refinedpalette

[refinedpalette]

okay so obviously Kinktober 2021 didn’t go anywhere because I got stuck writing, what, the fourth fic? then forgot this account existed altogether lolol. now to figure out what triggered the sudden urge to log in and post this when the fics are definitely still not anywhere near done

[refinedpalette]

A Thread of Appropriate Reactions

Fandom: Prospect (2018) Pairing: Ezra/Female Reader (no y/n) Rating: Mature; 18+ only Word Count: 2600ish

Warnings: smut; dry humping x anonymous sex; too many descriptions of things that aren’t smut

A/N: Set post-movie, with vague allusions to Ezra’s new singlehandedness. My first Kinktober fic! I’m using a combined list from prompts by @buckyownsmylife and @the-purity-pen​ and uhhh I’m real rusty at smut

–

Of course there were no seats left on the transport. 

You’d taken the same one for years. Gotten too accustomed to a friendly face holding a bit of space for you the way you did for them. The delay wasn’t ruinous; you’d built plenty of time into your commute to account for a delay. But it was a disappointment to trade the comfort of your everyday routine for, well, this.

Still trying to control your breathing after the mad dash from your pod to the station, you swung your bag down off your shoulders and nudged your way into the overstuffed car. Grumbling beings of all shapes, sizes, and smells made a bit of room–nearly enough to squeeze yourself through to one of the safety bars bolted from floor to ceiling.

The door whooshed closed behind you and the pod shimmied as the engines readied for departure. Straining your arm, you managed to brush a fingertip against the bar when the brakes disengaged.

Thankful for the mad press of bodies all around keeping you from toppling ass over turbine, you grimaced at the nearest face pointed in your direction.

“Imagine if it were raining,” you joked, all too aware of the sweat that streamed down the back of your neck.

Somewhere behind you there was a snort of almost-laughter but you could hardly turn to find out who it was.

Keep reading

[refinedpalette]

Thank you so much! I don't know where all this soft!Pero came from 😍

No Need To Go Down Fighting

Fandom: The Great Wall Pairing: Pero Tovar/Menstruating Reader (no y/n) Rating: Mature; 18+ only Word Count: 1800-ish

Warnings: hair pulling x period sex; Reader is referred to as a woman; cunnilingus; brief references to pregnancy, menstruation, miscarriage and/or infant/child death; if one were to give the smut in this fic a sticker it would be the misshapen “an attempt was made” gold star

A/N: So, I managed to finish a second Kinktober fic on the second day of Kinktober! A miracle. (I’m using a combined list of Kinktober prompts by @buckyownsmylife​ and @the-purity-pen​​ btw) This fic contains references to like two real historical facts because if I let myself do any research it would be next March before I stopped.

–

Before you, what Pero Tovar thought he knew of women would fit on the head of a pin. Of course, he did not know that then. He had had a mother and aunties, a grandmother, employers and lovers, the occasional compatriot, and even–for a time when he was very young–a sweetheart or two. He knew what he wanted of them, and they of him. He taught himself to want very little and to expect even less, and that sufficed. 

Before you.

–

In the spring, Pero will see his forty-fifth year in the world. From the sun-drenched city of his youth, with her bleached stones and muddy rivers, to the very ends of the earth, he saw wonders beyond the telling, though he will try to fumble his way through. He survived dangers that still shove him out of a sound sleep on the darkest nights, gasping and trembling, sweat and tears both pouring out of him like rain. 

He opened his heart as well as he could: as a brother and a son, a friend and a lover, but always holding back the vital pieces of himself. Those pieces that, were he to let them be seen, would drive him into the ground with longing and sorrow.

Before you, he thought that was as much as he was capable of doing.

Keep reading

[refinedpalette]

Consider Me Saved

Fandom: Brothers & Sisters Pairing: Zach Wellison/Any Gender Reader (no y/n) Rating: M? E? All I know is it’s 18+ only! Word Count: ~650

Warnings: smut; praising x object insertion; reader is any gender with no physical description beyond having two hands and a body; one very brief instance of impact play (open palm to abdomen); anal sex (m receiving); y e a r n i n g 👁👄👁

A/N: I’ve been reading and writing fic for one million years and I still don’t know the difference between M and E. Anyway, it’s a good thing I don’t go to confession anymore! (All of these Kinktober prompts come from combining the lists by @buckyownsmylife and @the-purity-pen ❤️​) 

Kinktober 2021 Masterlist

--

Zach had never felt anything like it before in his life. 

The stretch was just this side of distracting; too much but still not enough. It lit him up inside like a summer storm. His hips twisted, grinding his erection into the mattress until the sharp crack of an open palm on his flank reminded him to hold still.

"Please," he pleaded, control slipping again despite himself. 

You dragged your fingers over his pinkening skin in an apologetic caress. Another moan slipped past the lips he was trying so hard to keep closed.

“Do you trust me?” you asked. Bending to brush the hair away from his forehead, you pressed a soft kiss to his temple. He felt the tip of your tongue there, just for an instant.

“Yes,” Zach promised. He could almost catch his breath. “I do. I trust you.” His fingers stayed curled into the sheets below him. He wasn’t so wrecked yet that he would beg, but it wasn’t too far off. 

“Good,” you breathed against his skin. “You’re so good to me.”

The pulsing pressure inside him was steady while you slid back to your position by his hip. Your breath was coming a little faster now, as your hands came back to his legs, sweeping up his thighs in broad arcs, pausing to knead and pinch and scratch lightly along the way. 

Behind his closed eyelids, the world had melted into the plush velvet of a midnight sky. Zach could almost feel you in that darkness, a bright halo of promise like the dawning of a new day. 

You spread his legs further apart, moving over him to come to rest between them. Something cool and slippery drizzled over his heated skin as you eased the pressure out of him. The fingertips of your free hand drew dizzying patterns over all the softness he had, dipping in to spread coolness through his throbbing heat. He clenched, over and over again, unable to control himself anymore than he was able to stop the needy cries spilling into the sheets bunched beneath his head.

“Shhh,” you soothed him. “You’re so good to me. For me. Let me be good to you.” The pressure returned, replacing the warmth of your fingers with a solid coolness that slipped a little deeper with every breath. 

Zach’s breath caught in his throat with a little cry. He held himself back from grinding into the bed again, but only barely. 

“Is this okay?” you asked.

“It’s so good,” he moaned. “I’ve never felt anything like it.” 

Had he already told you that? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t concentrate on anything but the heat of you between his legs, on his thighs and his ass and up his spine. The slippery warmth of your praise spilling deep inside him with every pulse of his heartbeat. The utter safety of being under your spell, helpless against the way you made him feel. The rest of the world was so far away. Buried beneath the soft noises between you, the love you spread over every inch of him, breathed into the very air in his lungs.

Zach knew he didn’t need to hold back. There was nothing he could do that would disappoint you. He knew that. He felt it in everything you did for him, but he wanted to be good. He wanted to be everything you wanted, everything you deserved, nothing more and never anything less.

“Please,” he begged. 

You stretched your body over his, letting the weight of your hips cover him, helped to push that pressure just a bit deeper. Your hands smoothed up his sides and down his arms. Your fingers curled between his before sweeping back down to grip his hips, bracing his trembling body, guiding him up into the position you both knew he needed.

Your lips brushed his ear as one hand slipped around to the front of him. “Can you be good for me one more time?” you asked. 

“Always.”

[refinedpalette]

Someone please explain to my brain that it's Kinktober not Plot-tober!!

Here's some snippets from why I'm so far behind on posting 😑 18+/no minors for the last one

Marcus Pike/any gender reader

“It’s damn good to see you,” he says. “How are the renovations treating you?”

It's embarrassing how your heart skips a beat at the question. That he would remember your plans to expand the shop, when the last time you saw each other was months ago? You were never much more than casual acquaintances, really. Neighbors who seemed to run the same errand circuit, friendly enough to drink together on the not-so-rare occasions you found yourselves sitting in almost exactly these seats. You shared dinners, too, or coffee and a movie on a weekend when you were both free. There was a time you thought it would lead to more, but, well. C’est la vie.

--

Javier Peña/femme reader

When at last it’s his turn to step up to the long counter, you’re returning the scoop to its bucket of warm water. With a twist of your wrist, you wrap a handful of napkins around the base of the sugar cones you hold and hand both to the waiting customer. Another sparkling smile accompanies your cheerful “thanks for coming” that hits Javier somewhere south of his beltline.

Well, that’s interesting.

--

Zach Wellison/???

Zach had never felt anything like it before in his life. The stretch was just this side of agonizing; too much but still not enough. It lit him up inside like a summer storm. His hips twisted, grinding his erection into the mattress until the sharp crack of an open palm on his flank reminded him to hold still.

"Please," he begged. "Please."

[refinedpalette]

No Need To Go Down Fighting

Fandom: The Great Wall Pairing: Pero Tovar/Menstruating Reader (no y/n) Rating: Mature; 18+ only Word Count: 1800-ish

Warnings: hair pulling x period sex; Reader is referred to as a woman; cunnilingus; brief references to pregnancy, menstruation, miscarriage and/or infant/child death; if one were to give the smut in this fic a sticker it would be the misshapen “an attempt was made” gold star

A/N: So, I managed to finish a second Kinktober fic on the second day of Kinktober! A miracle. (I’m using a combined list of Kinktober prompts by @buckyownsmylife​ and @the-purity-pen​​ btw) This fic contains references to like two real historical facts because if I let myself do any research it would be next March before I stopped.

Kinktober 2021 Masterlist

--

Before you, what Pero Tovar thought he knew of women would fit on the head of a pin. Of course, he did not know that then. He had had a mother and aunties, a grandmother, employers and lovers, the occasional compatriot, and even--for a time when he was very young--a sweetheart or two. He knew what he wanted of them, and they of him. He taught himself to want very little and to expect even less, and that sufficed. 

Before you.

--

In the spring, Pero will see his forty-fifth year in the world. From the sun-drenched city of his youth, with her bleached stones and muddy rivers, to the very ends of the earth, he saw wonders beyond the telling, though he will try to fumble his way through. He survived dangers that still shove him out of a sound sleep on the darkest nights, gasping and trembling, sweat and tears both pouring out of him like rain. 

He opened his heart as well as he could: as a brother and a son, a friend and a lover, but always holding back the vital pieces of himself. Those pieces that, were he to let them be seen, would drive him into the ground with longing and sorrow.

Before you, he thought that was as much as he was capable of doing.

Here, though, in your pretty corner of the world, Pero has learned how to be still. Not watchful, not wary. Still, and sure, yes, and no longer surly until the occasion calls for it. He has learned how to be content with what he holds and yet want more. How to fill his hands and his belly until both ache with abundance and how to trust that even in the leanest times there will be no lack.

He has learned that there is no corner of himself where he can hide. It isn’t that you come prying in, trying to wind your way all through him until nothing remains unseen. He can feel when you want to know more, when you want to press for more, but you smile or you frown and you lay a kiss on whatever part of him you can reach and you go about your day. 

It drove him wild that first year, how you could so gently urge some door inside him to open a crack then turn away. He hardly knew what to do. For so many years, nearly his whole life, he would have run. He would have mounted up in the middle of the day, not even doing you the courtesy of sneaking away in the moonlight. 

But he would get as far as the hearth, where you kept a rosy stone he had carried home for you out of the field, and another, more terrible urge would rise up within him. He wanted to push every one of those doors wide open, pull you in by the hand, hold your face up to every raw grasping part of him. Until you saw the truth and pushed him away, the way you should have at a hundred moments between then and now.

Instead you listened, one ear pressed to the bare skin over his heart, as the words came haltingly out of the deep graves he had dug for them. You wept with him, wiping your eyes with your hands and kissing his wet cheeks. Instead of turning him away, you invited him into you in return. Into the aching sweetness of your mouth, your heart, your womb.

Pero learns how to truly want, there in your bed. How to love. How to know. The hills and plains of your body yield to him without surrendering. There is no path you will not follow him down, no place you will not carry him with you. 

He lived an entire lifetime before you beckoned him in. A lifetime he would have called rich and full--even when it was poor and lean--but every time you welcome him into yourself, or yourself into him, he learns again how barren it was.

--

In the spring, Pero will reach his forty-fifth year, surpassing both his parents and his aunties. In the still water of the well, he will see his father’s eyes surrounded by lines his grandmother’s face never grew. He will ache in places he hardly remembers owning, even in the soft embrace of your bed and your arms. He will wonder when his good fortune will finally run out, until your daughters pull on his fingers to wake him or your son wails from the corner of the room. Until the day rolls on as all of them do and he remembers that there is nothing left in him for regret.

--

But it is early summer now, and all around you the cottage is slumbering. Your son is yet to quicken in your womb, though it won’t be long. In the loft above, your daughters lie loose-limbed and snoring softly. You have just come shivering into your room. Your bare feet are cold from the dew they gathered as you walked in the grass. River sand still clings between your toes and the wet shift you wear is translucent in the firelight. 

Pero waits for you in your bed. His hair is still damp and curling from his own bath. Silver sprinkles through the dark spill of it like starlight, and your heart pulses in your throat and between your legs at the sight.

“You were gone so long I thought perhaps you had finally stolen away with the river god,” he teases. The scar that cuts through his eye makes the twinkle within it seem doubly roguish. 

“He offered me so little,” you say, in mock outrage. 

“His water could carry you anywhere you wished to go.”

Crawling onto the bed and into his lap, you flick a finger at the tip of his nose. “It could only carry me here, in a flood, and I have no desire to lose another stick of furniture, thank you.”

His shoulders are warm and wide beneath your hands, as your waist is beneath his. He kneads and strokes at you until you feel as soft as butter. All the tension of the last day drains away, loosening your lower back and hips far more than the walk to and from the river had managed.

You scrape a nail down the side of Pero’s neck, smiling at the shiver that follows. When you kiss him, his lips are soft and dry until he opens to invite you in. 

“Has your bleeding started?” he asks between breaths. His chest pushes against yours, broad and solid where yours is soft and giving. Your breasts sting from the pressure but it sends a shiver down your spine, so you push a little harder into him.

“Nearly,” you tell him. It will be tonight, unless you have misread the signs. After the three above and the two you lost, though, you know you haven’t.

With a growl, Pero surges up beneath you, twisting until you land under him. Your legs press wide as he settles between them, his own shift rising up over his head and mussing those dark curls. Once he is bare, his hands return to your hips and knead in again, releasing another band of tension from your body. 

You think sometimes he knows your time approaches even before you do. The girls had helped you drag all the mattresses outside this week, to beat out the dust and replace the stuffing. You thought that was why your legs ache and your back stiffens. But Pero has been attentive all day, hovering nearby to catch what you drop and to lay a hot palm on your aching back or belly. Though he is never a neglectful husband, he reserves that level of closeness for when you need it most.

He reserves an even deeper one for moments like this.

“Will you let me help you?” he breathes into your jaw, where he finishes leaving a trail of wet kisses and soft bites. Holding himself just above you, his bare chest scrapes ever so slightly against your breasts. 

Wrapping your arms and legs around his body, you pull him down until he is nestled so close you can feel his pulse. “Siempre,” you say in return.

He takes his time, settling in first to ensure your mouth won’t feel neglected. You feel the rush of your arousal gathering, readying for him, as his tongue strokes against yours. As his hands cup and squeeze and gather you to him, as he helps you lift your damp shift up and over your head, as he brushes your hair back from your face and presses his forehead to yours.

Pero doesn’t have to tell you how he loves you, but he does anyway. He says it with his voice, in all the languages he knows. He says it with his eyes, with his lips and hands. He says it with the proud jut of his cock when he lifts up to back away down the bed, leaving words and kisses in his wake until he meets the center of you. 

With your knees and thighs bracketing his shoulders and head, you tell him back in equal measure. Your hand smooths down his hair, down his cheek and over his mouth. He presses a luscious kiss to the palm of your hand, then curls it within his own and moves it back to the top of his head.

“You have the reins,” he tells you, dropping a kiss to each knee as your fingers wind into his hair. His dark eyes stay on yours as he makes his way slowly down your inner thigh, until he reaches the seam of you. His mouth is as tender as he is, licking and kissing and suckling at your flesh, gifting you all the sounds of his enjoyment until yours drown them out.

You lose track of yourself for a long while. The river god made a poor offer indeed. Your Pero sends you floating into the heavens without losing his grip and waits to pull you back down to earth. 

Your bleeding starts before he is through, though it slipped past you. One moment he raises his head to lay a line of kisses along your thigh and his chin is shiny in the firelight; seemingly the next his head lifts when your fingers pull in his hair and the skin around his lips is darker. 

The knot in your womb tightens all the same, as Pero works you closer and closer to your release. His thumbs, his palms, his fingers, his tongue, his lips, his nose, his chin; he leaves no part of you untouched. You leave no part of him unloved.

--

In the spring, Pero Tovar will see the dawn of his forty-fifth year. What he knows of women will only ever fit to the shape of you.

[refinedpalette]

Kinktober 2021 Masterlist

This is my first time trying Kinktober! It’s also my first time trying to do a fic a day when I’m normally a slow writer (and my first time posting fic under a new name in years eeek), so let’s see how it goes.

(I don’t have a taglist yet but if you want to be tagged, hit me up in the replies or askbox :)

Some notes:

All of the fics use a combo of the starter prompts by @buckyownsmylife and the full 2021 prompt list by @the-purity-pen​ 

I’m not necessarily going to be posting these in order

Most fics will probably be for Pedro Pascal characters? Haha *sweating*

Reader characters are unnamed with no use of Y/N and as little physical description as possible, but each fic is marked if a specific gender is mentioned or described. Gender = how the character currently defines their gender in the story

(Personally my default for readers and OCs is fat and happy :)

Content warnings are included on each post

18+ only, minors do not interact; specific content warnings are on each post; full fic list below

DRY HUMPING x ANONYMOUS SEX ➥ a thread of appropriate reactions  Prospect (2018); Ezra/F!Reader

FACE FUCKING x AGAINST A WALL

BEGGING x EXHIBITIONISM

MASTURBATION x KNIFE PLAY

SIXTY-NINE x UNIFORMS

OVERSTIMULATION x DEEP THROATING

PRAISING x OBJECT INSERTION ➥ consider me saved Brothers & Sisters; Zach Wellison/Any Gender Reader

SEDUCTION x SIZE DIFFERENCE

MIRROR SEX x HATE/ANGRY SEX

ORGASM CONTROL x PRAISE KINK

FACE SITTING x BEING RECORDED or SLEEPY SEX

LINGERIE KINK x BODY WORSHIP

DEEP THROATING x EDGING

ROLE PLAY x BATH/SHOWER

FOOD PLAY x MASTURBATION

CAR SEX x NIPPLE PLAY

TOYS x BREAST WORSHIP

UNIFORM KINK x HAND JOBS

MORNING SEX x IMPACT PLAY

PHONE SEX x SEX TOYS

UNPROTECTED SEX x A/B/O

CLOTHED SEX x THIGH RIDING

SENSATION PLAY x COCKWARMING

DIRTY TALK x LACTATION

FINGER FUCKING x TITTY FUCKING

THIGH RIDING x PREGNANCY

SENSORY DEPRIVATION x AFTERCARE

SEMI-PUBLIC SEX x ALMOST GETTING CAUGHT

HAIR PULLING x PERIOD SEX ➥ no need to go down fighting The Great Wall (2016); Pero Tovar/F!Reader

ACCIDENTAL STIMULATION x TEMPERATURE PLAY

POOL/SEA SEX x FREE DAY: SEX POLLEN

[refinedpalette]

A Thread of Appropriate Reactions

Fandom: Prospect (2018) Pairing: Ezra/Female Reader (no y/n) Rating: Mature; 18+ only Word Count: 2600ish

Warnings: smut; dry humping x anonymous sex; too many descriptions of things that aren’t smut

A/N: Set post-movie, with vague allusions to Ezra’s new singlehandedness. My first Kinktober fic! I’m using a combined list from prompts by @buckyownsmylife and @the-purity-pen​ and uhhh I’m real rusty at smut

Kinktober 2021 Masterlist

--

Of course there were no seats left on the transport. 

You’d taken the same one for years. Gotten too accustomed to a friendly face holding a bit of space for you the way you did for them. The delay wasn’t ruinous; you’d built plenty of time into your commute to account for a delay. But it was a disappointment to trade the comfort of your everyday routine for, well, this.

Still trying to control your breathing after the mad dash from your pod to the station, you swung your bag down off your shoulders and nudged your way into the overstuffed car. Grumbling beings of all shapes, sizes, and smells made a bit of room--nearly enough to squeeze yourself through to one of the safety bars bolted from floor to ceiling.

The door whooshed closed behind you and the pod shimmied as the engines readied for departure. Straining your arm, you managed to brush a fingertip against the bar when the brakes disengaged.

Thankful for the mad press of bodies all around keeping you from toppling ass over turbine, you grimaced at the nearest face pointed in your direction.

"Imagine if it were raining," you joked, all too aware of the sweat that streamed down the back of your neck.

Somewhere behind you there was a snort of almost-laughter but you could hardly turn to find out who it was.

Giving up on the neighborly chitchat, you clutched your bag tighter to your belly. It wasn't much use trying to shrink yourself smaller, but even a micrometer of extra space would make the ride more bearable.

There were twenty-five stops between you and your destination. With any luck, as happened on your regular transport, most of the crowd would clear out by the halfway point and the rest would be gone long before you disembarked. There wasn't much in the way of sightseeing once you got past Division Central, and even less for respectable commuters such as the mostly well-groomed citizens around you.

It wasn't hard to spot who was in the system on recreation and who was lucky enough to have been born there, with all the rosy career and other prospects such a position allowed. You yourself had only stumbled into a tide of good fortune, delivering you to the pod once inhabited by a long-forgotten relative before being transferred to your name.

The transport slowly emptied around you. Bit by bit you were able to breathe more deeply, let your arms swing gently at your sides instead of clutching your belongings--or being deployed as a defensive shield around your gropeable parts. 

A large delegation of big pocketed business types--slicked hair, smooth skin, brightly colored clothes with prominent labels--disembarked at the last stop for Division Central. At the other end of the spoke they would be whisked upward to their fancy offices while you trundled further into the interior. 

No one boarded to take their place.

You swept a hand across your brow, wiping the last of the sweat away, before stepping forward to take one of the now blissfully empty bench seats. 

Exchanging polite little disinterested half-smiles with the few people still waiting for their destination, you slumped back and lifted your bag to rest as a cushion between your head and the wall. The faint zing of the anti-graffiti field buzzed through the canvas to skitter across your scalp and down your spine. Hair lifted all over your body as your skin prickled. Despite the heat in the car, even your nipples tightened. This was one of your favorite things about the commute, the few minutes when you could pretend to be standing again beneath the flashing sky at the height of the storm season on your home planet. 

Looking across to the other end of the car, you saw that a man was still smiling at you. Or, in your direction, anyway. His eyes were crinkled nearly closed with pleasure. He had his head tilted to one side, with his dark hair just long enough to start to curl against the wall within the anti-graffiti field. One hand idly brushed against his thigh in time with the energy waves that still zipped up and down your spine.

You smiled back, too blissed out by the decadent pleasure of being off your feet to think anything of it. After a moment, your gaze fell to his fingers again. Watched each sweep across his thigh. How he flexed them a little, those long fingers, how the square tips of his fingers and neat nails caught on the fabric of his rough trousers here and there. His motions kept remarkable time with the energy buzzing through the both of you. You felt as if he was tickling against your own thigh, raising again the fine hairs that dusted the skin beneath your trousers. 

It was like the electricity passed from him, snaking up and over the shiny walls of the transport car before it trickled into you, pooling low in your belly with little flickers of awareness every time he scraped a nail or twitched up the corner of his mouth, those dark eyes fully open now, wide and deep and fixed on yours.

You jolted out of a near-trance when the doors whooshed open. The man sat up and stretched, his long lean body expanding with a deep breath. A flush raced through you, popping beads of sweat at your temples and under your arms as he scraped a hand over his jaw and stood. With a wink at you, he stepped backward onto the station platform, still locking his gaze with yours as if looking away was beyond him. 

You couldn’t have moved. Not even if the idea had occurred to you, which it certainly didn’t until long moments later. He had you pinned to your seat, achingly aware of the stale air of the station sweeping into the car and over what little skin you had exposed to it. That your legs were sprawled open wider than you usually sat, hips tilted up as if waiting for some cue. One arm crossed over your belly, fingers resting on the outward spill of your hip. But the other arm stretched behind your head where it pressed against your bag. Those fingers, you realized, stroked the nape of your neck as if they belonged to someone else. Stroking your skin in time with the little pulses of electricity that zinged through you. 

He smiled, the man. Not a smirk, with half his lip twisted upward, but a full bright grin, white teeth flashing in the artificial light, bunching up the cheeks of his round face. He didn’t wink again, but he did mouth something at you as the door closed and the transport prepared to leap forward again toward your destination.

A question, you thought. Tomorrow?

--

You hadn’t planned to be late again. Your routine was your routine, meticulously built up step by step over the years, to give you as little time spent on thinking about here or there or anything in between. 

But. But. You had hardly slept, too twisted up in your thoughts to drift away in the darkness of your pod. The sheets were too heavy, too scratchy, too lacking in the warmth you craved against your skin. The air was too cool, the clothes you wore too restricting. You tossed and turned, steadfastly ignoring the one idea your body and brain seemed to agree would send you tumbling into blissful slumber. 

"He's a total stranger," you whispered to yourself, punching your pillow into a new and still annoying shape. "You imagined most of it anyway."

But when you closed your eyes you saw that wide grin, the pale arc of a scar across his cheek, and those plush lips curling around tomorrow? If your hand swept down over your belly to rest between your thighs, fingertips skimming over your skin and deeper, well. That was no one’s business but yours, was it?

So, here you were, dawdling down the passageway from your pod berth to the station. If you stepped it up even a little, you would make your regular transport with time to spare--even after taking twice as long as usual to choose which of your two pairs of trousers to wear. You would board with your regular commuters, nod in passing to this or that face, daydream about the sliver of starlight that swept into the cramped office where you worked on this end of the rotation. All your normal, routine moments, in the right order and at the right times.

But. If you stopped to read the new announcements on the screen outside the recruiter's office. If you bought yourself a thick cup of caff and spent a hard-earned credit on real milk to sweeten it. If you slowed your pace even more, so that exasperated huffs swept past you in the morning rush in all directions. 

The milk was worth it.

You had left your bag at home this time. No sense in lugging it all the way to work when you barely ever had time to open it while there. Better to leave your book where it had sat unread the night before, to let your newspad sit on the charger, and save yourself the trouble of packing another lunch of the same rations you could buy at the commissary. Even though your regular transport was hardly ever crowded, every little bit of space was worth it on a busy day.

Of course, the transport after yours was packed to the filters yet again.

You pushed your way in, determined not to look anyone in the face this time. Your own was already blooming with heat--at your audacity, at the way your stomach hollowed out as you pressed up to the safety bar, at your uncharacteristic willingness to believe that somehow a fantasy had come to life. 

When the brakes disengaged and the transport lurched forward, you wrapped one hand around the bar and loosened your knees, letting the momentum sway through your body instead of fighting against it. Without your bag there was plenty of room between you and the beings around you, and you let your eyes slip closed for a moment. 

Maybe it had been a dream. Maybe sometime in the long night before you had slipped into one, during those fitful hours, and given yourself a thrill.

For a moment, a wave of that zipping energy swept over your scalp and down your neck and spine, as if you had somehow brushed against the wall that still sat several feet away. You clutched the bar tighter and kept your eyes shut tight.

It wasn't the anti-graffiti measures this time. It was the brush of someone's fingers against the small of your back, where the waist of your trousers gaped away from your body a bit. Back and forth they swept, those fingers, dipping beneath the fabric a fraction and sending a sudden heat blooming all along the length of you. A breeze stirred past your ear, and with it came a voice.

"I knew you would not resist the lure, little bloom," he said.

--

Just as it had the day before, the car emptied almost entirely at the last Division Central stop. You sat on the same bench as you had then, but this time the man sat beside you. Your thighs pressed together from hip to knee, though his stuck a bit further out than yours. His hand brushed against his thigh, the way it had when you first saw him, but this time the electricity zinging through you had nothing to do with the field that sat behind your heads. On every pass, his pinky grazed against your leg and you felt that touch echo its way through you. It pulsed deep between your legs, zipped up your spine to spark in your brain, leaving nothing untouched in between.

You thought that maybe you had smiled at the one or two other beings still riding with you. Not that it mattered. You couldn’t have picked them out of a lineup with a rail gun to your temple. All you could see were those long fingers, rubbing back and forth.

The brakes thunked around the car as the transport approached the next station. You were so disconnected from your surroundings that you nearly lost your balance, even seated, and rocked into the man beside you. He lifted that hand you couldn’t stop watching and laid it down, squeezing it around the softness of your thigh, sweeping those fingertips up along the inseam of your trousers while the weight of it pressed you firmly in place while the car shimmied to a stop. His lips brushed against your ear as the other passengers stood to exit.

“This is my customary point of departure but I find this morning that I am reluctant to disembark. Should I keep you company until your destination, little bloom?”

His drawl was honey in your ear.  You nodded a yes and his responding groan was pleased and rolled through you like thunder. 

You shuddered on a flood of arousal--you could admit now that’s what it was, no more euphemisms or pretending, no more trying to deny it in the dark of night. The weight of his hand on you sent want clawing through your body. You wanted him to pin you to the bench, not with his hand but with his whole body, with his mouth on your skin and his knees wedged between yours. You wanted those fingers to dig into you, wherever they could find purchase. To feel his nails catch on the roughness of your body or glide through your softest parts. You wanted to feel his breath stutter against your neck, taste the salt of your own skin and his, discover where he was rough and hard and soft. You wanted to feel that crescent of a scar on his cheek between your lips, between your teeth, feel it catching on your skin as he moved over your body.

The transport had barely started moving again when you got at least one of your wishes. The shiny walls spun around you as the man pulled you into his lap, his nose skimming over your throat as his mouth moved to taste the sweat that gathered at your hairline. 

There were words, surely. Praise, begging, compliments given and received, whispered and moaned into the stillness of the empty car. Words from him and you both, but you could attest to none of them later. All that mattered was the plush sweetness of his lips, the scratch of his facial hair on your chin and throat, the hot wet slide of his tongue against yours. He pulled at your hip until you straddled him there on the bench, knees pushing against the seat back as you rocked down to meet him. 

The shimmying of the transport from one stop to the next pushed the solid ridge of his cock up into you. His thighs flexed to lift him up and up and up, until you rolled your hips back down against him, grinding deep and long when he pressed where you needed him most. Again and again, in time with the ragged breaths that slipped out of you both. In time with the buzz of the electric field against your fingertips when you locked your hands behind his head, until the sparking poured into you both, leaving static in its wake. 

Only a few more stops before yours now. You pleaded with him, panting into his open mouth, your voice gone high with need. His fingers dug deep into your flesh, moving you harder against him until the seam of your trousers caught you exactly right. You came with a low moan, chin dug into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, convulsing in his lap. He guided you against him for another thrust or two before his own cry joined yours before they were both swallowed up by the thunk of the brakes.

It took the entire length of the last segment of tunnel for you to gather the strength to sit up. A whimper fell out of your mouth when you tried to shift back, to swing your leg back over his and collapse on the bench beside him. But it was okay, because one fell from him, too, as your lap dragged across his, the whimper every bit as high and thready as yours. He huffed out a laugh, almost a snort, so oddly familiar that you had to swoop back in to capture his mouth with yours.

He curved his hand around your cheek when you pulled away, thumb sweeping across your skin and pushing into the corner of your smile. 

“Tomorrow?” he asked, with a hint of that wide grin tugging at his swollen lips.

“Tomorrow,” you agreed.