#grumpy mmc

He blinks, slow, and it takes him a full ten seconds to remember your name, but when he does, the flood of what happened last night comes in fast. The tattoo, the dinner, the hungry, almost animal intensity of you. The way you’d laughed—genuinely, with the snort that made the bridge of your nose crinkle.

He’s never liked sharing his bed. His ex used to sleep with her knees and elbows at angles sharp enough to threaten laceration. Later, hookups either fled at first light or lingered out of misplaced optimism, hoping to turn an evening into something with a future—he’d learned to nudge them awake and make his intentions clear, even when those intentions were simply to be left alone.

But with you, he lies there for a long time, feeling the weight of your thigh across his thigh and the press of your knee against his calf, the motion of your ribcage as you breathe, perfectly content to be nothing but naked with you. You’re still asleep, mouth parted, a faint snore barely audible, and for some reason this is wildly endearing. He wants to touch your jaw, see if you’d lean into it even while unconscious. He likes that his sheets smell like your shampoo—a clean, unplaceable scent, something not expensive but honest.

He doesn’t want to move. It’s been years since he’s willingly risked this: the post-night honesty, the chance for things not to be perfect. Laurie used to say he turned cold the second sex was over. Maybe she was right, but then again, maybe that’s just what happens when you share a house and a life with someone who was only the illusion of what you think you’re supposed to want, only to break when at last the relationship can take no more pressure, and he’d never wanted to experience that again.

He’s still trying to parse whether this is good or bad when you stir. Not a gentle waking—a slow, reluctant groan, the kind that suggests a hangover or a night spent in a stranger’s bed, or both.

But his chest expands with warmth knowing which one it is.

And only one.

Because you fucked each other like that stone cold sober last night.

You roll onto your back and immediately pull the sheet up over your chest. You squint at the ceiling, rub your eyes, and then, after a second, you glance sideways at him. Your hair is a mess, and your eyeliner is smudged in a way he finds unexpectedly beautiful. You blink at him, slow, like you’re trying to make sense of what you’re seeing.

You say, “Oh. Hi,” voice sandpapery from sleep.

Andy grunts what he means as good morning. He drags his hand through his beard, scratches at his jaw, and tries to will coherent words out of his mouth. But only manages a simple, “Hi.”

He expects it to be awkward, for you to start gathering up your things, or at least to hedge your bets. Instead, you drop your head back onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling, then let the sheet slide down a little so your shoulder is exposed.

“Sorry,” you say, “I think I drooled on your pillow.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t the first time.” He means his, but realizes immediately how it could be taken. You chuckle anyway.

The silence is actually comfortable, which is new for Andy. He tries to remind himself that this is just nice sex with a nice person, and not to get carried away. But he does want to know what you’re thinking—if this is as unexpected for you as it is for him.

“Do you—” you start, then clear your throat, try again, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

He nods at the door attached to his room and you’re up, bare feet padding the short distance before snapping the door closed behind you.

Maybe he should feel awkward. He usually does. He doesn’t. Instead, he drops back onto the mattress and listens to the tap run, the preposterous, cheerful tinkle of you peeing a few steps away in his house—his solitude invaded with the kind of little noises he’s spent a decade living without.

He closes his eyes for a second, lets his head slip sideways into the pillow dent left by you. The pillow’s still warm. He should probably be more concerned about how much he likes that, but then there’s the flush of the toilet, the run of water in the sink, and you're back, slipping swiftly back beneath the sheets. You don’t seem embarrassed. You say, “Your bathroom is really, really clean. Suspiciously clean,” and he knows you mean it as a joke, but also maybe as a genuine observation.

He grins. “Haven’t lived with a woman in a long time,” he says. “Don’t generate a lot of mess myself.”

You shrug, unimpressed. “Still. Most men’s bathrooms are horror shows. It’s the law.”

He lets himself look at you, really look, for the first time in the brutal daylight.

You’re not the type he would have bet on for himself, years ago or now. It’s only one morning, but he likes how you fit here: stretched between his dark sheets, hair still a little mussed, the sharp black trace of his tattoo on your upper chest. You’re not a dainty thing—he likes women who take up space, have weight to their presence, women who won’t be erased by the outline of his body. It’s only now, in the brightness of day, that he notices how your frame really is all soft where last night you felt sturdy, and that you look better now, rumpled and unprepared, than you had in your crisp first impression at the shop.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be?” he asks you. It’s a question open for you to use for what you want, whether it’s an exit plan or more.

You shake your head, slow, thoughtful, and Andy sees a smile brewing, held back just a little. “I don’t,” you say. “I could stay.”

Andy’s stomach knots with the pleasant anxiety of not knowing what happens next. This is not an advertisement for anything permanent, he tells himself. Just an unseasonable thaw in the long winter of living alone.

You seem to be studying him as well, eyes roving over his face, his arms, his shoulders, his upper chest. Specifically you seem to study the lines of his arms, the places where pigment takes over for freckle or scar. You reach out, tentative, and touch the web of black and red along his bicep. He flexes, not for show, but because that’s what the body does when it’s being examined. You trace the circle at his shoulder, the fractured glyphs splayed down his forearm.

He puts a hand over yours. “If you really want to see them, you need a better angle,” he says. “Come here.”

You scoot closer to him, but he’s more proactive, hooking a hand down at the back of your thigh, and shifting you up and over him until you’re straddling his waist. You sit low on his stomach, legs bracketing his sides, and he settles back to enjoy his own view.

He waits, savoring the weight of you, the warmth where you’re pressed against him. He runs his hands up your thighs, palms spread wide, appreciating every inch of you.

“Better angle,” you repeat, almost to yourself.

You trace the art on his arms, fingers skating over the topography of his muscle, skin, and ink. He expects you to ask for the story behind one or another of them, but instead you ask, “Which one’s your favorite?” then press your palm flat to his chest where an old-school anatomical heart blooms.

He shrugs, weighing the question. “Maybe this one,” he says, twisting his bicep so you can see the tattoo there—a wrap of circuitry—snaking bands of black, echoing the aesthetic of his profession and maybe more than that, maybe the obsessive desire to structure chaos. “Or this,” he adds, rolling his wrist to display the quick, fine lines of a compass just above the veins at his pulse point. “I did that one myself, actually.”

Your eyes widen, skeptical. “On yourself?”

He nods. “Was still learning. It’s not as painful as you’d think. Fiddlier, though.”

You toy with the ink at his wrist, running your finger along the fine, slightly raised trackwork with the kind of reverence he doesn’t know how to acknowledge, so he acknowledges it by going completely still and letting you have the moment.

You’re warm, your hands gentle, but there’s a near-scientific curiosity in the way you roam his arm, then back up to his chest, as though layering his tattoos over their human tableau is a puzzle worth waking up for alone.

He watches you do it. Watches the concentration. The quiet calculation. You’re not like anyone he’s woken up with. So comfortable, impossibly familiar though he hasn’t known you more than fifteen hours, and not all of them waking.

You scoot lower, shifting yourself down his body, until your hips are flush with his. He’s not hard, not yet, but sensation is returning to his body, a slowly stretching electricity up his thighs and into his belly, hunger stirring, but he’s not ravenous yet, settled in letting this moment stretch longer.

You trace the line of his collarbone, skim up to the newest ink at his shoulder, then back to the hollow just above his heart. Your hand is heavy with intent, but you don’t leer or linger. It’s science, it’s poetry, it’s the only moment that matters, and Andy feels the undertow of last night—the way you’d studied him with your mouth instead of your eyes, the way you’d said yes to everything.

Andy slides his hands up and down your thighs again, more intent and heat behind the motion than before. He feels your thighs tense, a little spark of movement, and your hands plant themselves against his chest, sifting through the coarseness of his hair there. You glance down at his body this time, not the ink, and he can tell the difference. Your eyes rove over the plane of his ribs, the curve of his stomach, the lines of faded scars and old bruises in the daylight before flicking your gaze up to his.

You lean forward, the slope of your shoulders casting a triangle of shadow across his chest. He runs his hands from the base of your spine up your back to your shoulders, drawing you in for a kiss. Slow, searing, but utterly unhurried.

Andy loses track of time, just lets himself drown in the shape of your mouth and the small, hungry hitches of your breath when he drags his hands up your ribs, palming your curves. You taste like sleep, like toothpaste and something sweet, and you kiss him back with a deliberation that says you don’t need to hurry. You’re greedy for it, but not impatient. You relearn his mouth, kissing with incremental adjustments, like you’re mapping a new city one corner at a time.

He moves his hands up your back, lazy circles with his thumbs, then down again to your hips, where he pulls you tighter into him, not grinding, just anchoring. He can’t remember the last time he did this—kissed for the sake of kissing, not as prelude or punctuation, but because it was the only thing he wanted to do.

But he does want more.

And so do you.

You’re the one who shifts things to the next gear, slotting your mouth over Andy’s, not tentative but with the kind of certainty that says you know he wants you, and you don’t want to be demure about it. Your hands frame his jaw, the press of your fingers deliberate, and the next second you’re kissing deeper, greedy for the next more of him this morning after.

Andy lets himself plunge headlong into it, lets the delight of your soft weight over his body overwhelm the more disciplined parts of him. He slides his hands under the sheet, presses his palms flat to the backs of your thighs, and squeezes, claims really. You shift, working your hips against him in small, slow adjustments until he’s hard, until the friction is perfect, and you roll your whole body to chase it.

You break the kiss to catch your breath and Andy presses his mouth to the side of your throat, then drags it back up, tasting sleep, salt, and the faint note of last night's sweat sweetening your skin. He can feel the thrum of your pulse under his tongue. He positions his hands at your hips, guiding them with a little more pressure. Andy ruts his cock against you, slow and heavy. You meet him, hitching your hips, the slick of your arousal warm and messy and welcoming, and a pulse of want runs through both of you. He shifts lower, mouths along your jaw, then buries his face in the side of your neck.

“How long do you want me to keep kissing you like this?” he ruts his cock against your cunt again, relishing the deep groan it draws out of you. The words lie naked in the air, nearly as sharp-edged as the teeth Andy bares into your shoulder as he bites, gentle, then harder, before backing away for a second to see how you react.

“For at least the rest of the morning?” The inquiry is heated and bold, but then you follow up with a more searching, “Would that be a problem?”

“Not even close.” Andy tangles his hand in the hair at the nape of your neck and pulls you down for another kiss. You hum into it, your body melting even more into his.

You reach down, sliding your hand between your bodies, the backs of your knuckles brushing his stomach. Andy’s cock is already half-hard, and your fingers close around him with the kind of urgency that makes him shiver. He grins into your mouth, wolfish and pleased—he likes that you help yourself, that you won’t wait for more permission. He lifts his hips to meet your grip, pushing into your palm, and when you break the kiss to look at him, he sees your eyes are glassy, dark at the centers.

“Take what you want,” he says, voice gone gravel and static. He means it, too; you see it in the stillness of his body, the way he yields to your touch. You angle his cock properly, guiding it with your fingers, and he huffs out a low, broken sound when the tip slips slick against your cunt, not quite inside but threatening. You rock gently, back and forth, teasing and testing. He lifts his hips when you need him to, and as you sink onto his cock, the friction is perfect again, his thick, hard cock sliding into your tight, pliant, slick cunt. The way you both want and need.

He groans, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating into your hands. Andy can’t keep the praise in. It comes out in a muttered, “Fuck, you feel so good,”—he’s almost angry about it, like he can’t believe you’ve done this to him, made him want this, crave this more even while he’s in the middle of it.

Maybe this is why nothing worked with Laurie, he thinks, why it wasn’t worth bothering with anyone afterwards.

You brace your palm on his chest for leverage and roll your hips, slow, making him feel every inch. There’s nothing delicate in it—there’s no use pretending this is anything but what it is. Intense. Greedy. You move, and he moves with you. You ride him, hips working in a slow pulse, drawing up until just the tip drags against your entrance, then sinking down, all the way, every time a little different angle, a little closer to losing him entirely. Andy runs his hands up your thighs, then sinks his hands into the meat of your ass, pulls you in tighter, like he wants to keep you anchored to him for as long as possible. You seem to like that. Your mouth opens, but you don’t say anything—just breathe, big and raw.

The pace is slow, but it’s not gentle. It’s exact—every roll of your hips is decisive, designed to hit the last nerve in both of you. Andy grits his teeth, every muscle in his thighs clenching at the way you take him. It’s not supposed to feel like this, not on a morning after, not with someone he barely knows. He’s always thought sex should be a thing you can turn on and off. Something you can survive without. But this, right now, is a necessity so deep it almost embarrasses him to have gone without it for so long.

He digs his fingers into your hips, holds you steady, meets every roll with a grind that pins your clit to his pubic bone. You clutch at his chest, nails scraping through coarse hair, and every time you move, you mutter a curse or a plea or just let sound spill from your lips. He can feel how close you are, the way your cunt tightens and clings. It’s indecent, how much he wants to draw it out, to have you milk his cock so hard you can barely stand when it’s done. Yesterday, he’d have called it depraved. Now, it feels like the only honest thing he can do.

His eyes are riveted on your face as you fuck yourself on him, and when your head tips back, the line of your neck exposed, he brings a hand up, cups the back of your skull, not to control but just to hold, to keep you anchored with him while your whole body trembles. He’s never been the type to lose himself in a partner’s bliss—but watching you, how you give in to it, how you let every wave roll through you without a mask or shield, it fucking undoes him.

He brings your face down to his, kisses the corner of your mouth, and you let him, sinking your teeth into his lip in return, almost biting hard enough to draw blood. When you pull away, your breath comes in sharp huffs, your hair wild. He loves that you’re not trying to look pretty, you’re not trying to look like anything other than a person who is riding his cock for the pleasure of it, because you want to, because you need to, because you can.

“Harder,” you whimper. Andy obliges, raising his hips to drive up into you each time you sink down. The slap of skin is loud in the room, wild, obscene if anyone else were to hear.

You bring your hands to his ribs, pin him and ride him harder, your breath gone to pieces. You say, “Fuck,” and, “Andy,” and once or twice you say nothing, only let the sounds tumble out of your lips.

He can’t take his eyes off you, the way your tits bounce with every thrust, the way your eyes squeeze shut, face warped by pleasure into something infinitely more beautiful than calm. He braces you harder at the hip with one hand, hunts your clit with the other, circles it, slow at first, then building, because he wants you to finish before he does.

Your voice is broken with the next, “Andy, fuck, please—” and it’s not a cute, porn-script please, it’s a desperate, involuntary spill of vowels, guttural and raw. You can’t even finish the sentence, you just move your body harder, chasing it, and he gives you everything you want. He lets go, rutting up into you with pace, matching every frantic roll of your hips, bracing you, pinning you.

He feels every exquisite element the moment before you peek, feels it in the way your cunt clamps down, the tremor in your thighs as you lose control.

He doesn’t stop. Not when you tip over with a sob—no sound, really, just a silent shudder, your hands digging ragged into his shoulders. Not when the muscles inside you clench so hard he nearly blacks out, not even when your body collapses forward, your forehead on his shoulder, and you cry out into his skin.

He holds you steady, won’t let you lose it alone, rides the last spasms of your orgasm, and then, only then, lets himself follow you over, hips slamming up, vision going white at the edges. It rips out of him, every part of him surging to fill you, pumping every spurt of his hot seed into you, needing every final thrust he can give, until he’s sure he’s emptied all he has to fill you completely.

You’re trembling, spent, hands still bracing at his ribcage. Andy holds you for a long minute, neither of you moving or speaking, just letting the heat between your bodies recalibrate the world. Andy wraps an arm around your back, thinking he’s only meant this gesture platonically before, never with the intent to keep someone in place. He breathes in your hair, as if the scent could explain anything.

You shift, just a little, and your laugh is ragged, all the air gone from it. “I think my spirit just left my body,” into his neck and he laughs and presses a kiss into your temple, unthinking.

Andy’s still lost in his own sensation of you. The aftershocks, the sweat cooling between your bodies, the mess slicking over his thighs and yours. He doesn’t feel the need to say anything, which feels new and rare, like the silence is enough because you are both here, and nothing is missing yet.

Eventually you shift again, less because of comfort and more because your breathing has slowed. You scoot down his body, cheek pressed to his clavicle, arm splayed firmly over his chest as if bracing against the tide or taking possession. Andy’s too spent, so he just closes his hand around your upper arm, the easy, present weight of you burrowing further into his bones.

Finally, when it seems like there has to be a next for this moment, Andy asks, “You want breakfast?”

You hum, but then say, “No. Maybe brunch. Can’t move.”

He likes that you’re not in a rush. He likes it so much he can feel the pleasure of it in his jaw, the way it goes slack, the muscles unbracing from a tension he didn’t realize he’d held. The whole point, after all, is that you could stay if you wanted. That you might.

That he can ruin you again before you leave and this spell breaks.

Because he knows it’s just the intensity of right now.

And that’s enough.

Endorphins, thoughts, emotions, actions, they’re all intense during sex, and he knows last night and this morning is the most intense sex of his entire life.

So he knows this will ratchet down to normal once you’re out of each other’s orbit.

And that’s natural. That’s normal. He likes what this was.

You’ll think of him when you see the tattoo, and he’ll like knowing that will be what lasts from this hurricane.

So.

That's all.

in the meantime:

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest explore more of the men who work at Obsidian Stain & Sin

“Yeah,” he answers. Since Steve owns Obsidian Stain & Sin, he is his kind of his boss.

“You free tonight?” Steve asks. “I need someone to take a 6pm.”

Andy opens his fridge, surveying a leftover burrito, some eggs, not a lot else. Being that strange space between Christmas and New Years, he’s been living in a week devoid of work and devoid of plans, but he’s already ready to say no. “Who’s out?” he asks, closing the fridge and rolling his neck.

“Me, actually,” Steve answers, like that might soften the situation.

And it just might. Steve has always been good to him, offered him space at the studio when he started, is still letting him take up space there even though he’s only booking two or three Saturdays a month and he could no doubt bring in another artist to use the chair on a more consistent basis.

“Why not reschedule him?” Andy suggests.

“Her.” There’s a half second of silence, then he rushes to add, “It’s all black, very straight forward, art’s already prepped, shouldn’t take you more than two hours.”

Andy sighs even though he’s going to say yes.

“I know you’re tired of trendy bullshit,” Steve adds. “You’ll like this one, I promise.”

“You know I’ll expect the deposit,” Andy says.

There’s another beat, then Andy feels the phone in his hand buzz. “Already transferred,” Steve confirms the notification is the fee. Another buzz. “And shared the art file.”

“You were that sure I’d say yes?”

“Yup.”

“Yeah, well,” Andy feels a smirk twitch in his cheek, “go to hell.”

He hears the smile in Steve’s voice. “I’ll save you a seat.”

“Why can’t you take this appointment?”

“I’m feeling sick.”

“You don’t sound sick.”

“Stomach thing. I’ll convince my girl to let me steal a box of those pastries you like this weekend. Thanks, Andy!”

And Steve hangs up before Andy can say another word.

Andy showers, throws on black jeans and a plain tee, then laces his boots by the muscle memory that’s never abandoned him, even as his hands have gotten stiffer with age and cold weather. He kills a Red Bull in the car, the city already an inky black mess of streetlights since it’s the darkest part of the year.

The shop’s fluorescent OPEN sign buzzes low in the window. He’s twenty minutes early, and he hopes whoever this woman is, she’s not already waiting inside. Sometimes people do that, showing up excessively early, filling the place with over-eager, skittish energy.

But when he enters, the studio is just as he likes it, Nat and a couple of the other guys working, no one in the lobby yet.

“Hey, old man,” Nat says, by way of greeting.

Andy grunts and nods. “Nat.”

Ari catches Andy’s eye and raises his chin. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Ari is finishing up with a broad-shouldered blonde who looks like he could be a linebacker or a hockey enforcer.

“Yeah,” Andy says. He glances at the counter where someone—probably Steve—has left a paper bag with his name on it with the logo of Steve’s girlfriend’s bakery. Andy catches a whiff of almond, chocolate, and buttery pastry.

Curtis shuffles out from the back room, wearing a pair of black nitrile gloves that look stretched to the limits by his heavy wrists. He’s got his tattoo kit balanced on a plastic tray, and his eyes clock Andy’s arrival, and he gives him a stiff nod—but it’s a nod of solidarity, the two of them the resident “grumps” on the roster in the place.

“Showing up to take late walk-ins?” Curtis asks, setting the tray on the counter near the big metal sink.

“Appointment,” Andy answers. “Steve’s, but he called out.”

Curtis’s eyebrows go up. “Got it. You want me to wipe your station down?”

Andy could say no, but Curtis is already grabbing a bottle of disinfectant. “Thanks,” Andy grunts, and Curtis gives him a half-smile, the kind that’s all lower lip and no teeth.

A text comes in on his phone. Steve, with a, “Thanks again.” Andy doesn’t reply. He finally pulls up the email with the artwork: a fine-line black piece, abstract, almost mathematical in its geometry, but with curves that enhance. Andy likes it more than he feels comfortable admitting.

He takes deep satisfaction in the artistry of a well-crafted tattoo, loves drawing up designs. The influx of women with images from Pinterest and men with their Reddit screenshots just wanting duplicates of the latest online trends is one of the reasons Andy cut back on his shifts at Obsidian. With his day job as a lawyer, tattoos were his hobby, but harder when the passion was sucked out of it more often than not.

The few appointments he was willing to take now were only from clients he’d already worked with, the ones he knew wanted interesting pieces and came to him with ideas and inspiration, not copy orders.

But Steve was right. This one’s interesting. At ten till, Andy’s stomach rumbles, and he realizes he never ate. He opens a drawer and pulls out a protein bar. It’ll have to tide him over until he’s finished. By now Ari’s guy is gone, but he’s still at the front desk, probably running a report. Nat is in deep conference with her client at the far station, their conversation too low to make out. Curtis is finishing clearing things up at his station, checking his supply levels. Andy likes that about the routine here, everyone comes and goes, leaves you alone if that’s what you need.

There’s a jingling of bells as the front door opens, an extra festive cluster with holly tied to it that Steve put there for the holidays. Andy looks up, but it’s only Curtis and Ari’s girl, a bluster of cold wind entering with her, and she rushes immediately over to Ari.

“You’re freezing,” he exclaims.

“Don’t fuss, it’s just winter!” she responds, all the while burrowing right into him.

“Give me your hands,” Ari says, “I’ll warm them up.” He presses her palms between his. She tips her head up, and he plants a soft kiss on her lips.

Curtis comes up behind her before Andy can even remember what her name is. Curtis leans in, bites at her neck—none too gentle—and she jumps, yelping. Andy expects a slap or a protest, but she just laughs, gently elbowing him in the ribs.

“Jesus, Curtis, rabid much?” she says, but there’s nothing but fondness in her gaze.

Curtis grins, a quick up-tick of one corner of his mouth. “Is that my sweater?”

She twists around, tugging at the sleeve, contemplative. “Yours? Questionable. You bundled me up in it last weekend.”

“Still mine, sugar,” Curtis says.

He hooks a finger under the collar and tugs her closer, and Andy clocks the way her eyes go half-lidded. Nat calls out from her station, “Gross!” without looking up.

Andy realizes then that he’s been far too fixated on them. Looking away, he shakes his head, returns back to the tablet at his station, and ignores the dull, old ache in his chest that he rarely acknowledges.

He continues prepping his station, setting up his gun, needle wrapped in fresh plastic, ink caps lined up like chess pieces along the tray. He cuts strips of blue shop towels, folding them into neat, absorbent pads. It’s not ritual—he hates when people call it that, like he’s a monk instead of just a guy with a license and a steady hand—but there is something to the familiar rhythm of the setup, the way it grounds him.

The bells over the door jangle again, and Andy glances up.

The trio at the front are fast untangling to a professional-enough looking cluster behind the desk, greeting you as you walk in. “Hi—sorry, am I early?” You look around the studio, the slightest of frowns taking over your features. “I thought I had a 6pm with Steve?”

Andy sighs and rolls his eyes before approaching you, you don’t need to know that he’s annoyed Steve didn’t even tell you about the change of plans.

Though that’s strange of the usually-responsible shop owner.

Andy tries for a smile, comes up short. “Steve’s out. You get me instead.”

He waits for a flicker of disappointment, but your reply is steady. “That’s more than fine.” Then an almost bewildered, “Are you Andy?”

“Yeah.” He’s still not sure whether you’re disappointed or not; you’re hard to read. Your face is expressive enough, but shielded, giving away only what you want to give.

“Andy Barber,” Ari announces, voice ringing out from behind the front desk, as if announcing a boxing match. “Steadiest hands in the city.”

“Oh, I—I know who he is.”

“You do?” Andy asks, dropping some of his pretense in his shock.

You hesitate, holding your bag a little tighter, and Andy realizes what he saw on your face: first, a flicker of something almost like surprise, then a careful, practiced reset to cool neutrality. “I actually tried to book with you a few months ago,” you say, like you’re explaining to a customs agent why you don’t have a stamp in your passport. “But Steve said you don’t take new clients anymore.”

Andy smooths a hand over his jaw, feeling the familiar landscape of his beard. So Steve’s been meddling. “Not usually.”

You give a tight, apologetic smile. “Well. I guess this is a lucky day?” Your voice is lighter than your face, and Andy’s gut plummets, hating that he’s caused you distress.

But why is he hating that?

“Absolutely,” he tries to inject brightness in his tone, doesn’t know if he succeeds. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year, right? Holiday magic and all that.”

You don’t answer, just nod, following as Andy motions you over to his station. He takes your coat and hangs it on one of the hooks mounted at his station.

You drop into the guest chair and drop your bag on the side table. Andy flicks away from the art on his tablet and pulls up the app that manages appointments, billing, and client information and clicks into your account, verifying that you need to complete the informed consent waiver. He hands the tablet to you, “Go ahead and read through this, click the appropriate agreements in each section, and then it’ll ask for your signature at the end.”

You nod and give a simple, “Thanks,” as you take the tablet from him.

Up close, Andy recognizes the well-contained nervousness now—you flex your fingers open and closed, you keep your jaw set. You read through quickly, but not too quickly. Andy’s done this long enough he knows when a client skips through improperly. It’s an appropriate allotment of time before you hand the tablet back.

“Do you need anything before we get started?” Andy asks, layering on the calm. “Water, bathroom, ten-minute existential dread spiral in the back alley?”

There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “No, I took care of my existential dread on the way over.”

That earns a real, if brief, smile from Andy. You return it.

“Now is this your first tattoo at Obsidian, or your first tattoo, period?”

You laugh, but it’s nervous. “My first tattoo, period,” you say, and Andy sees the way your left hand closes over your right, thumb working at the knuckles like a worry stone.

“Alright, it’ll be painful but easy. I’ll talk you through it.” He means it to sound reassuring, but he suspects it just comes out flat.

But when you bite your lip and lower your eyes for half a second, his own words hit him, and there’s a surge of heat in his veins.

Christ, he was in trouble. No idea why you had him out of sorts, nothing big had happened that should have unraveled him, but he started to shift him back to… well back to when he didn’t have his composure locked down like Fort Knox.

“You picked something pretty ambitious,” Andy says, picking up the design on his tablet again. “Most people start with stars, a word in handwriting, infinity symbol, maybe a flower.”

“I know,” you say, voice even. “But it’s exactly what I want.”

“I’m familiar with some of these elements, done some pieces that have a similar style, but I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Steve worked up something great for you, and I’ll make sure we get his design just how you envisioned.”

“Oh, I—” you shake your head. “Steve didn’t design that. I sketched it.”

Andy’s pause is so brief you could have missed it, but he clocks the way you watch his face carefully for a reaction. “You’re an artist,” Andy says, surprised but not sure why. He should probably be more surprised—most people show up with grainy screenshots or phone notes, not their own webbed, elaborate geometry.

“No. I mean—yes, sort of. My work is all digital, mostly functional graphic art design for marketing, not fine art.” You lean back a little, defensive but not hostile. “But this is…different.”

Andy lets out a quiet hmm, clicks into the files and pulls up your original submission. There it is, the same lines and shapes, but with the suggestion of a living hand. The lines are more indecisive in your draft, as if they were negotiating space with the page. He wonders how much you wrestled it into existence, or if you even know how beautiful it is.

“I can print Steve’s stencil of your sketch if you want, but I think we should go closer to your original.” He taps the screen, bringing up the preview overlay. “Honestly, yours is better.”

You blink at him. Twice. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?”

Andy barks a laugh. “Do you want me to?”

Then he clamps his mouth shut, wondering where the hell that came from.

You slow-blink at Andy, the question hanging in the air between you. The idea of it—him flirting—seems both laughable and somehow inevitable with you.

He doesn’t have a type. Hasn’t in years. And yet, in less than five minutes, his brain has decided that suddenly his type is unequivocally you.

“No,” you finally say, shaking your head. “I just don’t get complimented by professionals much.”

Good answer. Andy doesn’t miss a beat. He can pivot and realign to reality with that. “You’re not getting a compliment. I’m telling you the version you made is better.” He regards you levelly. “If you want a compliment, you have great taste in tattoo artists.”

You smile at that. “And your artist’s assessment is that my amateur scribbling is better than your colleague’s professional stencil?”

Andy nods. “I could print your layer as the stencil, but in some areas go with it as more of a blueprint? If you trust me?”

You tilt your head, considering. Then you nod, once, brisk and decisive. “I can trust you.”

There’s a pulse under Andy’s ribs again, sharper now. He wants to respond with more, but he just says, “Good.”

“There was a reason I wanted to book with you in the first place. I did my homework. I’ve seen your work on Instagram.”

There’s another lick of heat under Andy’s skin. He’s aware for the first time in years of a blush working its way up his neck, which is a kind of humiliation he thought he’d aged out after leaving his twenties. But there it is, a raw-nerve embarrassment, exposed under your unexpected, unvarnished confidence. He looks away quickly, back to business with the tablet.

“Alright,” he manages, voice almost as steady. “Let’s talk placement. Where’s it going?”

You tap your upper left chest, just below the clavicle and above the heart, fingers splayed like you’re pledging allegiance to this next version of yourself.

He nods. It’s a delicate spot, an area that can hurt more than most, but also heals with a clean, sharp line.

“I’ll print a few sizes for the stencil, and we’ll see what you want to go with.”

He makes his way to the front desk to load the shared printer with the transfer paper. The design comes out crisp, the indigo blue ink almost electric. He stays there as he cuts the excess away from the three scaled sizes, feeling the need for just another few moments alone before what will be a couple of hours in extremely close proximity to you. He glances back up at you from his position. You’re looking at something on your phone. He likes what he sees. Wants to see more.

God, he forgot what that pull was like. That relentless urge to look at someone, to want to see the different expressions on their face, hear them talk, clock their mannerisms, be close to them, touch them—innocently and intimately. He’s had his hook ups and one-night stands here and there over the years, fewer and far between, so he’s not unfamiliar with seeing someone and wanting to have sex with them.

This though? He closed the books on this sort of attraction years ago.

But when he thinks back to his only serious relationship, even in the beginning it was never like this.

He returns to his station and lays out the options on his silver tray. You set your phone face down, eyes flicking up, and he catches you scanning him—not his arms, like most first-timers expecting sleeves of horror-show ink or sailor-full throwbacks, but his face, as if calibrating him.

“Which one do you like?” His own preference is the largest stencil, but he keeps his mouth shut and his face neutral.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and study the triplet of blue-on-white cutouts. Your brow furrows as you consider the options. You almost reach for the biggest one before you pull back. “What do you think?”

He shrugs, but it’s performative. “It’s your skin. But if it were mine, I’d go with this one,” he says, indicating the large one since he saw you were most drawn to it, too. “We can transfer the stencil to your skin, and if it doesn’t feel right, we can go with another. My only goal tonight is to give you exactly what you want.”

Then, remembering the placement you’d indicated, he adds, “Do you want privacy to change?”

You blink and then shake your head. “I’m good. I planned ahead,” you explain, and start unbuttoning your shirt. You look down to accomplish your task, but it wasn’t looking away from him. Andy knows he should look away, but he doesn’t. You chose to wear a camisole under the blouse, so shrugging out of the left sleeve is an easy thing, and the expanse of your skin is readily accessible without indecent exposure.

He’s done this a thousand times, but he still looks you in the eye, careful, before asking, “May I?” The words sound far too formal for a tattoo shop, but you nod.

He snaps on a pair of black gloves, grabs a wipe and a single-use razor from the tray. “You don’t have much here, but I’ll make sure it’s all clean so the transfer sticks.” His tone is businesslike, but his pulse is all out of proportion, and he feels it in the tips of his fingers when he gently presses your shoulder back, the pads of his gloved hand making contact.

Your skin is warm and a little goosebumped in the cool studio air, and when the wipe hits cold, you shiver, but your focus on him doesn’t waver. He works with careful professionalism, swift but gentle—alcohol wipe, quick, precise swipes of the razor, a dry towel. He tries not to focus on the proximity—his hand bracing your shoulder, the faint scent of your hair. He blots the skin with a towel, then thumbs over your collarbone, thinking about the various ways he could anchor the uppermost point of the design.

He aligns the stencil, sprays it, then presses it to your skin, and holds for the slow count. The motion is clinical, but he’s more aware of the shape of your bones under his fingertips than he’s been of anyone’s body in years.

Your breathing is measured, but your pulse jumps at your neck. He peels the backing away, and the inked lines appear, a navy blue filament against your skin. Even at this stage it’s striking—a living schematic, the geometry framing your heart.

“Take a look,” he says. He gestures to the full-length mirror nearby, not missing the way you try to recompose yourself as you stand. “Make sure you’re happy with the placement and the size. We can realign and reapply and try the others if you—”

“No,” you cut in, “I love it. It’s better than what I had in mind.”

That does something to him—he can’t name it, but it sits in his chest like a knuckle of warmth, rough and proud. He’s already half in love with how the lines look on you. He can’t help it, there’s something almost triumphant in the way it looks, the lines sharper and braver than most of what he’s put on people’s skin in recent memory. It belongs to you, but, fuck, it belongs to him now too, because he’s inking it onto you, making it real.

You’re still studying yourself in the mirror, jaw set but eyes bright, and Andy has the sudden, inappropriate urge to touch the tattoo before it even exists. He pushes that thought down, hard.

“I’ll get the rest prepped,” Andy says. He tries to keep his voice level, but the rumble’s there. He hears it. Maybe you do, too. He finishes prepping the station, laying out needles, inking up the first tiny cap. His hands move fast, eager.

You return to the chair, already more relaxed, almost radiant with anticipation. You look down, brush invisible dust off your jeans, and then settle your hands in your lap.

Once he’s ready, he adjusts your chair, reclining you back at a slight angle, lowers it to the height he wants. “Comfortable?”

“Mmhmm,” you indicate with a nod.

Andy positions his ring light, and pulls his rolling tray exactly where he wants it. He powers the machine on, lets the subtle whine settle into the space between your breaths. He gets as close to your skin as the chair will allow, and you don’t flinch when he rests his left hand against your shoulder and the gloved thumb steadies above your collarbone.

“This will sting,” he says, “but you’ll get used to it in about a minute.”

You eye him, skeptical, but the first strokes draw only the faintest wince. He keeps his eyes on the needle, ink bleeding midnight into your skin. After he feels the initial high level of tension abate from your body, he pauses. “If you need to take any breaks or reposition, let me know.”

You nod again.

Then he truly gets to work.

The lines are delicate, and he moves methodically—he won’t botch the blending of your artistry with his execution. This part of the body is one of the most painful and delicate to ink, though, so despite taking a slower pace, he works as efficiently as he can. He takes care to soothe the area often, spraying it with a cool cleanser, wiping away and pressing softly, trying to ignore each time you wince under his needle, and the way you occasionally ball your fist or flex your arm to try to keep the rest of your body still when the pain crescendos.

“How are you feeling?” he asks an hour in.

“I’m… fine,” you manage.

“Yeah?” he pauses, pulling back slightly to catch your eye. He arches an eyebrow.

You take a deep breath in and then exhale and look up at the ceiling. “It’s intense, more than I expected, but it’s manageable.”

Andy offers a small smile, acknowledging your toughness—whether it’s real or bravado, he can’t tell, but he respects it either way. “Good,” he says, and then, because it’s true, “You’re handling it better than most.” It isn’t a compliment, just an observation. He likes that you don’t deflect it or play it down, you just nod, your mouth pressed into a determined line, and keep steady.

The next section is finer detail, which means less pain. He can’t remember the last time a first-timer didn’t ask him how much longer it would be. Instead, you keep your eyes on the wall or ceiling, breathing slow, and he’s grateful for the silence. Not awkward, just focused.

From time to time, Andy glances up, catching glimpses of your face angled away. He can see how you process pain—not with the melodrama of a stoic, but with a reasonable sort of stubbornness. A muscle in your jaw works, not clenching, just moving, maybe counting out beats. He wonders what you do with pain; keep it locked up, or analyze it, or tally it as proof of something accomplished. He wants to ask you, but doesn’t. He tries not to get distracted by the idea of having that conversation with you, other conversations with you. He only focuses on the lines, the skin, the ink.

He breaks only to change refill ink, to wipe the area and check the stencil hasn’t blurred, to spray cool saline now and then. Each time his hands span your shoulder—thumb on one side, fingers braced behind—the warmth creeps up his arm, and he has to remind himself to keep the touch clinical. He occasionally offers up short instructions, warnings for the sharper stretches.

He’s maybe half an hour from the finish line when Nat drifts over, peering at the progress. "Nice, Barber," she says.

"Client with taste," Andy says, not looking away from the tiny lines he's inking. "And a worse pain threshold than you, for once."

You're quiet, but Andy hears a slip of laughter escape. He wonders if you even meant to let it out.

Nat gives you a thumbs up, says, "You're holding up like a champ. Want me to bring you water, or candy?"

Andy expects a polite no-thank-you, but you think about it, then nod. "If you have chocolate or something, that would be great."

"We have the good stuff," Nat promises and disappears down the hall.

"She gets a commission for every bar she pushes," Andy deadpans. "But they're probably laced with kale or turmeric."

You actually laugh this time, then close your eyes and tilt your head back, resting. He recognizes the need for silence, leaves it at that.

Nat reappears, pressing a small, cellophane-wrapped chocolate into your palm. “Dark, like our souls,” she offers.

Andy watches you take a measured bite, jaw working, and he feels every weird, unnecessary beat of his own heart when you swallow.

When Nat leaves, Andy peels the gloves off and starts with a new set for the final section.

He’s hyperconscious of how much of your chest and collarbone are bared for him to work. Consciously, he avoids looking anywhere but the lines he draws, but that doesn’t stop the rest of his mind clocking the curves of muscle, the soft swell of your breasts, the way your breathing has slowed to a kind of trance, up-down, steady, in-out.

Andy leans back, gun still in hand, and considers the last inch of line work in front of him. He’s never liked to rush through the final increments—it’s like the final stitches after surgery, or cross-examining a star witness. Everything hinges on the last details, pulled straight and tight.

He wants the art to be perfect, and he doesn’t want this moment to end. More than he wants to admit.

He finishes another stint, wipes away a narrow line of blood, then looks up at your face. Your eyes are still closed, lashes lying flat, a pulse visible at your temple. He likes the steadiness of you. He wipes the skin again, lets his hand linger just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Almost done,” he says, and you nod.

It’s over before you expect it, and when Andy announces he’s finished, you sit very, very still for a little longer, wary of the letdown.

He sprays the skin one last time, cool and antiseptic, and you shiver as he pats you dry. Andy glances up, catching you watching him. He wonders what you see. He peels the gloves off with a deliberate slowness, dropping them in the trash.

“Want to see?” he asks, simple, without any hype.

You sit up. He gestures for you to go to the mirror, and when you step in front of the glass, your breath audibly catches.

Andy stands behind you, watching you through the mirror. There’s a shine of pride in him, not his usual bite of satisfaction—this is something else, a pulse of shared accomplishment. The design curves perfectly over your heart, flaring outward in increasingly intricate lattices, every line clean against the faintest redness of your skin around its new attribution. He’s proud, maybe a little possessive, but he can keep both those things reined in.

Your fingertip hovers above the lines, not quite touching, as if you’re afraid to break the surface and find only a mirage. Andy sees your jaw work, and for a second, he wonders if you’re going to cry. Not from pain—there’s something else in your eyes, wider than awe, edged with disbelief.

“It’s—” you start, then shake your head. “I didn’t think it would look like this. I thought it’d be flatter.” You tilt sideways, examining the break of the lines over the collarbone, the echo above the swell of your breast. “It’s almost like…like it’s alive.”

“Sometimes it feels like that,” he says. “The skin won’t stay raised up. People think a tattoo’s permanent, but it changes all the time. Even tonight, the ink will settle more, the color intensity may fade out a little. We’ll book you back in about six weeks and touch up anything we need to.”

He’ll see you again. That flare in his chest is unnecessary. Follow up appointments are standard.

Andy turns away from the mirror before you do, needing to be busy, to wipe down his station. He lines up the aftercare sheets and sample ointment packets in tidy rows. In the glass, he can see you still at the mirror, left hand over your heart, right hand delicately tracing the inked lines.

He knows this body language. Knows what it means when a person is trying to reconcile what they’ve done, or what they’re about to let themselves feel.

He tries not to feel the resonance in his own ribs.

You clear your throat and return to the chair, but your hands are less steady than before. “So, uh, do I get a gold star for pain tolerance?”

Andy snorts, but he can’t keep the corners of his mouth from ticking up.

“You can have a second bar of chocolate,” he deadpans, and rummages in his own stash for another.

You accept the prize, tearing the paper to break off a piece to pop into your mouth. Andy asks if you want Saran wrap or second skin. You blink, a little disarmed by the choice. “Uh—second skin, I guess? Is Saran wrap standard?”

“It’s old school. Cheaper, but it doesn’t breathe as well,” Andy says, already reaching for the canister. “Second skin’s like a medical bandage, keeps it clean.”

You hesitate, fingers pinching the chocolate. “Which is better?”

“For healing?” Andy shrugs. “Second skin, hands down. Less mess, less fuss, you’ll hardly have to think about it, but you’ll look like you’re wearing a window for a week.”

You look at the design again, then at him, and the corner of your mouth lifts. “Make me a window.”

"Good choice," he affirms, and slices a rectangle from the roll, judging the size against your tattoo with a practiced flick of his wrist. He sanitizes the area again, then lays the clear film over the new ink, smoothing the edges with his thumbs—gentle, but with a compression that feels like a signature.

Andy’s fingers linger perhaps a second longer than strictly required. The edge of the second skin is secure, and yet he traces the seal one last time, smoothing down the plastic, heat blooming through the latex and into the tender place above your heart. He registers the sharp edge of your inhale, the way you hold your body so precisely still that the absence of movement registers as its own phenomenon.

He clears his throat, pulls his hand away, and busies himself snapping off his gloves, dropping them in the bin.

Andy lays out the aftercare instructions, explaining with his usual briskness. “Leave the film on at least three days—four or five if you can.”

You nod, listening as Andy rattles off the details about aftercare, but your gaze keeps breaking away from the instructions—always back to the mirror’s angle, to the bandaged design. Andy is aware of the way you look at your own reflection, aware of your hands fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, aware that he is more aware of you than he should be.

He’s too old for this. He’s too something for this.

But he wants. And not just to look.

“I can barely feel it under the film,” you say, lifting your chin, “but it’s like—like my heartbeat skids right through it.” Your fingers twitch toward the bandage, then fall away. “Is that normal?”

Andy wipes his hands on a blue shop towel, tosses it, and shrugs one shoulder. “Your body’s figuring out if it recognizes a wound or a threat, or just a change. You’ll adjust. If you hate it tomorrow, just come back and I’ll take it off myself.”

You laugh, unexpectedly, more naturally. It’s—fuck, it’s lovely, and Andy wants to hear it again, wants to earn it. He’s never been sentimental, not even in the his younger years, but he could almost believe in something with the way every bit of your attention lands and lingers and doesn’t flinch away from him.

“I won’t hate it,” you say after a beat of reflection. “I love it. It’s stunning.”

He wants to reach out, to press his thumb to the perfect pitch of your collarbone, to trace the lines he’d just inked and see if the pulse beneath shifts. The urge is so out of proportion—so immediate, so pointed—that it almost scares him.

He clears his throat, and you collect your phone, your aftercare kit, shoulder your bag, as he finishes the last bit of tidying since he’s kept his station very clean through every stage of the process. “I’ll walk you up front and we can settle the bill.”

Nat is closing up her station, and the front of the shop is dark enough that the little lamp on the counter pools the space with gold. The walk to the desk is short, too short. Andy wants reasons to draw it out, to keep you in this space with him, but he can only draw out this process for so long. He taps at the tablet to pull up the payment screen, applies the deposit to the total, then turns it toward you for the remaining balance.

You glance at the total, and your mouth quirks. “That’s it?” You sound honestly incredulous. “I thought it’d be at least a hundred more.”

Andy shrugs. “Holiday pricing. Steve’s idea.”

You shake your head, eyes narrowed, and leave him a more than generous tip.

When you look back up at him, the air between you both is charged; the memory of your skin under his hands, the certainty with which you met his eyes while he worked. He wants to touch you again, and not as a craftsman. Wants to drag his palm over the lines he just carved, over all your lines and curves. He releases the tension by flexing his hand, knuckles pale, and looks you straight in the face.

“Any questions?” His tone is neutral. He is the soul of professionalism, even now.

“No questions,” you say, but you linger.

“You should eat something,” he says.

And you’re still standing there, still looking at him. Tempting him whether you intend to or not.

“Is there a place around here you’d recommend?” you ask. Your voice is slightly hoarse, the resonance of endorphin crash. “To eat, I mean.”

He should give you a list, should make a polite recommendation and let you walk out and vanish into the car-lot night, but he recoils at the idea of not seeing you until the six-week check-in. He wants to see you now, wants to see you later, wants to see you writhe beneath him in his bed.

Fuck.

He wants to say, come with me. Wants to say, there’s a place on the corner, they do real food, none of the fake health stuff, best fried chicken in the city, I’ll even let you have the last hush puppy. Wants to say, I’d like to keep looking at you until I solve the geometry of your mouth, touch more of you than that tender spot above your heart, but instead he locks his jaw and just rattles off a couple of local recommendations.

You thank him again, voice hushed, and let your hand rest on the countertop for a beat too long, then—maybe because you’ve been studying him more than he noticed for the last two hours and can see past the surface of him—you say, “Can I buy you dinner, Andy?”

Andy collects his coat, flicks his car keys from the countertop, and says, “Nope. I’m buying.”

You laugh nervously, and he can see you’re waiting for him to mean it. “You sure? Because I just paid you to hurt me for two hours.” Your voice has a tentative edge, like you’re giving him the chance to say it’s a joke, to say no, you’re not his type, move on.

He shrugs into his coat. “Doesn’t count. That’s work.” He tries for a smile, manages half of one. “Besides, you’re still running on adrenaline.”

He doesn’t mention that he’s starving, that the idea of sitting across from you in a booth so cramped your knees would brush already has him half hard. “The place is just up the block. We can walk. Leave your car, it’s safe in the lot after hours.”

Even as he says it, he’s weighing the ways this could all go wrong, but he’s already made his decision. He wants to see how you eat, if you’ll lick your fingers or cut food into tiny pieces or let the sauces spill down your wrist and laugh it off. He can picture the movement of your mouth already, the way pain and pleasure mapped across your face, and he’s greedy for more of those expressions, paired with food, or under moonlight, or against the background of his sheets.

He nods at the door, holds it for you without thinking.

The city is colder than it looks, the street still busy with holiday traffic. Andy’s hands are tingling from the change in temperature—or maybe from a different kind of nerves, the kind he hasn’t had since he was a decade younger. He wants to put his hand at your back, but he doesn’t. Still, he walks next to you, and the way you walk matches his pace, and the silence is easy, not awkward.

The chicken joint is one of those classic places, with a hand-painted sign in bold colors, run now by the descendants of the couple who opened it in the late ’70s. The lighting is awful, but the smell is righteous: grease, pepper, burnt sugar, downright hearty goodness.

You slip into a booth and he slides in across from you. He doesn’t bother with the menu. Neither do you. Instead, you look at him with a hunger that matches his own.

When the waitress comes, plopping down two glasses of ice water to start you off, he orders for both of you—a basket of chicken, more fries than is strictly legal, extra pickles, and a couple of milkshakes. You add, “And a half order of hush puppies, please,” and Andy clocks the way you say it, not shy, not apologetic. He likes that, too.

The table and the booth are too small, but in the best way. Knees knock a few times before there’s an unspoken agreement to let your legs lean against each other, the space over the tabletop making brushing of hands when the food comes simple and easy and casually intimate as you share the feast between you. The food is better than he remembers. You eat with both hands, cleanly but with purpose, pausing sometimes to wipe your mouth with a napkin. Andy can’t stop watching you, the precision of your grip, the way you savor the first hush puppy before offering him the other half.

The hush puppy half is warm, a little greasy, and Andy eats it off your extended fingers, no hesitation. He doesn’t break eye contact, and the gesture is unavailable for misreading. Your breath hitches a fraction. You retract your hand slowly, like you hadn’t realized how much of you was in the offering. Andy waits for the commentary or the counter of some excuse, but you just resume eating, unhurried, ease down from the small moment of being flustered.

Halfway through, you ask if he always takes his clients out to dinner. There is a flick of challenge to your tone, but it balances with something else—like you’re waiting to see if he catches it as a joke, if he’ll volley back.

“No,” he says, “only you.”

You stop chewing long enough to process this, then swallow with deliberate care. “No,” you repeat, a hint of disbelief. “Never?”

Andy shakes his head. “Never.”

He can’t remember the last time he wanted to fuck someone this badly, not just to get off, but to see if the sound you make when the needle bites your skin is anything like the sound you’d make with his teeth at your jaw, his fingers in you. He watches your mouth when you sip your water, and he wonders if you’ll let him. The idea of you fighting him for control, or giving it up surging through his veins.

He wants the salt of your wrist, the whimper of your mouth, wants all of you pressed so tight into his frame that you’d leave a bruise. You’re watching him as much as he’s watching you, eyes bright, and he wonders if you know exactly what you’ve stirred in him. He suspects you might have an inkling, but you can’t know the depth. You would run if you did. Or at least you should.

When the food is gone and the check arrives, Andy tosses enough cash down to cover the food and a generous tip without looking at what’s scrawled there. He reaches across the table, takes your wrist in his hand, and says, “Come with me.”

The two of you walk the block and a half back to the lot, not speaking. Your hand is a low-grade electrical current in his, driving him faster.

Andy unlocks his car and holds the passenger door for you. You slide in, arrange your bag between your knees, and look at him sideways, like you’re not sure at this point if this is a kidnapping or a date. Andy likes that you don’t seem to care either way.

After sliding in on his own side, Andy buckles in, a practiced muscle memory, tries not to look too long at where you’re already watching him from the passenger seat. You watch his hands flex the wheel, the blue of the dashboard lighting warping the bones of his knuckles, and then you glance out at the street with the same stubborn composure you brought to the shop.

Driving you home is dangerously easy. It’s only a couple of miles away, and he’s glad of that, because the air couldn’t be more thick with tension. He hasn’t premeditated the next move, only that he needs this—needs you, unpredictably, inexplicably, undeniably.

He doesn’t want to scare you off, not now, but he can’t pretend he’s not already figuring out how your limbs will slot with his, what the expressions on your face will look like with his hands on your hips. The longer he’s this close to you, the more he needs you like he needs air.

He puts the car in park outside of his place. For a second, neither of you moves. Andy traces your silhouette with his gaze, the line of your neck, the soft shape of your torso. You look at him like you're memorizing, a fiercely gentle calculation. You look back down at your hands and the purse in your lap, and he wonders, for a jagged second, if you’ll bolt, but instead, you turn back to him, as if you were always going to turn.

There’s not even a drawn breath between the look and who moves first. Andy cups your jaw and pulls you in, mouths meeting in a clash, but you don’t hesitate and he feels the pressure of your fingers curled into his collar, the greedy tilt of your head. Your lips are softer than he expected, warm, everything he could want. Your hands don’t flutter, don’t do the nervous first-date choreography. They get right to the point, anchoring hard at the base of his throat, palm flat, thumb at his pulse.

He groans into your mouth. Your lips part, mouth hot and eager for him. You taste like salt and chocolate, the aftershock of endorphins and sugar crash and want. Andy lets the instinct take over—years of locking himself up after Laurie, of denying cheap desires—he lets all of it pour out into this one controlled detonation. He bends to the shape of your kisses, fits them to his own, rough and desperate.

This want, this need, is mutual. He slots his left palm on your throat, fierce gentleness, and works his thumb under your chin, tilting your head so your neck arches back, so he can get his teeth to the delicate skin just under the edge of your jaw. The sound you make, deep and involuntary, vibrates through your chest. He wants that sound, wants to draw it out of you, over and over, until his mouth is the only lifeline you have left.

He breaks away, already a little rough with it, and his rarely used, rusty smile breaks against your cheek. “Still want this?” he growls more than says, and you can’t help but laugh, a little wild at the edges.

“More than I probably should,” you admit.

His mouth chases yours again. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling, urging him closer.

His hands on your skin are expert—kneading, exploring, pressing, claiming. All his professionalism is gone. What’s left is a raw hunger, and all he wants is to make you ache in places you’ve forgotten you have, until you’re convinced he’s the only one who can fill them.

But he breaks the kiss, breathing hard, when you shiver violently. You both tip your foreheads together, panting like you ran here. He watches your face, one last study of whether there’s a pull of regret that’s finally crept in, if this is when you’ll finally pull away. You don’t.

“You do want this,” Andy says, words stripped of all pretense or cleverness.

You nod eagerly. “But you need to take me inside so I don’t freeze.”

“And so the neighbors don’t call us for public indecency.”

“I don’t care about your neighbors, I’m just getting cold.”

He laughs, but you’re already tumbling out of the car, making a beeline for his stoop. He stalks behind, eyes glued to your hips, his hunger flexing, raging in his veins. The air is so cold now your teeth chatter by the time you hit the top step, and it’s your urgency, not his, that gets you both through the door.

The inside of Andy’s place is stripped-down practical: laminate floors, steel and leather and the dim glow of a single lamp in the hall. No junk, no photos, no clutter—just the sense of a life actively scrubbed of the past. He takes your coat, sets your bag on the credenza, and then you’re kissing again, mouths more than eager for each other.

Andy presses you back against his front door, forearm bracing the wood just above your shoulder. You thread your hands into his shirt, then under it, spreading your icy fingers against his skin, and he hisses but doesn’t pull away. You swap places with a sudden sharp motion, turning him. It’s easy, the way you spin him, how he lets you—and he’s surprised by his own willingness to be handled. Intrigued as to where you want to steer this. You grind him back against the wall, teeth catching his bottom lip until he groans. His hands find your waist, then your ass, and he’s got enough brute strength to lift you, if he wanted.

You pull back slightly, grinning, and trail your hands down his chest, past the hem of his shirt, to his belt. You flick the buckle open, slow, and he watches, his only tell a micro-tremor in his hands on your hips. Then the button, the zipper, he’s pleased you’re going to see he’s already so fucking hard for you. The fabric parts, and you palm him through his boxers, just to feel the size of it, the heat, and you make a needy little hum that he loves. Another sound he wants to drag from you again as much as he can.

You sink to your knees wordlessly, hands at his waistband, and the look in your eye says hunger, says pay attention. He does. You work his jeans down, let them pool at his ankles, spring free the thick length already hard and waiting for you. There’s a beat—a single perfect pause—and you look up at him, unblinking, deliberate, like you’re challenging him to say no, to stop you, to want less. He doesn’t. He won’t. He’ll only wreck and reward you later for this worship.

You wrap your fist around him, testing the weight, the pulse, the heat of it, and the grunt he gives is half warning, half surrender. You’re the one in control now, and he can see that you like it, you like the way his breath stutters and his hips twitch as you lick the head, taste the salt and sharpness, the heavy want of him. Once he’s in your mouth, he’s not delicate. He keeps one hand braced against the wall, but the other anchors to the back of your head.

You take him deep, greedy and almost selfish with it, like you’re trying to see how much you can take just to prove you can take from him. After a few pumps, his hand tightens at the base of your skull, thumb wedging under your jaw, and his first true thrust into your mouth is slow—testing, a little cruel. You let him. You want him to. You breathe through your nose, eyes burning as he opens you, as the thick head of his cock chokes the back of your throat. You keep eye contact, and he sees the challenge there—sees it, and answers.

“Look at you,” he grunts, voice a low rasp. “Taking it so fucking well. God, you’re even better than I thought.” The praise is rough around the edges, the syllables grinding out of him as he works his hips, a controlled rhythm, never giving you more than he can see you’re ready for—but always, always testing that edge.

“Take it,” he says, voice pitched flat and low. He has to maintain some line of control in this moment. “You can take more. Show me.” The words are a dare. You dig your nails into the backs of Andy’s thighs and answer by taking him deeper. You blink and your eyes water, but you refuse to close them—you meet his gaze, defiant, and the need in his veins only sharpens. He fucks into your mouth without mercy, drowning you in the relentless rhythm of his hips, the thick, deliberate glide of him inside your mouth. His thumb massages the angle of your jaw as if he could unlock more of you with every inch, every shudder, every guttural sigh ripped from his chest.

"God, look at you. Open for me, fuck," he grits, voice breaking around the words, gentle only in the reverence of his awe and the rough steadiness of his hand. "You're truly gonna let me ruin you, aren't you?" Unable to speak, you answer with your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, letting your lips seal wet and tight at the root, hands clinging to his thighs.

Tears spill over as he pushes you to the absolute limits of what you can take, but Andy is watching, “Gorgeous, perfect creature. You’re as hungry for this as I am.”

Then he fucks your mouth with short, ruthless thrusts, hips rolling in a rhythm that’s all necessity, and every time you gag around him, he grits his teeth like he’s the one being punished.

Andy swells in your mouth, the last element before he loses it, hips jerking as he groans, eyes riveted on yours as he comes. There’s no warning, no slow build-up, just the rush of cum he delivers down your throat. He holds you there, jaw gently cradled in both of his big hands, until he’s certain you’ve swallowed all of him.

You cough once and sputter, spit-slick and ruined, and Andy wipes your chin with the pad of his thumb, the touch both tender and filthy. “Messy,” he says, the word reverent, “and so fucking good for me.” He doesn’t give you time to rest, just hauls you up by the arms, steadying you as your knees threaten to give.

Your eyes are still dazed, lips shiny and a little bruised. You brush the back of your wrist across your mouth, then square your shoulders as if to reclaim ground, but before you can fully recover, Andy bends, sweeps an arm behind your knees, and hoists you clean off the floor. You’re pressed to his chest, legs dangling, and the surprise on your face is worth the mild ache in Andy’s bad shoulder.

You don’t protest or demand to be set down, but you catch yourself with an arm hooked quick around his neck, your nervous half-laugh, half-yelp tunes alerts him to a flash of uncertainty in your eyes. You’re larger than the women who are supposed to be The Conventionally Attractive Ones who Get Hit On, but so much more interesting and nothing he can’t handle—he’s big enough, broad enough, and all your softness is better than sharp angles, and he hopes you don’t question that from him.

Andy barrels through the spare, dark apartment, and navigates to the half-open door at the end of the hall. His intent was to toss you onto the bed, but once he has you in his ultimate sanctuary, suddenly he’s able to slow down. He sets both your feet down, makes sure you’re steady, then backs you toward the mattress, knowingly crowding you with his size and heat until your knees buckle and you topple back onto the cool, forgiving surface. He shucks off his shirt, then follows you down, bracing his weight on both arms as he looms, hovering a few inches above, watching as your face flickers with awe, hunger, only a little wariness.

Honestly, it’s the same cocktail surging through his own veins.

He ushers you further up the bed, and once you’re settled high enough, he drops in to kiss you again, this time slow enough that it forces your eyes closed. He can taste the flood of himself in your mouth, and it’s sharp and bright and a little wild. He nips at your mouth, finds the corner, the soft seam, penetrates, licking into your mouth with his tongue. You indulge, pledge your mouth to his, the kisses continuing in their slow absolution, but pitching in heat, until you’re fully breathless, and only then does he release your lips. But his mouth doesn’t rest, it seeks out the curve of your jaw, drawing his lips along the edge, then goes over again with his tongue. You moan for him, a sound that wracks through his chest and makes his cock stir again, which is what he wanted. He wants to drag this out, keep you pressed and writhing under him, hours if he has the self-control. But your hands are greedy, pulling him closer, and you keep whimpering, grinding up into him, chasing friction with growing desperation.

He gets your blouse undone with the sort of delicacy that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the pleasure of each slow second. He watches your face as he pries each button free, because he hasn’t given you much choice, but he’d stop if he thought you actually wanted him to. You don’t. He reads it in the way you arch up and shrug your shoulder blades to let him pull the sleeves down your arms. He peels the camisole off next, and you help him, and when your bra is exposed, you hesitate for a quarter-second—one heartbeat—but then you let him reach behind you, fumble for the hooks, succeed on the first try.

You’re bare to the waist, soft in the lamplight, and there’s a wild, welcoming flicker in your eyes. He’s unhurried—he won’t let himself be rushed. He’s always been tactile, it’s why he took up inking outside of practicing law, and in this moment, the sense of your softness under his hands, the way you respond to every touch, is all-encompassing. The way your chest heaves, the way you arch up to meet him, the little gasp when he brushes his thumb over one of your nipples, he’s hungry for all of it.

He runs his fingers carefully over the lines of your new tattoo beneath the second skin, gentle so as not to disturb the new wound but firm enough to remind you it’s his work. He’s embedded into your skin forever. He’s always preferred bodies that could take a bruise, a mark, a bite; you are a beautiful geography, full of valleys and generous curves, and he wants to leave impressions everywhere on you.

He palms your tits—soft, perfect, you breathe into his hands, you’re so alive—and runs his tongue in wide, teasing spirals around your nipples, savoring the way your breath catches, the way you dig your nails unashamedly into his bicep. He groans his approval against your skin.

Andy works you with his mouth while his hand kneads your other breast, tongue working in deliberate, strong strokes that leave you gasping and writhing under him. He alternates, lavishing attention on each without rushing. Every suck, every graze of his teeth is mapped precisely to your every shudder, every sharp inhale, every time you reach for him. It’s not a performance. He doesn’t look up for approval or ask what you want. He reads your cues, zeroes in on the twitch of muscle or the way your hips try to cant up under him.

You run your fingernails up the ridges of his spine, pull him tighter against you, and he rewards you with another rumbling growl, the sound echoing against your ribs. He wants you wrecked. You want to be wrecked.

He shifts, sliding down the bed, and you roll your hips up so he can unclip the button and tug your jeans over your hips. He grins at the sight—how you arch to help, shameless, ultimately kicking the denim away once he’s pulled it down your legs. You’re wearing nothing but a pair of simple black panties, nothing designed to be sexy, and that makes him even more feral, more pleased with his conquest because you didn’t intend for any of this.

Andy takes his time with the waistband of your underwear, letting his knuckles drag over your hip bones, admiring the way your skin dents under his touch. He fits his hands to the curve of your ass, squeezes once, and then slides the panties off, slow and deliberate. He kisses your hip first, right where the elastic left a faint mark, and then he nips the flesh there, gentle but pointed, staking a claim.

He doesn’t move straight for the main event. He trails his mouth up your belly, the sharp edge of his beard grazing your skin, making you shudder. You’re quieter now, holding back, but he’s determined to lavish attention over all of you. He plants a line of wet kisses along your ribcage, tongues one of your nipples again for good measure, and then works his way down, pausing at your navel to dip his tongue into it, shameless. He likes the way you twitch, likes that even now you’re still fighting to keep some restraint, holding onto a little insecurity, but also trying not to give him too much of what he wants. That’s fine. He’s a patient man. He’ll take it all, a little at a time.

He braces a forearm above your thigh, just shy of pinning you fully, and uses the other hand to spread you open. He doesn’t announce what he’s about to do, doesn’t check in, just bends his head and gets his mouth on you.

He starts with soft, closed-mouthed kisses, the edge of his beard scratching your inner thigh, and then gradually works up to it, flattening his tongue and lapping from the base to the top, every motion mapped and measured. You let out a staccato gasp, clutching at the comforter with both hands.

He works you with his mouth, tongue flat and slow, learns the way your thighs quiver and the pulse that hammers just under the skin. Your taste is everything—tart, heady, real. He uses his thumb to spread you wider, then circles it against your clit, gradually building a tight, insistent rhythm. You squirm, but he’s got you pinned now, his big hand anchored on your thigh, the other bracing under your right knee to keep you open for him.

Your breathing goes ragged. He listens to the rhythm of it, the little gasps and moans, and times his tongue to match. He draws it out, every tiny quake and flutter of you, until you’re panting, clutching at his hair, the comforter, anything. He feels you shudder, once, twice, then you break with a muffled cry, hips rolling up into his tongue, legs closing hard around his head. He keeps licking until your thighs tremble and the taste of your release mixes with his spit, and only when he’s sure you’re wrung out does he slow, nursing you through the aftershocks with lazy, gentle licks. While he draws out the pleasure, he ruts languidly into the mattress, his  cock slowly but diligently recovering, eager for more. He drags his mouth back up your thigh, letting the scrape of his beard remind you who did this. He kisses the inside of your knee, then your hip, then finally climbs up to plant a soft, deliberate kiss on your lips, wet and shameless. You taste yourself and moan into his mouth, and for a moment you just hold on, wrapping your legs around his hips, arms locked behind his neck.

Andy stays like that, forehead pressed to yours, lips kissing, breathing you in. He waits, lets you guide the next move because he wants to see what you'll do when you have control again. He’s not disappointed.

You find his face with your hands, cradle his jaw, then rub your thumb along his beard and drag him down for another kiss—slow, deep, all tongue and want. He hopes you taste how much he wants you, real and raw. When he grinds against you, you let him, arching up, slick skin to skin. He’s almost fully hard again, heavy on your thigh, and you reach for him, stroking diligently as he groans to get him there. Then you’re guiding his cock so that it drags hot against your cunt, every pass making you twitch in aftershock, but he loves that you want him inside you as much as he does.

He teases himself along your entrance, the tip of his cock pushing through only as much as you’ll let him, then sliding back out, gathering slick with every pass. You’re still so sensitive that you shiver every time he pulls away, but you keep drawing him back, using your legs as a vise to keep him close.

When he finally thrusts inside you, the stretch is deep and almost violent, and he has to grit his teeth not to come right then and there. You take him all in—greedy, eager, perfect. He slows, not to savor it, but because the heat of you, the wet pulsing heat, is almost more than he can handle, better than anything he’s known in years. He’s been on a mission to ruin you, but in the deep breath he takes in this moment, he has to acknowledge there’s a chance your cunt has just ruined him.

He grits his teeth and waits for you to adjust, to start rocking your hips in invitation. You’re wetter than he expected, and so snug he can feel every twitch, every squeeze. But then he can’t wait anymore. He looks at your face and sees a demure smile, a sparkle of mischief in your eyes, and he smirks.

“Tease.”

“Only teasing if I don’t intend to give in to what we want,” you respond.

He starts to move, slow, and you meet him, hips tilting up to grind hard against the base of him on every in-stroke. There's no rush. He likes the way your body mesh into his, the way your chest is soft and yielding, the way your thighs have parted fully for him, wrapping around his waist. Every inch of you is hot and alive beneath him.

You gasp, say fuck, it's too much, but you don't mean it, you can't mean it because Andy's not letting up, not for an instant. He has a lawyer’s instinct for argument and a tattoo artist’s devotion to his craft—he’s going to make his case, over and over, until you break.

He works you with deep, dragging strokes, savoring the catch and grind of your body clutching at him. He’s vocal, not afraid to let you hear the punch of each thrust—hard and sharp, more than a little mean because he knows you can take it. Christ, you want it. Every time he bottoms out and grinds his hips, you let him hear it, moaning freely, arms clinging around his shoulders, your nails raking tracks down his back. He wants those marks. He wants to wake up bruised and raw and remember every second of it.

You pant, willingly swept away in the intensity, shivering in aftershocks of each thrust that makes your thighs quake. He loves to see it—loves the proof of what he’s doing to you. He leans down, mouth hot on your ear, and growls, “Take it. You can take more, can’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, grinding up in time with his rhythm. “More.”

He can feel you clenching around him, feel the heat winding up tight inside you, and every time you arch up and your nails dig deeper in his back you make it goddamn impossible for him to hold back. But he wants it to last, wants to keep pumping into you until you’re too raw and shaking to take another stroke. So he slows again, braces you with a rough hand on your hip, uses just the head to tease at your entrance, then drives back in, deep enough that he can feel your whole body flex and tremble.

He pulls his hand from your hip up to your jaw, forces you to look at him, fingers digging deep into his hair, locking him to your face as your hips rise in a silent, desperate demand. “Come on,” you murmur, the hint of goad in your voice sending a spike through him that’s as sharp as any needle. “Give me more.”

He snarls and drives in hard. There’s no more patience. He takes you, really takes you, hands back at your hips, all his weight and focus on the relentless rhythm of in-out, in-out, every stroke meant to erase the memory of anyone else who’s ever been inside you, make you forget your own damn name. Your voice rises—gasp, moan, a sharp cry as he angles himself just so and finds the spot that makes you quake, once, twice, and then you scream.

You shatter around him, body taut as wire, pulse hammering. Andy feels your whole body clamp down, and the wild ripple of it up his cock nearly undoes him.

He wants to ride the wave, to keep pounding you until you’ve come again, but your arms rope hard around his neck and you’re sobbing against his shoulder and he can’t—he can’t, not with the desperate honesty of your pleasure in his ear. He grinds in deep, stills, and feels your cunt pulsing frantic around him.

He’s not gentle about his finish. He wants you to feel every last spasm of it, so he sinks his teeth into the angle of your bare neck, muffling his own shout as he comes. The finish rips through him, shocks his muscles rigid. He empties himself into you, cock throbbing against the clutch of your body, and he keeps rocking, even as you keep milking him with every pulse, every aftershock.

He fucks you until every last tremor is wrung from your ruined body, refusing to let you go until he’s sure you have none of yourself left to give him. He rolls off after a minute, pulling you with him to lie tangled and heaving. He’s slippery with sweat, cock still twitching, breath loud in the close dark.

He’s never been much for post-coital tenderness, always preferred to keep it transactional, a quick wash-up, a joke, clothes back on and boundaries restored before excitement could rot into awkwardness or regret. But he doesn’t want to move. You’re curled against him, the brace of your hand on his chest, and he thinks, fuck it, let’s see how it plays.

He lies still and listens to your breathing. Not steady yet, but catching, half-inhaled, the way you might breathe if you’d just run a race. He tries to slow his own down, but it’s not working. You smell like sex and sweat and that faint, resinous trace of the tattoo parlor. He wants to ask if this is the only time, or the first time of many. That’s not how these things go, though. Not at his age, not with someone whose name he learned four hours ago and whose mouth he wants more of already.

Instead, he says, “You’re gonna bruise.” He touches the inside of your thigh, thumb tracing the edge where his beard must have left a raw patch. “You okay with that?”

You laugh, the sound a little cracked. “Are you saying you didn’t want to bruise me?”

A low laugh tumbles easily from his chest. “I wanted to. But I wanted you to want it, too.”

You squeeze his hand in yours, then tuck your chin down to his collarbone. “I wanted it,” you admit, tone resolute.

“Want to stay?” he asks, hating himself for how much he wants the answer to be yes.

You don’t answer right away, just hook your thigh over his, nestle closer, and let your hand drift down to rest in the center of his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heart hammering, or if you just like the rhythm there.

He feels you drift, your breathing shifting—first a stutter, then a slackening, then an almost weightless drag of air, not so much asleep as capsized by exhaustion. He keeps his hand on your back, palm wide, drifting up and down your spine, letting you settle as far into him as your body wants. He likes the animal simplicity of the moment—two bodies too spent to do anything but sprawl.

He shifts to get more comfortable and feels the gut-warm stripe of wet up his inner thigh, cooling now, a river of come and slick he realizes is leaking from your cunt.

He presses his palm flat to the small of your back, strokes gently, then drifts down lower, fingers finding the source, the way you’re leaking, raw and sweet and messy as hell. He pushes his fingers through the mess, slow, gathering a bit of you and him together, and brings it up to your hip, rubbing it in lazy circles. A primal part of him likes the claim of it, how thoroughly he’s left a mark inside your walls.

He didn’t even think about protection. Not out of arrogance, or carelessness, but because you were so immediate, so necessary, that the old cautions didn’t even cross his mind. He waits for a wince of guilt, but there’s only the hot, ungentle satisfaction of having had his claim on you ratified, to use the ugly lawyer term for what this was.

You continue to drift, but come back to the surface long enough to murmur, “You know, I think you might have actually broken me,” voice gone soft and slurred.

He cracks a smile, presses his lips to your forehead, his voice almost a whisper. “You’re not broken. Not even close. But we can go again in the morning.”

You don’t answer, but Andy feels your mouth curve faintly against his skin, the smile so small and so true he can feel it in his ribs.

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Hi. 🫠

This was long, but I just knew their story was multi-faceted, it couldn't be multi-part because it was something that happened all in one go, and whlie I was able to edit down by 2.5k, everything I still kept just ... still did something that I had in my head for you and this particular Andy. Shut up, I know this run-on sentence is just an example of my entirely too verbose problem.

just reblog and scream at me about anything that stood out please

next part: JUST ONE MORNING AFTER