#the first line is THIS IS NOT IN YOUR HEAD

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader - warnings: panic attack, PPD

"Does tomorrow morning work? I'll be heading to base immediately after. Want to make sure I have enough time to say goodbye."

"Yeah, we'll see you then."

Simon goes to bed early that night.

He's good at clearing his mind and willing himself to sleep, hovering just barely there on the surface, never dipping too deep, and has done it for years. It enables his ability to rest in even some of the most uncomfortable circumstances (and that includes Johnny's snoring). It's compartmentalizing at it's finest, something he's tried to impress upon the sergeants too, over time.

Learn how to do this. It may save your life.

The pendulum swing keeps him somewhat aware, connected to a very small piece still tethered to the conscious world.

It's how he hears his phone ring at twenty hundred.

The caller ID flashes your name and he picks up immediately, sitting straight up. "Hey-"

"Hi, um..." You're crying. He flips himself out of bed, already partially dress, and manages to locate his shoes in a millisecond.

"What's wrong?"

"Can you... can you c-come- take the baby for a little while?" Your exhale whistles through the phone sharply. "P-please. I know you- you're leaving tomorrow but I-"

"It's alright, I'm on my way. I'll be there in a minute. Are you okay?"

"I- I... don't know wh-what to do." You're hyperventilating, caught in the grip of something, scared and alone. The sidewalk stretches for miles, his lungs burning as the oxygen stays trapped in his chest from the weight of his fear, and the line goes quiet, call ending as he makes it to the lobby of your building and up the stairs.

The copy of your key he never returned gets him inside, and the first thing he notices, or realizes, is Orion's screaming. He calls your name, yells it, beelining for the nursery where the baby lays on his back, hands and feet wriggling wildly in the air, tears coursing down his cheeks as he wails. "Alright, Ry, alright. C'mere, I've got you." You're not in here, not anywhere in sight, and his stomach flips.

You have to be here. He just talked to you.

But you wouldn't know how to signal him if something was really wrong, would you? He didn't prepare you. If something happened, how would you tell him?

He tucks Orion into his arms, cradles him to his chest, and bounces him gently. "Hey, you're okay, you're okay. What's all this crying about, hmm? What is it? Where's your mama?" The crying gentles, barely, and Simon holds him at a distance, quickly, checking him over. He's not overheated, he doesn't seem to be hurt, he's freshly bathed and in a clean onesie. His nappy is new and doesn't need to be changed. "Mama took good care of you, huh? You're all clean, fresh nappy, ready for bed, aren't you bub? Yeah." Simon paces in a circle, trying to settle his cries, before lowering him back into the crib. "You stay right here, little man, alright? Close your eyes. Daddy's gonna find mama and he'll be right back."

You're not in the living room, and he finds your bedroom dark when he opens the door. For a very brief moment, his panic blooms into paralyzation, before he spots the light from your bathroom.

His heart breaks when he opens the door.

You're on the floor, back against the vanity, sobbing with your palms covering your ears. You look like you haven't showered in days, and your light blue t shirt is soaked, slicked to your breasts and belly.

There's no distance between the two of you in this moment, no barriers, no time, no need for space. He kneels, and you look up, tearful eyes telling him all he needs to know. "I'm here, mama. I've got you."

You go into his arms willingly, diaphragm heaving with tiny hiccups and sobs, unable to catch your breath. Your entire body shakes, and wraps himself around you, holding you tight where you've buried your face in his chest. "I- I'm s-sorry." You're hoarse, voice cracked and broken. "He w-won't stop."

"Shhh, don't worry about that right now, just take a deep breath." You shake your head.

"I can't."

"Yes you can." You're frozen, panicked, and he smoothes his hand over your head. "You can do it, honey. Try f'me." The baby is still crying, and with the bathroom door slightly ajar, it bounces off the tile, all around you. Simon grimaces.

He's fine, he's safe. He's in his crib.

Simon shuts the door.

"Breathe with me, alright?" he maneuvers you so that you're in his arms, laying on his chest, face tipped back to his. "Just follow me," he pulls the hand that's gripping onto his forearm like rebar away and places it over his heart, "like this." You try and try to sync your breathing with his, and once you finally get there, evening out slowly, he kisses your hair. "There you go, good girl."

Simon keeps you close, happy to hold you, even if it was in these circumstances. It's so selfish, so wrong, but he can't find it in himself to let you go, waiting long past the point when you've calmed down to finally speak again. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"He... he wouldn't stop crying. For hours and I... I tried everything, but I felt like I couldn't breathe and I felt... dizzy, and when I went to feed him he didn't want me and I was crying too, but I felt so- so mad at the same time, and I didn't know what to do so I j-just put him in his crib and came in here and c-called you. I don't kn-know what I did wrong-" your breathing slips into shallow territory again, and he rubs your back.

"You didn't do anything wrong. He's okay, he's safe. He's even got a fresh nappy on. You made sure you took care of him, which is all you need to do, okay?"

"I feel awful," you whisper, drenched in shame, "he needs to eat, and I just- I abandoned him."

"No, you did the right thing and took a break. There's nothing wrong with taking a break." You sniffle, pulling the sopping shirt away from your body, shivering with discomfort. "Do you want to try again? See if it goes any better?" You give him a frightened look, unsure and nervous. "I'll be right here with you."

"Okay."

"Let's go see your mama." Orion has worked himself into a state, and it tears Simon to pieces, guilt about leaving him in here ripping through his heart.

He feels responsible. He is responsible, at the end of the day. If he had been upfront with you from the beginning, this might have never happened. He would have been here. You would have the support you need.

He was supposed to take care of you, but all he did was make it worse.

He kisses Orion gently. It helps quell the anxiety growing like a plague inside him, worry and fear about leaving you on your own for weeks, or more, chipping away at his resolve. He tells himself you'll be okay, that you did it on your own before he came along, and that you can do it again, but the admission of another dizzy spell doesn't make him feel any better in the long run.

"Don't worry, she's okay now. She loves you so much, you know that? She takes such good care of you, all the time. Even when she doesn't feel good, doesn't she?" He doesn't turn the lights on to your bedroom, and finds you on the bed, sitting up, wet shirt discarded on the floor. He doesn't rush it, doesn't push you, even though the baby cries at the top of his lungs in Simon's arms.

Finally, you hold your hands out. He helps get Orion settled, stroking his cheek over and over until he starts to instinctually seek you out, latching after a few long minutes.

Your eyes slip closed at the silence and you lean to the side, nestling into Simon's chest.

He holds you. You hold his baby.

How it was always meant to be.

He whispers above your ear, working his fingers into the knots of your neck, your shoulders. "You're doing great, mama." You hum but stay quiet, head down, fingers stroking over Ry's cheek, again and again.

"Thank you... for being here. I know things are complicated but it means a lot that you would come. I'm sorry I freaked out, about your job. I just... it's a lot to take in. I don't really know how to feel. I need some time." That's good, he thinks. Better than last week, when you asked him to leave with tears in your eyes. There's hope. He can fix this.

"You can have all the time you want sweetheart, but... I need to ask you a favor." Orion's body full relaxes, little fist clenched in the swell of your breast falling away, and you sigh.

"What is it?"

"When I'm away... I can turn my phone on every now and then, in specific places. D'you think you could send me some pictures? Or maybe I could call, when I'm able?"

"Of course."

He stays most of the night, until the sun comes up. Gets Ry back down, stands watch while you're in shower, helps you get settled in bed. There's a special place in his heart for you when you're soft and sweet and sleepy, a tiny kitten, curling up in the palm of his hand, purring. His moon. His everything.

"You be good for your mama, okay? I expect a good report when I get home. And try not to grow too much, alright little man?" He kisses his head, holding it there, walking around in the kitchen with Ry in his arms. "I love you, Orion. You and your mama. I'll be home real soon."

You turn the corner, something clenched in your hands, what, he can't tell, and you smile sadly. "I uh... I have something for you." He cocks, his head, shifting the baby to one arm, and you hold your fist out. "It's kind of dumb, honestly, but I thought you might... I don't know. I thought you might like it. I made it myself." It's a small fabric square, embroidered with a constellation, Orion's, he recognizes now, and a compass. "It's so you can always find it in the night sky. If you're in the northern hemisphere it should be south west, and if you're in the southern, it's in the north west. I didn't know like, what you could take with you but I figured this is small enough..." You look embarrassed, and all he wants to do is pull you into his arms and kiss you.

But he can't. He can only whisper your name, thick with emotion.

"It's great. I'll use it every night. Thank you." You blink, eyes wet, and then nod. He glances at his watch.

"Time to go?"

"Yeah," he hands you the baby, and picks up his duffle, the weight foreign now but still familiar. "Take care of yourself, alright?"

"I will."

"Promise me." He's stern, pushing a little bit of lieutenant into it, and you agree again, quickly.

"I will." You follow him to the door, holding Orion up for him to kiss one last time, and then he presses his mouth to your forehead, pleased when you don't pull away. He's dragging it out, the reluctance too ripe, and finally hangs his head in defeat after the too short minutes tick away.

"I'll see you soon." He gives you one last look, memorizing your face, Orion's, as much as he can, before heading down the hall.

"Simon," you call, turning him on a dime, "be careful, okay? Make sure... make sure you come home." Home.

"I will. I promise."

[andwordsarefutiledevicess]

press relations

stanford!artdonaldson x sportsjournalist!reader

summary: assigned to write a profile of stanford's rising tennis star, you get to know art better. much better.

warnings: smut, dry humping, b0ner alert, implied consent

a/n: this does have a *hint* of art x patrick x reader undertones at the end! any (constructive) feedback is appreciated :)

you get the message as you exit the lecture hall and head to the cafeteria for lunch. “other writers are busy. can you take the art donaldson profile?” reads the text from your editor. having written for the stanford daily as a sports reporter for the past year, you’re no stranger to turning a dull interview with a rather dim-witted football player into an oh-so-riveting piece. however, this is out of your comfort zone.

tennis is…boring. sure, you’d happily tagged along to a couple of tashi duncan’s matches, unwilling to pass up the opportunity to see an olympic-bound athlete in her prime, but it isn’t your ideal way to spend a saturday afternoon. 

and yet, that is exactly what you are doing. the donaldson interview is lined up for directly after his match with a ucla player. “he’s got a tight schedule, so we need to accommodate him,” said your editor when you questioned why you had to sit through a match and then manage to cram in an interview in the men’s fucking lockerroom. 

art donaldson is a year above you, living in the same dorm. you recognize most athletes at this point—in part because they’re constantly (obnoxiously) sporting team merch, and because of your job—but art is known by most for his friendship with tashi duncan. neither are particularly social, keeping their circle tight amongst fellow tennis players, both at stanford and professionals. 

it’s difficult not to stick out in the bleachers. while other players, including a brown-haired boy cheering quite loudly, observe the game, it’s by no means packed. as donaldson pauses for water after the first set, he catches your gaze, giving an awkward wave in acknowledgement as he wipes the sweat from his face. you silently pray that he knows you’re the reporter he’s supposed to speak to, and doesn’t just think you’re some crazed tashi duncan fangirl. 

his playing is statuesque, long limbs sweeping across the court (but not entirely stripped of the boyish energy that defined his success as a high school student). after beating his opponent 2-0, donaldson steps off the court, dramatically embraced by the brown-haired spectator, who you have since realized is his former doubles partner, patrick zweig, and you take this as a signal to get this interview started before he becomes swept up in celebrations. 

climbing down the bleachers, you see art duck down into the hallway, making his way into the locker rooms. in all your time as a sports reporter, you hadn’t had such an…unconventional… interview location, and you feel a bit sick as the sound of the shower draws closer. 

“art donaldson?” you say, standing just outside the open door of the locker room. 

“yeah” he calls back, as though he was expecting you, but not entirely welcoming the intrusion. the shower turns off, and the soft sound of his steps on the tiles echo. “well, come in,” he calls again. 

you step into the steam-filled space with your eyes directed down. “i understand you have physical therapy shortly, so i’ll try to keep this quick—,” you say, taken aback as you finally draw your eyes upward. he’s managed to pull on a pair of checkered boxers, fabric sticking to his still-damp body. 

you can’t imagine you look particularly composed, hair sticking to your face from the steam with a burning blush spread across your cheeks. you watch as art bites his cheek and awkwardly motions for you to sit on the bench across from him as he methodically changes the overgrip on his racket. 

“so,” you say, clearing your throat, “how did you first become interested in tennis?” he glances up from his task. “my parents needed someone to watch me, and my grandma was busy, so they stuck me in a local tennis camp. i doubt they realized that they were signing up for over a decade of tennis running my—and their—lives.”

you hum in agreement. “and what specific areas of your game are you hoping to improve on this season?” you follow up. his gaze becomes more intent—more focused. setting the racket to his side, art stands, before quickly realizing he’s still only boxer-clad. you stare at the opposite wall, hoping to save him the embarrassment, and you see him fumble to slip on shorts out of the corner of your eye. he clears his throat. “ – um – yeah, i’m trying to get faster on my feet. sorry, i—” he says, before you cut him off in protest. “no, no, i should have given you a moment to clean up after your match, it’s my fault,” you say, rising off of the bench awkwardly, avoiding his gaze. 

but with the lingering steam, and your downward gaze, your fumble to exit the locker room instead lands you into direct contact with his chest. “shit! sorry,” you exclaim, drawing your chin up. a wash of heat cascades from your head, nipples taut, despite the warmth of the room, as your body reacts to the sudden proximity. art is equally flushed, pink lips slightly parted and chest rocking as he concentrates on breathing deeply, trying to lower his racing heart. you can smell him, fresh with a hint of that post-game sweat, a droplet of water falling from a blonde curl. 

he brings a calloused hand to your hair, brushing it behind your shoulder, as if to ask permission. the slight nod and glaze of your tongue over your lips is enough for him to understand, his breath heavy against your face as your noses are close enough to touch. that final centimeter is finally closed, and it’s as though air rushes back into you while inhibition is tossed out. without thinking, your hair tangles into his mess of damp hair, and you feel his soft moan against your lips. you gasp as his hand grabs your ass, drawing you into contact with his erection (for how much of that interview was he hard?). 

“you—ah—you have physical th-therapy,” you say, breathless as he works his mouth down your jaw and neck. “just…five more minutes,” he says in between kisses, like a teenager wishing to sleep in, causing you to chuckle. bringing your left knee up, your hips are suddenly flush against his, and the new contact sends you both reeling, his cock twitching in his shorts. you tentatively rock, again, against his groin, and you both seem to realize that that hit the spot. pushing your back against a locker, art draws his groin against yours again, and again, his soft pants becoming near whimpers as your lips meet for a desperate, sloppy kiss. 

you’re lost in the rhythm the two of you have found, ignoring the rattle of the lockers with each thrust. fuck you’re embarrassingly close (that’s what a two month dry spell will do for you) but before you have to worry about coming too early, you hear his strangled voice in your ear. “ – f-fuck, s-sorry i’m close, was so pent up.” before you’re able to reply, your body has taken this as permission to let the orgasm wash over you at last. still reeling from your own orgasm, you feel the warm spread of art’s cum seep through the thin fabric of his shorts, as he continues to rut against you. 

bringing your arms up to hurriedly fix your now-tangled hair, you draw away from art. a fresh blush comes to your cheeks at the realization of how silly you feel, grinding like a pubescent teen. art seems tired, yes, but not embarrassed, slipping off his pants and boxers and replacing them with clean ones. before he’s got his wits back, you’re out the door, praying no one managed to overhear the encounter. to your dismay, patrick zweig, smug as ever, sits outside the locker room.

[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [6]

Weapon design always came easy to Jack Fenton. He grew up with it, all the way back in Atlantis, when he was just a little guppy.

What he wasn’t aware of at the time was that his parents were from a long and prestigious line of scientists and weapon manufacturers in Atlantean society. But things had been getting dangerous. 

The King at the time cast them out when they refused his demands of greater, stronger, deadlier weapons. The kind of weapons they knew would not only destroy their enemies, but themselves as well.

They fled and went where they thought they would never be found, the surface.

Jack had the easiest time adapting, being as young as he was getting used to breathing air was a lot less of a struggle. 

He adopted one of the most generic male names he could, and adapted the family name of Fenestratus into Fenton. And then it was just living as a human, as humanly as possible, nothing to see here.

By now Jack basically doesn’t know any better. but this piece of heritage is coming back now all these years later, when his son is looking to him for help from the government.

But first he holds his boy close and apologizes, because he sees the fear, and he understands a little too well, and he doesn’t like the picture he’s seeing now that all the puzzle pieces are falling into place.

“I almost became the thing I hate the most. I’m so sorry Danny, I’m sorry I made you feel unsafe in your own home”

The hug is long and warm and tight and Danny isn’t ashamed to admit he might have clung a little bit.

Then Jack holds Danny tightly by his shoulders and gives him a big grin, “Good news though, you’re only half ghost, the other half is not only human but also Atlantean, and there are laws protecting us now” Jack mutters to himself, “I wonder if the whole ghost stuff would actually be put under the meta protection thing… hmm”

Danny blinks for a moment, Jazz gapes, Maddie is suddenly no longer spiraling about how her baby boy got in a terrible accident in their lab and she didn’t know.

“I’m also what?”

“Dad!?”

“oh did I forget to mention that? I thought I did, I know for certain that I had been meaning to”

“Jack sweetie, are you-”

“oh yes, and I remember now, I decided to tell you after our big breakthrough because I didn’t want to distract you, and-” Jack looks sheepish, “I hope you aren’t too mad at me Maddiecakes”

“mad? oh I would never be mad at you about this but we could have- I don’t know, accommodated- Atlanteans are aquatic, well I guess that explains how you could always put away so much water, and when you gave me your umbrella and I thought you were just making an excuse when you told me you didn’t mind and in fact loved getting pelted by the rain-”

Maddie goes on, and Jack thinks to himself that this is exactly the reason why he kept it to himself at the time, Maddie never half asses anything, he’s sure a lot of things are going to change in the house now, it honestly only makes him fall in love with her even more.

Meanwhile Jazz had filled up a bucket of water and then dunked her head in, then came back out not even slightly gasping for breath, just saying “oh my god” over and over.

Danny timed it, “yeah okay, I guess that proves it. now I’m starting to wonder if my weird relationship with air is ghost related at all”

[cerisereids]

𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁? 𝗶 𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗼!- 𝘀.𝗿.

wc- 5k

pairing- later seasons!spencer reid x plus size!liason!reader

summary- rossi throws a pool party for the team and spencer has a very difficult time keeping his eyes off the new bau hire

warnings- alcohol consumption, it’s late seasons spencer but the og team is there cuz i said so 😚 dating experiences as a bigger girl (mentioned), insecurities as a bigger girl mentioned, but we’re on the self love healing journeyyy 🌈✨🩷, spencer’s a teensy bit insecure of his post prison bod, so much sexual tension??, cute team antics with the girls!!!! making out!!!!!! so much making out!!!!!! touching!!!!! a lil grinding!!!! but no fr fr smut sry yall im a teacher

a/n- besides the fact that the reader is plus size and a woman, there are no other physical descriptors in this fic :D pic is just for bikini reference 😚 dividers from @saradika-graphics !!

you can’t remember the last time you’ve been this relaxed. your skin shines under the golden warmth of the sun, your head spins just slightly from the frozen daiquiris you and penelope have been drinking all afternoon, you’re in your new favorite bikini- hot pink floral print with a matching sarong draped over your hips. your perch yourself on your boss’ teakwood chaise lounge in the midst of his crowded backyard, one of david rossi’s infamous pool parties in full swing.

you lean back and sip your drink, head turning towards commotion at the front gate. cheers and happy greetings are exchanged as someone enters, though you can’t see who behind the partygoers who’ve gathered to say hello. your large sunglasses thankfully disguise the anxiety laced in your gaze, a knot tightening in your stomach when you see who’s arrived- spencer reid. he’s become quite elusive in your time at the bureau, seeing as you were hired on while he was wrongfully imprisoned. he barely talks to you, won’t do so much as look at you when there’s not a case. you still think he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

his silence is never offensive, just reserved. when you’d first met him, he was stunned at the fact that they’d hired someone new in his absence, very untrusting of outsiders since his time behind bars. it’s understandable, you’d probably react the same way if you were in his shoes. you can’t help but long for his affection, his friendship. hell, you’d take a civil conversation by the coffee pot at this point if it meant getting to know more about the dr. spencer reid.

you see the way he moves with ease throughout the swarm of people at the gate, greeting him with open arms and wide smiles. he’s comfortable as he responds to these people, you can tell from his relaxed shoulders to the smile lines arching his cheeks. you ache to be a part of that, down to the bone.

you shift in your seat, gaze turning to your lap as you awkwardly sip your drink. his presence burns into your stomach, looming over you like a ghost haunting a child in the night. he floats across the pool deck, his shadow leading to the very center-the prime tanning location, penelope insisted- where you two still lay on your chairs.

“spencer!!” penelope squeals, jumping up to give him a hug.

“hey, penelope,” you hear him breathe out, hushed and tender, lips pressed to her forehead.

you adjust yourself to sit up, your feet now slipping into your sandals laid out on the concrete. your palms lay flat on the tops of your thighs as you fidget in your seat. awkwardness twists up your insides as penelope finally lets go of the man, his bright smile fading into a soft grin.

“hi,” he chirps, and it’s the most animated you’ve ever heard his voice. it’s nice, like the soft ring of birds early in the morning.

“hello, dr. reid,” the formality slips off your tongue before you can remember you’re not at work. the title pushes a laugh from deep in his chest, the apples of his cheeks tinting pink.

“oh! oh no, it’s- you can call me spencer,” he presses his lips together in an endearing half smile.

“ok…spencer,” you try the name out. it’s sweet on your tongue, absorbing the flavor of him like a hard candy. you wonder briefly if there are any other sweet parts of spencer that you can sink your teeth into.

you shake out the thought as quickly as it came, once again fidgeting in your chair so you’re facing the pool, and not your intimidatingly tall coworker.

“you should come sit with us, spence!” penelope suggests, eyes wide as she pulls over another chair. three now lay in a row, yours in the middle, and you’re entirely certain you won’t be able to last a millisecond with a shirtless spencer reid tanning next to you.

you lift your sunglasses, piercing penelope with your fiercest glare. she just smirks, cozying back into her spot as she innocently sips her drink. you let your shades fall back onto the bridge of your nose, masking your eye roll. her, emily, jj, and tara all know of the secret flame you hold for your teammate, thanks to a girls’ night featuring too many margaritas.

you couldn’t count on all your fingers and toes the amount of times they’ve all insisted that he’s just shy, that he’s never been good with beautiful women. you know what they’re trying to tell you, you just can’t let yourself give into the thought unless you hear it from him. you’ve grown to love your body, every dip and curve, your stretch marks and cellulite. still, that hurt young girl who never had a date to the school dance lingers inside, deep in a pit in the bottom of your stomach. she can’t let go of the possibility that he can’t look at you because he’s repulsed, turned off.

penelope reaches over and squeezes your hand, somehow able to read your mind. you suppose it might have something to do with the pout weighing down your lips.

“i guess bringing wine was a bad call,” you hear from beside you, and you whip your head towards spencer, nodding towards your frozen drink.

“oh!” you gasp as you connect the dots, “oh, i don’t think so!” your cheeks burn under his gaze, a hint of uncertainty in his big brown eyes, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk to him when he’d opened his mouth. you see the risk he’s taking, your heart pounding in your ears. you immediately jump to validate his worry, “rossi’s never going to complain about alcohol, you know that.”

he softens, his brow relaxing, mouth ticking upward at the corner, “that’s true, though it’s useless bringing any other type of alcohol when rossi gets his frozen margarita machine out,” spencer playfully rolls his eyes.

“that much is true, too,” you giggle, taking another sip of your drink, “he’s got daiquiris in one, margaritas in the other,” you explain, “at one point me and penelope mixed them. would not recommend,” you shudder at the memory, the tart citrus of the margarita was not so complimentary to the sweetness of the strawberry daiquiri.

he huffs out a laugh at that, one that throws his head back, “good to know…would you maybe want to come with me, see what else might be over there?” he nods back to the bar, every inch of its surface covered by a bottle of alcohol, surrounded by huge tables of food.

your heart stops, and it feels like water is swirling through your ears, the pressure pounding in your head, “yeah,” you rush out breathily, “yeah, i’d like that. i think i need a refill, too,” you gesture to your now empty cup, but you stumble as you stand from your chair.

“woah…” he holds his hands out, lightly grazing your elbows to steady you, “you sure? i can get you some water instead, maybe,” his concerned tone tells you that although it sounds like he’s giving you the option, he’s really not. you suppose he’s probably right, he is a genius, after all.

“okay,” you shrug, the mix of vitamin d and alcohol floating to your head, warming you from the inside out, “but only if you get a margarita!” you poke him in the chest, hands on your hips as you stand parallel to him. your eyes bore into his as you take in your proximity, how you can smell the sweetness of his sunscreen. in your tipsy haze, you allow your eyes to linger on his neck, just for a moment, wondering what it’d taste like to lick one long stripe up the length of it.

“deal,” he muses, slipping his own shoes back on before walking across the backyard with you. he lets you go first- ever the gentleman- and hovers his hand over the small of your back, as if he’s anticipating you to fall back into him at any moment.

“you don’t have to do that, you know,” you flip your hair over one shoulder as you gaze back at him. you can see the amusement sparkling in his eye, and your heart thumps against your chest just a bit harder, “i’m totally fi-” you’re cut off with a gasp as your sandal catches onto a rock. you would have planted face first into the tough concrete, had it not been for the long, strong arms that wrap around you in the nick of time, pulling you flush against his chest.

he’s pressed up against your back, his heart thumping a mile a minute against your shoulder, his breathing heavy in your ear, “what was that?” he murmurs into your temple, and you can feel the smirk dancing on his lips. your lashes kiss your cheeks as you let out a heavy sigh, “i’m fine,” you insist, stepping away from him and walking ahead to one of the coolers, a plastic water bottle crinkling between your fingers.

“sure you are!” his tone leaks with sarcasm, shining you his infamous close lipped smile.

you roll your eyes as you approach him at the bar, his clear plastic cup now a pale shade of yellow as his long, deft fingers lift it to his lips.

“thank you,” you relent sweetly, smiling back warmly, your heart fluttering when he returns it, “you know, i think this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me outside of the office,” your forwardness stuns you, another unfortunate symptom of the alcohol you’ve already consumed.

it takes spencer aback as well, his neck lengthening, shoulders rolling with the movement, “oh! yeah, yeah i’m sorry about that,” he responds, sheepish, but genuine, “adjusting back to my old life after being released has been tough. there-uh- there hasn’t been much time for new people in my life recently.”

the energy shifts in that moment, tension percolating between you two. you’re still at the bar, leaning your elbows on it behind you while spencer stands in front of you. very closely, all of a sudden. uncertainty strikes through his chocolate irises like lightning, your heart twisting up in knots at the sight.

“spencer, you don’t have to explain your healing process to me,” you begin, as earnestly as possible. he smiles softly at that. you continue, “you’re plenty cordial to me at work, but i would like to get to know you more, if that’s something you’d feel comfortable with?” your voice is soft, soothing, though your heart is pounding a mile a minute, anxious acidity pooling in your stomach.

you see his eyes light up, a happy little sigh escaping his lips. your cheeks heat up at the endearing noise, and you hold your breath as he prepares to speak.

“you-”

“REID!” he’s barely able to get a syllable out before he’s cut off by derek across the pool deck, seemingly quite upset that spencer has not yet followed through on his promise to swim with him.

he turns to morgan, then back to you, face flushed a furious red. he purses his lips as he tries to think of what to say. you do him one better.

“let’s go!” you chirp sweetly, heading toward the pool area, “i’ve been meaning to dip my toe in all day!” you walk in front of him, letting him watch you as you strut away.

spencer takes a minute as she walks away, his eyes scanning up and down her frame shamelessly. her bright pink bikini hugs every peak and valley of her soft figure perfectly, showcasing her body in ways he never thought he’d be lucky enough to see. the skirt draped over her hips sways hypnotically as she walks, his eyes practically rolling out of their sockets at the sight.

he saunters behind her slowly as they cross the pool deck, reveling in the show she’s giving him. his eyes grow lazy, addicted as he watches her, his tongue lolling out lazily to wrap around the plastic straw in his margarita. he sips the cold drink, the alcohol immediately rushing to his...other head, clouding his judgement until his brain is fuzzy. he finally reaches the chair penelope grabbed for him, and stops in his tracks.

she’s laid out on her own chair, mere inches from his, her body now laid out on display. she’s leaning back on her elbows, her legs extended in front of her, one knee propped up just slightly. she’s unreal, just breathtaking. his heart is beating a mile a minute the closer he approaches, and he nearly vibrates out of his skin when he sits next to her, their arms inches apart. it’s like his ears are filled with water, the world moving around him in slow motion as the only thing taking up his expensive brain is the bombshell next to him.

he’s never this needy, this gluttonous, but the sight of you electrocutes his heart, a shocking desire he feels from the deepest corner of his heart to the very tips of his toes. he can’t help but wish he’s on your mind as much as you’re on his. she may have put on a cute act by the bar, but she was right for calling him out, too.

he doesn’t speak to her, but it’s not for lack of want. when he was in prison, all he wanted was to go back to the bau, to see his family. when that day finally came, she was the last thing he’d expected. her eyes paralyzed him that day, wide and bright as she cordially welcomed him back to his position. whenever she catches his eye from his desk, or walks past him, allowing him a whiff of her shampoo, he’s frozen all over again. he feels like he’s 13 again, and he just got assigned to sit next to the prettiest girl in his ap calc class. giddy, fluttery, terrified.

he takes one last sip of his drink, for now, as he knows derek is very impatiently awaiting his company in the water. he instinctively reaches to pull his shirt off, his fingers dancing along the hem. he stops himself when his eyes catch his tummy, protruding over his swim shorts ever so slightly. he’s never really struggled with his self image all that much, but the little pouch wasn’t there before he was wrongfully arrested, so it’s a new part of his body he’s made adjustments to. the next coming of aphrodite laid up next to him was not helping his confidence, acidic nerves bubbling in his stomach.

his gaze snaps over to her, sighing a breath of relief as he sees her focus on penelope. he drops his hands, turning to wade into the pool steps. derek meets his gaze with a knowing smirk, heat spreading over his already pink cheeks.

“morgan-”

he can barely get out another syllable before he’s cut off, “let’s go, pretty boy!” he calls from the water, where he impatiently waits, “cmon, you can race me for penelope’s diving sticks,” he flashes him a classic derek morgan smile, drawling a soft, sarcastic ‘loverrr’ that only spencer can hear as he further enters the pool.

“that only sounds fun for you!” spencer flicks water at his friend, who laughs and splashes back, “what, you just gonna get your shirt soaked?” morgan asks. spencer freezes, the water only reaching his knees.

he knows derek’s only asking out of concern, he probably thinks spencer forgot. he’d never put him on the spot like that if he really knew why he’d left it on. his heart rate picks up again, and this time it’s dread pooling in his stomach, overthrowing the desire his organs housed previously. his head is fuzzy, and that’s why he acts on immediate impulse, his head whipping back to her and penelope sitting on their chairs. she’s looking right at him, of course, anxiety flooding his chest like a tsunami.

his hand involuntarily drifts to his tummy as he fiddles with a button on his hawaiian shirt, but before he can do anything, she stands. he’s wholly unprepared for what happens next- she loosens the tie holding her sarong together, and exposes even more of herself for him. she looks him right in the eye as she patters across the deck to the pool. he’s mesmerized at the light jiggle in her thigh as she walks, unable to stop his brain from imagining a scenario in which he could give her skin another reason to do that.

his gaze follows her shamelessly the entire time she moves, until she’s on the same step of the pool as him. his mouth is slightly ajar, no doubt looking like a love struck cartoon character with hearts beating out of his eyes. she seems unphased as her delicately manicured fingers lightly graze his forearm.

“i can put it back on your chair, if you’d like?” she asks sweetly, melting his heart into a lovesick puddle.

something about the way she’s looking at him, eyes soft and so, so genuine, puts his worries at ease. his fingers reach to the top button and pops it open, all while they stare each other down like they’re in an interrogation room. butterflies swarm in his gut, palpitating his heart as the tension builds, thickening with the heat.

she wades deeper into the water, his eyes glued on her figure. the water covers her up more and more, and he gulps, shaky fingers fiddling with the rest of the buttons. he’s thankful derek and penelope are too tipsy and too invested in timing his speed underwater. if they noticed this near pornographic level of tension between him and her, they’d make sure everyone else on the pool deck did, too.

she moves like she knows he’s watching her, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder, taking a peek at spencer right as he’s peeling his shirt off. he feels more exposed than ever now as he slips his arms out of his sleeves. he turns to toss the shirt onto the chair, and as his body twists, he notices the way his tummy pudges over the waistband of his shorts, the little rolls that weren’t there before prison.

he feels the water ripple around him, and he turns to find her approaching the steps he’s been frozen on for almost five minutes now. they don’t speak as she exits the pool, his brow incredulous, “you’re getting out?” he stutters, wide eyed and completely caught off guard with the way her hips sway as she climbs the steps.

she stops and turns to him, one leg straight on a step, the other reaching up to the next one. the angle she’s at makes his head spin, her figure twisting into the most delectable position, it’s a challenge for his eyes to not dip below her waist.

“i just wanted to cool off a bit, i’m gonna lay in the sun a little more while it’s still light out,” she responds sweetly, and he feels like a deer in headlights.

she wraps herself in a towel as spencer turns to derek, who had seen the entire interaction, if the smile on his face was anything to go by.

“you told me you’d swim with me!” derek accuses teasingly, pointing a finger at spencer.

spencer rolls his eyes and trudges the rest of the way in, “i’m not racing you.”

as the sun started to set, rossi and hotch each took their stance at the grills in his backyard, doling out hotdogs and hamburgers to the hungry partygoers. you sit at a long table, family style with the rest of the team. an old university sweatshirt is draped over your frame, your bathing suit now dry from your earlier escapade in the pool.

penelope immediately started whispering to you the moment you’d exited the pool, eyebrows raised like she’d seen a unicorn, “what was that?” she whispered, spencer and derek then occupied with their boyish argument.

“you saw that too?” you’d hissed back, relief flooding your chest at her validation.

“yes! girl, if you don’t do something about that…” she insinuated, and you bit your lip, glancing back at spencer. you remember the way the sun shone off his shoulders, the way his back muscles flexed as he swam. now, you sit at the team’s table, thinking about what kind of scratches you’d be able to leave on that back, how it would flex under your palms.

you’re ripped from your thoughts by the chair next to you scraping against the concrete. your head snaps up to meet the very object of your thoughts, your face immediately heating up.

“oh-sorry,” he smiles sheepishly at the grating noise, making sure to lift the chair slightly as he pushes himself into the table.

“that’s ok,” you smile sweetly, unable to be annoyed with him, “how you feelin’? derek didn’t tire you out too much?” you nudge his shoulder lightly with yours, and he blushes at the touch.

“no, no, not really,” he shakes his head, smiling down at the picnic table, “it was fun, but i missed you at the bar a few times after that.”

your heart races at the lightness in his tone, his lips flirtatiously curling upward, “well, if i’m not mistaken, some doctor told me that i needed to drink water earlier this afternoon,” you respond.

he laughs at this, and it emboldens you so much, you can’t help but reach forward, your fingers deftly moving a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of his eye. he smiles sheepishly at this, and you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of making him blush. you’re staring at each other in a comfortable silence, like two lovesick teenagers at the lunch table. it’s awkward and nervous, but giddy and exciting all the same.

“you look really pretty when you’ve spent all day in the sun,” spencer comments, and the breath is stolen from your lungs, “you’re glowing in a way i haven’t seen at the office.”

“well, being under fluorescent lights all day provides a much different glow than lounging in a chair all day,” you instinctively inflect, a natural reaction you’ve developed to compliments over the course of your life. you’re trying to be better at that, though, so you sigh, and continue, “thank you, though. that’s very nice.”

he nods at this, seeming very pleased to have made you happy. your attention is then stolen by the commotion of the team, drinks and laughter melodically flowing throughout the yard. aaron walks around taking a plethora of pictures, waiting until everyone is seated to get his own plate, of course. he’s parallel from you and spencer, his phone pinched between each of his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“smile!” he chirps to you and spencer, and the space immediately fills with tension once more.

you revel in it this time, leaning into him with a cheesy smile for the picture. his arm instinctively comes up to wrap around the back of your chair. you wish it was your shoulders, but you applaud his attempt at being respectful, despite your near debauchery by the pool. you scoot closer just slightly, wide-smiling cheeks press together as aaron clicks the photo.

you catch the glint in your unit chief’s eye as he takes the photograph. he’s profiling your body language, a knowing smirk teasing at his lips. he makes eye contact with you, raising his brows before moving on to snap pictures of the rest of the team. you take pause after the interaction, the breath being stolen from your lungs at the validation.

the rest of the meal was more of a group event, but neither you nor spencer minded. you love moments like this with your team, where you can be with each other when the circumstances aren’t so grim. as always, you’ve ended up in a juicy gossip sesh with the girls- jj, penelope, emily, and tara. you’ve talked about everything from the hottest people of the 80s and 90s- emily and tara gushed over jessica lange and jodie foster, jj and penelope both said leonardo dicaprio, while you opted for river phoenix- to how nobody’s replaced the oat milk in the work fridge. jj and penelope were particularly heated about that one, you, emily, and tara were just fine with your half and half, though.

your tipsy cackling rings through the air, mixing with the sound of jack and henry’s laughter, the low, booming voices of your superiors at the other end of the table, the clinking of glasses. the sun sets, a vision of pinks and oranges. the darker it got, the more people begin to filter out his back gate, nearly everyone was sent with tupperware full of leftovers in their hands, the classic signature of a rossi dinner party.

soon enough, it was dark, and the only people left were the team. the humidity that clings to the night air moves the party back over to the pool. some were swimming, but your toes were dipped in the water, still sitting with your girls. you catch spencer sitting on the other side of the deck, nursing a beer with derek and luke.

he’s already looking at you when you see him, a dangerous glint in his eye that wasn’t there earlier this afternoon. the pool lights cast him in a soft, angelic glow, illuminating the teasing in his brown eyes. your heart speeds up, breath hitching as his lips curl up in a smirk.

you’re eventually swayed back into the pool with the girls for a bit. it’s not long before the girls start heading inside, but it’s long enough to complete two essential tasks- the first is filling them in on everything you’d been through with spencer this afternoon alone.

you tell them about the stares, the moment in the pool, him peeling his shirt off like some action star. all four of them have extremely loud verbal reactions, penelope even splashes the water out of reflex. it draws the eyes of the rest of the team, and you have to stop yourself from glancing over at spencer, attempting to maintain a semblance of subtlety. they volunteer to eventually herd the rest of the group indoors, so that way you can have some time alone with spencer. butterflies swarm your chest at the thought, and you can’t help but take a glance at him. he’s still looking at you, the fire in his eye burning brighter.

the second task of the evening included penelope assigning mermaid tail colors to each of you, or course. each of you squeal and laugh with girlish glee at the idea, you so rarely get moments like these to be so carefree and silly. she hits the nail on the head with her assessment, too- she gives tara purple, emily is green, jj’s blue, you’re pink, and lastly, she reserves yellow for herself. the five of you laugh, reminiscent of years prior, when your biggest worry was if you’d all get your favorite color. you all did this time.

after that, emily and jj were among the first to head inside, aaron and dave following soon after. penelope and tara followed, ushering derek and luke inside as well. you stay in the pool, though, eyes burning a hole through spencer’s. you can see him gulp, and you swim to his side of the deck. you fold your arms on top of each other, ensuring your chest lays nicely atop your arms. he swallows again, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“hi, spencer,” you nearly whisper, your tone delicate yet cunning, “wanna come in for a bit? we can go inside and dry off after?” you surprise both spencer and yourself with that last question, the insinuation burning white hot between you.

he nods absentmindedly as he stares at you, his eyes nearly going black as he, once again, tantalizingly peels his button up off. he takes the long way, teasing you no doubt, rounding the edge of the pool to the steps. you meet each other in the middle, breathing heavy between you two.

“hi,” he whispers.

“hi,” you whisper back.

then, his lips are on yours.

it’s all encompassing, the soft touch of his lips flooding your senses until you’re dizzy. his large hands grab hold of your face, parting his lips just so, inhaling more of you with each shaky breath. your arms snake around his neck, pulling him closer. he moves his hands underneath the water, practically moving in slow motion as he pulls your thighs up so that your legs hug his waist. he rubs patterns into your plush skin, squeezing and massaging your softness.

“you’re so beautiful, it drives me absolutely insane,” he confesses, breathless between kisses.

“you really think so?” you whisper, tucking your head in the crook of his neck to pepper some soft kisses there. his hands creep up your thighs until they’re cupping your ass, reveling in you as his fingers sink shamelessly into your softness. his neck tastes like chlorine and sunscreen and you could eat him up. you sink your teeth into his soft skin, just slightly, and he lets out a small yelp.

“hey!” he whines, and you creep your hand up the back of his neck, lightly tugging on the hair there. you pull your head out of his shoulder to see his eyes desperate as you do it, a light ‘ooh!’ escaping his lips. you kiss him again, and again, and again. he’s just about to slip his tongue into your mouth, when an insanely bright light is shone on the two of you.

“hey, lovebirds! get outta my pool!” david shouts, and you can hear the team wolf whistling from inside.

you bury your face in the crook of his neck once more, mentally preparing yourself to face your team inside, soaking wet in a bikini, hand in hand with dr. spencer reid.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Mayor's Daughter and the Outlaw

Summary: After ten years, you've finally got your shot at your revenge. You've found the Hero. You have him in your sights.

-----

Pull the trigger.

You’ve worked too hard not to pull the trigger. The sweat, blood and tears you’ve shed have been the least you’ve given to be here. The air is crisp and clean nearly a hundred feet up in a pine tree overlooking a remote forest. You’re probably the only person in the world capable of spotting the brown, camouflaged building spanning the length of the small river running through the valley. There’s a hologram of the river it’s covering playing over the building’s walls. Hell, there are even birds flicking occasionally across the illusion, not often enough to draw attention, but just often enough their movement sends your eyes darting to other trees, trying to find where they went.

You breathe in the scent of sun-heated sap so slowly that it takes a solid minute for your lungs to expand. Your pupils flex and adjust whenever the wind rocks your tree. The window you’ve been staring at for the past hour remains in your focus.

The Sun, hair just as fake-gold as it was ten years ago, sleeps on. He’s definitely older now that you can see him in real life instead of on magazine covers or under studio lights. The skin of his neck is loose and folded under the weight of his chin drooping towards his chest. His eyes flicker under his eyelids. The bastard still has the audacity to dream. His arms are crossed over the sun motif emblazoned across his breastplate, his dust-covered boots kicked up on his desk so you can see how worn the soles are. Judging by the way his lips tremble, he’s snoring.

Pull the trigger.

You exhale. This is when you should do it. When your shoulders drop and the wind dies so that, for a moment, the world stands still. There are no whispers across the canopy. Every bough is frozen. The reflection of the sun in the river is overcome by a well-timed cloud and the Sun’s head tilts back to expose the long line of his throat.

The trigger presses back against your finger like an eager puppy. There’s nothing special about the bullets, nothing special about this gun. It’s not the right weapon for what you’re asking it to do, but you’ve had longer and harder shots. You know that you’ll shoot true and the confidence steadies your hand even more. You smoothly pull--

If you kill a Hero, there’s no going back.

Your pupils dilate at the memory. For a moment you don’t see the Sun; you see her with her face burned as red as her prom dress. You try to dispel the image, try to remember that she didn’t die in her prom dress, but it’s too late.

I want you to live, Elian.

You’re suddenly aware of how your lungs ache and your legs burn from the way they’re wrapped around the tree and the bark is digging into your cheek and your fingers are like ice on the trigger. You’re out in the middle of nowhere. This is the Sun’s private residence. The security must be insane even if there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. What’s your exit strategy again? Your thoughts scatter as her voice rings through your head again.

More than anything, I want you to live.

-------Ten years ago----

You’re what the heroes tactfully call a nuisance. A juvenile delinquent with powers, aka a kid that the police aren’t equipped to handle and the local Hero chapter is too overqualified and too understaffed to address often.

 Your moral compass has never had a true north and it only gets worse the more your powers develop. Soon you aren’t just stealing your mom’s car – you’re stealing the neighbor’s and then the neighbor’s neighbor’s and then the neighbor’s neighbor’s neighbor’s until you’re breaking into houses at the top of the hill and joyriding in a car worth more than your entire neighborhood together.

You find out pretty quickly that the heroes care a lot more when money is involved.

You spend your first night in jail after getting chased for three hours in a neon green lambo by the four heroes packed like sardines in a standard issue SUV. It’s laughably easy to out-drive them, choking around corners and careening down alleys that you scouted in the afternoon. Honestly, it would have been easy to get away, but your mom called just as the tank hit empty, asking when you were coming home.  You decided to give the heroes a break before they decided to play too rough with a minor.

Mom isn’t thrilled when you tell her you won’t be home in time for school tomorrow.

You kind of expect to be sent to prison the next day when you find out just whose car you stole. The Mayor’s daughter’s car, bought new for her seventeenth birthday a month ago. There are two open secrets about the mayor. One, he’s probably one of the heroes that protect the city judging from how much he praises them every time there’s a mic nearby. Two, he loves his daughter more than anything else.

So when you’re released the next day with a slap on the wrist? Yeah, you’re surprised.

When you’re released the next day to find the golden-haired, blue-eyed Mayor’s daughter waiting outside? Having just bailed you out?

You feel fear for the first time.

“You could have at least crashed it,” she says when she notices you gaping at her from the end of the parking lot. She’s leaning against the hood of a black SUV that looks a lot like the one the heroes chased you in last night. She waves a hand in the air. “Dad says the dents you put in the side will be out by tomorrow.”

Fear, apparently, makes you snarky. “What, you wanted to spend another week getting chauffeured by a hero?”

Her brows jerk up towards her hairline. She throws a glance over her shoulder. “You seeing ghosts? Nobody’s in there. I drove myself.”

“Good for you,” you say. You think you smell. They didn’t give you access to a shower last night. You’re upwind from her and damnit why are you embarrassed if you smell or not? Your chin jerks forward in a challenge. “You gonna give me a ride back home?”

You’re joking, but she nods like it was the plan all along. “Let’s go.”

Is that an answering challenge in her words? Your teeth grind as you force yourself forward. “Very kind of you,” you chirp, swinging up into the passenger seat. The car smells like leather and justice. “Just drop me off on the other side of the train tracks. I can find my way home from there.”

She snorts. “Is that a Footloose reference? Very dated.”

You stare at her profile. “…No. I literally live on the other side of the tracks.”

She flushes. “Right. Well…I’m not dropping you off yet. I want to talk first.”

The doors are locked. You swallow as she carefully pulls out of the parking lot and then guns it into the road without looking. Luckily, no one’s there. “Talk? About what?”

“About how you’re going to steal my car again,” she says. “And this time you’re going to crash it right.”

“You hate the color that much?” you joke.

Her tone is not joking. “You have no idea.”

You don’t find out her name until dinner when your mom’s managed to entice her into a third slice of homemade pizza. She stares down at the slice while your mom waves for you not to stay up too late before going to bed early. Gamely, you’re already on your fifth helping. Criminal activity takes a lot of energy.

“Does your mom know who I am?” she asks.

“Like, in theory,” you say. You’re full and warm as you lean into the hard wooden back of your chair. Mom added olives to your side of the pizza. “She probably doesn’t know you’re the Mayor’s daughter though. Just that he has one.”

“The Mayor…right,” she says. Her jaw firms. She flicks some olives off her pizza and then eats half the slice in one bite. “I’m Gina.”

“Elian,” you say instead of No, you’re the Mayor’s Daughter. You refill her soda cup before your own, just to show her you can be fancy and have manners too. She’s so out of place in your family’s one bedroom apartment. Her shirt is crisp and white, her gold necklace so shiny, that it’s like there’s a sepia filter over the eggshell walls and oak cabinets. “Sprite. Only the finest for the lady who bailed me out.”

“I’m thinking you can take my car next weekend,” Gina says so abruptly you nearly spit out your soda. There’s a hard light in her eyes. “Dad’s out of town for…business. He won’t notice for a few days. You take it, you get out of the city, you drive it off a cliff once you’ve wrecked it doing donuts or whatever.”

“A cliff?” You know exactly where she’s talking about. There’s an abandoned quarry about an hour outside of town. You shake your head. “That’s where people dump bodies. No way am I going out there.”

“They find bodies there because it’s outside of Hero Force’s patrol,” Gina says. She waves her hands in the air so the yellow light from the inset ceiling lights catches on her golden manicure. “If you think about it, it’s the best place to dump a car. Especially when the heroes are going to be out of town.”

You stare at her. “Did you just admit your dad is part of Hero Force?”

Her eyes skitter away from yours. “No.”

“Your dad is out of town next weekend.”

“Yes.”

“And the heroes?”

“Maybe they’re traveling together.”

“I don’t think anyone is supposed to know when the heroes are going to be out of town. Isn’t that like a national secret, or something?”

“We’re not a big enough chapter for it to be a national secret,” she denies. She bites her lip. “Probably a state secret though.”

You stand and your chair chatters against the linoleum. “No. Absolutely not.” It’s time for Ms. Mayor’s Daughter to leave.

She scrambles up after you, following you into the living room. “Why not?! You already mess with the heroes. Weren’t you the one who kept breaking into the mall on a motorcycle? You hijacked one of their delivery trucks a month ago—”

“A food delivery truck,” you say. “Which was more of a commentary about the city’s investment in Hero Force luxury rather than after school programs—” You bite your tongue. You spin so that the couch stays between you. You glance at your mom’s closed door and consciously lower your voice. “How do you even know that?”

“I’ve been watching you,” she says. She laughs without humor, dragging one hand through her golden hair. “Sometimes living in this town is like being in a simulation. We have four A-class heroes for a population of 30,000 and everybody loves them. Nobody thinks it’s strange to have walking nukes in a small town. They love my dad. Did you know no one’s even run against him for the past two elections? It doesn’t matter what he does. He owns this place and these people. He has – could commit murder and it would be justified. People would think it would be justice.”

“He loves you,” you say weakly. Isn’t four heroes a pretty normal number? Sure, the ones in your town are big names, but that’s not weird.

Is it?

“He loves me so he gets to be a tyrant?” Gina scoffs. “If he’s even capable of love.”

“I’m not going to mess around with heroes’ civilian identities just because you’ve got daddy issues,” you say. When hurt flashes across her face, you wince. “Sorry. But it’s one thing to mess with heroes in masks, okay? Messing with a hero’s family—”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem when you were stealing my car the other night.”

“That was before I knew your dad was Mr. Solve or whatever—”

“The Sun,” Gina says.

“What?”

“My dad’s the Sun.”

“That,” you say, “is so much worse. Didn’t he burn some minor villain’s eyes out last week?”

“Yes,” Gina says. Her mouth twists. “The guy got off easy compared to some others.”

You stare at her, momentarily speechless. “And you wonder why I’m not going to antagonize the guy?”

“But you already do,” Gina says. Her eyes are glinting. She looks so out of place against the dim interior of your home, a radiant girl dressed all in white and gold. She rounds the couch and snatches up one of your hands between two of her own. “Everyone else loves my dad. Except you. My entire life, and you’re the only one who dares to make—make statements about Hero Force consumption by stealing their deliveries or make the heroes chase you around an abandoned mall on foot like regular people. You challenge them, Elian. All I’m asking is that you do it again.”

“That sounds like a lot more than just crashing your car,” you say. Your voice sounds very far away. You never thought of your actions as so noble. There’s a tingling in your stomach that you’ve never felt before and your hand is so warm. She sees you. You shake the fantasy out of your head. “I—look. I’m flattered, but I’m not your guy. The heroes know my face. It’s only a matter of time before I get sent to whatever detention super-powered kids get sent to. I have to graduate high school.”

Rather than discourage her, Gina presses closer. “What if I told you there’s a way to do both?”

Her closeness fogs your brain. “Both?”

“Take the heroes down a notch and maintain your identity,” she says. She releases you and whirls to get her purse off the couch. “I can help you. We can train so that the heroes never recognize the new you. You can use your powers in new ways. And you can wear this.”

She thrusts a piece of chewed leather into your hands. A mask.

“I’m thinking,” she says, “we call you Outlaw.”

------ Now ----

You can’t shoot. Night is falling by the time you admit it to yourself. You press your back against the rough bark of the tree and stare up at the first stars. You cradle your gun in your hands.

The bloodlust is still there. You aren’t a fair lily incapable of staining your petals red (as red as her). So why can’t you pull the trigger? Because of her ghost? Her last message to you?

If you kill a Hero, there’s no going back. More than anything, I want you to live, Elian.

You grind your teeth. Easy for her to say. The dying never have to feel the weight of consequence. They can just say whatever the fuck they want.

You aren’t thinking when you climb down the tree. Your powers give you a lot of things – speed and healing, an instinct for the outdoors, and excellent eyesight. You don’t need to look to find one branch and another, dropping to the forest floor in ten-foot increments. By the time your boots hit the ground, you know what the problem is.

Unlike your other kills, this one is personal. It was never going to be enough just to see him dead. You need him to know why you’ve got him in your sights.

The Sun is an old school hero. The traps you were so afraid of are predictable, turns out. You pick your way around bear traps and landmines, sharp eyes easily picking out silver trip wire when it glints in the moonlight. There are cameras, but there’s likely only one person with access. In the past ten years of following the Sun, you’ve learned two things about him.

One, he’ll kill the things he loves before he loses them.

Two, he doesn’t trust anyone but himself.

You get to the building inside of an hour. The first floor is hidden by steel shutters and there’s no light peeking out from behind them. The second floor window where he’d been sleeping for most of the day shines with the faint blue glow of a television.

The front door looks like a bank’s with how thick it is. There’s a keypad and a biometric scanner you don’t have a prayer of hacking.

That’s okay. You’ve already seen your way in.

You climb up the nearest pine tree. The Sun likes to think of himself as a competent hero, but too many mayoral kickbacks over the years made him soft. He surrounded himself with powerful heroes and never once struggled to win. Because of that, he’s missing some caution and common sense. The building’s first floor is locked up tight, but the windows on the second are regular glass.

And he hasn’t trimmed the tree line back far enough.

You fire your first shot of the night into his empty desk chair, exactly where his chest had been hours earlier. Immediately a siren sounds, and the TV glow coming through the office’s open door is consumed by bright light. You run two steps and then leap, neatly flipping through the empty window frame. Your boots slide for a moment on the broken glass and you catch yourself on the edge of his desk. There are medical papers scattered across it, prescriptions and diagrams of the face and eyes and heart.

You chew your cheek at the sight of a pill bottle. There had been rumors that the Sun is sick with his own radiation poisoning. It’s good you’re here before nature runs its course.

The siren wails for another beat before dying. The silence rings. Your heartbeat picks up as your ears strain to hear if anyone’s coming to meet you. Strange. The Sun had to have been the one who shut off the alarm.

So where is he?

You hold your gun out in front of you and check your mask. The Sun knows who you are by now, but you want him to see the mask she gave you. The handsewn leather, patched more times than you can count, is recycled from one of his old leather jackets. It feels oddly poetic to be dressed in the first iteration of your costume, cowboy hat tipped back and a biker vest embroidered with the name she gave you.

Is the Sun hiding? You creep out of the office, eyes darting from the quaint landscapes hanging on the wall to the tasteful wooden floors. The Sun’s safe house feels more cabin-y than you expected. The property deed has been in his name for the past fifteen years. Did Gina ever visit? Her ghost runs ahead of you, golden nails dragging along the peach wallpaper to the first open door on the left. She looks over her shoulder and smiles.

There are times when you’re glad for the afterimages your brain conjures. This is not one of those times. You don’t think she’d be happy to see what you’re about to do.

You swing around the doorway gun first, a snarl on your lips. “You old bastard, drop what—”

The smell of antiseptic hits your nose first, dashing away the red haze filling your vision in an instant. A TV murmurs against the wall, some rerun of an old western, but it’s not what holds your attention.

There’s a bed in the center of the room. The Sun sits at bedside, his attention wholly invested on the hand he’s holding up. Carefully, he applies gold paint to the nails without once looking up at you.

The woman in the bed is obscured with white gauze and beige compression bandages. Her breathing is soft and even. The one eye you can see is closed and still. No dreaming, no awareness.

“Outlaw,” the Sun says. He gently sets Gina’s left hand down on her stomach and picks up her right. He squints at her pinky nail. “Close the office door, would you? I don’t want the heat to escape.”

“What,” you breathe, “the fuck.”

-----Ten years ago ----

It’s a good year with Gina. You never realized how friend-starved you were until she was there, over at your house every day after school. She always makes it sound like she’s coming over to talk about the Outlaw thing, but there’s other stuff too. Movies and cooking and tutoring.

“Life is about balance,” Gina says sagely during one such tutoring session. “Besides, even heroes don’t go on more than two missions a month. We’re doing just fine.”

There’s always a pressing need to do more though. Whenever you pull off a particularly daring heist, she smiles this secret and pleased smile that makes your stomach flip. Sometimes, when the two of you watch news coverage of your getaways, she murmurs how impressed she is, how smart you are, how cool your powers are.

It makes you want to do anything for Gina.

You’re watching the news one day, waiting for a recap of how you stole the Sun’s favorite shield from the armory, when a rare story comes on. A Hero is dead, some guy named Ibis from Atlanta. There aren’t any leads to the culprit except for eyewitness accounts of a mysterious, winged super-powered individual flying low over the city, hiding in storm clouds.

“I’d kill a Hero,” you blurt out.

Gina jerks so hard that the popcorn bowl goes flying out of her hands. She doesn’t seem to notice. “What?”

“N-not your dad or anything,” you say quickly although yes, if you had to kill anyone, you’d start with the man who makes Gina cry like that. “Just…in general. The news anchor said Ibis was connected to a civilian’s death, right? I could kill a Hero like that.”

“No,” Gina says. She drops off the couch to kneel by you. “No, Elian.”

You flush like you’ve done something wrong. You sink into your hoodie. “I’m not going to, I’m just saying—”

“If you kill a Hero, there’s no going back,” Gina says. She’s too close, so close that you can see the flecks of gold hidden in her eyes. “Your life—it’s not like what we’ve been doing. Dad’s got rules when it comes to stealing. But if you kill a hero?” She shudders. “I want you to live, Elian.”

“I got it—”

“Please,” she blurts out. The plea in her voice makes you really look at her despite the pounding of your heart. Her eyes are wild and her mouth is pressed into a thin line. “No matter what. Promise me.”

“I—” No matter what? You slowly shake your head, trying to get away from the instinctive desire to agree with her. “I-if someone is really bad, I’d—”

“Elian—”

The tension makes you truthful.

“If your dad hurt you, I’d kill him,” you say. When she rears back, this time you follow. You brace your arm against the couch so you can lean into her space. With your other hand, you trace the fading burn on her cheek that could pass for an old sunburn if you didn’t know the truth. “I know you don’t think he will, but he’s been erratic lately. And I know about his temper. If he hurts you, I’d kill him.”

The air thickens between you. It’s rare that you don’t back down, but you’re not backing down now, staring into her eyes. Competing wills. For a moment you let everything you feel come to the surface. Your frustration when she visits with that fucking shadow in her smile, the helplessness when there’s another burn on her arm, the adoration when she’s just there.

Gina shudders and looks away first. She licks her lips. “I—I…appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m fine. You agreed I got to make the rules for Outlaw. I’m telling you one. Don’t kill heroes.”

She’s pulling away. You do too, falling to her side and sitting next to her rather than hovering over her. You try for a careless shrug but fall short. How can she make you feel so powerful one second and so powerless the next? You avert your eyes. “I won’t kill heroes,” you promise.

You hear her suck in a breath. “Good. Because I need you alive.”

“I do like being alive,” you say and don’t finish the sentence with with you.

“We’re done studying,” she decides. She darts up towards the kitchen. “I’m getting another bowl of popcorn before we start the movie. You want some?”

You stare at your reflection in the dark TV. Your jaw works. Finally, you say, “Nah. I’m good. I’ll just eat it off the floor.”

“Don’t be gross, Elian!”

------Now.----

“I will regret that day for the rest of my life,” the Sun says. He hasn’t looked at you once. His eyes are glued to the steady rise and fall of Gina’s chest. He times his breathing to hers and then sighs. “What a fool I was. Drunk on power.”

You’re standing on the opposite side of the bed. Your gaze flicks from Gina to him and back again. “Is she ever conscious?”

“It’s a medically-induced coma,” the Sun says. “The doctors say she should wake up any day now that most of her injuries have healed. Her last surgery was the final one. Now it’s up to her.”

This might be the first time in ten years that you’ve breathed. You suck in air greedily and imagine you can taste her scent under the layers of sickness and medicine. “They told me she died.”

“I told Hero Force you did it,” the Sun says. There’s no remorse in his voice. “They always tell villains they were successful, so they don’t try again.”

A decade of rage slides around your ribs. “You fucking bastard.”

“I did think it was your fault ten years ago.” He carefully picks up Gina’s left hand again to apply a second coat. It takes all your willpower not to slap him away from her. “If you hadn’t stolen Hero Force data, I wouldn’t have had to come after you with my full power. She would never have been in the line of fire.”

You’re fists shake at your sides. “I didn’t steal Hero Force data, I stole your fucking car. Don’t rewrite history.”

“There was Hero Force data in that car.”

“It was your Porsche, your civilian Porsche!”

“My fault to have left sensitive data out,” the Sun says. His confession surprises you into silence. “But I had to get it back no matter what. Then I blamed you by thinking how if you’d only asked me to take my daughter to Prom, I would’ve known she was in the car.”

“She’s not your property and it’s not the 1800s, of course I didn’t ask if I could take your daughter to—”

“I’m telling you what I thought,” the Sun interrupts. He finally looks at you. He looks worse than he did earlier, the years cutting deep lines into his face. There are black bags of exhaustion under his watering eyes. He breathes out shakily. “I had to tell myself it was your fault. It was the only way I could survive, Elian.”

Your real name shocks you. You stumble back. “How do you know that name?”

“She calls for you sometimes,” the Sun says. He drags a hand over his face before grimly returning to his daughter’s nails. “She’s never been really conscious for long. The d-damage took a long time to heal. But when she’s awake, she calls for you and she calls for Outlaw. Wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”

Your chest throbs. “I should have been here. You should have—I could have—”

“Blaming you let me keep her by my side,” the Sun says. “I don’t expect you to forgive me or even understand me. But I…I regret more than anything what I’ve done to my daughter.”

“You’re going to regret it even more,” you say. The rage you feel is like a tidal wave. Ten years. Ten years. You could have held her hand through her recovery. You could have been there for her. And this selfish asshole who never even loved her like a father should took that away from you. You remember your gun. “You never deserved to be her father.”

“I didn’t, did I?” the Sun asks. He sets her hand down and swallows hard. He looks down the barrel of your gun without flinching. “She says one other thing, you know. When she asks for you.”

The curiosity stills your trigger finger. “What?”

“She says, Don’t kill heroes.”

Your face contorts. There’s the memory of popcorn in your mouth and the heat of her eyes on you. “Yeah, she said that to me before too. Back when I offered to kill you the first time.”

The Sun hangs his head. If he’s surprised to hear that, he doesn’t show it. “I wasn’t a good father.”

“No. But she didn’t want you dead.”

Understanding dawns. “Don’t kill heroes.”

“Exactly.” You tilt your head. “Do you feel like a hero?”

His lips tremble. His gaze drifts back to his daughter. Her eyes are flickering under eyelids. “I—I—”

The trigger presses back against your finger, eager and ready. “Do you?”

He licks his lips. “N-no,” he whispers. He closes his eyes. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

This time, it’s easy to take aim. Steady your breath. And—

Fuck.

“Leave,” you say. You drop your gun back to your side and scowl when the Sun’s eyes fly open in surprise. “If you do what I say, you’ll live long enough for Gina to decide what to do with you. Leave and don’t tell anyone about this.”

The Sun shakes his head. “No, no I can’t leave her—”

“Then die here,” you snap. You bare your teeth at him. “Leave. We’ll be gone in a week. Maybe she wakes up and calls you. Maybe she—” You take a deep breath. “Well. Maybe she doesn’t. Either way, your part is done here.”

“I need to be there when she wakes up. Please, I’m her dad—”

“You’re her murderer,” you say. More than anything, you want to pick Gina up and run out of here before the Sun can stop you. You eye the monitors and know three people you need to call for advice before you even attempt to move her. A week should be just enough time to disappear. “You think you deserve to stay by her side?”

The Sun opens his mouth twice before he finds words. “I just—let me stay until she wakes up. That way I’ll know.”

“I spent ten years thinking she was dead,” you say. “You can last a month in limbo. If I have to ask you again, we’ll finally see who’s stronger now that I’m all grown up.”

The Sun picks himself up slowly. You think he cries. You’re not sure. He may even plead with you again. You’re deaf to it. Your brain has given up on splitting your attention and every atom of your being is homed in on Gina.

She’s alive. She’s alive.

You kneel at her bedside and wait for her to wake up.

----

Thanks for reading! If you want to read more of work or get access to stories like this a week (or more!) early, please consider checking out my Patreon (X)! This week's short story for my Triple Shot and above tiers is about a world where being loved adds years to your lifespan!

Based off this prompt (X): Love determines how long you live, some people are in their hundreds, but some don’t even live to be 20.

[jobean12-blog]

The Fine Print

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (CEO!Bucky AU)

Word Count: 4,126

Summary: You've been working under Bucky for almost a year and he's always been a grumpy ass and even though when the lines get blurred you can't seem to stay away.

Author's Note: These new pics and all the new gym shots and vids and yum! Just being fed so well! I like the idea of a grumpy CEO who just wants you and he's mad about it. No excuse for being a dick but he's not really all bad. And anyway, I'd never tell him no...haha! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Thank you Daisy for the lovely divider @firefly-graphics😘

Warnings: Grumpy ass Bucky (he's a total ass sometimes but has moments of softness), sassy reader, lots of tension, flirting, curses, fingering, light dirty talk

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You’re late. Only twenty minutes but it’s long enough that your grumpy ass of a boss will have your head for it.

Grumpy…and an ass but entirely too gorgeous.

You pick up the pace, precariously balancing your files and bags and hoping you don’t faceplant on the newly shined floors.

Getting a flat tire on the highway this morning wasn’t on your long to-do list for today, but it still happened and now you’ll have to deal with a very cranky Mr. Barnes.

You round the corner and enter your office, ready to give your usual sunshine filled greeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”

He’s standing at your desk, arms crossed over his broad chest and his eyes hard.

“Is it a good morning?” he asks, not bothering to move out of the way as you try to slip around him. “What time is it?”

You stop and meet his glare.

“I had some car trouble this morning. I got a flat on my way in.”

Your voice comes out steady and strong and relief floods through you. This was the first time you were late, and you were not going to be reprimanded.

“Trouble is quite the fitting word for what I’ve been dealing with in your absence.”

You glance up at him and his antagonizing stare, and blink away your surprise at his words.

“I would have thought you would at least ask me if I was ok Mr. Barnes,” you say sweetly and with a smile. “After all, how could I possibly manage to fix a flat tire all on my own.”  

His jaw clenches tightly.

“Obviously you managed,” he counters. “And you look just fine.”

Beautiful blue eyes wander languidly down your body before making their slow perusal back up to study your face.

You try to school your features and when he raises an expectant brow you bite back with, “Thankfully I am fine, and I got help but I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with the burden of picking up a telephone and sending an e-mail all on your own this morning. It won’t happen again.”

He takes a step closer to you and you stop yourself from swaying forward to get a hint of his scent.

Traitorous body. If only the fucker wasn’t so fucking hot.

“You’re right. It won’t,” he replies with a smug smile. “And just so you don’t forget, I’d like to see…”

He spends the next minute rattling off several project pieces he’d like to see completed and on his desk by the end of the day.

“And then you can make up the half an hour you missed by getting together a mock presentation for our meeting tomorrow.”

When your nostrils flare, he smiles triumphantly and dips his head, so his warm breath caresses the shell of your ear.

“I’ll see you in the conference room at six.”

He turns away and slams his office door behind him and you let out an exasperated puff of air.

“It was only twenty minutes asshole.”

You mutter the words under your breath as you plop into your office chair and continue to curse his name in grumbles.

There’s a light knock on the door before it opens and you know you’re about to hear the voice of your friend and coworker, Jess.

“I know you’re working through lunch,” she says. “So at least let me get you something.”

You don’t look up but smile nonetheless, your fingers flying over the keyboard with ease.

“Honestly, I don’t even think I have time to eat,” you say before hitting the period button hard and meeting her eyes.

Jess gives you a sympathetic look. “I’ll grab you something nutritious.”

She waves before gently shutting the door. You lean over to check your desk drawer for snacks, the mention of lunch reminding you that you are in fact, hungry. At the same time that you see you have nothing to eat you notice a tear in your stockings.

“Son of a bitch,” you grumble. “I just bought these.”

Less than a minute later your door opens again and without looking up from your screen you whine, “do you know what, after the morning I’ve had I think I’ll take something sweet…maybe a cookie. Or twelve. Or chocolate of any kind.”

When you receive no acknowledgement, in return you glance up and see that Jess is not standing at your door.

You quickly tug the hem of your skirt down, noting how Bucky’s eyes track the movement and linger on your legs.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, I didn’t realize…”

“Since your morning has been so awful,” he starts, his sly smile growing, “why don’t you run down to the café and pick us both up some lunch.”

Your lips purse and once again his eyes seem glued to every action you take.

“Mr. Barnes, Jess has just come in and said she would grab me something to eat so I can continue working through lunch.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you continue.

“I have A LOT to get done.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it work,” he says before rattling off his lunch order.

He turns on his heel and takes two long strides back to his office, pulling the door closed hard behind him.

“What the f…?”

You don’t even finish the sentence when he opens the door again and pokes his head out.

“Make sure you get yourself something to eat. We’re going to be here late.”

The door slams shut again, and you abruptly stand, your rolling chair flying back into the wall as you storm off.

“Why does he care if I eat or not?” you ask yourself as you angrily stuff things into your bag and throw it over your shoulder.

The rest of the day goes by far too quickly and you find yourself cursing out the copy machine as you wait for the rest of your papers to go through. Checking your phone you see you’re already almost ten minutes late to your afterhours ‘meeting.’

You rush down the dim hall of the now empty building, your presentation materials clutched tightly to your chest and glance again at your phone.

Fifteen minutes. Shit.

As you near the conference room, you try to calm your breathing and slow to a walk. A soft light shines from under the door, and you know he’s in there waiting for you.

Taking a deep breath you knock.

“Come in.”

You walk into the large room, never failing to take in the view of the city that the floor to ceiling windows along one wall highlight.

At the head of the large dark wood conference table, sits Bucky. His suit jacket is hanging haphazardly over the back of his chair, his tie is loose around his neck, and the crisp white sleeves of his button down are rolled up to his elbows.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes. The copy machine…”

Realizing you’ve been apologizing all day, and it has made no difference, you stop yourself and lift your chin, walking over to where he sits and placing down your papers, sorting through them as quickly as possible so you can begin.

“Have you eaten dinner?” he asks.

His question takes you completely by surprise and you meet his piercing blue eyes with a confused expression.

“I uh…I had lunch.”

“That doesn’t answer my question sweetheart.”

At his sugared endearment, your eyes widen, and your breath catches in your throat, but you regain your composure.

“No. I haven’t.”

He just nods and gestures to the papers, clearly waiting for you to get started.

You lean over the table, searching for the paper you need and in your disheveled state don’t realize your entire lower body is practically draped over him.

“I just need to find…”

The words catch in your throat when you feel his fingers softly touch your thigh, slowly inching higher to reveal the tear in your stocking. His fingertips trace the sheared fabric and press against your skin, igniting it with heat.

Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart pounds in your chest and your brain screams at you to push him away but you don’t dare move.

“Look at me,” he demands, pressing his fingertips harder into your skin.

You straighten and turn to face him, his hand sliding up and over the curve of your hip to settle on your waist.

“Mr. Barnes?” you ask, keeping your eyes trained on his.

“James. Call me James.”

The intensity of his stare makes your breath catch and when he doesn’t answer and instead continues letting his hand trace your curves you battle with your emotions.

“The next time you have car trouble,” and his hand slips under your skirt again, “you call me.”

“What? Why would I?”

His fingertips graze the lace top of your stocking before he lifts your skirt higher and drops his eyes between your legs.

“Because I said so,” he murmurs, teasing along your inner thigh.

Your hand falls to the table to steady yourself and you willingly spread your legs open when he gives them a slight push.

“That’s hardly a good reason,” you breathe out.

“Fuck,” he growls, and his eyes fall closed.

You glance down at his lap and see him straining against the expensive fabric of his pants.

He smooths two fingers along the line of your panties, lightly pressing against your swollen and sensitive clit. His eyes open and he looks furious, fisting the thin material in his hand and in one quick movement, tearing it off.

He pulls you down roughly onto his lap, your skirt riding up over your hips to accommodate the wide spread of your legs as you straddle him.

An involuntary moan slips past your parted lips when he grabs your ass and drags you down over his hard cock.

When he opens his mouth to speak you grab his tie between your fingers and use it to pull his mouth to yours. Every sweep of his lips is heaven, and you release his tie to rake your fingers through his hair.

He makes a low, angry noise deep in his throat and you trail your lips along his jaw, kissing your way down the strong column of his neck.

His hand slides from your ass and slips between your legs, his fingers brushing through the wetness just before there’s a knock on the door.

You both go completely still and wait. When a second knock sounds, he quietly curses and gently lifts you off his lap.

You quickly pull your skirt down and smooth your hands over your hips. He watches your every move as he runs a hand through his mussed hair and sits up in the chair, hiding his legs and erection under the table.

“What?” he growls, loud enough for whomever is on the other side to hear.

“Mr. Barnes, we’re scheduled to do maintenance in here tonight.”

He curses again and continues to stare at you.

“I’m just finishing a meeting. Give me five minutes.”

“Of course, Mr. Barnes,” the maintenance manager, says, “take your time.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he splays his hands out over the tabletop. Hastily he stands and tries to straighten his tie, his eyes landing on your ripped panties that lie on the floor.

He grabs them and rubs the silky fabric between his fingers.

“Make sure you eat something,” he says and then shrugs on his suit jacket, tucking your panties into the breast pocket.

You’re clutching the table and staring as he grabs his briefcase and starts toward the door.

“It’s late. I’m going to have security walk you to your car,” he states, finally meeting your eyes.

His groan is pained as his gaze travels down your body and then he disappears out the door.

You fall back into a chair and try to calm your breathing. You’d have to be out of here in a minute and you didn’t want to look suspicious. Seeing movement outside the door you begin gathering your things and stand on still shaky legs.

With a deep inhale you straighten your shoulders and walk out the door with a serene smile, greeting the head of security and thanking him for escorting you out.

What the fuck just happened?

The next morning you’re making your way into the office when he walks in. You do nothing more than greet him with a curt nod, giving him a wide berth of space as you make your way to your desk.

You can feel his eyes on you, the lick of heat traveling down your spine. You’re wearing your favorite dress and while it’s appropriate for the workspace it accentuates all the right spots, and you smile to yourself as you bend down to retrieve something from your desk drawer.

Regardless of what transpired last night you are not going to let it affect your work. You felt powerful and confident in this dress and Mr. Barnes can fuck off.

You peek over your shoulder to find him standing halfway in the doorway of his office and staring. You raise your brows and blink.

He clears his throat and mumbles a short “good morning,” then steps into his office and slams the door.

You roll your eyes and promise yourself he’ll be the last thing on your mind as you set out to get as much work done today as possible.

As lunch approaches you grab your bag and reach for your wallet. Your fingers close around a crumpled piece of paper, and you start to smile when you’re reminded of what it is.

You knock on his office door and saunter inside when he says, “come in.” The receipt hits his desk with a smack and without an explanation you turn and walk back out.

You almost make it to the first step in the stairwell when you hear footsteps approach behind you.

“Where the hell do you think you’re running off to?” he calls.

You continue walking and make it down one flight of steps before saying, “to get lunch.”

He meets you on the landing and clutches your elbow, spinning you around and pushing you against the wall.

Your eyes narrow contemptuously.

He whips the receipt out and in front of your face. “Want to explain this sweetheart?”

You let out a wry chuckle. “You know for such a smart guy you really are an ass sometimes. It’s a receipt.”

“I can see that,” he says through clenched teeth. “What I want to know is why you’re making purchases for…lingerie…on my company credit card.”

“Some jerk ripped up my favorite pair of panties last night.”

You shrug your shoulders and try to skirt past him.

His hand meets the wall next to your head, his fingers curling and crumpling the receipt and you can feel how tightly the muscles in his body are flexed when he presses closer.

He looks tormented for the split second before his lips crash down on yours and your treacherous body melts into the kiss.

His cock throbs against your stomach as he tries to hike your dress up over your thighs. Reluctantly he steps back, making enough space so he can slowly slide your dress higher, above your panties and look his fill.

“I like this pair even more than last nights,” he simpers.

His fingers hook into the lace at your hip, and you grab his shirt. “Don’t you dare Barnes.”   

“You can buy as many new pairs as you want.”

He once again easily tears them from your hips.

Your lips part in shock but he swallows your sassy remark with his mouth. The roughness of his kiss is a sharp contrast to the way his fingers softly tease between your legs.

You need more but you’ll be damned if you’re going to beg him for it. As if he can read your inner thoughts, his eyes light up in triumph when he pulls away to meet your gaze.

“As much as I want to hear you beg me for it sweetheart, I already know how badly you want it. You’re soaked for me.”

“You’re such an ass…”

He slides a finger inside you and your combined groans echo in the empty stairwell, the insult dying on your lips.

His stare is intense as he dips his head to your ear, warm lips brushing ever so gently when he whispers, “say please and I’ll give you what you want.”

Instead, you nip at his jaw, stifling the moan of need that threatens to rise in your throat. He continues pumping one finger in and out, sweat beginning to bead on his brow and his teeth gritted.

You hiss out a curse that’s followed by a breathy “please.”

You’re expecting him to be smug but instead he slows his movements and languidly pushes a second finger inside you, clearly relishing the way your eyelids flutter closed and you clench around him.

“That’s it sweetheart. Show me how much you love it when I fuck you with my fingers.”

His words practically send you over the edge but it’s the press of his thumb to your clit that makes your legs start to shake and his name fall from your lips like a prayer.

When his head falls to your neck and he places soft kisses along your skin, traveling up to your ear to whisper, “come for me gorgeous,” you let go and dig your fingernails into his strong shoulders, finishing with a muffled cry.

He draws out your pleasure with the slow push and pull of his fingers before sliding them out and holding them between you, his skin glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights.

His fingers press to his lips, parting them as he licks them clean, clearly savoring every drop of your taste.

“I knew you’d be sweet,” he croons.

“James,” you whimper when your hands fall to his pants.

He grabs your wrist to stop you and pushes your hand away. With soft movements he fixes your dress, smoothing his hands along your curves.

“But…” you start, and he silences you with a kiss.

You’re breathless and your head is fuzzy by the time he pulls away and with a wink he steps back and says, “lunch is over. We have a meeting to attend.”

He turns on his heel and jogs back up the steps with ease. Your narrowed eyes follow him before you let out a frustrated huff and walk on wobbly legs in the same direction.

You had forgotten all about the meeting…the one you were supposed to go over the plans for the night before.

When you walk into the large conference room everyone is already seated and Bucky is of course at the head of the table. His eyes are trained on you as you walk to the front and place your things down near him.

The presentation you’re giving shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, but there’s a lot riding on it and after what just happened, you’re obviously feeling flustered.

You open your document and greet and address the room, doing everything in your power to keep your focus on where it belongs and not on him.

But when you pause your eyes lock with his and your ability to speak is momentarily stolen. His gaze is intense, the heat simmering there almost palpable.

With a clear of your throat you continue, fumbling slightly but thankfully recovering quick enough that no one seems to notice. No one but him.

His perfect lips raise in a lopsided grin, and he runs his tongue along the seam of his lips. It’s clear where his thoughts are, and you must tear your eyes away to unscramble your head. He’s obviously trying to fluster you and quickly your nerves are replaced with anger, and you use it to fuel the rest of your presentation, finishing it with ease.

You sit with a smile and lift your chin, challenging him with your eyes. He stares right back.

“Thank you,” he says, addressing you by your first name as he stands and commands the room. “That was an excellent presentation. Clearly, you were well prepared.”

You can’t tell if his words are mocking or meaningful and it sets you on edge. He moves around the room and answers any lingering questions before ending the meeting with a dismissive hand.

As people stand and gather their things, Bucky comes up behind you, pressing his chest close to your back as he leans in to pretend to grab something from the table.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to make it thought that” he chuckles.

To everyone else it appears he’s making a funny remark, but you can feel your skin heat at his proximity and taunting words.

“Ugh,” you say through gritted teeth. “You would have loved that wouldn’t you?”

You can feel your eyes fill with unshed tears, the emotions of the day finally catching up to you and when his gaze finds yours his expression morphs from haughty to soft in an instant.

It only sends you reeling again, the confusion flooding through you and before he can say more you gather your things and rush out the door. Unexpectedly, he’s hot on your heels all the way to the elevator.

There are several other people on it so when you stop at the next floor and more employees file in, you’re squeezed toward the back, pushed farther into him, your ass against his crotch.

He’s hard and you feel the rest of him stiffen with the sharp intake of his breath. You take a step away from him, as much as you can in the confined space, but he reaches forward and grips your hip to pull you back.

“Don’t move,” he whispers into your neck.

“I’m two seconds away from shoving my heel up your ass,” you seethe.

He leans even closer, keeping a firm grasp on your hip.

“You were deliberately trying to make me fuck that up!”

You turn your head to peer at him and his mouth falls open, brows furrowed.

“What?” he says.

“You heard me.”

When you reach the floor just before the top, everyone else exits the elevator and the doors close, leaving you both pressed together in the corner.

It starts to move again, and you jerk backward, falling against him as he leans into the wall.

His sudden growl startles you and then he slams his hand into the stop button on the control panel.

His body cages you against the wall and his breathing is harsh.

“I would never want you to fuck anything up,” he exhales. “It’s impossible for me to think about anything but you…how good you taste, and I haven’t even gotten my mouth on you.”

You hide your surprise at his confession.

“Yet.” He adds in a promised whisper.

“This is my career at stake Mr. Barnes. You’re the one with all the power here. What do you have to lose?”

“Me? All the power?” He laughs dryly. “You’re the one who does this to me…the only one.”

You feel him throb against your stomach and you can see the truth in his eyes.

“Then don’t be such a dick all the time.”

You mean the words to come out harsh but instead they’re a quiet whisper and your expression softens.

It’s all he needs before his lips crash to yours and he slides his hands down to your ass, squeezing his way to the hem of your dress.

“I had to sit there and watch you present, the whole fucking time knowing you had nothing on under here.”

His touch is delicate as he spreads your legs and slides a finger through your folds, already wet and aching.

“I was sitting there hard as a rock just thinking about bending you over that table, tasting you, fucking you.”

Your fingers close around his biceps, the soft fabric of his suit jacket bulging under the strained muscles.

“Is that what you want?” he asks as his fingers continue to tease you.

“Yes,” you answer as you grab hold of his tie and bring his lips closer.

He kisses you, never touching you where you need it most and when he pulls away, he presses the elevator button, causing it to start moving again.

He removes his fingers and reaches up to straighten his tie and when the doors open, he backs out, his voice low and deep when he says, “I need to see you in my office. Immediately.”

He turns and glides from the elevator, his long strides carrying him quickly toward his office and you can’t do anything but follow.

@blackwidownat2814 @hiddles-rose @kmc1989 @goldylions @lizette50

[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.”

[fyorina]

ᡣ𐭩 BRING YOUR LOVE, I'LL BRING MY SHAME

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai knows he shouldn't be doing this. you haven't been sleeping well lately, and he could wait, but he has no self-control—not when it comes to you. (wordcount: 1.5k; nsfw)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: i don't even know where this one came from i'll be real. the demons took over i suppose

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, somno, dazai lowkey degrades himself, thigh fucking, dazai doesn't shut up.

Dazai wakes up sweaty and uncomfortable.

His t-shirt is drenched and his sweatpants cling to his skin, body sticky all over. His breath is shuddered and hitched, catching over a moan before his hand flies to his mouth to smother it in surprise. Heart erratic in his chest, Dazai’s eyes are wide as he stares up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what’s wrong with him.

It doesn’t take long for him to put it all together—even with his mind fogged from sleep and the sudden horniness, Dazai can feel the way his cock is straining against his sweatpants, heavy and throbbing as if he’d just been on the verge of release when he was dragged out of sleep into the land of the waking.

Every time his eyes slide shut, he can catch glimpses of whatever his dream had been about. He can’t recall the details of it, but he can recall the feeling of your body sliding on top of his, the slickness of skin-on-skin and the tightness of your cunt wrapped around his cock. His lips part in a silent moan, lashes fluttering as his head drops back against the pillow.

Fuck.

He tries to even out his heartbeat, but it’s hard when he can hardly focus because of the image of you constantly flashing through his mind. His cock aches for release, body trembling, and Dazai is at a loss.

This has never happened to him before.

Dazai has a notably low libido. He used to seek out sex frequently, not because he found pleasure in it—sometimes because he needed something from someone and it was the easiest way of getting it, but most of the time, it was just a quick way for him to escape from his mind for a bit, for him to feel something other than the emptiness in his hollow chest.

Until he met you, at least. You stumbled into his life one random Tuesday and completely altered his viewpoint on everything from the concept of love and humanity to his ever-wavering place on the thin line between life-and-death. He’s experienced countless firsts with you: his first time being nervous about a date, his first time being in love, his first time feeling sick and anxious over a fight.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that he’s facing another first.

Dazai lets out a low groan as he rolls over onto his side, reaching out blindly over to where you should be sleeping next to him. He lets out a breath of relief when his fingers find purchase on your hip, tugging you closer to him until your body his flush against his, cock pressed against the back of your thigh.

“Baby, wake up,” Dazai breathes out, pouting as he nudges his noise into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you greedily. His breath is shaky as he rolls his hips, catching over a moan as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “Please.”

He knows he’s being selfish. You’ve been complaining incessantly about upcoming exams and how shitty you’ve been sleeping because of preparation for them, and he should just ignore his hard-on and let you sleep or take care of it in the bathroom if he really needs to, but Dazai thinks he would rather die than fuck his fist after being spoiled so long with your pussy and mouth, and he definitely does not have the self-control to just ignore it.

He lets out a soft noise of complaint when you don’t even stir, hazy gaze flickering up to your nightstand, sighing when he sees your bottle of sleeping pills not properly closed on your nightstand.

“You’re not gonna be up for a while are you,” Dazai complains, voice edging on a whine as trails sloppy kisses across your neck, up to your jaw. He relishes in the way you let out a pleased, sleepy sigh when he nips at that spot you love behind your ear, body reacting to him even when drugged unconscious. “You’re so pretty, baby. Look at what you do to me.”

You won’t mind, won’t you? Dazai moans shakily as his hand slips down beneath the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down just enough to free his cock. His eyes half-roll back when he closes his fist around the base of his cock, kisses becoming a bit more desperate and bruising as he gives himself a few quick pumps.

He knows you won’t—in fact, the two of you have talked about this before. Given, it was him making lecherous comments about wanting you to use his body while he’s sleeping, but you’d given him a coy smile and answered with a prompt ‘only if you do the same with mine.’ Dazai naturally had agreed if only to get you to do it to him because he thought it would be sexy as hell, but he had no intentions of following through.

Yet, here he is.

“Want you so bad, baby,” Dazai breathes out, shifting forward to press his cock against your thighs, letting out a low groan as he rocks his hips forward and his cock slides between your plush thighs, tight enough and soft enough to have it twitching against you. “Don’t wanna fuck you while you’re sleeping, I’ll miss out on all your pretty noises.”

Dazai whimpers against your skin, fucking your thighs slowly. He shifts on his side a bit, just enough for him to catch sight of your peaceful face as you sleep next to him, blissfully unaware of your perverted boyfriend using your body to get himself off next to you.

“I’m such a creep,” Dazai whines, rocking his hips a bit faster, eyes rolling back as his tip rubs up against your damp panties. “You put up with so much of my shit, baby, I’m sorry, I just can’t get enough of you.”

One of his hands slide up your body, beneath the hem of your shirt to smooth over your warm skin. His breath is ragged as he palms your breast, thumb circling over your nipple, lips returning to your neck. He chokes over air when you shift in your sleep, letting out another soft moan, rubbing back against him, thighs squeezing a bit tighter around his cock.

“How can I when you’re so pretty?” Dazai gasps, rutting his hips faster, dark hair matted to his forehead and sweat beading at his skin. “And all mine. You’re so mine, baby, and I’m all yours. I’d do anything for you. Anything. You’re-hah, ffuck—so perfect, I’ll never let you go. Never.”

Dazai’s voice is ragged, ruined, the grip he has on your hips and breast firm and possessive. His lips slide messily up and down your neck, no longer able to hold his eyes open as he fucks your thighs faster, pushing himself closer and closer to the edge, moving with almost a primal type of urgency as he lets out muffled, wanton moans into your skin.

“I’m—ngh, shit—I’m so close, baby. Feel so good. What’re you doin’ to me, huh? Never-never felt like this before.” Dazai’s rambles are almost unintelligible, words catching over shameless moans and pants. He licks up your neck, tugging at your earlobe, and Dazai is almost frustrated; his abdomen is tight, his body trembling with desire. He can feel himself on the edge, so close, but unable to push himself over. The noise that spills from his lips is pitched and pathetic; he can feel tears build in the corner of his eyes as he thrusts his hips faster, desperate for release. “I wish you were awake, I need you, baby.”

His grip on your body tightens, he sucks below your ear, teeth teasing your skin. His eyes slide shut, he drowns in the sloppy sound of his cock sliding between your thighs, the copious amounts of precum acting as ample lube as he does his best to chase release but he can’t.

“You’re driving me crazy, baby.” Dazai’s words cut off into a sob as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. He rocks his hips faster, desperate for what seems like an unattainable release. "Ah, this is so embarrassing, you drive me crazy."

He gnaws his bottom lip raw in frustration, wants to slip your panties to the side, bury himself in your cunt. His fingers slide down your body, inching below the hem of your panties and-

Dazai should be fucking ashamed, he knows it deep in his heart, but he's so clouded with lust and pleasure that he can hardly even acknowledge that. Fucking your thighs while you're asleep when he knows you haven't been sleeping well and still wanting more?

“‘samu?”

At the sound of your voice, tired and sleepy, confused—it’s all it takes to send him over the edge. He gasps out your name, body shuddering, cock twitching as he cum coats your panties and inner thighs.

His arms tighten around you, chest rising and falling rapidly as he rests his forehead on your shoulder blade, trying to catch his breath. He smiles when he feels your hand come to rest on top of his, fingers lacing with his own.

“You didn’t wait for me to wake up,” you pout, turning your head to the side. Dazai lifts his head to press his lips against yours, a slow and deep kiss that rattles Dazai’s bones—god, he’s never loved someone like you before.

“Forgive me?” Dazai hums softly, smiling against your lips.

“Make it up to me,” you counter, eyes glittering as you look at him.

Dazai’s smile widens, flipping the two of you over so that he’s hovering above you. His lips ghost yours as he murmurs, “With pleasure.”

[g0dlyunsub]

warm you.

spencer finds you in a state of hypothermia while the both of you are on a case, and he quickly works to warm you up.

pairing :: spencer x fem bau!reader

warnings :: mentions of cryochambers and torture, hypothermia symptoms, weapons, gunshot wounds, partial nudity, scars, general cm themes

word count :: 2.8k

author’s note :: while this isn’t much different from my other sfw fics, i want to be safe and say that this is 18+!

accompanying song :: warm you by matty and mandaworld

“we’re closest to the address. we’ll head there first.” 

“be careful,” you hear hotch’s voice through the speaker, crisp with a hint of concern.

out of the corner of your eye, you see spencer nod and cut the phone call. he instructs you to speed up, so you grip the steering wheel, press down on the accelerator as hard as you can, and turn on the sirens.

“take a left,” he tells you, and you swerve the car. you blurt out a warning as the wheels swivel, and spencer places a hand against the dashboard for support. before you can apologize, spencer points at the house at the far corner of the street.

“right here!” he calls out, and you quickly maneuver the car to come to a halt. you park the car in front of the driveway and unlock your seatbelt before stepping out of the vehicle with your hand positioned on your holster. 

the house is a lot bigger than you thought, four floors altogether. this is where the unsub was keeping a cryochamber to torture his victims?

“should we wait for backup?” spencer asks as his eyes roam the exterior of the massive building, and you stop to do the same. the both of you already know the answer. a girl’s life is on the line, and the unsub could claim her last breath at any second.

spencer nods at you as he knows what your silence entails. you offer a nod back, then move to retrieve your gun and motion towards the front door. you test the doorknob, and to your surprise, it’s unlocked.

with a heavy inhale to prepare yourself, you jerk open the door and shuffle in, spencer following right behind you.

“daniel miller, fbi!” the two of you simultaneously call out, and you silence your steps to hear for any indicators of the unsub’s presence.

after checking the living room and kitchen, you move to the staircase. you point downwards to let spencer know that you’re heading to the basement, and spencer returns a signal that he’ll move upstairs.

you descend with stealthy steps. halfway down the flight of stairs, the platform creaks beneath your shoe, several wood fibers snapping with a splitting crack. the hairs on your skin stand and your flashlight shakes as you try to steady yourself. berating yourself for being so careless, you continue to tread down the rest of the steps with extreme caution.

it’s completely dark in the basement and your flashlight doesn’t illuminate the room as brightly as you want it to. but when you shine it to your left, you see it – a large cryochamber. right as you try to turn around to check if anyone’s behind you, you hear it – the click of a gun, aimed against the back of your head.

“drop it.”

you stand frozen, paralyzed with the realization that the unsub is right behind you, his gun positioned less than an inch from your skull.

you can faintly hear spencer yell clear! from upstairs. maybe you could stall a bit, wait for spencer to register your unusual silence. but the perpetrator has other plans.

“i said, drop the gun.” his tone is controlled and demanding, and your palms start to collect sweat. feeling your gun start to slip in your clammy grip, you decide to give in.

“okay, daniel, i’m going to put my gun down. we can talk about this,” you offer as you kneel slowly to place the gun and flashlight on the concrete floor. you stand back up with raised arms, watching as the shadow of his gun follows your every movement.

daniel kicks your gun to the far corner of the room and orders you to open the door to the chamber. the barrel of his gun knocks into your scalp, eliciting a sharp hiss from you. 

“go inside.”

you swallow your own saliva, feeling the cold gust of air brush against your face and bare arms as you twist the lever to the door. today was decidedly a bad day to wear a tank top. it’s only when the rigid weapon hits your head once again that you take a step into the room. you bite your lip when you realize the girl who’s been kidnapped isn’t in the chamber. where is she? desperately, you turn around to meet the gun that's leveled right between your eyes.

“listen, daniel, we can just talk about this. none of this is your fault, we-”

daniel growls at your forced attempt to reason with him, and hushes you by waving his weapon menacingly. you clamp your mouth shut, and daniel retreats with his gun still pointed at you. he slams the door shut before you can protest further.

there’s an overhead light in the chamber, and it’s lit with an eerie shade of nordic blue. the surrounding walls are all frozen, and the floor’s coated with a layer of ice fractals. you can see marks of blood tainting the sides, and it looks like one of the victims attempted to fight back with their knuckles. after taking a few staggering steps, you slip and fall to the ground, yelping when the painful impact reverberates through your kneecaps.

it’s too cold. you estimate the temperature to be below negative twenty based on estimates from the victim reports you read earlier. you faintly remember spencer stating that death under such conditions could occur in less than an hour. if only you could retrace back to the conversation and ask him how to maximize your chances of survival.

spencer.

where’s spencer?

you start to shake uncontrollably as the panic settles in, your muscles convulsing and your vision spinning out of control. you loosen your bulletproof vest and brace your arms underneath to gather the last of your warmth. trying to breathe on your hands doesn’t help, since the freezing air instantly neutralizes the heat. 

shit. you need to warn spencer not to come down to the basement, or at least let him know that the girl’s not here.

you click the button on your mic numerous times, cursing when nothing works. there’s static running in the background, and you can’t isolate any sound nor tell if a response is coming through. letting out a frustrated groan, you take off the mic and hurl it to the floor. with chattering teeth, you rub your arms as fast as you can to generate friction before giving up and curling into a fetal position on the ground.

minutes pass, and your labored breaths come out with visible puffs of air while your hair feels hard to the touch, like a layer of gel is smothered all over it. your fingers are numb, your jaw remains clenched, and your eyes are sore from the intolerable cold. you’ve stopped shaking now, which could only mean bad news.

then, all of a sudden, you hear the sound of a gunshot. 

was that spencer? 

oh dear god, did he just get shot? 

you don’t have time to further process your thoughts, because the door’s lever starts to rattle and momentarily after, it swings open.

spencer stands right outside, mouth wide open when he sees your still body, your extremities frigid from the cold.

“medic, i need a medic!” you hear spencer yell into his mic as he rushes inside. he hoists you up with a bridal carry, one arm looping under your legs and the other gently supporting your back. as he walks out, you can see the unsub lying on the ground with a gunshot wound in his forehead. a sigh of relief can’t even exit your frosty lips.

spencer sets you down on the other side of the basement and rushes to turn the heaters on at the maximum setting.

“y/n, look at me.” with one hand almost blazing hot cupping your left cheek, spencer tilts your head to the side slightly.

you look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. after a second of assessing your condition, spencer stands and retrieves spare blankets from the worktable before kneeling beside you. he lifts your head so as to not strain your neck, and wraps a dry, warm blanket around it. 

you hear spencer curse under his breath.

“i-i need to take your clothes off.”

you’re convinced it’s brain freeze that’s making you process his words with a delay.

right. no wet clothes when you have hypothermia. 

you don’t respond. you want to tug at his arm to give him the green light, but even that feels like the most impossible task. you can’t move, you can’t feel, and you can’t even blink. 

but spencer doesn’t hesitate. he tears the top that’s stuck to your thawing skin, lumps the fabric to the side, and proceeds to hastily remove your socks. you hear him murmur a soft sorry as he unbuckles the belt around your waist and unzips your jeans. his fingers fumble clumsily as he pulls on the denim, but he keeps a hand on your waistband to prevent your undergarment from slipping. it’s this little gesture that gets you all worked up, butterflies stirring in your stomach.

he reaches to slide each leg out of your jeans, holding you delicately by your heels. you wonder what you look like from his perspective. maybe a lifeless figure blended with the color of the concrete floor, the only sign of life in your moist hair that’s tangled and plastered to your skin. you wonder if his eidetic memory is capturing every imperfection of your body, and if your scars look even more obvious with the melting flakes of ice coating your skin.

spencer doesn’t leave you exposed for more than a second, though, because he places a heated blanket over your body. his eyes don’t break away from your gaze when he removes his vest, and his fixed stare kindles a spark in your core that you wish never set alight. unfortunately for you, he also starts to unbutton his collared shirt. 

in any other setting, you would open your eyes wide and gawk at him if he pulled the same move, but right now, you couldn’t move a single muscle even if you wanted to. he wraps his collared shirt around your exposed feet peeking from under the blanket before turning to face you. it feels illegal to look at him like this, his upper body bare and towering over you. and while you can’t see much due to the dim lighting in the basement, you can feel your heartbeat quicken.

“i’m… i’m going to use skin-to-skin contact, okay? we’re going to try and increase your internal temperature by sharing body heat,” spencer explains, but not much of it goes through your head. like before, you don’t say a word.

spencer slowly lowers himself next to you and gently embraces your body with his arms. he grunts as your body transmits cold onto his skin, while you close your eyes, relishing his warmth that blossoms throughout your core and extremities. 

“i’m sorry i have to do this, but you can’t produce enough heat on your own,” spencer apologizes, but you wish he didn’t feel like he needed to. his voice fills your body up like it’s an empty vial, and you give in completely to his touch. like candle wax, you melt slowly.

spencer shifts to cover his and your body with another blanket, desperately trying to keep your body exposed to as many layers of heat as possible. he releases hot breaths on your neck and his teeth occasionally graze your sensitive skin, making your eyelashes flutter. periodically, he checks your breathing patterns and listens as the painful gasps make their way into your throat. that’s it, keep breathing, you hear him whisper. his fingers spread along your waist as he tries to widen his grip on you. his touch feels so intimate, it sends your brain into overdrive.

you continue to lie in his hold for another five minutes until the medics arrive. the last thing you see is spencer’s face, wisps of hair falling into his eyes. he seems to move in slow motion, and his mouth moves like he’s saying something to you, but everything whirls into darkness.

you wake with an exhausted groan and look down to see you’re wearing a white gown. you’re on a hospital bed, hooked up to an iv line. as you survey your surroundings with your blurred vision, you stop. spencer. he’s standing at the foot of the bed, and he immediately drops his book with a thud when he sees that you’re responsive.

he rushes to your side, smiling weakly as he holds your hand gently. he has dark circles around his eyes and tousled hair furls around his ears. you feel guilty. did he get any sleep this entire time, or was he waiting for you to wake? how long were you even asleep for?

“are you feeling better?” he croaks out quietly with a slight crack in his voice.

“mm. i am.” you force yourself to sit up against your body’s will, and spencer tries to stop you. you insist with the shake of your head.

“it’s okay. i just wanted to say… thank you, spencer. i really owe you one.”

he blinks while his lips stretch into a thin smile.

“no, i-i actually, um, it was my fault. i shouldn’t have split up with you like that, especially when we didn’t have backup.”

you wet your lips and exhale quietly.

“i was the one who signaled that we split up, not you. none of this is your fault. seriously,” you respond firmly.

you give him a smile, which he returns. as his hand moves to rub a soothing massage along your fingers, you ask, “is the girl okay?”

spencer nods almost immediately.

“yeah. i found her on the third floor, and she told me that he was keeping her in the basement until we arrived.”

“i see,” you croon. spencer gets the hint that you’re tired, and he calmly lowers your hand.

“if it makes you feel any better, technically, we didn’t really… um… touch. at the macroscopic level, yes, but at the atomic level, the atoms of our skin aren’t free floating. they’re bound as part of a larger network, and so intermolecular forces keep our atoms from forming strong bonds-”

you let out a weak laugh.

he catches himself and quietly apologizes. “my point is, i’m sorry if anything i did made you uncomfortable.”

you reach for his hand and trace the veins that mark his skin.

“spence, are you kidding? you saved my life. if you hadn’t done that, i wouldn’t be talking to you right now. i’d be dead.”

“don’t say that,” spencer reproves you quietly.

“well, my point is i trust you with my entire life, spencer reid. i really do.”

spencer smiles and takes a deep breath, running his other hand through his hair as he looks at you with tired eyes.

“thank you. thank you for trusting me. i’ll … i should let you rest.” he slides his hand out of your grasp and moves to pick up the book from the floor, but you give his shirt a light tug.

“actually, spence–”

he turns around, curious eyes ready to listen to anything you have to ask.

“do you mind staying a bit longer?” you smile sheepishly.

spencer looks at you for a second, like it’s the last thing he’s expected you to say. but he immediately warms up with a wide grin. “sure, of course.”

you pat the space next to you on the bed as you shift to the edge. 

“come on, have a seat,” you say with an inviting tone.

“are you sure?” he confirms, a surprised expression painting his face. you nod, and he sinks into the bed, gently lifting your arm and lowering it onto his lap.

“you like the color red, right?” spencer asks out of the blue, and you furrow your brows.

“yeah, why do you ask?” you return curiously.

“i got you a new top. to make up for the… other one,” spencer coughs as he finishes his sentence. you giggle, burying your left cheek in the pillow as a blush creeps over your cheek.

“you didn’t have to, i really appreciate it,” you whisper, and you feel his fingers tighten around yours. spencer looks away shyly, but you can see him purse his lips to suppress a smile.

you repeat thank you's to him over and over again, each time feeling the weight of comfort pull on your eyelids and draw you closer to sleep.

[monstersflashlight]

As per your reply to my comment I am here to humbly request part 3 of the ogre-orgy story 👉👈🥺

Pretty please I love your writing <3

Hi darling! Gladly. If you haven't read, heres part 1 and part 2.

When the humans found you again, you were covered in cum from head to toe, having been on your knees all morning after all guards rubbed their orgasms over you. They wanted to take you with them, claiming they had been looking for you. You flipped them off, your old training coming in handy when he approached you. You kicked their asses and when an ogre guard found you with a few humans laying around, he grabbed you and threw you over her shoulder.

From that point on, you were never left alone. They protected you like their most precious treasure, leaving you right next to the gold and jewels they found. You were a treasure for them, too. And you liked it so much you felt intoxicated by it. You were a cum dumpster for them, but a golden one. One that they would protect and cherish, one that they would do anything to keep happy. So much, that when you asked to be (finally) fucked they formed a line and waited for orders.

You sat yourself on your new throne, the one they built for you, and opened your legs. You prepared yourself with your fingers, and stared as they grew increasingly louder, increasingly eager. When you said the word, a fight ensued, all of them wanted to be the first entering you. Your favorite guard won, the one that always came on your pussy and rubbed your clit with his seed until you came.

He entered you in one hard thrust, the blood of other ogres dripping from his body to yours. The wild and feral sensation intensified as you tasted blood on your lips. He fucked you like a piston and made you orgasm over and over. When he finally came inside of you, he filled you to the brim. You hummed happily and laid down again. After him, one after the other fucked you, the lady guards took your fav dildo and used it to peg you.

When they finished, you didn't even know your own name, and when the head of the guards pushed a plug inside of you to keep all the cum inside, you sighed, happily.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

29 for Steve?

29. kisses when they’re mad

Steve was scowling, an over the top, dramatic kind of expression. It made his lips look soft and pouty, his brows furrowed enough for a little stitch to appear between them.

The kids hadn’t shut up the entire way home from the arcade, first complaining about Steve picking them up a whole six minutes earlier than agreed despite the impending storm, and then, the clambered into the car with enough noise for Steve to yell more than once. Consistent arguing about who was going to be dropped home first, who had actually won the last Dig Dug game and why was Steve so grouchy? Didn’t he have better music in the car? What did he mean he wasn’t going to take them for milkshakes?

By the time the car was empty and he’d returned you both to his empty home, he was barely talking. You knew he wasn’t mad at you, he just had a headache, something you understood considering you too been trapped in the car with six kids who all thought they knew best.

It wasn’t your fault that Steve looked just as pretty when he was mad as he did when he was smiling. He was quiet, still sullen as he slouched in the corner of his sofa, aimlessly flicking through the TV channels as he tried to find something to watch. He wasn’t ignoring you, not really, he had one leg bent on the cushions, his knee knocking yours but it wasn’t enough, you’d decided.

Not when he was looking like that.

So you clambered over to his side of the couch, not very gracefully, but you draped yourself over his lap, knees knocking until you were comfy and Steve’s lips quirked up just slightly. Just a little.

He wasn’t watching the television anymore.

“So moody,�� you told him, voice soft and playful as you took his jaw in one hand, your fingers and thumb pushing into the stubble on his cheeks. His lips popped, pretty and pink and ready to be kissed. “What have I gotta do to cheer you up?”

Steve made a noise, huffy and rough and before he could roll his eyes, you swiped your thumb over his lower lip, a fleeting touch that made him forget why he was mad at all, if not just for a second.

But then, “you could tell Henderson that he needs to use something called an inside voi—”

You moved in, confident, bringing your lips to Steve’s in a kiss that still gave you both butterflies. It was slow enough that you could feel the sharp inhale of his surprise against your mouth, the low gasp as he let you press your bottom lip between his own. It was fast enough that he chased you as you pulled away.

“Still mad?” You asked, your voice nothing more than a low drawl, a murmur against his cheek as you stamped another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Or did Mike spilling his slurpee on your seats ruin the whole day?”

Steve huffed, sighing at the reminder even though his hands had found your thighs, bare under your dress and warm, wrapping roughly around the fat there as he held you close. As if you had any intention of moving from his lap.

“M’gonna have to pay someone to get that stain out,” Steve told you, petulant and with raised brows. “It’s bright red, as if those kids need fuckin’ E numbers—”

Another kiss, this one longer and a little rougher, your nose pressed to Steve’s cheek and he grunted at the surprise of it, his words lost between your lips and you swallowed his sounds and complaints. You traced the seam of his lips with your tongue, coaxing for only a second until he parted them for you happily, sighing against you as he leant back, letting you take the lead.

It was easy to push him into the couch cushions, his head falling back as you followed, your hands holding his jaw so you could kiss him deeper, longer, lazier. He was making pretty sounds now, no more huffs of annoyance, his eyes closed and no longer rolling, and when you tried to pull away, he pulled you back, shaking his head in disagreement as your mouth met his once again.

By the time his hands had moved to your ass, tracing the line of your thighs and moving upupup under your skirt to find the line of your underwear that curved over you, you were positive he wasn’t mad anymore.

[cupidhoons]

love.

 ୨୧  moments where they realize they are in love or when they fall harder than they did before . . . ( request )

   g    fluff  short scenarios kissing slightly suggestive hyung line     warnings   not proof-read fmr in mind wc 738 ・  bookshelf    ᡴꪫ       

when heeseung realizes he's in love, it hits him like a truck. he's been thinking about you more than it should be, wanting to be near you more often and having thoughts about kissing your pretty little lips. it drives him insane to the point where he can't take it anymore.

the way you sat in front of him at the café when he took you out. the way you talked, the flirtatious and playful tone you used around him. the way your lips looked, glossed over with a pinkish shade of lip product. he couldn't get you out of his mind.

"heeseung?" you tilt your head while you peak out of the door. "what are you doing here-"

before you know it, his hands cupped your face ever so softly and pressed his lips against yours. the kiss was hungry — as if he'd been deprived of touch. a whine escaped your mouth as he pulled away.

"m'sorry, i couldn't help myself. i like — screw that — love you, y/n."

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

jay knows he's in love with you. from the way you look with and without makeup and down to the way you even breath — he's so pathetically in love with you and he knows that. he makes it clear how much he loves you for you.

but, as you sleep beside him, his heart beats faster than ever. jay never knew that he could fall any harder for you.

he looks at your relaxed face, eyes closed as your chest rises up and down. he observes your facial features — your nose, eyebrows, the lips he gets to kiss every waking moment. he soft traces your face, trying hard not to wake you. how did he get so lucky?

he shifts closer to you, placing soft kisses all over your face. "i love you, so much." he whispers softly as he places a small kiss on your forehead.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

growing up, jake always only saw you as his best friend. nothing else. he loved your company and the platonic love you two shared. however, things started to get complicated when you got your first boyfriend. something inside him stirred, seeing you with another guy. he didn't want to come off as possessive or aggressive — but he couldn't help himself. especially when you rant to him about how much your current boyfriend mistreats you.

he knows he shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't be throwing punches at this guy, but he's had enough. the guy was a complete bastard. how could he make you cry so much just for him to cheat?

"he doesn't deserve you, y/n. please," he begs as you heal his wounds. you look at him sternly. "find someone better, someone who will treat you right." you chuckle, placing down the ointment you held. "jake," you start, slightly moving your head closer to his. "thank you for standing up for me." you say, placing a small kiss on his cheek.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

sunghoon was never the best at sharing his own thoughts and feelings. it took awhile for him to open up to you in the early stages of your relationship, but once he did, he realized how easy it was to find comfort in you. he told you all sorts of stuff about him. he didn't expect you to remember all of them, but you did.

"hi baby, i got your favorites!" you smile, seating yourself down on the chair across. he looks at the tiramisu, then at you. his eyes widen in shock, making you giggle. sunghoon swears he fell in love with you all over again. he didn't think you would actually remember the small things he told you 2 years ago, before even dating.

"what's that look for, hoon?" he stares at you blankly. did you break your own boyfriend? you laugh, "hello? earth to sung-"

"i'm so in love with you. can we get married?" he blurts. you look at him with widened eyes. "i'm so serious, i think i want to wife you up." he chuckles. you didn't think that it would be a big deal for you to remember little things about him, but it seems that it is.

it doesn't click to sunghoon what he just said until he sees the way your shocked face. "i'm sorry, i don't know what came over me! it's just-"

"i accept your proposal!" you laugh in response.

this is a draft umm i'll do maknae line soon hopefully ahjakdkfndkfkendk sorry this was really half assed :/

[beskarandblasters]

Storm Surge

Neighbor!Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist

Summary: Moving to Florida means dealing with hurricanes. But when your first hurricane has you spooked, your neighbor, Frankie, offers to wait out the storm with you.

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: set post Triple Frontier, reader is able-bodied, descriptions of a panic attack, drinking, dry humping, kissing, hair pulling (Frankie’s), secret mutual pining, oral sex (M and F receiving), vaginal sex, pull out method, mentions of birth control, pet names (hermosa), no use of y/n

Author’s note: Combining two of my special interests; natural disasters and Pedro boys! If you know me you know I love all things earth science and weather related so this was super fun for me to write! I hope you enjoy! 🌪️🌴

Right before you moved to Florida everyone had told you, “Good luck with the heat and hurricanes!” which always made you roll your eyes. The heat was a given. But hurricanes always seemed like something that could never possibly happen to you. You just assumed that since you’re not on the coast they wouldn’t be a big deal. 

Little did you know you’d be eating your words by the time your first hurricane season rolled around. Let alone your first Category Three storm. You had watched the news with eagle eyes, hoping and praying the storm would turn the other direction and blow out to sea. But soon enough you were heading to the Publix, restocking your hurricane kit. It was a zoo, of course. But the demeanor of other shoppers is what shocked you. They were so calm like they were just fulfilling a routine.

Meanwhile, your heart dropped to your stomach as you lugged bottled water into your shopping cart. Before heading to check out, you made sure you had all the essentials– nonperishable food, enough water for seven days, a first aid kit, batteries, and a flashlight. The cashier, an elderly woman, noticed the panicked look on your face and asked, “First hurricane?”

You offered a meek “Yes” as you paid for your items, ensuring you get cash back in the event of a total emergency. It felt like overkill but you’re not sure what to expect. 

As she handed your receipt to you she offered a word of advice. “Think of it like this– It’s only July. By the end of this year, you’ll be a pro!”

Somehow that didn’t make you feel better. 

And now you’re in your building’s parking lot, not remembering the drive home. You look out your car window, thinking about how you’re gonna have to lug all this shit to the tenth floor. As quickly as possible, you lug your groceries out of your trunk and trek to your apartment. The heavy rain pelts your skin, making it hard to keep your eyes open. As you shield your face you notice the palm trees, whipping back and forth in the harsh wind. The hurricane hasn’t even made landfall yet and it’s already abysmal outside. You try not to think about the possibility of it jumping to a higher category.

By the time you get to the elevator, you’re already sweating bullets, stomach swirling with adrenaline. Your arms hurt from everything you’re carrying, cursing yourself for not buying a collapsible wagon when you first moved here. The building shakes with the wind as the elevator climbs to the tenth floor. Or at least you think it does. You’re not really sure. You’re too paranoid to think clearly. 

The elevator ride feels like forever, watching the dull light-up display illuminate for each floor you pass. At least it’s a brief refuge from lugging your haul. But once it dings at your floor you sigh, bracing yourself for the heavy load. You poke your head out into the hallway– there’s no one around. Perfect. 

With a pathetic groan, you traverse the hallway, your door at the end feeling like the finish line at a marathon. But a voice behind you causes you to stop right in your tracks. 

“Are you okay?”

Judging by the voice you know exactly who it is– your hot neighbor, Frankie. He introduced himself the day you moved in, shaking your hand in the mailroom. Since then, you developed a little crush but you don’t know much about him, just that he’s ex-military. Maybe the Army or Air Force. You’ve only shared small talk here and there in the mailroom and uttered a quick hello when you passed each other in the hallway, nothing more. You’ve always been too shy to take it any further. Besides, he’s always having friends over. You’re already too shy to work up the courage to ask him out as it is, but even more so when there are three men at his apartment most days of the week. 

But here he is, standing behind you as you’re panicked from the impending storm and sweaty from your ridiculously large haul. As much as you’d like to, you’re not able to hide your fear, not even in front of him. 

You turn around and exclaim, “There’s a hurricane!!!”

He lifts his classic hat, smoothing his hair back before replacing it on his head again, sarcastically saying, “...Yeah?” with a lopsided grin.

“Aren’t you worried?” 

“Of what… We’re in an inland high-rise.”

“But-”

“First hurricane?”

“Yeah.”

He steps to the side of his doorframe, gesturing for you to come inside. 

“Come on in. I’m a pro at this point.”

“You’re inviting me inside?”

“You seem like you could use a seasoned Floridian right about now. Plus, I have beers.”

God, you’ve been fantasizing about this for months, being inside his apartment. But certainly not under these circumstances. Any other day of the year you’d give just about anything to be alone with him. He’s always with his friends. You suppose he’s right, though. It might be nice to be with someone who’s dealt with this before. 

“Leave your stuff there. I’ll grab it all. Make yourself comfortable.”

You set your stuff down and creep into his apartment, gingerly sitting on his couch. The layout of his place is similar to yours, but it’s not as clean. There are empty beer bottles and dirty socks strewn about on the floor. But his couch is rather comfy, the kind you could sink into and never get up from. He sets your groceries down on the kitchen counter and remarks, “Did you buy out Publix?” he snorts.

“...Kinda.”

“It won’t be that bad. It’s only a Cat Three.”

“What do you mean only a Category Three?”

“It could be worse,” he shrugs, opening the refrigerator and grabbing two beers. He walks over to the couch and hands you one, plopping down beside you and turning on the TV. 

Your heart drops to your stomach again. The news anchor stands outside in the pouring rain, reporting from somewhere on the coast. The wind whips her face and she has to fight to keep her eyes open, talking about how Hurricane Debby has already jumped to a Category Four. 

“Frankie…” you whisper, trying not to panic. 

“It’s gonna be fine.”

“It’s already a Category Four!” you interject, turning and looking at him. Your hands shake as you clench the bottle of beer, reaching forward to set it on his coffee table. 

“Well… The good news is there’s only one more category to go!”

You place your hand in your hands, fighting a total meltdown. He scooches closer, taking a swig of his beer and rubbing your back. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you. I promise.”

“What if a tree falls on the building?” 

“We’re on the tenth floor I don’t think it’ll do much.”

Okay. Okay. That makes you feel a little bit better. But just as you feel yourself start to calm down you remember one crucial detail… You forgot to get gas. 

“Frankie?”

“Yeah?”

“...I forgot to get gas.”

“Overprepared for everything else but the gas, huh?” he snorts.

“It’s not funny,” you groan. “What if it gets so bad we have to evacuate?” 

“What do you even drive?” 

“A Corolla.”

“Yeah if it gets that bad your Corolla ain’t gettin' anywhere, even with gas.”

You groan again, feeling tears sting your eyes. He leans forward and whispers in your ear, “That’s why I have a truck. We’ll be fine.”

You nod but the worried look doesn’t leave your face. 

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll put something else on the TV. If at any point you want to leave, we’ll hop in my truck and go, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, picking up your head and leaning back against his couch. 

He turns off the news and opens Netflix, putting on Narcos as you listen to the wind howl outside. Your thighs are touching, thanks to how wide his legs are spread. You glance to your right, getting a full frontal view of the bulge straining the fabric of his gray sweatpants. 

But it’s rude to stare and there’s a sex scene on the TV, leaving you unsure where to avert your eyes. You turn your head and glance out the window, watching as the sky grows darker and angrier. Heavy, thick raindrops pound against the window, making a sound so loud it drowns out any noise coming from the TV. You swear you feel the building shake. Your entire body tenses up and Frankie notices, putting an arm around you. 

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, voice gentle and full of concern.

“I’m fine,” you reply, your voice small and weak. 

Your face runs cold, all the blood draining from your cheeks as the fear settles in. The hairs on your arms stand on their ends, goosebumps pricking your skin. Frankie says your name but it sounds distant and far away. Ringing in your ears soon takes over, the world distorting around you in your state of panic. 

His arm slides down your back, guiding you into his lap. You don’t fight it. His touch is comforting, a sense of calm in your time of distress. His strong arms wrap around your back, pulling you into his chest. His t-shirt is soft and he smells nice, like he’s fresh out of the shower. The warmth in the crook of his neck subsides your anxiety. He rubs your back, not saying anything while he does his best to soothe you. The rising and falling of his chest and the sound of his breath bring you back to reality and finally, you’re able to think clearly. Your thoughts are no longer racing a mile a minute and you’re starting to think he was right– You needed a seasoned Floridian to get through this. 

You lean back and look at him, his brown eyes with worry. You feel a bit silly, getting worked up over a hurricane and look away. Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you softly utter, “Sorry you had to do that.”

He reaches out, cupping your face as he directs you to look at him again. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I feel a lot better now.”

“You had me worried for a second there.”

You linger for a moment, studying his face before snapping out of your trance. 

“I can move,” you say quickly, wiggling out of his lap. 

“Or you could stay right here,” he blurts out.

“Oh?”

“Never mind.”

“No, you said what you said,” you say, a smile breaking out on your face. 

Maybe your crush was secretly reciprocated this entire time. Maybe this entire time he was pining for you behind closed doors, telling his friends about his crush who lives down the hall. Maybe he never worked up the courage to ask you out, let alone have a real conversation with you. 

“Was this your plan all along? Invite me to your place when a hurricane strikes?” you tease.

“No,” he says quickly. “I just heard you struggling in the hallway and figured I’d help.”

“Oh God. You heard me?”

“Yup,” he smirks.

“That’s definitely not embarrassing at all.”

“I thought it was cute.”

“Cute?? What’s cute about me sweating profusely while trying to carry a case of water?”

“It’s just cute that you’re so prepared for this. It’s easy to tell you’re not a local.”

“Is that so?” you ask, leaning forward. Something about having just an inkling that he feels the same way as you gives you a newfound sense of confidence. 

“Yes,” he breathes. 

He’s visibly flustered, his palms growing sweaty as he grips your waist. For once you’re able to forget about the raging storm outside, focusing only on Frankie’s touch. 

“I guess you have to show me how to be a local.”

“Starting now,” he says, leaning forward and closing the gap between you two. He presses his lips against yours, his scent and warmth filling your senses. You rest your hands on the back of his neck, tangling your fingers at the ends of his curls. 

You roll your hips into him, the bulge in his sweatpants rubbing against your cunt. The wetness seeps out of you, forming a trail in your underwear. One hand slides down to your ass and the other stays on your waist. He’s intoxicating, everything about him drives you wild. The rush of finally kissing him after fantasizing about this for so long leaves you with a buzz; a high only he can provide. 

He tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth, eliciting a moan from you. He chuckles, soft and low before doing it again. His tongue brushes against your lips, asking for access. You part your lips and let him explore your mouth, noses brushing against each other in a sloppy but needy kiss. He tastes like the beer he’s been sipping but you don’t mind. You pull his curls and grind your hips against him harder. He lets out a deep and guttural moan, triggered by your grasp on his hair. 

And that’s when you decide his staple Standard Oil hat is in the way, tossing it on the floor behind you. You grab more of his curls, hands roaming his scalp as he moans into your mouth. This moment is perfect, making you forget all the stress and anxiety that led you here in the first place. The both of you melt into putty in each other's hands, the arousal almost becoming too much to bear. And all you’ve been doing is dry humping on his couch. 

He pulls back, his face still only mere inches away from yours, and whispers, “I need more of you.” 

“Oh yeah?” you tease. 

“Please,” he whimpers. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, without missing a beat. 

You get out of his lap and stand, tilting your head to the side as you watch his cock twitch in his sweatpants. He flattens his palms against the top of his thighs, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. Your lips curl into a smirk as you sink to the floor, resting on your knees. You look up at him as your hand caresses his clothed cock. 

“How long, Frankie?” 

“Months.”

“Gonna have to be more specific,” you chuckle, pulling his cock from his sweatpants. You wrap your hand around the base but keep it still, refusing to stroke him until he gives you an answer. 

“Ever since you moved down the hall. I saw you in the mail room and I was done for.” 

You lean forward and trail your tongue from the base of his cock up to the tip. You slot your tongue in between his foreskin and his head, listening as he lets out a strained, “Oh fuck.”

Pre-cum leaks from the tip, coating your tongue as you swirl it around. His hands grip his sweatpants, knuckles pale in color as you tease him painstakingly slowly. 

You pull back and say, “Tell me more,” before returning your tongue to his cock.

“Uhh, fuck. Well, my friends make fun of me for being too chicken to talk to you.”

You hum as you take his cock in your mouth, sending a vibration down his shaft and a shiver up his spine. He curses under his breath and continues, “You just… intimidated me.” 

You flash your eyes up at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“It’s true!” 

You hum again, thinking about how on earth he could be intimidated by you. You’ll tease him about it later, resigning to bobbing your head up and down as you suck his cock. You stroke the base of his shaft, your hand growing wet with a mixture of your saliva and his pre-cum. He throws his head back against the couch, closing his eyes as you work him closer to the edge. But when your hand cups his balls and you suck in your cheeks, he’s done for, coming with an explosive moan. He reaches out, placing a hand on the back of your head as he cums, spilling his spend down your throat. 

You continue sucking his cock throughout his high, prolonging it even further. But once he goes soft you take him out of your mouth, resting your head against his inner thigh and looking up at him. He reaches forward and wipes away a trail of spit and cum running down your chin.

“So I intimidated you, huh?” you tease. 

“Not so fast. It’s my turn to ask questions now,” he says, standing up from the couch. He gestures to where he once was and continues, “Lie down for me.”

You lie down on his couch, watching as he reaches for the waistband of your leggings. He hooks his fingers around the fabric, pulling them off with your underwear in one swift motion. He spreads your thighs apart and you wonder if he’ll comment on the sopping mess you’ve already become. 

“So wet for me already,” he teases. Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “And all you did was suck my cock.”

“And we dry-humped on your couch like a couple of horny teenagers.”

“Mhm,” he says, lowering himself in front of your pussy. His eyes are wide and filled with lust, his jaw going slack as he looks at your dripping cunt. You shiver with anticipation, desperate for his fingers, his tongue– anything. 

“Frankie, please.”

“Tell me, hermosa. How long have you wanted me?” 

“Same as you. Since the day we met in the mailroom.”

He licks one long, slow trail up your pussy and pauses, asking you, “Too afraid to ask me out?” 

“Frankie, you always have your fucking posse with you!”

“My posse?” he snickers, warm breath tickling your cunt. 

“Mhm. You’re just Mr. Popular, I-”

But you’re cut off by his mouth latching onto your clit, a moan forcing its way out of your throat. He circles your clit with his tongue, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pulling you taut against his face. He looks up at you again, watching your face intently to ensure he’s doing a good job. You reach between your legs and grab his curls again, eliciting a moan from him. 

You close your eyes, stars swirling around in the darkness. Frankie lowers his tongue to your entrance, leaving his nose to rub against your clit. And that’s when you cum, cunt clenching around nothing as your back arches off the couch. His hums and moans grow louder once he gets a taste of your release on his tongue. A warm, tingling sensation spreads throughout your body, originating from your core. 

You rest on your elbows, looking down at Frankie who’s still lazily lapping at your pussy. He looks up at you, a furrow in his brows almost as if he’s begging you. 

“What?” you chuckle. 

He pulls back and whimpers, “I don’t want to stop.” You open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off, pleading with you even more. “Please don’t make me stop, hermosa.” 

You settle back into the couch and sigh, “Keep going, Frankie.” 

He eagerly licks your pussy again, tongue swirling around your sensitive skin, making figure eights between your clit and your entrance. His fingertips sink into your thighs, holding you tight as he works you up to your second orgasm. You flicker your eyes down at him again, admiring him and how much he wants to please you. His curls are matted from his hat. His pupils are blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of brown showing. And his nose is buried in your cunt. He looks at you again, mouth latching onto your clit, reveling in the feeling of your wetness coating his face. You moan and squirm, letting your second orgasm rip through you. He moans as he tastes more of your release, eyes wild and full of desire. You ride out your high, rocking your hips against his face until eventually slowing to a stop. 

He rests on his knees, looking down at you with glistening facial hair. The bulge in his sweatpants is back, along with a stain from his pre-cum. 

“Frankie?” you tease. 

“Yes?” he asks, voice dripping with arousal. 

“Do you want more?” 

“God, please,” he says, lowering his face above yours. 

You wrap your legs around his face, pulling him into you. “Then fuck me.”

“Yeah?” he asks, visibly excited. 

“Mhm.”

He leans back again, pulling his cock out of his sweatpants before hovering over your face again. He aligns himself with your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your drooling pussy. 

“Fuck, hermosa. You’re so wet.” 

“Mmm all for you,” you respond, tightening your legs around his waist. 

He thrusts into you slowly, letting his cock expand your walls. He places his hands by either side of your head, looking deep into your eyes as he fully sheathes his cock. He stays there for a moment, studying your face, watching as your chest rises and falls with your quick breaths before drawing his hips back and slamming into you. Your grip around his waist grows looser with each thrust he makes, the couch shaking due to the sheer force he’s using. 

He lowers his head into the crook of your neck, kissing along your jawline and trailing down to your collarbone. You tangle your hands in his hair again, tugging on his locks whenever he hits a particularly pleasurable angle inside you. 

“Don’t stop,” he moans, reveling in every second you’re pulling his hair.

You feel your pleasure building, an impending orgasm threatening to spill over. Everything feels fuzzy around you and a tingling feeling in your core starts brewing. 

“Frankie, I’m gonna cum,” you whine. 

“Let me feel it, hermosa,” he murmurs against your neck. 

With one last thrust, you come undone around his cock, pulling on his hair and moaning in his ear. You relax your legs and let yourself fully take in the moment. Your orgasm rips through you much like the storm outside rips through the sky. The exhaustion of three big orgasms settles deep within your bones. Frankie holds off his climax for as long as he can before pulling out. He rests on the back of his heels, stroking himself to completion. He finishes on your tummy, warm ropes of cum coating your skin. 

“I, uh, wasn’t sure where to finish.”

“That’s okay,” you chuckle, your voice still breathless. “Next time you can cum inside. I’m on birth control.”

“So there will be a next time?” he asks. The hopefulness in his voice is adorable. 

“Of course.”

He sits on the couch, letting you crawl in his lap. He wraps his arms around you as you look at the storm raging outside. Nothing’s changed. The panic starts to creep back up again. 

“Just as long as I get through this alive,” you half-joke. 

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he reassures you, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him, not out the window. 

“You promise?” 

“I promise, hermosa.” 

Middle Frankie gif by @pedgito

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

Tag list: @fishingforpike @trulybetty @penvisions @yourcoolauntie @burntheedges @yorksgirl @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @clawdee @baronessvonglitter @sawymredfox @joelmillerisapunk @msjarvis @maryrhodalouandted @remuskinniesblog @canadianfangurl-95 @drunk-and-capable @annieisverybored @pedrostories @rosegnome

[astroph1les]

sleepovers & impressions | e.e

summary: you and emily’s relationship is growing beautifully but there’s two obstacles at the moment: she has to meet your bestfriend and win her over and you have to successfully have your first sleepover with her without being an awkward mess.

part one | part two | part three

pairing: emily engstler x fem!reader

contains: nothing but fluff to the max!

word count: 3.4K

a/n: this shouldn’t have take me as long as it did but here you guys go! i’m really loving this little series <3 special thank you to @girlokwhatever i love YOU she read this for me to make sure it was good! this is the last thing for emily i’ll be posting this week due to the strike so please please SPREAD AWARENESS ABOUT PALESTINE! there is a GENOCIDE HAPPENING IN PALESTINE.

You were smitten.

Delilah was rubbing it in your face like it was nobody’s business but you were head over heels for Emily. For the past month, the two of you were going on dates at least twice a week. She even dropped by while you were at work to ‘browse the poetry section’ but you knew that meant so that she could sneak a few kisses in before she had to zoom to practice.

Even your coworkers were starting to notice your more happy-go-lucky attitude ever since you and Emily began dating.

Weirdly enough, her being in the WNBA wasn’t a problem for you. She told you about the away games and how that was something that got in the way with her past relationships. You were quick to assure her that you are 100% supportive of her career.

No, the only thing that really made you anxious about your relationship at the moment was her sleeping over.

Oh, and meeting Delilah.

You’ve had to physically hold her back with your foot every time Emily dropped you off at your apartment because you just weren't ready yet. Sleeping over at each other’s places for the first time hasn’t been a line that you’ve crossed yet. It was strangely intimate for you.

Your apartment was a direct reflection of who you are.

But as much as you were avoiding it, Emily was staying over tonight — with no peer pressure from Delilah, that’s for damn sure. You called her after practice the day before to ask her if she wanted to.

She agreed and now you actually had to follow through.

“How far have y’all gone in bed?” Delilah asked as she was stirring the creamy pasta that was for tonight’s dinner.

You nearly dropped the pan of garlic knots at your best friend's forward question.

“Oh my god, I am not telling you that.” You shake your head as you place the hot tray on a cooling rack, removing your Shrek themed oven mitts once you did.

“What? Come on. You don’t have to go in detail. I’m just wondering. It’s been a month.” Delilah hummed, tucking a piece of her long, bright strawberry hair behind her ear.

“You really want to know?” You ask her, hooking the mitts back onto the inside of one of your cabinets.

Delilah spun around, staring at you with her wide blue eyes.

“Yes, hello? Tell me,” she snatches her glass of diet Coke off of the table, holding it up to her lips.

You clear your throat, brushing your flyaways out of your face.

“We haven’t done anything… sexual.” You avoid eye-contact with her, messing with a dish towel.

Delilah stared at you for a moment, trying to figure out whether or not you were joking. When you simply stared back, feeling your face get hot with embarrassment, her eyes widened.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, the most we’ve done is a hot make out with, like, a little bit of ass grabbing and hickies,” you admit, wondering if it was obvious how flustered you were getting from just talking about the slight intimacy you’ve experienced being with Emily.

Delilah snorted as she glanced at the fading one on your neck.

“Trust me. I can see that,” she took a sip of her drink, smiling behind her can.

You grab the dish towel to smack her arm, maniacal laughter leaving her lips.

“I’m nervous, okay?” You said through your own laughter, covering your face with your free hand.

“Is it also because she who shall not be named because she’s a manipulative cunt?” Delilah stared at you with raised brows.

You wanted to say no but your past relationship, even having ended a year ago, left a detrimental mark on your psyche. You wanted to move on and let yourself enjoy what was growing between you and Emily.

“Maybe, but I don’t want to talk about it right now. Em should be coming soon,” you shake your head, setting the dish towel back in its rightful place.

“Em?” She repeated with a shit-eating grin on her face.

“Oh my god, enough. Are you going to be nice and act like an adult when she gets here?” You double check with your best friend, wiping your sweaty palms on your pant leg.

You hoped your outfit was good: a simple white fitted tank top, a pair of flare yoga pants and some fluffy socks since you were just inside of your own place. Delilah was sporting a dark gray knitted crew neck with a pair of white pajama pants decorated with red and pink hearts, matching you with her own fluffy socks.

“Yes, I’ll be nice. I won’t mention how I maced your ex as much as I would love to threaten her.” Delilah grinned, checking on her pasta.

“Please don’t.” You point a stern finger at her, sighing out.

Delilah held her hands up in defense before putting the stove on low heat to keep the pasta nice and warm. You make sure everything is placed neatly at you and Delilah’s cozy dining table, double checking everything was in its correct place. Before you could move anything, you hear a few knocks on your door. You and Delilah give each glance before you walk over to the door, unlocking it and pulling open the door.

There stood Emily in a plain white tee with mocha brown cardigan over it with a pair of matching sweats. She had her hair with two braids tied into a ponytail with a cutest smile on her face.

“Hi, Em. Come in,” you match her smile, leaning up to place a kiss on her lips.

“Hi, you look cozy,” she chuckled as she gave you a gentle hug, her palm lingering on your lower back. “It smells amazing in here.”

“That’s all Delilah’s cooking. I am shit at it,” you motion to the kitchen where Delilah stood, leaning against the island in your kitchen.

Emily chuckled at your words, walking over to the kitchen to greet Delilah with a handshake. Delilah glanced over at you before taking Emily’s hand in yours, a kind smile on her face.

“Hi, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Emily smiled back at Delilah.

“Same with you. You’re all I hear about now,” Delilah made sure to tilt her head at you teasingly,

Emily looked at you with a surprised glint in her soft brown eyes, your face heating up at the attention being drawn back to you.

”Alright, I think we should eat now.” You interrupt before Delilah can spill everything you’ve ever said about Emily to her face.

“What? I want to hear all these you’ve said about me since clearly, I’m all you talk about now,” Emily teased, raising her brows and folding her arms over her chest.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Delilah added, shrugging her shoulders and taking another long sip of her diet Coke.

“I think, personally, dinner sounds amazing.”

“We’ll discuss her later when she uses the bathroom,” Delilah says in a hushed tone towards Emily before sending you one more teasing glance.

You felt tense; not being able to tell if she was joking or not. You were scared to leave them alone together.

Emily seemed to notice your change in attitude and leaned into you, bumping her shoulder with yours. You turn your head to her, tilting your head up to bump hers back. You place a kiss on her cheek before motioning towards the table. Delilah’s back was turned as she stirred the pasta a bit to spread the warmth around.

“I set your place for you. Feel free to grab as much as you want, Em, okay?” You place a hand on her bicep, nodding towards where Delilah was standing.

“Thank you, babe,” Emily placed a soft kiss onto your lips once more before Delilah turned around again to grab her diet Coke.

Emily grabbed her bowl from its place next to your own white wine, walking over to next to Delilah to grab the big pasta ladle from her. She picked up a few scoops to plop onto her plate and asked her to make small talk with Delilah. You could hear them distinctively talking about music and concerts which made you smile.

After you all had gotten your food, you all sat at your cute dining table. Emily had gotten some of the white wine in her cup which you weren't expecting but you guessed since she was sleeping over, it didn’t hurt.

“Delilah, this pasta is seriously incredible. What the hell did you put in this?” Emily groaned as she seemed to be inhaling the noodles.

Delilah grinned behind her own fork, shooting you a knowing look.

“I’m going to be real with you, I eyeball everything every time I cook and I hope for the best.” Delilah snorted as she took a few bites of the pasta. “But thank you. This one over here is a crazy baker though. She makes these delicious banana cinnamon crumble muffins once a month and it’s the best thing I’ve ever had.”

You blush behind your cup of wine as you try not to down it like you usually would if you were eating dinner with Delilah. After the chugging, it would usually turn to you crying over rom-coms and how none of it is real. The usual.

Now you get to slowly drink it like a normal person. Because your girlfriend — you think — is here having the first of hopefully many dinners at your place.

“Have you made them this month yet?” Emily turned to you, her eyes visibly softening when she spoke to you.

“No…” You trail off, looking over at Delilah before turning back to Emily. “I might make them next week.”

“Can I help when you do?” Emily’s eyes lit up excitedly.

You nod with a soft chuckle and turn to Delilah, fake pouting.

“You’re not going to be my sous-chef this time, Del. You’ve been replaced,” you tease as you grab one of Emily’s tattooed hands, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve been told I’m a pretty good baker too so sorry,” Emily said in a hushed tone to Delilah before leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek.

Delilah shook her slowly as she repeatedly poked at her pasta before shoving a huge chunk in her mouth. You laugh softly at her expression before digging into the pasta yourself. You could hear her muttering nonsense, probably hateful words as she devoured the rest of her food.

Dinner was short for the most part but you, Emily and Delilah to wind down with some drinks and watch a movie. Emily got up to help you with the dishes since Delilah cooked so she was picking the movie for the evening.

“Does she like me?” Emily whispers to you, turning her head for a moment to see if Delilah was paying attention but she was sitting on the couch, eyes squinted as she scrolled through the selection.

You almost coo at her to stop worrying but you knew Delilah was intimidating and meeting your girlfriend's best friend was twice as intimidating.

“Yeah, I promise you. She thinks you’re very sweet,” you reassure, tilting your head at her.

“Really? Because I’m not going to lie I was terrified the entire time,” Emily chuckled but it seemed more insecure than joyous.

You frown at this as you set the dish you were washing down, drying your hands to give her a hug. Emily welcomed the embrace, drying her own hands to wrap around your torso. She let out a sigh into your temple, kissing the baby hairs there. You could feel her shoulders relax under your palms.

“Thank you for coming, Em. Do you want to… stay the night still?” You carefully ask, rubbing across her shoulders under her cardigan.

A small smile spread onto her face, her hands resting comfortably at your lower hips. You swore her cheeks flushed at your question.

“I would love to, baby.”

You beam up at her, pulling her into a gentle kiss. Your teeth clank for a moment from how giddy you were to have her here in your home.

“Hey! I didn’t turn my back to have you two suck faces. I was giving you privacy to be polite,” Delilah spoke up from the couch, pointing at you and Emily accusingly.

You chuckle against her lips as Emily pulls away to bury her face into your neck, feeling a bit embarrassed. You give her one more kiss to her pale cheek before grabbing her land to lead you both to the couch. You let out a long sigh when you see that Delilah had chosen ‘Thor: Ragnarok’.

“This movie? Again, Del?” You groan, plopping down onto your couch.

Emily followed your movements, resting her arm against the back of the couch. You rest lean into Emily’s warm side, melting into the warmth of her body like you were meant to be there strangely enough.

“I’m sorry? Is there something wrong with this piece of art and absolute bisexual panic of a movie?” Delilah defended with a scoff.

“No, it is amazing but Del, we have seen this movie about 100 times since it got put on Disney Plus.”

Emily shook her head at the two of you arguing like siblings, rubbing your arm up and down gently. After a few minutes of bickering, the movie began to play. All three of you settled down into the soft plush of the cushions. Without even realizing, Luna crawled into Emily’s lap, curling into the comfort of her sweats.

Your heavy eyes drifted to your cat, smiling weakly as Emily’s hand scratched underneath her jaw and the length of her back. Her eyes were locked on the screen, fluttering a bit to show her own exhaustion. You shifted ever so slightly so glance at Delilah who was knocked out, mouth slightly ajar with her diet Coke still in her hand.

You make a mental note to take a photo of her before you head off to bed with Emily.

“Em, I’m feeling a little tired. You wanna…?” You trailed off, sitting upright so you could lean closer.

Emily slowly nodded before rubbing her tired eyes, sitting upright as well. Little Luna scurried off of Emily’s lap, sprinting to your room the moment she shifted.

“Yeah. You got an extra toothbrush?” She stood up, stretching her sore limbs out.

You hum to confirm, motioning for her to follow you to the bathroom. Her socked feet trail behind you as you turn on the yellow shaded light in the restroom, kneeling down underneath the sink to retrieve the multicolored toothbrushes for guests. You handed her a green and purple one, giving her a tired smile.

“Here you go. I’ll put a cap on it so we know that’s yours for next time,” you say without thinking.

Emily takes it from her fingers, tilting her head as she runs the bristles underneath the tap as you do the same with your own toothbrush.

“Next time?” Emily questioned softly, leaning in closer to you as she grabbed the tube of toothpaste.

“I would hope so,” you blush as you hold your toothbrush to her.

She applies some toothpaste to yours before her own, setting it back down in its rightful place. As you both begin to brush your teeth, it felt so natural to be standing here beside her, sleep etched into your eyes.

After doing your own night routine — with Emily lingering and watching you the whole time — you both made your way to your bedroom. Emily scanned the layout as soon as she entered your bedroom.

“Oh, um, I can turn around if you need to change,” Emily looked at you as she tensely stood near the door of your room.

“I don’t mind if you don’t. It’s just my underwear,” you shrug, not really thinking much of it.

You took off your yoga pants first, your seamless lace hip-huggers on display. Emily glanced but looked away as she clasped her palms behind her back as she made her way around your room. If she was being honest with herself, she just wanted to be respectful to you.

You tried to change as quickly as possible, wanting to be in Emily’s arms again. With your oversized graphic tee on and a pair of Super Mario sleeping shorts.

“Oh, shit. I don’t have anything for you to sleep in, Em.” You sigh, turning to Emily who was examining a poster of ‘10 Things I Hate about You’.

Emily turns around to face you, a small smile when she sees your sleepwear. She couldn’t believe how beautiful you are naturally.

“That’s okay. I can just sleep in my briefs and shirt, if that’s okay with you?” Emily shrugged her shoulders, motioning to your bed.

You nod slowly then rapidly as you try to be as casual as possible. You always felt like she could feel every nerve that was exuding from your pores. Emily removed her cardigan and hung it on the back of the door and removed her sweats to reveal her colorful inked leg; a tattoo you had never seen before.

You didn’t have the energy to ask about it as you honestly were on the brink of collapsing onto the mattress.

“Can you turn off the lights? I’ll be right back. I have to make sure that Delilah gets to her bed.”

Emily nodded and flicked the switch off, giving you a kiss on the lips before pointing to your bed.

“I’ll be here. If I’m asleep when you get back, I’m sorry. Practice is catching up to me today,” Emily laid down on the bed comfortably, eyes already fluttering when she rested her head on your pillows.

You smile in admiration at her sleepy figure and trot to the living room to see Delilah still in her sleeping position. You snap a quick photo on your camera before gently taking her diet Coke from her palm which jolted her awake. A snort from her slumber woke her up, wiping her tired eyes with the back of her hand.

“What happened?” Delilah groggily asked, smacking her lips together.

“You fell asleep and me and Em are going to bed. I wanted to make sure you wake up so you sleep on your bed and won’t get a crick in your neck like the last time,” you whisper to her, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Awww, you love me,” Delilah grinned tiredly up at you, stretching her arms upwards. “Emily is probably the best girlfriend you’ve ever had, by the way. I feel she’s good for you, babe.”

Did that make you feel ten times more at ease about your relationship? Yeah, as embarrassing as it is. She was your best friend. She knew your soul; inside and out and you trusted her with your entire life.

“I’m glad, Del. I love you.” You murmur to her as you lean down to give her as strong a hug as you could muster in your fatigued state.

“I love you to death, you know this,” Delilah yawned against your ear with a soft sigh.

You squeeze her once more before patting her on top of her head. You trudged back to your room, shutting the door behind you with a soft click. Just as Emily had warned you, she was sound asleep in your bed, arms crossed in front of her. You sneakily take a photo hoping it wasn’t too weird before setting your phone aside to charge on your bedside table.

You take your place right beside her, snuggling underneath the sheets and silently admiring how peaceful she looked while she slept. Emily seemed to have sensed that you were in bed as she turned her body towards yours, reaching her arm to drape around your torso. You gradually move more into her warmth, snuggling into the pillows.

“Everything okay?” Emily hums tiredly, her thumbs caressing your hip underneath your shirt.

“Yeah. It’s all good,” you whisper, ignoring the chills that were crawling down your back.

“Hey, I know this is very late to ask but I’ve been putting it off for too long,” Emily cleared her throat, finding your eyes through the moonbeams piercing through the windows. “Do you want to come to my next game? I want you to be there.”

You craned your neck to give her a soft kiss, cupping her face gently.

“I would love to go to your game, Em.”

She placed a few more lazy pecks to your lips, her arms tugging you even more into her embrace. As you allowed your affections to die down, sleep took over your subconscious and you and Emily fell asleep in each other's embrace with a sense of belonging and comfort.

tag-list: @uraesthete @patscorner @breezy-sapphic <33

[homestylehughes]

4 times quinn wanted to kiss you, and the 1 time he did.

pairing(s): Quinn Hughes x fem!reader

summary: 4 times quinn wanted to kiss you, and the time he did.

warning(s): absolutely nothing, pure fluff.

wc: 2.1k

an: hi loves!!! before i say anything, i think this might be my favorite fic, i've ever written, i love it so so much. it was so nice to sit down and write another fic, I had the best time writing this. i know the poll i put out wanted the nico x Hughes sister smut but this idea has a hold on me and i had to write it today, but i'm working on that fic currently as well! i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i do, like and reblog If you do! much love always <3

happy reading <3

1.

It had always been yn and quinn, quinn and yn, attached to the hip at 5 years old and neither of you wanted to let go. If you would have told Quinn that the little girl the jack pushed into the sandbox at 5 would be his best friend for the rest of his life, he'd think you're crazy. But here you guys are today starting the first day of college, together.

This wasn't exactly the plan for you guys, it just so happened you got into michigan, the same place quinn was signing to play hockey. 

Today was the first game of the season for Quinn, even though Quinn had played hockey for most of his life, he couldn't help but be scared to step on the ice for his first college game. The nerves are getting the best of him as they line up, ready to headout on the ice for warm ups. 

The first push on the ice takes away Quinn's voice as he looks around the arena at all of the fans in the crowd, his eyes glimmering with excitement as he takes it all in. his heart stops for a moment when he sees you standing in the stands with his family, dressed in his jersey, holding up a sign that says “number 43 is my favorite!”. Holding it high above you head, a wide smile breaking at across your face as look down at him skating on the ice. 

A smile spreads upon Quinn's face, as he looks at you and his family. At that moment he really wanted to kiss you. 

2. 

Quinns hands were shaking as he tried to tie his tie, his mind was everywhere else but where it needed to be. It was the day of the NHL draft, a night that would change the rest of his life and his families. He couldn't help but feel almost sick at the thought of moving to a new state or country, leaving everything and everyone he loved behind, including you. 

After five attempts of trying to tie his tie, he dramatically sighs, dropping his hands away from his chest. Staring at himself in the mirror trying to peace himself together, coaching himself to take deep breaths. Just as he starts to tie his tie again, he hears a soft knock on the hotel door. 

His mom had already ushered everyone out of the room around 30 minutes ago, telling everyone to give him some space. Quinn couldn't help but be annoyed at the fact that someone already was knocking on the other side of the door. Making his way to the door, his brain already settled on whoever was on the other side of the door a bit of hell for disturbing him. 

Opening the door slowly he sees you standing in the hallway, with a small smile on your way as you look at him. All of the anger he had harbored in him, immediately  disappears when he sees you. 

“Hi, i'm sorry to interrupt but i thought i'd just come check on you” she says 

“You weren't interrupting anything, thank you for coming and checking on me.'' Quinn says, pausing for a second clearing his throat. 

“I actually could use a bit of help, i can't tie my tie.” he says a little embarrassed 

“I can help, if you let me in your room, or we can stand here in the hallway whatever works best for you” yn giggles out. 

“Oh shit, i'm sorry come in '' he quickly says, his face heating with embarrassment. Yn quickly walks into the room, quinn shutting the door behind her. 

“Sit on the bed” she quietly says to him, quinn doesn't need to be told twice when it comes to her, taking a seat on the soft bed, leaving his legs slightly open, allowing you to stand in between them as she works on his tie. 

Their faces and bodies are so close together, his eyes catching hers for a moment. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to pull her on top of him and forget about the draft, forget about his future. Because at that moment, he really really wanted to kiss you. 

3. 

Quinn woke up to a constant banging on his front door, rolling on his side to see that the clock on his bed side table read, 3 a.m. “who the fuck is knocking on my door at 3 a.m?” Quinn thought to himself. Quinn trudging pulls himself out of bed, walking slowly downstairs hearing another round of knocking once he reaches the bottom of the stairs. 

Finally reaching his front door, he doesn't even bother looking through the peephole before opening the door. Opening the door he's met with a rain soaked yn on his front porch with flowers in her hand and a suitcase at her side. Quinn thinks he's dreaming as he looks at her, still half asleep. 

“You know i think i forgot how much it rains in vancouver during the summer, as you can see im soaked” yn chuckles out. “Also how dare you not tell me you were being named captain, I'm very upset that I had to find out through an instagram post. But I'll get over that because I missed you, so I flew all of the way here to surprise you.” 

“OH! These flowers are for you” she says, holding out the slightly weeping flowers in front of her.

“I promise they looked better, the rain…ruined them” she says smiling sadly at him.

“I'm so sorry i woke you up with the banging, my phone died and i don't have a key-” 

Quinn quickly cuts her rambling off by pulling her into the tightest hug known to man, spinning her around, as if he never wants to let her go. 

“I'm so happy you're here” quinn says, as he sets her down, his arms wrapped around her. 

“I'm so happy I'm here too.” yn says, looking up at quinn, he can see something in her eyes, love maybe? He’s not sure, but what he is sure of is that he really wants to kiss her, and it's killing me everyday that he hasn't. 

4.

They lost. They lost. They lost in game seven, their playoff run was over. All of their blood, sweat and tears couldn't help them win this game. Quinn couldn't help but let the weight of loss fall on his shoulders as they skate off the ice. The walk to the locker room felt like an eternity. The room is quiet as the players strip out of their gear. He couldn't help but let a few tears fall as he got undressed. Feeling like he let his team, his family, the fans down. 

Quinns mind couldn't focus during the press conference, giving the reporters one to two sentence answers. He didn't want to be there, he wanted to think about anything else other than hockey. He wanted to cry alone, he wanted the voices in his head to stop, he didn't want to be here. 

After the press wraps up, Quinn quickly grabs his things heading out the locker room, as he turns the corner he sees you sitting against the wall, quickly turning your head when you hear footsteps down the hall, making eye contact. 

Quinn had completely forgotten where even at the game, the loss of the game, completely taking over his mind. 

“Yn, what are you still doing here?” he asks as he reaches her, offering her a hand to get off the ground. 

Wordlessly she takes his hand, pulling his bag out of his other hand placing it on the ground below them. Before wrapping her hands around his neck pulling him down into a hug, Quinn's arms instantly wrapping around her waist, his body melting into hers. His face resting in her neck as he feels tears fall out of his eyes, as he clings to her body. 

They stand like this for a few minutes, quinn’s tears finally settling before yn pulls back, running her fingers under quinns eyes wiping away his tears.

“I'm so proud of you, win or lose. I'm so so so proud of you Quinn, please never forget that '' she says, holding his face in between her hands. 

“I love you” quinn mumbles out as he begins to cry again. 

“I love you more” she says, “now let's get you out of here, i think you need one of gina's world famous burgers hm?” she says, grabbing his bag from the floor. Holding her hand out for him to grab, Quinn doesnt waste a second before sliding his hand into her as they head towards the exit. 

Quinns head is no longer filled with thoughts about the game, about hockey. It's filled with thoughts about you, about how much he loves you, and how badly he wants to kiss you. 

+1.

Quinn can't count on his hands how many times he's been to the lake house during the summer, but each time he does it better than the year before. Making new memories with the people who he loves, making new memories with you. 

Quinn insisted that you come to the lake house with him a week before everyone else did, he wanted to spend as much time with you before everyone else got here, and you couldn't say no to that. 

So this brings you to where you guys are now, sitting on the boat in the middle of the lake, watching as the sun sets across the sky. The sky casting hues of pinks and purples across the lake. Quinn couldn't help but look at you as you stare at the scene around you, seeing you look so relaxed and at peace, he couldn't help but smile. 

“I can feel you staring at me” yn giggles out, still looking at the lake in front of her. 

“I was just taking in the scenery” he says 

“Mhm, and that just happens to be my face?” she says, turning to look at him with a smile that matches his on her face. 

“Maybeee” quinn playfully says.

“Well it's creepy so stop it” she says playfully rolling her eyes at him

“And what if I don't?” he asks

“I'll feed you to the sharks” 

“Pretty girl there isn't any sharks out here” quinn says laughing at her

“Stop laughing at me” she says, sending a quick shove to quinns shoulder, causing him to fall back against boat. 

“Oh that's it” quinn days before launching himself at her, pinning her down before his hands start to attack her sides. 

“ QUINN PLEASE NO” she pleads out to him as he tickles her. Laughs fell from both of their lips as they attacked each other. 

“I CAN'T BREATH” yn laughs out as Quinn tickles the skin behind her neck, knowing its sweet spot. Deciding to give in to her pleas, he stops his attack on her neck. Her chest rising steadily as he looks down at her, her lips slightly parted, the plump skin almost looks like its calling is name. 

Before he knows what he’s doing, he slowly lowers his face closer to hers, softly connecting their lips together in a sweet kiss. Yn kisses him back almost instantly, her hands wrapping around his neck pulling him closer to her. The once soft kiss turned hot and desperate quickly, a tension they've been dancing around for years, as finally broken like a dam, and neither of them wanted to stop. 

Neither of them wants to pull away, but the need for air begs them too, Quinn pulling away first causing you to whine at the loss of contact. Looking at her with swollen lips and love filled eyes. 

“I've wanted to do that for awhile” quinn says 

“How long?” she asks as he works hard with the hair on the bottom of his neck.

“Ever since i saw you for the first time” 

“Quinn we were five” she laughs

“I knew what I wanted at five,” he laughs, pushing a piece of hair out of her face. “And i've known that i've always wanted you” he finishes

“I love you” yn says

“I love you more” he replies

“I don't think you do” yn quips back 

“Let me show you how much i do” quinn says before connecting their lips back together, because at that moment quinn wanted to kiss you, and this time he did.

[meanbossart]

What is your take on Astarion's relationship with his siblings?

I have put unreasonable amounts of time into thinking about what the dynamics were like during Cazador's reign in that house. I mean, imagine sharing the same tasks, bedrooms, and general experiences of abuse and duress with the same people FOR TWO HUNDRED YEARS. That's absolute madness. If any of you have had experiences with co-living with family under stress for any extensive amount of time, you know very well the levels of emotional 4D chess-ing that tend to take place as a result. You end up distributing so much frustration and anger around and often onto the very same people you will ultimately seek comfort from - this is that situation but blown up to impossible proportions.

So, "strained" doesn't really do justice as a descriptor here. I believe the family had a dynamic, ever-evolving hierarchy within itself, years-worthy of time where the spawn shifted alliances and made "cliques" within themselves - rebels would evolve into pushovers and trusted friends would turn into snitches. You had endless amounts of drama within the group and flies on the walls would witness them cut each other's heads off one day and sob into one another's laps the next.

Naturally I think all of them were resistant to the concept of being a "family" at first, but it's pretty much impossible to not develop family-like ties throughout that long of a period. Following Cazador's death, I believe there would be further splintering within as some want to maintain said ties and others are eager to cut them - seeing both their siblings and the relationships themselves as yet another painful reminder of what Cazador imposed upon them.

I think Astarion falls into the latter category. If he had his way, he would never see, speak, or think of his brothers and sisters again. And while the sibling nomenclature is a deeply-rooted habit, he doesn't think it holds any legitimacy whatsoever (whether or not that's the case in his heart is another matter).

Dalyria (the moon-elf physician, whom I have come up with a story, personality, background and motivations during several long showers that might not necessarily line up with yours, so, if anything of what I'm about to say seems pulled out of a hat, it's because it was) is the opposite. She has grown attached to the constant presence of her siblings and taken a mother-goose role upon herself. With the Exception of Leonard and Violet (more on that later) she has decided they are her responsibility and wishes the group would stick together.

I like to think that there's a lot of history between those two in particular. Obviously, the interactions between Astarion and his siblings are very brief, but It's enough to run with. Dalyria shows a lot of concern and understanding towards him and even pleads when he threatens Petras' life - again, I think she did a lot of trying to pragmatically keep the peace among them and genuinely grew attached to a few - Astarion being the main one of said few. You even get the smallest hint of a on-and-off intimate relationship with the way he derisively calls her by her nickname.

Also, Astarion very occasionally showcases enough emotional maturity that I could see him latching onto the one other person around who seems to have her wits about her, but he's still flawed enough that Dalyria can think of him as a younger sibling that needs her care. Not to mention that, to me, she demonstrates a penchant for moral superiority and a dash of a machiavellian outlook, based on her diary and her completely unapologetic initiative to kill a child on the small chance it would lead her to a cure - not any child either, but Leonard's child. I can totally see Astarion sympathizing and gravitating towards someone like that.

Which brings us to the rest of the siblings - I would wager that, at least by the end of it all, Leonard and Violet were the odd-ones out. As it tends to happen within any tight-knit group, when one succeeds by stepping over the others (even if the reasons for it are justifiable) that brews a lot of resentment and eventual exclusion. Leonard not only did that, but he apparently still held onto hope of future and family outside the Szarr house; wheter or not everybody wanted out, I think a us-versus-them mentality is unavoidable under those circumstances, and Leonard was looked down upon by the others in their respective ways for what he was trying to do.

Violet just seems like she had gone a little cuckoo to me. We get very little about her, but when I think of an adult woman playing childish pranks on her roomates while you are all stuck in what's essentially a human trafficking ring... I think of a person who's either just a very silly breed of evil or who has lost touch with reality, and the latter is more interesting, imo. I think no one liked her, not only because she was a nuisance but also because she became completely emotionally untouchable. I think both Violet and Leonard are spawn who did not survive long after they were all freed.

I'll stop here before I ramble on for another 8 paragraphs about Aurelia, Yousen and Petras (Oh Petras, my beloved), but, yes, suffice to say that I believe it was kind of complicated LOL

EDIT: Not me calling Leon "Leonard" this whole post. Sorry buddy, you look like a Leonard.