𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐋 |𝟏𝟖+|

𝐅 𝐈 𝐅 𝐓 𝐘 ~ 𝐅 𝐎 𝐔 𝐑 ★

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-　

✼ N E V A E H ✼

I'm fully clothed by the time I get back to restitching Atticus. By fully clothed I mean in his baggy t-shirt and a pair of his boxers. They weren't smelly when I put them on, so I guess I can safely assume that he washes his balls. We must appreciate a hygienic man, should we not? 

I figured that since I was just moments away from having his huge dick inside of me, wearing his boxers would practically provide the same effect, right? Okay, I'm fucking with you, I already have my own pack of boxers and the idea of wearing someone else's used boxers repulses me, even if I was literally just about to fuck him. 

I have strictly instructed him to keep his hands off me because we all know how that ended up the last time he dared to allow his hands to venture further, which was nothing short of a few hours ago. 

"Why do you cover them?" Atticus asks me after a while, studying my face while I apply antibiotics on his gash. 

"Huh?" I reply, questioning him, not sure of what he was talking about. Was he talking about my boobs? If he was, why was he looking at my face?

"Your freckles," He says like it's the most obvious thing laying in plain sight, "Why do you cover them?" He repeats, his voice as calm and soothing as ever, as if there wasn't a sharp needle digging through his flesh moments before. 

He's talking about the freckles that scattered across my nose and my cheeks. I always used some concealer to cover them up, but due to the events that transpired not long ago, it came off due to the sweat. I guess it's time to invest in some waterproof concealer. 

A lot of people consider freckles something beautiful and distinct, but I fucking hated it. Actually I don't think I necessarily hated it, I just hate the way it makes me feel when I look in the mirror. I just hear the voice of that asshole, low-life motherfucker, saying how ugly they looked on me. And how the sole purpose of a woman was to have a bare face and big boobs. I don't know how something that simple sprouted into a conversation about bra size.

But now, as I look back, all I can think about is that if he wanted big boobs so bad, he should have just gotten them done on himself. Because I can't for the life of me seem to understand what the actually fuck he wanted me to do about it. Eat some damn fucking oats?

You got me all the way fucked up. 

"Oh," I realize with a small laugh, making him smile. He's so weird, because who gave him the right to look so good looking up at me and smiling like that?  "It's because I don't like the way they look on me. They're ugly. And no one has ever noticed them actually."

The smile on his face drops into an expression I couldn't read thoroughly, because I've never seen it on him. I see his grip on the armrests tighten as the words leave my mouth as if the chair had angered him and he was about to unleash every bit of rage he had in him. "What dumb fuck, bone-headed, Pennywise looking asshole told you that?" 

I laugh again at his response, but don't bother to give him an answer to his question. He doesn't linger on that, instead he brings my hand to his mouth and places a soft kiss on the back of my hand. "Whoever it was doesn't know what beauty is, because I think your freckles look fucking beautiful. You look-" 

"Alright, sir, let's get you to the bath tub immediately before you end up saying some dumb shit," I offer, diverting the topic from me and saving him and myself the complications that would come if he said anything further. 

Dragging Atticus to the bath tub was much easier than taking him to take a piss after his stitches ripped, but now that I've reassessed his wound, it's practically a piece of cake.