#wc: 2k>

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Bubble Baths and Blisters (John Price x Escort!Reader)

Part of the Purchase Your Time Universe

Summary: It's clear John doesn't take care of himself when he's at work, so you'll just have to do it while he's home.

Content warning: References to sexual content (erections, reader is a sex worker) Minors DNI/18+ only! 2.8k words

Masterlist

This driver didn’t speak to you at all on the drive to your meeting. You preferred it that way, curating your message to your friend with the address you spied in the SatNav.

At the front desk, you collected the key card then made your way into the elevator. Your new bag wheeled in behind you, a larger one to fit potential outfits you’d need in the coming days requested by your benefactor. It barely clipped your heel as you twisted around to select your designated floor. Muzak was your companion on the walk down to your room; you knocked three times and counted to four in time with it. The keycard found the slot in the door easily. It granted you entry to the room.

Already, the purple patterned wallpaper and sleek grey furnishings appeased your materialistic side. But it was the pair of shoes unaligned by the door and the outfit laid out on the bed that called you inside.

At the sound of a shuffle through the wall, you spoke, “John?”

“Just coming,” was your reply, accompanied by the flush of a toilet and a splash in a sink.

Upon the instant John emerged from the bathroom, you noticed the cut on his right cheek. It was wide enough to require tape stitch closures and thin enough to only have a few causes behind its creation. Your hands found John’s face.

“What happened?” You said, almost whining at him, as if he’d gotten hurt on purpose.

John attempted to wave you off, “Nothing serious, I’m fine.”

Still, you fawned over him a little longer, leading him over to the bed so you could get a closer look – and the longer you looked, the more you found to worry over. Split skin on his knuckles, semi scabbed over, worried you more than the bruise blooming beneath them. Those valleys of cuts scarcely healed were bound to welcome infection like a bellboy would a hotel guest.

Only reason you stopped was because John clasped around your wrists like the prettiest bracelets and squeezed so that your hands stopped using his jaw to tilt his head about for inspection.

“I’m okay,” He said, his voice firm but his eyes soft, for your benefit no doubt, and you felt the overwhelming desire to trust him. He’d make one hell of an actor.

For now, you switched to a neutral subject.

“Went all out on the room this time, didn’t you?”

“My colleague says I need to learn to relax. Thought this might inspire that.”

You cottoned on with a grin, “That’s why I’m here, right?”

A wince wrinkled John’s expression, and you were not sure if the cause was an injury or the comment, but the fact that he even let slip a reaction at all told you all you needed to know about his current state. Getting this man to relax and recuperate was your new goal.

“I thought maybe we could-” You stopped, watching John cringe again, this time pushing on his knees as he went to stand. Forgetting about your fancy clothes in your suitcase, you jumped with your gut instinct: “Let me run you a bath.”

“I didn’t call you here so you could watch me soak in my own filth.”

“You’re not that dirty.” John squinted at your through suspicious slitted eyes at your comment whilst you continued, “Besides, it’ll help you unwind, and we’ll have time after. C’mon, let me. Please.”

Begging was not something you did without being paid for it, hence why you were completely fine whipping out the puppy dog eyes now. With faux resignation, John acquiesced and, within the minute, you were filling the bath with all the bubble bath you could find, having demanded he get undressed whilst you prepare his tub.

As you swished through the water, blending the two temperatures into a pleasantly hot sting, John poked his head into sight. His naked arm pressed the door against him in case it decided to reveal more of him to you. A tattoo of a dagger speared through his bicep like it was still lodged into a slot made of skin. You stood quickly; the rush of blood from your head made you wobble and John made a move, revealing a hint of his chest to you.

“Normally, I’d light some candles, really set the mood,” You said just as fast as you’d stood. “Want me to turn around?”

Despite him shaking his head, as you “sorted” through bottles of body wash, you still glanced far enough away that his nude body was in your peripheral, blurred in your blind spot as he sank beneath the water and hid himself beneath the bubbles as much as possible. More tattoos masked beneath body hair like brick walls behind ivy vines, some linework slashed apart or speckled with more scars than there were bubbles in the tub, forming constellations. Other bruises of varying purples were contrasted by tape and gauze on his lower left shoulder. John remained upright, his back straight and arms balance on the tub’s rim. He shot you a look that told you not to linger on his injuries.

You ignored it, “Glad to see you at least went to a doctor before calling me.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I dread to think. Can I wash your hair?”

John hesitated for a split second: “Sure.”

You took one from the pair of drinking glasses beside the sink, scooping up bathwater and swiping the excess bubbles from the top. As you carefully tilted John’s head back, your hand defending his brow from any stray droplets, you made sure your touch didn’t cross paths with the string of numbers tattooed right above the top of his spine. The skin there was marred and raised; whoever tattooed it was not kind with their equipment.

Water slicked down John’s hair, then again and again, until hairs clumped together in thicker tresses. Your nails ploughed carefully through after each cupful. One occasion, it narrowly missed a hidden scab, which you added to John’s total of injuries.

A healthy dollop of shampoo was squirted into your palm, pressing it into your other and threading it over your fingers. Foam rose fast; you began to circle it into John’s uneven hair. Over the bubbles popping, you heard the fruits of your recently done-up nails as you scratched them through his head, parting locks like a plough tilling the land. His head rotated on its axis ever-so-slightly as you clenched and tugged on his hair.

As nicely as you could, you pushed on his forehead and received an open eye of curiosity as you tempted him to rest his head back on a folded towel. The eye shut again, satisfied, when youbegan to knead the dough of the fat thinly coating his right shoulder’s muscles. They were like dead roots, reaching far across his body and brittle with age left unchecked. Body wash slicked up the skin to ease your firm touch.

“Your coworker was right; you do need to relax,” You whispered.

“Don’t tell her. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It can be our secret then.” A firm dig from your thumbs beneath both his shoulder blades resulted in the first groan-gasp combination from John. “Good?”

“Divine. You’d make a great masseuse.”

“I would. But then I wouldn’t get to see you.”

John had already opened his mouth to speak again, but as you massaged parallel lines down his spine, his head drooped, dragging him forward a little so you could reach further, and his chin closed against his chest.

“Yes?” You prompted light-heartedly, only to be met with him groaning again, “That’s what I thought.”

“Cheeky.” Though his tone matched the words, the timbre of his voice was thick, like his vocal chords had been drizzled in honey.

“You love it.”

Refusing to let him slouched for long, you eased him back upright to resume rubbing on his shoulder. Your fingers avoided the bandage on his pectoral as you soaped him up and washed him clean. The barrier of your hand protected the gauze. Surprisingly, you caught John staring a few times, his go-to move to smile and close his eyes whenever you did.

Perched on the rim of the tub, you began to work on his arms. As you circled the tips of his fingers and travelled down each knuckle, John started to pay more attention to you again. Occasionally, you would meet his gaze, not to challenge, just to smile at him and for that smile to grow when you hit a sweet spot that made him grunt and look away first. John kept his hand in your lap whilst you worked on the other one, his thumb rubbing back and forth at the same pace as yours. It left you content to feel the heft of his hand growing as you eased the tension from each tendon. He was trusting you to look after him, giving more and more of himself over.  

So it was a risky move to transition your care onto his right foot. Nothing that spelt rejection of this area when you first took the limb from the water, propping it on yet another folded towel at the rim for ease of access. Still nothing from John as you kneaded and pressed. It was only when you were zoned in on his calf that, through gritted teeth, you heard John force out the word:

“Love?”

Your fingers ceased all movement immediately, hands retracing in surrender, because John had never called you that before. Crimson had rushed to his ears beneath the shampoo bubbles. He cleared his throat as you leant your head left in confusion.

Then you saw his cock standing proud and poking out the bubbles. It was hardly the first erection you’d ever seen: pretty impressive, but pretty normal for your work week. You drew your eye away from it easily whilst John attempted to cover his groin up with more bubbles.

You looked back at him, hands back on the rim of the tub, “Do you want me to stop?”

John ground away at the enamel on his teeth whilst he deliberated over his best course of action. His knuckles ripped apart a scab with the grip they had on the rim.

Not wanting to send him off to an emergency dentist or A&E, you offered, “How about I keep going and you tell me when to stop or move on?”

John took a deep breath and spoke in a gruff voice, like the one when he was just waking up, “When I say.”

“Of course.”

He let you get to his knees on both legs before requesting you move on. Message received, you finished up fast and shifted focus on washing the shampoo gently out from his hair. As you rinsed through his hair, you noted that he seemed to have… calmed down. But the opposite effect seemed to have been achieved as a tear rolled down John’s cheek and plinked into the waterline.

You withdrew from him, trying instead to catch his eyeline, “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

But John turned his head with a sniff, water sloshing as he withdrew a hand from the tub to pretend to wipe his nose, no doubt an attempt to remove the stinging sensation in his eyes. However, he was still smiling , close-lipped and slightly strained under his bought of emotion.

“I’m fine,” He muttered, his hand melting beneath the water as he pushed up and down his thigh. You wanted to joke that “I’m fine” should become his catchphrase, but you held off. He was the most open he’d been with you at all, even if he was lying about it.

“Anything I can do?” You asked instead.

Shaking his head, John braced himself on the sides of the tub, “Gonna get out now. Could you…?”

“Sure.”

You practically fled the bathroom in an effort to do what would make him feel comfortable. Water cascading back into the tub echoed off the tiles and into the bedroom whilst you texted your friend to confirm you were still safe.

When he finally came out the bathroom room, steam rolling in like fog over San Francisco, he was cleaning out his ears with a complimentary cotton bud. His eyes held no signs of crying, and you hadn’t heard any further evidence as such, so you felt only a vague sting of guilt for ogling the way he tied his robe, granting you access to follow a stray drop of hair weave its way down through his chest hair.

Determined to let him know you didn’t care about what transpired – except that you wanted him to be okay – you stepped close to him.

“Okay, don’t laugh but I’m begging you to let me at least moisturise your face. It’s gonna crack like dry earth.”

John let out a short laugh as he sauntered over to the bed that clued you in on his answer: he was prepared to humour you. He tossed the cotton bud neatly into the bin – nothing but binbag – and took his seat, once against observing you whilst you gleefully collected your face cream from your bag.

Standing between his legs, you dappled blobs across his face with a practiced fingertip. Stippling across his face displayed the freckles that populated his skin in a flattering light. Working in delicate circles so as not to cause any further damage, you were aware that you were likely pulling weird faces for aid of focus, and you probably had been whilst you were massaging him, but John didn’t react to them besides his slow cat-like blinks that let him pivot his gaze around your face and his hands curving at the tops of your thighs.

Hecaught you in his grasp again just as you were finishing up, and you paused to let him speak.

Holding your eye contact as gently as he held your wrist, John murmured, “I think about you a lot when I’m away.”

Your thumb carefully dragged the last of the lotion across his cheek, vanishing it into his skin. “I think about you too.”

A couple of inches breathing room between you became too much, what with John’s eyes drooping to your lips for increasing intervals. You decided to toss your face lotion bottle on the bed before you kissed him. Hardly heated, you were gentle as before. Something sweet and simple to soothe him back to normal life.

But as John pulled away, you saw none of that. You saw remorse that ran as deep as the damage his scars hinted at. All he managed was a slight embellishment of a smile whilst he wiped away a smear of lotion that had transferred onto your face.

“What time’s our reservation?”

“An hour.”

Plenty of time.

So, instead of pressing him like your gut yearned to, you kissed his forehead and stepped away. You didn’t call out how he leant towards you, even tilting on his axis to follow your lips for more, or how he closed his eyes with his shoulders sagging and a sigh caged in his ribs. He probably didn’t want to be seen as the sad man who asked you to kiss him so he felt better about getting a boner over getting his hair washed.

You let John stick to his plan and thank you by taking you out to dinner. Despite feeling like you were making progress, knowing him a little more, he seemed to be digging into the Earth to create more distance between you both as he sipped at his drink and dodged your queries about what he planned to do with his time off. Distance was healthy, necessary even for your work. But much more and you might not be able to stomach it.

With his new found vantage point, John as your voyeur continued his new role throughout and past dinner. The only time you crossed into his territory again was once you’d completed your nightly routine under his watch. You crossed the shag carpet to stand between his legs, kiss him goodnight and thank him for treating you so well. Reminding you that you hadn’t lost all that progress, John squeezed your waist as he affirmed you deserved every luxury. His forehead rested against yours as he told you this.

But there was damage done still. John reached out for you in his sleep. His arms found your waist every time he settled, and every time he woke back up, he retracted his touch back to his side.

You didn’t hear from him for two months after that meeting, something with work he’d said. You still thought about him a lot. You wondered if he still did too.

-----------------------

AN: Thanks for your patience! You voted for a bathtime chapter; we got one! I've got a dark!fic au of this I'll post later on too.

[moomeecore]

the idea behind this was 'sol warriorcats but drawn like an animated villain'

[ninewhiskers]

all wc artists should pay her for her service

[contritecactite]

Ahhhh sneaking in at the last minute. I've posted my fic for @aafranmayazine, which I absolutely loved working on! You can see the accompanying art piece in the zine, still available through tonight over at https://aafranmayazine.bigcartel.com/ ! Title: Photographic Evidence Rating: G Tags/warnings: Morgan Fey's A+ parenting, family feels, traces of found family, established FranMaya Desc: 2k. Franziska is determined to put together an album demonstrating that Pearl Fey is a vital, memorable person in the lives of her friends and family. Except... there are no pictures of her in the Fey albums. What's an aunt to do?

[jinhyun]

written part of heart out coming later todayyyy ✨

[elisemochi]

I think i am finished with my Bokumono exchange fic

which yay

its only like 2.5k but that's a pretty typical wc for me

like that's like top 5 on my sort by word count list because most of my fics fall more in the 1k to 2k range (out of my 70ish fics only 8 actually go above 2k fdsjfakd

so like i'm happy with that

I still have to edit though which ew

[keycarabiner]

So close to finishing carry me home chapter 2… Will be up sometime this weekend for sure!

[senqv]

starting my descent into insanity w this royal au kaiser fic

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Soundly (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

Summary: You’ve injured your arm, leaving you frustratingly helpless to complete everyday tasks, like cleaning yourself. Your boyfriend and colleague Simon understands your apprehension towards accepting help for such a task and tells you how he does.

AN: Working title was “Sprain” for those of you who voted in the poll. I’ll be posting the Soap fics shortly and posting another poll for my other upcoming fics afterwards! Meanwhile, let me know what you think in replies or inbox me, tell me your thoughts on fics - present or future. 

I just want Ghost to feel loved and to recover from all the shit he went through. I did a fic for that and sharing a bed, so I’m doing this one for the reader a.k.a. me. Plus I like the head canon that Ghost is actually kinda talkative, like in the Alone mission. I know he’s probably partly chatting to Johnny to because he’s trying to keep him focused, guiding him to regroup and survive. But he’s telling dumb jokes and joking about watching his torture video. He’s got banter and trauma!

Content warnings: Allusions to Ghost’s time being tortured by Roba and the Mexican Cartel - specifically his SA as well as the reader’s. Reader is GN, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // AO3

For “just a sprain”, your elbow hurt like a bastard. It was resting in the hammock of the sling your doctor ordered you to keep on. Almost smugly, it sent a few stings across the bone when you were also instructed to restrict your movements and get support to complete day-to-day tasks before you were signed off on a month’s medical leave – pending review at the end of it for being brought back to work.

It was half your fault. The sprain in the first place was caused by some asshole who would not go down quietly and attempted to dislocate your limb. Thankfully, your training automatically twisted you into a position preventing that but then you had to shoot that asshole and your gun was in the arm he’d injured. The bullet that you fired solidified the damage and you were forced to focus hard on aiming with your non-dominant hand whilst slugging it over to the Heli half a klick to the west for recon. You didn’t have to shoot the guy straight away. You’d kicked him down and he was too far from his own weapon to have made it before you could have swapped your gun to your other hand and ended his life the same miserable way. But nah, in the heat of gunfire, you’d decided to end the fight as quick as possible then ran like a bat out of hell back to safety where the rest of your crew was headed.

Simon had known you long enough – and dated you long enough – to not treat you like glass. He wouldn’t insult you like that. Therefore you were very grateful that he was the one to take you home, and that his driving was a lot steadier and smooth on the motorway.

Letting you open the front door, he carried both his and your bags inside, ready to start your medical leave this instant. He was heading out of the hall with his shoes dropped loudly onto the rack when he asked:

“You want anything specific for tea?”

“Nah, I’m good with whatever.”

Despite years of therapy, this injury had dealt a hefty blow to your pride; you didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you were going to be over the next few weeks. Thank God you’d been to his place enough times for it to be considered familiar.

From the airing cupboard, you collected the towel that Simon had bought you after your fifth stay here and smiled at the memory of shopping for it together. He’d asked for what colour you preferred then gathering other items into the trolley that were the same shade: toothbrush, wash cloth, cup to sit by the bathroom sink. He was nice like that.

The bathroom door locked behind you, the final ebbs of afternoon reaching in through frosted glass. You thanked the sun for enabling you to keep the lights off; the buzz that accompanied their stark spark on the silky tiles was always too much for you. However as warm as the daylight was, it failed to soothe your state. When you tried to retrieve the memory of how you’d gotten this t-shirt on in the first place, your mind offered you a blank slate and tears of frustration bubbling over, stinging worse than the injury as you tried to warp it against its will. But to no avail. Your bitten tongue surrendered so that the crying could commence with your t-shirt still stuck on your body.

Gentle rapping at the door didn’t halt anything. Surrendering felt like an admission of weakness, failure, and it poisoned you against yourself as you twisted the lock in the handle and slumped on the rim of the bath.

A pair of plain-socked feet appeared at the top of your line of sight, lingering on the cobalt carpet side of the door frame.

“Can I borrow your scissors please?” You asked, toying with a stray string dangling from the hem.

“You gonna stab me?” Simon inquired semi-sarcastically.

“Yes.” It was a pathetic little reply. But Simon pushed off the bath, belongings tinkling against one another as he rooted around then retrieved a small pair of scissors from the top shelf.

He sat down beside you on the rim, holding out the scissors by the blade, “It’s a nice shirt.”

You wiped your nose on the hem before taking the scissors, “It’s just Primark.”

“I can help you out of it, if it is Primark’s finest.”

“Was just cut it off.”

But of course your dominant hand was tied up in the sling, and you only just realised now.

“I could help you take it off.”

You’d never been undressed around Simon. The closest you’d gotten were jogging bottoms you’d cut into knee-length shorts and the sleeves of your t-shirt pushed onto your shoulders whilst you both worked out at opposite ends of the gym. Towards the end of your set, you mopped at your brow with the hem of your shirt once and the sliver of skin nearly sent Simon into anaphylactic shock.

He knew why you grappled with the notion of undressing. But he didn’t ever linger on you going elsewhere to change. Across your relationship, and even before it started, he’d shown you love in so many other ways that you would forget about what had happened to you.

Today was the first time he addressed it: “I understand why you wouldn’t want me to help.”

Without moving your head, your watchful stare latched onto his adjusting to the nuisance of sitting on a thin perch of porcelain. He withdrew his skull balaclava from its suffocating in his pocket and began kneading at it until the eyehole faced the ceiling you’d stared at many times, wishing you could be more intimate with the man you loved more than life.

 “Your reasons aren’t so different from mine.” And he held out the mask to you.

The olive branch was accepted and you thumbed over the skull plate as best you could with the scissors still in your grip. Only when your thumbnail caught against the paint depicting a cheekbone did it dawn on you what your boyfriend was referring to.

“Simon-”

“None of that,” He interrupted you, gently, firmly, “I get it. I don’t wanna bother you if you don’t want me here.”

He rubbed along your shoulder as you matched your deep breaths to his, resting your eyes to bask in his comfort and crushing the mask in your loose fist. You’d always equated it to anonymity. Never had you thought of linking it to another form of comfort.

“You can bathe with your clothes on,” Simon suggested after a minute’s silence.

“Do you know how hard it is to remove wet denim?” You muttered with a crooked smile.

“I do,” and he pressed a kiss to your forehead – his preferred place to do so. “Let’s give this a go.”

You handed back his balaclava and took in his bare face, the medical mask – the one he’d been wearing whilst you were in the hospital and all the way home - gone, his expression carefully crafted to be neutral so that you didn’t have to be.

He eased your sling off you after the taps were thundering steaming water into the tub. Then he vanished to his room, returning with a pair of baggy sports shorts. Cradling them like a baby, your nose welcomed their softness and the steam whilst Simon knelt onto the fluffy bathmat, nodding after splashing the bathwater and twisting the taps into silence.

“I’m gonna stink if I don’t wash properly,” You whispered.

After opening his palms to you, Simon took your shorts and arranged them on the floor, “I’ll get you some wet wipes to use while we wait for your arm to heal up.”

You held onto his shoulders whilst he undid your jeans and eased them down your legs, his hands careful to stay hidden in the fabric whilst you stepped out of them and into the shorts. Simon to pulled them up to your hips.

“Why did the magician take a bath?” He asked you as you lowered yourself into the water.

“I dunno, why?”

“To clean up his act.”

Your chest quivered, struggling to hold in your groans and giggles whilst Simon pumped some blueberry body wash into his palm, “That’s good.”

Tenderly he circled the soap across your forearm, “Fancy another?”

“Go on.” You were nothing if not his little enabler, indulging in his humour even after the rest of 141 had lightly roasted him for it.

“Knock, knock.”

Your free hand fiddled with the sodden hem of your t-shirt, “Who’s there?”

“Dwayne.”

“Dwayne who?”

Soaking the flannel and wringing it out over your arm, Simon began to wash the suds away, “Dwayne the bathtub before I dwown.”

Your smile was not dampened by the tears that rolled down your cheeks and dripped onto the shallow waterline. Instead, you focused your blurry vision on Simon’s hoodie sleeves that were pushed up to his elbows, those broad forearms sprinkled with droplets and soapsuds.

When Simon was lathering up some more body wash, you offered your own joke: “What did the man say after he swallowed a clock and went to the toilet?”

“What?”

“Watch out.”

Simon snorted loudly whilst carefully manipulating your injured arm amidst the blueberry bubbles.

You wiped a new tear away on your shoulder: “I’ve already told Kyle but you can tell it to Johnny.”

“Much obliged.”

With permission and a slow touch, he started soaping up your shins. His contact always lingered for hours on your skin. This felt like a polish, not a scratch or a dent, which is why you felt so overwhelmed now, just as you did that first time he gave you a proper bear hug. You didn’t mind the blueberry, something else to focus on instead of letting yourself meander towards conjuring disturbing imaginations of what you’d just learnt about Simon’s capture in Mexico.

He let you take over for washing your thighs, sitting on the toilet still talking to you with a smile that cracked up his face like the scar, from lip to brow. His eyes never strayed from your face, though it never felt like you were a target down his scope, more like feeling the sun first thing in the morning with a delicate breeze that danced around your being. Such a gaze wasn’t alien to Simon, even if he rarely showed it to you, and never to anyone else. You were just grateful that he was able to be like this, and that he still chose to.

That same stare, he held it whilst draping a towel around your shoulders, patting over your arms before he gathered it at the front for you to hold in your healthy hand. Then he collected a pile of clean clothes from the bedroom, placing them onto the closed toilet lid, you noted the crisply ironed button up folded on top. You settled for nestling your head against his chest since you were unable to hug him.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make dinner.”

The door was locked after Simon disappeared behind it. You did end up cutting yourself out of the shirt, rest in peace. Fogged-up, the mirror wasn’t so bad to stare at whilst you moisturised with your good hand. You could still feel where Simon’s calloused hands had brushed over your skin, tingling in each follicle, and it was protected by the button-up you were able to slide on – one of the few Simon owned. His bulk was once again your gain; the shirt was loose enough to give you some wiggle room whilst dressing.

Clattering from the kitchen caught Simon in the act of putting away the ironing board. He was taking loud and rehearsed deep breaths that hissed through the fabric of his freshly-donned balaclava, the board under his arm before he tossed it into its assigned slot. His hand shook as it released the cupboard door handle, searching for something to distract himself with until he latched his stare onto you bunching your shirt in the front.

“I can’t do my buttons up,” You said quietly.

Your stomach impulsively sucked in on itself when his hands reached for the buttons before it, joining them with the fabric. Nevertheless, your gaze found solace in the thatch of fine chest hair growing in the lowest peak of his V-neck.

Simon started from the bottom button and made his way up. With each wince, his fingers stalled. But you knew he’d never hurt you, never on purpose and never like that. He made steady progress until complete and even helped you replace your sling. But then he sniffed and brushed his nose briefly, stepping away and back to the kitchen. For five minutes he alternated between sifting through the cupboards and staring helplessly into the fridge, his face washed out by the stagnant light inside. You took the time to help him in one of the ways you knew how.

“I’ll order us a takeaway.”

Immediately he slammed shut the fridge door, “You’re a fucking star.”

You were not put off by his pacing back and forth, nor were you by his hovering over you like a gargoyle whilst you tapped at the screen – which you held in a way for him to see clearly in case he wanted to add something. A wide berth allowed you to approach him on the couch with the takeaway when it arrived half an hour later (always reliable, hence why it was your go-to takeaway place). Simon also accepted the drink you brought him, but only because he’d already gotten you one plus two pain meds he made sure you took after getting some food into your stomach first.

The cushioned lap trays you’d invested in were already paying for themselves.

Dinner inhaled and rendering you quite soporific, you mirrored Simon’s earlier actions and tentatively shuffled closer to him, “Is this ok?”

“Yeah.” His arm dropped to around your waist, and you tugged on his wrist to keep it there. Only then did you tentatively wrap yourself around his full belly.

“Fuckin’ softie,” He said under his breath. That didn’t stop him from giving you a little squeeze – his hand no longer trembling - and sinking himself lower so that there was no pressure on your sprain. He turned the volume down a little, which sparked inspiration in your mind.

Half hiding in his t-shirt, you projected loud enough for him to hear you: “The local TV controller museum shut down due to no visitors. Turns out people aren’t remotely interested.”

“Have you been researching these instead of doing your paperwork?”

“What makes you think I haven’t been doing my paperwork?”

Simon looked down at you, those expressive eyes communicating both the “are you fucking for real?” and the “you’re lucky you’re cute” in equal parts. But from the way his balaclava was balanced on his face, you could tell he was smiling at you. So you smiled back at him then snuggled back against him with a contented sigh and the existence of your new joke book still a secret (for now).

The next time you opened your eyes, it was much darker in the living room. A blanket was tucked around your legs. The glow of “Are you still watching Phil Wang: Philly Philly Wang Wang?” from the flat-screen, despite that not being what you were watching when you first drifted off, bathed you in enough low light to allow you a comfortable adjustment period. You squinted up at your boyfriend. Head back in the pillows, his chest was rising and falling with each breath he drew and released through his nose. You adjusted the blanket around to cover his legs too and, tucking yourself back into your bundle, both you and Simon slept soundly.

[mostardently]

.

[ninewhiskers]

just some lovers

[banggyu0308]

so... if you got four fics for yeonjun's birthday... one a little early for millie's event... is that a yes or a no?

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Naked Truths (John Price x Escort!Reader)

Part of the Purchase Your Time series

Summary: It's a late night call that brings you to John's house, and you can tell by his appearance - and his payments - that tonight might just be the time he starts to cross that line of his.

Content warnings: Smut (18+ only, Minors DNI!), blowjobs (male receiving), penetrative sex, oral sex (reader receiving), Reader is gender neutral (genitals vaguely described, no specifics)

Masterlist

Calling you on a random Thursday after two months of radio silence initially thrilled in your stomach and sent earthquakes through your hands as you answered your phone.

“When can I see you?”

“When do you want to?”

“Now.”

After confirming that you only needed a change of comfortable clothes before you’d be able to head over, John hung up first - another indicator that he hadn’t the energy to act like a normal person. Perhaps that should’ve set off alarm bells louder than your curiosity, but this was bringing you real insight to who he was, not what he acted like in front of you. The man who yearned for domesticity but hid behind charm and competence unless you dared to offer that kind of interaction in an open palm.

Within a minute of hanging up, you received your payment straight into your bank account. An overnight stay was indicated by the number of digits.

His house again was the location and it was just as you remembered, except all the lights were off and his truck was not perfectly parked. Before you could exit to investigate, the driver cleared her throat before she handed you a key. No keychain or ring to indicate it had ever been attached to a set before. You accepted and thanked her before closing the car door behind you. The slam and fading of the engine as the car sped away left you in noticeable silence, no greeting, no enticement, nothing but intrigue to bring you to the front door, which you knocked out of habit before trying the key. No surprise was felt when it let you in.

“John?” You called out, taking your shoes off and placing them beside a pair of worn, caked in crap laced boots.

A gruff “In here” led you into the kitchen. At the breakfast bar, John’s back appeared in your vision.“Hi.” You slid the house key across the bar, scraping the marble but not marring it.

John’s hand stopped yours in place, “It’s for you.” As you made a mental note to add that to your John inventory, give it its own identifier so you wouldn’t mix it with any others, John raised his short glass and revealed the heavy amber liquid that sloshed about the bottom of it.“Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you.” And only then was your hand released to tuck that key away into your pocket. “How are you doing?”

Pressing the glass against his forehead, John sighed, “Been a day.”

“What can I do for you?”

John sniffed then abandoned the drink on the counter. The breakfast bar stool spun as he stood from it. The ice cubes filled the silence with their tune like a wind chime in a breeze.

In one smooth motion, John’s hands – cool from condensation – tilted your head and swept you close by the small of your back so that he could kiss you. The oiled bristle of his moustache paired like a fine wine with his lips cushioned on yours. Yet this switch-up from all previous dates had you hyper aware and certainly to the fact that he was walking you backwards, his palm cradling the back of your head so that you didn’t feel the brunt of the wall when he pressed you against it. Your own hands had latched onto his neck and midriff in the crossfire, tickled by this absence of restraint and annoyed when John drew away with a sigh and an apology. You calmly demanded for an reason behind his quiet “sorry”.

“Grabbing you like that,” was his explanation.

“I’m fine. You wanted to, I wanted to,” You replied, “It’s quite literally my job. I’m like a therapist you can fuck.”

Unfortunately, your humour resulted in John letting out an empty laugh and freeing you from his hold. But you were determined to get a real reaction out of him, so you pressed on his bruise a little more. “I’m serious. I’m hear for whatever you need: hearing out your problems, talking about things you can’t tell anyone else, whatever you want.”

Knocking back the rest of his drink, ice cubes clashing into his teeth, John swallowed then scoffed, “Is that how you see me? Just like any other client?”

“I see you wanting something, and you wanted that with me, which is why you called me. But you can’t bring yourself to ask for it.”

“Maybe you should be a therapist,” John tipped his glass over in the sink, letting it flip and fall an inch from his grip onto the draining board. Even though you’d made the connection, you wished he’d stop telling you to be in other professions, as if that would solve his hang-up over not having a real relationship.

“Couldn’t stand the paperwork,” You approached him, rubbing up and down between his shoulder blades whilst knowing you could never sneak up on him. “What’s got you feeling like this?”

“I can’t talk about it.” And his head hung as he pressed into the sideboard.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

This man with all his padlocks and precautions, preventing you from knowing anything he didn’t want you to – and there was so much left for you to learn about him. But it seemed there was still some learning on his part too. His mental hurdle, with the reminders that you were willing and funded for his delight, was one you would not trip or turn from.

So you hooked his chin and made him face you, “Then don’t.”

When you kissed him again, you let him pull you between him and the sink. Fists in your clothes, desperate to free your skin, John barely drew away from breath – enoughthat his lips still graced over yours when he spoke:

“I’m not in a patient mood.”

You held back a smile, “You know the limits and I know the safe word. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Gecko.”

“There’s nothing more to it then.”

Grappling with your clothes, You knew he’d take you right there on the counter if you let him No, he wanted a domestic paradise spiked with homespun thrills.

A risk worth taking, to get him to recognise how much he wanted this, you tore yourself from him to race your heartrate up the stairs to his room, the thudding of John skipping steps to capture you shooting adrenaline through your chest. Fear, manufactured fear that felt just like the real thing, trapped your breath and giggles in your constricted throat, growing tighter with every step climbed.

All air was snatched from your lungs as he grabbed you in the doorway, slamming you up against a chest of drawers, knocking over whatever knick-knacks or trinkets he had out. His mouth was hot on your chest from the second he pulled your shirt off. You found yourself fisting his hair to keep his mouth on you, his spit leaving paths of where he’d given you attention. Fingers dug his nails in like he burying to be beneath your skin. Crescent moons were left behind amongst his scars through his tight shirt as you matched his vigour.

“Say you want this,” John whispered into your neck.

“I want this,” You whined as his teeth threatened to make a meal of you.

“Again.”

“I want this, John. Please. I want it now.”

But still, he stopped, panting and squeezing your cheeks, your chin caught in the V of his finger and thumb. He pulled his forehead to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” He repeated.

Keening into him, your nose dragged you close to breathe him in. You licked your lips, like a wolf lavishing in the blood that dripped from them, cleaning of the kill in preparation for the next.

“John, I want you.”

The same absence of any personal touches in his bedroom would’ve caught your attention more, at all, if it weren’t for how viciously John ripped at your trousers, whipping them from your legs like a bedsheet fresh of a washing line. The ripple effect through your body sealed you close to him, seeking out a solution to the wet problem growing between your legs.

The slowest he’d acted was when he carried you to his bed. Legs around his waist, hoisting you and pressing you into the wall, stabilising himself, he left a bitemark on your neck before he moved you. His hands squeezed tight on your thighs before releasing you to fall onto the duvet.

For a moment, barely a second, John grabbed at his side. A wrinkle ironed itself free from his brow as soon as it appeared. You could hear him supress the hiss through his teeth, hiding the sound somewhere in his chest. Once his shirt was gone with the wind, you saw why: scar tissue on his mid torso, red with recency so not from this last work trip, at least. It did absolutely nothing in terms of inhibiting his desires, his teeth latching onto the skin of your collarbones again. You decided to curb his enthusiasm a little, though not to dispel the swelling in his jeans that was being rubbed up against your thigh.

Your knees were grateful for the pillow beneath them as you knelt on the floor and kissed his belly, your teeth threatening to pluck at the ridges. You could feel how John stared down at you. It pleased you when he cupped your chin as you undid his belt, and you smiled at him while he did his best not to pant at how smoothly yet hungrily you freed him from his underwear.

You sucked on your bottom lip for a second before repeating: “I want to.”

And you did.Scruffing the back of John’s neck, you pulled him down for a kiss, dipping into his mouth to stun him before you pulled away and spat on his cock with a concoction of yours and his. Your tongue lapped at the head of his cock and spread across his sensitive skin, following down the vein like a road on a map.

John’s sharpened breath kept you fuelled, both savouring this appetizer that was hefty on your tongue and his mood. His eyes were creased shut like the bedsheets he gripped in both fists, the adorable slope in his eyebrows peaked in the centre as he began to surrender to you. You continued to seek out his pleasure, feeling him fill your mouth deeper and deeper with each return.

At last, he needed no encouragement from you. His paw-like hand coaxed you from the back of your head, insisting that your nose be tickled by his curled pubic hairs. Droopy eyelids and a softened throat let him take the lead like he wanted to. Your thumb was throttled in your fist to hide your gag reflex, the other hand teasing his . Still, tears began brewing as he stuffed himself into your mouth. Deep breaths flooded your lungs with sweat and salt condensation.  

When John brought you back up and pressed his mouth to yours, his tongue stroked in your mouth like he’s searching for something you haven’t said. You didn’t know why that made you nervous; you had nothing to hide, right?

The pads of his fingers traced down to you, smearing your arousal across your sex. He honed in on it like a beacon and tenderly petted you. His deliberate pace riled you up at an alarming rate, nails digging through his hairy forearm, to stop or hasten him. Either way, delightful as he drew control from you, eyes drooping and mouth agape to free the gasps. Somewhere, seemingly far away, you heard yourself ask for more as you felt yourself building up and up.

“Later,” and John licked his fingers clean, “I need to be inside of you now.”

You remembered, then, that he was the client. So you put your disappointment aside and opened your legs wider for him.

However, as he was positioning himself, John’s fingers dug in and he let out a different type of grunt, more strained than a release.You opened your eyes to find him grabbing at the back of his left thigh, squeezing in an attempt to soothe the cramp that had ruined his stamina. Before you could stop him, he planted his hands either side of you and went to lean. Swiftly he was cut off by a wince with his nose and eyes crinkled. His hand found his thigh again.

“Sit back,” You instructed, and he knew what you were getting at. Let me.

The manoeuvre wasn’t smooth but it got you over him. Whilst you settled into his lap, he had retrieved a condom and a bottle of lube from his bedside drawer. Delight swirled in your stomach at the thought of John buying it in anticipation for a meeting with you, or even just to ease his nights alone. It combined nicely with the shivers sent through his calloused fingertips as he massaged the lube around your hole, finishing the work to open you up to him. Within the minute, he was pulling you down on him, resting your forehead to his, John matching your breathing’s pace.

When he asked, you affirmed: “I’m ready, I want this.”

Controlling your pace, John took things slow to start. All that effort towards your orgasm that was lost began building up, even if it got distracted by John’s hand awkwardly trying to rub your sex whilst you grinded on top of him.

“Not there,” You tapped his wrist to make him move, gripping around it when he met your demands, “There. That’s it.”

A contrived head roll helped you avoid his stare and all its intensity. It wasn’t all an act; you were definitely enjoying yourself. But you had to pad the role a little to make sure he knew that too. You were doing a fantastic job, you thought, until John pinched your chin and forced you to stare him down.

“Tell me I’m a good man,” He huffed.

You did as you were told: “You’re so good for me.”

“Again.”

“You’re a good man, John. You’re my good man.”

He had you repeat it a few more times, his movements getting sloppier but nevertheless determined to get you both across the finish line. His teeth graced your shoulder as he rocked into you. His arms locked you in and you groaned at the prickle of his bite and his beard.

At last, you made it to release. Breathing slowly through it, a smile broke onto your face as it rippled through you. It was amplified by the harmonising noises John made, the feeling of him filling that condom up, his body up against yours in ridges and curves. When he slumped against you, you squeezed around him a few more times – just to be sure.

You leant against his head, kissing the sweaty cowlick whilst enjoying him knead your ass in a slow rhythm of clasp and release – like a stress toy. He was keeping you in the afterglow.

“You ok?”

“Hmm.” His hand found the back of your neck to make you look at him once he raised his head back up, “Are you?”

“You took such good care of me,” and you nuzzled your nose to his, “No ropes though?”

“Told you, I’m in no mood for patience.”

“That strikes me as out of character for you.”

John gave a one note hum again, “Next time, I’ll take all the time I need.”

“Sure you can handle that?”

Confidence returned, John’s slitted eyes sparkled as he smiled, kissing you with his arms pulling you in close, no air between your skin and his and only allowing a gasp in that vacuum when he needed to remove the condom. He delivered on your aftercare clause with the affection he sought himself, you combing your nails through his beard and kissing the flattened hairs whilst he cleaned you with a cloth and kisses. After, he curled up beside you, keeping you close. You’d known you would be staying as soon as you’d seen how much he was paying you, so this was no surprise. You made yourself content rising and falling on this furnace of a man’s chest.Of course, you’d have to roll over once he was out if you wanted any chance to get some rest, but this was fine for now. Until-

“One of the times we were together,” John whispered, his thumb tracing the same arc of skin on your back, “Before I left, I told you about my day plans. You asked me if you could help, instead of if I wanted you to stick around.” He took in and appreciated a deep breath, his grip on you tightening for a second. “Felt nice.”

Raising your head, you couldn’t stop your brow from creasing at his words: “What are you worrying about?”

“Not worried, but not foolin’ myself either.”

But this was what he wanted to be told. He made it clear when you first met: he wanted some sense of a reality he was prohibited from. He wanted to hear you say this, and who were you to refuse a paying customer?

You made sure he was looking at you before you spoke, resting in his chest with your nose brushing against his, “I want to be here, John. I want to be here with you.”

You slid off John’s chest as he shifted onto his side, taking your wrists into his hands and all the while keeping you locked in a stare with him. Intensity darkened his eyes and sent a chill through your back that locked up. Goosebumps pulled you back against John.

“Say it again,” He said hoarsely, “Please.”

You swallowed before speaking, “I want to be here with you.”

His lips lunged onto yours, his tongue yearning for more of your taste and only freeing you from his intoxicating kisses to demand another: “Again.”

“I want to be with you.”

The way his leg notched between yours rushed your heartrate; his hands were guiding your hips to grind upon it.

“I want you too,” He grunted against your gasps.

“I know.”

Next thing you knew, you were pinned back into the mattress and your whined efforts were ignored whilst John parted your thighs and feasted upon you. Any woes about professionality and separating truth from work were forgotten. All that mattered was his tongue and the way his lines by his eyes formed, as pleased to see you undone as you had been for him.

-----------

AN: There's a dark!version of this in my drafts that I'll post later, but also the brain worms are wriggling around putting Price through a Gone Girl situation still sooooo we'll see when that happens. Soon hopefully!

[contritecactite]

Prepare for an actual torrent of stuff from me (maybe) as I get inspired by four ship weeks in the span of three weeks, starting with:

Day 1 of Narumitsu Week, "secrets and lies."

Title: Two Lies and a Truth Rating: T Desc: 1.3k, early 7yg and a childhood memory. Somewhere between an elementary school classroom and a freezing dive bar, the world made them this way. In an elevator, on a college campus, in courtroom after courtroom, the pieces that make them up got rearranged, like little plastic heroes that, with a few tweaks, morph into devastating weapons. 

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Quiet When I’m Coming Home (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

Summary: You’re in a relationship with Simon – not Ghost. Despite your best intentions, your partner is absent in many ways. He’s half a man, half of what you needed.

AN: Fic inspired by “when the party’s over” by Billie Eilish. Simon x Reader are not a great fit for each other and don’t communicate well. This is all angst with no happy ending. There will not be any other parts that offer a resolution to this, so please don’t ask.

Thanks to those who voted on the poll! Don’t forget to keep voting for what other fics you want to come out next!

Content warning: Hurt, no comfort; reader is gender neutral, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // AO3

No one else had a set of keys to your new home. Simon had assured you of that, making a statement a fact as he handed over the spare he’d previously kept in a lock-box. So, when you heard someone unlocking the entrance to the flat, despite your awful week that left you wanting to become one with the sofa, you leapt off it and sped into the hallway.

Simon’s mighty duffle bag was tossed inside first. Next came his big boots that kicked the door shut swiftly after he’d stepped past the threshold.

With your partner well and truly confirmed to be back home, you allowed the relief to flood your every vein as you approached with open arms. The smile on your face grew and grew with every step closer. Then it faltered as it was met with Simon’s hands up, buffering you a foot away from him. He wasn’t meeting your eye. He stared at his duffle bag and did not lower his hands.

“Simon. Are you OK?” You asked tentatively, your arms gently dropping back down.

A shake of his head was all communication you received.

It took him two days to remove the mask completely. Two days of being locked away in his office. That shift from who he was on the battlefield to who he was at home, it was never smooth. But this was the longest it had taken in the time you’d known him.

You knew how to help him: let him have his space, offer occasional reminders that you were here if/when he needed you, sliding water bottles and plates of food outside his office, returning later to collect the empty tray. He was a private man. The fact that he even came back at all was a miracle, a true display of his trust in you.

It was such a shame though, that him being something that mad you feel better conflicted with his own methods of healing.

A romantic would say that all that hardship made the embrace he gave you the following evening all worth it. But it felt just like a hug, empty of any explanation, and the same again when he left you the day after.

-

You used to call out into the house whenever you arrived back.

“Hello?”, “Simon?”, “You home?”, things like that.

At the end of a work day, hauling in the weekly shop, returning from a night out with your mates, the journey didn’t matter. It always ended with you calling out into an empty apartment as you locked the door behind you. Its click into place cemented the fact that no one would answer - another meal for one and a bed too big.

Later into your relationship, you discovered it didn’t matter if you called out – at least, not obviously. You went through your usual routine with your shoes placed in uniform with your others by the front door. A phone call to your mother, reheated Bolognese, and a pair of slippers that felt like clouds passed the evening by you passively enough. Getting ready for bed at half past seven didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“Jesus!”

Simon looked up from the boot he was brushing in the corner of the bedroom. A rag of a towel was laid out between his feet, catching all the stray flecks of polish and dirt. His mask was off; you could see its wedge in his pocket.

“Hey you.” You took a few steps and waited. When Simon placed his wares to the side and kept his legs spread apart, you stepped closer still. Once you’d reached him, Simon wrapped himself around you. Perhaps he’d snuck in to surprise you.

You whispered, “Gave me a fright.”

“Sorry,” came the mumbled reply into your shirt.

“It’s alright,” and you ran your fingers through his hair. “It’s all alright now. How long you been home?”

“Couple of hours.”

When you slid into bed beside him for the night, you checked your phone. No notifications from Simon. He was already tucked in with his eyes closed, breathing leveled out. You hadn’t gotten any better at telling when he was feigning sleep. But if he was pretending, he was avoiding. You could talk to him about it tomorrow. As long as his next job didn’t take him away before that.

-

With a slam of the taxi door, you waved the last of your friends off. Cold air bit at your arms and urged you to get back inside. But you stayed until the red taillights turned the corner, waving wildly on tiptoes.

The buzz of the homemade cocktails aided your flight back up the stairwell. It acted as motivation to wrap up the leftovers. A tune from earlier on your party playlist bounced in your mouth whilst you popped the occasional snack into your mouth en route to the fridge. It faded into silence when the front door opened, however you continued with your chores as Simon appeared in the doorway.

He’d timed that a bit too well, you thought to yourself whilst he shuffled in the doorway. You cursed yourself for thinking that about him.

“How was it?” He asked.

“Great, thanks.” Your answer came out a little strained, as did the smile you offered him. Perceptive Simon, he didn’t say anything about it. Rather than address the elephant, like you, he started scraping one of the plate’s contents into the bin. You let him help you for a while. But it was clear, from his stumbling, that he was not as coherent in thought and action as you were.

“You can go to bed.”

After a pause, he slotted his wares into the dishwasher, “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna,” You gestured to the rest of the party remnants on the table. “I’d rather deal with it now than in the morning.”

“I know.”

Brushing his hands down his trousers, he approached you. His hand squeezed on your hip and you closed your eyes, leaning against his lips that ghosted over your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” He muttered.

Your body followed him a little as you watched him walk to your bedroom, taking with him his promise to make it up to you for going out with his mates, as opposed to putting up with your friends for a few minutes before hiding in his office like last year. At least it was better than if he had had been away on a mission… right?

-

You stopped calling out now. That was all a gamble to spice up the ache you felt for every empty echo. A fool’s game with a very low chance of getting the response you wanted, like a scratch-card that revealed no matching numbers every time you twisted your key in the lock.

The whole flat felt too big, hollow caves that mocked you with the lack of your partner. There were enough signs around too that proved here wasn’t meant just for you. Cruel, really, to face the reminders that Simon could be home but he wasn’t.

It had felt nice still being able to call him yours. Even if it was weeks of absence on end plus sporadic days where he wasn’t always here, you were still his and he was yours.

That’s what you told yourself. Until one normal day, because you were alone at the flat again, when the doorbell rang.

He’s dead.

Your mind did that a lot, jumped to the worst conclusion. Your heart leapt at the opportunity to break into tiny pieces at the idea of Simon never coming home ever again, before rationale could calm it down.

Except.

Except this time your heart lingered lightly, still eager to break but this time holding back in anticipation as you walked up to the door. That thought was joined by the notion that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he never came back. The definiteness of that was a curdling comfort.

You looked through the peephole. Neighbour from opposite with your post in hand. No Union flag folded up with dog tags resting on top, held by a co-worker of Simon’s you’d never met. With a sigh of unknown feelings, you opened the door.

-

“How’s this?” You held up the wooden spoon, the pasta sauce steaming in front of Simon’s face. It smelt gorgeous and you already knew it tasted just as well. But this was a habit for you both – for your ulterior motives.

Removing his medical mask that he’d worn during your walk earlier, Simon leant down and (to your amusement) nibbled daintily off the top. His tongue poked out to lick the stray splash off his top lip. He gave a sincerely serious nod of approval with a short hum before trapping you in his massive arms, his body planted firmly against yours as he humbly requested:

“More please.”

You rolled your eyes at the twinkle in his, one that you were as well versed with as you were with his teasing, “Not ‘til I dish up.”

The simmering sauce was stirred once more before you caved completely into Simon’s instigated touch. Both of you swayed on the spot for a few minutes, your hands curving around his hold on you.

“It’s holy now.” Your chin dropped to indicate towards the water bubbling in the other pan. “I boiled the hell out of it.”

Simon’s deep chuckle from his chest caused his hold to tremble around you. When you looked up at him, you were tickled pink to see his smile – the kind where he smiled so broadly that his teeth appeared for a brief second, before he got self-conscious and tried to cover the whole expression up.

“I’m stealing that. And this,” He added just as he pecked your lips.

Pretending to think, you tilted your head back against him, “Is it really stealing if I want you to take it?”

“It makes you my accomplice,” He gave you a squeeze. “I’ll set the table.”

“Thank youuuu,” You called out as he released you to fish around in the kitchen drawers. He was so damn cute, placing the cutlery down precisely in your unofficial assigned seats at the table, making sure the cups had placemats.

Straining the pasta covered the other new sound in the kitchen. But when you set the colander down, you heard it – a steady buzzing on the countertop from Simon’s phone.

Your gaze switched to Simon at the same time his latched back onto you. Those brown eyes that usually made you weak at the knees and in your will, they had that look. That fucking look, and your face crumpled. When Simon picked up the call, the person on the other end heard, faintly in the background, your hand clapping over your mouth to stifle the wail that was clawing its way up your throat.

-

Of course you could take his silences and his bad days. His secrets, his smoking habit, his aversion of your friends, that was all accepted all of that with the rest of him when you started dating. Except it wasn’t the rest of him, not even most of him.

Doubt crept in through your ear long ago and transformed into certainty. That nickname, callsign – Ghost – that’s who Simon was when he was away and his determination to keep him separate, to keep you away from his life, was driving you to madness. He held you at arm’s length to make it easier for him to focus in the field, for you to move on if he was killed in action, or for both of you if this pact between you ceased.

But right now, he was fighting like the latter wasn’t ever a reason that had crossed his mind. He was telling you that he heard you, he wanted to make it better, he trusted you. He wanted you. With your mind closed whenever his phone trilled to announce your time together was cut short once again.

But what about you?

“Simon,” You pleaded as he glanced at the text he’d received. Not even a phone call. A text and that was something Simon was just beginning to afford you during his time away.

He promised as he slipped his phone into his pocket, “I’ll be back soon.”

What kind of a partner would you be if you asked him to change his profession for you? His profession was his life.

“Please.” Your arms locked at your sides, fingers itching to grab at his jacket and tug him away from the door.

“It’ll be OK.”

His life wasn’t you, but what was yours? This? Waiting for him forever?

“We’ll talk about it when I’m back,” He said firmly.

“When will that be?”

Skeleton gloves brushed a tear from your cheek before he kissed you. His soft lips tasted sweet against the salt of your crying, staining the memory as you committed it in your mind.

The pause button on your life was pressed the second the door closed. Your new normal and your normal forever if you did nothing.

It struck you hard. This couldn’t be it for you.

The weeping was continuous. It faded between stuttered sobbing and silent waterworks as you packed your suitcase. A note you left him had a few stains on them, blurring the ink but not enough to blur the lines of the boundary you were setting. Drafts of what you wanted to say were stuffed in your pockets so that Simon wouldn’t root through the paper recycling to find more evidence of your decision.

Your message to your best friend was more incoherent. The tears dribbling down your phone screen left autocorrect at a loss for words. Nevertheless, your friend answered your call almost immediately and offered you the space on her pull-out couch.

This relationship existed for so many reasons and they all tugged at you to stay loyal to him no matter what. The urge to claw them all out stung harsher than any cut. Because Simon was so lovely. He really was. Of course you’d miss him and those moments you’d shared.

But God, that had to be better than whatever this was and this was as good a goodbye as you were going to get – because you’d never leave if you didn’t leave now.

-

Skirting around the cardboard towers, you placed the final and lightest box atop the pile in your new bedroom. The mattress in the middle already had your duvet and pillows on top. You just had to locate the sheets before you could call it a day. The accused box was your suspect.

The top flaps were torn open by your desire to collapse and not resurface for at least nine hours. Pillowcases were rescued and force-fed your cushions. Your not-so-neatly-folded  fitted sheet maintained its creased state even when spread out across the bed, but you didn’t really care.

It had been your choice to go for a clean break.

Can’t even do that right, you thought as you pulled out a familiar large black hoodie from the bottom of the box, hidden conspicuously beneath the duvet cover.

You held it up, brought it in close, breathed it in. After that, you wrapped its arms around your body. A ghost of your Ghost. As your sobs muffled into the thick fabric and soaked up your tears, you sent out a little prayer that you’d made the right choice, that you’d feel the long term effects of this break-up soon, akin to that relief you felt when you’d been driven away from the place you’d shared.

Just, right now, right in that lump in your throat, it felt like you had made the biggest mistake of your life.

[kflixnet]

[MDNI] Check out our member Nat's smut headcanons!

Their reaction to you asking to cockwarm for the first time 😩

COCKWARMING ATEEZ

PAIRING — ateez x reader

GENRE — smut, romance, established relationship, boyfriend!ateez, fem bodied!reader, sub!reader, soft dom!ateez

WARNINGS — smut, unprotected sex, cockwarming, semi public sex (hong’s studio), dirty talk//sexual language, intentional lower case and small font, intentional word abbreviations

WORD COUNT — 2.3k

SUMMARY — cockwarming ateez for the first time.

HONGJOONG

“so…just sit on it?”

hongjoong closed his eyes and inhaled. he was obviously growing impatient, what with his work needing to be done and his cock resting between your thighs, throbbing with need to get inside you. he held his cock and rubbed its head against your slick folds. “yes, baby. sit on it.”

the fabric of his t shirt crumpled in your fists as you braced yourself against him. you slipped down his length, sheathing it in your warmth. you both sighed, him at your tightness, and you at the stretch. instinctually your hips began to move, but a hand at your thigh quickly halted you.

“f-fuck,” he groaned, glaring down at his hand on your thigh like he wanted to do anything than keep you from bouncing on him. hongjoong swallowed while his thumb rubbed circles into your skin. “just sit. you gotta warm it. stay still while i work, okay?”

you huffed and leaned into his chest petulantly. two seconds into trying cockwarming for the first time and you already hated it. you wanted to move, needed to. his cock, nestled so deep inside, was brushing against that gummy spot; if you could just move, it’d feel so good. by this time he’d normally be pounding into you with reckless abandon, giving into what you both craved. right now, he was still, his arms around you as he busied himself with whatever it was he was working on. despite his cock being buried to the hilt in your cunt, he paid you no mind.

it wasn’t long before you were unable to withstand it any longer. you rocked your hips over his lap, whimpered into his ear that wasn’t covered with his headphones, and moaned his name weakly. and just when you thought he had a resolve of steel, his hips rutted upwards. “fuck it,” hongjoong cursed under his breath just as his hands found purchase on your hips, holding you still while his hips snapped into you repeatedly. “we’ll try again next time.”

SEONGHWA

“this piece, and t-this piece…” seonghwa’s deep voice was hoarse with need. and even as he thought aloud, trying to keep his mind together, he just couldn’t focus on the task at hand. he cursed, dropping the lego pieces onto the table. “fuck, baby, can’t i just –” he bucked his hips in a wordless plea.

you bit your lip to stifle a moan. you picked up the pieces again, offering them to him. “no, gotta stay still. it’s the whole point of cockwarming. now, finish building your set. you’re almost done.” you were sat atop him with your back to him. you watched his hands from each side of your form take the lego pieces again and resume what he had been doing.

seonghwa rested his chin on your shoulder. “this would be so much easier if i could focus, you know.” his fingers skillfully put the set together, the sight almost hypnotic to you.

“you don’t look like you’re having a hard time,” you replied, but were quickly reminded of the very hard cock nestled inside you.

he laughed and groaned at the same time, his breath fanning across your cheek. goosebumps scattered on your skin. seonghwa’s lips were against your ear then. “maybe…maybe i could take a little break, come back to this when i’ve cleared my head a little…” a hand slid down to where you were joined, his thumb pressing into your clit.

the clench around him was immediate, and you both almost lost all resolve right then and there. it was so tempting to just let him fuck you, even bend you over this table. but you weren’t going to back down, not yet. “keep working, just a little more. i promise you’ll get to fuck me. soon.”

the lego set was soon forgotten…

YUNHO

“yunho, please…” your cry fell on deaf ears, or rather, your cry simply did not penetrate the large headphones atop his head. you whimpered, cheek smooshed into his chest as you straddled him. he remained oblivious to you, too caught up in his video game. even with you wrapped around his thick cock, he was much more concerned with defeating his on screen opponents than fucking you. cockwarm me, he said. it’ll be fun, he said. you cursed him in your head.

you sat up straight, your face to his, effectively blocking his view of the computer screen. yunho was able to look over your shoulder with ease thanks to his larger frame, and this only fueled your annoyance more. you opted to trail kisses down his jaw, thinking that surely this would grab his attention. but no, it didn’t. the only sign he was even remotely affected was the slow bob of his adam’s apple. you groaned, and with no other option coming to mind, you took matter into your own hands and began bouncing on his lap, fucking yourself on his cock.

god, it felt good. so good. and you savored the sweet torture of his cock stretching your walls over and over, at least that was until one of his long arms wrapped around your frame to still you. you looked up at him to find that he was looking down at you, finally giving you attention for the first time since you’d been on him.

“what do you think you’re doing?” yunho had now paused his game, your bounces on his cock too much of a distraction. “I thought i told you to warm my cock while I played, not fuck yourself on it.”

“your game was taking too long, and –”

“and what? is my poor baby getting needy, huh?” yunho put his controller aside to hold your waist with both hands. with his full attention now on you, and that familiar dark look in his eyes, you didn’t feel as brazen as before. he chuckled, grinding his hips into yours in a way that had you melting in his arms. “well, if you wanted my attention so bad, now you have it. just remember you asked for this, baby.”

YEOSANG

“so…we just lay here?” yeosang’s voice was low in your ear, barely a whisper as you both payed attention to the movie. you were both on the couch, with him behind you and you settled comfortably in front of him. and his cock stuffed fully inside your cunt.

“yeah,” you said, and when you readjusted yourself, you pressed him further inside, making the poor man behind you groan.

“okay,” he started, strong arm tightening around you. he sounded winded, like he was struggling not to fuck you. which he definitely was, your tight walls tempting him to move. “but if we’re gonna do this, try not to move. please.”

the need in his velvety voice went straight to your core, and god, you almost caved at the sound. you weren’t fairing much better than him, but you at least wanted to give this a try. “okay, i’ll try.”

you managed to get through most of the movie with neither of you moving. his cock was still rock hard, and you were still so wet. your mind began to go numb, only occupied with thoughts of him, the movie a mere blur to you. it was getting closer to the end, and the end meant that finally he could move, could fuck you.

you intended to make it, to wait until you saw the credits that signaled the close of the movie, but yeosang’s hand pressing against your tummy showed that he had other plans. his hips moved tentatively back and forth; it was enough to make you both sigh out in pleasure. “i think,” he spoke between small ruts, “we’re close enough to the end.”

you nodded. “i think so too…” you rolled your rear against him for more friction.

“fucking finally.” there was a symphony of relieved moans at that first deep thrust of his hips.

SAN

san landed on top of you in a heap, panting heavily while he kissed your temple. your arms remained around his neck while you both came down from the high, your sweaty skin sticking together. “i love you.”

“i love you, too.” you kissed his shoulder. moments later he made to get off you, but you cried aloud, limbs wrapping around his body to keep him close. “stay inside of me.”

san laughed as his forehead rested against yours. “stay inside? but why? i’m all…soft now.”

“wanna cockwarm you. just for a little while.”

san was already inclined to do as you asked, but your pretty eyes looking up at him so cutely did him in. “okay. i’ll stay inside, baby.” san remained within you, but moved you both to lay on your sides for more comfort. his arms wrapped around you protectively.

you were content to pass the time listening to his heartbeat and revel in the intimacy of the moment. there was the occasional pillow talk over the most random things, soft giggles, and sweet kisses. sweet kisses that began to linger, grow deeper, and hands tangling in hair and soft sighs filling the air. the heated energy from before returned, and you felt the way san’s cock began to grow inside your walls.

you moaned, and san laughed, throwing your leg over his hip and thrusting. “i think i see why you wanted me to stay inside.”

you smiled as he began to fuck you, fully hard cock pushing you further towards your second orgasm of the night.

MINGI

“baby, i can’t sleep like this…”

“mingi, please,” you whined. “do it for me.” your boyfriend shifted behind you, large hands gripping your hips tightly. his cock was deep, already positioned to hit that sweet spot inside you if he only moved.

“how can i sleep when you’re so tight around me?” mingi was restless, your tight cunt the only thing occupying his mind. he was much too aroused to even attempt to find sleep. he was throbbing, the need to fuck you so intense it was unbearable. “I don’t even know why you wanted to do this in the first place.”

“mingi…” you huffed and fixed the pillow under your head, trying to not move your lower half at all. “just be still then if you can’t sleep.”

“you’re acting like you don’t inwardly want me to fuck you right now.”

“this isn’t about fucking.”

“like hell it isn’t,” mingi grumbled, starting to pull his hips back to thrust into you, but stopping himself. you didn’t make a sound, but the way you clenched around him told him everything. “your pussy is fluttering around me, begging to be fucked.”

when he pushed into your backside, you couldn’t help the small moan that escaped you. you heard him laugh behind you.

he kissed your neck. “what was that?”

you rolled your eyes though he couldn’t see. “okay, stop the teasing and just fuck me, will you?”

mingi thrusted into you forcefully. you cried out, barely catching your breath before he was moving again. “gladly.”

WOOYOUNG

“oh my god, wooyoung!” you cried into his neck, fists balling his shirt.

“feels good, yeah?” wooyoung kissed the top of your head while his thumb busied itself with your clit, rubbing smooth circles against the sensitive bud. you were spasming around his cock, so obviously close to cumming.

“this isn’t how it’s done,” you whined. “i’m just – fuck – supposed to warm your cock.”

“you are baby, but you never said i couldn’t rub your clit.” wooyoung was smug, staying completely still just like you asked him to despite him currently working you towards the edge. “you don’t want me to stop, do you?”

your head shook vigorously. “no! m’so close! so close!”

wooyoung smirked. “that’s what i thought.” his thumb was constant, steady rhythm on your bundle of nerves making you spiral in his lap.

“w-wooyoung, fuck!” your orgasm rushed through you, and you came hard around his still cock. you barely heard his low groan through the haze of your high.

“god, so tight, baby.” wooyoung gripped your hips, slamming you down onto him. “now it’s my turn to cum.”

JONGHO

“you’re so pretty when you’re full of my cock.”

jongho’s nasty words were punctuated by the sight of you in the mirror, splayed between his legs, your thighs open, and cunt stuffed full of his thick cock. you moaned, back arching and hips moving in search of friction. “jongho, please. fuck me.”

“not yet, i wanna admire you warming my cock some more.” his eyes found yours in the mirror, and he chuckled at the neediness in your gaze. “you can wait just a little while longer, can’t you?”

that was a stupid question only meant to tease you. he knew you couldn’t. he knew how desperate you were. you were leaking all around him, pussy begging for him to move. “i’ve already been waiting so long…”

“and you’ve been doing so good,” jongho praised with a kiss to your temple. “please just let me keep you like this for a little bit more. you’re just so pretty like this. i think we need to do this more often, baby. don’t you think so?”

you only whined in desperation. “I don’t wanna cockwarm you anymore, just want you to fuck me.”

jongho pinched your nipple, making you cry out. “so demanding,” he grunted. “if you want to cum at all tonight, you’ll stop whining, okay?”

you whimpered, but nodded anyway.

another kiss to your temple. “good, baby.”

AUTHOR’S NOTES — sooooo excited to finally have this posted 😩🙌🏻

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