Pleased to report that after a day of this i am not longer craving caper brine and my mouth is not dry as usual. There's some good suggestions in the notes too that I want to try.
-ancient roman posca: water, red or white wine vinegar, honey, salt, herbs (coriander, mint, thyme)
-switchel: water, ginger, vinegar, sweetener, lemon, salt
☝️🤓 it’s because the further you move toward the earth’s poles, the lower the angle of the sun is at the hottest parts of the day, meaning the radiation hits your whole body, causing it to feel 10-20 degrees warmer than the thermometer reading will tell you. People from tropical climes, aka close to the equator, are used to the sun’s radiation hitting a much smaller target- their head and shoulders.
Also the further you move toward the poles the more pronounced the difference between the length of day and night is. Worst part of a far-north (or south) heatwave is it doesn’t get dark long enough for meaningful cooling.
I haven't seen anyone talking about this and just wanted to make a quick post on here.
Akihiro Miwa recently passed away peacefully june 20th, and was not only a drag queen and a queer icon, but also the japanese voice of Arceus in the movie Arceus and the jewel of life, as well as the witch from Howl's moving castle and Moro from Princess Mononoke.
Rest in peace and thank you for the wonderfull impact you made in this world.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
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out loud. for the first time in… enough time that it feels almost foreign to your ears. like an echo of something you might have recognised once upon a time - a memory of a memory.
for a long moment, nothing happens on your end of the sofa. simon stares, unflinching, almost daring you to do something. to appear. to make the lights flicker.
anything.
he begins to think he’s made a mistake. a tactical error. that any moment now the cold patch will disappear entirely and he’ll be left wondering about the… thing haunting his house for the rest of his life.
until you just appear.
one second there’s nothing. the next, the air bends slightly and you’re sitting on the opposite end of his couch.
you look like your photo.
you look... solid.
and a little pissed off.
for a moment you don’t say anything, just glare at the man whose home you’ve been haunting for god-knows-how-long.
“didn’t think of just asking my name? had to go and dig around for it like i’m some secret to uncover? like you've walked into a mystery novel and not my house?”
simon blinks.
that was… not what he expected. not your voice, not the words.
your voice sounds like an echo, layered and distant, like it’s not quite coming from the same plane of existence as he inhabits.
“weren’t exactly like you gave me much choice, love.” he replies, voice even. “you’ve been fuckin’ stubborn. nothing but a cold patch for days. figured if i wanted a name, i’d 'ave to go lookin' myself.”
you falter, the sharp edge of your annoyance softening.
“i… wasn’t ready to be seen. not like this." you admit quietly. “didn’t know if you’d call an exorcist the moment i appeared properly.”
“right. an exorcist. chantin' and swingin' herbs and shite?” simon’s mouth twitches into that almost-smirk you’re starting to recognise. “didn’t even know if you could appear whenever you wanted. thought that little flicker the other night might’ve just been a one-off from… y’know. the wankin' in my bed.”
you’re suddenly glad you’re dead - no blood to rush to your cheeks at your housemates blunt assessment of your endeavors a few nights ago. “it wasn’t… a one-off.” you reply, awkwardly. "been able to um, appear. for a while. didn't know that the uh, bed thing would trigger it." you sound so embarrassed he can't help but find it endearing. like a kid that's been caught doing something they absolutely shouldn't have been.
silence settles between you.
then simon breaks it.
“'ow long 'ave you been dead?”
you arch a brow. “it’s rude to ask a ghost their age. or whatever the saying is. or are manners in this decade as dead as i am?”
simon freezes. blinks. then lets out a short huff of air - almost a laugh - surprised that a ghost can joke at their own expense.
“right." he says evenly.
another pause stretches, heavier this time.
“you been alone long?” he asks. it's the same question, really. but he's unwilling to drop it yet.
you shrug, almost casual. “a while. don’t exactly keep track of time anymore.” your eyes flick away, then return to his. “it’s fine. i've got used to it.”
there’s another moment of heavy silence as you look away again. “it’s better now, though.” a quiet admittance.
simon reads between the lines. it’s better because he’s here. something tight in his chest loosens.
“alrigh'” he says after a long pause. “house rules. this place is yours as much as it is mine - more yours, maybe. keep brewin; the coffee if you want. keep doin' whatever the fuck you’ve been doin' to the garden to stop it turning into a shitshow. keep visitin' me at night… if you want to.”
your eyes widen slightly in quiet delight.
“in return,” he continues, “no more hiding as a cold patch when i say the wrong thing, or when you’re embarrassed. and if you want me to stop digging? i’ll stop. but i don't like not knowin' things. so… talk to me when you’re ready. or don’t, an' i'll go back to the library." a compromise for intel in the only way he knows how to make one.
you nod slowly.
“deal." you whisper. then, softer, “but… don’t call me that. my name. it doesn’t even feel like mine anymore.”
for the first time in the conversation, you look genuinely sad, lips downturned.
simon knows what it’s like when people stop saying your name - when it stops feeling like yours, when it starts feeling more like a cage than a label. he nods and reaches out, tentatively covering your hand with his. the contrast between his warm, rough skin and your chill makes him shiver, but he doesn’t pull away.
and for the first time in decades? the house feels less like a prison and more like a home to you.
the question comes out of the blue one evening whilst you're curled on your end of the sofa, present in a way that simon is still getting used to.
your eyes flick away from the book you're reading - something you've pulled off of simon's shelf, some kind of motorbike manual that you have precisely no interest in, but gives you things to talk to him about. helps you avoid some of the more personal topics like your undead status, or why you're leashed to his property like a dog; avoid the questions that he won't ask but live behind his every time he looks at you.
but now… there's nothing in those brown irises other than the need to know if there's something that you miss from being alive.
"bubble baths." you reply simply.
no pause.
no hesitation.
nothing fancy, or dramatic - just the simple luxury of a warm tub filled with bubbles.
simon's lips quirk. not quite a smile but that thing you've noticed he does when you've vaguely amused him.
"bubble baths?" he repeats, an edge of surprise in his voice. there's a pause as he frowns, tilts his head to the side. "that all? been dead 'owever the fuck long an' you miss bubble baths." he exhales through his nose, shakes his head. "yeah. that's easy enough to make 'appen for you, dove."
he shakes his head and retreats upstairs, footsteps almost silent on the old stairs in a way that's unnerving even to you.
then, the sound of the tub filling.
fifteen minutes later you're stood in the bathroom doorway, staring at the old claw foot tub. it's full, piled high with bubbles that you're surprised he even owns. simon's stood beside it, sleeves rolled up, testing the water temperature with his wrist like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"dunno 'ow temperature works for you. so i've made it 'ow i'd 'ave it. should be okay." he says gruffly, not meeting your eyes, like he's a little embarrassed to be doing something so soft for the ghost in his house.
you strip your clothes off - or more, you imagine them gone, and they disappear - the physics of your undead life still somewhat alluding you - before sinking into the warmth of the bath with a soft, involuntary sigh. wisps of steam curl from the surface as your cold form meets hot water.
you flicker. just once. a quick, quiet disappearance like you're overwhelmed by the sensation of heat and silky bubbles around you after so long without it.
simon watches you settle with quiet intensity. for a long moment he just stands there, arms crossed, before he mutters, “scoot forward.”
you glance up at him, surprise etched into your features, "you're getting in?"
his lips twist, like for a moment he thinks he might have overstepped. but then he nods. "if you want. thought you might want more company than just the fuckin' bubbles."
you shift forward without another word.
simon strips down efficiently, clothes piled in the corner of the room, stepping in behind you and lowering himself down into the water with a low groan. the contrast between the two of you is immediate; the solid heat of him versus your perpetual chill.
he pulls you back against his chest wordlessly, one arm wrapping around your waist as your head drops back against his shoulder.
"okay?" he murmurs against the side of your head.
you nod, relaxing into him, water lapping over the two of you as his hands begin to wander; slow, careful. his fingertips trace your shoulders, your arms, then lower, trailing over your stomach in a gentle caress.
you shiver. not from cold. from feeling.
“tell me if you want me to stop.” he says quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
you don't tell him to stop.
his fingers slide lower, to the aching heat between your legs, parting you gently, circling your clit with unhurried, lazy strokes that make your stomach tighten and your thighs tremble.
he feels you gasp, slides his fingers lower; one thick digit pressing inside you, then another, stretching you open with a care you don't exactly expect from a man this big and gruff. the warmth of the water and the heat of his body make the sensation feel almost overwhelming as he curls his fingers slowly, stroking that perfect spot inside your soft cunt while his thumb continues lazy circles over your clit.
simon lets out a hiss of air through his teeth as his fingers slip inside you; surprised but not displeased by how different you feel. soft, warm, inviting in a way that's familiar, but there's something more to you, too. you almost feel like honey, clinging to his fingers, yielding easily as he sinks his fingers deeper.
the difference is a stark reminder - that even though you do a good impression of the living, you're not. not really.
but the way you flutter and squeeze around his digits feels horribly, devastatingly alive.
he forces his attention back to the way that you tremble in his arms, cold fingers gripping his forearm as soft, low groans spill from your lips. simon’s breathing grows heavier behind you, his cock hard and pressed against your back, but he doesn’t rush. doesn't make any move other than to give you this; to hold you close, let the waves of pleasure ripple through you.
when you come it's with a soft cry, almost broken sounding, body tightening, cunt fluttering around his fingers as the gentle noise of sloshing water echoes off the tiles.
simon presses his lips to your cold shoulder as you float back down, his fingers still buried inside you, still gently coaxing every last twitch of pleasure from you.
“missed that too?” he asks, voice rough with heat and maybe even a little affection.
you let out a shaky laugh, "yeah. more than i even realised."
the water is cooling, helped along by your freezing form, but neither of you makes any move to leave the tub yet.
btw i did end up getting the same tattoo as her. you should never design cool tattoos for your ocs bc there is a high chance you'll end up getting them yourself...
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