumps appear.

You hesitate. Should you tell him what you’d been thinking about for the last several months? Would it offend him to know that you didn’t want to go to Johnny for any more piercings?

Whether it offended him or not, your pride couldn’t rest easily going back to the tiny room behind the curtain in Skin Deep. While there had been only a few other tense interactions between you and Johnny since Simon’s birthday (and usually he seemed to favor outright ignoring your existence), the situation had not improved.

“Simon—I think I’d rather go somewhere else for my other nipple. To someone other than Johnny, I mean.”

Simon frowns. “What’d Johnny do.”

He phrases it like that—more of a statement and less of a question, immediately assuming that Johnny is at fault.

“It’s just—it’s like I said on your birthday. He doesn’t like me much.”

Simon turns to look you in the eye. When your gaze tries to skirt away, he lets out an irritated breath through his nose—but doesn’t fight you. Simon always lets you run. Maybe because he knows his legs are long enough to catch you. “You really feel like that?”

“You’ve never noticed?”

“Thought it was in my head,” he mutters. Then he says the most dreaded words he possibly could: “I’ll talk to him.”

“No!” you nearly shout. You struggle to lower your voice to something more appropriate for indoors, your heart tap-dancing to an anxious beat inside your chest. Just trying to picture Johnny’s irritated expression at any of Simon’s potential efforts to talk to him made your stomach turn over. “I mean—don’t. Really. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I need you two to get along. You and Johnny—you’re the most important people in my life,” he says baldly. His honesty does something to your lungs—empties them, crushes them. You only just realize the position that you’re putting Simon in, and it makes you feel about two inches tall. How could you let your petty problems with Johnny potentially get in the way of their longtime friendship? Their brotherhood?

“I’m begging you, Simon,” you plead. “Promise me you won’t talk to him. Just, give me more time to get to know him or something.”

“Can't promise that.” He stands up and stretches, joints popping as you stare at him, your stomach tearing itself to pieces at this knowledge. This is not how this conversation was meant to end. But he disappears into the bedroom before you can gather your wits enough to say another word.

There is nothing like sleeping beside Simon, his arm beneath your head, your body turned and cradled against his side, a leg thrown over his thighs. His heart is as slow and steady as his breaths, his calloused thumb tracing a line back and forth on your naked side, a line which grows slower and slower as he drifts closer to sleep.

You ruin it like this: “Simon?”

“Hm.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“If you got’a.”

“On your birthday, you said that women meant for you sometimes ended up being Johnny’s. What did you mean?”

He’s quiet for so long that you mistake him for falling asleep. You’ve resigned yourself to asking him another night when he speaks, his speech is slow and thoughtful, like it is hard to put it into words.

“When Soap and I are in a room together with women, I’m like a ghost. He’s a fucking human being. Flesh and blood. Alive. People want to talk to him, to know him, to laugh with him, to have a drink with him. I’m not like that. I haven’t ever been like that. More than once Johnny would try to get me together with a woman who would end up falling for him instead. Eventually I convinced him to stop trying.”

“Were you jealous?”

He makes an ambiguous sound. “It’s hard to be jealous of Soap.”

“Not impossible, though.”

He rolls you over onto your back, coming to rest over you, your legs a tangled mess beneath the sheets. The darkness lengthens the shadows of his eyes, but you can still feel his gaze, tangible as any touch. He braces himself on his elbows over you and lets his forehead rest against your own. “I just wanted someone who was mine,” he says.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, those words that are building inside of you and growing harder to withhold by the day. But you say it like this and hope he can translate: “I’m yours.”

He ducks his head and kisses you.

In the morning, Simon has slipped a piece of paper just beneath the edge of your mug of tea. When you look at it, written in charcoal pencil is DARCELINA: Dream City Tattoos and Piercings XXX-XXXX.

It’s one for the record books: the rain. Thick pregnant clouds carry more than eight inches of rain to your city in the course of a day. The last time it rained so much was apparently during the Civil War era. The city floods, including the basement of your apartment building, which leads to a building-wide power outage.

Simon has you pack a suitcase, junk the majority of your refrigerator and freezer, and come stay with him. You’re giddy, feeling like it’s a semi-permanent sleepover when he gets the call that Skin Deep has flooded as well.

Then things take a turn for the worse. Simon is gone for nearly 36 hours straight making endless calls to attempt to clear the water and begin repairs, and sometime in the midst of that, the fight with Johnny happens.

It’s an ugly one.

Simon comes home in the foulest mood you’ve ever seen him in. It turns him positively stony as he moves around the apartment making himself a hasty meal, avoiding your eyes every chance he gets. After he eats, he sits heavily on the sofa, pulls out his sketchpad, and trashes no fewer than six entire pages before you get the nerve to ask him what’s wrong.

“Soap,” he mutters, crumpling a paper in one strong, dextrous hand. He throws it toward the small garbage can beside the telly and misses. “He’s looking for other locations to pierce at.”

“Is the building that bad?” you ask. “You guys will have to find a new place?”

“Soap is looking for a new place. One without me.”

You gape, the shock of this news reaching all the way to the core of your being.

“You don’t think it’s because of—?” Me. You can’t even finish the sentence, the thought upsets you so much. You tuck your legs beneath you on the couch, curling up, seeking to become small and harmless as grief and horror wash over you in wave after wave.

“This is my fault. I tried to talk to him but he’s so fucking—he gets under my goddamn skin like he was born to do it.” Simon pauses heavily, before adding: “I need to tell you something about the night Soap pierced me.”

Story time. Alright. You uncurl your legs, choosing to sit with them criss-crossed, your body turned toward him, giving Simon your entire attention. It’s been months since you found out that Johnny had been the one to pierce Simon, but you had been no closer to getting the story from either of them. Your curiosity was a dangerous, corrosive thing, eating away at your insides.

“I’m listening,” you say, hoping you don’t look as eager as you feel.

Simon looks to be at a loss for words, running his tongue along the sharp edge of his teeth. When he speaks, it’s hardly the lengthy story you had been anticipating: “We fucked.”

You blink. “You and—Johnny?”

Simon sighs and shrugs a shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were…” Simon stares, waiting for you to finish your sentence. “…interested in men.”

“You are. Why can’t I be?”

You feel a chilly pang of horror, like someone has slipped a dagger between your ribs. You rush to assure him: “You can! You—“

Simon’s mouth twitches as he rubs at the crease of one eye, and your panic fades. He mumbles: “I’m just fucking with you.”

“So you’re bisexual.”

“I’m… I don’t fucking know. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. I never named it.”

“Okay,” you say gently. “We don’t have to. But what does that have to do with now?”

“The day after we—y’know. Fucked. I told him it was a one time thing. Maybe it’s in my head,” says Simon, frowning. “Maybe I’m crazy. But sometimes he looks at me or says something to me and it makes me think it’s not over. Not for him.”

“Is it really over,” you ask, “for you?”

Simon looks at you, quiet. He says: “I want you.”

And you are so relieved by the obvious honesty in his answer that it never crosses your mind to think that’s not what you asked.

Simon is uptown at a café holding consultations while Johnny directs cleanup efforts at the shop, and you think that now’s the perfect chance.

Your hands shake against the steering wheel the whole drive there, nerves less like butterflies and more like great winged moths in your belly. A part of you says that this is a mistake, you should turn back and let Simon and Johnny work it out on their own. But another part of you feels personally responsible—even if Simon says you aren’t. All your life you have taken things too personally, shouldered burdens which were not your own, bent over backwards to solve problems that weren’t yours to solve. If there was any chance that you could resolve this, you would put your pride on the line to do it.

You park alongside the street and are thrilled to find the front door unlocked. The entire place smells musty, like a basement. The wooden floors have warped a little under your tentative steps, announcing your presence sooner than you’d like.

Johnny sits in the chair where Simon tattoos clients. Sunlight streams in through the blinds and lights him up like some kind of punk-rock angel, his mohawk freshly clipped, dark finger nail polish chipping. Sometime between now and the last time you’ve seen him, he’s pierced his eyebrow: a black barbell with studs that reminds you a little too much of the one through your nipple (and Simon’s. Was that intentional? Did Johnny pick jewelry to match Simon’s? To match yours? For some reason just the thought makes your nipples tighten). In his hands is one of Simon’s sketchpads, and he’s flipping through it leisurely.

He glances up toward the sound of your footsteps.

“If you’re here about the water—“ his words die out on his pierced tongue as he stares at you, gobsmacked by your appearance.

“Hey,” you say lamely.

“Where’s Simon?” he asks, eyes flickering toward the protective spot where Simon usually hovers just over your shoulder. “He said he wouldn’t be in today.”

“He’s not. It’s just me. I thought maybe we could talk.”

Johnny openly grimaces. He shuts Simon’s sketchpad and sets it down (hopefully where he found it). Standing from the chair, he takes a few casual steps away from you, clearly heading towards the curtain that leads to the back of the shop. “Really cannot think of anything we have to talk about.”

You square your shoulders, fighting down that instinctive urge to make yourself smaller, to give in and be manageable. “I think we do.”

“You should go.”

“Not until we work this out.”

“There isn’t any this, alright, just—does Simon even know you’re here?” Something guilty must splash across your face because Johnny gives a mirthless laugh, reaching up to palm at his eyes. “Tha’s great. Just great. Could you be more incriminating?”

“Incriminating—? Look, Simon told me about the night you pierced him.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Johnny says flippantly.

“About how you two slept together.”

Now that stops Johnny in his tracks. It’s clear that he didn’t expect Simon to really tell you about that night all those years ago. He looks at you with a fresh caution, waiting to see how exactly you’ve taken this news—what you plan to do with it. “Aye, then. I guess he did.”

“I’m not trying to take him away from you.”

Johnny makes a derisive sound. His words are well-rehearsed, like he has said them to himself a hundred-hundred times: “Cannot take what isn’t mine.”

“He was your friend first,” you say, aiming for conciliatory and gentle the same way you might approach a feral animal. Johnny stares at you with flat, suspicious eyes. They’re so fucking blue—so different from Simon’s own dark ochre ones. “He told me that you’re one of the most important people in his life.”

Johnny’s face softens. He says: “You shouldn’t tell me that. He wouldn’t.”

“He’s not always good with words. Please don’t leave the shop, Johnny. I think it would break Simon’s heart.”

“I didn’t know he had a heart to break,” Johnny mutters. He leans against the wall beside the curtain and sighs, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it. Now out. You shouldn’t be breathin’ in this air.”

Johnny ushers you to the door, hand hovering just above your back, careful not to touch you. Once you’re out on the street, he shuts the door and locks it audibly. Then he leans in and huffs a heated breath beneath the “NO WALK INS” sign. In the fog, he adds: “No GFs!”

You flip him off.

He flips you off.

On the way back to your car, you find yourself smiling. You force yourself to scowl. It’s a more appropriate expression. Giving one last glance back toward Skin Deep, you find him still standing there, watching.

Likely just to make sure you’re really leaving.

Not long after you are moved back into your apartment, you find that Simon stops sleeping.

You’re ashamed to say that it takes you a while to notice; nothing changes on your end of things. Anytime you are sleeping over, he lays down with you, tugs you up against his chest, and holds you for ages, his body still and breathing even. But one night you wake to a cool, empty bed. And later in the week, it happens again. Until more often than not you realize that any moment when you expect Simon to be sleeping, he isn’t.

Usually you find him sketching, shadows like charcoal smudged beneath his eyes. He doesn’t meet your gaze and tells you to go back to bed, that he’ll be there soon. Sometimes he even does come to lay back down beside you—but only long enough for you to convince him that you have fallen asleep again. Then he is shifting away from you, disappearing into the other room, shutting the bedroom with the quietest click behind him.

You know that he’s busy. His schedule has been booked—and with deposits nonrefundable, people more often than not kept their appointments. He’s been working with a client on mock ups for a sleeve, and the various pieces and the way they all come together around the contours of the person’s body are very delicate. Johnny’s threat to find a new job doesn’t help, either. Have they talked and resolved things yet? Simon never says so.

You can’t imagine the stress that he is under, and you’d do anything to be able to shoulder a fraction of it for him.

That’s how you end up with drunk Johnny in your car.

It starts with Simon falling asleep before you—for once. You can tell he is well and truly asleep by the sheer weight of his arm over you, the soft snores that he gives out against the nape of your neck. After so many nights of sleeplessness, his body has finally given in. You’re about to slip off to sleep yourself when the buzzing of a phone startles you back into wakefulness.

Not your phone—Simon’s phone. And it goes off again. And again. And again. Who the hell could be sending so many messages at midnight?

You know you should leave it alone—if it was urgent, they would likely call—but curiosity gets the better of you. Carefully you slip out from under Simon’s arm. It’s a testament to his sheer exhaustion that he doesn’t wake as you jostle him. In sleep, he looks painfully young and relaxed, and it makes you long to reach out and brush back his hair that has fallen onto his forehead. But not at the risk of waking him.

Sure that all you are planning to do is shut Simon’s phone off so that he can get some restful sleep, you are surprised to see that Simon has his text notifications visible on the homescreen, so all it takes is a simple tap to open them up.

Johnny. All Johnny.

Ghost.

Ghost

Are you uo?

Up* fuck my fingers

I need a ride home

Simon

I’m at that bar on… The text is cut off. To see more, you would have to open his phone. So Johnny is stuck at some bar, drunk more than likely. Well good riddance, you think to yourself, the hurtful way he treated you still very much fresh in your brain. But then you remember your talk at Skin Deep, and your traitorous heart softens. Could you really just put the phone back now and pretend you hadn’t seen the messages?

Simon doesn’t even have a password; that’s how much he trusts you. Would he still trust you after this, if he knew that you had gone through his phone, even if it was for a good cause?

Making a spur of the moment decision, you could only hope so. Your conscience wouldn’t let you wake Simon, and as much as you disliked him, it couldn’t let you leave Johnny stranded at some bar either.

You open his phone as quickly as you can, swiping so that it goes straight to Johnny’s texts and nowhere else. The name of the bar is right there, and you scramble for your own phone to type it down in Google Maps. He’s not far. Probably would be within walking distance, if he weren’t drunk. You could be there and back before Simon ever knew you were gone—you hoped.

As Simon, you send back to Johnny a simple OMW.

There is no hint of spring in the frigid March air as you slip outside into your car. The parking lot is dim and quiet, and traffic is minimal as you follow the GPS on your phone to Johnny’s location. The pub nightlife spills out onto the pavement and you struggle to find a place to park, grimacing at the knowledge that you will have to get out of the car and go inside to find Johnny, considering you see him nowhere on the street. Leaving the warmth of your car is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, especially in just a thin tank-top and a pair of leggings. Gathering your coat more tightly around yourself, you rush out of the car and through the people on the sidewalk and into the warmth of the pub.

You keep your eyes peeled for Johnny, but can’t spot his silly haircut anywhere. What if he’s gotten a ride home from someone else? What if he’s decided to walk, or found someone to go home with? You shift up onto your toes, looking over everyone in the bar when you spot him in the corner at a table with a few other men.

Johnny doesn’t even recognize you at first—either a testament to how unexpected your sudden appearance is or how drunk he is based on how difficult it is for his eyes to focus on you. When he realizes who you are, his mouth drops. He points.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, accent so thick and slurred that you can barely understand him.

“Picking you up. You said you needed a ride.”

“Aye but not from—oh, Jesus make me still. Yer not wearing a bra, are you?”

All the men at the table turn to gape. You snatch the sides of your jacket closed where they had loosely fallen open, your face flushing with warmth. The table roars with laughter, but Johnny in his drunkenness doesn’t seem to notice your embarrassment.

“That was mine!” Johnny shouts, elbowing the man next to him. “Did you see that? That was my work!”

“We get it, bruv,” the guy says with a roll of his eyes. “She’s no ten.”

“What’d you fuckin’ say?”

The table laughs.

Johnny grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and drags him nearly clean out of his seat. “I said, What’d you fucking say about her?”

The table stops laughing. Johnny cuts an impressive figure even when drunk; he’s easily the largest guy of the group. Your stomach drops and lands somewhere between your shoes. This is not going to plan at all. Reaching out, you try to insert yourself physically between the two of them but can only wrap your fingers around Johnny’s wrist, feeling the strength poised in the tendons.

“Johnny,” you say, loudly to be heard over the sounds of the pub. “Come on. Let’s go, yeah? Simon…Simon’s out in the car.”

“Simon?” Johnny let’s go of the guy’s shirt, his bad mood evaporating as quickly as it had manifested. He nudges his way out from behind the table, all politeness. Once free, he stumbles into a woman in a slinky dress who gives him a look that could melt glass.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize to her, wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist and doing your best to keep him steady. “He’s an idiot, and he’s drunk. You look amazing by the way—“

“Control your boyfriend,” she snaps.

“I will,” you promise, guiding Johnny away from her and into the crowd.

His nose brushes the shell of your ear, breath fanning across your neck as he says with a laugh in his voice: “I’m not yer boyfriend.”

You flush. “Thanks for letting me know, Johnny. I had no clue.”

He says something back, some Scottish phrase, his accent so thick you couldn’t understand the words even if you knew them.

“English, please,” you mutter.

“Je-sus,” he groans, dragging the words out into multiple syllables. He takes your chin in his hand and squeezes your cheeks a little. “You’re just like him. ‘English, MacTavish’. Ha!”

You bat his hand away.

“He’s been rubbing off on you,” Johnny mutters, laughing a little. Beneath his breath (though far more loudly than he likely intends), he adds: “In more ways than one, I imagine.”

Your face goes hot. “Johnny, stop talking.”

The two of you exit the pub out into the cool night air. It seems to sober Johnny some, as he takes in deep, gulping breaths. He walks a little steadier as the two of you cross the street, and by the time you’ve made it to your car, he has shrugged you off altogether (even if he is still a little unstable on his feet). He stands outside the car for a moment before opening one of the rear doors.

“What are you doing?”

“Rather sit back here.”

“I’m not your cabbie.”

“Strange manner of dress if you were,” he says snidely, slipping into the backseat.

In the driver’s seat, you let yourself have a small breakdown. You grip the wheel tightly, taking a few deep breaths of your own, searching for inner peace. You thought that you and Johnny had a tentative truce after that day at Skin Deep, but clearly he is still holding some grudge. Your search for peace turns up empty.

“Sorry I lied about Simon being here. I just really needed you to leave the pub,” you explain politely.

“Knew you were lying,” Johnny says from the darkness of the backseat. He sounds remarkably like Simon: brooding and irritable. “He’s got no idea you’re here, does he? He’d never let you come alone.”

You frown. “No. He doesn’t. He’s sleeping and I didn’t want to wake him.”

“Nightmares?”

“Huh?”

Johnny leans forward. You glance at him in the rear view mirror. “I said, Has he been having more nightmares?”

You didn’t know anything about Simon having nightmares. That sour feeling in your belly was back, the one that made you feel like you would never truly know Simon, not the way his friends did.

“No,” you say, a little defensive. “He’s been working on this sleeve for a client. Staying up way too late to finish it on time.”

“Aye. Nightmares. Anything else is just an excuse he’s telling himself—and you.”

Done with the conversation, you turn the key in the ignition and pull out into the street. “What’s your address?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why’s that?”

“Left my keys at the bar.”

“Goddamnit.”

You turn towards Simon’s apartment. “Then you’re staying with us—with Simon. You can sleep on his couch and get your keys in the morning; I’m sure he won’t care.”

“Are you staying there?”

“Yes.”

Johnny mutters something under his breath. You consider yourself lucky not to have heard it. For a while, the two of you drive in silence. Then Johnny says:

“You never came for your second nipple.”

“It’s only just been six months.”

“So you’re due for an appointment then, aren’t you?”

You steel yourself, gripping the wheel tightly at ten-and-two. “Actually, I’m going to someone else.”

Johnny’s seatbelt unclicks. He hovers at your shoulder bringing with him burning warmth and the scent of whisky. When he talks, his breath brushes your neck, fury tangible in every syllable. “Who is it? Who the hell is he taking you to? Darcelina? Astrid? Dusty? Whoever it is, consider the appointment canceled. No one is piercing you but me.”

“You don’t get that privilege,” you grit out between your teeth. “Not anymore, not after the way you’ve treated me!”

“Oh, did I offend you?” he breathes, clutching one hand at his breast. “Not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on?”

“Fuck you, Soap! I wanted to be friends.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. Suddenly the road goes blurry. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to calm down—you’re driving for fuck’s sake. You swallow past the lump in your throat, the silence interrupted by rustling as Johnny leans forward again in the backseat, trying to get a look at your face in the passing streetlights.

“Fuck,” Johnny groans. “Are you crying?”

“No!”

“You are. Fuckin’—pull over, before you get us killed.”

Keen embarrassment only has your eyes watering more, until you have no choice but to do as he asks, pulling over to hastily parallel park and throw on your hazard lights. You let your elbows rest against the steering wheel, face in your hands. His words echo in your head, said in that stupid Scottish brogue: not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on? Are those really the things he thought you wanted? Is that the sort of impression you gave to Johnny, to Ghost’s other friends?

The backseat door opens and Johnny climbs out. A small part of you hopes that he will walk himself home—and good riddance. But he horrifies you by walking all the way around to the driver’s side of the car and tugging on the door handle until you begrudgingly unlock the doors.

“C’mon,” he says, trying to pull you out of the car with your seatbelt still on.

“What’re you—?”

“Just—wouldya—so stubborn—“ he drunkenly leans over you and mashes his fingers against the button of your seatbelt until it releases. For that brief moment, he is a warm weight across your lap, bringing with him the scent of cologne and whisky. Then he pulls you out of the car—and into his arms. It’s a tight, full hug, chest-to-chest, not bone crushing per se, but all-encompassing.

You don’t realize how badly you need it from him until you’re getting it.

“You’re such a dick,” you groan against his shoulder, sniffling.

“Aye,” he says, swaying a little on his feet, like the two of you are dancing. “But I’m right. We cannot be friends. So you’ve got to let this go, alright? Just breathe out 'n let it go.”

“I don’t understand,” you mutter. “He wants us to be friends.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,'' Johnny says, one hand rubbing gently at your shoulder blades. “No more crying. It’s out of your hands. Aye?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his shirt.

But your tears slow and eventually stop. Cars pass occasionally. One of them honks at the sight of you both entwined on the side of the road, rolls down their window to let their passenger yell something suggestive, and it makes your face go hot. Johnny pulls away, nearly stumbling out into the road to give the car both middle fingers as it peels away. He slips on the damp asphalt and goes down hard on his side, taking the skin off his elbow and palm.

“Fuck, I’m hammered,” he laughs.

“Clearly,” you say, struggling to help him up and into the backseat.

Once in the driver’s seat again, you feel exhausted, emptied, like a washcloth wrung out and left to dry. The drive back to the apartment is silent, and when you’re in the parking lot, neither of you make a move to get out of the car.

You warn Johnny: “Simon’s asleep, so be quiet inside.”

Johnny warns you sleepily: “Ghost is right there.”

There’s a tap on the glass of your window. It nearly makes you shriek—but it is only Simon, half-smoked cigarette in his fingers, bundled up outside the car door. You roll down the window sheepishly.

“Need a little help?” he asks, taking a drag and turning his head so the smoke doesn’t touch you. His eyes are on Johnny in the backseat.

You hold up your fingers with just a smidge of space between them.

#ghoap x reader #skin deep

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duskidolsmut · 4 months ago

Text

The Pain of Feeling Pleasure

A request with Isa

W: 4447 T: masochist, virgin anal, bdsm, bondage, gangbang

Isa hesitated for a brief moment in front of the unmarked door, the fresh Tokyo air caressing her exposed skin through the cropped blouse she was wearing. The discreet number on the wall - 13-7 - was the only indication that she was in the right place. Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed in the code she had received by encrypted message hours before. With an almost inaudible click, the metal door opened, revealing a narrow, dark corridor, lit only by soft red lights embedded in the floor. The muffled sound of rhythmic beats echoed in the distance, mixed with indistinct whispers. She took a deep breath, her heart racing, and took the first step inside. The door closed behind her with a firm slam, sealing her into that unknown world.

The corridor seemed endless, the scent of incense and leather permeating the air. When she finally emerged at the reception desk, a slender woman with short black hair welcomed her with a warm, almost motherly smile that contrasted with the surroundings. Dressed in a fitted black kimono, she exuded serene authority. “Welcome,” she said in soft Japanese, bowing slightly. “I'm Hana, the hostess. Here, we look after each other.” Her voice was firm but reassuring, and Isa relaxed a little, feeling less exposed despite the situation.

Hana slid a sheet of paper across the black marble counter, a consent contract. “Let's review your boundaries,” she said, picking up a pen. Isa sat down on a velvet stool, crossing her legs as she thought. “No strangulation,” she began, her voice firm despite the slight trembling inside. “No gags - I like to be able to talk. And no heavy whipping... maybe just something light, but nothing excessive.” Hana nodded, writing down every detail precisely. “And a safe word?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Isa hesitated, then replied: “Isa.” Hana smiled. “Perfect. Sign here.”

With the paper signed, Hana stood up and took something from a drawer: a black leather collar, adorned with small silver studs that shone in the dim light. “This is for submissives,” she explained, stepping closer. Isa tilted her head back instinctively, feeling the cool leather wrap around her neck. The clasp clicked, and the weight of the collar made her shudder - it wasn't uncomfortable, but it excited and intimidated her at the same time. Hana adjusted the collar carefully, her fingers brushing against Isa's collarbone. “Are you ready to come in?”

Isa nodded, her heart now beating like a drum in her chest. Hana guided her to a heavy red velvet curtain, pulling it aside to reveal the main hall. The space was large, with dark walls and minimalist furniture - leather sofas, chains hanging from hooks, a St. Andrew's cross in one corner. The air was charged with tension, the sounds of muffled moans and the occasional crack of leather against skin echoing around. Men and women, some masked, moved like shadows, their eyes shining with curiosity as they noticed the new figure with the black collar.

A group of four men slowly approached, all tall and muscular, dressed in leather pants and open shirts. One of them, with a black mask covering half his face, tilted his head. “A newcomer?” he asked, his voice deep and full of interest. Isa lifted her chin, maintaining her confident posture despite the heat rising through her body. “Maybe,” she replied, a teasing smile on her lips. Another man, with messy blond hair, laughed quietly. “We like newcomers. Would you like a demonstration?” The men had their hungry gazes on her already undressing her. Isa felt a shiver run down her spine - not of fear, but of anticipation. “I want to see what you've got,” she said, her voice firm, but with a touch of curiosity that made them exchange smiles. The blond man held out his hand, pointing to a side room with hanging ropes and a padded table. “This way, then."

As she followed the group, the sound of her own footsteps echoed in her ears, mixed with her rapid breathing. She knew she was about to explore something deep, something that mixed power and surrender - and she was eager to find out how far she could go.

Isa followed the group into the side room, the sound of her boots echoing on the polished floor. The atmosphere there was even denser, the air charged with the smell of melted wax and fresh leather. The lighting came from red spots embedded in the ceiling, casting long shadows on the walls lined with hooks and chains. The blond man, who seemed to be leading the group, pointed to an opposite wall where a series of metal rings were attached, perfect for restraining someone. “Let's start slowly,” he said, his husky voice laden with promise. “Take off your clothes.”

The other men formed a semicircle around her, their eyes shining with anticipation. Isa felt a heat creep up her neck, but kept her chin up, channeling the confidence she displayed on stage. Slowly, she unbuttoned the crop top, letting it slide down her shoulders until it fell to the floor, revealing smooth skin and firm breasts covered only by a black lace bra. The cool air of the club brushed against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Her fingers hesitated for a second in the tight pants, but the men's hungry gazes encouraged her to continue. She slid them down her thick thighs, exposing her matching panties, until she was standing in front of them in just her lingerie.

“She's perfect,” muttered one of the men, a dark-haired man with a bushy beard, as he picked up a pair of leather handcuffs from a nearby table. Isa raised her arms without being asked, an instinctive gesture of surrender that surprised her. The blond laughed low, approaching with the handcuffs. “Eager, huh?” He hooked her wrists into the rings on the wall, stretching her arms above her head until her body was completely exposed and vulnerable. The brunette joined in, bringing thin chains with clips on the ends. Isa held her breath as he opened her bra, tossing it aside, and attached the clamps to her nipples. The initial pressure was a shock, a mixture of pain and pleasure that made her bite her lip. A thin chain connected the clamps, dangling between her breasts like a cruel jewel.

The blond stepped forward, holding the chain with two fingers. “Let's see how much you can take,” he said, pulling hard. The sharp pain shot through Isa's chest, drawing a low whimper from her throat. He didn't stop, stretching the clamps even further, her nipples stretching to the limit as she pulled against the cuffs, the cold metal biting into her wrists. A moan escaped, hoarse and involuntary, as her body trembled between resistance and surrender. Then, without warning, his hand went down to her panties, his fingers sliding under the fabric to find her clitoris, already slick with arousal. He began to finger her with firm movements, slow circles that made her breathing change, becoming short and irregular. Her mouth fell open, a sigh escaping as the pleasure mixed with the pain from her taut nipples.

For a few minutes, he played with her, alternating between pulling the chain - each tug eliciting a louder moan - and rubbing her clitoris with a precision that sent her over the edge. The other men watched, their eyes fixed on every tremor in her body, every sound she let out. When he finally stopped, letting the chain swing and his fingers pull away, Isa opened her eyes, her gaze clouded with desire. She met his, silently begging for more, her lips parted in mute supplication.

The blond had a predatory gleam in his eyes, he stooped to a leather bag on the floor and pulled out a thick, black dildo, holding it up for her to see. “Think you can handle that?” he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. Stepping closer, he pulled her panties aside and pushed the toy all the way inside her in one firm movement. The impact made her arch her back, a loud moan echoing through the room as the vibrator filled her insides, pulsing against her sensitive walls. The chain on her nipples swayed with the movement, intensifying the mixture of pain and pleasure that consumed her body. Isa pulled at the handcuffs again, the metal clinking, lost in a wave of sensations that tested every limit she thought she had.

The other men drew closer, attracted by the sound of her moans and the sight of her chained body writhing. What had been a demonstration was about to turn into something more, something that Isa, with her imploring gaze and ragged breathing, seemed unable - or unwilling - to stop.

The blond grabbed hold of the chain dangling between Isa's nipples and gave a few short, strong tugs, each one sending a wave of sharp pain through her chest. Her muffled moans echoed in the room, and he smiled, pleased with the reaction. “Don't let go,” he said, placing the chain between her teeth with a firm command. The cold metal brushed against her tongue, and Isa tightened her lips around it, determined to obey, although the uncertainty of what would happen if she failed made her shudder.

He took a step back, keeping his eyes fixed on her, and walked over to the leather table. He picked up a whip with long, dark straps, swinging it experimentally before handing it to the man with the intricate tattoo running up his arm. The tattooed man positioned himself behind Isa, and she tried to prepare herself, tensing her muscles while still chained to the wall. The first blow came without warning, the leather cutting through the air and hitting her ass with a dry pop. The pain exploded across her skin, hot and sharp, and she bit down hard on the chain, a hoarse groan escaping through her teeth. She didn't know what would happen if she let go, but fear - mixed with growing excitement - kept her steady.

The second blow came soon after, followed by a third, and then the tattooed man found a cruel rhythm, the repeated lashes marking her ass and running up her back. Each impact was a new wave of pain, the leather biting into his skin and leaving burning red lines. Isa closed her eyes, the moans becoming one continuous sound as she tried to absorb the intensity. The men around her watched her face intently, fascinated by the expressions of pain and pleasure that fought for control.

“Let me have that now,” said the man with the shaggy hair, stepping forward with a gleam in his eyes. He took the whip from the tattooed man's hands and positioned himself next to her, leaving her in suspense as he decided where to strike. After a deliberate pause, he swung the whip hard against Isa's right thigh. The impact made her jump, her body squirming against the cuffs, the sudden, searing pain almost making her let go of the chain. She struggled to keep it in her mouth, her teeth grinding against the metal as he continued, hitting the same spot again and again until her skin was hot and sensitive. Then he switched to her breasts, alternating between them, the leather snapping against the soft flesh and sending shocks of pain reverberating throughout her body.

Isa moaned softly, the sound muffled by the chain, when he suddenly stopped and met her eyes. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice low and authoritative. With an effort, she moved her feet as far apart as the handcuffs would allow, exposing even more of her trembling body. He didn't hesitate, swinging the whip hard against her inner thighs. The blow sent a shudder through her, a muffled cry escaping as the pain mixed with the heat already consuming her legs. He repeated the movement in the same place, each slap intensifying the burning, before moving on to the other thigh, spreading the torture. Her body was on fire, the skin burning where the leather had scored, and tears began to form in her eyes, blurring her vision.

Just when she thought she couldn't take it any longer, the disheveled hair looked over her shoulder, as if something in the doorway had caught his eye. He let the whip fall to the floor with a soft thud and approached, carefully taking the chain from her mouth. “I think you've done this before,” he said, a crooked smile on his face. But to test it out, he gave the nipple chain a hard tug, eliciting a loud cry from Isa. Stabbing pain pulsed through her tortured nipples, and she began to whimper, her whole body aching - but, at the same time, wetter than ever, arousal pouring down her thighs.

The other men approached, attracted by her exposed vulnerability. The tattooed man fell to his knees in front of her, his large hands caressing Isa's marked thighs with an almost obsessive reverence. “Those legs...” he murmured, his fingers tracing the red lines left by the whip, pressing into the sensitive skin until she shuddered. The blonde joined in, rubbing the opposite thigh with slow, possessive movements, clearly fascinated by their firmness and softness even after the blows. “Perfect to hold,” he said, squeezing hard enough to elicit another moan from her.

Her disheveled hair, still standing on end, met his eyes again, desire burning in his gaze. “I need to fuck her. Now,” he declared, his voice hoarse with urgency. He moved his hands down to Isa's thighs, joining the others in their obsession, stroking and squeezing as he undid his pants with his other hand. The men around exchanged glances, the tension in the air becoming unbearable. Isa, chained and branded, felt her body throb with a mixture of pain and desire, ready for whatever came next, unable to resist the wave that was consuming her.

The shaggy-haired guy took a step back, breathing heavily as he watched Isa, her body still shaking from the lashes and the tugging on her nipple chain. "Get her out of here," he ordered, his voice urgent. The blond and the tattooed man moved quickly, unhooking the handcuffs from the rings on the wall. For a moment, Isa's arms hung limp, but before she could adjust, the dark-haired man with the wispy beard grabbed the handcuffs and locked them again, this time behind her back, her wrists crossed and the leather biting into her already sensitive skin. The position forced her chest forward, her nipples still clamped by the clamps throbbing with each movement.

"On your knees," the blond said, pushing her down with a firm hand on her shoulder. Isa fell to her knees on the cold floor, the impact reverberating through her scarred thighs. The group of men—five now, with a masked newcomer who had silently joined—surrounded her, forming a tight circle around her. Her eyes, clouded with tears and desire, lifted to meet theirs, and she saw the raw hunger on each face. The one with the shaggy hair was the first to act, undoing his pants and freeing his already hard cock, positioning it inches from her mouth. “Open,” he commanded, his voice rough.

Isa obeyed, her lips parting as he thrust himself inside her hard, without foreplay. The sudden movement made her gag, her throat tightening in reflex, but the masochist inside her reveled in the sensation of invasion. He gripped the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, and began to fuck her mouth in a relentless rhythm, each deep thrust eliciting a muffled sound from her. The nipple chain swung with the movement, the sharp pain mixing with the heat that was growing between her legs.

The tattooed man didn't wait his turn. He positioned himself to the side, rubbing his cock against her face, leaving a wet trail on her cheek before forcing his way inside. "Suck them both," he grunted, and Isa, her mouth already full, turned her head as best she could, her lips stretched to the limit as she tried to please him. The blond chuckled softly, approaching from the other side, and soon there were three cocks in her face, fighting for space. She alternated between them, gagging and salivating, the wet, desperate sounds filling the air as her cuffed hands writhed uselessly behind her back.

The brunette grabbed the nipple chain and pulled hard, eliciting a muffled scream from her while her disheveled hair was still buried in her throat. "She likes it," he said, pulling again, her nipples stretched to the point where tears ran freely down her face. The masked man, silent until then, knelt beside her and began rubbing her thighs, his fingers squeezing the red marks from the whip with a feverish obsession. "So soft even after that," he murmured, before standing up and joining the others, pushing his cock against Isa's already overloaded lips.

It was hardcore chaos, the men using her mercilessly, each seeking to dominate her in a different way. The one with the disheveled hair held her head with both hands now, forcing her to swallow all the way down to the base, while the tattooed man and the blond rubbed themselves against her face, staining it with pre-cum. The dark-haired man continued to play with the chain, alternating strong pulls with cruel twists, and Isa moaned between gasps, her body shaking with pain and excitement. Her knees ached against the floor, but she gave in completely, masochism emerging in every choked moan, in every tear that fell.

"Look at me," the disheveled hair ordered, pulling out for a second. Isa looked up, her face red and wet, and he smiled before pushing back in, even deeper. "This is just the beginning," he promised, as the others laughed, ready to intensify what was already a brutal display of control and desire.

He pulled out of Isa's mouth with a satisfied grunt, leaving a trail of saliva running down her chin. Her lips were swollen, her breathing ragged, and the men around her exchanged glances, like predators deciding their next move. The blond knelt behind her, his large hands gripping Isa's marked thighs as he forced her body forward, her face almost touching the cold floor. "Let's really open her up now," he said, his voice thick with excitement as his fingers slid between her legs, brushing against the wetness dripping from her pussy before moving up to her untouched asshole.

Isa felt a shiver of anticipation and fear, her heart racing as the blond rubbed her tight entrance with his thumb, testing her. “You’ve never been fucked here, have you?” he asked, almost as a challenge. She shook her head slightly, her wrists straining against the cuffs, the chain over her nipples swinging and sending fresh spasms of pain through her chest. “Then it’s going to hurt,” he warned, but his tone was one of pleasure, not concern. He spat into his hand, spreading his saliva over his cock before lining it up against her, slowly pressing the tip against the tight ring.

The tattooed man, still in front of her, grabbed her hair and pulled her head up, forcing her to look at him as the blond began thrusting. “Suck it while he fucks you,” he ordered, pushing his cock back into her mouth. Isa moaned loudly, the sound muffled by the member filling her, as the blond forced his way inside, the initial stretch eliciting a scream that vibrated against the tattooed man. The pain was raw, burning like fire as he advanced, inch by inch, without mercy, until he was buried to the base in her virgin ass.

"Fuck, so tight," the blond grunted, starting to move, each deep thrust making Isa's body tremble. The disheveled hair knelt beside her, grabbing the chain of her nipples and pulling hard, stretching them to the limit as she writhed between pleasure and agony. "You like this, don't you?" he asked, twisting the clamps to intensify the pain. Isa couldn't answer, her mouth full and her muffled moans echoing as the tattooed man fucked her throat in sync with the blond behind.

The dark-haired man and the masked man were not left out. The dark-haired man slid beneath her, positioning himself to thrust his cock into her soaking cunt, penetrating her with a sudden movement that made her arch her back. "Two at once," he chuckled, gripping her thighs and squeezing the whip marks as he began to pump, the friction against the blonde's other hole creating an insane pressure inside her. The masked man, obsessed with her legs, stood to the side, rubbing his cock against Isa's right thigh, his hands caressing and squeezing the sensitive skin as he masturbated, moaning softly at the contact.

Isa was overwhelmed, her body caught in a whirlwind of sensations—the searing pain of her asshole being split open for the first time, the raw pleasure of being filled from the front, her tortured nipples throbbing with each pull of the chain, and the masochistic humiliation of being used so completely by all of them. Her moans turned into muffled screams, tears streaming down her face as the tattooed man gripped her head tighter, forcing her to swallow each thrust. "Choke on it," he growled, thrusting until she was almost out of breath, her masochism reveling in the lack of control.

The blond sped up behind her, his hands digging into her thighs as he fucked her ass with savage strokes, her anal virginity now completely lost in a relentless assault. "I'm going to cum inside," he warned, and seconds later, Isa felt the heat explode inside her, the first of many as the others continued, each seeking their own climax. The brunette beneath her grabbed her hips, pulling her against him as he came in her pussy, and the masked man, still grinding himself against her thighs, let hot jets stain her marked skin. The shaggy-haired man let go of the chain for a moment, only to slap her hard across the face, the impact making her moan even louder against the tattooed man's cock. "You were made for this," he said, before pulling the chain again, her nipples throbbing in protest. Isa, lost in a sea of pain and ecstasy, felt her body give in, the masochism taking her to a peak she had never imagined reaching.

The tattooed man pulled out of Isa's mouth with a guttural groan, cumming on her face, the hot liquid running down her cheeks and dripping onto the floor as she gasped, finally able to breathe. The blond, already satisfied behind, pulled out of her ass with a wet sound, leaving her empty for a brief second before the shaggy-haired man took his place. He grabbed the handcuffs behind her back, using them as leverage to push his cock into the newly opened hole, still slippery with the blond's cum. "You can take more," he growled, starting to fuck her with brutal thrusts that made her body bounce against the brunette below, still buried in her pussy.

Isa was beyond her limit, her brain clouded by a mixture of pain and pleasure that consumed her entirely. Her nipples throbbed beneath the clamps, her thighs burned from the masked man’s whipping and obsessive squeezing, and every hole she had was being used mercilessly. The masked man, now kneeling beside her, rubbed his cock against her left thigh while he pulled on the nipple chain with his other hand, stretching her until she screamed, her voice hoarse and broken. “Fuck, look at those legs,” he murmured, coming again on her scarred skin, his fingers digging into her flesh as if he wanted to possess her.

It was then that something snapped inside Isa—the line between resistance and surrender dissolved. Her eyes widened, wild and unfocused, and she began to speak, the words coming out in a desperate, dirty stream. “Fuck me harder, you sons of bitches!” she screamed, her voice shaky but full of urgency. "Fuck me, I want more! Fuck me until I can't take it anymore!" The sound of her curses echoed through the room, shocking the men for a moment before inflaming them even more.

The shaggy-haired one laughed, a cruel, satisfied sound, and obeyed, accelerating his thrusts into her ass until the impact of his hips against her marked ass was almost deafening. "You asked for it," he said, yanking the handcuffs back hard, arching her body as he thrust into her with animalistic ferocity. The dark-haired man below gripped her hips, timing his movements, each thrust into her pussy pushing her deeper against the cock behind. "Fuck, what a slut," he grunted, his hands squeezing her thighs so hard they would leave fresh bruises.

The tattooed man, recovered, moved forward, rubbing his semi-hard cock against her lips. "Suck it again, you whore," he ordered, and Isa opened her mouth eagerly, swallowing him with a muffled moan as she begged between gasps. "Harder, fuck me harder, please!" The blond, now at her side, grabbed the nipple chain and began twisting the clamps in opposite directions, the searing pain eliciting screams that vibrated against the tattooed man's cock. "That's it, scream for us," he said, pulling until she thought her nipples would be ripped off.

The final climax approached, the air thick with the sounds of flesh against flesh, hoarse moans and Isa's desperate curses. The disheveled hair was the first to give way, cumming inside her ass with a roar, the heat mixing with the previous blond's, dripping down her thighs as he pulled out. The brunette followed, thrusting one last time before exploding inside her pussy, her body shaking with the double impact. The tattooed man grabbed her hair and came down her throat, forcing her to swallow as she choked, tears and saliva staining her face.

The masked man, still fixated on her thighs, rubbed himself against her one last time, cumming over the red marks as the blond gave a final tug on the chain, eliciting a primal scream from Isa that echoed off the walls. Her body collapsed forward, her knees giving out, but the handcuffs kept her half-upright, her weight supported by the men surrounding her. She was broken, exhausted, her body pulsing with pain and pleasure, her mind floating in a post-orgasmic void as cum dripped from every hole and her marked thighs trembled under the men's final touches.

"Fuck... I want more," she muttered, barely audible, one last masochistic whisper before collapsing completely, the final climax leaving her in pieces but strangely fulfilled.

#Isa smut #kpop smut #RequestDusk

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wingedblessing · 4 months ago

Text

bandaged kisses. jason todd x gn!reader summary: you bandage jason up ever a rough night out on patrol. cw: established relationship, fluff, short fic, ooc!jason(?), no pronouns used, jason being an annoying fuck, these bitches haven't kissed for a LONG time, could be interept as exes getting back together(?) words: 1k words (1159) a/n: ok i DID NOT like my last two works whatsoever so im trying to find a actual writing style i like - i hope you guys don't mind (TT) but enjoy!

His lips curled into a smile with your hands gently tracing his scarred and tanned skin, the touch of your hands sending shockwaves to his mind but he remained still in your arms.

With his eyes looking upwards at your face - admiring every little detail, it was filled with fondness that not even Jason could see for himself.

Only for you.

The bandages that were tightly wrapped - that you wrapped around his arms - preventing any further bleeding and avoiding infections on the wound didn't seem so bad from how bad he messed up on patrol while you were here with him.

Laying with him, having his head on your lap.

Feeling your warmth below his head made his stomach twist with something he hadn't felt for a long time - genuine admiration.

Jason could feel that the leather sofa he was going to lie on was wrinkled, and the brass studs on its arms were losing their shine as if they had been used.

Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if the couch once resided in a study room and listened to the gossip of wealthy men a long time ago.

"Be more careful next time," your soft yet annoyed voice calls out to him to which he only chuckles.

He could practically memorize the way that instantly, your eyebrows were furrowed at you attempting to scold him in even moments like these from being in the same position countless times.

In just different scenarios.

"I'm serious."

Your eyes followed your eyebrows whilst looking down at him, his head resting on your lap with him shirtless and spread out on the worn-out sofa that you bought at a random Facebook marketplace.

Look, it was cheap and near your apartment. You surely aren't gonna spend that much on a couch in this economy.

"Yes, sergeant." Quickly as he said that, he made a small salute to you with his smirk growing wider.

Jason could practically hear that familiar annoyed sigh escaping through your lips, the same lips that he had kissed multiple times.

He could almost remember every single line on your lips by now.

Even as he may tried to appear sarcastic or not take your words seriously, you could see a small hint of something else that wasn't amusement in his eyes looking up at yours.

Warmth.

"I swear, you are gonna be the death of me." Despite your annoyed tone at his words, there was no real bite in your voice as you gently moved your hands away from his face and slowly, he could feel your lips peck his cheek.

The corner of his lips grew wider, with a small laugh escaping through his lips.

"Thought I was gonna be the death of you?"

"Shut up and just accept it." You grumbled under your breath upon hearing Jason's words as you ruffled the other man's hair before pecking his cheek again.

"Will do babe."

He struggled to get up from his position, mostly from the bandages but a little on his body begging to feel your body's warmth again.

As he finally did manage to sit up from your lap, he gently traced your lips - feeling from the smallest details on it as he glanced up at you.

Your eyes look at his, with a hint of warmth deep in your eyes as he speaks up.

"Can I?"

Jason's voice sent shivers down your spine from how husky and soft his voice was compared to any other time, it was like his voice just flipped a switch so suddenly. It almost made you ascend into the skies from how his voice sounded like angels calling out to you, beckoning you to come closer and join them.

Slowly, you regained your senses again as you nodded a little too excitedly. You blinked in surprise from how quickly you nodded at him simply asking to kiss you.

To which a slight smile grew on his lips, before leaning in a little bit closer towards your lips - your eyes directly looking at each other as he pauses for a moment.

Watching you squirm in impatience made your boyfriend let out a howl of laughter from the sight of you so eager to just kiss him in moments like these. "Aren't you that excited-"

Before he could fully muster up his words completely, he felt you lean your face closer towards his, with both of your noses touching each other now and the feeling of your breath up against his lips.

"Just shut up and kiss me." You managed to mumble out loud to him in between the kiss with your hands wrapping around his shoulders, he paused for a second - his eyes widened in surprise as he quickly recovered and leaned into the kiss more deeply.

He isn’t sure why his stomach churns in the feeling that he has long thought was gone solely from the contact of your lips connecting with his completely, maybe because it’s been in a while since the two of you kissed like this without being interrupted by someone or something - or because of his missions or late night patrols.

But he’s sure of one thing.

He’ll forever cherish this single kiss even after his death.

As the two of you finally pulled away from each other’s lips, a small string of saliva desperately clung to both of your lips before disappearing by itself - his gaze fixated on yours as he tried to form a sentence, something to say to you.

But it felt like his brain was going haywire from that kiss alone.

And definitely on how your eyes gleamed with love in them, the look of love that he never once thought would ever look his way again, or how warm your hands felt against his shoulder - as if you were made to compact with Jason’s icy cold body.

Or how the lights in your apartment made you more beautiful than ever if it was highlighting the best features of your face only to him.

“Jason?” Your voice calls out to him, your eyebrows lifting in confusion from the man in front of you seemingly frozen in place with his eyes wide and his mouth still hanging open - you then gently move your hand towards his chin, as you close his mouth shut.

Moments that felt like years to you but mere milliseconds to him, you called out again.

“Babe?”

On queue from hearing those words coming from your lips, he seems to finally regain his senses again - his cheeks flushing in embarrassment from how probably he looked so awkward just sitting up in front of you.

Looking like your kiss just revived something in him.

“Huh- yeah, what’s up?” He stammers, his eyes looking away from yours for a few seconds before looking back at you in front of him. Not noticing how the corners of your lips slowly formed a smile until you let out a hearty laugh at his reaction.

“Nothing… Just admiring.”

[©]:; don't copy, alter, or repost any of my works on all platforms, including tumblr too .

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graves4girls · 2 months ago

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+18 y.o.t.s // erik campbell

wc // 1.4k warnings // 18+, oral (m receiving), minor body mod desc. (split tongue) a/n : this feels a little short urgh (っ◞‸◟ c) i haven't finished a story in such a long time i think i've kinda forgotten how to write BUT i'm thinking of maybe doing a prequel of this on how the two of you first meet sooooo we'll see if that ever comes to fruition also if you saw this already this is a repost because my previous post flopped so bad ( let's hope this one does better )

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about every scenario possible that involved that forked tongue of yours since the day he met you.

And it seemed his luck came upon him tonight.

He reclines back on one arm of the sofa, fingers skillfully clicking away at the controller in his hands. You lay atop him, cheek pressed to his chest as you scroll through your timeline–growing increasingly bored.

“Holy fuck! How the fuck am I supposed to get passed this bullshit level?!” He jolts a bit as he hisses expletives at the screen, rocking you.

“Erik, please,” you huff, annoyance lacing your words as you scold him, “you're gonna wake up the whole house.”

A hand caresses the side of your head, petting your hair down–as if to soothe your frustration. “Sorry,” he mutters half-heartedly, quickly retracting his hand to hold the controller properly again. “This fuckface is getting on my nerves. He won't fucking die.”

You only hum, sighing as you drop your phone onto the edge of the cushion, propping yourself up to look at him.

“It's getting late. You should probably reel it in.”

You thrum your fingers against his chest as you watch him–his focused eyes snapping back and forth across the screen to follow his character as he nibbles at his bottom lip in concentration.

“After this match.” He can feel the way your eyes narrow in on him, and his gaze momentarily flicks down to meet yours. “Promise,” he adds.

You roll your eyes. You're starting to get antsy now.

Scooting forward, you duck your head to press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw–letting your hand slowly crawl up his abdomen to flatten over his chest, feeling the faint rise and fall with every breath as you stick another kiss to his throat.

“And what the hell do you think you're doing, hmm?”

“Nothing.”

“Is that right? Cause it sure seems like something.”

You trail your lips up to the underside of his jaw, dropping a hand to find the hem of his t-shirt–slipping beneath the fabric to brush your fingers across his bare stomach. “Yup.”

A soft sigh escapes him when you kiss his adam's apple. “You're gonna fuck me up, y’know that?”

You move to sit up–purposely blocking his view of the television–and straddle his lap as you hike his shirt up to expose his insanely large skull tattoo, fingers skimming along his inked skin. “What? Losing focus?”

He tries to peek around you to see the screen, but you push him back to keep him in place. “Babe, are you serious? I'm about to win–”

“Oh my God, shut up. I'm trying to give you a blowjob, and you're more concerned about a stupid video game.”

With that, your hands come up to cup either side of his face–kissing him a bit more aggressively than you were planning, but it seems he doesn't really mind–the plastic controller hitting the carpeted floor as his hands eagerly find your waist.

Carding your fingers through his hair, you manage to pry your lips from his to gaze down at him for a moment–pupils blown and eyes half-lidded, lips parted just a bit, a pretty flush of light red staining his pale cheeks–before his eyebrows suddenly pinch together, his expression hardening.

“Wait–you're not fucking with me, right? Cause you have no idea how fucking long I've been waiting for this.”

You grin down at him in amusement, dropping one hand to toy with the buckle of his studded belt. “Dead serious.”

Dipping down to kiss him again, the bisected tips of your tongue press against the seam of his lips–pulling a low groan from his throat when you pinch his bottom lip between your teeth.

Bringing a hand up, he cradles the back of your head–the other snaking up your thigh to grab at the fat of your hip–as your tongue envelopes his own. Your fingers–finally managing to unbuckle his belt–pop the button of his jeans, slowly tugging down the zipper and slipping your hand between the denim and cotton fabric of his briefs.

He grunts out a choked moan when you paw at his hardening cock–one much too loud for your current location.

“Keep it down. I do not want your family walking in on us with your dick in my mouth.”

There's a glint in his eyes as he stares up at you, a lazy smirk working its way onto his face. “You're asking too much of me, babe.”

You plant a line of kisses across his flushed skin–starting at the corner of his mouth and trailing down his neck until you reach the neckline of his shirt, rucking up the article to continue dragging your lips across his flesh as you inch yourself down his body. His quiet sighs and huffs fill your ears as your hands flatten over his lap, lips teasingly kissing down the line of hair that disappears below the waistband of his boxers before your eyes snap back up to his face, biting your bottom lip as you meet his heavy-lidded gaze.

“Fuck, you look so good down there.” He hums, reaching a hand down to tuck some hair away from your face and caressing your cheek–biting back a noise when you turn to press a kiss to the palm of his hand.

Your fingers hook over the hem of his boxers, gently tugging down the elastic and watching the way he shudders as his cock bobs up from its restraints–admiring the gleam of the curved barbell for a moment.

Gingerly, you wrap a couple fingers around the base–but before you can direct your attention to the leaking head, you decide to test his patience, just a bit.

You lean down to litter kisses across his lower abdomen, nipping at the faint line of muscle over his hip as your fingers sluggishly stroke up the length of his cock–pulling another strangled groan from his lips as you deliberately avoid the sensitive tip.

“C'mon, I think I've–fuck–waited long enough.” He nearly whines, his hand nudging your head lower.

“Don't get smart with me, Campbell,” you warn, but your words ultimately hold no heat when your hand increases its speed, pumping him for a couple moments as you peer up at him through your lashes.

He feels as if he's ascended when your pursed lips place a feather-light kiss to the flushed head, another to the underside, where the silver jewelry sinks in and out of the flesh–and fuck if the way you stared up at him with those big, sparkling eyes didn't make him want to bust right then and there.

With a few more wet kisses along the length of his shaft, you take pity on his desperate state–his eyes dark and lidded, lips parted as he sucks in heavy breath after heavy breath, chest heaving with each inhale as his hands attempt to find any grounding–settling on one arm tucked beneath his head, the other tangled in your hair.

His eyes fall shut and his neck cranes back to rest his head against the arm of the sofa when you drag the flat of your tongue up the underside of his cock, the forked tip curling around the head and catching on his piercing–kitten-licking at the slit as your delicate fingers work around the base.

“Look–mmph–at me.” He wrenches his eyes open to peer down at you, his hand cupping the side of your face as you tilt your head up–batting your lashes as your lips wrap around him, flicking your tongue over the steel barbell. “Yeah, just like that.”

The muscles in his abdomen flex when you sink down on him, releasing your grip on him to instead lightly palm against his balls, fingers languidly massaging them as your tongue glides up along the length of him–the cleaved muscle stroking either side as you slowly pull off him, tonguing at the slit.

Slick with saliva, his cock pulses as you mouth at the tip–jumping when you squeeze his balls–and you curl a hand around him once more to work him, sucking around the head of his cock.

“Shit, wait–I'm gonna-”

He cuts himself off with a strangled moan as he comes, spurts of warm cum crudely painting your face and his stomach, spilling down the side of your hand as you sigh dramatically.

“You could've warned me a little sooner, asshole.”

He's too busy trying to catch his breath to formulate a retort as you swipe a couple fingers across your cheek, licking them clean before you carefully crawl up his body.

“Worth the wait?” You tease with a cheeky smile, planting a soft kiss to his lips.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. I can't believe you were keeping insane head game like that from me for three months!”

#e.campbell #erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #final destination #final destination bloodlines #final destination franchise

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aventurineswife · 5 months ago

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Hii! It's the same Anon who asked the sibling like Reader with the Astral Express! Could I request another one, but with Reader welcoming Sunday with open arms? Thanks!

- 🌱

A Place to Belong

Summary: Sunday, a new member of the Astral Express, finds himself unsure about his place among the crew. You welcome him with open arms, offering kindness and reassurance as he begins his journey of healing and self-discovery. Through heartfelt conversations and genuine connection, Sunday starts to see the Express not just as a means of redemption but as a home and family.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Platonic, Found Family, Comfort and Healing, Emotional Introspection, Light Humor, Fluff with a Hint of Melancholy.

Warnings: Mentions of past mistakes and guilt, Subtle references to emotional trauma, Themes of redemption and self-acceptance.

The Astral Express hummed softly as it floated through the endless expanse of stars. You stood by the observation window, gazing at the universe outside, yet your thoughts lingered elsewhere. Himeko had announced earlier that a new member would be joining the crew today—someone named Sunday. From her tone, it was clear he carried a past as intricate as the galaxies you traversed.

You couldn’t help but feel a pang of excitement. Welcoming new members to the Express had always been your forte. Something about offering a safe space to someone starting anew warmed your heart, and you hoped today would be no different.

The sound of measured footsteps broke your reverie. You turned, and there he was.

Sunday stood with an ethereal grace that could only belong to a Halovian. His hair shimmered under the soft lights of the cabin, and his golden halo, marked with eye-like symbols, floated behind his head like a quiet sentinel. His eyes, sharp yet melancholic, scanned the room before landing on you. A faint flutter of his feathered wings—adorned with golden studs—betrayed his hesitance.

You smiled warmly and stepped forward. "You must be Sunday. Welcome aboard the Astral Express. I’m [Name]."

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze distant as though weighing the significance of your words. Then, with a small nod, he replied, “Thank you. It’s...a pleasure to be here.” His voice was gentle, airy, yet carried an undercurrent of weariness, like a lullaby sung by someone too tired to sleep.

You tilted your head, reading between the lines of his composed demeanor. “It’s okay to feel a bit out of place at first,” you offered. “Everyone here has their own story, their own baggage. You don’t have to shoulder everything alone anymore.”

His wings shifted slightly, a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps?—crossing his face. “You’re kind,” he said softly, his halo shimmering faintly as though reflecting his emotions.

“Kindness is free, you know,” you teased, though your tone was lighthearted. “Let me show you around. I think you’ll find the Express is more than just a train. It’s a home.”

He hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding. “Lead the way.”

As you guided Sunday through the train, pointing out everything from the archives to the observation car, you made sure to keep the conversation easy and casual. He listened intently, occasionally offering a quiet comment or question. Still, his responses were measured, as though he were testing the waters of trust.

When you finally reached the lounge, you plopped onto one of the plush sofas and gestured for him to do the same. “So,” you said, leaning forward, “what made you decide to join the Express?”

Sunday’s wings folded neatly behind him as he sat, his eyes lowering. “I’ve...been searching for something,” he began slowly, his voice tinged with an almost imperceptible sorrow. “Redemption, perhaps. A way to reconcile the choices I’ve made with the person I wish to become.”

You listened without interruption, sensing the weight of his words. When he paused, you spoke, your tone gentle but firm. “I think the fact that you’re here means you’ve already taken the first step. Nobody on this train is perfect. We’re all just trying to do our best, one day at a time.”

Sunday looked at you, his expression softening. “Do you believe that even the most flawed among us deserve a second chance?”

“I don’t just believe it—I live by it,” you replied earnestly. “And you’re no exception, Sunday. Whatever you’ve been through, whatever mistakes you’ve made, you’re here now. That counts for something.”

His halo flickered faintly, and for the first time since meeting him, a faint smile touched his lips. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he murmured.

“Hopefully someone you liked?” you joked, leaning back with a grin.

Sunday chuckled softly, the sound light yet laced with a bittersweet undertone. “Yes,” he said simply. “Someone I liked very much.”

The hours passed in easy conversation, your words weaving a tapestry of welcome and understanding. By the time the train dipped into a calm pocket of starlight, Sunday’s guarded demeanor had relaxed ever so slightly.

“Thank you, [Name],” he said as you walked him to his quarters. “For...making this easier than I expected. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”

You smiled, giving him a playful nudge. “That’s what siblings are for, right? You’re part of the family now, Sunday. And family looks out for each other.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the melancholia in them seemed to lift. “Family,” he repeated softly, as though testing the word. “I think I’d like that.”

As he stepped into his room and the door closed behind him, you felt a sense of fulfillment. Sunday might have been searching for redemption, but here on the Astral Express, he had found something just as important: a place to belong.

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bloodyknucklesforme · 7 months ago

Text

Pomegranate | Nikolai x F!Reader

Chapter 6

Nikolai shares you.

cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, this is the darkest chapter so far, drugging, bad reaction to drugs, abuse, rape, choking,

Masterpost

Nik watched while you dressed, kept you between his knees while he sat on the edge of the bed. His hands rubbing up and down your thighs. He held your foot in his lap and helped you pull on your stockings.

“I have something for you.” He rested his chin between your breasts and stared up at you. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. It was a diamond tennis necklace. Too many diamonds for you to count. He reached up and clasped it around your neck. It was heavy. You drew a finger across the stones. “It’s real. Don’t worry.”

“I…I’ve never had…thank you.” You’d never had fine jewelry like this. A pair of diamond studs when you were younger, long lost, but nothing like this. You couldn’t even fathom the price of it. It was beautiful but when he lifted it up to kiss your clavicle it began to feel more like a collar than a necklace.

“Go finish getting ready. Wear that red lipstick.” He said.

“Kolya?” you asked, shifting your weight between your feet.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to make me fuck John?” His name tasted bitter in your mouth. Anytime he touched you it made your stomach bile rise up your throat.

Nik took your wrist and pressed his lips against the veins there, a fake apology. “You are going to do whatever I want you to do. He won’t hurt you.”

“It’s not about being hurt.”

“You can drink beforehand.” Your wrist fell limply at your side.

He kept his hand on your inner thigh almost the entire drive. Your head was tilted towards the window. There were even more holiday light displays than last time but it didn’t fill you with the same wonder as last time.

There was a time in your life when you wanted to be desired. You could hardly imagine it now, wanting nothing more than to lay in some brackish snow pile, letting cars splash salt and slush on top of you. Anything to be something he didn’t want. You could fight more, scream and hit. He was also a head taller with hands the size of your head. He’d kill you or worse in an instant. So you play the part of some sad wife being dragged to some dinner, easier to cope with than the reality that you were a sex slave being taken to some stranger as a present. Wearing clothes you didn’t own, next to a man you didn’t know.

“You are my good girl.” He cupped your face. His smile scared you, teeth flashing like a dog’s snarl. “Let’s have a good night tonight, yes?”

It was a large club with music that made your head pound. You were escorted towards the upstairs private rooms. He let you rest your head on his shoulder on the elevator ride up. Your feet stuttered when the doors opened. You left your stomach and all your nerves back on the ground floor. Nik tugged on your wrist.

“I can’t. I can’t. Kolya, please. I… I don’t want to.” You were panting, eyes darting around as if there was a possibility of an escape.

“Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your face.” He wiped his thumbs under your eyes, pressing a little too hard. He coaxed you out of the elevator and then pushed you up against a wall, wrists pinned by your head. “Do not embarrass me.”

“I don’t like him. Please don’t make me, Kolya. Please.” You tilted your head back and blinked away the tears. “He scares me.”

He pressed himself against you, compressing your chest painfully and growled into your ear, “I should scare you more.”

It was the end of the discussion.

The private room was red. Two modern red sofas, a dark red coffee table between them with red walls and floor and a mirrored ceiling. You took off your coat and draped it over the sofa. Nik pulled you around the sofa and forcibly sat you down before stalking off behind you.

The two of you were alone for now. You watched him through the mirror. There was tension in his shoulders, tension you caused. You scratched at the skin around your nails. This room felt evil. It was the mouth of some bigger monster and after Nik and John were through with you they’d leave you here to be digested.

A hidden window opened on the side of the wall and Nik pulled two drinks from it. His usual whiskey on the rocks and something fruity for you.

“Not yet.” he said when you went to take a sip. He sat beside you and pulled out a little plastic bag with white powder inside. Your stomach dropped. “Stop shaking. You don’t have to take it but it will make you feel better. Help you relax.” He mouthed at the skin behind your ear. “Might even have fun.”

“What is it?”

“Ketamine. Have you tried it before?”

“No.” You had been lucky enough to avoid drugs this past year. Alcohol, not so much. You never judged the girls who partook. It was tempting. It was just one of the things you avoided to try to hold on to some sliver of your past self. Ketamine wasn’t that bad, was it? You knew the general effects, one of which being you might not remember what happens tonight.

“I’ll help you.” He finished his drink in one large gulp.

He used his credit card to make a line of powder for you on the side of his hand. He held his it up for you.

“Go slow otherwise it will end up in your throat. Breath normally.” He used his other hand to plug your one nostril. “There we go.”

It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Your nose scrunched as the powder stuck to something up there. It didn’t hit instantly like in the movies. It mostly just tickled.

“If you need more, just tell me.” He licked the residue off his hand and rubbed his tongue across his upper gums. “C’mere.”

He pulled you into his lap and let you settle your back against his chest. He spread your legs apart with his thighs and ran his hands up and down your arms.

“You might feel a little strange. Like you’re floating. Remember that I won’t let anything hurt you. No matter how you feel.” He was rubbing the inside of your thigh now.

“When will I feel it?”

“Ten minutes or so. Relax.” You already felt a little mushy but that was more from the adrenaline drop than the ketamine. His hand was under your dress now, a ringed finger rubbing against your covered sex. Your drink found its way into your hand and he peppered kisses to your cheek with every little sip. “Getting wet for me?”

He pushed your panties to the side and dipped a finger inside you. Hushing you while you squirmed. You leaned your head back, tucking into his neck. His skin was warm and it had an all too familiar scent. His mouth hovered near your hairline. He always spoke in Russian when he worked you up. Let you imagine his words meant whatever you wanted, whatever you needed.

Fantasy would get you through this. Let candy floss fill your head, pink and sweet, blocking out anything negative. As he stretched you open you felt your limbs get lighter. The arm around your waist was your anchor, keeping you on earth with him. You looked so far away up in that mirror. It didn’t feel like a mirror. You weren’t in your body anymore. You liked this feeling. Being an observer rather than a participant. Easier to watch than feel.

“Come back to me, Kotenok.” You clenched around his fingers, orgasm wrenched from your body while you arched against his grip. He kept you steady, pulling you back against his chest. You were warm and gooey, being held solid by his hands alone. “There we go.”

You were laid on your back across the couch while he got up. You closed your eyes and color flooded behind your lids, warm tones that reminded you of sunsets and candlelight. You raised your hands, trying to hold that light between your fingers. You heard Nik walking around and the door opening, two new voices entering your space.

A hand grabbed yours. Not Nik’s, still large but lacked his rings.

“Gorgeous as always. You always know where to get the prettiest ones.” Your head was lifted and then dropped into a lap, the hand holding yours resting on your chest between your breasts. John was staring down at you, beard grown out a little bit more but more groomed than last time. Nik was sitting across from you on the opposite couch, new drink in hand.

You wondered if John could feel your heart rate rise, like a rabbit fighting to escape. You were a rabbit, already trapped in the mouth of a wolf. Nik was a man that could never be satiated, you knew that now. He could rip you apart, lick you clean and suck the marrow from your bones and be hungry for more.

His and John’s words spun around your head without meaning. Your dress was hiked up and John had two fingers inside you. The bulge in Nik’s trousers was the only sign you were real and he was watching you.

John was on top of you, the blunt end of his cock rubbing through your folds. Nik’s thumb found its way in your mouth, smearing more powder against your upper gums. He rubbed circles on the apples of your cheeks.

“Open.” You went slack jawed, mouth opening for him to slide his cock in.

You lost track of it all. Who was inside you, how many times Nik gave you more ket, how many drinks they gave you. You weren’t in your body anymore. You weren’t in that room. You weren’t anywhere. Floating in some darkness with nothing to tether you. You thrashed and cried, pulling at skin you couldn’t find. You couldn’t feel your own breath. A dream you couldn’t escape from. Scream and scream. Arms flailing to find something solid. Oh god, oh god, oh god. It’d happened. You were being digested. He’d killed you.

Gentle pats to your cheek. Your name was being called from the darkness. Your body was being jostled about.

“Look at me. Open your eyes.” Bright light. “There we go. There she is. Look at me. Get her water. Had too much fun, did we?”

Nik had you in his arms. Sweat was beaded up on his forehead, strands of dark hair falling into his face. You could feel his heart pounding through his clothes. He was cradling you, keeping the hair out of your face as you returned to your body.

“Drink. It’s just water.” Your arms felt heavy.

“Gave us a little scare, love.” John chuckled, holding the glass up to your mouth. It was too cold, making the salt in your mouth more noticeable. “Drink it all.”

Nik kept a thumb against your inner wrist while he rocked you. John was putting his clothes back on.

“Want me to stay?”

“No, enjoy the rest of your night. You have a lot to celebrate, Captain.” Nik smiled at his friend. “I’m going to take her home. My doctor will meet us there.”

“She’s a pretty thing. Don’t break her quite yet.” He laughed before ruffling your hair. “Want to taste her again at least.”

Nik nodded and fixed your hair.

It was quiet after John left. You couldn’t even hear the music from the main club anymore. Nik had you drink another glass of water. “You’ll be okay, Kotenok.”

He wrapped you in your coat before carrying you back downstairs. Buckled you in the car and tucked the fur around you like a blanket.

“You did well. I might have overdone it.” He shrugged.

You blinked at him.

“I hate you.”

He didn’t respond.

There was an IV in your arm and a pounding in your head. You were on the couch in the living room, fur coat laid over your body. Nik was sitting by your feet, wearing an undershirt and his trousers from the night before. He looked tired.

“How do you feel?”

“Don’t try to make yourself feel better.” You pushed yourself up to lean against the arm of the couch.

“I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I was raped and drugged last night, Nikolai.”

“You wanted the drugs.”

“No argument against raping me?”

“You get paid.”

“No. No, I don’t. You pay Arno! I get nothing!” Your chest was heaving, lungs struggling to keep up with your anger. “Do you think I want to be here? Do you think I want this! I don’t want to fuck you! I don’t want to go to clubs or restaurant or wear these fucking clothes! I want my life back!”

You threw the coat at him, “I don’t want to assuage your guilt for refusing to admit you’re a fucking rapist!”

His hand shot out from his side and wrapped around your neck. The back of your head hit the arm of the couch. All your strength went to trying to force him off from on top of you. You grabbed his arm, scratching at him till he bled.

“You think I don’t know what I am? I am a rapist. I am a murderer. I am a thief. You don’t make the kind of money I have by trying to make it up to a whore,” he hissed. He jiggled his chain in your face. “You’re this, an accessory, a cock sleeve. I can get a new one if you think you’re too good for it. What? You want to speak?”

He loosened his grip, you gulped up the oxygen, the spots in your vision slowly blinking away.

“Fuck you! Kill me! Fucking kill me!” You shoved against his chest, the IV tearing out and leaving a trail of blood across the two of you, the couch and floor. “I hate you! Kill me! I know it’ll just turn you on!”

He grabbed your arm, squeezing hard to stem the bleeding.

“I hate you! I hate you!” You kept screaming, taking swipes at his face. “I did everything you wanted! Why? Why! Why!”

He grabbed your throat, pushing you down to the couch till you were pinned. He didn’t squeeze, just held you there while he ripped part of his shirt to tie around your bleeding arm. He was muttering to himself in Russian. When the makeshift gauze was tied off he let go and got off of you. Blood trickled down his cheek from where your nails had caught him.

“Don’t move!” He yelled at you, wiping the blood from his face. He closed his eyes, breathing hard. His jaw was tense. His eyes were dark when he looked at you. It was anger but also disappointment. He stormed out of the room.

You could go crawling after, begging, showing your belly in submission. Let him do whatever he wants to make it up to him for your outburst. You wanted to feel him be gentle again, let yourself dive into the fantasy that he’d keep you safe. It just wasn’t something you could afford anymore. Your body hurt, your head hurt, your heart hurt. You almost wished you died last night.

You picked your coat up off the floor and pulled it around your shoulders. If you tried to leave now, what was the worst he could do? Kill you? You trudged your way towards the white room. Nik was already waiting by the door.

You knew from the look on his face.

“Kolya, no.” You shook your head.

“I told you not to bite.” He opened the door.

Arno walked in.

“Where’s my girl?”

#nikolai x reader #nikolai x f!reader #nikolai cod #dark fic #my writing #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #pomegranate #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty x reader

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navybrat817 · 1 year ago

Note

Smartie: would you love me even if I were a gecko?

Stud: I would find a Witcher and make him turn me into a gecko and this would be us: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMMVoXtHD/

BAHAHA. Nonnie, I burst out laughing watching this and reading the comments.

Like Animals

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: You ask Bucky an "important" question and he gives you a thorough answer. Word Count: Over 1.2k Warnings: Humor, fluff, implied explicit sexual content, inner monologue, TikTok video, pet names, established relationship, feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). Apologies to geckos. A/N: Some Stud and Smartie for your Tuesday. Had to do it, @whisperlullaby and @targaryenvampireslayer! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

A smile pulled at your lips when you saw Bucky relaxed in his chair, engrossed in his newest book. Soot and Alpine cuddled up together nearby, both letting your man have some peace as he read. Naturally, it was the perfect time to interrupt him. Because you had a very important question for him.

One that would shape the future of your relationship.

He’ll understand why I bothered him.

“Hey, Stud?” You asked as you took a seat on the sofa, his steel eyes peering up from the pages to gaze at you. Your heart would always skip a beat from that look. “I have something very important to ask you.”

He put his bookmark in to give you his undivided attention. “What’s up? Is it about the wedding?”

“No,” you smiled. You were aware that some men didn’t care about wedding planning, but Bucky was. He wanted it to be the perfect day for you. “But the question is kind of related to love and our relationship.”

His brows furrowed when you didn’t elaborate. “Okay. What’s the question?”

You inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Would you still love me if I turned into an animal?”

Bucky blinked once. Twice. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile or laugh. “An animal? What kind of animal?”

You huffed when he didn’t immediately say “yes”. That should’ve been his answer. “I don’t know! A gecko! Yeah. A gecko.”

I have to keep a straight face.

Amusement sparkled in his eyes, but he still tried to remain as stoic as he could. “A gecko? Why a gecko?”

“Because geckos are cool!” You replied, close to bursting out laughing at the absurdity of the questioning and logic. But wasn’t part of the fun of having a partner being able to discuss stuff like this? “They can climb walls, can live a long time, they make great pets-”

“You wanna be my pet, Smartie?” Bucky asked, his voice dropping an octave.

Yes.

“You’re…” you sighed when he ran his tongue along his lips. He was a sexy bastard and you would soon call him your husband. “You’re distracting me. Answer the question, please.”

“So, that’s a yes,” he smirked, pushing his hair back and causing you to stare a bit again. “You’re asking me if you were a gecko, would I still love you?”

“Yes,” you said, rolling your eyes to try and play it off as something silly. Which it was. “Would you love me even if I were a gecko?”

Bucky set the book on the table before he moved from his chair to the couch. Your heart raced when he took your left hand and kissed over your engagement ring. “Smartie. Doll. Baby. Love of my life, of course, I would,” he said, your cheeks warm when he smiled at you. “In fact, I would find a Witcher and make him turn me into a gecko so we could be together properly.”

Right answer, Stud.

“You would?”

“I would,” he promised, pressing his forehead to yours. “I don’t want to exist in a world where we can’t be together.”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“I don’t either,” you whispered, your heart full. “And no matter what, human, gecko, anything, I’m your Smartie and you’re my Stud.”

You knew if tomorrow you woke up as some different version of you, he’d love you. If someone tried to separate you, he’d find a way to get you back. He was your soulmate. You had the whole world because of him.

“Damn right,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours before he pulled away. “Besides, if I ever found that Witcher, this would be us.”

…What?

“What would be us? I’m confused,” you said as he took out his phone and pulled up a video, cuddling close to you could both see the screen. “What is this?”

Bucky gently shushed you as he turned up the volume. “Just watch.”

You tilted your head as a rock came into view. “What are you showing me?” You questioned before your eyes went wide. Bucky’s arm over shoulders shook as he started chuckling. “Are those geckos fucking?!”

The decibel of your voice made the cats raise their heads, but they didn’t move since you weren’t in any sort of danger. “Yeah, they are,” your fiancé laughed. “Geckos in their semi-natural habitat.”

This wasn’t on my BINGO card for the year.

“Why do you have this?!” You asked, turning to look at him. “Wait, when did you start using TikTok?! Is this on your FYP? Is this a new kink you haven’t told me about? Because that’s a whole other conversation.”

He threw his head back and you couldn’t help but laugh with him. “You’re missing it.”

“Yeah, because gecko porn was the thing I was missing in my life. Everything makes sense now,” you teased, gesturing to the screen. “And, by the way, that’ll never be us.”

Bucky’s laughter came up short and, for a moment, sadness flickered in his eyes. “I thought you said we’d be together if we were geckos.”

“We would be,” you assured him, seeing happiness all over his face once again. “But look. He’s doing all the work and she looks bored as hell. That’s not me and that’s not our sex life.”

“So, I fuck you better?” He teased you.

Duh.

Whatever kind of sex you had before you met Bucky didn’t even count to you. He ruined you so thoroughly that you didn’t even remember the first guy you kissed. It was as if he erased all other guys from your mind.

Love was a powerful thing and Bucky had it in abundance.

“Yes, so much better. I mean, come on, she looks like she’s thinking, ‘Did I leave the stove on?’”

The brunette burst out laughing all over again.

I love that sound.

“Seriously! I would never just be still like that and you know it. There’s a difference between being a pillow princess and a dead fish,” You smiled, cuddling closer so you could feel his chest rumble beneath your hand. “And just for making me look at that, I want you to try and keep a straight face the next time we have sex.”

“What? That’s not fair,” he groaned, making you shriek when he suddenly laid you out on the sofa, his phone forgotten. “I can’t keep a straight face when I’m inside you. Your pussy feels too good for that.”

He always looks gorgeous when he slides into me.

“So does your cock. I don’t think I could look bored if I tried,” you agreed, raising an eyebrow when he moved on top of you. “But seriously, how is it that you just happened to have that video when I asked about us being geckos? You didn’t know I was going to ask you that.”

He grasped your chin to give you a thorough kiss, the kind that drove every sane thought from your mind. “I guess the two of us are just in sync,” he said.

“I guess we are,” you smiled. “But no more gecko porn today, okay?”

“Okay,” he smirked down at you. “But I will fuck you like an animal.”

True to his word, that was exactly what he did.

Oh, I adore them. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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