#and that's it. just nice. just alright. and now it's going to be even more noticeable given the band's latest departure

[rememberwren]

Skin Deep

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

-

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

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

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

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

“What guy I recommended?” she asks. 

“Kevin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Hello?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Five. Don’t be late.” 

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

-

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

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

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost. 

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

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize. 

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

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

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

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

“The water is for you,” he says. 

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

“This is your first tattoo.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer. 

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

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

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

“Here.” 

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

His thoughtfulness touches you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.” 

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

-

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

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

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

Masks are cute, you say. 

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

You’re terrible. 

You’re…thinking about it. 

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Very glad of it.” 

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

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

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

I’m a little nervous.

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

It’s not that. 

What is it? 

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

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

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

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

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

-

You bring the pasties anyway. 

-

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

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

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

“Hi,” you squeak. 

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

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

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

It’s exactly what you want, and more. 

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.” 

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

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

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

“Ready?” he asks at length. 

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

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

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

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

“I’m just teasing you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?” He asks. 

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

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

“Thank you,” you say softly. 

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

“I’m not backing out.” 

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

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

“Good?” He asks. 

“Good,” you squeak. 

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

“Let me know when you need to break.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats. 

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

His thumb gently strokes your sternum. 

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

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

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

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again. 

He hushes you, surprisingly tender. 

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

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

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

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

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

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again. 

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

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

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

“Eager to be done?” you wonder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

-

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

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

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

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

“Worse than getting it.” 

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

“Twenty minutes from now?” 

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

-

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

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

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

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

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

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Not that I’ve noticed.” 

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

“No,” you admit. 

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

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

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

“Forget what?” 

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

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

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

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

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

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?” 

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.” 

“Nosey.” 

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

“Maybe.”

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

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

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

“Maybe you should look closer.” 

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.” 

“You could—if you wanted to.” 

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing. 

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

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

“What else do you need?” he asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?” 

You nod, feeling like a bobble head. 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“I want your cock.”

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

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

“Oh my god,” you mutter. 

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

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

“Good,” you breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your cock—want it—please—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums behind you, a smug sound. 

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

“Ghost!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” 

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

-

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

“Regretting it already?” 

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

“Dinner?”

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

You shake your head. 

He scoffs a little. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

[gingersxng]

Playtime

Pairing: f!reader x Yunho

Genre: smut 18+

Summary: your long time college crush and best friend shows a new side of himself when you two get alone together in an empty gym hall.

Notes: sub!reader, dom!yunho, best friends, fwb, making out, touching, dry humping, marking (hickeys), big dick yunho, public sex kinda, shower sex, unprotected sex (don’t), deep throating, blowjob, fingering, lots of cum, creampie, plenty of orgasms, handjob, finger sucking, cum eating, pet names (pup & honey), slight spanking, breeding kink. may have forgot something!

Words: 1.9k

you dribbled the ball towards the hoop about to make the final score, your legs were starting to weaken. you stopped in your tracks and shot your last shot right through the net. a big smile crossed your exhausted face as you slowly dropped to the floor to regain strength. you and your three friends used to stay after school to play some basketball in the empty gym hall.

“nice shot y/n!! wanna play one more?” your friend Wooyoung asked. “don’t think i have the energy for one more game guys, maby tomorrow” you threw your head back breathing heavy. “aww you’re no fun” San pouted at you, a face he often made at you.

your whole body ached and all you could think of right now was water, lots of it. you heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind your sitting frame, it was Yunho, your college crush, he was also part of your friend group. he knew you liked him and you knew he liked you but no one had been brave enough to make a move. he looked down at you giving you a smile, his hair was sticking to his forehead and sweat was dripping down his neck, god he looked hot. you patted the floor for him to sit beside you, he got down and handed you a water bottle. both of you just looked at each other in silence for a while until it was broken by your noisy friends.

“we’re heading home, you guys coming?!” San called from the door. you were about to tell him yes but Yunho cut you off. “go ahead we’re staying a bit longer!”. you looked at him with big eyes, he turned his gaze back to you with a happy smile. “alright, don’t do anything stupid kids!” San teased before they disappeared through the door.

“why do you want us to stay?” you tilted your head looking at the tall boy. he was quiet before he leaned in to your ear. “you can’t get away with this” the whisper sent chills down your spine all the way to your core. “can’t get away with what?” you whispered back. “always when I come near you you always wanna leave, why?”. you could feel how your cheeks blushed “I- I don’t know how to act when I’m alone with you..” you said silently as you looked down. “just be yourself, I’m a simple guy y/n” he gave you a smile. the only thing you did was playing with your hands, ignoring his face. “do I make you nervous?” his voice dropped an octave and it not only caught the attention of your ears but your pussy as well. you pressed your thighs together as you finally was able to look him in the eyes, they weren’t the soft shade of brown anymore, they’d turned dark.

Yunho caught on the little action of yours and raised an eyebrow. “oh do I make you that nervous, pup” he teased and leaned in to your face and looked down your cleavage and then back up at you again. having Yunho so close to you made your heart almost rip out of your chest, if you could you would run away but it was like your body was paralysed, you were stuck to the floor. sheesh he was even more handsome up close. you finally snapped out of your trance when his big hand grabbed yours “you alright?” he let out a small giggle looking at you questionably. trying not to look too nervous you gave him a soft smile and nodded “yeah, I’m alright, I just..” you stuttered searching for the right words. “I know..” was all he replied and before you knew it he leaned in and placed his lips onto yours, it caught you by surprise but you instantly melted into his actions.

there you were just the two of you alone sitting on the floor with each others tongues down your throats. Yunhos hands roamed your body feeling every curve on your small frame, you placed your hands on his thighs to push yourself up to meet his soft lips. your hand brushed against his growing erection earning a low groan from him, Yunho smirked into the heated kiss.

he grabbed your waist and laid himself down onto his back, he placed you on top of him, his erection poked you right were you wanted him. continuing the heated make out session on the floor you slowly began to roll your hips onto his dick, the sounds that escaped his mouth was out of this world, the deep moans and groans made your pussy go wild. Yunho returned the favour and bucked up his hips making you gasp, two can play at this game.

you moved down placing kisses along his long neck, you lifted up his oversized t-shirt exposing his toned stomach and chest. as you began to place small kisses along his abdomen Yunhos breathing became heavier and his whole body tensed up at your touches and kisses. “god y/n..” you moved further down kissing his happy trail all the way to the waistband on his shorts, his dick was standing right up aching to be touched by you. Yunho looked down at you with his mouth agape, as much as he wanted you to continue he stopped you before you could pull down his shorts. he grabbed your wrist and you gave him a worrying look “did I do something wrong?” you whispered afraid you maybe went too far. Yunho let out a chuckle as he looked at you “no you did everything right but we can’t do this here, there’s cameras” he pulled you down on his chest giving you a kiss “how about a shower?” your pussy clenched onto nothing knowing exactly where this was going “I’d love to” you kissed him.

you had sneaked in to the men’s showers and here Yunho had you naked on your knees sucking him off. his hand was placed on the back of your head helping you to guide your movements, he tried to be gentle but it was hard being this fucking horny as he was, the girl of his dreams his best friend now on her knees sucking his dick like an angel. his head was in the clouds for sure, you looked so beautiful with your pretty lips wrapped around his thick cock.

“fuck, your mouth feels so good” he bit his bottom lip trying to hold himself back from cumming too early, you started to deepthroat him making your eyes water, your nose touching his pubic bone. Yunho gripped your hair tightly trying to pull you back cause he was this close to cum and he didn’t want the fun to end yet.

your big puppy eyes met his lustfilled ones, damn he thought you looked so pretty sitting on your knees all naked and wet for him. he helped you stand up and once again his lips were on yours, his tongue fucking your throat as he played with your wet tits. your hands found their way down to his hard cock, grabbing on to his enormous length you began to pump him. Yunho broke the kiss only to throw his head back in pleasure, his adams apple gliding up and down as he swallowed hard. “just like that, fuck mmh”.

Yunho sneaked down his hand between your legs and toyed with your clit, he slowly slid his two long fingers into your tight cunt making a “come here” motion earning small moans from you as you continued to stroke his cock in the same rhythm.

“aah Yunho..” you moaned when he sped up his pace, your legs felt numb. he attacked your neck and collarbones leaving purple marks on your skin. your lower abdomen flexed and you could feel the tension growing bigger. “are you gonna cum on my fingers honey?” his thumb circling your swollen clit in insane speed making you see stars. Yunho started to twitch in your hand and the knot in your stomach was about to burst. Yunho stilled his hips and came all over your hand and stomach, at the same time you came all over his fingers, both of you catched your breaths trying to come back from your highs.

Yunho pulled out his fingers from your pussy and placed them on your lips, a smirk formed on his lips as he waited for you to open your mouth. you grabbed his wrist and wrapped your lips around his digits licking them clean of your cum. “good girl” he placed a soft kiss on your puffy lips “now turn around will you?” you raised an eyebrow at him as you turned around, your tits pushed up against the cold shower wall giving you shills.

he caressed your lower back and down to your ass cheeks, he spread them apart to take a good look at your swollen pussy which was about to get split open by his monster cock. he dragged his dick along your wet folds collecting some of your arousal, before he pushed himself in he leaned down to your ear “you don’t understand how long I’ve been wanting to do this”. you replied with a moan, he pulled back watching how your pussy clenched around nothing. he couldn’t wait anymore, he had to fuck you right now.

Yunho grabbed your hips tightly and pushed himself inside you little by little so you’d be able to adjust to his thick girth. your mouth dropped open and a airy moan left your mouth as you could feel how your pussy got split open by Yunhos cock. “Yunho.. you’re too big” you said holding onto the wall for dear life. “fuck you’re so tight, relax honey” he moved one of his hands from your hip to your breast, as he massaged it he could feel how you loosened up better. after he had let you adjust to him he began to fasten his pace, his dickhead brushing against your cervix over and over again sending you to the moon.

you heard a slap and then a stinging feeling grew on your ass, you looked back at Yunho and were met by a fuck drunk man spanking your ass until his handprint was visible. Yunho increased the speed and the sound of skin slapping ringed in his ears, the way your tits flew back and forth was the icing on the cake. the tingling feeling in your stomach crept back up on you and suddenly it got harder to stand up, Yunho felt how you clenched around him, he only thrusted deeper into you testing you.

“gonna let me cum inside this little pussy of yours?” he growled, his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips. “yes please Yunho, breed me” you whined feeling how you were on the brink of cumming. Yunhos cock twitched at your words, he rolled his hips pushing his cock deeper before you could feel ropes of cum spurting inside you and it was a lot. he stayed inside until he had emptied all his cum in your cunt. drawing circles on your clit you finally came too, your thick cream slowly coated Yunhos dick. you were so tired and only waited for Yunho to pull out.

“things aren’t gonna be the same again after this right?” you broke the silence sounding a bit worried if you’d destroyed your friendship. “well of course it won’t be the same but I would be really into a friends with benefits kinda thing tho, if you’re up for it” Yunho panted as he pulled out, your gaping hole was leaking lots of cum. what he’d do to eat you out right there and then. “guess it would be alright” you shot him a tired smile.

as time went by you both realised it would lead to bigger things than just a fwb situation.

[weird-is-life]

hey lovie! what about a remus x reader where he sees her asleep in the back of the library one evening on his prefect rounds and he wakes her up. he is more concerned on how long she’s been studying/asleep since it’s so late…on their walk she just walks with him during his rounds because they are just chatty

they both fancy each other but neither of them think the other thinks the same. he walks her back to gryf tower snd he finally says what he’s wanted to say for years

(i hope that makes sense and if ya hate the idea, no problemo lol)

xoxo

Hii lovely🥰 ty for the request. I tried my best, hope this is okay. Warnings: fluff, use of y/n, like one swear word, (0.9k)

Remus has seen you many times before. Either in the common room, halls, dining room, and the most in the library.

Remus always sees you in the library. Sitting quietly more at the back of the room. Either reading some book or doing the assignments for the classes.

So it's no surprise to see you here even now. But it definitely catches him off guard seeing you here so so late. Remus was on the last one of his prefect rounds before heading to bed himself, and he wasn't expecting to see you in the library.

Remus, from a shorter distance, notices that you are asleep. Softly exhaling one breath after another. Something stirs in Remus's heart at the sight of you, but he ignores it.

Remus approaches you, and tries to wake you up as nicely as he can. He doesn't want to scare you. He gently shakes you by your shoulder, and whispers your name a few times.

You rouse from sleep, blinking,  completely baffled by Remus's handsome face.

Remus thinks you are even more cute when you are half asleep. It's not doing any favors to his feelings for you. But he wills those thoughts away, and says, "sorry, y/n. You fell asleep in the library, and it's getting pretty late."

The sleep haze quickly dissappears when you realise where you are. You are up on your feet in a matter of seconds, packing your things away.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I was reading, and-and I must have fallen asleep," you explain in a mild panic. You would be in a lot of trouble if it was anybody else other than Remus that had found you here. Students aren't allowed out of their dorms this late at night.

"It's alright," Remus reassures you with a warm smile," I've done that so many times. I can't even count how many times James or Sirius had to walk down here to retrieve me."

"Really?" you giggle quietly, still very much sleepy and a little stressed.

"Yeah, really," Remus chuckles, too. "Now c'mon, let's get you to your dorm. I'll walk you there. Well, that is if you don't mind."

You shake your head. Indicating that you don't mind at all. Your cheeks go pretty pink as Remus and you start to walk towards the dorms.

You've always thought that Remus was so handsome, and so so smart. You'd never done anything about your crush, of course. Too scared to say anything. But that doesn't mean you haven't been admiring him. You have just-........from afar.

"Why were you in the library so late?" Remus asks to fill in the awkward quiet between you. And also he's a bit worried about you staying there until so late.

"Just studying, I couldn't figure out one assignment," you sigh. You still haven't figured it out, even if you stayed in the library for so many hours.

"The one for the potions?"

"Yeah," you admit in defeat," I've read everything I possibly could, but still i didn't find the answer."

Remus gives you a hesitant smile. You two are just a few steps from the dorms. You were walking too long in the awkward silence, and now the flowing conversation is about to end.

"I can give you the answer. I'll give it to you right away if you give me a second to look for it in my room," Remus instantly offers.

He's spent good few hours trying to find the answer too, so he understands how frustrating it can get. So he's very willing to give you the answer just so you don't go to bed with that on your mind. And also because he likes you, like a lot, and he would give you literally anything if you'd asked for it. He's down that bad for you.

"Really? I would really appreciate it, Remus," you say, happy about his help. You can't even think of how you could possibly thank him for it.

"Just give me a second," he turns towards his dorm, but he suddenly freezes halfway to the door.

Remus abruptly gets a better idea or well it depends on how well it goes. He just can't help his feelings for you any longer, and he needs to know what you feel, too. Even if he may get rejected, and end up with a broken heart.

Remus slowly turns around to face you again, a shy smile on his face.

"Or-r," he starts," we could go to Hogsmeade during the weekend, and I could explain it to you there. With something nice to eat and drink." Remus blurts it out in one breath.

Your eyes go very wide. Is Remus Lupin asking you out on a date or are you still very much asleep in the library, dreaming of this moment?

"L-like a date?" you sheepishly ask, blushing, and looking everywhere but him after your question.

"Yes. Exactly like a date." Remus states, looking nervous and hopeful at the same time.

You look up at him with a smile, you can't really believe that this is happening, " I think, I'd love that."

"Really?" Remus questions happily.

"Yes, really," you nod your head, sending a reassuring smile his way.

"Great. I can't wait," he tells you with a visible excitement.

"Me too," you admit bashfully.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow. We can sort out the time then. Goodnight, y/n," Remus says, giving you one more soft smile of his.

"Yes, tomorrow then. Goodnight to you too, Remus," you wave him goodbye, and quickly dissappear into your dorm before you can collapse on the spot from the way your legs have turned to jello.

You think you can hear pretty loud cheers of the Marauders as you head to change into your pyjamas. A shy giggle escapes your mouth when you think about Remus telling his best mates about your date, and them being so happy about it.

[2facehusband]

oh, look, you're finally awake. i was wondering how long you'd be out, 'cause i can't say i measured the dosage real exactly. sorry about that.

hey, do you know where we are? c'mon, open those pretty eyes of yours and look. uh-huh, exactly. we're just at the edge of this very pretty forest, and it looks a little dark in there, doesn't it? there's probably bears in it.

no no no, hey, don't cry yet. i haven't even told you what we're doing here. see, i wanna play a game, alright? it's like hide and seek. i'm gonna untie you in just a second and let you go in there, and then i'll come looking for you! doesn't that sound fun? and because i'm feeling nice, i'll even give you a five minute head start.

(ah ah- don't be rude. what do you say when someone does something nice for you? there we go, that's a good little lamb.)

now, in the interest of being open and truthful with each other: i'm going to find you. i mean, honey, you don't even know where we are. i've been in and out of this forest my whole life. it's really a non-starter. so when i find you, i'm going to spread those pretty legs open and fuck your tight little hole until you're just screaming and crying and god, it's going to feel good. for me, mostly. but who knows? maybe you're a little more sick in the head than i thought you were. wouldn't that be interesting?

let's get you out of this rope now, hm? ready? alright, poppet. run.

[whateveriwant]

I know it's a little late but this Father's Day, I'm thinking about childhood best friend Simon who's secretly in love with you.

You've known Simon since forever – long before the emergence of “Ghost”, his enlistment in the military, or, hell, even before his voice dropped three octaves. To you, Simon Riley was your best friend, the one person in life you could always count on to be there for you. And to Simon, the feeling was mutual, but his feelings towards you also extended well beyond that sentiment, far surpassing what you ever realized.

From an early age, Simon knew you were the love of his life, but he could never bring himself to admit that to you. He was always too shy, too self-conscious, too scared to fuck up everything you two had if he told you the truth. So instead, he kept his love for you a secret, and just focused on being the best friend any girl could ask for.

For a while, it was nice simply being your friend, and Simon played the part with ease. But once you entered the dating scene, everything seemed to change. Now, not only did Simon have to hide his feelings for you, he was forced to sit back and watch as you gave your love to another. Though it tore him up inside to witness, Simon still chose to stick by you anyway. He was your friend first and foremost, and so your friend he'd continue to be.

Through every new relationship, every whirlwind romance, and every eventual heartbreak you endured, Simon was always right there beside you, lending himself over in whatever manner you needed. Even as one came along that you swore was different from the others, Simon was skeptical, but he supported you regardless. And now, nearly five years into your marriage, he supposes you were right after all.

So color Simon surprised when you wind up beside him on his couch one night, crying your eyes out, trying to drown your sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. You explain how, for almost a year, you and your husband have been trying for a baby, to no success. You've done everything; ovulation tracking, fertility tests, a revolving door of doctors to try finding out what the issue is. By all accounts, there doesn't appear to be any physical concerns preventing you from conceiving. As for your husband, well, he hasn't been as diligent in determining his role in this.

You're now at a point in your life where you feel like time is working against you. You want nothing more than to have a baby of your own, and if you and your husband aren't capable of doing that, you're not sure what there is that's left for you.

As you sob into the crook of Simon's neck, he finds his neurons begin firing at an alarming rate. Quicker than he'd like, an idea takes root in his mind, and though it's bad – fucking heinous is what it is – it burrows itself into his grey matter until it's all he can focus on. While he hates himself for thinking of it (hates himself more for the way his stomach flips at the thought), there's nothing that hurts him more right now than having you in his arms so utterly distraught.

So before he can convince himself of another idea, Simon raises your head from his shoulder and tenderly cups your face between his palms. When he leans in to kiss you, a moment he's dreamed about for years, he's not surprised as you startle against him. But he holds steady, melding his lips to yours, until he feels you gradually melt into it. As he hushes the voices in his head, he plucks up his last bit of courage, and finds no resistance as he slowly guides you onto your back.

It's alright, sweetheart. He's here for you. He's going to help you out.

He'll give you the baby you so desperately desire, because that's what best friends are for, right?

[thelampisaflashlight]

Lukewarm

[Something, something, Dew is like a computer without a fan. RainDrop. Some mild angst/brief mentions of sickness, but nothing too crazy.] Below the cut.

Dew heaves a sigh that seems to take all the energy from his body; He sags deeper into his chair, tired, but not overly so, though still too worn out to right himself as he slips deeper into the faux leather.

One too many long nights of tinkering with his equipment, working on his own projects not associated with the band or the church -while also doing everything asked of him for the band and the church- has left him beyond drained, to the point that he can't even bring himself to be mad about it, just...

Tired.

With a yawn, and slightly watery eyes, Dew settles further, into a pose that doesn't look terribly comfortable, but feels amazing on his aching joints, and lets his vision narrow down to what can be seen between his lashes.

It's not long before he begins to slip into unconsciousness, nearly passed out in his chair, head tilted awkwardly to the side in yet another painful looking position, but it feels nice... at least for now.

He knows he should probably get up, go to his room, to his bed to sleep, but thinking about all the notes and guitar parts and all the other bullshit he'd have to remove from it -with care so he doesn't lose any of the mess he's made- has him set firmly in place.

Short of being carried to bed, he's not moving.

At some point, one of his packmates comes along to prod him, to see if he's awake, or simply checking to see if he's feeling alright, but Dew can barely keep his eyes open, and his response to being touched is to lean away from them, not liking the warmth of their skin on his already hot body.

He overheats quite easily when he's tired, unable to pool enough of his magic to keep his temperature in check, and it leaves him feeling a tad feverish... which also makes it quite difficult to motivate himself into moving.

The next thing he feels -shocking him into opening his eyes wide- is the press of an icepack to his exposed neck.

He doesn't have the energy to full-on yell, and instead lets out something between a bark and a yelp, an undignified reaction overall, but an honest one.

He follows the the arm holding the offending object to his neck up and up until he makes hazy eye contact with a frowning Rain.

"C'mon, let's get you cooled down." he says, shifting the icepack to the center of Dew's chest, lifting his arm up with his free hand to make the other ghoul hold it for himself.

Dew obliges as best as he can, making a contented chirping sound as he feels the coolness spreading through his body.

Cooling down after a flare up like this always leaves Dew feeling a little off-kilter; In a lot of ways, it feels like the aftermath of being drunk, not quite into the hangover stage, but definitely headed that way, and even though he wants to remain stagnant, Rain is right to get him cooled down before it does get to that point.

Leaning against Rain's cold shoulder, Dew lets himself be guided back to his bedroom, and then further still into his bathroom, where Rain makes him sit on the floor while he cleans off his bed.

The tile is cold, and Dew finds himself splaying himself out upon it, pressing himself into it and once more contorting himself into a pose that is outwardly uncomfortable, but soothing to his aching body.

"...Gotta put it away in the..." he mumbles, trying to tell Rain how to tidy up his mess, but with his cheek pressed to the ground as it is, he isn't making terribly much sense.

"I'll put everything together, don't worry." Rain assures him, shaking his head as Dew eyes him from the floor, "Don't look at me like that."

"Can't look at you any other way..." he says, curling into a ball for a second before deciding the sudden warmth from his own body tucking into himself is too much and flopping over again.

"You have to stop overworking yourself." the other chastises, finally joining him in the bathroom once more, "You're going to cook yourself at this rate."

Dew closes his eyes.

"Mn, gotta stay busy, Rainy... Can't..."

"You can." Rain says, "You can take a break."

Dew frowns.

He'd argue some more, except he can feel Rain's fingers weaving through his hair, and the soothing circles he draws against his scalp have him drifting off again.

"I'm gonna turn the shower on." he informs him, slipping his hands under his armpits to hoist him up again, "I don't trust you in here alone, so I guess we're sharing today."

"Kinky..."

Rain rolls his eyes, or at least Dew feels like he does, his own are still closed, but the mood shift is palpable.

"You worry me..." he sighs, pressing a little kiss to the side of his forehead, "It's not kinky, it's practical. Can't have you slipping and falling and cracking your head on the faucet, now can we?"

Dew makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, letting out a soft hiss when the first droplets of water hit him.

"I know, baby, you'll get used to it." Rain placates, pecking his overwarm cheeks, "Just want you to stop being so hot, yeah?"

"'m not hot, 'm cold..." Dew pouts, but even he can feel the steam rolling off his body.

Rain holds him still, and as Dew comes back to himself enough to feel cold, he wraps himself around him to shelter him from the water just enough to start working on cleaning him up a little.

Dew grumbles through much of the process, unused to the water ghoul handling him quite so roughly, or perhaps it just feels rougher because he's so achy to begin with, but when he lets out a noise of genuine hurt, Rain is quick to cease his scrubbing and instead moves onto rinsing him off.

"Well, you don't feel nearly as warm, but you're still running a bit hotter than I'd like..." Rain announces after dressing Dew in just enough clothing to protect his modesty -not that he had much of that to begin with- and laying him down on the bed, "...I'll talk to Aether and have him come up here to make sure you're not coming down with something..."

"'m fine... Just sleepy..." Dew yawns, "Wanna sleep..."

"Okay, baby, you get some rest, but if you start to feel sick-"

"If you're worried..." Dew opens his eyes, peering up at him in an almost coy manner, "You should just stay with me."

Rain snorts.

"I would if I could, you know that, but I have to help Papa set up the practice stage, and I know for a fact you won't sleep if I'm here." he comments, brushing Dew's hair out of his face, "Rest up, yeah?"

"Yeah..."

"Dew?"

"Mn?"

"Love you."

"...Mn, love you, too..."

[basilpaste]

was talkin to some pals about it so... imagine loop nille post game friendship in your mind.

(755 words below.)

You are out of Dormont. For the first time you can remember with any clarity... you're free. Are you free? What does that even look like. There's still a weight in your chest, still a burning star where your heart should be. Still just a star where something resembling the hollow corpse of a human once was.

You go. You flee. It's what you're good at, isn't it? Hiding away from all of your problems, putting on a show, becoming someone else? Nothing you've ever done has given you any reason to believe that would change. Stardust's "it's thanks to you" was a nice sentiment, but...

You're on the road. You move quickly, now. It's not as though you need to eat. Or to sleep, really. You're more of an idea than a person, after all! So it's easy to move, to keep going, to not stop until your body gives out on you.

You head for the coast. You follow no maps, no roads, just moving on instinct. Just following the brightest star in the sky. You try not to think about why doing so seems so simple. If you do, you'll lose it. You head for the coast, as if tugged along by some invisible string. Or by anything else that doesn't bring to mind a pull on your stomach.

You head for the coast. And eventually you do not just head for it, you make it there. You stare into the sky on the shore of a town you did not pay attention to the name of. You can see an island in the distance.

That place is gone. You know that. Of course you do. You can't spend forever searching for a place that does not want to be found. You can't waste your life on remembering something that can't be remembered.

Yet, still... you look to the brightest star, how it hangs above a place the world forgot. And you mourn. You bend down, grabbing a handful of darkless sand in your lightless fist, and toss the powder-stone into the sky. It hangs like dust in the air for a moment that feels eternal, and then plumets into the sea.

That is the moment you meet her.

"Hey there, stranger. What brings you to town?"

You spin on your heel, water lapping at your ankles. For a moment, it's like you've seen a ghost. For a moment, it's like seeing a vision of the future.

A young woman stares down at you, an eyebrow raised. Her hair is split into twin braids, she slings an oversized hammer over one shoulder. When she smiles at you, you see a face much younger than her own.

You are possessed by the urge to run away. To vanish into the night, to dive into the inky water and to never, ever resurface. Instead you plant your feet into the sand and wave as casually as you can bear to manage.

"Who, me? Just... ah... Fishing."

She laughs. Her shoulders shake with it, eyes crinkling into something fond. She looks weary far beyond her years despite it.

"Well." She says, putting a hand on her hip, "I'm not sure how much luck you're gonna get with your hands, stranger. Not unless you're trying to find a tidepool."

... Ah. Yes. You suppose you didn't think your little excuse through. You know that. You know how to fish. You did, once. You're not stupid.

"Hah! How true." You say. You can hear it fall flat.

She sizes you up. Despite yourself, you feel suddenly very exposed. What a strange stranger you are, right? Not even human. Most rational people keep a healthy distance from you. Some assume that you're merely a Sadness. You suppose that's not too far from the truth.

"It's late." She tells you after a long moment. "Bambouche is plenty welcoming. Don't stand in the sand all night."

A moment of understanding seizes you. You look at this woman and see something familiar. Not like before, no, something far more personal. Like a tidepool distorting your reflection.

She is asking you to stay. You've already made it to the shore, what reason do you have to flee? You look at her. She looks right back. You swear that you can see your eyes reflected in her own.

"Alright."

She grins and gestures for you to follow. You don't even have to think about it. Despite everything... you are still being led.

"You got a name, Stranger?"

You don't.

"Loop." You say.

"Pétronille."

[targaryenluvs]

REAL LOVE BABY! / CLARK KENT

PAIRING: Red Kryptonite!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: To make your ex jealous, your best friend suggests the two of you work together. But it’s not like you knew, he was never planning on letting you go.

WARNINGS: Fake Dating Trope, Obsession, Jealousy, Dark themes, Cursing, Non-Consensual Kissing/Touching, Implied Sex, Baby Trapping, Red Kryptonite Clark

WORDCOUNT: 1,390 Words

A/N: Hello folks! This fic is apart of the lovely @lady-ashfades collab event! Here is the masterlist, go over and give it a look and read with a lot of great writers and tropes ❤️ You can imagine this with any Clark but I was leaning towards Smallville Clark!

Your teeth were bound to be ground into nothing if you kept going at this pace. The drink in your hand was warm, despite the ice inside. Your entire face was flushed as you watched your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, stand around and laugh.

His footsteps surprisingly weren’t heavy, “The longer you stare, the creepier it gets.” Clark laughed as you turned his way, eyebrows knitted together in anger. “Who cares, why the hell is he allowed to be so happy. If a girl moves on that fast it’s a shit show.” You downed your drink before turning to the barkeep, he didn’t even need to ask, nor did you.

Another glass slid your way.

Clark was quicker than you, he always was. “This isn’t how you get over someone Y/n/n.” You couldn’t help but whine as you stared at the small glass, it wasn’t small but Clark made it look tiny. “You want me to switch to ice cream Kent?” Clark scoffed, his teeth as white ever.

His hand came to hold yours once he’d placed the glass out of your reach, “Anything, as long as it won’t hurt you.” You couldn’t help but smile at him, “Always looking out for me aren’t you?”

Oh you have no idea.

“Always, you’re my best girl.”

“And you’re my best friend too.” You stood on your toes to kiss his cheek, not noticing how time seemed to stand still to him. His hand came to your waist to steady you, “What if we could make him jealous?” Clark kept hold of your arms, which you found odd. “Uh, how do you mean?” You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eye, so you glanced at his hands taking note of the tacky red ring. His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it before leaning in, “I mean this.”

Clarks lips connected with yours as your eyes widened, this was definitely not how you expected your night to go.

You pulled away after what felt like a lifetime to be met with a wide smile, “I— you,” Clark’s head was turned towards your ex Jake. “Well he’s definitely noticed you now.” Taking. a quick glance, you viewed an angry man not taking notice of the girl clinging on his arms.

Shaking your head to try and clear your mind did nothing. What the hell was going on? Pinching the bridge of your nose, you looked back to Clark, “You kissed me to make him jealous? You’re my best friend Clark and this isn’t a movie.”

“Oh come on, a macho guy like him never thinks before getting angry. And would you rather use some random friend or your best friend? You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you Y/n/n.” Tucking your hair behind your ear you nodded along, maybe this would pay off. Either it would help you get over him or get him back.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

Clarks eyes shifted, whether it was just the lighting or something more, you didn’t take notice.

“Baby I’m gonna treat you so good—,”

“Don’t quote Pretty Woman on me Kent!”

Bliss. The next few weeks with Clark by your side were pure bliss in your opinion. Almost every day you woke up to a nice message from him wishing you a good morning. Before, unluckily for you, your ex worked with both yourself and Clark. But now it was the best thing since it was undeniably easy to rub your glee in his face.

“Coffee M’lady?” He had a mug in his hand, outstretched in your direction as you took in the lovely smell of the love of your life, and Clark was there too. “I love you.” Your hands practically snatched the mug from his grip, “Oh I guess I like you too.”

Clark shook his head as you giggled sweetly before taking a sip of heaven to start your day, “You wound me.” You raised your eyebrows, “I keep you on your toes baby.” The word slipped so easily you didn’t even notice, but Clark did. So did Jake as he entered the break room.

You used to call him baby.

Taking your coffee, you mobilised and left the room, leaving your ex and best friend fake boyfriend with tension galore radiating from the room. “Kent.” Jake grunted in acknowledgement, “Jake.” The smirk on Clark’s face was infuriating, “Stop.”

He played dumb as he twisted the Ruby like ring, “Stop what?” Clark tilted his head as he questioned him, “Rubbing her in my face.” His laugh screamed superiority somehow, “Trust me, Y/n wouldn’t want to rub herself on you any-day or anyhow. She has me for that anyways.”

“Oh you fucking—,”

“Clark!” Your shout from down the hall caused both of the men to turn immediately, “Watch yourself Kent.” Clark snickered in his face, “Yeah, cause I’m so scared of you right? Chin up Jakey.”

Jake watched as Clark walked away, jaw close the to the floor at the audacity and arrogance around the sweetheart that was Clark Kent. How the hell was he your best friend?

For some reason you just keep going. Never announcing that you were dating but falling into this calm stage of friendship? A relationship? You were fake dating, or supposed to be, but it felt almost normal now. And whenever you’d bring forwards the topic of what you were Clark would always shut it down.

Especially when it came to the two of you returning to friends.

So after a consultation with Lois, you ended up taking him out for a night on the town. Drinks, fun and hopefully enough time for a talk.

You wiped your eyes as Clark laughed at your wheezing, “I can never imagine you acting so confident! Not in a bad way but— oh god, half the time when your food is too salty you just buck up and eat it. I don’t know why you confronting someone is so foreign!”

Clark shook his head as he crossed his arms, “That’s the old Clark. Don’t you like someone who takes control?” Suddenly the jacket you had on was far too warm and restricting as you choked on air, “Uhh, sure.” You absentmindedly answered before ordering another drink.

Not realising it was already your fourth, Clark hadn’t touched his drink.

“It’s so dark.” Clark nodded as you clung onto bicep, “Luckily I’m here no?” He glanced down at you with a sinister smile and he couldn’t help but admire the glee on your face. “Lucky you’re here.” You agreed.

He was in for a good night.

The sun was harsh in your eyes, attempting to roll over to escape you were met with a human blockade in the form of, Clark?

“Oh you’re fucking kidding me.”

Clarks eyes fluttered open at your exclamation, “What’s wrong Sweetheart?” You shot up, clutching the sheet to your chest as he laughed at your actions, “I’ve already you Y/n/n.” Clutching your head in your hands you tried to make sense of how you ended up in your best friend’s bed naked after a normal night out.

You shook your head vehemently, “That’s— that’s not the point Clark! How the hell did we end up at your place when we were walking to mine? And how… please tell me we didn’t.” Your eyes were beginning to gloss over as guilt pinched at his heart, “Hey, hey I’ve got you. I’m so sorry I don’t know either. We both drank a lot but I would never take advantage of you I swear. It was mutual but you trust me right?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, especially not with the soreness resting in your body, “I just, I’m confused Clark. I don’t know why I got into bed with you, or you got in with me. Don’t you think this would ruin our friendship?”

He sighed as he managed to slowly lull you into his arms with a gentle smile, “Sweetheart, I think we’ve been more than friends for a while. Tell me you’ve hated these past few weeks and I’ll stop. This is Real Love Baby. He never deserved you.” Having someone with you, constantly doting on you. Especially when it was so easy to talk to them since they were your best friend.

You gave in that night, and gave in again.

[wheels-of-despair]

Look At Him Now Pairing: (Background) Eddie Munson x You Summary: Evil Woman sits with Wayne and watches Eddie be a dork. Contains: Hangin' with Wayne, (squirt) gun violence, a lowkey Father's Day fic for Uncle Wayne. Words: 800ish

It's early afternoon when the Forest Hills Trailer Park sign comes into view. You put your turn signal on and feel the summer heat start to close in as soon as you slow down enough to turn, and the wind stops blowing through your windows. Maybe this is why Eddie drives through here so damn fast.

You see Wayne sitting on the picnic table as you get closer. You come to a stop behind the van and decide to say hi to Wayne before finding out where the hell Eddie is.

"Hey, darlin," he drawls when you get close, patting the top of the table next to him. "Have a seat. Enjoy the shade. Watch my nephew act like a six year old."

"Can't resist an offer like that," you laugh, sitting next to him and facing the long row of backyards and empty clotheslines.

Eddie Munson is having a water war with the neighborhood kids. He's wearing denim cutoffs, a soaked t-shirt, and having the time of his life. Six or seven kids, all armed with squirt guns, chase each other through the grass, screaming and squealing each time someone gets hit with a stream.

"I'd tell him to act his age, but…" Wayne takes a drag off his cigarette. "It's kinda nice, seeing him like this. He didn't really act like a kid when he was one."

You tilt your head slightly, hoping for more. You don't get to talk to Wayne alone much. Eddie's always there with you, and the two Munsons are always picking on each other. Which is amusing, but…

"When he first came to stay with me, he was a different kid. Quiet. Lonely. Scared of just about everything. He ever tell you about his old man?"

"A little bit," you answer. Eddie did not like to talk about him.

"My brother was… well. Some people just ain't meant to be parents."

Wayne takes another drag, and doesn't speak again. The silence is more unbearable than the humidity.

"But you did a really good job," you smile. "Look at him now."

Several of the younger kids corner Eddie by a brush pile, and he puts his hands up to surrender. They shoot anyway. He yells and gives chase, and they all squeal and scatter.

"I didn't do much."

"Yeah, you did," you argue. "Your nephew is my favorite person in the world. He's everything a good man should be. An absolute gentleman. And I have no doubt that you're the one who made him that way."

Eddie chases down one of his assailants and lets out a maniacal cackle as he empties his water gun on the kid squealing in protest. His laugh always brings a smile to your face, even when he's up to no good.

"You really love him, huh?"

You take your eyes off of Eddie and look at Wayne. His mouth is crooked in a rare half a smile, and his eyes look… proud?

"Damn right I do."

Wayne chuckles and nods his head, turning his attention back to the war going on in his back yard. The teams have called a truce and gathered around a bucket to refill their water guns. Eddie's explaining proper filling technique to the kids when he looks up and spots you. He grins, finishes filling his gun, and walks over to the picnic table.

"Hi," he says, leaning over for a kiss. His hair drips on your shorts. He stands back and narrows his eyes. "You guys talkin' about me?"

"World don't revolve around you, boy," Wayne grumbles.

"Mine does," you grin.

"My condolences," Wayne deadpans.

Eddie raises his squirt gun and aims it at Wayne.

"Don't," Wayne says simply.

You look from Eddie to Wayne, staring each other down, waiting for the twang of western music or for a tumbleweed to blow by.

"Alright, old man," Eddie glares playfully, lowering his weapon slightly. "You win this time."

"Mhm," Wayne hums, knowing his nephew wouldn't have dared. You love watching them play with each other.

Eddie jerks his gun in your direction, and before you can even threaten him, he pulls the trigger. You shriek in surprise, holding out your hands to try to redirect the stream from soaking your shirt.

When Eddie's finger gets tired of pumping the little plastic trigger, he stands there and grins triumphantly. You growl and slowly get off the table. Eddie's eyes widen, and he stumbles in his hurry to run back to the yard. You wring out a bit of water from your shirt, making a little puddle on the ground by your feet.

"Wayne, if you'll excuse me, I have to go murder your nephew now."

"You kids have fun," he laughs.

[tomssexdoll]

heyy girl love ur fics and congrats on the marriage!! could I get an Imagine of 2014 Tom having a younger gf like it can be smut or fluff I don’t mind

thank you!!!

ok babe i lowkey wanna spice things up with this request! if ur unhappy with it tho just request again or msg me <3

Forbidden love

"We can't, it's not right.."

"Who says it's wrong? We both want this and there's nothing stopping us"

PAIRINGS: Tom 2014 x Female reader

CONTENT: SMUT + FLUFF

SYPNOSIS: Y/N is an assistant for her boss Tom, he's been eyeing her for months and finally takes his chances and invites her to a "business dinner", but to her surprise it was only for them..

A/N: why is the fucking photo quality so bad

WARNINGS: dom!tom, reader!sub, p in v (missionary), eating out, fingering, a lot of teasing, nipple and breast playing, age gap (5 years)

I work at a law firm, one of the top rated in the country. All of my coworkers are very hard working, always trying to impress our boss. Last month I got promoted to my boss's assistant, he had been our new boss for about 6 months, the other one going MIA.

He was quite young to be a boss, he was 27 (pretend he actually was in 2014), but the age gap for me and him was quite large, 5 years. I was 22 and I had been working there since I was 19.

He told us that his dad was the CEO of the company and when the other boss mysteriously went missing he let him fill in, considering Tom had wanted the job for ages.

He wasn't as rude, arrogant or demanding as our other boss, he was chill. Giving us days off and not interrogating us on where we'll be, throwing everyone in the office a party when it was their birthday, giving us free donuts every monday.

It was like an angel was sent to us. I did notice the looks he gave me, the stares that would last more than 10 seconds, the way he looked me up and down when I entered his office, the way his hand would just so casually rest on my arm or thigh for a split second.

I feel like everyone could sense the tension, I just didn't want them to think I was abusing my position and getting more money. I really did love my job, it made me happy and being an assistant just made it more fun.

It was just another casual day, I walked into Tom's office that morning with his coffee and a little crossiant. He looked up from his paper work, taking in my appearance, his gaze lingering on my figure for a moment before meeting my eyes. "Good morning schatzi," he said smoothly, taking the burning coffee from my hands with a small smile. 'Schatzi' was his little nickname for me, I didn't know what it meant, I wasn't german, but it sounded cute.

"Oh, and what's this?" he chuckled, taking the pastry from my hands, "a crossiant? How nice of you," he smirked, "thankyou very much sweetheart, now I have some jobs for you to do," he slid over some paperwork, something he knew I dreaded.

"I know honey, just do these and you're done for the day, ok?" his voice was soft, reassuring even. I sighed and nodded, picking the pile up and going over to my desk in his office. I immediately started on it, skimming through the different cases, bills and reports.

Once I finished I grabbed my stapler, stapling together all the documents that fit each other. I stood up again and placed the piles on his desk, he smirked, leaning forward. "Thankyou schatzi, alright, I need you to accompany me to a business dinner tonight, at 8pm," he reached into his desk and pulled out a small box, sliding it across the desk towards me.

"And make sure you look presentable, this is a very expensive resturant," his tone firm and asserting. "I will, what's this for?" I hinted towards the box, "open it and find out," he raised an eyebrow at me, his smirk growing wider.

He watched with a mix of amusement and curiosity as I opened the box, my eyes widened as I saw a beautiful pair of diamond earrings, "sir...these are beautiful oh my god, these are too expensive I can't wear them," I looked up at him, worry filling my face.

He chuckled at my reaction, knowing he had taken the time to pick it out for me, imagining how good I would look in them. "Oh it's no big deal, they're for you, now wear them ok?" he took my hand in his, rubbing the skin with his thumb.

My cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, "o..okay.." I smiled, stuttering over my words because of the lingering tension. He smirked, "good," he stood up, signalling the end of the meeting as he starts to put his coat on, "I'll see you tonight then schatzi."

And with that he left, waving goodbye to all of my coworkers. I sighed and helped around the office for the duration of my shift, printing things off, getting coffee or lunch for people, etc.

As I got home that evening I checked the clock, it was 6pm and I needed to start getting ready. How was this dinner even going to go? What kind of business was he attending, it was weird cause I was usually the one booking these things for him.

I brushed it off and got into the shower, lathering my body up with my bodywash, scrubbing it into my skin and washing all of it off. Then I moved to my hair, letting the water coat it completely before applying the shampoo and massaging it into my scalp.

After I finished I stepped out, drying myself off and finding a beautiful, long black dress in my wardrobe, slipping it onto my body, the dress hugging my curves perfectly.

I picked up the small box he gave me, putting the earrings on and admiring them in the mirror, the way they glistened in the light. I quickly did my makeup, a simple look. Then putting some black heels on and grabbing my purse, heading out of my apartment.

As I got there I waited for him, the cool wind brushing against the exposed skin on my arms. He arrived not long after me, scanning the area until he spotted me standing alone in front of the entrance. He felt a stirring in his chest at the sight of me, his gaze roaming down to my dress, the way it complimented my body perfectly.

"You look stunning," he smirked, taking my hand and planting a soft kiss, "oh, well thankyou," I giggled, my cheeks flushing red. He wrapped his arm around my waist and lead me into the high end establishment, nodding his head at the host who quickly scurried off to secure a table.

The interior is sleek and elegant, dimly lit with a mix of black and gold decor that screams luxury. I scanned the room but didn't notice anyone who seemed to be there for business, all the people there were couples, "who are we meeting with sir? I don't think they're here yet," I looked up at him, he released a low chuckle, "were not meeting with anyone, it's just you and me tonight schatzi," he walks over to the ready table and pulls out my chair, signalling for me to sit down.

I was shocked to say the least, watching as he sat down across from me. "Oh..b..but, you said it was for business," I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering why he would lie.

He leaned forward, his gaze intense, "oh, I had to give you an excuse to dress up like that. I knew you'd refuse something like this so I had to improvise, I'm surprised you even believed it" he grinned, taking a sip of water.

I sighed, "you're sneaky, don't do that again," the waiter came over again, Tom ordered a bottle of red wine for the table. "So, why me? Why not any other person from our work or a tinder date?" I couldn't comprehend why he'd take me out of all people out, what was so special about me?

"Don't ask silly questions Y/N." he said, his eyes not meeting mine this time, his tone leaving no room for discussion. I slowly nodded, finding it weird that he was so hesitant to ask this question.

When the waiter came back I ordered some food, picking a simple chicken pasta dish they had on the menu, Tom ordered a rare steak and a shot of whiskey for him.

I poured myself a glass of wine, sipping at the red liquid, burning my throat as it went down. Tom put his hand on top of mine, causing me to look up at him, "I have a proposition for you. After dinner, I want you to come back to my place with me. We can chill, relax a bit," he smirked, a cheeky look in his eyes.

I giggled, "I mean, I don't see why not, sure," he smirks lightly at my response, pleased with how easily I agreed to go back to his place. His hand stayed on top of mine for a few more moments before moving away, taking a sip of his wine. "Awesome, it's a deal then."

Tom just kept watching me, every move I made, when I talked his eyes would drift off to my lips, even when I would eat he seemed more interested in watching me than eating himself, neglecting his steak. After a while he leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of wine, watching how I struggled to finish the food.

I sighed and softly pat my stomach, pushing it towards him, "I can't finish it, I'm so full," I groaned. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze softening slightly, he grabbed the plate and started to eat the rest of it, chatting with me about random things, letting the conversation flow naturally.

I didn't even realise how much chemistry me and him had, I looked at my watch and saw it had been an hour of us just talking, I pulled out my purse to pay but he stopped me, placing his hand on mine. "I've got it schatzi, don't even worry about it," he says with a wave of his hand, a small smirk on his lips as he went to the host stand and payed for our meals.

As he came back I gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, "thankyou sir," I could tell he was surprised, he blushed softly and just nodded, letting me leave first.

He followed me to his car, his gaze never leaving my figure. Even though he knew I'm a bit tipsy, he can't help but notice the way my body moves, the sway of my hips and the curves of my waist, his mind filling with dirty thoughts.

I opened the car door and slid into the passanger seat, watching as Tom came into the drivers seat and started the car, driving back to his luxury house. A heavy silence hung between us as he drove, his mind racing with thoughts of me, he tried to keep his eyes focused on the road but he kept sneaking glances at my exposed neck, imagining his lips on my skin.

As we arrived to his house I walked inside, admiring the interior, "this is beautiful sir, my god it's so bougie.." I giggled, taking a seat on his large sofa. He smiles, a hint of pride in his eyes, "thankyou," he says, closing the door behind him. "It's home." he walks towards me, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

The place was MASSIVE, filled with expensive artwork and designer furniture, this house cost me more than my life. "Would you like some more wine? I have tons of bottles for you to choose," he looked down at me, his gaze soft and nurturing. "Oh! Yeah, sure," I smiled, crossing my legs.

As he came back and handed me the glass of wine, his fingers brushed against mine. He watched as I took a sip, my lips wrapping around the rim of the glass, he found himself getting lost in the moment, his mind wandering places it shouldn't. He swallowed air, his adams apple bobbing up and down, "do you like it?" I nodded, a bright smile plastered on my face, "yeah, it's really nice," I placed the finished glass on the coffee table.

"Would you like more schatzi?" his voice is low and seductive, he can't help but be drawn to me, my precense commanding his attention. "Oh yeah, one more won't hurt," I chuckled, holding out my glass and watching as he filled it with the red liquid yet again. He scooted closer, close enough that I started to feel his warmth radiating off him. His gaze is intense, his eyes filled with unspoken desires.

I finished my glass yet again, my head a little hazy from all the wine I've drunk. I could tell he was a bit tipsy too, his eyes a little droopy. His mind kept racing with dirty thoughts and sinful fantisies, his body craving mine.

He reached out, placing his hand on my thigh, slowly trailing it upwards, leaning in and nuzzling my neck, placing a soft kiss on my collarbone. His lips were warm, his breath hot as he whispered in my ear, "you're so beautiful, let me take care of you baby.."

"But, sir.." I looked up at him, his eyes shifting to mine, "what's the matter schatz, are you scared? There's no need to be, I promise I don't bite.." he smirked, his tone seductive as he continues to caress my thigh.

"We can't, it's not right.." I bit my lip, my head telling me to shut this down but my body was yearning for more.

"Who says it's wrong? We both want this and there's nothing stopping us, you don't know how long I've wanted you, the first time I saw you I was drawn to you," he murmered in my ear, kissing my neck gently, "your voice, your smile, your face, your sexy body, your smell, the way you eat, the way you walk, everything about you intruiged me, I knew I had to make you mine somehow.."

"Tom.." I whined, "shhh, just let me make you feel good princess.." he trailed kisses down from my neck to my shoulders, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer.

Suddenly I grabbed his chin, forcing him to look down at me, I leaned in and captured his lips in a hungry, passionate kiss. His hands roamed around my body, exploring every inch of me.

Our lips moved together in a synchronised dance, my hand moving to his cheek, he couldn't get enough of me, his desire for me growing stronger with every passing second. "Take your dress off for me.." he whispered against my lips, I nodded and slowly got up, letting him drag the zipper down, my back exposed to him.

I slowly slid the dress off, revealing my black lacey bra and matching thong, "oh fuck.." his breath hitched, turning me around to get a good look at me. "Lay down on the couch baby," he grabbed my hand, helping me lay down.

He quickly removed his own clothes, revealing his muscular toned body, he climbs onto the couch, positioning his head in between my thighs. "Fuck, you have no idea how many times I've replayed this in my head," he presses his lips to the fabric of my thong before trailing his tongue undernearth it. He could feel the heat radiating from my pussy, he growled against me in anticipation.

"You gonna let me eat this pretty pussy baby?" he looked up at me, his eyes glazed over with lust. "Yes..oh god yes.." I whined, sliding my panties off and throwing them across the room. He grinned at my bold move and leaned in again, this time without any barrier between his lips and my heat.

He wastes no time in licking and sucking on my clit, his fingers teasing and entering me at the same time. "Fuckkk..you taste good," he groaned, feeling me squirm.

"Ohh fuck!" I gasped, the sensation addicting. "You like that, huh?" he growled against me, sucking and licking harder and faster, the tip of his tongue flicking at my clit in a desperate try to make me cum.

"Holy shit!" I whined, bucking my hips forward, "yess, just like that," he says, pulling my legs further from each other and plunging his fingers deeper inside me, curling his fingers at my g spot, making me cry out in pleasure.

His mouth never left my clit as he teased it skillfully, making sure every inch of me was trembling with pleasure. I reached down and gripped his hair, tugging on it every time I felt his tongue skid across my needy clit.

He wrapped his arms around my thighs, reeling me in closer, removing his fingers from my sopping cunt and replacing it with his tongue, dipping it as far as he could.

He moved back and forth from my hole to my clit, making me throw my head back, the pleasure getting too much for me to handle, my release dangerously close.

"Oh fuck! I'm close!" I choked out, grinding myself against his face, "good girl, cum on this fucking tongue.." he grunted, his tongue lapping at my clit eagerly, he ate me out like a starved man, like he was deprived from food for years.

With one last flick of his tongue, my body shuddered as my orgasm washed over me, his tongue darted to my hole and slurped up every bit of juice I left for him.

He pulled back, his chin and mouth glistened with my cum. My chest heaved up and down, recovering from my mind blowing orgasm. He stands back up and pulls me up with him, "I'm not done with you yet," he grunts, carrying me to his bed, laying me down gently and climbing on top of me.

I looked into his eyes, then down to his crotch, his cock straining against his boxers, desperate to be freed. His hands roamed up to my breasts, squeezing them possessively.

I leaned in and kissed him gently, my lips moving perfectly with his, "mmm.." he groaned, deepening the kiss and rubbing his erection against my thigh. His hips moved rhythmically, eager to claim every inch of me.

"I want you fully nude, let me take your bra off baby.." he murmered against my lips, "okay.." I muttered, arching my back to give him easy access. His arms wrapped around me, his fingers finding the clips of my bra and carefully taking it off, revealing my perky breasts to him.

"They're more beautiful then I imagined.." he groaned, taking them in his hands as he dove down and gently sucked on one of my nipples. "The way you taste..I could spend hours just worshipping your body," he smirks, making sure he leaves no sensitive spot unattended.

"Tom...fuck me, please.." I whined, my tone desperate, urgent for his cock. "Okay, okay baby, so impatient," he chuckled, moving his hands down to his boxers, sliding them off in one swift motion.

My eyes widened, his size undeniably big. "How is that gonna fit..." I whined, looking back up at him. "Oh honey, i'll make it fit, don't you worry," he chuckled, rubbing his tip against my slick folds.

"Hold onto me baby, it might hurt a little but I'll be gentle," he whispered, I wrapped my arms around his torso, he slowly etnered me, giving me inch by inch as he watched my face contort in pleasure.

"See? You're doing so well for me baby, such a good girl.." he smirks, starting to move inside me. "Fuckk..you're so tight.." he groaned, throwing his head back, gripping my hips tightly and picking up his pace.

"Gonna fuck you so good you won't be able to walk straight.." he grinned, thruting harder and faster, his balls slapping against my ass each time he slammed into me. I could hear him moaning in tandem with me, the sound of sex filling the room as he fucked me relentlessly.

His eyes blazed with possessive intensity as he looked down at me, watching me crumble under his touch. His thrusts becoming more brutal and unforgiving as he gets lost in the moment, "fuck fuck fuck!" I cried out, scratching at his back desperately.

His pace became more frantic, matching the urgency of my cries. The sound of skin slapping against skin grew louder, his cock drilling into my hole.

"Tom!" I yelped as he started to pump harder into me with wild abandonment, his muscles straining and buldging. His face was set in a mask of intense pleasure, his mouth slightly agape as he relentesly drives himself deeper into my quivering core.

"Take it all, take every inch of this fucking cock," he growled, "i'm gonna cum! Oh fuck!" I whimpered, burying my face into his neck. "Not yet, schatz," he grins wickedly, reaching out to tease and and pinch my sensitive nipples, slowing his thrusts to keep me on edge.

He wanted to savor every moment of my ecstacy, "I want us to cum together baby..you can do it baby just a little longer.." he chuckled, reaching down and rubbing my clit harshly.

"Mmmh! I can't handle it anymore!" I gasped, tears falling down my cheeks. "Yes you can," he groans, his voice deep and guttural as he takes control. My pussy started to clench around his cock, no longer able to hold back my orgasm.

"That's it baby, let your pussy wrap itself around my cock like that, 'm so close.." he moaned loudly, continuing to rub harsh circles on my puffy clit. "Cmon, cum for me baby!" he practically yelled, slamming himself into me over and over until I was sent over the edge.

I dug my nails deep into his back as I came all over his cock, my juices dripping down his shaft. His eyes rolled back in pleasure as he reached the climax of his desire, spilling himself deep inside of me, our juices mixing together.

He collapsed on top of me, our chests heaving up and down in unison, letting out a satified sigh as he wraps his arms around my trembling frame. "Ohh baby, you did so well, such a good girl for me," he panted, flipping us over and pulling me onto his chest, letting me recover from everything that just played out.

He placed a gentle kiss on my head before slowly pulling out, letting our juices spill out of me, "are you okay my love?" he pulled me closer, tightening his hold on me. I nodded lazily, all my energy sucked out of me, "mhm.." he smirked and peppered kisses on my forehead, "good," he whispered, running his hand through my hair gently.

"What are we gonna do now? Will we just forget about this and move on or start something.." I looked up at him, "Us...I've been thinking about it, a lot," he paused for a moment, "I can't just forget about this, about you. I want to start something with you, but I want to do it right, I can't fuck this up."

"I know..but how do we do it? How do we break the news to everyone, I feel like they'll have expected this and look down on me.." he slowly sat up, pulling me properly into his lap. "It won't be easy. There will be people who don't understand, who will try and tear us apart," he sighed, looking at me sternly.

I nodded, "but, don't listen to them baby. They don't know the truth, the don't know what we have, infact they're probably jealous," he winked, I giggled and kissed him softly.

"I guess so yeah, I just don't want to be a secret.." I mumbled, his face turned serious, "you will never be a secret, my love. I will shout it from the rooftops if I have to.." his hands move up to my face, cupping it gently.

I smiled and nodded, "I will always take care of you, always" he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine, sincerity in his voice. We both knew we didn't want this to be just a one night stand or for us to be friends with benefits, we didn't believe in any of that, what we had was special, a connection I've never had before.

"You're something special, y'know? This connection we have is rare, I've never been this drawn to someone, ever," he pulls back slightly, looking into my eyes, letting me know he's not fibbing.

"I want to explore it more, to see where it takes us," he caressed my cheek, "me too Tom.." I whispered, kissing him gently again.

tags: @itsmealaiah @itsangelll @ballhair

tags: @kaulitzsbabyy @kaulitzswhxre @cosmicck

tags: @miyukafujii @ella1289 @20doozers

tags: @tomsonlyslut @bkaulitzlover @ge-billsgf

[halosdiary]

Kiss, Kiss 💋 | Choso Kamo x Reader | 呪術廻戦

Word count: I dunno, I lost track.

Contains: Choso being a tsundere, you basically teasing Choso.

Shoutout to @littlemochabunni for beta reading.

“This is checkmate.”

"Is it really?"

"Are you having trouble accepting that you lost?"

"I never lose." You smirk at him.

Choso scoffs and rolls his eyes in disbelief.

"You're just making yourself sound like an idiot. Everybody loses in life, so just admit defeat."

"Nah, I'm good."  You snorted at him, then laughed a bit to yourself.

Choso lets out an annoyed groan and sighs in frustration.

"Ugh, you're hopeless. It's like talking to a child. But fine, don't admit that you lost. It won't change the fact that I won."

"Just one kiss before I die." You suddenly blurt out.

Choso's eyebrows furrow in confusion and he looks at you with a questioning expression.

"What? W-where the hell did that come from?"

"Just one kiss before I die." You stated again to him, smirking at how he's reacting.

Choso's eyebrows furrow in confusion and he looks at you with a questioning expression.

"What? W-where the hell did that come from?"

You get up and slowly towards him and lean in closer to him, your lips close to his.

The blush on Choso's cheeks grows darker as you lean in towards him, your lips close to his own. He can feel your breath against his skin and his heart begins to beat faster in his chest, his mind trying to compute the situation that was taking place.

"W-what are you doing...?"

The blush on Choso's cheeks grows darker as you lean in towards him, your lips close to his own. He can feel your breath against his skin and his heart begins to beat faster in his chest, his mind trying to compute the situation that was taking place.*

"W-what are you doing...?"

"Just relax. And pucker up." You lean in closer to his lips as both lips touch each other.

Choso's heart nearly hammers out of his chest as the unexpected kiss occurs, their lips connecting briefly in an intimate moment. A mixture of shock, surprise, and a strange tingle ran through his body at the sensation of your lips on his own.

After a few moments, Choso pulls back with a bewildered expression, his cheeks now flushed an even deeper shade of red. He's clearly flustered, completely flustered at the sudden kiss from you.

"W-what was that for?"

"No reason, but it looks like I won~" You laughed as I look at him blushing and such.

Choso's eyes widen as he hears your words, realizing that you did all that simply for the sake of victory. He lets out an annoyed growl as his cheeks stay flushed a deep shade of red from embarrassment.

"I...I can't believe you did that just so you could say you won."

He grumbles, avoiding eye contact with you and looking away in an attempt to hide his flustered expression.

You laugh softly, and slowly held his hand. And wipe a tear away from your eye

"Come on, Choso."  You said to him, "you gotta admit that kiss was pretty nice.

You continued to wiggle my eyebrows at him to get a reaction out of him.

Choso's blush deepens, if possible, as you take his hand and wipe away a tear. He looks at you and grumbles and grits his teeth as you mention the kiss.

"S-stop it, dammit! It was just a dumb kiss."

He retorts, trying to compose himself but the redness on his cheeks betrayed him. As you continue to wiggle your eyebrows at him, he tries to keep his expression neutral but his heart is racing so fast it's hard to keep up the act.

"Alright, alright. I'll stop." You giggled a bit and gently let's go of his hand.

Choso lets out a sigh of relief as you agree to stop teasing him, grateful that you gave him a break from your playful antics. He watches as you gently let go of his hand, a small pang of disappointment stirring inside him even though he'd never admit it out loud.

He averts his gaze once more, still feeling the lingering sensation of your lips on his own. Choso crosses his arms in a huff, trying to maintain his usual aloof demeanor but failing to keep the blush from his cheeks.

TAGLIST: @ryomens-vixen @littlemochabunni @lowkeyremi @bleach-your-panties @blkkizzat @buttercupblu

[bapple117]

File Not Found a radiostatic one-shot - AO3 link

Vox x Alastor (Unrelated to my main radiostatic series)

Minor angst, fluff, romance

During a system update, something goes awry for Vox and the update messes up, reverting his memories back to ones he'd saved from 1976... back from when he and Alastor had still been friends and partners in crime.

Confused and scared in a Hell he doesn't recognise, Vox searches out for the one familiar presence he knows will always be there - his old friend, his mentor, the Radio Demon.

6k words

(thank you @impale-me-radio-daddy for the guidance and inspo on how to format this nicely, ily)

The afternoon that Vox finally decides to relent to the ceaseless, nagging notification buzzing in his head daily - system update ready - happens to be a pretty dreary one. Rain falls lightly from the inexplicable skies of Hell; frail little drops that pitter-patter against the sleek windows of the Vee’s building, smearing like tears on the glossed glass.

Vox has been putting off the update for about a week, groaning every time the reminder pops up; remind me again tomorrow, he opts for, waving off the alert with an impatient hand gesture. Vox has better things to be doing. Spending an hour sitting static, plugged into the mainframe, waiting for files to finish installing - it feels as tedious as it sounds. 

But then, Vox stumbles upon this day; this sleepy, rainy Sunday afternoon, with nothing much on his schedule and no-one around to play with. Valentino is off filming; Velvette is at some conference, of all things. Vox finds himself milling about in the lounge, reclining on the sofa, dangling his leg in a fidget as he scrolls through his phone.

The alert strikes again. 

System update ready! Initiate now?

“Ugh, fine,” Vox sighs out, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get this out of the way, then, shall we?”

Staggering sluggishly into his control room, Vox flicks a few switches to boot systems up and then scrambles around, looking for the right cables. He mutters to himself; hushed, irritated mumbles of nothings and curses as he sorts through the mess on his desk. 

The alert bleeps at him noisily, again. 

“Yeah! Yeah,” Vox says, his annoyance and exasperation tinging his voice with a sharp edge. “I’m fuckin’ going as fast as I fucking can, just fuckin’…”

Vox’s narrow fingers land, finally, on the correct set of cables; he snorts to himself in victory. There we fuckin’ go. Settling into this chair, the Television Demon snaps the cable attachments into the back of his head, feeling an immediate surge of tingling power and connectivity in his nerves. 

“Alright, initiate mainframe interaction,” Vox says aloud, to no one but himself and his interface. “Update install, authorisation granted.”

An option pops up on Vox’s screen, and he can see it in his mind, too; allow system override?

“Uhhh, fuck, I forgot what that does,” Vox says, weary. “Let me get more info on that.”

System override will enter you into stasis. The system will commence the update and will automatically authorise any necessary backup installations should any errors occ-

Vox waves away the information screen, scoffing. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” He says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, blah blah blah. I haven’t needed to restore from fuckin’ backup in ages, who gives a shit. I could do with a nap anyway, so. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

Vox authorises control of the update over to the system AI, and the initiating process slips him into a deep but comfortable sleep-state. 

Initialising… 

Preparing to install…

Update installing…

….

….

….

….

Update unable to complete. Retry?

/ AUTHORISE RETRY: YES (SYSTEM proc)

….

….

….

….

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

error

—

—

Restoring from backup 

….

r e s t o r i n g …

Vox wakes, unsure as to why he was even asleep in the first place; his eyes open and reveal to him an unfamiliar space. What the fuck? He looks around, startled, confronted with a legion of strange screens and devices that he doesn’t recognise. 

Standing, stumbling, Vox lists forward and something prevents him from moving; cables, latching on to him like the gripping tentacles of some great beast. Grunting in confusion, Vox yanks at these, pulling them out of his head; his head… It’s… flat. 

Vox feels at his own face, fingers frantic and seeking a familiarity that he does not find. His own head is alien to him, thinner and flatter than he’s ever had it before. The TV Demon steps forward and peers into the reflective surface of one of the blacked-out screens before him, catching a foggy view of himself; a face he only half-recognises peers back at him, its expression alarmed. 

What the fuck is going on?!

Vox trudges through his memory in an attempt to figure out what he last recalls; after all, perhaps he got drunk and ended up… here, wherever this is, and he simply doesn’t remember… Yes. That’s the likely option, although he supposes that doesn’t account for the new face, so… 

Okay, okay. Stay calm. 

Something in the mass of strange technology in front of him bleeps some kind of alert, and Vox jumps; with wide eyes and a heaving chest, Vox looks around for the source. A notification, blinking on the smallest screen on the console table. New message. Vox lifts this device, peering at it; from what he can tell it seems to be some sort of small, handheld television. Disregarding this, Vox places the strange gadget back down, gingerly. 

This isn’t his home, after all; wherever he’s managed to get himself, he needs to get out, as fast as possible, before the owner shows up. Another screen amongst the larger ones has a wall of text; curious, Vox gives this a quick glance. 

Update was unable to install: reason, unknown

System was unable to restore from backup: reason, backup not created

System created custom backup made from uploaded / offloaded memories

Date of most recently uploaded memory: 1976

Memory backup install: complete

“What the…” Vox’s eyes dart quickly as he rescans this information repeatedly. “1976, but… But that’s now…”

A quick look at the bottom of the screen would happen to reveal information to quite the contrary; according to these devices, the year is actually almost fifty years later. 

“You gotta be fuckin’…” Vox’s words catch in his throat as a strange, disquieting feeling of nostalgia mixed with déjà vu washes over him like a cold dread. 

No. No. This can’t be happening; he has somehow time travelled? To the future? No; this can’t be possible - Vox assumes he is merely dreaming. 

When the Television Demon attempts to escape the strange labyrinth of a building he is in, he’s met with images of the bizarre new face he seems to have, plastered in every corner. Posters. Cut-outs. Advertisements of all kinds; it is overwhelming. Breathing heavily and feeling like he might be going insane, Vox looks for an exit in the bottom lobby of the building. A small, nervous-looking demon approaches him, its hands trembling around a thin, flat device. 

“Uhh, Mr Vox, sir?” The demon asks. “Can, I, uh, just get you to si-“

“What year is it?” Vox says to the demon, urgently. “And how the fuck do I get out of here?”

“What… uh, what year, is it, sir?” The demon asks, perplexed. 

“Ah, fuck it,” Vox says, distracted by a sudden glimpse of the way out. 

On the streets of Hell, the nightmare continues; the city is a pulsating, noisy blur of lights and neon and voices, so many voices, all chattering together. Sinners walk down the sidewalks, gazes glued to devices in their hands, despite the dappling rain drops that paint every surface. Vox careers around, unsure who to talk to or what to even say - what does one say, when they believe they’ve woken up in the body of their future self?

There’s only one demon Vox seeks, now; his oldest, truest friend. The one he knows will have the answers. 

His trustworthy, ever-reliable mentor; the Radio Demon. 

Alastor sits in the lounge of the Hazbin Hotel, a mug of coffee in his hand and a headache throbbing in his skull. The cohort of the hotel squawk together in delight over some ridiculous new something-or-other on Angel’s phone, and Alastor has had enough. Eye twitching, he focusses instead - for once - on the television set which has been left to run idly in the background. 

The Radio Demon would never normally give the confounded television any time of day, but something catches his eye - a report, an urgent report.

CEO of VoxTek Enterprises Missing For Several Days In Unusual Disappearance

Alastor’s eyes narrow as he takes this information on board; he lets it roll around in his mind like a weighty marble, occasionally bumping into spongy feelings. Amusement, at his rival’s misfortune. Indifference, at the consequences it poses. Satisfaction. Victory.

But there is curiosity, there, too; and something else. Something deeper. Something that sits embedded within Alastor, a left over remnant from all the decades he and Vox had been the closest of allies. 

Concern.

A part of him, even now, festers for Vox - worries about his whereabouts, at this revealing of his disappearance. Where in Hell is he? What is he doing? Is he plotting, or has he perished? Alastor does not know, and the lack of knowing bothers him so wholly that he cannot help but meddle. Without uttering a word, Alastor releases his shadow, commanding it as if it is a scent hound, given only one purpose; find Vox, and tell me where he is. Alastor’s shadow slips out, unseen by anyone, and is gone. Out the door. Out, into Hell; searching.

Vox has been in a state of deranged hiding for several days. The Hell he knows from his own time has warped and shifted, and is rendered unfamiliar and unforgiving to him, now. Having come to terms with his reality, somewhat - that he has been displaced in time, somehow - Vox had attempted to seek out Alastor in locations he knew would be likely haunts. 

He had even shown up to where he’d known Alastor - at least in his time - lived, a shoddy apartment in a dodgier end of the city. The hunt was fruitless; Alastor was nowhere to be seen. Desperately seeking the comforting face of his dearest friend but only finding his own face littered on every street corner billboard, Vox grew manic. Unused to the level of notoriety he clearly has in this reality - he cannot step a yard without some sinner approaching him, apparently - Vox sought out the one corner of the Pride Ring he knew would never change.

And so, Vox has been seeking refuge in the blissfully familiar and thankfully never-evolving Cannibal Town. A place he knows that Alastor himself regularly frequents, and yet… Vox hasn’t even had so much of a glimpse of the red-coated Radio Demon. 

With nowhere to go and no friendly strangers offering assistance, Vox is alone, and afraid. He feels pathetic. He sits in an alleyway, avoiding the hungry gazes of cannibals, clutching at himself, fighting back tears. Vox hates himself for feeling so weak, for sinking this low. The version of himself that had grinned so smugly back at him from posters and strange, glowing screens had looked so self-assured and confident. Is that who he is, in the future? Vox feels like he might be going mad. 

“Well, this is a sorry state of affairs, don’t you think?”

Vox’s flat head whips up; Alastor is there, before him, standing prim and proper as usual, staff clasped behind his back. Oh, what a sight for sore eyes he is - Vox is immediately cheered, a grateful grin spreading across his screen, his soul feeling lifted.

“Al!” Vox exclaims, rushing to stand. “Oh thank fuck, I’ve been looking all over for you, something fuckin’ insane is happen-“

Alastor steps backwards, repulsed, as Vox attempts to get closer. There is clear disdain and mistrust in his red eyes, and Vox feels a blade of confusion and hurt stab him somewhere.

“Al, it’s me,” Vox says, laughing nervously. “It’s me, Vox?”

“I know who you are,” Alastor says, slowly. “Well, I just came to see for myself if the rumours were true, that you’ve fallen to rock bottom, and here you are! Quite the show, old pal, now, I will be getting on my way-“

“No, Al,” Vox says, tone despairing. “Please, you gotta help me, something is… Look, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, okay? I went to your apartment, but someone else fucking lives there now, I don’t fuckin’-“

“Which apartment?” Alastor says, raising an eyebrow. Curious, despite himself. 

“The one in fuckin’ Dodge,” Vox says. 

“I haven’t lived there in decades,” Alastor huffs, unamused; he turns away.

“No! Look, Al, please,” Vox says, grabbing Alastor’s arm; Alastor’s furious eyes burn at the sight of Vox’s claws clutching him. “This is what I’m trying to tell you. Something has happened to me, I’m not the me you know, uhh, right now…”

Alastor is clearly affronted, vexed beyond comprehension; but he hesitates, and doesn’t flee. His pupils glide over Vox’s screen in frantic movement, seeking understanding. What has gotten IN to him? All he finds in Vox’s expression is sadness, fear and hope.

“Something has happened to me, Al,” Vox says, loosening his grip a little. “One moment I’m there, 1976, we’d just done the Edsharp job, right, remember that? Anyway, the next moment, I wake up, and I’m fucking here.” 

Laughing; Alastor is laughing. Vox is bewildered, heart sinking; Alastor brushes Vox’s hand off from his coat sleeve, then smooths the fabric down. After he is done letting out his stream of wry cackles, Alastor exhales out a mockingly contented sigh. 

“Very good, Vox, old pal!” Alastor says, brightly. “Deeply entertaining, I must say! I suppose you expect me to believe you have forgotten all that has passed between us? My, my, Vox! You should know better than any that I know a performance when I see one.”

“What?!” Vox breathes out, exasperated. “Al, no! I need you, I need your help right now, I have no fucking idea what’s going on. I mean, my fucking face is everywhere and it’s driving me crazy!”

“Well,” Alastor says, inspecting his claws. “We agree on one thing, at least.”

Something drips in the background of the alleyway; a leak in a water pipe, perhaps. Vox blinks, confounded and not understanding why his dearest friend isn’t listening to him - or even willing to look at him. 

“Look,” Vox says, trying to compose himself. “I know it sounds insane, Al, okay? But I’ve fuckin’… I’ve time travelled some how, and I dunno what the FUCK is going on. Like I said, the last thing I remember is being in 1976, doing the Edsharp job, with you, and then I woke up here in this body with this crazy thin head, and I couldn’t fuckin’ find you, and… Al! Please!”

Alastor is walking away, having heard enough; this is some ploy of Vox’s, clearly, he thinks. His bruised heart has no energy for it. It is a cruel joke, a game that Vox is tricking him with, and Alastor wants no part in it. 

“Alastor!” Vox cries out, desperate. “You said you’d never let me down! You said you’d always be there for me! Don’t you remember?”

Alastor stops, his blood feeling thin and cold in his veins; flashes of his own memories bully their way into his mind. Flashes of the friendship he’d once treasured; Vox, his old boxy head. Smiles. Drinks. Jobs. Dances. It’s all still there. 

“You’re the only one who can help me,” Vox says, sounding hopelessly dejected. “You gotta believe me, Al, please. I’m so fucking scared right now, I don’t know what the fuck to do. Please.”

Turning on his heel, Alastor isn’t sure what compels him to do so, but he decides to humour the moment. Alastor analyses the micro movements and changes in Vox’s expression, observing carefully, and he opts to test the waters for a reaction. 

“Can’t you speak to Velvette? Or Valentino, perhaps?” Alastor asks, the names tasting like bitter filth in his mouth. 

“Al,” Vox says, squinting in clear confusion. “Who the fuck are they? You just making up fucking names now, or what?”

It hits Alastor like a brick wall to the face; Vox is telling the truth. He truly doesn’t remember, and here is a version of Vox who still adores him, plucked straight from the past. It makes no sense, but then, things rarely do make sense, in Hell. Alastor’s intrigue overrides his suspicion, and so, he relents. 

“Fine,” Alastor says. “Come with me. I still keep a private dwelling, fairly close to here, actually. Come along, then.”

Around a dining room table, two Overlords sit; a stiff drink in hand for both, and an awkward silence drifting between them. Alastor is still on edge, guarded and tensely watching Vox with keen circumspection. Vox is exhausted, ragged-looking and slumping in his seat. His clothes are mussed and the creasing lines around his on-screen eyes seem to deepen with each moment that passes. 

The TV Demon looks up at Alastor then, and the shrewdly evident dislike in Alastor’s gaze tells Vox a story he does not want to accept. Something has happened between them, in the years he no longer remembers. 

“What went wrong?” Vox asks, suddenly. Alastor’s grin is unfaltering but his left ear flicks, twice. 

“That’s a rather big question,” Alastor muses, wry. “And not one I’m sure I am qualified to answer.”

“No, not everything,” Vox says, sighing. “But what happened… between us?”

Alastor lets out a short huffing sound, looking away; his grip around his whiskey glass tightens. His expression darkens, his frown evident in all but his smile. Alastor feels an internal conflict pulling at him, wondering how much he should say; his eyes flicker around the room as he contemplates. Vox observes this, worried. Eventually, Alastor lets out a long exhale, and shrugs.

“We fell out,” he says, simply. 

Vox is immediately distraught, his mouth opening and staying open in a slackened shape of clear upset. 

“You and me? We fell out?”

“Yes, that is what I said,” Alastor snaps, the topic clearly sore. “We don’t speak anymore, save for the odd spat over the airwaves.”

“Al, what?” Vox asks, sounding pained. “We don’t fuckin’ speak anymore? But you’re my best friend!”

Vox reaches out, his claws seeking Alastor; they rest on Alastor’s arm, and the Radio Demon flinches immediately, withdrawing his arm with a snarl, his whole body tensing. Alastor’s eyes blacken, his ears are flat against his head. There’s a crackle of screeching radio feedback. 

Alastor stands, feeling an ocean of thrashing emotions pulsing through him; it is too much for him to try and grapple with. The sight of Vox’s distress is making him feel unwell, which infuriates him, and the whole ordeal feels deeply unwanted. 

“I will allow you to stay here until your memories return,” Alastor says, speaking quickly. “Other than that, I wish to have nothing to do with you, do you understand?”

“Al, I-“

“Goodbye, Vox, old pal,” Alastor says, and then he is gone.

Despite this, Alastor does visit the apartment again. And again. And again. And again. 

The first time Alastor visits is caused by some wretched bit of gnawing curiosity that itches within his skull and will not leave him. It refuses to be satiated by simply sending his shadow out for reconnaissance; Alastor must see things for himself. 

When Alastor appears in the apartment at some early hour in the morning, Vox is asleep on the sofa. Inspecting the bedroom, Alastor can tell Vox has left the bed entirely untouched. Has he been avoiding it? As what, some gesture of politeness?

Alastor rolls his eyes, and readies to leave again; but then, something stops him. He stares at the television demon, sprawled and snoring on the sofa. Vox is too tall for it, really; his legs dangle over the edge and one of his hands drags on the floor. His screen is off, black as night, but Alastor can hear the sound of his soft breathing. 

The Radio Demon stares with brazen intensity. The thought of having a chance to converse with a version of Vox who still loves him is deeply tempting, Alastor has to admit; the Vox he knows now wants him dead. But this Vox - whatever has happened to him - doesn’t seem to recall any of that bitterness or hatred at all. Alastor finds himself feeling an odd sense of longing for his oldest friend. 

Ridiculous. 

Alastor leaves like a thief in the night, cursing his own pathetic sentimentality, and Vox is none the wiser.

The second visit, Alastor shows up to the apartment rationalising it to himself as a mistake - a misjudged bit of teleportation, or his shadow acting up, perhaps. Vox, reading in an armchair in the living room, hears a sound from the kitchen; slapping the book shut, he stands, wary, and approaches the kitchen doorway. Vox prepares himself for an intruder, but on seeing it’s just Alastor, he is delighted. 

“Al!”

Alastor tenses, immediately; to hear his own name said so joyfully in Vox’s voice is both a tonic and a dagger to his heart. His lip curls above his toothy grin, but Vox is undisturbed. 

“I’m so glad you came back, Al,” Vox says, grinning, his hands on his hips. “I’ve been wanting to-“

“I came purely to make sure you have all that you need, I assume you are not leaving here much,” Alastor says, haughtily. “Can’t let you starve now, can I? Although that would be rather amusing…”

“I can conjure stuff, I’m fine,” Vox says, his smile twitching upwards on one side. “Turns out future me has a lot more powers now, which is, uh, cool, I guess.”

Alastor rolls his eyes; Vox doesn’t let it discourage him.

“Wontcha sit with me for a bit?” He tries, screen beaming. “I wanna know more about what I’ve missed. Y’know. The years I didn’t see, or, whatever.”

Vox is left wanting, though; Alastor has reached about as much as he can tolerate, and disappears, without a word.

The third time Alastor appears in the apartment, Vox chooses not to make a big deal out of it. Instead, he simply stays where he’s sat, reading again; not his first choice of pastime, but Alastor doesn’t own a television and so there isn’t much else to do. Alastor stands, staring at Vox for a while, saying nothing. Eventually, Vox looks up from his page, frowning. 

“You just gonna stand there, or…?”

“What year did you say you last recall?” Alastor says, bluntly. 

“1976,” Vox says. “That’s the last thing I know. I know, uh… I know time has passed, Al, but I don’t have any memory of it, at all.”

“Hrmm,” Alastor vocalises, turning his staff in his hand. “I suspect something has gone faulty with your frivolous technology.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Come here,” Alastor says. 

“What?”

“I said, come here.”

Standing, Vox paces over to Alastor, unsure as to where this is going. Alastor moves, too, closing the distance between them. Faces so near together that Vox can almost feel Alastor’s exhales, Alastor pinches at Vox’s screen with his claws, turning his head this way and that. Alastor is still tense, but he’s also really looking, his gaze washing over Vox with fixed intent. 

Vox’s pulse beats hotly in his veins, adrenaline flooding him; he is silent, stunned and frozen into place. Alastor’s eyes are all over him. 

“I see no injury on you,” Alastor says, and he removes his hand; his fingers flex, feeling burned by the touch. Not entirely unpleasantly. 

“No, uh. I’m not hurt, no,” Vox says, dazed. 

“That makes one of us, then,” Alastor mutters, looking privately forlorn, his gaze diverted. 

“Al,” Vox says, his tone gentle but pleading. “What happened? Between us, I mean? I can tell things aren’t like before, but… I fuckin’ hate that you can hardly even look at me.”

Vox reaches out a hand, meaning for it to come to Alastor’s cheek; before it can reach its goal, Alastor is gone. Lost to shadow. Vox stands alone once more. 

Fuck. 

The fourth visit of Alastor’s, Vox is prepared. Having magicked a bottle of rye - a brand he knows Alastor cannot refuse, his favourite - Vox has also dug through Alastor’s record collection to find the recordings he knows Alastor derives the most pleasure from. Knowing Alastor as well as he does, Vox manages to predict the timing of the next visit with impeccable accuracy; Alastor shows up, right on cue, one languid Sunday afternoon. 

Can he resist a glass of whiskey? No, he can’t; neither can he resist another two after, either. Soon the two demons are tipsy together, sat on the living room floor, jazz spilling out in warm, woody tones around them. 

As Vox had hoped, the truth comes out; the details of their conflict tumble out of Alastor like liquid poured from a bottle. How Vox had changed. How he had built his empire. How he had wanted Alastor to join him - had pushed it, hard, and had spoiled things. It’s a one-sided account, of course, tinged with Alastor’s bias and resentment and hurt; Vox feels guiltily to blame, anyhow. 

“Gee, I’m sorry, Al,” Vox says, staring at the glass in his hand. “Future me sounds like a fuckin’ asshole.”

“Mmmm,” Alastor hums, briefly raising his eyebrows in wry acknowledgement. “I’ll say.”

“Well, he’s not me, Al,” Vox tries, clearly inebriated. “I mean, he was, or, I will be… I mean, that guy, he’s not in me right now, or I mean, I guess he is-“

Alastor is laughing, and Vox’s world feels like it will continue to spin, finally; Alastor’s laughter is the most glorious sound he could hope to hear. Vox grins giddily like an idiot, overjoyed. 

“I forgot how entertaining you can be,” Alastor says, smirking. “Mmm. I suppose a part of me has… missed this, if I dig deep enough.”

There is truth in Alastor’s words, and this is evidenced by how frequent his visits to the apartment become; soon, Alastor is visiting every other evening. He stays for hours at a time, occasionally bringing things - old newspapers, ground coffee, cartons of cigarettes. 

Vox catches up on years of history as best he can through the newspapers, but he struggles to really comprehend it. It’s all too much; all he really wants to focus on is the comforting familiarity of Alastor. 

And, he does; they focus on each other, wholly now. Alastor lets his guard down somewhere around the eleventh visit. Each time Alastor materialises, Vox is ready for him with smiles and greetings. Alastor feels warmed by it; Vox’s adoring attention is addicting. They play cards, they listen to jazz, they talk. 

One evening, Alastor attempts to teach Vox how to play chess. Vox, frustrated at struggling to grasp it, ends the game early, groaning. By the nineteenth visit, they can play a full game together. Alastor always wins, of course, but Vox enjoys it anyway. Any time spent together is a gift to him, bored and cooped up in the apartment as he is. 

Eventually, Alastor speaks aloud what both demons know to be true; that Vox cannot hideout forever. Vox lets out a petulant moan, his mouth full; they are eating together at the dinner table, something delicious and divinely creamy that Alastor has made, all thinly sliced potatoes and copious butter. Alastor sips his glass of red wine and observes Vox carefully. 

“I know,” Vox says, begrudgingly. “But can we just, y’know. Not think about the future for now?”

“How very unlike you,” Alastor quips, smirking. “But fine by me. You can stay here for as long as you like. Let the rest of Hell panic over your absence, for all I care. What a ruckus they’ve made.”

“I’m not ready to face it, Al,” Vox shakes his head, prodding his food with his fork. “I don’t know this life that my future self has, I don’t know about any of the things you’ve told me he’s done or the demons he runs with. I don’t want any of it, I just want…”

“This?” Alastor offers, coyly. “Us?”

“…Yeah,” Vox breathes out, nodding. 

“Then you shall have it,” Alastor smiles, sincerely. “For as long as you want. Or, until your memories return, in which case I shall be very sorry to see you go.”

“Pfff,” Vox scoffs. “I won’t forget this, I won’t forget you, Al.”

“We shall see,” Alastor says, mostly to himself; he swirls the wine in his glass, and tries to ignore the strange sense of urgency building in his gut.

Several weeks pass. Vox is kept like a willing cockatiel in its cage; waiting, always, for Alastor to visit. And Alastor does visit, as often as he can. Excuses given to Charlie range from believable to the absurd - oh, I have some business to attend to! A lesser-known demon requires my help on the other end of town. Oh, I thought about going to get a new hairstyle!

No one in the Hazbin Hotel thinks to correlate Alastor’s strange behaviour and absences with the decreasingly reported-on disappearance of Vox, the CEO of VoxTek; truthfully, no one gives a shit what Alastor gets up to in his free time. No one bats an eye.

Alastor has been generous, too, supplying Vox with all kinds of pleasantries; clothes he might like to wear, new books to read, new records to listen to. A functioning radio. A well-stocked fridge. Vox isn’t sure if it’s a case of slight Stockholm syndrome, or what, but he finds himself not really minding being the Radio Demon’s secret pet. 

Vox is attempting to play a game of chess with himself when Alastor arrives; the sleeves of a soft sweater rolled up on his arms, and his tongue stuck out in concentration as he moves the pieces on the board. He’s been playing white, imagining the black side as Alastor, trying to predict how Alastor would play. The Radio Demon figures this out immediately when he glances over, and he grins wide. 

“I’d never make that move,” Alastor says, sitting down without hesitation to join Vox at the chess table. “You’ve done this all wrong, Vox, honestly. Do you really think I’d-“

“Hey,” Vox smiles, eyes soft. “How was your day?”

“Urgh,” Alastor sighs, running his hands through his hair. “Exhausting. More bonding activities, wouldn’t you know it. I grow weary of it, Vox, truly. Makes me want to go out and kill things.”

Vox laughs, resetting the chess board by placing the pieces back in their usual homes. Alastor slips off his coat, letting his shadow take it from him and hang it up. 

“Do you remember that loan shark mob, down at Ricky’s?” Vox asks, his smile mischievous. “You swallowed almost all of them whole. Remember that?”

“Oh! Yes, like it was yesterday,” Alastor nods, amused. 

“It kinda was, for me,” Vox deadpans, shrugging. “’75, that was. I’m surprised you remember it still.”

Alastor pauses; there is a real reason he remembers that particular occasion, but he does not voice it. Still, the memory echoes in his mind; how Vox hadn’t been able to shut up about it afterwards, exclaiming praises and admiration for Alastor, how in awe he’d been at such a display of power. Alastor has never forgotten that feeling. How it feels to be accepted, fully, even the ugliest, most monstrous parts of himself; something Vox always did. 

Later, before Alastor leaves, there is a moment. An important moment, one that weighs heavily on their minds for the next few days, after. As Alastor puts his coat back on, telling Vox about how he may not be able to visit for a little while, Vox stops Alastor with a hand on his arm. 

Freezing, Alastor looks up; Vox leans forward, and kisses Alastor. Quickly, chastely, just a peck - warm, buzzing screen meeting cool, dry lips. Vox isn’t sure what drives him to do it - beyond the fact he’s been in love with Alastor his entire fucking damnation, of course - and he regrets it immediately, dreading Alastor’s reaction. 

Vox pulls back, avoiding Alastor’s eyes. Alastor is reeling, wide eyed, his smile a faint, taut line; but he places his claws at the base of Vox’s screen, lifting, making Vox look at him. Vox’s expression is full of anguish. Alastor smiles, genuinely, and brushes his thumb over the base of Vox’s screen. 

“Give me a little time,” Alastor says, quietly. “I need to digest this. I will return.”

“Al, I’m so sor-“

“This isn’t a rejection,” Alastor says, kindly. “I just need to collect my thoughts on the matter. I’ll be back just as soon as I can be, alright?”

“O-okay,” Vox breathes out.

Alastor doesn’t visit again for a week. 

Vox feels like he might go mad; he paces the apartment, overthinking and worrying, wondering if perhaps it would be better if he regains his memories, so he can simply move on with his life. Alastor had said it wasn’t a rejection, but where is he now? Vox has been alone for days, left ruminating, trapped in this prison of his own choosing. 

Another evening with no sign of Alastor appears to be drawing to a close, and Vox readies for sleep, pulling off his sweater; but then there is a noise, and Vox knows Alastor has come. Breathing heavily, dressed only in his slacks, Vox pokes his head out of the bathroom doorway. 

Alastor is there, looking like a lost child, his pupils blown out and his hands wringing; he turns, and sees Vox, and their hearts connect silently. There is a palpable energy, and Alastor’s chest is heaving. 

“Alastor,” Vox starts, his voice a whisper. 

“Promise me,” Alastor says, his words ragged as he tries to still his breathing. “Promise me you won’t ever remember.”

Vox’s entire nervous system feels rigid with the tension of the moment; he swallows, a myriad of promises he could make swimming through his mind, none of them breaching the air. He lets out a shy laugh, not knowing what to say. Alastor walks over to him, slowly, looking like a startled animal; he eyes Vox’s bare chest. Vox’s deep blue skin is freckled with scars, some of which Alastor knows he will have no memory of gaining. 

“Al, you know I have no control over-“

“Promise me,” Alastor says, sounding desperate. “If you remember, it will all be spoiled, Vox. I can’t… I can’t… I don’t know why I want this, but I do, I do-“

Alastor’s words are halted as Vox rushes into him, pushing him against the wall, the heat of their bodies combining as they are pressed together, and then they are kissing, and it is the only thing either of them wants to feel, ever again. Moaning into each other’s mouths, hands grabbing and frantic, tongues colliding hungrily; the two demons hold each other, craving further and deeper closeness. When Vox pulls back, panting and breathless, Alastor lets out a needy sound of longing. 

“I l-love you, Al,” Vox breathes out, stroking at Alastor’s face. “I’ve loved you, for a really, really long fuckin’ time. And if this is a second chance, or, or-“

“I have fallen,” Alastor manages, gasping somewhat. “Also.”

“Wha-what?”

“I, too,” Alastor’s words shudder out of him; his voice is nought but a whisper. “I don’t understand it, but… I suppose a part of me always did, deep down, but, I…”

“You… You love me?” Vox says, hardly daring to believe it. 

“Yes,” Alastor says, his grip on Vox’s arms tightening. “And if this is to be a second chance, then I shan’t let it go to waste. I know what the other side of losing this looks like, and I won’t let it happen again.”

Vox laughs, his heart filling with exhilaration, and Alastor laughs with him, still breathless. They kiss, again; and it is the sweetest taste either of them has ever savoured. 

“I think me losing my memory might be the best thing that ever happened to me, huh?” Vox jokes, his whole body feeling flushed with love and joy. 

Neither demon knows what the future holds; how they will proceed, how Vox will live his life. Alastor has some ideas, but truly, neither of them care, in this moment. They have found each other again, against all the odds, and have truly found each other, deeply this time. The Radio Demon has finally fallen in love back, not even understanding how; but not all questions need answers. 

“Yes, Vox, old pal,” Alastor grins. “I think we happen to be in agreement, on this one.”

The faults of technology have saved them, and neither Vox nor Alastor could be any more grateful. Memories lost, a friendship restored, a love created. 

Perhaps, in the end, it was the best system update Vox has ever received. 

[gabessquishytum]

Hob works in an assisted living facility for mainly the elderly, one of his newest patients is a man named Tim Ender. According to his file he has seven children, but Hob only ever sees one.

That or all seven of his children look exactly alike.

Hob is Tim’s assigned nurse, so they bump into each other a lot. The son says his name is Murphy and Tim grumbles, “that’s not the name I gave you,” to put it quite frankly Hob understands why almost none of his kids visit, Tim’s an asshole.

Murphy is…ethereal. God he’s beautiful. He’s a twinky little man with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes, Hob has thoughts he’d never thought he’d have in a nursing home. He wants to get closer to Murphy but he feels it maybe inappropriate. But Murphy comes over so often somehow they do get to know each other. One day Tim goes down for a nap leaving Murphy and Hob alone.

“I know there’s more of you. Why are you the only one who visits?” Should Hob have opened with this question? Probably not. But oh well

Murphy sighs deeply, “because I’m the only one who can,” he goes into explaining what has happened to each of his siblings, how they are all unable to leave whatever location they are at and how two of them can’t even be contacted and how Tim’s wife even refuses to visit him. “I have to be here, I have to make sure he’s alright, I owe him that much,”

“Well taking care of him is literally my job but I understand the hesitation in trusting the care of a parent to a complete stranger,”

“You’re not a complete stranger Hob, I consider you a friend. And I was going to lessen my visits because I **do** trust you to care for him but I keep finding a reason to come back” Hob swears he felt Dream’s hand brush his.

and unfortunately for the elderly third wheel Hob falls head over heels.

Tim has a knack for timing which is obviously why he starts this conversation when Hob is giving him a bath.

“When I die, I want you to take care of my son.”

Hob nearly drops his soap.

“What?!”

“You’re gay for him,” Tim answers.

Hob tries very hard not to laugh at that.

“N-no sir I’m not gay for your son,”

“In love? Whatever! Look you talk about my son more than I do and it’s driving me nuts! Ask him out you nut case!”

“Sir that’s completely unprofessional-“

“I give you my blessing, I don’t care! Just shut up about him.”

Tim sighs and is quiet for a bit.

“Mor-uh Murphy has been unhappy for a long time… and all I want is for my son to be happy especially now that he’s the only one that visits me, and Robert, you make him happy. So finish scrubbing my balls and the next time he comes round ask him out for coffee or something.”

Hob has a while to think after that, should he ask Murphy out? Is it weird he’s seen his father’s penis before his? Should he wait until Tim dies? No that’s in bad taste… is he really going to ask someone out in a retirement home?

He hears the automatic doors in the lobby open, and sees that tuff of jet black hair.

It’s now or never Hobsie- ugh stop thinking about Tim’s penis! Ugh now or never Hob

Now or never

-🦎

This certainly made me chuckle! I have to say that I LOVE when people do human au things and make "Time" into "Tim", its so funny to me for some reason.

Anyway. Hob is super nervous, palms sweating, voice breaking as he finally asks Murphy to join him for coffee. He makes it clear that it would be really nice if it was a date, but just as friends would be fine too. Murphy answers by breaking into a smile and taking Hob’s hand as they both walk down the corridor to Tim's room. There's no one around to see them and fortunately Murphy doesn't seem to mind Hob’s sweaty hands too much.

Tim is as grumpy as ever, but for the first time before he leaves Murphy hugs his father goodbye. He obviously knows that Tim gave his blessing for Hob to ask him out, and as awkward as it is, he expresses his gratitude while Tim grumbles and waves him off. Hob doesn't get a hug - he gets a brief kiss on the cheek, and a promise that Murphy will call him. And that's even better.

And the good news is that when he finally sees his new beloved boyfriend naked, Hob is so awestruck and caught up in the moment, he doesn't even THINK about comparing Tim's dick to Murphy's. Although in the shower afterwards when Hob is lovingly cleaning both of them up, Murphy does say something like "damn I can see why my father doesn't complain about you, you DO know what you are doing." And from thenceforth all conversation about Tim is BANNED from the bedroom and bathroom. Just, eww.

Looks like daddy kink is probably off the table too but hey. Hob doesn't mind. Murphy is practically perfect, in every way.

[sockatoothewafflebird]

over and over, i fuck myself over, and under and under, i do it again.

morning and evening, i felt i was grieving, until i said fuck you, and never again.

daytime or nighttime, i feel i'm on my time, but time is fickle, just like a friend.

and with my departure, from the pain i harbor, i feel i am sinking, and sailing to swim...

--

I'm worried about Ragatha.

She'd definitely be better off not looking at mirrors for a while. Even more so if she stopped reciting random depressing songs to her ceiling, for no other reason than to dig a deeper hole, to sink further down. I can hear her singing to herself every night, the same songs she plays on all her instruments. What a beautiful voice. How beautifully she plays. But, it's always so sad.

She keeps falling. Faster. Further. Her screams can't be heard anymore. And yet she never falters. How many miles - and what kind - of shit has she been through, to think this is okay? How long did it go on for, for her to think it's normal?

It's not healthy.

But she doesn't mind. Somehow. She'd break her own arms herself if it meant Zooble would stop losing their temper at her, if it meant Jax would stop terrorizing Gangle, if it meant Kinger could just remember the little things.

She's such a wonderful person. Amazing. An unstoppable ray of sunshine for anyone willing to look at her. She's the kindest person I've ever met. Even behind all that fog, she cares, maybe more than anyone. It's so sweet.

It's so easy to see she's hurting though. She hurts so much sometimes I can see her hide her tears, I can tell she deflects all the time.

If only she knew she didn't have to hide. If only she saw it. If only she knew she's more than a toy.

If only I could get through to her.

I guess I should've listened when Kaufmo said to never fall for a girl with baggage. Seeing her like this just hurts.

I hope she can figure it out. I try so hard to make sure she's doing alright, and she always insists I don't have to worry. And I can never hide how much it devastates me that she thinks I'd drop the subject so quickly, and just act like I don't care. I do care. I care so much I think i'll fucking die if she doesn't start seeing through my eyes once in a while.

God. This is the longest entry i've ever written. My hand hurts.

Goodnight, I guess. Here's to hoping.

---

my plan when i find a character i like (in no particular order):

this is how i feel about ragatha. in case you didn't notice. i love her as a character so much i just wanna put her under a damn microscope. the influence has influenced me and now i share the obsession with ragatha that mod bee from @ask-the-rag-dolly has been afflicted with.

pomni is such an observant character. and caring. and overall very smart. she can't pretend she doesn't notice all of ragatha's little lies and slip-ups.. and it eats away at her, knowing she can't do anything, knowing ragatha can't and won't accept help right now. ragatha needs to come to terms with it on her own. a therapist is what ragatha needs.

but in a video game? and in my au, in the middle of a broken world full of corporate greed and the cold, unforgiving whims of mother nature? if she found a therapist in either, it would be considered a once in a lifetime historical discovery. the school textbooks would have a chapter on it.

either way, something's up in the darkest depths of that cotton-filled brain of hers, and she's just built to think it doesn't matter. she's built to make sure everything stays nice and positive and okay. when we ALL see it's not. goddamnit ragatha i will make an oc that is a licensed therapist just so you can stop being such a sad wet dog and start practicing the art of self-partially-enjoy oh my god you sweet little door hinge

(song lyrics at the beginning are from over & over by rio romeo btw, theyre very cool pls check them out)

[joanvisitsrome]

first day at fight club - h.c

HELLLOOOOO YOU GUYSSSS

here's the hazel oneshot, hope y'all enjoy!

summary: your first time at fight club

contains: fluff, growing apart, fight club

You and Hazel sat together side by side in Mr. G’s class every day and never said a word to each other. However, you still noticed each other. You noticed Hazel’s shaggy rocker hair, and big, saucer-like blue eyes. You noticed how caring she was towards her friends and how much she cared about them, even if they didn’t care like that for her. In general, you would still share a nice good-morning wave, or a head-nod in the hallways.

But as time went on, obviously you wanted to talk to her. That’s why you decided to show up to fight club.

You were obviously nervous, because who wouldn’t be nervous to go to a literal fight club for the first time? And it definitely didn’t help that PJ immediately began badgering you the second you walked in the door, saying that Hazel would be happy to see you, and that you guys could put your fingers in each other later. You hadn’t even had a proper conversation with Hazel. PJ quite literally pushes you into Hazel and says,

“Have fun, she’s all yours.”

“Hey,” you say nervously. After all, you were literally just pushed into Hazel. “So, what should I be expecting around here?”

“Well we usually stretch first. Get them… muscles warmed up.” Hazel awkwardly does finger guns at you, before widening her eyes.

“Wait! I have a bunch of notes from the other meetings I can show you. Why don’t we stretch together?”

“Sounds good to me.” you sit down and begin to stretch your legs, holding on to one of your feet as your other leg is bent. As Hazel stretches as well, she shares some notes from the most recent meetings, describing the wrestling circle, as well as the female solidarity that goes with the club. You have to say, you’re quite impressed with how well put-together this club is.

“Alright,” Hazel says, “do you want to be partners for today? I’ll go easy on you, I promise.”

“You’re the only person I’d be comfortable fighting with, so why not?” Hazel seems to be happy that you said that. She introduces you to a few people in the fight club, like Brittany, Isabel, and Stella-Rebecca, whom are very excited to meet you. The weekly sparring starts, resulting in some bloody noses, making you even more anxious. Hazel sees you biting your nails and squeezes your free hand.

“You got this, all right? Even if you’re not ready today, there’s always next time. You do not need to do this today.”

“Is it okay if I don’t do this today? I’m just very scared of getting hurt right now.”

“It’s completely okay. I’ll spar PJ today.” You watch Hazel defeat PJ during the spar, impressing you quite a bit. Mr. G, the advisor, calls it a wrap after that, sending you all home.

“Hey, Hazel? Maybe you could come over, like old times? To work on fight club stuff?” you ask.

“I’d love that.”

[ellsss]

SEVIKA X BROTHEL F! READER FANFIC 18+ PART 2:

authors note: this took SOO long because ✨executive dysfunction✨ I'm honestly really proud of this, even though it took forever. I think I've done a good job. Read Part 1 first, if you haven't already! If you've read that please proceed, and enjoy!!

PART 2 SUMMARY: It’s your first day at The Gardens, and a terrifying customer awaits you…

warnings: mdni! soft! sevika, protective! sevika, body worship, themes of body dysmorphia.

word count: 3.1k

“Strip”, she demands suddenly, her grin getting bigger by the minute. You gasp at the instruction and your eyes widen in shock. You hate this and stripping is the last thing you want to do.

“Right now?”, you ask, moving your arms to your sides and hesitantly picking at the fabric of your corset above your hips. She looks at you, brows furrowed, her head leaning slightly in disbelief, and you know that you have no choice in the matter.

You look down at yourself and cringe at your appearance. You’ve never shown this much of yourself before. The only person who had seen your body was your ex and she wasn’t exactly nice about it.

You knew that stripping was part of the job when you took it, but you underestimated how intense it was going to feel.

Your cleavage on full display, bursting through your corset, the lacy ensemble hugging your figure, and your panties squeezing your thighs, your stretch marks peeking through ever so slightly.

This is the most exposed you’ve been in a while, and you don’t like it. Your insecurities bubble inside of you...

Your chest tenses up, feeling the pressure of her demand weighing heavy on your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, cheeks pushed up towards your eyelids, hands clenched into tight fists of distress.

At this point, you’re doing anything to escape this situation. You try to clear your mind, to do something to forget about your surroundings. But all you can focus on is the panic you feel about being watched; being seen.

“Is everything alright, doll?”. A voice, peppered with concern, reaches your ears, but it’s too muffled for you to hear anything. The critical voice in your head rings too loud.

Your heart begins to pump out of your chest, and it gets harder and harder to breathe as your chest tightens, your breathing becoming sharp and fast, blood passing through your ears.

Pulling at the ends of your corset, you feel yourself unravelling, like you're about to cry, your head spinning as you see the images of the room in your mind swirling around you. You're welling up now, tears filling your eyes up to the brim and eventually pouring out like a boiling pot.

You try to calm yourself down and breathe but as your heart thumps faster and harder, your breathing becomes more and more shallow, and loud enough for people to hear you.

You don't want to be here. Anywhere but here. You wish you hadn't come in the first place. You just wanted to hide; and for someone to pull you out of this dreaded dreamscape that became your reality.....

"Hey!". Your eyes widen at the sound of that firm, yet calming voice, tears falling down your cheeks, your gaze fixed on the ground.

"Look at me"... You continue to stare at the floor, afraid to face to consequences of your emotional display.

"Look. At. Me".

The voice is much firmer. Her tone is rough... blunt, but there's an underlying softness shimmering underneath. Although with authority roughened around the edges, the fine line is sincerity above all.

There's no place to run this time, shrink yourself further or put a cloth over yourself to hide in security. You couldn't resist caving in under her spell and lifting your head up.

You slowly look up, and you're met with a stone-cold expression painted across her face, except for a tiny glint of concern showing up in her eyes.

"Breathe", she says. "Can you breathe for me?".

You nod, eyes widened and still in shock as you stare at her.

You look deeper into her eyes, relaxing yours after a while, and you try your very best to control your breathing, taking short, shallow breaths, slowly letting them become smooth and prolonged. You start to feel more relaxed.

Her eyes don't leave yours the entire time. It weirdly makes you feel better, knowing that she's there to calm you in your obvious time of need. You're able to calm your thoughts now, only focusing on her frosted pupils.

You look at her as if to ask for further instruction.

"Come here", she states, beckoning you over to her. You walk on over, timidly clasping your hands together, trembling with every step; and you end up very close to her, stood in between her legs, looking down at her in front of you.

"Straddle me"...

You gasp a little at her words.

Straddle her? How could you, after how embarrassed you are about this? About panicking this much in front of her?

And you haven't been that close to anybody in a very long time. That's why you panicked in the first place; it's been so long since you've been so open with someone regarding your body, and the last time didn't go too well. Your heart starts to beat again at the thought of being so close to her.

You swallow. "Uh, okay", you mutter. Eventually, you proceed.

Nervous, you put your hands on her shoulders, using her as leverage, and you lift each leg over hers, carefully sitting on her lap.

Nothing but goosebumps cover your whole body as you feel how sturdy her thighs are underneath your plump and fleshy ones. You felt the veins of her thighs and the firmness against your skin, her muscles flexing slightly. You feel your cheeks heating up at how strong she feels.

As you look into her eyes, her muscular yet soft hand travel slowly down your back, towards the side of your hip and onto your ass.

She looks at you completely deadpan, that concerned glint still in her eye, and she brings her metal hand up to rest on your cheekbone. The cold sensation of her metallic fingers sends a shiver down your spine...

"You want to tell me what that was about?", she asks, again quite sternly but with a kindness hidden in her tone.

"Uh....".

That question terrifies you. You haven't really talked to anyone about the insecurities surrounding your body, let alone how people have treated you for it. You've been bullied by others because of it your whole life; even one of the girls made fun of you today....

Telling anyone, especially Sevika, felt humiliating. She looks at you, patiently waiting for your answer.

"I... uh... I can't", you say in defeat, shaking your head towards the floor. You want to respond but you can't; you're just too scared.

She gently pulls your chin back to meet her eyes again, forcing you to answer. "Try".

Your eyes light up hearing her say that. Knowing that she wants to listen warms your heart in ways that you cannot explain.

No one has ever cared to ask how you feel besides your parents, and you'd never really made friends with people who genuinely appreciated you. Your ex? A whole different story. Having Sevika of all people want to hear you out, was nice.

"Well... okay. If you're open to listening", you reply, softly. She nods as a way of telling you to proceed, her fingers gently circling the sides of your hips.

"People... aren't really nice to me... well because I...because i'm fat". She raises her eyebrows.

"And, I'm just insecure about my body because of it. I just feel so ugly. That's why I got so scared when you asked me to.... you know..".

She looks at you and nods in understanding. "Hmm"... She thinks about what to say for a second.

"Well, fat doesn't mean ugly". She then scans your body, top to bottom. "And you're definitely not ugly". Sevika squeezes your ass, laughing slightly through a mischievous smirk, a danger in her eyes shining through.

Your cheeks warm up again at her words, a smile creeping up on your face.

"Really?", you ask...

"Fuck yeah". She looks at you, scanning you for the second time, drinking every inch of you in. "Pretty eyes, cute smile". Her metal thumb brushes gently against your chin. Your smile grows bigger as you hear her shower you with compliments.

"And your body? You got nothing to worry about, trust me". But then Sevika says this, and your smile slowly dissipates. You shake your head.

"You don't have to lie to me". You look back down to the floor again, tears starting to well up in your eyes. Back to square one.

Sevika, concerned, looks back at you. She exhales in defiance, unwilling to accept your negative self-talk, and places her hands firmly on your hips.

"Stand up", she commands, much to your surprise. You do as she says and stand in front of her, bewildered by the instruction, but still willing to follow through anyway.

She gets up out of her seat, turning you to face away from her, bringing her hands to touch you and lightly grab your waist. Slowly, she guides your body towards the mirror beside the couch, and she makes you do the most difficult thing you'd have to do in this interaction so far.

Face yourself.

Instinctively, you look away, head toward your shoulder, not wanting to see the flaws that are so obvious to you.

"Hey, look at yourself for me". Your head stays put.

"Look at yourself for me", she repeats emphatically, smirking away at you. Reluctantly, you look up and see yourself in the mirror....

There you are in your entirety. Eyes wide, cheeks full, lips parted slightly. Broad shoulders slanting on either side, the top half of your corset, hugging your breasts as your cleavage spills over; and the bottom revealing your rounded figure, your hips peering out below the high waisted panties you're wearing.

You notice your legs and the pudginess of your thighs; the way they lean into your knees and back out to your calves. Every part of your body, while you're cringing as you're looking at it, feels so cohesive. Like each part meshes wonderfully together.

"See? You got nothing to worry about", Sevika states, her hands delicately holding you in place. "Your body is beautiful. You're absolutely beautiful..."

Initially, you were staring at yourself with waves of uneasiness filling your insides, thoughts of how disgusting your body is to you, but the more you look, the more you think about how Sevika feels about you; the more you're finding things that you actually like about your body.

Like you've always loved how round your cheeks were, it made you look sweet...kind. And no matter how bad people made you feel for it, you didn't mind how wide and pointed your hips were; they made you feel beautiful sometimes; almost sexy?

Looking at your body like this, taking it all in, while scary at first, gradually started to feel better.

"Thank you.... Y-you've made me feel better, especially on my first day". You turn away from the mirror and look at her, shooting her a look of gratitude and holding her hands in front of you.

"Not a problem, princess". The 'scary lady' smiles, and walks you back to the couch, sitting back down with her legs spread. She slaps her thigh, twice, inviting you to sit on her lap.

And so, you do, confidently this time.

"So... how was your first day? Enjoy yourself?". Sevika chuckles and smiles to herself at her question, looking at you, securing your waist in her hand. "You know, besides the panic attack that I caused".

You both laugh heartily, yours coming out as a giggle rather than a chuckle as big as her own.

"Besides that, it was mostly nice. I'm glad I had you as my first customer; you make me feel...". You pause, trying to find the words. "You've made me feel worth it".

Sevika looks pleased hearing you say that. As much as she loves to go to the brothel to make herself feel good, after a long day's work; making the workers feel good has always been just as important to her.

"Good". She takes your chin in her hand and smooths her thumb over your soft lips. "I hope that panic attack was the only bad thing about your day".

"I wish", you mutter. Your eyes shift to the floor and Sevika scrunches her brow, surprised at your confession.

"Hmm? What happened to make you say that?", she enquires. You take a breath, getting ready to explain the other downsides of your day. You're not looking forward to this, but she's made you feel comfortable enough to express yourself.

"When I arrived, these girls... they started laughing at me. Laughing at what I looked like. I overheard one of them call me a name". You take a look at Sevika's face, and that unnerving scowl is back; and this time, the danger in her eyes has no flirty connotations.

"Show me". She demands. You furrow your brows, confused as to what she's asking you to do. But then it hits you, and you stand up and step towards that maroon-coloured curtain, bringing her with you.

You pull back the curtain and bring Sevika's attention to three women entertaining a customer in the room opposite yours, their drapery opened enough to see them.

A busty brunette with an hourglass figure, a rambunctious red head, blue eyes gleaming at whoever's in front of her, her loud cackle filling the room, and the queen bee, right in the middle.

Blonde , thin as a twig, batting her bright green eyes at the customer, flirting mercilessly with him. Her hair is slicked back into a ponytail, accentuating the height of her cheekbones, her lips pursed above her perfectly crafted jawline. You point at her tentatively whilst she seduces her prey.

"She's the one who called me a name", you announce, disapproval in your tone. Suddenly, you see her turn her head and catch your eye, and she smiles slyly at seeing you watch her. You immediately shut the curtain and turn your back towards them.

Sevika reflects on how triumphant she looked when she was talking. From her smile, all the way to her body language. The way she was sitting up straight, how she was playing with her hair, twirling the ends of it, the daggers in her eyes.

There was an arrogance to it; as if she thought she was above everyone else.

"She thinks she's the shit, huh?". Her distaste is crystal clear in her voice. You nod profusely in response.

"Haha... yep". You fold your arms, trying to shield yourself as you think about how that girl treated you.

Sevika glares towards the curtain in front of you both, seething at the thought of someone treating you that way. Then a sly smile of her own is plastered across her face. An idea she was definitely planning on following through with, filled her brain.

"Why don't we give her something to look at? Make her jealous." She nudges you gently, her head tilted, waiting for your answer.

"Ah... I don't know", you say apprehensively. You look at the curtain, and then back at her. You see her face, and she looks like she's trying hard to convince you.

It would be fun, you think to yourself, picturing that smug look on that girl's face disappear as you carry out whatever plan Sevika has concocted.

You close your eyes for a few seconds and open them back up with a newfound fire inside them.

"Okay!", you exclaim. "So, what's the plan?". Sevika seizes your hand and drags you outside of the room you were in, and takes a strong hold of your waist, both hands against your hips. In the corner of your eye, you see the queen bee look over to where you're standing.

Sevika leans over your shoulder, her mouth pressed up against your ear, the sensation of her lips brushing against it. "Can I kiss you?", she whispers.

Your breath hitches as your heart begins to fill with excitement. You accept the offer with a quick but soft nod of your head.

She takes your face in her hand and presses her lips against yours, feeling the warmth of your lips against hers. You kiss her back, cautious at first, unsure of what to do; but then you relax into it, and pull her into an embrace as her soft lips make yours tingle, lips brushing together; her breath tickling your nose.

She slowly pulls her lips away, leaving you with a proud look across her face, a large differentiation in yours. You look at her, dazed, stunned, disoriented.

"Wow..", you say. "That was...."

"Good?", she asks, laughing as she puts her hands on her hips.

"Yes, definitely". You giggle, putting your hand over your mouth bashfully. Sevika looks to see if "Blondie" noticed how well you were getting along, and it was safe to say she did. You turn to see for yourself, and that pompous look on her face went straight into a displeased frown in a matter of seconds.

Your giggle becomes a hearty laugh as your attention shifts back to Sevika. "I think we definitely made her jealous".

"I think that's fair to say, doll", she retorts, gently nudging you again. Sevika then clutches you tightly into her arms, surprising you and lifting you off your feet a little.

"Wait here for me". Then she releases you, going back into the private room you were in.

You wait there, hardly able to contain your excitement, fiddling with your hands and grinning up to your ears. Your heart racing, your mind thinking of all the things she could be doing, imagining what she thinks about you.

You've just met, but you can't help it. The amount of feelings that you have felt just from meeting her has already changed your life for the better. You hope that she'll come around and change it for the better again.

She pulls the curtain back and brings a large pouch, filled with money for your services. You almost forgot this was your job, until you saw that.

"I gotta pay you sometime, right?", she jokes. You smile, taking the money from her hands.

"Thank you, Sevika". You sway from side to side as you hold the pouch in your hands. "I hope you'll come around again?". You wait in anticipation, silently pleading for her to say what you want to hear. That she'll be back.

"Definitely". She leans down with her hand on your back, and places a kiss on your cheek, grinning in your direction.

"Goodbye now". She finally turns away, and before you can reply, confidently walking towards the exit.

You watch her in awe, wishing you could have said goodbye in your own little way, full of hope for your next interaction at The Gardens....

taglist: @archangeldyke-all @yer-boiiii @myrkkymato @abitohoney @abitohoney-fics @xthescarletbitch @sevikaspillowprincess @sevikasenby