Why Am I Blushing - Tumblr Posts

Oml can you do a scenario where Jungkook only refers to you as “my wife” with people whenever you’re mentioned and you go to practice with him once and hear him only refer to you as “my wife” and it’s all cute and fluffy, based on that ask you received cause it’s so soft and pure😭💖

prompt: in regards to this ask i got; this is incredibly soft and cheesy oh god

word count: 857

The broad expanse of stars painted over the sky was lost, hidden in the reflection of various hues of rising blue complimenting the soft yellow of the sun over the curve of the earth. Instead, those twinkling lights that wouldn’t be found until the blurred edges of the day break overhead disappeared into the trees instead appeared in the blink of soft irises crouched over the curl of your torso. 

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THIS! I DON’T EVEN HAVE WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT!

come over (18+)

skz + song recommendation

the masterlist | the playlist

perv!seungmin x y/n smut

based off of these headcanons about perv!seungmin

word count: 2.1k

warnings: perv!idol, nonconsensual and unnegotiated somnophilia (but y/n is enthusiastic), dry humping (no penetration), masturbating, more somno fantasies. y/n has a vulva, no gender-specific pronouns used. minors dni.

this is pure fiction for entertainment purposes only.

if anyone had asked you who seungmin is to you, for the longest time you would have shrugged and answered “oh, he’s just some guy”.

you met him through mutual friends a couple of months ago and you never really minded his presence. a perfectly normal acquaintance that you nod a greeting towards in the hallway or the library or the subway, before brushing past each other to find your own seats. comfortable enough for you to reply with your own sarcastic comments to his slightly shrewd humor or to teasingly raise your eyebrows at the nerdy way seungmin tends to recount his last lesson during your lunch breaks in the cafeteria.

a study group seemed convenient. and when others slowly started show up less and less until it was only the two of you meeting in his dorm’s kitchen with your laptops and a pile of books between you, you never really minded that either.

seungmin is still just some guy - still kind of weird and kind of boring - but he’s also your favorite study buddy now.

seungmin is easy in a lot of ways. whenever you hit him up to whine about how you’re buried in work, in up to your head with revisions and no plan on how to finish your assignments in time, seungmin simply texts you back two short words.

seungmin: come over

you go to his place, always. you don’t mind the subway ride despite his dorm being located off-campus. after all he’s doing you a favor with these study sessions.

sometimes the way seungmin acts is strange, his unreadable gaze lingering on yours too long before going back to the text infront of him, his voice bordering on annoying when he tells you to focus when he notices you staring at him too.

but you realize rather quickly that you’ve started falling for seungmin, in a way you can’t quite explain. he isn’t really your type and his determined studying is often more irksome than admirable, but there are other things about him you can’t help but notice these days.

the way he smells when he leans over you to look at your answers, his inoffensive cologne and the smell fresh detergent wrapping you up in a comforting cloud. the way he’s so shy sometimes, despite being such a pest, jerking away from you like he’s been shocked with electricity when your arms accidentally brush together, blushing on the rare occasions where you compliment him, almost seeming like he’s squirming in his seat when you lean over the table towards him, like he’s still uncomfortable with your presence even after all these weeks. the way his long fingers rub at an ink smudge on the table when he’s contemplating an answer, sometimes so slow and tantalizing that you can’t tear your eyes away, a low hum of arousal swooping into your lower belly that makes you wonder whether he’s doing it on purpose.

today you’re studying together again, spontaneously this time. seungmin somehow snagged the results for the upcoming exam of a course you share and you quiz each other on them until well into the night.

there’s a storm raging outside that’s caused your train to be delayed, then cancelled and seungmin awkwardly offers to let you sleep over. you don’t want to impose, but since you’re not keen on being swept away by the wind or knocked out by a branch during a two hour trek back to your dorm room you thankfully accept his hospitality.

there’s no couch in the living room yet. seungmin has just moved into the apartment rather recently with his three roommates - who seem to be peculiar about guests, if the way seungmin doesn’t seem to want them to know you’re staying over is anything to go by. he insists you don’t try and set up a makeshift camp in the living room and take his bed instead.

you gladly accept his offer again, but when seungmin tells you he’ll sleep on the floor next to you, you don’t let him.

you decide to postpone your shower to the next morning when you’re home, opting to just get in bed and sleep in your underwear and t-shirt under seungmin’s heavy blanket.

seungmin joins you in bed shortly after finishing up in the bathroom, whispering a hasty good night before rolling over until his back is turned to you. you decide to do the same, settling your cheek against seungmin’s soft pillow and closing your eyes. you fall asleep surprisingly easily, wrapped up in seungmin’s scent while the storm howls outside of his window.

you wake up to an incredible warmth and seungmin spooning you from behind. your leg is draped over his thigh, holding you open, his hand under your shirt, gently cupping your flesh with damp fingers while his - you almost jolt at the realization - bare cock is carefully rutting against your clothed core from behind.

you’re surprised, but pleasantly so, you realize with another flush of heat creeping up your neck. all those afternoons of being unsure if you could have the same confusing effect on seungmin that he has on you, wondering if seungmin could see you in another way than just friends. now you seem to have gotten your answer in the form of his heavy erection pressed against your center, in a heedy desperation he’d never want to admit when you’re awake. he’s probably so nervous like this, fingers trembling and trying not to hold you too tight, making small choked up noises at the back of his throat as he grinds his hips forward again and again, dragging his arousal against your unmoving body - and you love every second of it.

it’s unconventional, wrong even, but you don’t want to think about seungmin’s questionable morale now, not when his attention satisfies that needy little greed inside of you and you decide you want to enjoy this just a little bit longer. you will yourself to not tense up, to not show him you’re awake yet, staying as relaxed in his grip as you try to sort your thoughts and feelings while seungmin’s stuttering hips gently rock your body back and forth.

he moves slowly, deliberately as to not wake you up, but he can’t control the way he’s panting against your ear now, groaning your name from time to time like he can’t help himself and this must have been what woke you up in the first place. seungmin seems so desperate and juvenile now, the clumsy drags of his hips are followed by a rustling of the sheets, hot and heavy around the two of you like seungmin needs to hide the way he’s helplessly grinding his cock into you, his rhythmless rocking only accompanied by his gasps and groans. the sounds seungmin makes as he rubs against your still body are so broken, sounds you never imagined your put-together friend could even produce, especially not from a bit of dry humping. it’s incredibly hot and you bite your lips in an attempt to not whimper his name back the next time a desperate hum leaves his lips.

seungmin shifts his hips again and you can feel the tip of his leaking cock bump against your clit through your cotton panties, precum seeping into the material and making you tremble ever so slightly. though you can barely tell, you’re already so wet for him and you can’t ignore it anymore, can’t help but feel it now that the angle has him pushing your panties against your drenched slit, the friction making you clench around nothing with every dull drag of his cock over your clit.

“s-shit, i wish i could fuck you for real,” seungmin whimpers against your neck, sounding guilty and dejected.

you wish he would.

you imagine seungmin pulling your panties to the side and pushing just the tip in, making both of you gasp from the stimulation. fuck, you want it bad, you want him bad, you want to let him know he can do whatever he wants.

but you don’t know how he would to react if you make it known you’re awake, that you’ve been awake and that you caught him being an untamed pervert. the last thing you want to do is startle him and ruin the moment.

seungmin’s hips pick up speed while you mull over your predictament, his body hunching over yours as he wildly humps his sticky cock against your clothed core, fingers digging into your skin with less care as he chases his orgasm, the friction against your clit driving you insane with the need for more. seungmin’s mumbling something muffled against your hair, you think you make out a gasp of “sorry” but you can’t be sure.

suddenly seungmin pulls away, falling on his back next to you and you hear him working his hands over his cock - rushed and fumbling strokes - before he cums with a choked-off sob. you wish you could see the mess he’s made but you lie there, still pretending to be asleep even when he gets up and quietly leaves the room.

only when you hear the bathroom door lock and the shower turn on, you slide your hand into your panties.

you can’t believe how wet you are - because of seungmin of all people - but you don’t have time to dwell on it too much when you brush your fingers over your clit, swollen and throbbing from seungmin’s unknowing teasing. you decide slide your panties off and spread your legs wide, your thoughts immediately wandering.

what if you had pushed back more, enticing seungmin to pull your panties to the side and feel how wet you were for him. now, delving deeper into your desire, you forget about the awkwardness that could ensue, the possibility of his unwillingness to actually fuck you - and let your fantasy go right to what it would be like to feel seungmin sliding his stiff cock into your welcoming walls - two of the fingers of your other hand barely mimicking the stretch inside of your sticky hole.

he seemed so sensitive, so eager.

would his voice have wound higher if he had actually been inside of you, raw and without preamble? would he have have whimpered “please” in that broken desperate voice?

you have to stop your own whimper, pulling your fingers away from your clit and clamping them over your mouth, conpensating by pushing a third finger into your cunt, crooking and grinding the digits in deep with every frantic thrust that lets your palm smack against your clit. the thought of seungmin finishing his shower early and finding you like this, pathetic, desperate in his bed, ready for taking just like he seemed to wish for crosses your mind - but you go back to your first fantasy. seungmin fucking you on your side, fully using your body while he still deems you asleep. would he still care about waking you up if your walls milked his cock like you’re squeezing your fingers now? would he groan a genuine “sorry” when he filled you with his load too?

with this thought in your head, you make yourself cum just like that with your hand over your mouth and three fingers shoved deep into you cunt, clit pulsing against your palm as your hips buck from the intensity of your pleasure. you feel dizzy, dirty - but so, so good. you roll onto your side, trying to ignore how sweaty and shaky you are as you focus on calming your breathing.

you pretend to be asleep until seungmin lays down next to you again, far away with his back turned, fresh from his shower making you feel even more gross with the sticky mess in your panties and your arousal still clingin to your fingers. you wait until seungmin’s breathing evens out to quietly roll out of bed, put on your clothes and sneak out of the apartment.

the nexy day you try to focus on studying for your exam, but now that all that is left to do is to learn the anwers by heart you get bored quickly, your mind constantly drifting to seungmin and his cock, the way he pressed it against you through the material of your panties. you touch yourself to the memory twice, but you still can’t let it go, that feeling of needed to know more.

what came over him last night? has seungmin been harboring this physical attraction, secretly plotting a way to get you in his bed because he was too shy to approach you and ask for whay he really wanted? was it a one time thing? did he just see an opportunity and take it for the sake of taking, possibly without any prior attraction? you can’t believe the way both options seem to turn you on equally.

pulling up seungmin’s contact on your phone, you write out a paragraph about catching him, contemplating it. but you now know he wants you now and you want to give it a shot.

deleting the paragraph, you opt to simply send him two words.

you: come over

Love the thought of being called Price’s work wife :)) Being at functions and someone calls you it, and since Price is already a few drinks in he doesn't think before his hand is on your hip and pulling you flush against him.

"Couldn't live without this little love right here. Gonna start calling her Mrs. Price any day now."

Tucked into his arm, you're blushing and living for the whole moment when it gets infinitely, gloriously better- his hand slips off your hips and grabs your ass. Just a gentle squeeze, and suddenly Price tears himself away.

"I'm so sorry love, that was too far. I got carried away."

All you can do is smile demurely at him, rejoin him in his personal space.

"It's okay, Mr. Price. What else are work wives for?"

Il Cardinale e i Suoi Fiori

A piece I did for Valentines of Cardinal Copia in the Florence Flower markets.

You're in my Blood like Holy Wine

Your mom gifts you a tattoo gun for your birthday, and word spreads within the Ministry: even to Papa Emeritus the Fourth.

this is no-smut, pure indulgent fluff that ive been thinking abt since my mom gave me a tattoo gun last christmas ✌✌💖💖💖

word count: 6,610 warnings: none, descriptions of tattooing.

ao3 link!

It had all started when your mother sent you a tattoo gun for your birthday.

You haven't been here for very long, amidst the shine of marble floors and delicate tapestries interwoven with the history of Lucifer's Fall, His connection with Man, His ever-occurring acts with righteous Time through art, music, silver bells tied around those willing witch's jaunty ankles. The Black Chantry has been more than kind to you, even supported by your parents who believe it is a spiritual necessity to explore other religions, to become a pilgrim of something you believe is cosmically Right.

But you had trouble with making friends, so shared during those weekly phonecalls back home, and a difficulty truly finding your own nuance behind the leather-and-paper wall you had grafted for yourself into the quiet center of the Ministry's great library.

So henceforth, the tattoo gun. Something fun and creative to do, your mother had said, and so, you had used it: first on yourself, with little designs on your fingers, the bulbs of your knees; smallish things in fun, pretty designs that weren't too big, but things that meant something to you, privately and precious.

And then your acolyte Siblings had taken notice, during supper or sermons within the whispering pews, and you had shared the acquisition of your birthday gift. They had complimented your style, the tightness and the shape of the lines and the art, and asked if you could give them one, too.

You agreed. And word spread.

A few months went by in that cyclical trade of ink and lavender-scented ointment, and your own tattoos grew larger, bolder, your trembling, nervous hands growing still in your continuing confidence, and the gossip spread of your expanding capabilities: you yourself never willing to take cold, hard cash as retribution, but wonderfully affirmed for a potency of sacred Trade. A switch of janitorial duties here, an extra piece of your favorite cake there, all based on the size and artistic quality of the home-made tattoo done for new, true friends.

And then one of the ghouls came to you, the broad, stocky creature fondly dubbed "Aether" by the Siblings. He had asked for a sweet little grucifix on the outer webbing of his right hand, to flash the fans on tour when he would perform his guitar tricks. He had offered to teach you some of those tricks as his payment, and you had spent the evening talking and laughing and mimicking his playing when the tiny tat was done quickly, the ghoul leaving your room with a chipper, fanged-tooth smile and a happily-wagging tail behind him.

And that brings you here– nestled again and beautifully comfortable in the back corners of the library, in a plush, leather chair; reading up on the artistic styles of 13th century manuscripts for inspiration, the beloved Clavis Artis– when Papa Emeritus the Fourth comes to call.

"Eh," comes a familiar sound, nearby to you; making you blink from those gold-hammered words and the too-wide mouths of thrice-headed dragons. "Ah. Hello?"

Your head perks up from the tome, held heavy and wide in your lap, to spy your Papa, full-faced and adorned in his glory of black ruffles, ratty pants, and cerulean-blue cravat, some feet away from your chosen chair. He waves bashfully. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Papa!" you greet cheerfully; immediately floored that the Head of the Satanic Papacy is speaking to you, directly. "How goes?"

"Ah! It goes good." He nods enthusiastically, and the leather of his gloves creaks as he fiddles with a soft folder of brown leather, a professional piece borne from suitcases and gilded inkpots. "Is this seat taken?" And he points to a dual chair of the same make, notched in front of yours to enthuse conversation.

"Oh, please! Of course," you wave, and he beams gratefully and takes the seat, the leather creaking as he sinks into it with a muffled murmur of comfort. You exchange polite beams, flabbergasted and blinded by the pleasant wattage of Papa's endearingly buck-toothed smile. What the fuck is happening.

"What are you reading?" he asks politely.

"Oh, um," you begin eloquently, and fold closed the book to show the cover. He makes a soft sound of deep appreciation. “Fantastic work. Are you studying?” he asks kindly, leaning softly his upper body to connect with you.

“Sort of?” you answer hesitantly. “I’m– yeah, I’m studying, I’ve been looking at how the lines flow in the drawings. The–” And your throat bobs: you’ve yet to have an actual conversation with the current Godphone of the Black Church, save for Communion, that tender placement of the hymns and the thin wafer placed upon your tongue, the warm lip of the gold chalice for the sacramental wine. “... the artwork of the dragons and the mermaids, the symbolism of vague powers. The color choices of the suns, and how sharp the hydras’ faces are drawn, with the little lines for their eyelids and lips. It’s all very pretty to look at, and something I’m … trying to emulate?” you explain, and Papa nods exuberantly; listening intently.

“Yes, eh, wonderful work!” he continues happily, his knee bobbing along in an anxious jilt. He clears his throat roughly. “Stunning glamor onto your personal path, yes. I’ve … heard you do more work?” he lilts, his voice pitching upwards, and you blink.

He is nervous, and he fiddles with that leather folder in his lap, as if waiting to include it onto this conversation. You tilt your head for more, eager to open wider this proverbial Door, and his throat bobs and Papa sighs through his painted nose.

“There is,” he begins slowly. “--a rumor that you are doing tattoos? For the other Siblings?” And your skin grows cold, your hands clamping white-knuckled reflexively at your tome.

“Am I in trouble?” you ask instantly, and Papa blinks rapidly, instantly waving his palms to soothe.

“No, no no no, not at all,” he’s sure to affirm gently, waving his hands hard enough to upset the ruffles linked at his wrist. “My ghoul– Aether,” he confirms. “-- speaks highly of your work, o-on his hand.” And he points to that same space over his glove; your eyebrows rising higher and higher with each pleasant inflection. “He talks about it so much that I think I could recite your entire conversation by heart,” he mentions dryly, purposefully, and you bark out a surprised, flattered laugh. It makes him smile, the gesture crinkling at those stark, harsh lines of his ritual paints.

“I’m glad he likes it!” you chirp, your face flushing, crossing your ankles to lean more closely to your Papa, to include yourself more clearly. “Did he want another one? Is he … asking through you?” you inquire, confused.

“Ah, no, not that I’m aware of?” Papa answers quickly. “But …” And he fiddles with the corners of his leather folder, and frankly, thrusts it towards you. “But I was hoping you could give me one? A tattoo?”

“Really?” you blurt, and take the folder to gawk. He smiles nervously, and you mirror it, and duck your chin to study that plain, dark brown folder. You flip it open absently, curious. “I-I’ve seen your artistry! Aether was very keen to include your talent, and your kind nature. How gentle you were with him,” he includes softly, and it makes you blush and turn shy, delicate in the way you stare up at your Papa through your lashes. You huff bashfully. “I-I … thank you, Papa.”

And professionalism comes as a needed glove, a tight, well-made piece of armor so easily grafted from these few months of writing and drawing and scouring the sleekness of human skin for permanent art, glorious in its starkness. You flip through those delicate pages, the interior of the folder come together as a meager sketchbook, and your eyebrows flex high, and higher, at the artistry drawn before you.

Reptilian skulls with bat wings and forked tongues, bulbous frogs with three eyes belching flame; ragged, corpulent rats with scarlet blood dripping from razor fangs. Terrifying and metal in comparison to the tender themes of your newish Siblings, but beautiful in the work of a true Artist. “This is gorgeous work,” you comment in a sudden blurt; unused to keeping emotional secrets, turning the page.

You see vampire bats with glowing eyes, grucifixes with lightning streaks, craggy trees holding a secret of vampiric teeth in the awning by the blackened roots. You laugh in proper delight. “Did you draw these?”

“I did,” he admits quietly, making your head snap up. And it is your Papa’s turn to huff bashfully. “I am fond of sketching. Do you know,” he says suddenly, shifting in his seat excitedly. “--that I designed my wardrobe, myself?”

“Well, that explains it,” you mention helpfully. You gesture to his outfit, the charcoal-dark ensemble, thinking of his sequins and tight silks on the stage. “The clothes you have in your repertoire have been immaculate. Gorgeous vividness of brilliant ideas,” you comment flippantly, and your Papa flushes hard, neigh visible past his black-and-white paints but burning profusely at his pointed ears, that patch of skin where the frills of his collar expose his throat. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and the endearing quality of this Great Throat of the Black Goat makes you beam, apple-cheeked.

“You’re welcome,” you say warmly, and continue to flip through the folder. “Which one would you like done?” you ask, keeping that cadence of sweet intimacy. You scoot closer to the edge of your seat, to offer half the folder open to him. He follows you, borne along with an eager dance. “Which one would you like to have done first?” you reiterate.

And he hums, and gently takes the folder from you. He flips idly through those pages, soft placements, a divot forming between his painted brows in a soft, studious thought. He makes a sound of epiphany, suddenly, and offers it back to you with a pointed finger.

Along the exposed page is an intricate, yet simple drawing of a rodent’s skull, its unhinged jaw opened wide with its jutted teeth, and with a ribbon intertwined through its yawning eyeholes and around its naked scalp. A jittered script points to the ribbon with a jerky arrow, reading ‘blue!’. You awe audibly. “That is lovely,” you breathe, and Papa beams.

“I would like this one,” he says helpfully, and rings out the ruffles on his wrist, and pats pertly the space of his right forearm. “Here, please. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer cheerfully. You shift the folder to study this drawing, furrow-browed; thinking of inks and the shades of the bends beneath the rodent’s eye sockets, that soft shadow where the opened jaw creaks. Of what color the blue ribbon could truly be. “Is this blue the same as your cravat?” you ask, pointing helpfully.

“Yes!” he answers eagerly, fiddling with that silky clothe.

And your head bobs in an excited nod. “I can do this,” you affirm cheerfully, and share joyous beams with your Papa. “When would you like this done?” you ask seriously.

“Oh, well.” He fiddles with that cravat, with the thick ruffles dripping from his sleeves. “When would you like this done?”

“My schedule is more open than yours, I’m assuming, Papa,” you try to defer, but Papa waves this away and bids you more comfort. “Copia,” he says, bobbing his gloved palms. “Please. You are il maestro artista here; I am merely a willing participant.” And the blessed eon that you can call him by his first name makes you titter, both nervous and buoyant. You blow out air in a studious pause.

“Tomorrow evening?” you offer gamely, and Papa– Copia bobs his head in an eager nod, cupping his hands together. “Tomorrow evening,” he repeats softly, and beams with all his teeth, and you cannot stop yourself from simpering openly.

He is so cute, so impossibly precious.

“I’ve heard that you don’t accept cash,” he offers, as you close his folder carefully, giving it back to him. You nod absently. "I'll need a copy of that drawing," you interject. "So I don't ruin the original." Copia nods quickly.

"Um, no, I don't accept coin. I work in trade," you explain gently.

“Of course, perfettamente,” he mimics amiably, and behind his paints that endearing wrinkle as he raises his eyebrows beseechingly. He opens his gloved palms to you, his folder held safely within his lap. “What would you like, then, in trade?”

And you think about it, staring off into space, your lips pursing in this quiet pondering. Copia waits patiently, and a heady blush forms where his eyes stare, drinking you in at the corner of your eye. You breathe deeply; flustered by his attention, and it comes to you.

You look back to him, worried. “I’m not sure if what I want could get you in trouble.”

“Ah,” he breathes, leaning back into his chair. “Then it is a good one. What is it?” he inquires.

“The incense,” you state. “That is held in the thurible during Mass. Is that possible?” you ask carefully.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, and grins at you, pleased and purring. 

You grin back at him, your nose wrinkling, your eyes twinkling; that delicate manuscript within your lap forgotten.

Tomorrow evening. Tomorrow and tomorrow, and you spend the rest of the day fretting and screaming and shrieking into your pillow inside the privacy of your single room. Papa Emeritus the Fourth wants you to ink his tattoo, and in speculation of the artistry, something he drew, himself, and something that holds personal significance, by the particularity of the rodent's skull and the prettiness of that spiraling ribbon.

You are freaking the fuck out.

You fall back into professionalism: setting your shoebox of your inks and widgets and sketch papers onto your meager coffee table, a thrift find when one of your clients– now one of your many friends, blessed connection– had dragged you into town for more furniture and quality time, how wonderful this expansion of the Arts. Your mother had blessed you with human connection, that need to share stories and laughter and gaiety of personal inflection, human individuality. Your shoebox keeps that mechanical toy, the foot pedal and the tiny, digital motor to have it run, and the replacement needles and the plastic slip of fake skin with which to helpfully practice.

You doubt you’ll need to practice at this rate, but it’s nice to have for those unique cases. You plan coffee and an accouterments of snacks, and remember a rumor that Papa Copia likes juice, in any form. You snatch small packets of powdered fruit drinks from the kitchens, sneaking tart-and-sweet pastries that could be refrigerated and eaten fresh.

And you’re still freaking the fuck out.

You think about it in bed, pajamas swathered across your showered body and swaddled in your blankets, staring up at the ceiling with the crickets chirping sweetly past your cracked window.

Copia wants you to do his tattoo. Copia asked you to call him by his first name. Copia, Our Papa with the buck-toothed grin, stared intently at your reaction as you had flipped through his personal sketchbook.

You squeal to yourself, loudly, squirming giddily within your bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy to you tonight.

Thankfully your chores for the next day are nonexistent, and it gives you better time to ground yourself over this fantastic impossibility, gossip and idle fancies with your friends in the gardens, in the library, shadowed in nooks for prayer and delicate candles with golden, sacred light.

And everything is ready, the fridge is full with treats and drinks, the juice stirred with plenty of sugar to chill.

Your dishes are clean and put away, all your laundry is folded; you even vacuumed. Your shoebox of assortments are spread out along your coffee table, the pharmaceutical bottle of alcohol and a fresh bolt of paper towels are set meticulously beside the notebook of your tracing paper.

You're still skittish, still trembling with excitement and nerves, so you decide to put on a record. Joni Mitchel's Blue album croons harmoniously in your living room when your door playfully knocks, five times, in a rhythm with which you're vaguely familiar. Shave and a haircut?

You guffaw despite yourself, and jog gently to meet him at the door.

"Two bits? Oh!" A clean-faced Copia greets you at the door, borne in his red, soft-looking tracksuit and his brown leather wingtips. His hair is shiny and smelling like his heady aftershave, that faintest scent of fresh roses, and he holds a small bouquet of delicate, pink roses, his leather folder held primly under his arm. He beams as he sees you. "Hello!" he greets, and offers the flowers cheerfully to you.

"Hi!" you greet, and feel dizzy, soft and adoring as you take the bouquet gently from his gloved hand. "These– are these for me?"

"Eh, yes," he admits bashfully, and leans his weight from foot to foot. You stand aside and open your door wider for him to come inside. "Do you like them?"

"I love them," you say softly, and he beams wider, clean-shaven and meticulous in his fresh eye paints. He is careful as he steps inside your room, making soft noises of concern and thought before he bends down near your kitchy welcome mat; shifting his folder better under his arm to untie his shoes. You bring the flowers under your nose, smothering them to you to hide your blushing face.

"Here: make yourself comfortable," you gesture finally, to the soft comforter of your couch and your living space, Joni singing sweetly to give the aura of a swoony romance plot. You break into nervous titters, and Copia feeds on your anxiety; laughing with you, standing straight; shoes removed. "Ah, thank you. I … I am not sure what you would like to do?" he states, inflection making his voice high.

You flap your free hand to your couch, encouraging him. "Please, this is your time, your moment." And Copia's breast inflates minutely. "Make yourself at home, and maybe even find a movie? Or some music you'd like." You point to your record player, your stack of records beneath it, and your beloved stash of movies, DVDs, and even some VHS tapes in their campy sleeves beneath your simple television.

Copia makes a precious sound of happy discovery, placing his folder delicately upon your coffee table, next to your tattoo kit splayed out onto its surface, looking curiously at this display; studying your meager room of your posters, your decor, your color choices of furniture and carpets, crouching down finally in front of your stack of movies. You wince when both of his knees audibly pop, but you politely make no mention of it.

You remove yourself into your small kitchenette, making yourself busy with a fresh pot of coffee, and a vase for your new flowers.

You smother a giddy squeal and press your face once more into those perfumed blooms. How sweet, how sweet is your goofy Papa. You hear him deliberate with your stack of movies, those heartsongs for boring evenings or moments where you had needed a thick blanket and a goodly portion of nurturing ice cream, and you try to steady your nervous hands as you find and fill a pretty vase with tap water; taking two random mugs from your cupboard, peeking your head past your kitchenette's frame to discreetly spy on him.

He looks like the statue of "The Thinker", to you: you cannot see his face, only the smooth waves of the back of his head as he crouches on one knee in front of your entertainment stand, his chin at his fist; holding and staring hard at a DVD case, with which you cannot see the title from at this angle. You smile brilliantly when you spy his socks, a repeating print of red-eyed rats and carved jack-o'-lanterns across a deep blue background, twinkling with flying bats shining with glitter glue.

Adorable man, by Baphomet's Love.

"Copia?" you try, and it makes him start, spinning on his knee to find you; grasping tightly at the DVD. "How would you like your coffee?"

"Oh!" he starts, standing up, placing his palm on his knee for balance. "Three sugars, please. Do you have milk?" he asks politely.

"I do. I also have creamer." You obnoxiously eye the DVD in his hand, and he looks at it as if surprised, then holds it up in both hands to better show you the cover.

You melt when you see the familiar poster of Almost Famous. "That is the perfect choice, I love this movie."

"Really?" he chirps, looking at it curiously; following behind you as you divvy back to your sink and dual coffee mugs. "I've never seen it before. I-I haven't had the time," he stutters, and laughs breathlessly when you beam at him, blushing up to the tips of his pointed ears.

"Then this is a gorgeous moment for new things! I'm excited for you!" you cheer, and he beams with you, all flushed face and riddled in freckles and goofy front teeth. You titter gleefully at each other. "Is this your first tattoo?" you ask. You dally with the coffee, precious mugs of steaming gold; adding the appropriate amounts of sugar and a bit of creamer from your fridge.

"Nope!" he answers brightly, watching you, fidgeting with the dvd case. "This is, eh, only my second tattoo." And without preamble, he pulls down the neck of his shirt, using the heft of his breast to expose that patch of ink to you.

You’re momentarily blinded by the beauty of his frantic bush of brown-and-salt hair, thrown in your eyes like fresh glitter, before your sight sharpens to sight that curling, looping bit of ink atop his left breast. “Oh, shit!” you call, leaning to squint at that perfunctory sign of the Mark of the Beast, that spiraling 666 that wraps around itself like a warming snake, three sets of three sixes. You bark bright, enchanted laughter; Copia’s cheeks apple in his pleased grin. “That is gorgeous work! That is the coolest thing,” you geek, awefully.

“Thank you!” Copia beams, and there’s no trembling hand nor nervous twitch in that proud flash of his naked breast, the barest glimmer of his pale areola peeking out over the stretched neck of his shirt. “It’s from my favorite movie. The Omen?” he offers, and you bob your head in an uproarious nod. “Yes! I know that movie! That is so cool,” you breathe, and you try to be professional; hiding your salivating– which, you would argue, is perfectly natural, in front of the bare titty of Papa Emeritus the Fourth– and study the simplistic artistry of the tattoo itself.

“The linework is sleek and even, and it doesn’t even seem scarred,” you mention amiably, and bob your head in an excited nod. A blush has spread across Copia’s paint-naked face, and the youth upon his expression from his proud, eye-crinkling beam is more vibrant than the glittering sun.

He giggles sweetly and covers up his breast, patting his little personal beauty over the shirt. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and the string connecting you both feels like the possibility of flirting, pure and twinkling sweet.

Coffee is made and the DVD is deliberated to your entertainment stand, to your television; the record player switched off midway through Joni’s perfected croon. You forget the importance and the impossibility of this night as Copia nestles into your multi-colored couch, hugging one of your throw pillows in his arms as you sit next to him; feeling his curious eyes watch you and your hands as you go through the practiced motions of getting your gun and your paints and pieces together for this new ink.

“I need to shave your forearm,” you mention suddenly: grateful that the kit has a disposable razor, with a smallish bottle of lotion to ease the slide. He perks up. “I already have!” he says, pulling up his sleeve to expose clean skin, riddled with delicate freckles. “I remember from my first time that it helps with the ink, so that the hair does not get in the way,” he says sheepishly, and you prevent the urge to clap giddily.

“You are quickly becoming one of my favorite clients,” you say happily, which makes him bark bright laughter and to cuddle tighter into your throw pillow. You’re too focused on your work to give him a better conversation, hoping that he finds comfort in your couch and aura and sweet-smelling incense you’ve decided to burn to give a better ambiance, and you see that he does.

In the corner of your eye, as you click the remote to start the movie, you see him shift and unclothe from the top half of his sweatwear, broad shoulders and pectorals moving smoothly as he undresses from his velvet jacket; rumpling it beside him and baring that delicious strength of his biceps and naked forearms beneath his tight shirt, bursts of aging hair married to his skin like rosebushes within Papa Primo’s sacred gardens.

You’re going to die here: you confer with his leather folder, tapping your finger to it and looking at him for confirmation. He nods warmly at you, nestling again into your couch.

"So when did you get your first tattoo?" you ask, as you trace that copied sketch of the memento mori onto transfer paper; as Alvin and the Chipmunks sing about Christmas amidst scenes of palm trees on your television screen. Copia snorts, crossing his legs beneath him in that dual attention of both the movie and you.

“Secondo,” he says, and you stop and look at him, your shocked eyebrows raised high. “It was my thirtieth birthday, and he wanted me to, eh, ‘break out of my shell’.” He fingerquotes, and it makes you snicker in twin empathy. “-- which meant I had a choice between a tattoo, a piercing, or puking into a public toilet from alcohol poisoning.”

“A good time!” you snort amiably, and finish the drawing. You slip on a pair of medical gloves, non-latex and hypoallergenic, and douse a hefty wad of paper towel with that helpful bottle of alcohol. “Why didn’t you get the piercing?” you ask curiously.

He hums in thought. “I wanted the tattoo at the time. I don’t know why I haven’t pierced anything yet.”

“I could probably help with that, too,” you offer amiably, not thinking. He chortles playfully and bounces his eyebrows at you, his face puckering in suppressed laughter. “I may take you up on that, artista carina.”

You shift closer to him, blushing and flustered, sitting sideways on the couch to face him, but before you reach for his arm in that remembered phrase and movement, you look up to him sharply. “I’m going to be pulling on you and moving you around,” you explain sheepishly. Copia’s eyebrows rise in interest. “Not really … man-handling, but something in relation to get angles and corners drawn on properly for you.”

“I understand,” he says kindly, and pats the exposed skin of your forearm; letting his hand linger, his gloved thumb rubbing along your skin as he stares at you deeply. You feel half-stunned as his white eye, glowing, amorous Orb, makes your internal spirit quiver. “I trust you. I lay myself within your capable hands, nostro straordinario artista.”

Your breath comes out in a wheeze; grinning, bewildered and mystified through the phrase, and you clean his forearm. Brusque, diligent, practiced movements. You can do this.

You place the second layer of the tracing paper delicately over Copia’s cleaned forearm, mindful of the tacky ink and spreading it over his skin with the tips of your fingers until the entirety of the drawing is pressed down, then, you remove slowly, carefully, the thin sheet of paper. The glaring holes of the rat’s skull stare up at the beholder, that transparent ribbon woven through its maw and teeth and framing that skull perfectly, asymmetrical, and you beam in a pleased victory. “Looks good?” you ask.

Copia looms over it curiously, and his grin is great, flattered and pleased. “It’s perfect,” he breathes, and wiggles a little on your couch. “I am so excited for this. Grazie mille.”

“You’re welcome,” you mention warmly, and finally combat your gun into your gloved hands. The movie plays on, Simon and Garfunkel framing this miraculous moment in its precious palms, and you dip the needle into the black ink to begin. You start the first line to test boundaries, the willingness of his skin and his pain threshold, and Copia gives a happy thumbs-up when you glance over to sight his reaction.

You borne yourself fully into the tattoo, drawing the lines and spreading certain parts of his skin taut with your free hand where it grows soft and bouncy, from age and a life of comfort and physical pleasure, food, luminous Sloth.

“This is a good movie,” he comments, as you fret the lines and almost frown in this study of your work. You smile without looking at him; thoughtful in those studious curves and workmanship to make his lines dark and even. “I grew up on this movie,” you murmur thoughtlessly, and feel the animal burn again when his eyes direct onto your stern face. You bounce your eyebrows playfully. “It adds a warm romanticism to the rock-and-roll era, when my parents played records and cassette tapes in my childhood. It’s my comfort flick,” you say happily, and you glance up at him shyly.

He watches you warmly, the Papa hearing his pilgrims. “It feels like history is repeating itself,” you continue, close to babbling before that searing gaze. “I grew up with acoustic guitars and harmonized singing, The Rolling Stones and Janis Joplin, and now I’m here,” you say. You twitch your wrist to get the corners of the artwork just right, slanting jerks and hilts to really get the rodent’s teeth to sit still and symmetrical. “Religious music and crowds singing to the gods. Folks throwing horns amidst sweat and lit lighters.” And you cackle, and lean over to your table to dip the needle again into the ink, refreshing it. “It … this place, it feels like home, to me.”

And Copia makes a sigh, a fond, precious sound, like a butterfly’s wing flapping along a Spring breeze. “I am so very happy to hear that,” he says softly, warmth within his eyes. “But, cara mia, I must confess: I’m surprised you did not speak more to me, beyond Our Communion.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit bashfully, using your thumb to make his skin tight, tatting the acorn-shaped nose hole. “You are so very important, and so busy, I’d assume, and I’ve never … been very good at talking to people. Of making friends.” And like a raindrop married back into the pond, the reason for your tattooing. A cyclical answer.

“Would you call me your friend?” he asks eagerly, and you’re so startled you stop tatting, staring up at him.

“Would you like to be my friend?” you rebute slowly, bewildered, flattered. He grins wide and nods, boisterously, the movement moving slightly his slicked hair. His eyes are eager and earnest, terribly so, and you had laid his arm into your lap to better bring him to your eyes; his hand grasps you on your thigh, the latex of his glove shifting the hair there. “I would,” he murmurs profusely, and you’re stranded on the island of your own disbelief.

“Then, you are my friend,” you simply, dumb in heart-warmth, and his beam widens up into the corners of his eyes, crinkling beneath his paint. You can see the slight sliver of his pink gums in his grin. He nods once, firmly, playfully.

You ink the rest of the rodent’s skull without immeasurable surprises, easy with that practiced slide and the rhythmic chant of “patience, patience” within your head, and half-way in the movie Copia’s skin begins to swell, delicate red, puffy skin preventing you from continuing. You pause, stopping the gun’s motor. “Break time,” you breathe, and Copia mues his mouth and flexes his hand, lifting his forearm to better see the art. His face breaks out into a stunning grin.

“Looks good!” he chirps, and it makes you smile, beamed and bashfully, flattered; stretching out your limbs and popping joints from that tight position on your couch. “I need to give you an ice pack,” you say, slinking off from the couch; cracking your back as you move back into your kitchenette.

“We can keep going after your skin cools down!” you call.

“Good for me!” he calls back. “This is fun! You really are a lovely host.”

“Oh, flatterer,” you snort, sorting in your freezer.

“Truther! This is all so comfortable.” Ice pack in hand, wrapped in a rag, it’s an animal flex of contentedness to find your Papa moaning softly as he stretches, stretching his long legs beneath your coffee table, his socked toes wiggling in an animal ease. A domestic sort of happiness blooms in your chest to see him snuggle deeper into your couch, eyeing your inked work with a growing expression of private satisfaction. He nods in a thank you as he takes your offered ice pack, pressing it gingerly onto that tender skin.

“I never asked,” you start, bouncing down into your couch, grabbing a bag of pretzels from your table. “What’s the symbolism behind this tattoo? Is it just because it’s pretty, or …?” you wave your hand, resting your check against the back cushion to watch him. You bounce your eyebrows meaningfully. “Is there something tied to it?”

“There is something tied to it,” Copia alludes, sipping at his lukewarm coffee. He makes a pleasurable hum. “It is the skull of my first rat, my little baby, the first one I ever had. Ophelia,” he murmurs, and pain and love radiates within his duochrome eyes. Your heart melts, and a little “aw” slips out from your mouth. He ducks his chin to his chest. “So named because everytime I looked at my shoulder, there she was. She was very sociable, and very affectionate. Mia dolce piccola bambina,” he murmurs, and lifts the ice pack to sight again that ink. He smiles at it lovingly.

You press your palm to that space above your own heart. “I am honored to ink this gorgeous work for you, Copia. That is precious to hear; I hope I’m doing her proper justice,” you murmur.

“You are,” he assures eagerly, and it makes you wiggle with flattery, biting your lip in this stunning grin.

He’s flattering you, he brings you flowers, he makes you laugh! He watches you as if you’re a painting, a gorgeous piece of a new puzzle, and you make him laugh whilst you recite your favorite quotes of the movie; jamming out to the songs and the beauteous scenes of clothes and artwork, and he points out and makes mention of wardrobe inspiration: things from the seventies, bell-bottom pants, snarking about his Old Man and how he could never wear anything this well, not like him.

His skin dims down from its inflammation and you continue onto the artwork, and Copia even helps with the color of the ribbon: bringing out that same, brilliant cravat from the pocket of his sweatpants! You treat it like a fragile teacup, infinitely mindful to keep that spreading ink away from the thin fabric as you mix colors for the correct hue.

“Have you ever seen Star Wars?” he asks obviously, as you dally with the finality of the ribbon and her colors. You snort brusquely. “I have not,” you answer shamefully, and it deepens when Copia gives you a truly baffled look. “I know, I never had the time. That seems like a common excuse,” you mention suddenly.

“We need to fix that. Immediately,” he says, final in acquisition.

“We do?”

“Yes, that is an important moment in media history. Those movies are a relic of human history, how have you not seen them?” he inquires bewildered, unbelieving. You guffaw at his fixation, and the ribbon is nearly done.

“I know of them!” you refute, laughing, and the ribbon is frayed at the end; you gently stray off the lines, blue and black and sweet white to interweave like real threads upon his freckled skin.

"I think this is done," you mention happily, and Copia perks up, looking at his arm as you put down the gun; conferring now with the paper towels, dabbling the alcohol to carefully wipe it down.

He winces from the burn of the alcohol, but nothing can diminish the sunshine beam across his naked face. He’s so giddy with this perfected artwork that he cannot suppress the wiggle, moving his hips like an excited pup even as you spin open a homemade bottle of healing salve to carefully massage into that newly-wounded skin. “This is beautiful,” he breathes, patting your kneecap, infectious in his glee. Your laugh bubbles out from you, twining with his joy. You release his arm finally, and he turns and twists it in front of his eyes to better admire the new, shining artwork. “Oh, Ophelia would love this, this is stark and so beautiful, nostra bella artista. Grazie,” he chokes, and his glee manifests in gleaming jewels, precious tears, at the corners of Copia’s painted eyes.

You breathe out a coo and hold your fists to your breasts, caught in his tender emotions. “I’m so glad, Copia, I’m so glad I could make this a reality for you.” You both laugh in wet sounds, threading together like red rope, and the forgotten movie sings of Tangerines and Dreams, shadowy flows and black glows, the credits rolling through snapshots of that great, rock-and-roll adventure.

Next comes the awkwardness of finality: rising to meet each other in frenetic energy, eager glances, mismatchings of future plans. You leave your pieces on the table, willing to put them away later; you walk Copia to the door, the both of you hesitant to leave this comfortable space.

“I think,” he says, suddenly, tying up his shoes. “-- we should have a movie date.” He looks up at you with raised brows. “I have all the Star Wars?”

Your heart speeds up; standing with him to escort him politely, fiddling with your hands. Your soul lifts with that need to spend more time with him. “Yeah!” you confirm exuberantly. Copia grins, relieved and excited, and your expressions are mirrored in this sweet glee. “I’d love that! You could finally educate me on movie history.”

“Yes!” he agrees, and stands, shoes tied. He hesitates for a moment, his arms shifting as if … and they raise slightly, and give the universal body language of asking for a hug, Copia’s expression drawn curious and delicately vulnerable. You bounce on the balls of your feet, and accept his hug without question, enfolding him in warmth as you are wonderfully enfolded.

He smells like spice and incense, coffee and roses; you sink into his embrace and the soft velvet of his sweater, holding your palms to his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath your palms. He hugs you tightly, breast to breast, enclasping you with a soft sound of pleased surprise. You rock together gently, feeling his contented smile pressing onto your temple.

“Thank you for today,” he murmurs, and it makes you smile wider, purring, resting your chin to his shoulder. “You’re welcome,” you say softly, and feel your heart pound, growing three more sizes in red, romantic ribbons.

Unveiled

Continuation of The Stranger

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader

Summary: Dave confronts you in the office and things quickly turn heated.

Warnings: language, threats of violence, sexual tension, smut (18+) MDNI, protected piv sex, edging, fingering

WC: 4.7K

dividers by the one and only @saradika-graphics

How was he so calm?

How was he just standing there chatting in the breakroom with some guy, one hand holding a coffee, the other shoved into his pocket with an easy smile on his face while your heart was racing so fast you felt faint?

When he had first stood up from his desk, he pinned you with a dark stare and you were absolutely sure he was going to say something to you. You braced yourself for it, your trembling fingers hovering over your keyboard, but he just breezed right past without a second look. And now he stood in the breakroom talking about football or cars or the goddamn weather, you had no idea, but from where you were sitting he appeared completely at ease.

You heard your name and you blinked, forcing your eyes from Dave and onto the man standing behind you.

"Yes, hi," you said, trying to collect yourself. You stood to shake his hand and he introduced himself as Michael, your trainer for the week. Just to get you familiar with the software and stuff like that, he had said. He pulled up a chair and began instructing you to click on certain things on your screen, explaining what each tab's purpose was, where you could find important information on clients, reports and data, so you quickly began jotting down notes, forcing yourself to focus. You needed this job now that you were on your own, you couldn't let Dave distract you.

You were successful, for the most part. You had been listening intently to Michael explain how to run statements and alter them if need be that you didn't even notice Dave walk past your cube, his step faltering ever so slightly when he saw Michael leaning over your shoulder, then enter his office and shut the door.

It wasn't until lunchtime, after Michael left with the promise to return in an hour, did you notice the closed door across from you. There was no window. Dave was completely hidden from view. For all you knew, he had a client lunch and had left.

The office was quiet as you made your way to the breakroom to get some water. It was a nice day now that the rain had stopped and it seemed like most people wanted to go outside for lunch. The area was still relatively new to you so you had planned on just staying at your desk. That is, until you felt a strong hand grip your elbow, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

"Come with me."

His voice sent a shiver down your spine. Deep and commanding, firm yet smooth.

With a shaky hand, you put your cup on top of the water cooler and turned around only to find him halfway across the office already, heading for the stairwell. You smoothed down your dress and forced your legs to move, but it felt like you were walking through quicksand. When you saw him slip through the door, you moved faster while still trying to look casual to the few remaining people at their desks.

You pushed open the door, eyes flickering around, wondering if he went up or down when his arm shot out and yanked you to the side, pushing your back up against the concrete wall. You gasped and winced at the grip he had on your arm. It was not like his touch from last night. This time, he was angry.

"Who the fuck are you?" he seethed, towering over you with eyes so dark they almost looked black.

"What?" you squeaked, then he tightened his grip. You were about to cry out when he covered your mouth with his other hand.

"Who do you work for?" he tried again. Tears began to well up in your eyes. You had no idea what he was talking about.

Slowly, he lifted his hand from your mouth so you could answer, but his grip on your arm remained.

"I-I work here, I just started-"

He wrapped his hand around your throat, not enough to choke you but just enough to scare you.

"You think you're funny?"

"No," you gasped, fingers clawing at the back of his hand, "I swear, I don't - it's a coincidence, I-I don't know who you are!"

"Pretty strange coincidence, if you ask me," he replied, still holding onto your throat, his jaw tense. "You move into Alvarez's apartment and you got a job here? Who sent you?"

"W-what?" you sputtered, tears streaming down your face now. "Let me go!" You tried to kick him but it was no use. His hips pressed against your body, pinning you into the wall, effectively immobilizing you. "P-please," you begged, squeezing your eyes shut, "I don't know you! You're hurting me! Let me-"

His hand immediately dropped from your throat and you doubled over coughing.

He watched you for a moment as you tried to gather yourself, wiping furiously at your cheeks, then rubbing your throat. He could have killed you in an instant. If you were an agent, you were a really bad one.

"Alright, get up," he said, his tone flat. When you shifted, the shoulder of your dress slipped down and revealed the strap of your lingerie underneath. His breath caught in his throat as he stared, immediately recognizing it as the piece he found hidden in the back of your closet the night before.

You stood up and fixed your dress, eying him warily as he stared at your now covered shoulder.

"Are we gonna have a problem here?" he asked, dragging his gaze up to your face. "You gonna tell anyone what you know?" You shook your head.

"N-no. No problem. Please, Dave. I need this job. My whole life just got turned upside down. All I have is my shitty little apartment and this place," you could feel the tears building up again but you blinked them away, his stare cutting right through you. "I just need to get back on my feet. That's all I care about. I don't care about you or... whatever it is that you do."

His expression shifted and the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You don't care about me?" he repeated lowly. You gazed at him for a moment, your back still pressed up against the wall, panting slightly as your adrenaline wore off.

"No," you said quietly. He took a step forward and you stiffened.

"No?" he asked, voice softening as his fingers traced your shoulder. You swallowed and shook your head. He pinched the fabric of your dress between his thumb and pointer finger and gave it a little tug, revealing the lingerie strap again. "Then what's this?"

You bit back a gasp and instead tilted your chin up bravely. "It's nothing."

"Hm," he said, his eyebrow twitching playfully. "Because to me that looks awfully familiar. Tell me," he stepped forward again, eliminating any space between you to the point where you could feel the heat rolling off his body. "When you put this on, did you think about me?"

"Dave-" you began to protest, but he shushed you.

"Did it turn you on? Wearing this all day?" he whispered, lightly brushing your hair off your shoulder, making you shudder. He hooked his finger underneath your chin and leaned down, his lips dangerously close to yours. "Did I leave you wanting more, baby?"

Your knees weakened at the way he managed to tear you apart so quickly.

"Yes," you whined softly, brows furrowing as the blooming heat between your legs became unbearable.

"Yes to what?"

"All of it."

"Fuck," he mumbled, dragging in a ragged breath through his nose. You needed to touch him. You needed to feel the heat of his skin under your fingertips but all that was exposed was his neck. You cupped his face then gently fanned your fingers downwards, caressing his tanned skin underneath the collar of his dress shirt, thumbs grazing his chiseled jaw as your fingers danced around, trying to memorize every freckle. But when you sought out his lips, desperate to feel them pressed up against yours again, he stepped back.

"Not here," he said, holding your wrists in his hands.

"Then where?"

You were fully aware how pathetic you sounded, but you didn't care. Something about him was so magnetic, you couldn't help it.

He opened his mouth to respond when the door opened on the floor below you. He dropped your wrists as a group of people's laughter echoed up the concrete stairwell, pulling your attention towards the noise.

When you turned your head back in his direction, he was slipping silently through the door, back to his office.

Grease seeped through the paper bag you clutched in your fist as you trudged home from work. Your feet ached and your head throbbed and all you wanted to do was put on some sweatpants, eat junk food and watch TV the whole the night.

Dave avoided you the rest of the day. He kept his office door shut the entire afternoon and when you got up to use the restroom, he must have snuck out to go home because his office was dark and empty when you got back to your cube.

After the emotional rollercoaster he put you through, you were throughly exhausted and feeling pretty shitty, so you stopped at a liquor store and picked up a bottle of red wine on a whim.

And although the lingerie was a bit uncomfortable, you kept it on, sliding your sweatpants and an oversized shirt over the red lace. Because even though you were confused and a little hurt, you still wanted something that reminded you of him.

You tried not to read too much into it.

Instead, you devoured your burger as you watched some crappy reality television show, something to turn your brain off for a while as the red wine coursed through your veins.

By the time you were ready for bed, you cleaned up and checked the lock on your door. The flimsy chain was pinched between your fingers as you hovered over the lock, considering for a moment whether or not to use it.

You ultimately let it drop, the metal grazing against the wood, swinging back and forth as you turned on your heel and headed down the short hallway.

Something pulled you out of a deep sleep at 1:56am. You noted the time because your eyes immediately locked onto the clock next to your bed, bright red numbers glaring at you from two feet away. You strained your ears, trying to figure out what caused you to wake, but you didn't hear a thing. Rolling over onto your back, you slid your bare legs out from under your comforter, your feet about to touch the floor when you saw him.

Your heart jumped into your throat and you forgot how to breathe as you stared at the shadowy figure silently sitting at the end of your bed, and if it weren't for Dave's distinctive side profile, you wouldn't have recognized him as quickly as you did.

"What are you doing here?" you whispered, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. He tipped his head back and sighed.

"I don't know."

He was wearing a similar outfit as before: dark, long-sleeved shirt and pants, but no gloves and no hat this time.

You waited a minute, your breath quickening as a familiar warmth settled low in your belly. You knew why he was there.

"You should use the chain," he said, still not looking at you. He stared at your closet from across the room, instead. "It's not safe."

"Do you mean you're not safe?" you asked, and you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

"No, I'm not," he said lowly, finally turning his head. His eyes raked up and down your body, noting appreciatively that your sleepwear was rather sparse. Then his eyes met yours. "Does that frighten you?"

You didn't trust yourself to speak. Instead, you just shook your head, lips parted, heart racing in your chest as you waited.

"I can't-" he cut himself off and dropped his gaze to your bed. "I can't offer you anything good. Like you deserve."

You would come to realize later he was negotiating terms of the relationship he was willing to have with you. But in that moment, you only wanted one thing.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

And when his eyes met yours once again, you saw an undeniable heat behind them. He hesitated for a moment, wishing the small part of him that had some morality left would come forward and stop him, but maybe that part died long ago and he was too busy to notice.

He didn't even remember doing it, it was so fast. He was on top of you, pinning you into the mattress while his tongue licked feverishly inside your mouth. You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, your greedy fingers seeking out his skin. And just like before in the stairwell, you found it difficult with the clothes he was wearing. But he didn't have that problem because all you were wearing was an oversized shirt, your sweatpants abandoned earlier next to your bed. His hand slid up your smooth leg and stopped at your hips, just underneath the hem of your shirt, plucking at your lacy underwear.

And then it hit him.

You didn't change your clothes.

He pulled away from your mouth, causing you to groan irritably.

"Off," he demanded, urgently tugging at your shirt. You frowned until you realized what had gotten him all worked up, then you grinned.

Sitting up, you chose to make a little show of it. You gripped the hem of your shirt with both hands, and maintaining eye contact, you slowly lifted it over your head and tossed it to the side, shaking out your hair when you were finished. His gaze darkened and he adjusted himself through his pants as he leisurely committed every single detail of your body in that lingerie to memory.

"Did you wear this hoping I would come here tonight?" he rasped, eyes still glued to your body.

"Yes."

That was when you saw the first crack in his mask. His eyes softened and his lip quivered before he was on you once again, his mouth moving hungrily against yours, his hands gripping and squeezing every soft piece of you he could find.

He knew it was wrong. He knew he was possibly putting you in danger simply by being there. Anybody could be tailing him. Anybody could be waiting for their chance to take him out. It's why he never tried to be close with anybody before. He couldn't take the risk of putting someone innocent in harm's way, to be used as collateral in a world they knew nothing about. But something about you made him forget all his rules. He couldn't stop himself from seeing you that night. And had he stayed another minute, he would have taken you right in the middle of the stairwell at the office.

He needed to hear you say it. He needed to hear you say you wanted this. But before he could ask, you spoke.

"Take your pants off," you said, your hands tugging feebly at his waistband. "I need you, Dave, please."

Working his zipper down with one hand, he kept his mouth pressed against yours while your fingers raked through his hair, pulling and tugging impatiently. Leaving his pants partially undone, he groaned and pulled away so he could drag his mouth down your neck, in between the valley of your breasts and then down your soft stomach.

The sharp stubble from his chin against your sensitive skin made you jump underneath him and he chuckled darkly, throughly enjoying how responsive you were. He hooked his fingers underneath the band of your panties and pulled. You lifted your hips in earnest and he had to hide his smile against your skin.

He dropped your panties to the ground and sat up, pressing your knees into the mattress and spreading your legs wide so he could see every inch of you. You squirmed under his gaze, trying to ignore the embarrassment creeping up your neck but he didn't notice. His eyes were pinned directly between your legs, unable to look away.

"Can I touch you?" he asked quietly, and something about the way his tone softened when he asked for permission, two things you didn't expect from him, made your heart flutter.

"Yes," you whispered, then your back arched off the bed when his middle finger dragged slowly through your folds. His thumb pressed down on your clit, rubbing a few circles until his middle finger slid all the way up once again, pinching your bundle of nerves before pulling his hand away entirely. You gasped and writhed around before him, your hips canting upwards, searching for his touch. He smirked and fell forward, his left arm holding himself above you while his right hand cupped your mound, his middle finger finding your clit as he pet back and forth at an agonizingly slow pace so he could watch your face twist with frustration underneath him.

"Shh, relax," he murmured when you began to whine and pull at his shirt. You wanted him to go faster, he knew that, but he was going to build you up slowly and watch you fall apart.

"Dave," you whimpered, then tried gazing up at him imploringly, begging him with those big beautiful eyes. "I need more, I need-"

"Let me worry about what you need," he said, his finger still maintaining the same slow pace, tracing up and down your seam. Every time his fingertip flicked against your clit he felt a new wave of arousal coat his fingers. By now, his cock was throbbing painfully in his jeans, but he put it out of his mind. He waited all day for this and he wasn't going to rush.

You panted heavily, head rolling from side to side, your entire body ready to snap if only he would just go a tiny bit faster or apply just a little more pressure. It felt like you were right there but he kept holding you back. You bucked your hips up, trying to seek out what you needed on your own, but he just watched you and grinned. That was when it occurred to you he was enjoying watching you dissolve into a desperate, moaning mess. He knew what you wanted, knew what you needed, but he was purposely denying you.

"Dave, I can't," you whimpered, his finger scooping up another gush of arousal but still not entering you.

"Can't what?" he goaded, watching as two tears slid from the corners of your eyes.

"It hurts," you moaned, and his grin was replaced with a fake, sympathetic frown.

"What hurts, baby?"

"My pussy," you gasped, a few more tears rolling down your cheeks. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, the ache between your legs unbearable as you kept clenching around nothing. "Pleasepleaseplease," you chanted, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Alright, tell me what you need and I'll give it to you," he relented, touch still feather light over your clit.

"Your fingers," you mumbled, blinking away the tears, "inside. Please, Dave, please - oh god!"

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when he slid two fingers inside you with ease and finally that devastating pinch between your hips was quelled. He didn't hold back now. He pumped his fingers in and out, curling them each time he reentered you, quickly drawing your orgasm to the surface while the heel of his hand slapped harshly against your clit.

"Oh fuck, yes!" you cried, back arching off the mattress, head tilting back and your eyes sliding shut but he tsked and nipped at your jaw, bringing your attention back to him.

"Eyes on me," he demanded, and you nodded, your mouth hanging open, holding his dark gaze until the coil snapped and you moaned his name. Your body immediately flooded with relief and your muscles went lax but you kept your eyes trained on him, just like he said.

"Fuck," he groaned, admiring the sticky mess between your legs when he removed his fingers. He pulled out a condom from his back pocket and quickly rolled it on while you laid there, all pliant and soft and submissive, desperately trying to catch your breath.

He didn't give you much time to recover. With your chest still heaving, he grabbed your hips and pulled you towards him. Your heavy lidded eyes watched as he knelt between your legs, but before going any further he reached one hand underneath and unclasped your bra. Flinging it towards the end of the bed, his mouth latched onto your nipple right as he began to feed you his cock with a deep groan.

You gasped at the stretch and allowed your fingers to get tangled in his hair, vaguely noting he still hadn't taken off any clothes. His pants were shoved down slightly, just enough to free his cock, but that was it, and you would have protested if he didn't already feel so fucking good.

"Dave," you whispered, his focus still on your chest, teeth grazing over the soft swell of your breasts as he eased himself inside you. He didn't respond when you said his name again so you tugged on his hair, forcing him to pin you with his heated gaze. "Eyes on me," you murmured, and you swore the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a smile.

With one snap of his hips he bottomed out, slanting his mouth over yours to muffle your cries.

"Is this what you wanted?" he breathed, both your jaws hung open, mouths hovering over the other as he began to steadily rock his hips.

"Yes," you hissed, far too fixated on how deep he was, how delicious the sting felt as he split you open to offer up much else.

Dave hummed his approval and grabbed your waist, rolling your hips in rhythm with his. "Bet you were just waiting for me, hoping I would come back and fuck you just like this, right?"

Pathetically, you nodded. His coarse hair rubbed against your clit with each thrust, quickly building you back up. Your fingers pulled weakly at his shirt, trying to find a sliver of skin. You dropped your arms, lifting up the hem of his shirt, your palms skirting over his warm, taut stomach.

He shuddered at your touch, so warm and gentle and unlike anything he was used to. You were moaning his name, telling him how good he felt and how badly you wanted him, wanted this, but it was hard for him to focus when you were squeezing him so tightly. You felt too fucking good, too fucking sweet that he couldn't hold himself back much longer. Quickly, he pulled out, causing you to whine in protest but when he hauled you upright to sit on his lap, angling your hips so you had to sit on his cock, you quieted right down. He watched in wonder as your face relaxed more and more the further you took him, and when he was fully seated inside of you once again, you closed your eyes and gave him a lazy smile.

"Good girl," he breathed in your ear as you began to bounce lightly in his lap, his own hips matching your speed. He wrapped his arms around your ribs and held you close, burying his face in your neck. The zipper on his pants rubbed at your overly sensitive skin but you didn't care. You were too far gone, too lost in the moment and what Dave was offering: reaching the furthest depths of you and making you come undone for him once again.

"I'm close," you whimpered as you clawed at his shoulders. "Don't stop. Dave, please, fuck..." you tipped your head back and groaned. It might have been too rough but he couldn't help himself. He slammed his hips into you, each time your skin slapped together he let out a quiet grunt, his eyes fixated on your face the entire time. You were so beautiful like this. Your skin, warm and soft. Your hair, messy and wild. And your lips, fuck, all swollen and wet. He could feel himself nearing his peak and he knew then and there this wouldn't be the last time. It couldn't. It wasn't even over and he was already craving you.

"C'mon, give it to me," he snarled, biting at your neck. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted to walk by your desk the next day and see the evidence of that night. He needed it.

You whined and bounced faster on his lap, your head tossing back and forth before your lips sought out his. He figured out quickly it was to muffle your screams as you came apart, your body stiffening and then relaxing as he swallowed down each and every sweet moan that fell from your perfect mouth.

Eager to join you, his arms squeezed around your ribs, holding you down on his hips so he could fuck up into you recklessly. He groaned loudly into your mouth and he felt your lips twitch into a satisfied smile as he came, his body involuntarily thrusting up into you with each spurt of spend, only finally stopping when he felt a shiver go down his spine.

"Wow," was all you could muster, your eyes sliding shut as you pressed your forehead to his.

He could feel himself beginning to fall. The walls began to shake and crumble when he pressed a gentle kiss against your collarbone. You sighed and raked your fingers through his tousled hair and it suddenly all felt too intimate.

His eyes snapped open. He couldn't do this. This wasn't him. Don't go soft.

He lifted you off him with a grunt and laid you down on the bed. Your eyes were closed and you had a cute little smile etched across your face. He had to fight against every instinct screaming at him as he forced himself to stand up.

You watched as he strolled into your bathroom, then listened to the water from the sink behind the closed door. You couldn't move if you wanted to. Your body was too spent and used and it felt really fucking good.

When he emerged, your eyes locked onto his and you knew immediately he was not planning to stay. He had zipped up his pants and fixed his shirt while he was in the bathroom, looking like he had one foot out the door already. He helped clean you up between your legs, your release coating your thighs and avoiding your eyes the entire time. Then he dropped the washcloth back in your bathroom and turned towards you once more.

"I'm glad you stopped by," you said softly, after it became clear he had no idea what to say. He took a deep breath and looked at the floor.

"Use the chain," he said.

You bit the inside of your cheek. "Why? So it'll keep you from breaking in?"

His eyes snapped up to yours.

"A chain won't stop me," was all he said, and you hummed in response.

You held his stare for a moment, each of you silently regarding the other before you spoke again.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He averted his gaze and moved a few steps closer to the door. He knew this would come. How could it not? So he nodded, but your question surprised him.

"Is Dave your real name?"

He raised his eyebrows and blinked rapidly a few times before answering.

"That's your question?"

You shrugged and gave him a lopsided grin. "Yeah."

He scoffed and shook his head before tearing his eyes away from you. How on earth was that your question? You had no idea who he was, what he did, what he was capable of, and your only question was about his name?

"Yes. It's my real name."

You took a deep breath and pulled the sheets over you.

"See you tomorrow, Dave."

He couldn't stop the smirk from pulling at his lips that time but you didn't see it. Your eyes were closed, face buried underneath your bedding, looking throughly fucked out and satisfied.

Something stirred low in his belly, something primal that told him to go to you and hold you close. He had to force his feet to move towards the door.

There was no doubt now. He would definitely be back.

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