A soft tune drifts in the air along with the scent of bacon that floods the apartment, melding together with the freshly brewed coffee that was made earlier.
The meat sizzles in the pan as it fries and grows crispy, and youâre so caught up in cooking that you donât even hear the patter of bare feet down the hall or the creak of the floorboards behind you. Itâs not until a pair of strong arms are wrapped around your middle with a warm, bare chest pressing against your back.
âMon princeâŠâ
Polnareffâs voice is rough with sleep still clinging to his tone and figure alike, and it only becomes more evident when he slumps against you. You only chuckle when he presses his face between your shoulder blades with a groggy whine.
âYou left me all alone,â the Frenchman mutters against the material of the shirt you wear, barely awake enough to realize that itâs one of his own.
His chin rests on one of your shoulders to watch you cook while the stoveâs heat rolls off the device in waves, warming your front while Polnareffâs body remains firm behind you.
âSomeone had to get started on breakfast.â
A pout tugs at his lips before heâs pressing a kiss to your neck with a strand of messy, silver hair tickling the side of your face. He murmurs into your skin, and his warm hands slip beneath your shirt to dance along the top of your boxers. Calloused fingertips brush against the happy trail below your navel before smoothing across your belly.
âYou didnât have to.â
The two of you remain like that for a couple of minutes more until Polnareff is giving a dramatic sigh from your shoulder. You cast a sideways glance over at him with the quirk of your brow.
âDid you not want breakfast?â you ask while continuing to look at him, but then heâs nuzzling his face against your neck before responding with a grunt.
âNon, I want youâŠâ
You smile at that, hands pausing their movements when he begins to press more kisses to your neck and shoulder.
âCome back to bed, s'il te plaĂźt?â
You give a hum in response and contemplate the offer. Going back to bed was tempting, but so was the idea of eating the breakfast that you were currently cooking. But Polnareff was quite convincing, especially when he whispers promises in both French and your native tongue into your ear.
âMon beau,â he breathes out against the back of your neck with his nose nudging against the hair at your nape, âit wonât hurt to sleep a little while longer.â
Itâs then that you wordlessly turn off the stove with a click, and the half-cooked food is placed to the side. Without much more time to waste, Polnareff interlocks his fingers with yours before leading you to the bedroom. Thereâs a sway in his step as heâs still overtaken by drowsiness, and sleep has even begun to beckon you back into its embrace like it has your partner. Youâre both quick to slip back underneath the covers, wrapping yourselves in the sheets as your legs tangle and your head rests atop Polnareffâs chest.
His heartbeat is steady like the tempo of a drum in your ear, and it slowly starts to lull you back into slumber. He mumbles to you with the rumble of his chest against your cheek. Itâs borderline incomprehensible, but it resembles something akin to âI love you.â You smile as your lips formulate your own tired answer.
Sleep settles upon the two of you as the world goes on outside, but neither of you mind. At least, not when you had each other like this.
summary: laios comforts you during a difficult time in the dungeon.
reader description: transman/transmasc/ftm reader
warnings: angst with comfort, dysphoria, improper binding techniques
word count: ~1,2k
You were no stranger to dungeons.
There were few luxuries within their cold walls. You would forgo a good nightâs rest for days on end, not like there was a soft place for you to lay your head anyways. A warm, hearty meal was even harder to come by as you and other dungeon goers were forced to stock up on nonparishable items that were hardly nutritious in value.
But your luck seemed to change when you joined the Touden party. Its members brought a certain comfort unlike other parties you were part of. Not to mention that a certain dwarf was quite the chef even if the ingredients were quite unorthodox.
Yet traversing the dungeon was still no easy task.
It was almost as if the hallway before the five of you stretched on for an eternity. Your limbs ached, and your feet were sore as the bindings against your chest felt impossibly tight. Every breath caused a twinge of pain to shoot through your ribcage, and the baggage you carried on your back only weighed you down even further.
âHow much longer does this go on for?â Marcille cries out as her voice bounces off the walls. Orbs of magical light formed by the half-elf cast long shadows in front of you all, hovering over your heads when you inevitably come to a halt.
Chilchuck stretches his arms over his head with a huff as he glances down both ends of the seemingly neverending hallway.
âMarcilleâs right. Itâs been hours since we reached this floor, and weâve gotten nowhere.â
A low sigh falls from your mouth when you shuffle to a stop and shrug off the pack on your back. Laios follows the half-footâs gaze with a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.
âIt looks entirely the same,â the blond murmurs to himself, a hand raising to cover his mouth in thought while he mutters into his palm.
âThereâs nowhere else to go, let alone significant markers that indicate a hidden passageway.â
You lean back against the wall with your head gently resting against the cracked stone. The conversation is lost upon your ears as your eyes close and instead try to focus on catching your breath despite the tightly wound fabrics that constrict every movement.
âIs everything alright?â
Your eyelids flutter open at the sound of Laiosâ voice, only to find the tall-man a few inches away from you. The others are nowhere to be found, yet a couple of Marcilleâs light orbs linger above the two of you.
âJust resting,â you wheeze with a weak smile which seems to satiate him, at least for now.
Laios glances back down the way the group came and adjusts the straps of the bag heâs carrying. Those golden eyes flicker back towards you, almost lingering for a moment too long before heâs looking away again.
âThe others have gone ahead, but Iâm going to retrace our steps. Will you be okay by yourself?â
You nod and give a nonchalant wave of your hand in response.
âGo ahead. Iâll be here.â
He turns on his heel before disappearing down the hallway with one of the balls of light following alongside him, now leaving you alone. You slump back against the wall before sinking down to the ground, and you wince at the pressure in your ribs that only seems to grow even as youâre sitting still.
Your gaze turns towards the direction where Laios wandered off. He would no doubt take some time in exploring the way you all once came, and there was no telling how much longer the others would be.
Itâs then that you peel off your armor, the metal clinking against the cobblestone floor when you gingerly place each piece to the side. The chestpiece is pulled off, revealing the loose shirt youâre wearing underneath before your hands slip underneath the loose material. Fingers graze along the linens that are wrapped snugly around your chest with the skin beneath the material no doubt bruised and raw from how long theyâve rubbed against the tender flesh.
A thumb and forefinger pick at the edge of the cloth, threatening to pull the bindings loose for an ounce of relief. Youâre so focused on the temptation of tugging the cloth off that you donât hear the footsteps approaching the spot where youâre sitting.
That all too familiar voice reaches your ears in a quiet call of your name and causes you to practically leap off the floor before youâre scrambling for your armor.
âLaios!â you exclaim as you hold the breastplate in front of yourself, but all he does is slowly blink down at you in response. He lingers in front of you, silent while you frantically slip the armor back on.
You wait for him to yell, for the confrontation now that heâs discovered your secret. You expect him to call you a liar, and the tears have already begun to swell in your eyes now that the image youâve created for yourself has started to crumble right before you.
But that moment never comes. Laios simply stares at you, eyes swirling with something akin to curiosity.
âI think thatâs the first time Iâve seen you without your armor.â
It was your turn to stare at him this time, and you watch when Laios steps closer to sit down beside you. The realization settles upon you too because heâs right. From the moment you joined the party, you refused to be seen without it even as you slept. And you made it a point further to go by yourself when the rare opportunity arose to bathe or clean yourself. You knew the others questioned your secrecy, but youâd heard Marcille murmur about you simply being modest. And it has worked for you.
That is, until now.
You suck in a breath, but Laios doesnât say anything else. The metal of his own armor rattles against the stone wall when he reclines backwards, and you take the silence as a means to speak up.
âYouâre not going to tell anyone else, are you?â you finally ask, voice low and worried with a fear that you donât feel when fighting against the enemies that can be found within the dungeons. Laios quickly shakes his head as you watch him from the corner of your eye, and it has you releasing the breath you werenât even aware that you were holding.Â
âYou have my word that I wonât say a single thing!â
Silence fills the air between the two of you once more before the blond shifts at your side.
âBut if you ever did tell the rest of the party,â Laios grunts while he pulls himself to his feet, âI know that it wouldnât make them see you any differently.â
You look up at him as he extends a hand out to you, and his lips curl upward into a handsome, boyish grin. And at that moment, you donât feel like a fraud. You feel truly seen, and you began to wonder why you bothered hiding in the first place. So, you smile back and take his hand before he hoists you up.
summary: jolyne comforts you when the dysphoria becomes too much.
reader description: transman/transmasc/ftm reader
warnings: angst with comfort, dysphoria
word count: ~1k
The steam in the bathroom is heavy, unfurling in thick tendrils around your body.
Beads of water cling to your heated skin with one trickling down your temple while another rolls between the valley of your chest. The mirror is foggy from the condensation, and youâre barely able to make out your blurry figure in the reflection.
Your fingers curl against the porcelain of the sink while your eyes flicker across the blob of shifting colors that is you.
Itâs better this way, you think as you wiggle in your binder with the tight material sliding against your skin. But a certain thought lingers in the back of your mind like it always does: a gnawing, sinking feeling even when you smooth your hands over your mostly flat chest. You push the thought away, at least for now.
The mirror is beginning to clear, slowly revealing your body in rough and uneven patches, but itâs just enough for you to catch sight of the parts of yourself that you hated most. Like the soft, rounded features of your face or the prominence of your hips. It was unsightly, causing you to stick out like a sore thumb and making it hard for you to pass in public.
A knock on the door disrupts the thoughts, and Jolyneâs voice cuts through the bathroom door.
âAre you okay in there?â
Youâre quick to slip a sweatshirt over your head with a muffled âyeahâ in response. And when you open the door, sheâs already there like sheâs been waiting a while. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her lips curl upwards in a lopsided grin.
âThought you drowned in there,â she teases, arms falling to her sides when she pushes herself off from the wall sheâs leaning against.
You manage to give a small smile paired with a weak chuckle as you pass by her, wordlessly disappearing into the bedroom. She follows behind you and simply watches when you sit on the edge of the bed.
âI know that joke was bad, but I kind of expected a little more.â
Jolyne quirks a brow over at you while she lingers in the doorway, and those green eyes remain on you to simply stare as you throw another fake smile over towards her.
âIâm sorry, itâs just been a long day.â
She hums before strolling over towards you where she stands in front of you, hands on her hips while she gazes down at you.
âYeah, I could tell that something was bothering you.â
All you can do is blink up at her with a scoff falling from your mouth despite the pressure thatâs begun to build right behind your eyes and the tight sensation starting to constrict your chest.
âNothingâs bothering me,â you retort a little too quickly, almost as if youâre trying to convince yourself that it was true. But you can tell from the way Jolyneâs head tilts and her lips press tightly together that sheâs not buying it.
âYouâre a terrible liar.â
Thereâs a stinging in your eyes, and your throat almost feels like itâs starting to close up when youâre barely able to speak just above a whisper.
âIâm fine.â
The tears begin to fall before youâre even aware of them, slipping past your lashline and streaming down your cheeks before dropping onto your lap. Jolyne closes the distance between you two, kneeling in front of your hunched form when youâre wracked by a choked sob.
âHey, hey,â she murmurs, fingers carefully peeling your hands away from your face despite how youâre trying to hide from her.
Youâre trembling as she holds your hands and gives them a firm squeeze, barely able to make a sound besides the hiccups that leave your quivering lips. She says your name, and one of her hands raises to caress your wet cheek with a thumb brushing away a tear.
âTalk to me.â
You suck in a breath despite how you sniffle and how the words catch in your throat. Yet Jolyne sits in the silence alongside you, hands cradling your face while you tremble in her hold. Youâre almost speaking too fast as you can barely register the words when they leave your tongue, and all Jolyne does is sit there and listen.
Her eyes, that beautiful sea green gaze once filled with so much fire and passion, have taken on a much softer look. They take in every fat drop that rolls along the puffy skin under your eyes and the way your hands are placed over her own now. Even amidst your cries, Jolyne can make out some phrases - especially the final one that you utter in defeat under your breath.
âIâll never be enough.â
She lets you finish and catch your breath, watching your shoulders rise and fall with each one before she wipes a final tear from your face. The reaction isnât immediate. She doesnât snap or correct you, rather she leans forward and connects her forehead with your own.
âI know I canât take it all away,â Jolyne breathes out as her fingertips dance along the sides of your face, barely there yet firm enough to keep you close.
âBut I wish I could.â
Your eyes flutter closed, eyelashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when you finally relax into her touch. Sheâs speaking again, and her voice remains steady and gentle all the while.
âI also wish that you could see yourself through my eyes.â
You peek at Jolyne, and you find that sheâs still looking at you especially as she leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. You canât help but lean into her touch and relish the feeling of her lips against your skin when she begins to pepper more kisses all across your face.
âBecause if you could see yourself the way that I see you,â Jolyne whispers with her mouth lingering against your temple, then the tops of your cheeks, âthen you wouldnât question a single thing about yourself.â
She leaves a peck against the tip of your nose, and that pulls a soft laugh from you before she finally captures your lips with her own. It doesnât last long, but you donât mind. You let her scoot back, but she doesnât go far. Instead, she stays right there like she always does. She allows you to press your face into her neck, to breathe in her scent long after the negative thoughts that plagued you left your mind until thereâs nothing left but you and her.
You can feel those dark eyes on you as the words hang heavily in the air where there had once been silence. It had settled comfortably over the two of you while you were repairing traps as per Johnâs instructions. But your attention had long since slipped away and instead of attributing it to the brunette in front of you, you place the blame on the tedious design of the inventions.
You glance towards her and away from the wires youâve been fiddling with for over an hour now, hands pulling away from the innards of whatever machine you had dissected.
âWhat do you mean?â
Amanda shifts in her seat when your gaze settles on her, and she busies herself with brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.
âI meanâŠâ she trails off with a sigh before placing the screwdriver in her free hand to the side.
âIf you could redo your life, would you?â
Your fingers tap silently against the table, and Amanda watches you almost as if she can see the wheels turning in your head while waiting for an answer.
The truth is that sheâs thought about it far too often. Even though John had saved her life and given her a reason to keep on living, everything leading up to this very moment was far from glamorous. She had been a junkie, strung out on drugs for years alongside her enabling boyfriend. There were also numerous run-ins with the law that ended up in some time behind bars.
Sheâs heard stories of your life before being taken under Johnâs wing, both from John and you alike. Not to mention that she also witnessed your test firsthand, and the scars that cover the expanse of skin from your fingertips to your elbows are a testament of that.
But your answer doesnât come as quickly as Amanda expects.
Instead, you give a low hum. Your eyes fall to your hands and arms, and she takes in the way they trail over each and every raised mark while mulling over your words. Then your eyes meet her own, but she doesnât find sadness there. Thereâs no anger or resentment, nothing of the sort that Amanda often feels when thinking about the events of her own life.
No, she watches as you smile.
Your fingers flex in front of you, the movement still having been restricted even months after the trial. But Dr. Gordon was hopeful for your recovery even if the physical therapy was rigorous at times. And then youâre speaking, so lighthearted and burden free for someone who went through what you did.
âI donât think I would.â
She blinks at you once. Then twice. Because part of her wonders if youâre messing around with her or if youâre not taking her seriously, so all she does is stare at you until she finally squints like doesnât believe a single word youâve said.
âYouâre joking, right?â she incredulously asks as all you do is grin in response.
âIâm dead serious, Mandy.â
Amanda rolls her eyes at the nickname. Had anyone else called her that, she would have snapped. But she supposes youâre an exception even as she stares in disbelief at your words. She canât imagine why you wouldnât want things to be different or why you wouldnât want a chance at a normal life.
As if you could read her mind, you prop your elbow up on the table and rest your chin against the palm of one of your scarred hands. Your eyes follow Amanda when she leans back in her chair with the quirk of her brow and waits for an explanation.
âWell,â you begin as the corners of your lips tug with another smile, a small and genuine gesture that causes the corners of your eyes to scrunch. For a moment, Amanda swears that her heart skips a beat in her chest especially when you lean forward like youâre about to share a secret thatâs only meant for her ears even though the two of you are the only ones in the room.
âIf my life had gone any differently, we wouldnât have met.â
Amanda waits for the punchline of the joke. She anticipates the moment where you throw your head back in laughter and tell her that youâre joking, but it never comes. Youâre still sitting right in front of her with that sincere smile and a confession that has the words dying on her tongue when all she wants to do is tell you that she feels the same. That while sheâs never been good with dealing with her emotions (if any of her past relationships had anything to say about it), maybe she would be willing to try and handle it differently this time around.
But all she does is swipe a crumpled piece of paper from the table that had some scrapped idea for a trap that she doodled onto the sheet and toss it at you. She snorts when it hits you square in the face before pulling herself from the chair.
âYouâre so cheesy,â Amanda calls over her shoulder with the sway of her hips as she strolls away, knowing that your gaze will remain on where she lingered long after sheâs gone.
But then again, it also wouldnât be long until you sought out her presence again like you always did. She never minded. Not when John chastised you for distracting her or when Mark threw a snide comment your way because regardless of what happened, you were always there.
And just like you, Amanda thinks that she wouldnât change a single thing.
The heat was stifling, causing the streets to lack its usual traffic with a yellowish hue settling across everything in sight from the sun hanging high above. Nights were somewhat cooler, offering a slight relief from the harshness that the day offered.
But even now as a gentle breeze from the open window caressed your bare skin - having stripped down to a pair of boxers long ago - the fabric and the material of the sheets underneath your body still felt like too much. Sweat beads on your furrowed brow, trickling down your temple and trailing along the side of your face.
Thereâs movement behind you: a slight shift of the arm thatâs slung lazily over your middle as the firm chest at your back continues to rise and fall with each steady breath.
You groan at that but relax against him regardless, relishing in the feeling of his calloused fingertips dancing along your abdomen. They continue to glide over the stretchmarks and dimples that decorate your belly with feather-like, near reverent touches.
âYouâre going to kill me, Muhammad.â
Avdol makes a noise of confusion, the sound muffled from where his face is pressed between your shoulder blades with sleep clinging to his voice.
âWhat do you mean?â he rumbles out, breath fanning against your ear.
You give a low hum as your fingers intertwine with his free hand while the other remains splayed across your stomach.
âYouâre like a furnace.â
It was true. You werenât sure if it was natural or a reflection of his stand, but Avdol always ran a few degrees warmer than you. It was quite valuable in the winter, but the temperature during the summer was nearly unbearable paired with his body heat. It rolls off him in waves even now while more sweat collects at the nape of your neck.
âI can move if thatâs what you wish.â
All you do is grunt in response and allow your eyelids to flutter closed, fingers tightening around his own before he can think of pulling away.
His chest rumbles against your back with a chuckle, and you knew that he didnât mind the sheen of sweat that clung to your skin. Rather, he presses impossibly closer with his body slotting against yours. From chest to back, to hips to behind, to tangled legs⊠Your bodies melded together in all the right ways even if you were sticky and overheating afterwards.
Avdol stills behind you once again, and his breath evens out against the back of your neck with his mouth still curled into the faintest smile. The corners of your own lips tug upward as you brave the heat to remain in his embrace for a little while longer.
summary: melone discovers your secret and offers a helping hand.
reader description: transman/transmasc/ftm reader
warnings: needle use, mention of drugs, cursing
word count: ~1.3k
Music thrums through the wall, the bass low and heavy as it buries itself deep inside your chest.Â
Youâd typically slam a fist against the thin drywall and shout at Formaggio to âturn that shit down.â But now, for once, the music offers a distraction from the task youâre faced with.
A little glass vial sits on the desk in front of you along with an assortment of bandaids, wipes, and needles. It was a dance you were all too familiar with, but that didnât make it easier. Especially with the way that the needles glint in the yellowish lights of your bedroom almost like they were mocking your hesitance.
Thereâs a tremble in your fingers as you roll the vial between your palms to warm up the concoction within, yet your eyes remain fixated on the medical supplies.
You werenât squeamish by any means. You were in Passione, the most notorious and feared mafia within Italy. You werenât a stranger to getting your hands dirty, particularly being a member of La Squadra Esecuzioni. But your gutsy nature seemed to falter when it came to giving yourself shots.
How ironic.
A deep sigh falls from your mouth before you place the vial on the desk once again. You busy yourself with peeling open the alcoholic wipes with the pungent, antiseptic scent flooding your nostrils. The damp material is cool against your thigh as it drags along the skin with your boxers bunched at the tops of your legs.
Itâs not until a sharp knock at the door helps you regain your senses, and the call of your name is muffled through the wood.
âGo away!â you shout in response and try to ignore the shaking of your hands when you screw the needle onto the syringe.
The knock comes louder this time, more forceful before youâre yelling again.
âCut it out, Iâm busy!â
But that doesnât deter the person on the other side, not when the knob jingles and turns before the bedroom door fully swings open. While you could have sworn that you locked it, youâre more irritated than anything at the sight of your lavender-haired teammate standing triumphantly in the doorway.
âMelone,â you hiss through clenched teeth and tightly grasp the syringe between your fingers, stopping mid-motion at the sudden intrusion.
Yet all Melone does is take in the sight of you with the tilt of his head. You canât tell if itâs curiosity or judgment as heat crawls across your cheeks in embarrassment before youâre looking nearby for something to throw. Heâs grinning now with a smile thatâs too wide for his face as he slips into your bedroom, and the door closes firmly behind him.
âHaving fun all by yourself?â
All you can do is sneer at him when he strolls closer. His lips tug downward into a pout when you snap at him, yet he inches his way every bit closer.
âI said I was busy, so get the hell out of my room.â
Melone snatches the vial from your hands, and heâs smiling again as he raises it to his face for it to be eye level with his turquoise orbs.
âCome on,â he whines while his eyes scan the label.
âYou can at least share-â
The words are suddenly lost on his tongue, eyes flickering between you and the vial between his fingers. He blinks once, then twice. Then his attention is fully on you with something akin to interest swirling in his eyes as the vial remains clasped between his thumb and forefinger.
âThis is not what I was expecting.â
Your face continues to burn, and you think briefly of stabbing him with the needle that protruded from the syringe in your hand. But you suppress the urge, instead reaching out to try and snatch the vial back. But Melone holds it just out of reach.
âShut up and give it back,â you grumble and reach for it again only for your teammate to finally relent as he allows you to snatch it from his grasp.
Melone only chuckles, watching when you slump back down into your chair as he slowly circles you.
âYou know, the others and I thought you were doing heroin or something.â
That causes you to roll your eyes as you push your boxers up to expose the tops of your thighs again.
âI donât do heroin.â
You grunt and cast a glance over at Melone until he finally stills in front of you. Those bright eyes linger on the instruments on your desk before landing on you. He chuckles, simply watching as your hands twitch at your sides. You stare back at him, and the both of you remain there: unwavering and unmoving with the only sound being the music that seeps through the wall connecting your room to Formaggioâs.
Melone takes a step forward to close the distance between you two before heâs speaking again.
âAre you going to continue?â
You lean back in the chair, legs parted and bent at the knees as he makes himself welcome in the space in between. Melone was always one to invade othersâ personal space, even when you were new to the group. He was always there, pressed tightly to your side or lingering a little too closely at your back. But it didnât bother you as much as it did the others, especially not now even despite your snappy response.
âAre you going to leave?â
He simply grins every bit wider, and it told you everything that you needed to know. You drag a hand down your face, lips parting to blow out a huff at his persistence. But you still donât move with the syringe sitting tightly in your grasp.Â
Melone senses your hesitance and gives a low chuckle before crouching down in front of you.
âDonât tell me youâre afraid of needles!â he croons as his gloved palms rest on your knees with the smooth material caressing the skin.
You suck your teeth and swipe the wipes from the desk again. Heâs watching you even more closely now, leaning towards you even as you fumble with the syringe.
âIâm not afraid of needles.â
He laughs, light and breathy before raising a hand towards your own and plucking the syringe and wipes out of your fingers.
âHere.â
Melone moves effortlessly as he wipes an area of skin at your thigh with the damp material. Itâs then that he takes the vial and slips the needle into the top while humming some offbeat tune. You just watch him with the sound of his song settling on your ears along with the pounding of your heart in your ears when he switches out the needle.
His other hand rests on your thigh, pulling the flesh there taut. He glances up at you, corners of his lips upturned with a smile as he tilts his head.
âYouâre going to feel a slight pinch.â
You nod and force yourself to look away with your gaze turning upward towards the ceiling, fingers curling in on your palms as the fingernails leave crescent-shaped indents in the skin. Meloneâs hand smooths over your thigh before lining up the needle with the limb.
âRelax,â he breathes out, and you find yourself releasing the breath you didnât realize that you were holding.
Then you feel it: the familiar sharp twinge that comes with every injection. But then comes the gentle press of gauze against the wound as Melone continues to softly hum. The bandaid is placed last, and itâs only then that you look down at where heâs still kneeling between your legs.
Heâs still smiling up at you, eyes no doubt scrunching in the corners behind his mask.
âSee? It wasnât all that bad!â
You chuckle as he disposes of the needles before resting your hand over the bandaid with the textured material rubbing against your palm.
