#THE CUBE BECKONS

[jackgoodfellow]

Anyway, it turns out setting art goals according to what Julia from Drawfee can do is like setting swim goals according to what sea otters can do.

[luveline]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬

You’re in love with Spencer from the minute he gets you in his bed. [4k]

c: fem/afab. smut mdni, p in v sex, oral, fluff, aftercare, early intense feelings, spencer in sweetheart mode, flirting.

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It’s a cold day in November when you see him across the bar. He’s sitting at a table of friends drinking from a tall glass of coke. He’s normal. Non-imposing, undeniably cute, laughing with a smile that shows his teeth. His tie is to his belt and his suit jacket’s been thrown over the back of the chair. 

He looks like he might have fun with you, if you can catch his attention. Something about him seems… eager to please. 

You watch him, and you watch his friend. He seems more your usual type, muscled, confident. He’s the key. You let your gaze linger on the curly-haired boy until the friend glances your way. You give him a look. Hey, who’s your friend?

You look away once you see an arm rise. There’s elbowing, arguing. You sit relaxed at the bar and twists your straw through cherry spritz, ice cubes tinkling. After a minute you think, Oh, come on. After two you worry you aren’t his type. 

Then comes salvation. The curly haired boy slots between your seat and the next, beckoning the bartender forward with a nearly perfect, “Excuse me?” 

“Right there with you.”

You wait. He seems cute, but you’re not trying to take him home if he doesn’t have the chops for it. And not because you see yourself as some deadly thing to be pleased, but you can’t spend another night fluffing someone else’s feathers. 

“Hey,” he says finally, surprisingly without the nerves you’d read before. He must’ve breathed through them. “How’s it going?” 

You lift your gaze from the dark purple of your spritz. The first thing you notice are the beauty marks you couldn’t see before, along his cheeks and hiding among a light shadow of stubble. “Hi, handsome,” you say softly. You can’t imagine him liking a firm touch, but that might become more apparent later on. “Nothing’s going on, I suppose I was just waiting for you.” 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Mm-hm.” 

He puts one arm on the bar. You let your eyes dawdle on his hand. “Are you here alone?” 

“I was with a friend,” you confess, lifting your gaze to his, making steady eye contact for as long as he’ll allow you to. His gaze flits to your mouth as you continue. “But she met somebody. I was told not to wait up.” 

“So you’re in need of company?” 

You tip your head to give him the best glance at you, all eyes and gentle smiles as you nod. “Would that be you?” 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Cherry spritzer.” 

“Can I buy you another one?” 

“Just one, please.” You believe in the overarching reach of sexuality, of being with someone, but you don’t believe in drinking and sex, nor allowing a man to pave the way. “This is my first. If I have more than that I’ll be too tipsy to do what I want tonight.” 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

You tap your nose. The boy —the man— to your delight, seems to like the gesture very much. 

The bartender approaches. Your unknown, lovely looking man asks for a coke and a cherry spritzer, extra cherries, though you didn’t tell him too. He nods to your little plate of cherry stems and asks, “Can you tie a knot?” But before you can answer, he adds, “I’m good at it.” 

Spencer proves to be good at a few things. Kissing, touching, his face in sweet places and his spit-wet thumb to a nerve. One moment you’re sitting at the bar wondering if he’ll take you home and the next you’re taking a taxi, you’re lying in his bed being stripped of your stockings, being laid on top of. You didn’t know he had it in him, this sweaty, adoring kissing in the dark; there’s a difference between kissing for hunger’s sake and kissing with love, and for some strange reason Spencer doesn’t seem to know the difference. 

“Have we met before?” you ask, the ache between your legs sharper than ever as his hand flirts with the boundary of your stomach and the apex of you, begging to go back there and prolong what he’d started. 

“No.” His lips are on your neck, kissing as he slips a finger behind your ear. “I’d remember.”

His chest pushes into yours again, triggering a breathy gasp as the button of your nipple takes the brunt of him. He turns your face, that flirting hand abandoning your wanting cunt to squeeze at your sides, your ribs, the soft hill of your breast. 

“Do you wanna cum again?” he asks softly. The best part is that he’s earnest, not a second of bravado in it as he lays his lips against your cheek. 

You could. He’d done stuff with his mouth you’ve never experienced before, fingertips teasing your wetness as he told you something about tantrics and pleasure, his hand under your knee, holding you open. You’d felt so suddenly out of control and —and honestly, you’d thought yourself half in love with him for the way he was kissing you alone. No shyness, but softness. No rushing, no annoyance when it took you time to tip into pleasure. He’d been delighted when you seized, had sat up to draw the climax out with circles, matching pace to your rising chest. 

You slip a hand into his curls and treat him with the same sweetness he’d given you, kissing him like you love him: for whatever time this is, you really do. He’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever fucked. All it took to meet was a snowstorm and a need to escape the rigid cold. 

“I think you should fuck me now,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly, not so frantic, no more pulling. “Please.”

He kisses you, kisses your jaw, and doesn’t pretend he isn’t eager as he snatches the condom from the dresser. For a while things are giggly and breathless, nervous for a pause, then achingly tight. You stay and Spencer wraps his arms behind you, kissing your neck as you let your leg fall to the side. 

“When did you tell me your name?” you ask, breathless again as his kiss matches his rhythm, slow grinds of his hips, flirting as his hand had been, just a few inches from filling you completely. 

“I don’t remember,” he says through a kiss.

“Spencer.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I just thought I’d try it,” you say, covering your eyes with your hand as his hips flex and he touches that worst part of you over, and over, and over. 

Spencer turns your face to take your hand, slowing to a crawl. He checks your gaze, and sinks into you again. Slow fucking, long kisses, his hands rubbing up the juncture of your neck and down again, then stroking your arms, comfort for a pain you don’t feel. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly. 

“Just this.” 

“No, but what do you want?” he asks, lips pulled into a smile that didn’t quite make it into a laugh. “What feels best? I can get you there again.” 

So you end up more on your side than your back. He helps you lift a leg over his hip and then he’s back to kissing you senseless. You can’t think of anything but being kissed, being fucked, it doesn’t just feel like an okay pastime with a vaguely handsome guy heightened by a drink, it’s fucking with intent. He curls an arm behind your back to hold you against him and he lets you have everything. 

Something must give you away, a shaking leg, the way you breathe; he knows you’re ready before you do, kissing down your chest as his hand sinks between your hot thighs. Slick or not, he finds where he wants to touch, your eyes filling with heat as he slows. 

He draws it out. The second his lips find your chest you trip into cumming for the second time. You hadn’t realised he was close but you cum and he quickly follows, his nose at your collar. He sounds insane. Beggy, breathy moans, a shade from laughter.

“Can I keep going?” he asks just under your ear. 

You can’t say yes fast enough. He’s kind, ignoring your desperate tone. 

You don’t count the number of times you fuck that night. It’s not clear, really. They aren’t separate occasions. You come down and he’s stroking the skin of your neck as you catch your breath, drawing lines down your arm, murmuring, “You okay?” as you nod and slip a hand behind his back. 

He hugs you like he’s known you for years. When you kiss his blushing chest, kiss downward, he turns breathless. It goes on like that for a while. Afterwards, he situates himself between your legs and lets his weight force your thighs into your abdomen, just enough to feel the pressure, searching kisses pressed to your knee. 

It’s not that you fuck all night, it’s just different than before. And when he encourages you under his sheets to lay behind you, there’s a part of you that wants his hand to stray between your legs again, no matter how tired you are. 

“I’d say sorry for keeping you up, but you sounded like you liked it,” he murmurs in the dark, wrapping a solid arm around your stomach and pulling you tightly to him.

You have no regrets. For perhaps the first time ever, it feels as though all your gasps and teary sighs were adored, and not just smugly kept. “You didn’t notice me falling asleep?” 

He laughs at your teasing, his breath kissing the back of your neck. “When did that happen?” 

“…I don’t want to fall asleep, now.” 

“You don’t have to… I can make you a cup of tea, or…” He draws another line down your arm, ending in a swirl before your elbow. “You could shower.” 

Both sound nice, but no. Your legs are still weak from being held, the ache of a good fuck taking home in your stomach. Truthfully, nothing could make you wanna leave whatever it is he’s doing to you now. The shape of his lips warms your shoulder. 

“That was amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he says, wrapping you up all over again. He can’t decide how to hold you. You grab his hand and keep it there under your breasts, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

How can he say that? He has this strange way of touching that’s making you feel yards prettier than you usually do, and he’d just fucked you like a dream. You couldn’t manage that sort of pleasure alone. 

“Where have you been hiding?” you whisper, toying with his fingers. Might as well do everything you can while you can. 

“Nowhere.” 

“So where have you been?” 

He takes a breath. “Turn around?”

You begin turning and he takes you like a dance, leaning in slowly to kiss you, until his smoothness gives way to a smile. He pulls back. In the barest lick of light from the window, you can see a blush spreading across his nose. 

“Sorry. I should ask, I shouldn’t just kiss you,” he says, cupping your cheek. 

How might you go about marrying this boy? You decide to play it cool, kissing him until you fall asleep in his arms, your lips still parted for another lazy press of his as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. 

—

You wake to something new. There isn’t a man against you hinting for a morning tryst, nor an empty bed, a note to let yourself out when you’re ready. There’s a real, gentle hand on your neck. It slides to your shoulder and rubs. 

“You okay?” a voice asks. 

You force your eyes open, blurry vision further occluded by a face. 

His hair is damp. Like he showered a while ago. Spencer’s hand travels to the back of your neck and touches accordingly. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but it’s almost one. I was worried you might be sick.” 

You close your eyes, smiling, better when he scratches the back of your neck with short nails. “I was up late.” 

“I know, I’m  sorry.” 

You wait for him to tell you why you have to leave, any manner of excuse, but nothing comes. 

“So are you? Okay?” he asks gently. 

“I’ll leave soon.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. If you’re not sick, you can go back to sleep.” 

“And just lay in your bed all day,” you murmur, disbelieving. 

“If you wanted to. Or… you can shower, and I can make you something to eat.” His thumb takes to your cheek. One night stand sex can’t be something he does often, or there’s a real possibility that he’s the first man to ever do it right.

His eyes are so much bigger than you realised. “Do you wear glasses?” 

He stammers, embarrassed, “How would you guess that?” 

You raise a hand to his face and draw a short line against his nose. “You have the marks here. Were you reading?” 

“Just while I was waiting for you.” 

“What do you do?” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t ask what you do, I don’t think we managed to ask each other much of anything,” you say, rewarded for your vulnerability with a chest-aching smile, his canine teeth peeking from under his lips. He still looks kissed, lips a shade of sore you’re sure you’d see on yourself in the mirror. 

“I work for the government,” he says, catching your hand to cradle your wrist, “for something called the behavioural analysis unit.” 

“Like, statistics?” 

He lets your hand fall against his chest, a thin grey t-shirt under your knuckles failing to hide the shapes of him, of which you’d explored at length last night. You kissed as much of his chest as you could and it hadn’t felt like enough, Spencer leaner than you’d realised with a stomach on the soft side, easy to kiss relentlessly. 

Your mouth is drying thinking about it. Spencer watches you wordlessly, before saying, “I guess it is like statistics, especially for me. We try to think about serial criminals in terms of their motives. It’s an attempt at math for something not usually quantitative.” 

“And you’re good at it.” 

“I’m good at math, yeah.” 

“Probability of a,” —your breath betrays you, slightly too hopeful as it catches— “morning kiss if I brush my teeth first?” 

His eyes light up. He leans down carefully, and gives you a chaste, firm kiss. 

You forget that you’re naked, not worried about being shy. The sheets fall away from you as you lift up to meet him. He holds them to your naked waist, the other hand skirting just below your breast. You wish he’d touch you like he did last night, but he isn’t so forward. His kiss is kind. You frown as he pulls away. 

“I had a really great time, last night,” he says, tip of his thumb setting your nerves aflame as it drifts over your skin. “Really great.” 

“Me too.” 

“And you’re okay?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing hurts?” he asks. 

“No, of course not.” Your confusion clears. “No, you weren’t like that. I think my legs might be aching but that’ll go away in the shower.” 

“I can run you a bath, if you want. It’s a half bath so you might not be able to stretch out, but it’ll help.” He gives you a smile. The familiarity between you doesn’t want to ebb. 

“Shouldn’t have showered without me,” you say, soft, lest playful be something he doesn’t want on a new day. 

“My hair was greasy. Someone kept touching it.” 

You sit up. Spencer’s hands fall to yours.

It’s hard not to play with someone’s hair when it’s in their face, and when they’re trailing kisses in warm places. He doesn’t blame you really, you can see it in his eyes. 

For a pause, you just sit. 

This is nice. Not being thrown out, left with that aching gap in your chest like you gave something you hadn’t intended when it started. Sex will never be easy again, you realise, not when you know it can be good. 

“You’re not working today, are you?” you ask. 

“No, why?” he asks in turn, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Maybe we…” He waits. He’s pretty enough to force your hand. “We could get to know each other,” you say, gaze taking refuge on his hands. “If you want to.” 

”Really?” 

“I’ve never had that with someone. Maybe we’re, I don’t know, compatible in more ways than one.” You remember yourself, lifting your head, startled by the sheer want in his expression as he holds your fingers. “You’re handsome, and you seem kind. We could have fun.” 

“We could have so much fun,” he says, that flushed blush already spreading across his nose again. 

You draw a line up his chest. “I might need help getting my back, in the shower. That’s not a tight squeeze, is it?” 

“We might have to stand very close.” 

You giggle wildly as he pulls you up, worse when he drapes a sheet over you worrying about the cold. It’s treatment you could grow used to. 

— 

Spencer’s trying to figure out how he got here. You, across the bar sending him looks —Derek swore you were— and the second he got to your chair he realised you were out of his league, but he had nothing to lose beside his pride. 

Then there was you, in bed, pulling on his tie murmuring sweet somethings, sweet pleadings, really, taking another kiss as he moved as you asked. 

Then you, the morning after. You’d slept for long enough to scare him, but when you woke you were exactly the girl you’d been the night before, only slower. Ever so slightly bashful. We could get to know each other. 

Spencer’s not sure how he managed it, but you don’t go home. And on Monday you go to work and come back. On Tuesday he meets you outside of your building to take you for dinner, and you come back with him again, another night up in his arms, tangling his hair with enthusiastic fingers. The sex is good, it is, not just ‘cos his past catalogue of lays were with women who wanted casual experiences solely, or those few times with Ethan where it ended too fast and left him useless. You fuck him like you love him. It’s crazy, except he’s acting the same way. 

When you’re not fucking you’re in his lap, or sitting at the coffee table with your face on his thigh driving him crazy, or you’re laying with your feet tucked under him telling him something about you. He is desperate for the details. 

Like, this is it. You’ve pulled your chair as close to his as humanly possible and thrown both legs over his, basically sharing his seat as you laugh around a messy mouthful of Thai noodles. 

“Don’t look, I’m being disgusting–”

“You’re never disgusting, let me–”

He’s heard you pee. He’s kissed you all over. The human aspects of you don’t bother him. 

“Spence, can you–”

“It’s going up your nose–”

“–stop, holy s–”

He pinches your nose clean. “Tada. Kiss now?” 

“You wanna share?” 

“Yes!” 

“No.” You press your hand to your mouth before he can lean in.

He lets you swallow your mouthful. Your ankle is cool in his hand. When people talk about love, it’s about meeting someone, the dates and the phone calls, the big questions. Spencer didn’t know you could do it like this. Every time you go home, you’re asking if you can come back or pestering him to come your way. 

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks imploringly. 

“No, we’re done kissing for a bit. I want another one of those massages.” 

He can’t joke about it or he’ll turn crimson. You enjoyed a polite leg massage, until he got to your thighs, and things got out of hand. 

“No massages.” He taps you under the chin, letting his hand travel wherever it wants over the side of your face. 

“Fine, no massages. Unless you want one?” 

“No, we agreed tonight we’d just– sleep. My boss is onto me.” 

You wink involuntarily as he cups your cheek, his fingers pushed lightly over your eyes.

You aren’t fiends, but finding someone who matches as you do makes it hard to abstain from the fun. Last night was tame, though; he’d made sure you were happy and fallen asleep to grateful neck kisses. Tonight, he won’t say no, but these all-hours affairs have to stop. Derek’s suspicious of him, Hotch has the situation entirely sussed, he's sure, and Spencer’s sixty percent sure Rossi saw you both outside of Quantico tonight kissing against a toll booth.  

Not that it matters. Spencer has a good feeling you’re not a fling. 

“I got you some stuff earlier,” he says. 

You pull his hand from your face and ask, “What stuff?” 

“Like, stuff you need here. I don’t know what you like, but there’s a cleansing balm– are you allergic to chamomile?” You shake your head. “Um, it might be weird, I got you underwear, just ‘cos of the situation yesterday–”

“I liked wearing boxers, they were snug in a certain region is all–”

“–and some shampoo. That sort of stuff. Just so you can stop suffering with mine.” 

“You know what shampoo I use?” 

“I deduced it.” 

“Ah, yes, mister profiler,” you mumble, bending into your knees to hold his face. “If I hadn’t looked you up online I’d think you were a stalker. How can you guess my favourite ice cream flavour when I never told you?”

He smiles shyly. “I just can.”

“Is there anything else you’ve guessed about me?” 

“Every meal with you takes a half hour. You’re easily distracted.”

He laughs as you protest, “You’re distracting! You don’t need to guess that.” 

“You distract me, too.” 

You gather yourself up and stand over him to kiss his nose. “Spencer,” you whisper, your fingers sliding into his hair, “thank you. You don’t have to buy me stuff, I could’ve just gone home.”

“I don’t really want you to.” 

You raise your head to see him eye to eye. “I don't want to either. This is… I like you.” 

He hums, wrapping his arms around you. The hugs are rarer than kisses, but only because you’ve shared so many of the latter in the dark. He’s been thinking of kisses as the extension to fucking, that they’re okay as long as it’s done in bed, but the more time you stay, the more kisses you’ve shared for no reason at all. You kissed his cheek on the train earlier and he felt it like a shock, tipping his chin down to peck you on the lips, your arm curled behind his back as the traincar rattled over a bend. 

“I like you too,” he laughs. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, of course I do.” 

“Not just…” 

“It’s not just the sex,” he says, waving his hand behind your shoulder as you curl into him all over again. It feels amazing. 

“Should we go out, then?” 

“We do.” 

“No, should we date? We could be partners, officially.” 

Spencer can’t take it, scooping you into his lap, though you do sit obligingly on his thigh. He shifts to take the weight. 

“Please, let’s be partners,” he says softly. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t, it’s still soon.” 

“Five days and counting. That’s longer than some marriages, you know.” 

“Maybe we can be, like, tentative boyfriend and girlfriend. If you change your mind, no hard feelings.” 

“And if I don’t?” he asks. 

“Then we get married in Vegas.” 

“You could meet my mom.” 

“I’d love to meet your mom.”

“Do you really wanna be my girlfriend?” he asks. 

“I mean… there’s not such a big difference in dating and what we’re doing, right? This is relationship stuff, we just sort of skipped the awkward first dates.” 

“We did,” he says, failing to hide his grin. 

You stroke his cheek with your nose.

Your attempt at abstinence doesn’t last, but neither party is to blame. You have to celebrate somehow. So you finish your takeout dinner and wash dishes bumping hips. He locks the door for the night and you, giggling, struggle to change his A/C. When he drags you by the sleeve to the bedroom, he doesn’t intend on jumping right into it, and for a while he doesn’t. You lay on top of him between his parted legs and he spends a sluggish hour stroking your hairline, listening to you talk. But his devotion turns to your ear, and he’s kissing behind it, and you’re hitching yourself up his chest soon enough. 

“That cherry spritzer was worth it, huh?” you ask lowly, scratching his jaw as you sit over him.

You really are pretty, amplified by your syrupy smile. 

“I guess that depends what you think. Was I as good at making knots as I promised?” he asks. 

“I can’t remember.” 

“I can remind you?”

“That might be prudent, Dr. Reid.” 

“I never should’ve told you about that,” he murmurs, your lips atop his, ready to be parted. 

“I would’ve found out eventually. I’m gonna find out everything about you, honey.” 

Spencer lets his eyes shutter closed. Me first, he thinks, giving in to another endless kiss. He has the advantage, after all. 

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thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed please consider liking reblogging or leaving a comment/reply it makes my day and I am so grateful<3 

[kawowoa]

wrote this so fast if it’s messy .. shhhh… no it’s not🌀🌀🌀

imagine toji finding out he has a thing for praise. it wouldn’t get somewhere downstairs up and going, but it would make his heart race a little faster and his cheeks a little warmer.

he would realize on such a random day too. it would be around midday, just after you put megumi down for his after lunch nap. it was a hassle trying to get the tiny one year old to sleep when all he wanted to do was bang his plastic cubes together and watch some kids show you refuse to even mention.

after what felt like hours to you but in reality was just a few minutes, you would come back downstairs to see toji halfway done with the dishes.

he wanted to be useful to you, make your life a little easier instead of leaving all the shit to you and watching his game.

“huh, didn’t know you knew how to do that,” you joked, bumping your hip against his. you picked up one of the dishes laid out on the dish towel, it was pristine, you shot a sideways glance to toji. “good boy, ‘ji.” you patted his back before slipping away.

toji didn’t even have a witty remark to respond to you. it was like all the gears and circuits in his brain just suddenly decided to stop working simultaneously. he knew you were just joking, yet the sound of your voice calling him a good boy echoed in his mind like a broken record.

you started to catch on after that, he wasn’t good at hiding his reactions as he thought. you found any reason to give him subtle praises, whenever it was when he was holding megumi, mumbling how good of a father he was or when he was working out and you’d loudly exclaim how he’s so good at lifting weights.

it didn’t matter to him because it all affected him the same way. and eventually he started looking forward to hearing you praise him, though he tried to be slick about it.

but, it took him even longer to fully come to terms with it. after a mission that took an entire day where toji sluggishly came through the door. to his surprise, you were still up despite how late it was. the low murmurs of the tv broke the still silence, you both just stared at each other before your arms stretched out, beckoning him over.

he didn’t think twice to be in your arms, laying on your chest as you petted his hair.

“you did good, ‘ji. y’know i’m proud of you, right?” there’s that fuzzy feeling coming back. his eyes staring up at you through his shaggy bangs.

“why do you keep doing that?”

“doing what?”

“complimenting me ‘n shit.”

you chuckled, which only made his eyebrows furrow and his lips curl into a frown.

“do you hate it?” toji didn’t really have a response to that. as much as he hated to admit it, he liked it more than you think. when you say it out loud or pat him on his back that reassures him that whatever he’s doing is right, he all reacts the same way: feeling like his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

“i don’t.”

you pressed a kiss onto his forehead, “that’s what i thought, you deserve to know it.” you whisper against his forehead, he can feel your cheeky grin forming against him. “i always knew you had a praise kink.”

“don’t fuckin’ call it that.”

[demothers-empty-blog]

Моя жена

CW: arranged russian marriage with Nikto.

Nikto was never a people person.

Nikto wasn’t even a person. At least, that’s what he believed, or rather, was led to believe. He told himself long ago, his heart had no place for comforts and warmth and you were the epitome of those things.

The family was never hateful of you. In their eyes, you were the best thing that’s ever happened to their son; he wanted no part of it.

He doesn’t know why he even married you in the first place. He knows the reason, it just wasn’t enough to justify the means in his head.

This whole marriage thing… he needed to get away from it. He’s made a habit of avoiding you as best he could but that never stopped him from crawling into bed, or under it as it turns out.

Nikto has slept in worse spots than the floor, it became like some odd comfort to him. He can do it anywhere, yet he chose to be close to you.

Night went away again and morning arose; as the sun began to make its way through the skies, the bed was found empty. Still, you pat his side to see if he was there, you can feel your heart sink when your hand lands on air.

Nikto wakes up very early, but does he ever sleep? He doesn’t allow himself to process, his body already moving without any conscious decision. He quietly dressed himself, grabbed his gear with a deft hand and left the house, not a thought crossed his mind about leaving you a note or a goodbye.

He had a job to do and nothing would get in the way, not even his fleeting thoughts about you.

He spent the day going about his business, focused on completing the task at hand. But no matter how much he tried to push it down, his mind always veered back to you. He cursed God for feeling the way he did.

He misses you, even if he would never utter those words out in the open. You’re the only reason he even bothers coming back home at night.

“Nikto?”

You say one day while patiently peeling a potato for dinner that night, not looking up.

He paused what he was doing, hand tightening around the holster of his gun as he undressed, bones aching from exhaustion. He turned to see you standing in the kitchen, now looking at him with a mixture of worry and curiosity.

“Yes?” Nikto can’t take that look in your eye, he shifts his gaze to the metal bowl behind you, filled with cubed potatoes submerged in water.

“Ya lyublyu tebya.”

He stilled, his eyes rounding at your words. He hadn’t expected you to say those words to him, especially not in Russian.

For a moment, his expression hardened and he felt exposed. Only briefly did you make him feel like a kid again, soft and vulnerable. He was weary about allowing himself such a feeling.

Blind trust. Perhaps even healing his inner child.

Warm and safe in your presence, why did he ever push you away again?

Just for tonight, he’ll shed his hard shell, let the doubts in his head fizzle away.

Just this once, he’ll say it back.

“My tozhe lyubem tebya.”

We love you too.

[the-monkeies-girl]

Bitter Sweet. ( Five x Reader Oneshot. )

i have no explanation other than my babies are still alive and that season 4 never happened SEASON 4 NEVER HAPPENED---- Give me snarky, asshole, pragmatic five back before i die. Reblogs/likes/comments all appreciated, thank u.

Title: Bitter Sweet. Fandom: The Umbrella Academy. Pairing: Heavily Implied ! Five x Reader. Rating: T. ( Language, lol. ) Words: 1.2K+ Summary: ( Taking place in an AU after season 4, let me live in my fantasy that's what fanfics are FOR ). You knew how specific Five was about his coffee. You knew he would speak his mind regarding and it was too much fun to let go of.

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Four cubes. 

No, no… Five felt his mouth part in astonishment, crystal clear green eyes peering in languid judgment as your plucked another sugar cube from a pristine porcelain bowl and plopped it right into the white coffee cup that was placed in front of you. It sploshed happily, absorbing the coffee and sweetening the deal for you to enjoy, but that was never the point in the grand scheme. You were ardently aware of how irritating it was, one cube after another. The quantity itself was deliberate and you knew… How you were able to feel his stare hell-bending holes into your face. He was unable to see the liquid despite trying with a narrow gaze but he was willing to bargain much of what he owned that it was pale in color, not even teetering towards tan but more towards plain white.

 A grimace was noticed by Klaus who bargained a chuckle as he looked towards you, seated beside him with raised eyebrows of acute amusement, “You’re desecrating whatever coffee you had, I think Five is going to lunge across the table and take you by the neck---” “Five can shove it.” The innocence that rode against your face was evident as the Hargreeves man  across from you scoffed under his breath at the juxtaposed expression coupled with the aggressive nature of your words. “It’s my cup, not his. We can’t all drink it b---”

“Black like my soul, right?” Five rolled his eyes, shoulders drawing themselves in some minor defense and you were able to see the tightness of which he held himself from the tailored nature of his suit. Five was lanky and skinny, but that didn't seek to say that he was without defined muscles against his sweeping collarbones and it was evident in certain motions that left you reeling back from the hardened words that he responded with.

“Get some original insults, (Name). You’re becoming way too predictable. Boring even---” His voice was incredulous, sticking towards monotonous but still held irate interest in speaking to you, only detectable around the edges and it sang against your ears. 

Flirtatious only to you, aggressive and leaned with hatred to others. A game of cat and mouse, though at times, you were unsure of which one you were playing. “I was going to say bitter just like your personality, but you know me. Predictable.” Klaus held a defensive hand up, grasping at his own cup and pretending he was beckoned elsewhere to avoid the confrontation that was inevitable coming in the way that Five cleared his throat, a hand raising and tightening the bundle of fabric where his tie rested against his throat. 

He straightened it, you noticed with acute mirth, but there was no need to. It was already perfectly placed, part of the morning ritual you imagined he held close to his chest after spending so long cultivating it. Five was… A creature of habit, to many extents. Needless to say, it was one of those simple actions that you enjoyed seeing none-the-less, fingers twitching in a finite need to deshevel the pin-black tie to further push the boundary of where you and Five so often tightroped. No solace was given to either party as his knuckles rubbed against the underside of his sharpened jaw. There was hostility tangling in with notes of attractive coyness as he snapped at you, “You’re a goddamn monster, you know that? Fuck---” “I’m not the one getting angry over how someone else makes their coffee.” You bit back without reserve and another sickly smile placed towards the brunette as you finally picked up your spoon and allowed it to sink into the cup. It scraped -- Horrid, Five felt a shiver run down his spine at the vibrations he could feel against the oak table from your simple movement. Like nails against a chalkboard. 

“Can you even call that coffee?” Five spliced and looked down at his own mug, half-emptied and his saliva still coating and drying where he had last taken a drink against the curve. “Did ya even put any in there? Any beans? Any espresso?” “There’s some in here.” There was a justification with a faux pout which Five remarked as being feverishly unfair. You were good at playing expressions, he was good at playing words. “I think….” You mused and lifted your cup up to your mouth and kissed the rim. Five swallowed hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing which was feasted upon by your eyes before you took a long sip. Control rested in your hands as you refused to let him look away from you. 

Five sneered, your eyes taking in the delectations of seeing his sharpened canines. “You’re going to lose all your teeth from all the shit you put in that. Creamer and then what? Five sugar cubes? Are you a horse? Want me to feed you them straight from my hand?” There was a rustling sound as Five leaned inwards, his suit jacket pulling up with the motion that was placed as he so graciously plucked a sugar cube from the bowl that had been nearly emptied by you and offered it in the palm of his hand. “C’mon, take it. Be a good little horse.” “”Ha-ha,” You laughed sarcastically, smacking his gesture away which sent the cube flying off to be cleaned up later. “I’ll bite your fingers clean off.” “Not if you don’t have any fucking teeth! I kind of hope you do lose them. Hell, take me to the dentist when you get them pulled, I’ll bring them home and make a necklace for you.”

“You DIY things, Five?” There was another laugh from you as you took a sip of your drink, “Never pegged you to be that crafty.” There was emphasis on the word ‘pegged’, Five catching hold of the implication which garnered you that shit-eating grin that was more than infamous at this point. “Just this once.” He smirked, giving you a dimpled smile of feigned innocence to rival the one you splayed for him earlier. Sitting up in his seat, it scooted against the floor below with a loud bellow and you watched with bated astonishment as he leaned against the table to bring his upper half closer to you. Face only inches apart now, you refused to relent eye contact with him and tried to desperately shove down the connotation that you were able to clearly smell the after-shave that he favored. Pinely in scent, you wanted to grasp at his chin and feel the stubble against your fingers but that wasn’t the point here. The point was to be the cat while Five was forced to be the mouse.

“Just for you, a nice necklace and some earrings. Bracelet, maybe? A matching set. You'd look like such a doll."

“I’ll wear the set to your funeral. Clutch them instead of my pearls as I sob, telling everyone what a wonderful ray of sunshine you were to be around before you so tragically died.”

“Is that a date?” 

Five huffed at you as you stood from your seat, his gawk watching the movement with hostility as you craned your body towards him and grasped the base of his tie. Enlightened with curiosity, the disgusting smile of attraction rose along his cheeks, quickly torn to shreds as you pulled the tie downwards, the knot coming undone without reserve. 

“With you six feet under? You bet your damn ass it is.”

[gin-juice-tonic]

Hi! I really love your comics and the 80s ford sim! The time you took to make it is amazing and I like reading the dialogue you post :D I love seeing transfalls comics and just, the dialogue and scenarios are a comforting and funny read!

I was wondering if you have any advice or tips on how to write Ford? Have a wonderful day!

Hello, thank you for the nice words. I'm happy you like my things.

Instead of telling you my own beliefs about how Ford acts/talks specifically, I thought maybe I could break this advice down into something more general. At least to start. Writing for a pre-existing character to me is generally broken up into two big things: Their Personality Traits and their Manner of Speech.

When you are trying to figure out how to write someone, I think it would be helpful to think about things that really stand out in your memory that they either did or said, and then try to find commonalities between those things. And what they have in common may indicate a character trait or the way they talk.

If we were to use Ford as an example, some things I think of when I think of him are (under the cut):

The grin on his face when describing his very illegal infinity-sided die in DDmD, His "My face is on fire!" stunt from vs the Future, and his re-arranging of Fiddlefords cube in J3.

If we were to look at what these moments have in common, I would say they indicate Ford is a bit mischievous.

Another set: his "Princess Unattainabelle beckons you" from DDmD, his "Say Hop! It helps!" and "Your turn!" after using his magnet gun in vs the Future, and his general love of puns in the Journal.

I think these are all good examples of Ford's goofier side. That he's a playful guy.

Those would fall under the Character Traits half of writing him.

For the Manner of Speech bit, it helps to look at how certain lines are structured, or the context under which he says them. These examples will be a little longer due to being a whole line written out...

Set #1:

"On the dark, weird road I travel, I'm afraid you cannot follow. ...Welp! call me for dinner!" From DDmD

"If I rolled it, anything could happen. Our faces could melt into jelly. The world could turn into an egg! ...Or you could just roll an 8. Who knows." Also from DDmD

"So this is how the world ends, not with a Bang, but with a Boop-Boop." From Weird Part 1

All three of these lines have Ford speak in a manner that gives the feeling he is talking about something of some importance/seriousness. Only for him to end his line with something silly and tone breaking. He does this pretty often I feel. Or at least I'm guilty of overusing it, because I always find it funny lol.

Set #2:

"I like this kid! She's weird!" From Tale of Two Stans

"Your math is no match for my gun, you idiot!" From DDmD

"I can assure you if there's an owl in this bag he's long dead." From Last Mabelcorn

There's three different moods going on in these lines, happy, mad, and just kinda neutral. But personally I find them all to be instances of Ford speaking in a very frank manner.

Now, further context in this case is I think important here. This is sort of in a way a variation of the first set I mentioned, because outside of these lines Ford spends a lot of his dialogue speaking in a more formal, intellectual/eloquent way. So this is sort of another way he breaks his own tone.

Another notable piece of context about these three lines is they're all reactions to something said/done by someone else. (The first and third are after talking to Mabel, the second being a reaction to a threat from Probabilitor.)

So to put that all together, you get "Breaking his standard manner of speech, Ford (sometimes) reacts in a frank manner to other characters." Generally this happens as a joke.

So those are some examples. Of both the character trait thing and the speech pattern stuff. I did them as sets, but if an individual line or action feels prominent enough, you could analyze it by itself too.

Obviously there's a lot about Ford that this doesn't encompass, but I hope the method helps you think about how to portray what YOU see in Ford. And you do not have to follow the way I view him. "What lines/things stand out to you" is going to be different for person to person. Maybe you have other lines/ideas you find more defining for him, or maybe even viewing the same lines/ideas, you have different feelings of what they indicate. That's okay too.

[pseudowho]

Professor Higuruma: Part One, Star-Crossed

Leaving your job behind to study Law, you fall into the gravity of Professor Higuruma Hiromi. Soon, you find yourselves entwined in an affair so deep and alluring, you cannot see where Hiromi ends and you begin.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut from Part One, age-gap relationship (20s to 40s), 'thread of fate', tw- leaving an emotionally neglectful relationship, tw- alcohol use, wet dreams and daydreams

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The bottle would not draft his timetable, and as such, it remained corked. Hiromi's thirst extended past wine and warm bodies, to something altogether more elusive; an alleviation of his crippling loneliness-- that which ground him down to dirt.

Hiromi sat on his sofa, picking up the claret, rolling it in his hands, putting it down, running his fingers through his hair, clenching white knuckles against jittering thighs.

The week had been long. His Department was undergoing fresh demands for classes and time and curriculums and more, that Hiromi had not the staff to facilitate. With the new term about to start, and fewer professors than ever, Hiromi felt like the wick in the middle of a candle burning at both ends.

From the heated sneers that set to flame in the room around him, Hiromi wasn't the only one already balancing on a knife edge. He felt the frost crisp the earth around Nanami Kento, his Literature department already at the end of their tether.

If the rampant deep-seated loathing for the world in which he lived didn't kill him first, the stress would. The loneliness would. The drink would. The pressure would. The late nights would. The loneliness the loneliness the loneliness the loneliness--

Hiromi threw his bottle and responsibilities to the sofa. Too touch-starved for solitude, but too burned out for company, Hiromi grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed for his favourite bar.

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See you later? At the bar across the street.

Let me know when you'll be here.

Are you still coming?

Not dressed up, sorry. On your way?

Got you a drink. See you soon?

???

The Spring evening was too crisp for such chilly rejection. The sun had seemed hopeful, earlier in the day, and you hadn't brought a jacket. You felt the bite upon your exposed arms, a nipping punishment for your optimism. Whether he was here, or not, made no great difference; he had not given you his jacket in a long time.

He would come, you reassured yourself. You'd buy him his favourite drink, and he'd arrive late, all I'm so sorry baby, you know how it is, c'mere, I'll warm you up, with twinkles in his eyes like you'd hung his stars and his hand in yours and the life you had lived and shit don't cry you stupid bitch pull yourself together.

You scurried into the bar, embraced by your own arms, before ordering his favourite drink and yours, as if a summoning ritual. The bar had a happy thrum, warm with love and life, and you saw cherry blossoms drift across the torch lit balcony. It beckoned you. You remained, waiting for your spell to work, with your eyes on the door.

The torches dwindled. A barman went to refill them with oil. Your fiancé had not arrived. The ice in his drink had almost melted, and you sank into a sigh that shredded down to the very core of you. The first time you saw the man in the black suit, arriving on a thundercloud, and sitting a few barstools down from you, you registered him only briefly, past the knife in your gut.

Then, a pair of coal-dark eyes met yours. The torches on the balcony reignited with a whoomph, setting drifting blossoms to pink-spark ember on the Tokyo backdrop. Your breath caught halfway, the scent of smoky petals and spiced cologne on the sides of your tongue. The barest clink of ice cubes settling in the glass, cracked through the moment that time had paused.

The man in the suit opened his mouth, offering only the other half of the breath he had stolen. His hangdog eyes were so curiously expressive. A smile wrinkled his nose. You stumbled across yourself, pressing your fiancé's undrunk drink across the bar to the black-suit man.

"Would you like this? It's in need of appreciation." The black-suit man laughed, a breathy rumble.

"Is it indeed?" He took the glass with long fingers, and you followed the trail of a trickle of the glass's condensation, dripping down his finger's inner length, to pool at the junction between. "Will it taste bitter in the mouth of someone for whom it was not intended?"

You smiled, your eyes narrowing in tease. "It is a gift."

"Oh!" He uttered, laced with small joy. "Then it will be sweet." He took a sip, a vermouth-honeyed tongue darting across his lips with an appreciative hum. "Yes, quite. Welcome, little drink. There is joy to be found amongst the unwanted." You laughed, and Hiromi felt a curious yank upon his finger. He had fallen into your company, and could not get back up.

"I must be old," he laughed again, swiping commas of grey-streaked Inky hair from his temples, "because I've forgotten my manners. I'm sorry for pressing conversation upon you. Thank you for the drink."

You shook your head, without the appropriate words to express how a stranger had warmed you more in moments than you had been in years. Your black-suit man bowed his head, standing, and turning away before pausing. Fate rolled a dice.

"The balcony looks lovely. And, empty." Hovering on one footstep, his gait then steadied, and brogued black shoes clipped across the polished floor. You felt something fine and golden tug within your chest, as torchlight rolled across the black-suit man's disappearing shoulders. Another diceroll raised Fate's eyebrows.

You stood, hesitating between the balcony and the bar. The barman buried a scoop into some ice, watching two strangers interact with an oddly burgeoning certainty. He never interfered. Fate flipped a coin; how readily the stars did align.

"He likes red wine." The barman offered, nodding between your stuttering gape, and the void the black-suit man left in the doorway. You frowned, biting your bottom lip, unaware that your path had been decided before the words left your mouth.

"Then I like red wine, too." The barman smiled. He reached to a row of dusty wine racks above his head, pulling out a bottle with a glassy clink.

"Do you trust me?" The barman asked, placing the bottle before you with a muted thud. You felt a bubble of joy up your nose.

"I do, actually." You replied, awash with certainty as you paid, took two glasses, and headed towards the balcony. As you walked through the doorway, and firelight uncovered the gems hidden within your hair and eyes, your black-suit man smiled, and gestured to the rattan sofa opposite him.

As you sat, strangely comfortable under his gaze, in your state of plain dress, your black-suit man smiled over at you. He looked awkward for a moment, not trusting himself in his own shoes.

"...all this and I wasn't actually prepared for company." You both laughed. Your black-suit man watched you with a glimmer in his eyes, fingers plaited and clasped under his nose, leaning forwards on propped elbows. You struggled to open the wine. He huffed through his nose, your fingers brushing as you handed the bottle over with a scoff.

The man's eyes narrowed as the bottle opened with a brittle schtick; "Loosened it for me--" you laughed again, pinching your nose bridge, "--no no I mean it, I'm really very weak--" You rolled in your laughter together, with him babbling smiling reassurance, while he poured your wine.

"I have one condition to this rendezvous-- please can we not talk about work?" He groaned, clinking your two glasses together in his own hands before passing one to you, still warmed by fading laughter.

"Absolutely. I promise. No work talk."

He was older than you, by an uncertain amount, though you were no girl. You leaned on one palm, in easy silence as you smelled the petal-burst flames. He watched the aurora cast upon your cheeks, feeling his chest fill in a way he couldn't describe.

"...Hiromi." He offered. "My name's Hiromi."

"And it suits you. Should I remain a great mystery?" You gasped, melodramatic with one hand over your mouth.

"Appalling manners!" Hiromi shot. "You owe me a name."

"I gave you a drink! And a bottle of wine."

"Bullshit."

"I don't owe you a thing, in fact--"

The evening trailed away, all warm banter, easy laughter and lingering looks. The conversation grew sloppier, uninhibited, lubricated by wine, of which the bottles nestled, one, two, two and a half. Hiromi had laughed, as deep and rich and mature as the grapes, positively Dionysian, his laughter dying on his lips to catch you mid-shiver. He huffed into his glass, the scent of fermentation rolling back over his own face.

"Here." He dropped, lackadaisical as he sloped past on the way to the bathroom. You blushed to feel his jacket nestle, warm and homely, around your shoulders. He did not appreciate the enormity of the gesture, to you, as he walked away. On his return, you appeared muted, holding onto his jacket around with with two chilly hands. Hiromi felt a stutter in his chest, and sat down beside you.

"...are you alright?" He whispered, soft under the torchlight. Your head drooped onto his shoulder, your neck softened by wine, and he puffed his surprise, short and sharp across your cheek.

"I've had such a lovely time." You sniffed, feeling the clock tick far too late, and you had a busy day ahead, with the start of your new course, and you had to get home and prepare your mind for the beginning of a new life and--

"It...doesn't have to be over." Hiromi intoned, and your belly clenched as his voice rumbled through your core. Your head turned on his shoulder, your nose brushing his. Hiromi spoke again, stroking your nose with his until your eyes fluttered closed, having never felt more certain of anything in his life. "I...I've never done this, but...come home with me, just tonight, and--"

Your phone rang, shrill and piercing and you cried out, jolting away from Hiromi's touch. He chased your lips, his face twisting in a pain you didn't see, as you looked down at your phone screen, slurring.

"Shit...my fiancé..."

Hiromi's belly tumbled, sick with disappointment-- with something altogether more possessive-- and feeling that yank upon his finger, more insistent as he spoke, low and slow.

"Your...fiancé?" The words tasted rotten. Hiromi felt sick, bitter with the sudden loss, hobbled by the brutality of having gained the stars and lost them all at once. He watched you swallow, watched the flash of a wound reopening, piecing the puzzle together so fast now.

"The one who stood you up?" Hiromi toned, venomous with the injustice of the theft. You mistook the direction of his anger, and looked up, your face tight with apology. Hiromi shook his head, raising a hand. Your phone stopped ringing. A few moments passed before your phone buzzed. You read a message as Hiromi stood, turning on the spot, his hands cupped over his nose and mouth.

"You...shouldn't worry. I assume he's coming to pick you up, and I...thank you for such a lovely evening, it's been--"

You laughed without humour, eyes brimming with tears. You shook your head, and nodded, and shook your head again. Hiromi watched you, uncertain.

"I'll walk myself home. He's gone to bed." Hiromi paused, then scoffed.

"You're not walking home alone. Not a chance. Not like this."

He extended a hand to you. You took it, as if tied by the fingers. He held you, like this, all the way home to your cold bed.

You took each others' breath with you as you parted at the door. Hiromi was sure that his loneliness would not kill him first; the drink would not kill him first; the stress would not kill him first; the late nights would not kill him first; the pressure would not kill him first. Being taken to great heights, and then dropped in a dizzying fall, would.

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"Thank you for inviting me in." You whispered, smiling against the shell of his ear. In his bed, soft and open against his body, Hiromi sighed into your touch, your fingernails trailing across his scalp as he groaned. His cock throbbed, thick with promise.

"Couldn't leave you out there, naked." He mumbled against your lips, reaching under the covers to feel you and meeting only the cloth resistance of the mattress, but you were there because he could taste the wine on you, and you were opening yourself to him, he knew somehow.

"You're the one who undressed me." You said, your voice above him, but he was climbing above you, bracketing you to the bed while your voice whispered all around him. Hiromi felt his cock grasped, bucking forwards into the warmth and softness of it, chasing warmer and softer, and he begged you.

"Please you...never told me your name...let me in please, please--" He couldn't see your face with his eyes closed in this odd black moonlight, somehow within you and outside of you all at once. One more rock of his hips seated him within you, plush walls pillowy and smooth and all for him.

He groaned, low and desperate, rocking his cock inside you and he longed for you to welcome him with your arms, but any time he tried to draw them round him they flopped, useless, absent, so he urged you with his hips rutting faster, to pleasure you into holding him. Was it you crying out, or him? He couldn't tell, his pleasure mounting, pulsing through him in waves and why wasn't he trying to stop himself, he hadn't done anything for you--

Hiromi woke with a gasp, his pillow clutched between taut arms as he fucked involuntarily into the mattress, groaning into the mess of cum spurting between his sheets and belly. Hiromi's voice cracked, still lost in his dream, still spilling himself inside you in his mind. The blissful contractions of his cock dizzied him, surely the wettest dream he'd ever had.

Coming back to earth, Hiromi panted, face down in his pillow and a pool of his own sticky seed. His phone alarm rang. He groaned, feeling the catastrophic disappointment of the night before wash over him anew. Seeing the date on his phone in fumbling hands, sent another groan through him, and he buried his hooked nose in the pillow.

The new academic year began today.

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"Higuruma." More statement than question, Hiromi accepted Nanami Kento's proffered coffee as if being reminded of his own name. Hiromi took it, weary and silent, slouched at his desk beneath the crushing weight of having been scooped out in the middle.

Kento sat in Hiromi's visitor chair, regarding Hiromi with cool impassivity. He read the usefulness of any comments he could make, and set them aside for business.

"How do you plan on handling your evening classes? The high-school ones." Hiromi scoffed.

"Nanami, it is 8am on the first day of term, you cannot surely have a plan--"

"We'll offer assistant wages to one or two new First Years." Nanami said, before continuing, sniping and bitter. "If we must lose our Graduate Professors, and if we must host the accessibility courses ourselves, then at least the First Years can gain some income and some experience through teaching."

Hiromi rested his cheek on one palm. He stared Kento down.

"That...that's not a bad idea, actually, Nanami. I shall use that, I think." Kento and Hiromi inclined coffees and heads to each other, an easy camaraderie. Kento let the silence hang as Hiromi scribbled in his diary.

"I don't actually know how we'll do it, Nanami." Hiromi groaned, his face in his hands. "They make staffing cuts as if I can knit a new professor to take some of these classes. How much more 'self-directed learning' can I give these students? It's barbaric. They're being bled dry for this degree, and for what? So they can teach themselves? Shit."

Kento did not disagree, frosty again as the University Chancellors' departmental meeting montaged before his eyes.

"They're paying for a library, and the pleasure of our limited company." Kento sneered, as bitter as his coffee dregs. Hiromi sighed, trying to rub the alcohol away with his fingertips on his temples. Kento's eyes narrowed in cool regard, again.

"Home, or bar?" Hiromi grumbled, steepling his fingertips across his nose.

"Am I so fucking transparent?"

The faintest quirk lifted the corner of Kento's lips. He awaited an answer. Hiromi's head swam with the memory of you, interspersed with the false memories from the dream of being nestled between your thighs, and he felt his cock twitch. Hiromi shook himself out of it, sitting up and shaking his hands out with a huff.

"Bar, if you must know. It was...a late one." Kento hummed again. Hiromi did not elaborate.

"You should try harder to rest, before a work day. It is...irresponsible of you." Hiromi glowered over at Kento, Hiromi's junior by a good few years, quacking after him.

"Yes mother." Kento scowled.

"I could report you." Stony silence. Two chuckles in the office.

"No. You won't do that. You're my best friend."

"I don't have friends--"

"Shush."

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You recalled taking a day off work, on your fiancé's first day at University. You ironed his shirt the night before. You made him lunch, with notes and flourishes. You enjoyed a hot breakfast together, brimming over like the coffee pot about his future, while you worked to support him, and then your future, while he worked to support you. You had opened your arms to release him, and closed them around him on his return.

And god, you had worked, gruelling long hours for three gruelling long years, but despite the great chasm he had dug between you, you had brimmed over again when he landed his new job. A lucrative career. More than enough to pave your way, while he worked to secure your future--

He stayed in bed as your alarm went off. He accepted your affectionate nuzzles, before rolling away into the embrace of bed. Your fingers closed around nothing. You ate cereal. You packed your bag. You bubbled, low and alone. You wondered if he'd mind you slipping a banknote out of his wallet for your lunch. Your belly clenched with anxiety, and you packed a microwave meal instead.

You rocked, rhythmic with the clatter-back-and-forth of the train. Your eyes closed. Your music was soft. Though, not as soft as those coal-soft eyes, the gentle, brushing aquiline nose against yours, of the night before. Not as soft as the bittersweet ache of loss, of failing to know him better. The ghost of his touch soothed the stinging guilt, of wishing you had spent the night in his arms, instead.

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Hiromi was early to his first class, his nerves too frayed and electric to be anything other than hypervigilant. The lecture hall stretched up around him, an amphitheatre where he would slowly watch the soul and enthusiasm be sucked out of those wishing to learn Law.

He had held some optimism, years prior, that his own fractured soul (from years of systemic self-abuse in the Criminal Defense system) could be soothed by teaching the next generation of lawyers, solicitors, and barristers.

Alas, second to idealism, feckless optimism had oft been Hiromi's failing. Alas, the decaying state of education and academia could provide no such balm to his soul while it crumbled itself, and expected its professors to use their bodies and bones to prop up the teetering institution. The grind was different, but just as potent. Hiromi felt the crushing responsibility of leading his department through this storm, and wondered how many would remain on the ship once the rain cleared from his vision.

He resigned himself to filling his chalice with the immeasurable optimism of the fresh and uninitiated. Though under-subscribed compared to prior years, he was still excited to receive his first batch of students for the term. He hoped their passion could bounce off of him, and multiply, exponential.

While preparing his slides for the day, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, Hiromi heard the steady fill of the lecture theatre behind him.

He could not shake the ghost of your head upon his shoulder. He could not shake the taste of your skin from his dreams. He could not shake his regret, for not shaking you by the shoulders and insisting you deserved better, instead of delivering you back to the bed of a man who didn't appreciate the treasure within his grasp.

"I'll be with you in a moment!" Hiromi called behind him, waving one white-sleeved arm in a vague gesture. "Please be seated! I shan't be long."

The chatter crescendoed behind Hiromi, and he turned, clapping his hands together and affecting a smile and speech, gazing into the sea of new faces.

"Good morning everyone! Welcome to your first class. I'm delighted you have all chosen to study the Law-- it means the flow of the insane into our noble professions remains, as ever, consistent." A few smattered laughs from the audience. Hiromi grabbed his clicker, a slide slow flicking onto the great screen behind him.

"My name is Professor Higuruma, and while I will only be teaching you Case Law this year, today we shall talk about what to expect from your course, and--and..."

Oh, god. Those eyes, that haunted him. The body he had made love to while he slept. The shock, mirrored in your own eyes back at him, a participant in his new audience.

Hiromi's arm and mouth drooped, with the tug of the fine gold thread that you, too, felt. The night you had almost shared together passed across two pairs of distant, breathless lips. You felt every pulse, every nerve, every fibre of yourself skip a beat.

How readily had the stars aligned.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Part Two, Interpretation, coming soon!

[blushingsastiel]

The comfort of Liam's bed is what draws Theo into the beta's room whenever he can. For some unknown reason (not that unknown but Theo would rather have a gun held to his head than admit to himself why he loves Liam's bed), Theo can fall asleep in seconds in this specific bed.

It doesn't matter what other bed. His own bed in the guest room of the Dunbar-Geyer is somehow not as comfy. Scott's bed where many other pack members (including Theo) sometimes finds themselves in, either taking a nap or wanting to escape a noisy McCall house (this pertains mostly to Theo) does provide comfort for Theo (because Scott is Theo's alpha now and he can admit that now), but it still doesn't make him fall asleep as fast as Liam's bed does.

It's just something about Liam's bed.

(It's actually more about Liam and not the actual bed, but Theo isn't going to admit that to himself or anyone else just yet.)

Liam has long ago told Theo he can crash in his bed whenever he wants for whatever reason he may have.

Usually it's Theo's nightmares that get him stumbling out of his room and into Liam's, hands shaking as he opens the bedroom door. The beta is pretty good at staying on one side of his bed, leaving a big enough space for the chimera to slot himself in (Liam's forced himself to do so because he wants Theo to not see there being no room and decide to leave and not seek comfort with him. He used to sleep like a starfish but not anymore.)

Other times, it's pure exhaustion that makes Theo's feet move towards Liam's room, completely bypassing even the thought of entering his own room. Sometimes, he does it without even realizing it until he opens the door and Liam's head snaps up to meet his eyes.

If it bothers Liam, Theo doesn't really know. Outwardly, Liam merely beckons the chimera further into his space. He lifts covers, calls out Theo's name, and grabs Theo's wrist if he's close enough to pull him into the soft surface.

Today, today has been a bad day for the chimera. He's had one college class, thankfully just the one, but he's had to work the rest of the day at Deaton's clinic, which completely drained him. Not only does he assist Deaton with the regular furry pets that walk into the clinic, but he's also been helping Deaton document everything he remembers from being with the Dread Doctors.

Remembering everything isn't the hard part. Theo can basically remember pretty much anything when he really puts his mind to it. The hard part is having to go back to the headspace of being with the Dread Doctors. Of the images flashing behind his eyes of medical instruments, other children screaming, and hands and shackles holding him down onto a cold table.

It drains him more mentally than he thought it would.

It feels like he's right back there, in the sewer tunnels. Somewhere where he only had a cot in a cage to sleep in. There was no pillow or blanket for him to use.

So, when he gets back to the Dunbar-Geyer house where Jenna and David are gone on their weekly date night, Theo almost collapses at the kitchen table. There's food covered by a paper towel for him, and Theo could possibly cry from the kind act that came from Liam. Underneath the covering is cubed chicken with rice and beans (that Jenna and David must have cooked because Liam cannot cook to save his life).

It's still slightly warm, not cold enough that Theo would have to pop it into the microwave. There's a fork to the side of it, and Theo picks it up delicately and dives into the delicious food.

It's something he needed that warms his tummy up right away. It tastes better than usual, but Theo chalks that up to being tired and exhausted.

When he's done with the food, Theo sets it into the sink, rinsing it quickly before heading up the stairs. He's been thinking about taking a shower for hours at this point, so when the water hits his back, he sighs outwardly.

The chimera tenses for a second before relaxing under the spray of water. The water feels amazing against his skin, but he doesn't stay in the shower for too long. More than anything, Theo wants to curl up underneath a blanket.

He's out of the bathroom as soon as he feels clean enough, but Theo doesn't head for his room.

Theo goes to Liam's bedroom instead.

The chimera pauses for a slight second, hand on the doorknob before he pushes the door open and slips as quietly as he can inside. As expected, Liam isn't asleep since it's too early in the night for that. Instead, the beta is sitting against the headboard with his phone in his hand, seemingly scrolling aimlessly on TikTok (Theo guesses because Liam is always on that damn app).

The beta flicks his gaze to Theo's when the chimera stands in the middle of the room for too long.

Liam raises one of his eyebrows at Theo. "Hurry and get your ass in bed already."

The way Liam says it makes Theo relax even more, and he smiles at the sentence and at Liam. So, with Liam's way of words, Theo falls into the bed on his stomach, the soft blanket Liam always keep on his bed rubbing against his cheek. Theo pillows his head into his arms and turns his head toward the direction Liam's in.

Both of them are quiet as the sounds of the different videos (Liam is on tiktok, scrolling through) filter through into the room. It provides background noise that Theo is thankful for. He doesn't want to be stuck in his head with pure silence, it would drown Theo even more than he already is.

But it isn't enough. Background noise isn't enough. Theo needs... Liam.

With that thought (LiamLiamLiamLiam), Theo shuffles closer to the beta. Instead of laying on his stomach in a straight line, Theo turns to his side and curls his legs up so that his knees are turned up to his chest. He feels Liam still completely for a few seconds before the beta turns off his phone. He doesn't let Theo worry that Liam is leaving the room because the beta turns on his TV and puts on a sitcom to replace the background noise that originally came from his phone. The TV volume is low but high enough for the dialogue to be heard.

Theo doesn't really understand what is happening, especially with his eyes still closed. So he doesn't see Liam move down the bed, making it so his head is against the pillow, but he does feel when Liam wrap an arm around his waist. The hand around his waist rests there for a little bit, as if Liam is testing to see if Theo will run out the room or remove his arm.

But, Theo doesn't. If anything, he feels himself melt. Liam must also feel it too.

That's when Liam uses the arm around his waist to pull him closer to Liam's chest. Theo is a bit lower on the bed, so his head is underneath Liam's chin and he uses this to his advantage. He presses his nose against Liam's neck, nosing along the skin.

Liam smells so good, he can't help it (even if he could stop, Theo doesn't want to. He doesn't know when he's been this comfortable before, wrapped up in Liam's arm).

It shouldn't come as a surprise, but it shocks Theo when he feels Liam press a kiss against his hair, lingering before pulling away. The arm around him tightens, securing him even more against Liam's chest.

The two of them fall asleep in each other's embrace soon after that. How could they not when Theo feels as complete as he's ever felt? How could they not when Liam feels himself settle the more time he has Theo in his arms?

[blenselche]

quick fic insert, excerpt under the cut

Prismo’s resolve buckles as Finn makes his case. The tethering foundation of his physical self pushes and beckons- Jake's voice echoing in his mind to help, but he should at least put on a show of propriety, to his role and the rules.

“I’ll— I’ll make a footnote.”

Finn’s eyes narrow as he whispers “a footnote?” thinly.

“Your wish will use up one of his... you dudes were one, once. If he agrees I'll see what I can do about the wording on his end.” Prismo lifts a shoulder.

Finn's posture stiffens abruptly, realization setting in.

Prismo sighs, pained at the sight of who he’d grown into, a reflection of his own sorry state. “Listen, time isn’t kind. I know you know that. Don’t get caught up trying to move mountains,” he says, trying to tread carefully. "There's some things I just can't let you change."

“Right.” Finn pushes a hand through his hair, growing silent and thoughtful before steadily looking Prismo in the eye. “Thanks for being such a good friend to Jake. He thought the world of you.”

“Thanks... that— it means a lo—”

"You'd know that though, wouldn't you," Finn doesn't ask so much as he blithely, bitterly states. "Can he hear me when I talk to you?"

Oh. Prismo feels that now-familiar nudge to open this heavy can of dread, but he only supplies a timid "it's complicated."

"I'm sorry," Finn's face softens with regret. "I'm sorry. Ever since he passed I've wondered how much of him was left with you, if I'd ever see him again. You talk like him sometimes."

The shadow's fingers lift and settle back down nervously, itching toward the remote laying close to his hip. "Most of him is adventuring with you." He presses a button and the right side of Finn's face is lit up as a scene plays out of the two of them creeping through a crypt on the large monitor set into the Time Cube's wall. "He'll be adventuring with you forever, now."

A thin rasp leaves Finn, eyes stuttering over the image as he turns to look. The skin between his brows starts forming a deep chasm before he can catch himself and settle his mask back in place. "Thank you," Finn utters tightly, and when he looks back up Prismo sees the understanding beneath his expression. He knows. "It hurts," Finn gestures vaguely to his own face, "carrying it like this."

A warbled "yeah" leaves him on a cough and he blinks away, feeling too exposed. "I'll do what I can, but no promises. You know how he is."

"Yeah. He was uh— Fern's difficult." Finn chuffs and trembles with a dejected, silent laugh. “It’s been real, man,” he breathes out, eyes closing as relief floods his sagging shoulders. And then he vanishes, geometric beams of light shooting upwards and out of the cube. The last thing he consciously hears is Jake's echoing voice saying 'I love you, too, Finn' as his mind unravels.

Prismo looks to the ceiling, gaze soft and forlorn. “See you soon.”

[queenshelby]

Babysitter

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Virgin Reader

Summary: You are the babysitter. You get a call but no one other but Cillian is home. He makes you an offer you cannot refuse.

Note: This was a request.

"Where is everyone?" you asked, seeing that only Cillian was there when you arrived at the house after school.

The air felt different, heavy and charged, now that it was just you and Cillian in the Murphys' residence. He invited you to have a seat at the kitchen island before offering you a glass of water.

Cillian seemed nervous, fiddling with his glass, ice cubes clinking with every shift. He studied you, eyes trailing the curve of your cheek, tracing your jaw, and lingering over your lips.

The intensity of his gaze was felt like a physical touch, making you swallow hard as your cheeks warmed beneath his attention. Gathering his thoughts, he leaned in towards you, speaking in a deliberate tone.

"I am sorry for inviting you here on false pretenses, but I do have a proposal for you," he said while hesitatingly pulling out an envelope, containing five 100-dollar bills.

"What kind of proposal?" you asked hesitantly, eyeing the envelope in his hands. This was a lot of money and you were unsure what he was after other than babysitting his children. 

The curious look on your face spurred Cillian to continue, albeit with a hint of awkwardness punctuating his words.

"Well,  I'd like to pay you $500 to, umm, help me out with something," Cillian replied, softly sliding the envelope across the table towards your direction.

"What do you mean? Help you out with what?" you inquired, now thoroughly puzzled and increasingly uneasy.

Cillian took another deep breath before laying his proposition out on the table.

"I want to have sex with you, Y/N," he uttered almost inaudibly.

Shock and disbelief washed over you as your gaze flicked from the envelope to Cillian, paralyzing you for a moment.

"That's preposterous!" you stammered, clutching at your glass, the cool liquid inside sloshing about in disarray. He was so much older than you and he was a married man. You were taken aback by his forwardness, but in the quietness of that opulent kitchen, you couldn't hide your confusion.

Understanding your discomfort, Cillian chose his words carefully,

"I know you have a boyfriend and all, but I also know that you need the money for your college funds, and I can help you with that," he said, trying to appeal to your reason and financial needs.

"By having sex with me? You want to buy me?" you exclaimed, the words tasting bitter and harsh leaving your lips.

"I know it's not the most common request, and I understand how shocking it may sound to you, but yes, I want to pay you for letting me have sex with you. $500 for the first time and $100 for every other time thereafter. I promise you that this will be just between us, and no one will ever know about this arrangement."

He articulated the words with a calculated ease, his eyes unblinking. 

Now, time morphed, seconds stretched into minutes, as you both locked stares, occupied in your own thoughts, the tension between you palpable.

Finally, your lips parted, your voice tremorous as you relinquished your words to the air.

"Will you be gentle and wear a condom?" you asked, struggling with a trembling voice.

This question lingered between you, a necessary request during a moment that wavered between madness and desire.

"I will be gentle but I would prefer to do it bare," he replied, his voice deep and almost soothing.

"Bare?" you echoed, debating Cillian's words for a moment.

"Yes," he murmured, leaning towards you. "I want to cum inside you and feel you wrapped around me, skin-to-skin," he insisted, articulating every word with an unsettling clarity.

You nodded nervously, consenting to this unspeakable pact, even though the implications gnawed at your conscience.

"Okay. I mean, I am on the pill, so I suppose that will be fine," you whispered, averting your gaze.

The envelope beckoned you, almost as if enticing its contents into your possession. You extracted the crisp bills from within, sliding them into the side pocket of your backpack.

Cillian sensed your anxiety and unease, which he met with a gentle grip of your hand.

"Everything will be just fine, Y/N," he assured you with an attempt to allay your fears. "Now should we go upstairs?" Cillian asked, breaking the silence that hung in the air.

It was as if a switch had been flipped - the room suddenly felt too small, as if the walls were closing in around you.

You nodded, your decision now made, the remaining apprehension dissipated into thin air.

"Okay," you repeated softly, before standing up, unsteady on your feet, and following Cillian upstairs towards the master bedroom.

"Just please, never tell my boyfriend about this," you requested, a sense of shame and embarrassment gnawing at the edges of your voice.

Cillian glanced back at you, his face betraying a glimmer of understanding,

"Of course not," Cillian said before pushing the master bedroom door open. "Now, why don't you undress and lie down for me," Cillian requested, his tone deliberate.

Tentatively, you began to undress, ridding yourself of the layers of fabric that suddenly felt like a barrier between your past and unfortunate future. The eyes of a taken woman were staring back at you from the dresser mirror, and with every piece of fabric shed, you receded further - sliding deeper into the shadows of the room.

The breeze sighed its way through the half-opened window, gently grazing your bare skin, a whisper of cold against the fiery sensation that filled the room.

"So beautiful," Cillian murmured, his gaze caressing your figure as you finally, timidly, lay back on the lavish king-size bed.

There was a warped sense of liberation knowing that today marked the end of your inexperience, a welcoming into the territory of adulthood and womanhood.

Cillian then too undressed, removing his t-shirt and jeans, forming a trail of clothing between you both as he approached the bed.

Discomfort and curiosity mingled together, battling for dominance in your mind as Cillian lay down beside you, cupping your cheek with the same gentleness of a lover.

He moved in to kiss you tentatively, parted lips seeking connection.

The sensation was novel, yet laced with a trace of guilt as your lips met in a timid exchange. His breath was warm and familiar, and you couldn't help but wonder if this was the taste of morality slipping away between your intertwined bodies.

"Look how hard you make me," he murmured in approval, gently guiding your hand to feel his growing arousal, his erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

Anxiously, you gasped as he guided your hand under the waistband, your palm meeting the length of his shaft. The head of his cock was already slick with pre-cum, leaving a telltale mark on your skin.

"Take it in your hand and stroke me," Cillian commanded, his voice rendered a deep tone by the growing desire as, finally, he slid down his briefs and let your hand start wandering freely at the touch of his steely desire.

Slowly, you began exploring his cock in its entirety, uncertain but curious about the feeling of his shaft in your hand, its firmness, strength. Your fingers played with its full length, gently, not knowing how much pressure was enough or too much. It was so diverse from the fair amount of information you had gathered so far in your young life on the subject of a man's most intimate member.

"Good girl," Cillian murmured, stifling a soft groan as your innocent fumbling spurred sensations that ran down the length of his erection.

The flesh pulsed within your hands - alive, heat emanating from the veins tracing their way along the rigid, lustful organ. With every gentle stroke, you felt the delicate balance of power shifting, the weight shifting in favor of strength and surrender.

A sudden churning filled your stomach, an odd sense of revelation that stoked heat in your dampening loins locked within the paradox of curiosity and guilt.

With a shudder, you released your death-grip on the still-erect cock and allowed the slick, wet residue to smear between your palm and his shaft.

Cillian swallowed hard. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" he asked, gazing into your eyes, searching for any indication of uncertainty.

You candidly shook my head. "No, I don't," you admitted and, much to your surprise, this seemed to be an even bigger turn on for him.

"That's good," Cillian murmured, his thumb grazing your cheek. "That's very good."

He kissed you again, more deeply this time, his tongue seeking entrance and demanding your response.

The kiss tasted of a mixture of power and desire, but there was also an undercurrent of fear that accompanied it, fear of what you would become, offering yourself to a man for money. 

As his hand disappeared under the blanket, you could feel yourself tensing up, anticipating his actions.

He gently nudged your legs apart and began to trace his fingers along the thin cloth of your underwear. Every part of you wanted to resist his lecherous gestures, but there was this weird hunger of novelty creeping inside your core, provoking indescensible sensations coursing through your innocent veins.

Cillian then kicked the blanket aside. "I want to see you, Y/N."

His hands expertly slid your underwear down your hips, and there's a detachment you felt in this act, a shedding of layers that felt oddly freeing and frightening.

The brush of his fingers on your bare skin was foreign and bizarre and what he wanted to do next suprised you.

"Beautiful," he said, tracing the length of your slit to feel the wetness clinging to your pussy.

"Do you mind if I taste you?" Cillian asked, a hint of desire daring to taint his tone.

It took you a fleet moment to truly understand his proposition, the intensity of his gaze leaving no room for dispute. The reality of his imminent act set in, making you tremble beneath his touch.

"I-if that's what you want," you barely managed to murmur, your breath hitching as he spread your wetness with his fingers.

"I do," Cillian replied hungrily, carefully lowering his head between your legs.

He teased your lips apart with his fingers before his warm, wet tongue gently traced the outline of your core. The intensity of the sensation was overwhelming, making you sigh and close your eyes.

"God, you taste good," he groaned as he was savoring your taste, sending shivers coursing up your spine. His movements were calculated, his familiarity with this act unquestionably clear as you surrendered yourself to him.

Your breath began to come in ragged pants, each deliberate flick of his tongue making you whimper involuntarily. The sensations seemed so wrong, so illicit, yet the pleasure outweighed the sting of shame.

Cillian's fingers slipped inside you then. It barely fit; the feeling was so tight and foreign that you couldn't help but gasp at the unexpected intrusion. You could feel your body desperately trying to adjust to the new presence, but it was a struggle you'd never before experienced.

"You're so tight," he whispered soothingly, his voice full of hungry desire as his tongue darted into your opening. It was frustrating to realize that he was enjoying this while your mind was fighting a relentless battle against betrayal and shame.

A single tear ran down your check. His tongue curled inside the folds of your womanhood, lapping at your lust unabashedly, evoking gasps and whimpers from your trembling lips.

"It feels weird," you said in a tearful whisper.

You were utterly unprepared for his ministrations, the invasive way your senses were awakened from deep slumber. You could hardly fathom how the forbidden pleasure could be so exhilarating.

"I know it's new, but just relax and let it happen," Cillian coaxed, his hot breath tickling the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

In an effort to comply, you took deep, steadying breaths, attempting to smooth the rigid line of your brow.

You cast your gaze over Cillian's sumptuous bedroom, trying to distract yourself from the growing sensation of embarrassment as he continued to lick you, but the distractions barely helped.

The strange feeling intensified when his thumb began to gently circle your clitoris while he continued to probe your tight opening.

It was too much, all too overwhelming.

"Oh my god, I can't do this," you cried out, feeling the shame rise within you.

The manipulations he was doing down there, owning and enjoying your body without the slightest hint of guilt on his part, felt like a bitter pill to swallow.

"Ssh, just let go for me," he pleaded, somehow knowing how close you were to spilling over.

"Ah, fuck," the words slipped out before you knew what was happening.

It sounded like a pained cry as Cillian continued to lazily flick at the extra-sensitive nub buried within soft, pink flesh and you thought that you might wet yourself by this point. 

"Oh god, please stop!" you begged, not knowing how to articulate the sensations rioting in your loins.

Despite your desperate pleas, Cillian continued his self-assigned, perfunctory torture with fervor, his tongue now demanding your surrender to this uncharted landscape.

"Fuck," you cried out, your inner thighs slick with perspiration, the back of your head soaked with a mixture of pleasure and angst as you grappled with this twisted game of forbidden desire.

"Oh my fucking god! Oh god!" escaped from you in a ragged gasp as the first wave of release tore through your body, your world exploding into a brilliant display of colors. It was an earth-shattering, mind-altering experience with a man who, by age alone, could be your father.

And yet, as the stars started to fade and you came back to reality, Cillian was still there, tasting you, his tongue brushing against your trembling thighs.

"Oh, you tasted so good," Cillian repeated, a satisfied expression on his face.

He rose, wiping his mouth, and placed a single, tender kiss on your trembling lips.

"But now, I want it all," he said, and the look in his eyes told you that nothing loudly whispered into your ear could change the finality in his voice. 

"Is it going to hurt?" you asked, your body growing rigid as you contemplated what was to come. How could such a moment play out when you were so inexperienced, when everything about this situation was a deviation from the norm?

Yet, doubts continued to assault you like waves on a stormy coast, threatening to break your resolve.

"It will hurt a little, but I promise to be gentle," Cillian reassured you, sensing the apprehension spiraling through your body. He traced the curve of your cheek with the back of his fingers, a futile attempt to soothe your worries.

A million thoughts raced through your mind like a tempest in your consciousness. Cillian, a married man in his forties who paid you for this. 

"Now lie back for me and spread your legs," he instructed you gently.

You hesitated, but your overwhelming need to secure the payment for your college funds left you no choice but to abandon every ounce of dignity you had left.

Slowly, you shifted positions, pulling your knees back towards your chest. Cillian knelt between your open legs, guiding his rigid penis toward your slick entrance.

The tip of his cock dented your soft outer lips as your heartbeat rang through your eardrums, its frantic rhythm leaving you momentarily breathless.

Pre-cum mixed with your wetness, creating a warm film over your entrance, allowing Cillian to smoothly press forward.

Trepidation built within you like a crescendo, even as your body welcomed his gentle probing.

A faint sheen of fearful sweat formed between your breasts, and your fingernails clawed into the plush bedspread beneath you.

"It's going to be alright, Y/N," Cillian whispered into your ear, his voice coated with affection. His reassurance was soothing yet entirely inappropriate considering the circumstances. "It's just going to be a little sting now," Cillian muttered, and gently applied pressure, allowing the head of his arousal to breach your untouched barrier.

Searing pain spread through your lower body, and the knives stabbing at your innocence stole your breath away. A ragged yelp escaped your lips as your nails gouged deeper into the bedspread, desperately seeking something to anchor your grip around reality.

"There you go," Cillian groaned in a low voice, his brow damp with sweat, as the first tears welled up in the corners of your eyes and began to trickle down the sides of your face.

"You feel so fucking good, Y/N," he murmured, his hands stroking your thighs with a tenderness that couldn't have seemed more out of place in that moment of searing pain.

Your hands reached out for him, grasping feeble handfuls of the bedspread in an instinctive attempt to regain control of your whirling thoughts.

Cillian paused, allowing you time to adjust to his presence.

You felt the unexpected fullness that remained when the pain ebbed, leaving only the spreading discomfort.

"You are incredibly tight," Cillian uttered while subtly shifting his hips forward, guided by a hunger desperate to obtain more.

As he cautiously filled you, you struggled to comprehend the surreal scene playing out before you.

"Raise your knees up towards your chest," Cillian instructed softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Initially, you hesitated, unsure of your next move. It felt like an eternity of eternities before you mustered the courage to reveal your vulnerability, following his directions as he eased in deeper, inch by inch.

"You are taking my cock so well, Y/N," Cillian whispered, admiration evident in his voice as, finally, he began moving back and forth at an unhurried pace.

A prickling sensation started to emit from where you were connected, slowly morphing itself into an unexplainable discomfort.

The initial intensity of the pain diluted as he continued to soothe you - both physically and verbally - which somehow felt paradoxically disconcerting.

"That's it, darling everyone finds it daunting at first," he comforted you as a fleeting moment of shame overwhelmed the initial shock. "But you have been such a good girl, letting me do this to you."

Cillian's tone transformed into a gratified whisper to his 18-year-old accomplice.

With time, your body slowly started to comply unwillingly, the tightness loosening to allow his slow rhythm to continue. 

"You are so much tighter than my wife," Cillian groaned, as his head lolled back.

His words stung, but the sweat dripping from his brow and the pleasure that silently escaped him were irrefutable.

"I want you to hold yourself open for me. Let yourself feel as much of me as possible." His voice was almost a whisper, betraying both his indulgence and the increasing hunger that he could no longer contain.

Your body responded involuntarily, shame flooding your veins as you dared to adjust your position to match his request. Your fingers brushed against the spot where his manhood dominated your innocence, causing a shuddering wave of pleasure-pain to ripple through your young frame.

"God that looks good," Cillian grunted, his gaze locked onto the place where he entered you, streaks of blood coating his manhood. 

It felt unreal, convoluted, as a surge of indescribable sensations coursed through your slender form.

The burning, stinging sensations eased, giving way to a rather odd feeling of fullness and a strange pleasure that seemed nearly blasphemous to embrace.

You moaned involuntarily - a helpless, almost guttural sound - as Cillian thrust deeper and deeper, your body becoming more accustomed to his presence as each expert stroke filled you whole.

"Ohhhh, god!" you cried out helplessly.

The pain was still there, but now muted, surrendering to this strange satisfaction that was slowly tightening its grip around your thoughts, and quietly luring you into the storm of forbidden ecstasy.

"Good girl. I want you to cum all over my cock, can you do that for me?" Cillian demanded, his voice low and rough, a clear streak of perspiration glistening across his brow as he plunged himself deeper within the tight sheath of your virginal core.

"Yes, I think so," you hesitated, your breath catching as a thousand fragments of pleasure and pain clashed within the confines of your budding climax.

"Good girl, I will go harder now," Cillian warned, withdrawing himself from the depths of your grasp, only to sink back inside with a force that stole your breath once more.

Ecstasy ignited in the pit of your stomach, spreading like liquid fire fueling your surrender. The room seemed to sway around you, a dizzying pleasure that threatened to pull you under, but you fought for control. Each thrust sent sparks of jolting pleasure cascading through your veins, like the harsh meeting of opposing forces converging in an intoxicating dance for dominance.

"I want you to focus on that tight little pussy of yours," Cillian demanded, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place. "Keep clenching it around my cock," he demanded and the sound of Cillian's urgent moans mingled with the wet friction of your bodies, a sinful symphony of indulgence and a haunting reminder of the boundaries you crossed today.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, meeting each of his powerful thrusts, as the exquisite pleasure amplified and your impending climax wavered tantalizingly at the edge of your perception - ajar but agonizingly out of reach.

Cillian leaned down, placing greedy kisses along your neck with each feverish plunge deep within. He bit and nipped at the sensitive flesh, a myriad of light pain-pleasure sensations that coaxed and excited you further.

Your hands reached up, tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as the energy built in electric sparks in the pit of your stomach.

"Fuck I am feeling so funny again," you cried, your body a quivering, whimpering mess under the mercy of this intellectual, ruggedly handsome man who had paid to relieve his frustrations with your innocent, young body.

Again, it felt like you were wetting yourself but this time you knew why. It was all so dirty, so wrong, yet the thought made something dark within you blossom, sparking your unwilling curiosity towards this new, twisted sensation.

A twisted smile pulled at the corner of Cillian's lips. He was so lost in the pleasure that he had taken, reveling in the strangeness of a situation where the girl beneath him was conquered with a newfound desire to please him.

He grabbed your hips, slamming them against his body with every few powerful thrusts.

"I am going to fill that young pussy of yours with my seed now," He growled with sheer dominance in his tone, his eyes as dark as an abyss - crazed with lust and an intoxicating hunger.

"Fuck Y/N, you are going to make my cum so hard," Cillian said as a shudder raced down his spine, his body tightening as he prepared to release the pent-up desire that had been plaguing him for weeks now.

His grip grew tighter on your hips, as though he would physically command your compliance. He drew his body back, until just the head of his cock was lodged inside you. Then, with a growl, he rammed back into your tight, aching depths.

You screamed in shock as he filled you so suddenly, until you felt him butt up against your cervix.

He roared loudly as he erupted inside you, the heat of his release spurring a strange sense of fullness that pervaded your very being.

You felt shame as his hot seed poured into you seeing that you had succumbed to a married man's desires, but there was also a peculiar euphoria that mingled with the sting of the loss of your innocence.

Beneath Cillian's weight, your body trembled as your heartbeat echoed in your eardrums, a maelstrom of emotions coursing through you.

"Thank you, Y/N," Cillian said, breathing deeply as he carefully slipped out of you, leaving behind a sticky residue. Your virginity was officially a thing of the past - sold for an ungodly sum of $500 and an uncertain fate. You knew that you would do this again, and not just because you needed the money, but also because the freedom of being wanted, the release of pent-up desire you never knew you had, the transformation into someone you did not recognize was far too exhilarating to ignore.

To be continued...

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[discotechque]

WE’RE ALONE NOW AND I'M SINGING THIS SONG FOR YOU

summary: Johnny thinks you sing too sweetly into the microphone at the Breaker Box. He thinks you must regard yourself as some musical prodigy to be treating him like cornbread that's not done in the middle. He thinks of your avoidant gaze when speaking to him, the moments where you make contact splitting him open. Recently, a lot of Johnny's thoughts are infected with you.

pairing: johnny splash/object!reader wordcount: 7.8K content: mc is a molcajete w/ culutral references, mc has a brother, said brother is a comal, can you tell im mexican and these are things in my kitchen, one-sided beef from johnny's side, gender neutral pronouns used, not proofread. note: this idea has been brewing for so long in my head and i also think i never see fics where the mc themselves is an object but maybe that treads oc territory a little bit.

cross posted on ao3

TONIGHT, the Breaker Box is shrouded in a thick haze of fog that flows from the stage. Patrons mill about the tiled floors, wading around in a layer of sweat and shadows. In his hands rests an amber drink that’s been decorated with a melted ice cube and a fruit skewer. On the house, he remembers, a consolation he tepidly sips from. Someone claps a hand on his shoulder in solace and mumbles out an empty compliment.

At this point, it has become his routine.

Another abysmal performance has been ticked off Johnny’s repertoire. He scratches off the song from the cocktail napkin it was scribbled on. Love Me Bubbly. It was something he came up with in the shower anyway. A long exhale leaks from him, rubbing at his temple with his middle finger. Little is left that he can retool before he’s forced to realize that he’s been dealt a bad hand and is skimming by on the pity of colleagues who refuse him the truth.

It’s early in the evening, he can still see trails of sunlight peek through each time someone enters the space. The start of the setlist for Open Spotlight is usually the emptiest. Especially when the other objects have realized that if they delay themselves a half an hour, they can skip his set entirely. The only thing worse than the booing is the chasm of vacant chairs that accompany his crooning. The space echoing back every note that splits his half underneath his wavering voice, destined for everything to fall flat at any given chance.

Johnny sighs and slumps within the leather of the barstool. His jacket crinkles at the shift, the small noises piling on top of one another until the bartender shoots him a glare. Volt’s the kinder of the two—assured that he’s been on thin ice since he stepped up on that stage. He stills and sips his drink, letting the bitterness linger in his mouth before swallowing. The tart taste soothes the sullen string plucked inside of his chest, the feeling moving down the width of his body in waves.

At least he’s been saved from another night of heckling. It used to be worse when they believed he had potential. He doesn’t know why he craves it. The humiliation. The jeers. Every snide comment being tossed his way. Any attention is better than none. That eternal belief starts to chip each time he hauls himself on that stage to play the jester for another night. Nothing’s worse than preluding the other musicians.

It’s why he’s slightly surprised to learn that instead of the agreeable playlist they’ve curated, Volt is beckoning someone from behind the curtain.

His gaze trails over to the duo who peer out from the shadows, cast in hesitancy. The pair look out for a beat before they eventually return each other’s stare. Overdressed twins step out from behind the velvet, guitar and sticks gripped tightly within each of your fists. Both of you wince at the harsh spotlight beaming down, frantic blinking ushering your adjustment to this sudden glare. Everything you do is captured with a natural synchronicity until forced to part. Dividing yourselves amongst the small island bounded by rounded bulbs to conquer different tasks.

The fella is fiddling with his pegs and plucks at his strings, listening to it echo over and over until it’s tuned. Something foreign to Johnny crosses the stranger’s features as he nods at the sound. Tongue caught between teeth, brows tugged together, a single stream of sweat beads down the side of his face. The crimson suit is crisp against his form, only folded at the joints and adjusting his tie every once in a while. He stiffens as someone calls out to him, requesting for him to test the mic.

A clipped, “one, two”, is given in response. He can hear Eddie shrug and groan out, “good enough.” If it’s possible, the stranger’s mouth puckers into a straight flat line that makes Johnny not sure the kid ever had lips to begin with. He releases them to mutter something over his shoulder. Johnny’s eyes follow the comment to land on another figure.

Behind him is you, adjusting the rods on each drum as you tap on the canvas with the stick. A lopsided smile crosses your lips when you’ve become satisfied. You flit around the stage to move around stray wires that obstruct any possible movement, swap a piece of paper back and forth, scribbling on the margins of sheets that are stained with ruby and lime stains and somehow burnt at the edges. Every decision you make is languid but purposeful as if you’ve rehearsed this moment a thousand times over.

The energy between the two of you is charged with something he’s ignorant to. Johnny can’t exactly decipher if the bubble you operate in is a controlled anxiety or tormented stillness.

When he stares long enough, it clicks for him. He’s seen the pair of you before. Though, never at the same time.

Johnny thinks the two of you come from the kitchen and enter the bathroom weekly. Less of the apprehension that stirs from the stage and always some semblance of delight buried within the curled corners of twin smirks. 

Asking for Tyrell who always lounges a few feet away from him. Bickering loud enough to resound within the tiled bathroom when the door is left ajar. Convincing the other objects that you know there’s someone living in the walls. Never still, always flitting from room to room.

He’s never seen you attached before. It’s silly the resemblance didn’t strike him sooner.

Volt leaps to the stage when he’s thrown a thumbs up from the fella. Suddenly, the club has been cast into twilight. Veiled in sharp shadows, the host captures the attention of the crowd by a brisk clap and eclipses the duo with a sweeping stretch of his arms. Any luminance that guides customers further into the club is sourced from you, bathed in the glimmer of spotlights.

Strands of white hair fall from behind a tucked ear as Volt bows, leveling himself with the audience. 

“Make sure your stomachs are a little empty for our next act, I’m sure they’re cooking up something savoury for your senses,” His eyes narrow, focused on a small piece of paper that he continuously edges closer to see. Nodding once, he's finally decided on what’s been written, “The Utenisticles,”

Both of your faces lock into a deadpan. One slight breeze and Johnny’s sure the pair would disintegrate in pure embarrassment.

The gent looks to you, grumbling out, “Not even close to what we’re named,”

“Shut up and play,” the command comes out as a faint hiss but the mic still picks it up and the slight irritation bleeds through the club. You attempt to redirect the small hiccup. Unaware that most people in the club aren’t necessarily concerned with what name you’ve drafted up. The crowd taunts just the same. “The Utensilios! We’re the Utensilios!”

Someone coughs then sneezes. Another finishes their drink. Alerting everyone to the occasion by slurping up the small droplets that have been obscured by the ice cubes. He realizes you’re the one with the mic even though you’re perched behind the drum set.

A chord pierces straight through Johnny, a silken sound that envelops the club. He’s lost on what it could be but the notes blur together. Building on top of one another, soon followed by the steady hand of percussion. The song is slow but he can see some of the audience perk up. The crash of a cymbal is swallowed by the parting of your lips.

You sing and something within his chest stirs, thick and weighty. You sing and it is like fruit from the vine. The sound is sweet and makes the song ripe within its grasp. It takes him completely, this twinge from within has grown over him. A second skin. It prickles with a quiet hum, all too aware that his jaw has slightly clenched. You sing and everyone listens.

His eyes make contact with yours for a brief moment. He swears he sees the hint of a smirk grace your features and his heart stutters.

A final note is belted by you and the kid. No longer bystanders to each other's harmonies, equal within this small stage you make home. Eyes twinkling as you flit to peer at one another, brief tenderness cast. Night embraces you once again, silhouettes basking in the cheers and applause that are immediate.

Johnny can count only a few more people that have straggled in but it’s stronger praise than he’s ever been thrown.

Low chatter springs upon the different tables. Some of the others wave you over yet they’re satiated with the promise of your return. You already have a destination in mind: the bar. Two stools down from where he’s been nursing the same drink for thirty minutes. The ice cube has melted a clear layer upon the liquid. Must’ve already soured the acrid taste further. He shrugs and takes another sip, face pinching inward.

“You were out of tempo,”

“Bullshit,” you flag down Eddie’s attention with a flick of your hand. Leaning over the oak counter, whispering your order into the shell of his ear. The man flushes but nods and shifts away to make your drink. “I’m always on time. You’re only saying that because you started too early and went into two-three time when I was still in four-four.”

Your partner scoffs, hurriedly tugging at the hitch of his tie. The crimson suit jacket is stained at his pits and the button up underneath is wrinkled to hell and back. The get up still stifles him and he pops a button or two loose. The frustration still lingers even as he dresses down and mumbles out, “I wrote the damn song and you’re telling me I was early.”

“Yuh duh, I kinda play the drums so forgive the person that keeps the fucking beat.”

The small tiff pauses at Eddie’s presence, presenting two glasses brimming with a pink liquid. You thank Eddie in unison and his frown deepens. Shaking his head as he leaves. Tongues swipe across the spice decorating the rim of the drink before even taking a sip, a ritual you are bound to.

Johnny’s feet move before his mind can catch up with them, interrupting the quiet peace you inhabited. The both you look at him, brows drawn up. Expectant and unsure expressions are cast upon him at once, his mouth goes dry as he speaks. “Reckon we ain’t been introduced, name’s Johnny Splash.”

You’re quick to shoot back your name. Effortless like you’re the kind who wants people to know who you are. He tucks the syllables in a pocket, has a feeling they’ll stay there long after. 

The other fella is what gets him. A glower etching into every crevice of his features that will give way to be molded. His eyes drag along the length of Johnny’s lithe frame—narrowing his gaze at particular places. Johnny raises his hand to wrap a finger around one of the loose curls that falls just beneath his brow.

His temple furrows at that too.

You turn your head towards him, “Marcel,” Unsure whether you saying it is a preface or a provocation. Everything between you two is at the edge of flipping into conflict.

The kid relents and nods coolly. Deciding he needs to exit the conversation before it’s had a chance to settle. His attention drifts away, lifting his hand at another and licking the rim once again before taking a sip. Johnny abandoned his drink, regretting leaving behind the only thing that could rescue him from whatever he says next.

“Well, I just thought the two o’ you up there were so swell,” you flush at the compliment. Head slightly bowed, grinning with too much teeth. Your brother nudges you slightly with an elbow and it retreats. A tight lipped smile comes in its place, lips held between hidden tiles. A practiced thing. 

Johnny wonders how long he’s stared until noticing your waiting. A rasp clears his throat, pushing against his chest. “A couple o’ well kept canaries. I’m a singer too, y’know.”

The words hang in the air, implication heavy. You start sucking on your teeth, peering over at the kid who seems to take pause. He chews on his cheek, then makes contact with you. Marcel dips his head but your tongue clicks, he shrugs. A language Johnny could not begin to untangle despite being acutely aware of how this will end.

Marcel starts but never looks at him, only you. Catching the way your shoulders sag, relief flooding your system. “The thing is … we’re like a duo, y’know? I think a trio would kill our whole vibe, camacho.”

Johnny smiles but he thinks the creases around his eyes are too sharp. No one notices anyway.

“Yeah, being a pair of siblings is kinda our whole thing.”

A thing. Does he have that? He wouldn’t know the first thing about creating one. You say it like the idea just sprouted in your head one day and he’s wanted this since the moment his spigot turned. Johnny grows warm again, an ugly thing pooling within his stomach. It bubbles and rests against the back of his throat. Lets it stew and accepts, for once, that he’s devouring his bitterness from the inside-out. 

At least, he has that.

Marcel rolls his shoulders and speaks from behind the rim of his glass, “Being talented is also our thing,” Words muffled underneath another swallow of his pink-tinted drink. Not afraid of it but careless—as if it were any passing comment.

It doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He’s saying the quiet part out loud, kind in a way others would deem as cruel.

Johnny imagines some part of you feels the same way about it. There’s a frown that drags down the entirety of your face. Nothing akin to regret, rather toeing the line of annoyance. You jab your elbow into his side and it startles him, spilling a bit of his cocktail on the wrinkled shirt. “Did that dent permanently damage your brain?”

“Aye, you know I’m sensitive about that.” Marcel pushes back but it’s gentler. Still manages to spill some more of his drink onto his clothes.

Somewhere from behind the bar, Eddie yells for you to “quit it” but it’s already settled. Conversations between the two of you must always end in a similar fashion to this. A jab or two before everything lulls into a quiet rhythm. Johnny weaves his hands together, rubbing at his knuckles. He hates feeling like he’s the only one left unfinished.

“Anyways Johnny,” you clap a hand on his shoulder. A consolation. That same close lipped grin you’ve had all night directed straight at him. “super glad you liked our set. See you around, yeah?”

Those parting words echo in his mind. Ominous. A promise. He thinks you’re sure to keep your word.

Johnny knows that you’ve been invited back to the Breaker Box to perform your own set.

He knows because he’s been back every single night. Watching a rotation of Keyes, Miranda, Marcel and you on a steady repeat all while keeping a cocktail within his palm. Thin beads of sweat pooling around his clutch on the glass. He swears he’s wearing down his teeth each time he attends, molars slowly grinding down at each dulcet tone that slips past your lips.

He remains the perpetual opener. Worse than the opener, he’s being placated. Performing when daylight can still flood into the space of annoyed patrons. Crooning lyrics he once wrote in the bathroom, the pages wrinkled from the steam that flooded his space. Doesn’t even have to ask to perform, he's been appeased with a half hour slot. What Volt thinks is a kindness to him only wears him down. Each night Johnny steps in, he knows how it will end.

He’s unsure whether it should be labeled as masochistic or stupid. Maybe both when he’s two whiskey sours in and watches you perched upon a piano for a final song. When it’s finished, you don’t stay for long.

Johnny knows that too. 

Becoming all too familiar with your schedule surrounding the club. He believed that it would be impossible to pin you down but you’ve created routine through instability. He sees you drag Marcel, the other not opposed to following but insists you have the grip strength of an exprimidor. The translation is lost on him just like everything else.

Usually, he retires shortly after you do. He’s grown tired of commiserating with others who would be glad to see him finally quit. Maybe there’s something inherently sad about the way he looks, radiating with the urge to train pity towards him. It doesn’t help that he seems sopping wet at any given moment like a dog left out in the rain. A dense ringlet falls right near his eye, he focuses on it before realizing you’re already out the door.

This time, he decides to follow you.

He can hear your laughter trace the echo of the hall. Stillness radiates from the half open doors on the right so he takes a chance and goes the opposite way. He’s lucky or, more likely, has average deductive reasoning. Whatever the case, he pauses at the door frame and leans in.

People are sprawled across the exposed floorboard. Arranged in a circle, everyone watches as someone aptly deals cards and avoids the center full of trinkets. From the looks of it, you could win: a green pepper, some beige colored mass, a plush toy, or a lightbulb. Taking your hand, you shuffle them till you feel secure in their placement.

There’s a few people here he recognizes and one stranger. The fella’s hair flies away from his face, the small silvers of multicolored paper are skewed and every so often—he blows a stream of air so that they can rearrange in another awkward position.

“Marcel!” Papers rustle at the swift nod, his face nearly centimeters away from the kid’s cheek. Yet, he keeps that same unperturbed facade. “I know you’re already fucking cheating!”

Your twin starts with placing the first bet. Slides across a singular chip that looks more like a board game token. A sigh sounds from beside him. Tyrell rubs at the back of his neck and hesitantly places a similar amount. He supposes that betting is arbitrary as objects can’t really own money.

“Lord knows that’s why I don’t win.” he pouts at the cards as if it would magically bestow him a better hand.

“Don’t start with me, Ty, you’re the worst sore loser.”

A tuft of blond hair brushes past your shoulders. “Does anyone have a queen of hearts?” The taste of cinnamon already infests his mouth. A memory of it irritating his throat as the powder grew chunky overtakes him.

You shift away, holding your cards close to your chest. “How many times do we have to tell you? We’re not playing go fish.”

Another round of bets is set—losing the chips, it’s now Monopoly pieces. Tyrell is the first to already call his hand. A measly two pair.

Marcel sucks on his teeth, looks at you and taps his pinky against the floorboards. “They’re obviously fishing for attention. Lux cleans house every single week.”

“What if we break every light bulb in the house?”

“Wouldn’t that kill them?” Tyrell winces.

Pushing another board game token forward, it raises the bet and Marcel bows his head slightly at the move. You shrug and scratch at your forehead, “I think we should act in the name of science.”

“I know you only invited me here because you’re like insanely jealous.” Lux looks at the pile and groans. The second to fold, the cards scatter beneath them. Three of a kind. “It’s okay, we can heal with exposure therapy and a charcoal mask.”

The conversation intrigues Johnny in an odd way. He likes to consider himself as transparent. That others would gravitate towards him naturally. However, he finds himself thinking that every word that drips from him sounds fabricated, drafted by a cultivated persona rather than himself. No matter how assured he is, a small sliver wonders if this supposed insincerity pervades every interaction.

“Johnny?”

It’s you calling out to him. Brow quirked up and cards splayed flat on the floor, uncaring if someone were to look. You drag your eyes up his frame, slowly and gently. Like you’ve been meaning to catalogue him in your memory. He feels stripped bare underneath it. All your attention is centered on him. It seems like everyone is in some way.

“Oh, uh, hey there!”

He fidgets a bit. Now everyone expects him to speak. There’s a first for everything.

“Eh, I found this here bracelet in the bathroom and thought maybe Tyrell had lost it.”

He’s not even holding anything in his hands. Fingers clenching at the air, sliding his hand into his pockets, fiddling with a piece of lint. He feels like a child waiting to be chastised.

“Not mine, man,” Tyrell decides to be a saint. “maybe Jean Loo?”

Johnny nods. A flush floods his body, his face and chest steaming up as he leaves. He’s never been in the attic before but a certain warmth emanates from it. One he is strictly a witness to and feels as if he’s been caught by merely standing at its threshold. He thinks it may be time to stop obsessively attending your shows. You and your brother must know his face by now. His drooping eyes haunt you from within shadows.

“Wait a second,” It’s not until he hears the scuff against floorboards that he turns around.

It’s you, or rather, a version of you he’s unaccustomed with. He doesn’t meet your eyes, instead they're trained on the dark brown bands within the laminated floorboards. He’s seen this before when he asked you about the chance of becoming a trio. Curling into yourself and pinching your bottom lip between your thumb and index finger before alternating, a steady pattern that grounds you both. You hum—avoiding submerging this moment in silence. Unsteady without the presence of your twin.

Not necessarily a shell but raw.

The pinching stops. Instead, your finger rests there and, finally, you decide to peer up at him. “Um, I was gonna say that me and Marcel would be open to helping you out. Songwriting can kinda make or break a performance, right?”

He quiets. Looks up at the ceiling, tries to count each speckled bump. He gets lost by the third one and tries again. Anything to subdue this heat that sears his chest and wants to swallow him whole. Biting his lip too hard that it may almost burst underneath all that floods his mind. You must think that you’re doing him a kindness like all the others have before.

Somehow, you being earnest in your offer only makes it worse.

“You think you’re better than me?” Your eyes widen, hands drawing up but he's quick to cut off any defense. “On the stage for a couple o’ nights and so sure you can give me advice on anythin’!”

“Fuck, mírame, that’s not what I was trying to say—”

Johnny steps closer but you stay in place. He thinks the tips of your nose brush for just a moment but has become so rife with indignation that it doesn’t register, “Listen here, I know what everyone else says when they think I’m not listenin’. I don’t need you actin’ like I’m a dog that won’t hunt.”

“I’m not— Wasn’t aiming at— puta madre.”

A soft growl follows the stumbling words, you struggle to grasp onto any coherent thought. You try again but the sound dies in your throat. Even try to look him in the eye but he knows you’re burning too, if only in a different way. Johnny feels like he should help you but all that comes is the urge to put more salt in the wound. Wants for you to know what it’s like to be him.

Someone shouts. “Get back in here or else I’m gonna play a hand for you!” The weird fella probably. He saw your hand when he was lurking—four of a kind. Not assured that it would stay that way when you got back.

Johnny waves you off, “I’ll get out o’ your hair.” 

He wants what he says to become the truth.

He has practiced everyday since that moment. Writing new lyrics in the steamed glass of the shower and copying what he comes up with in stolen napkins from the bar. The end product always ends up crimped and stale. Damaged before it even has a chance to be sung. Sometimes he shares, but finds the feedback to be more akin to humiliation at this point. He crumples the paper within his fist and the ink sweats, coalescing the words to be incomplete gibberish.

He hasn’t even strolled past the Break Box once in these past few days. Vowing abstinence against a place that would throw a party at his departure. In his head he has singed every wince he’s been awarded to the wall of his skull. He can remember them even if the place has been discarded.

Although he has peeked out of the bathroom. Seeing if maybe you and your twin have clambered up the stairs—if you still have the grip Marcel once whined about. He can only hear the ghost of your laughter in the early evening, washing over him before Dorian shuts him out from the sound.

Some simple part of him wants to will himself to sing like you can.

Keeps tempo with a steady hand by his thigh, tapping to a rhythm that has yet to be born. Imagines it slow and full, syrup filling the gaps between long held notes. Captured within tinny strings that bounce against the crash of cymbals. Your drumming guiding the song, predictable and tenacious like a warm stream rolling down your back in the summer. He thinks of you and another lyric seems to spring from him. Possessed by this illness where you and music are inextricably woven and each word brings an image of your visage.

“Johnny, if you don’t stop your squawking I will draft a complaint to Celia.”

The logical side, the one he rarely delves into, knows it’s an impossibility.

He drapes himself across his makeshift microphone—a detachable showerhead. Sees his detractor massaging his temple by the cabinet, a frown tightens across his lips. Johnny slides a hand to his heart. “Oh, I’m awfully sorry, Amir.”

He’s not that sorry. Means he always gets an audience, even if unwilling.

“Y’know I was just thinkin’ o’ somethin’.” He raises a brow, lifts himself to his full height. “Wanna hear what it was?”

Amir lets a long sigh expel from his chest. Crossing his arms, he says, “Not at all but I know this conversation will still go on like I do.”

“Thanks for lending an ear, my reflective friend.”

Johnny traces patterns on the screen of the shower door. Indistinct music notes that would surely fall flat if realized. You would smirk had you ever laid your eyes on them, cupping the crude look behind a hand. He hurriedly smudges them and looks back at Amir who runs a hand through his hair. He is already tired of what he would consider dramatics.

“Know them twins from the kitchen?”

“Tyrell’s friends? The strange ones?”

“Em, yeah, them two.” The word he wouldn’t use is strange. More so protective. Over each other and the thrum of music that connects the two of you thicker than familial bonds. “I keep runnin’ into them and it’s always odd.”

The word keeps sneaking itself into the conversation however. Disguises itself through different synonyms. He thinks it’s a projection onto himself. Through interactions with you, he always finds himself to be on the sidelines. Two different conversations happening synchronously. What he says to you is always on the surface, never piercing through the sly movements that signal an entire other language is being spoken.

He says, “I’m always trippin’ over my feet whenever it’s me and them. Must see me as thick for hangin’ around all their shows.”

Johnny perches his chin on the showerhead. What he thought was a mistake at first had only been affirmed to him as he lingered. You look for him or maybe just manage to catch his stare—the sides of your mouth quirking upward in amusement before the song carries it away. He tries to count up all the times he’s made contact and fails to realize it’s happened at every instance. You’ve festered in his thoughts for so long he’s sure he can feel you from a single glance.

“Always a step behind and it’s like they’re tryin’ prove it up on that stage. Take what I never had.”

Amir proposes, “Have you ever considered that they don’t think of you with contempt?”

It’s funny to think that no, that thought never occurred to him. He frowns. Lets out a string of noises that don’t translate into any real words and looks away from the mirror.

“Very hard thing to imagine, I know. But those twins aren’t cruel.” Amir pauses, pouts his lip in thought. “Unconventional maybe.”

He says it like the word has already been stewing in his thoughts. He remembers you fidgeting, trying to ground yourself with no anchor. Avoiding the stare of anyone but your sibling in moments of need. Reaching out for assurance. Reminds himself of the way your eyes dilated, blown pupils struggling to look at anything but him. He flushes, growing warm at the realization of the small gap that prevented you from melding.

Johnny hums, it’s a more of a throaty thing that one would expect from a frog. “Looks like you ain’t just a cute thing to look at.”

“I will smash your gaudy acrylic doors.”

Johnny finds that his vow has been broken after two days. He smiles weakly at Volt who returns the expression in kind, maybe creased with a little more sadness than he’d like. Then claims his seat at the bar, the same one he occupied when he first met you. Eddie is quick to serve him, cleaning out an old glass that he hopes he won’t be drinking out of soon. When he orders, he asks for that pink drink he always sees you sipping on.

Eddie raises a brow but nods, leaves before things get awkward after that request. He’s not sure why he ordered it, he can see the small wince you do after every swallow. The small custom between you and Marcel before the first sip, moving your drinks with hushed commands. He’s never had anything like that with you. 

You and him aren’t intertwined in any meaningful way. Yet, he’s not sure if he could ever quit you.

A piano softly plays behind him but he doesn't deign to look. He knows it’s Keyes and when she hits a slump, she’ll reuse old material so she can be comfortable with technique to gain inspiration. The first two notes shroud him in a sense of familiarity, not so much recognizing the note but rather the sound. The song drifts off into a vague lull and a glass is slid over to him. On the rim, is that same collection of spice and salt you’ve dragged your tongue across many times. He takes his finger and runs it across a small patch to taste. It makes his mouth pucker and smacks his lips as if it would remove the taste.

Johnny can feel you before you speak to him. He sees your outline from his periphery, eyes boring into him. Hands clenched around a glass that carries a drink with an amber tone. Beady eyes narrow as your lips manage to wriggle into some misshapen grin. It looks like it physically hurts. Amir is beside you, harking on your features until they contort into something more pleasant. He praises you when the muscles on your face loosen, a ghost of a smile taking its place.

He doesn’t notice that his observing has converted into staring until you approach. Amir trudging behind, carrying your drink after he pried it from your clutch. Misery stains his usual spark—the unwilling mediator in a trivial conflict. He relays things to you in a tranquil voice akin to lavender lurking around one’s senses. Melts away the fixed posture you’ve adapted into something more slouched, shoulders slump and head slightly tilted.

Even though he’s recognized he’s staring, it doesn’t mean he did anything about it. Both you and Amir look at him, lips flattened into thin lines. Waiting for him to speak. Johnny forgives himself, it’s a new experience.

“Is he well?” you whisper.

Amir pats you on the shoulder, “Eshgham, I don’t think he ever is.” Then departs after downing what remains in your watered down glass.

Johnny starts to speak but so do you. A small huff of air escapes both of you at the interruption. The same thing happens again and he offers for you to speak first. Some inclination to be polite despite the fact that the words clog the back of his throat. Even as you give him the chance to do so, he serves the offer back to you. Tagging each other with the insurmountable idea that one of you must relent and speak first.

“Do you wanna grab a drink?” The question spills from your mouth as if you had been bottling it up for a long time.

His jaw goes slack. He didn’t think out of anything, you would say that.

Your eyes are stretched full, threatening to burst from your sockets. A finger comes up to point straight at your face, almost pushing into the plush of your cheek. “Sorry, with me. I didn’t make that clear enough huh?”

Johnny splutters, “Eh–you wanna take a clogged drain like me out?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, sliding into the stool beside him. Waving at Eddie, the tired man shallowly nods before setting to work on another set of drinks again. Johnny looks down at the one he already owns, specks of spice floating and the sour taste that seized him, before returning his gaze to you. He finds you haven’t looked away. “I mean, you for sure freaked me out a little. But I dunno, is it wrong to say I liked the attention?”

Johnny tugs at his bottom lip with a bite. He can’t imagine what urged him to be so obsessive, the sinking dread that spread from his stomach every time he stayed to watch you illuminate the stage with your presence. What Johnny wants to be, he can never become. He’s learned that if you desire something enough, it eventually leaks into desperation.

He reminds himself of how he cornered you. Trying to construct the right thing to say and choking out every word like you wanted to take it back before it was even said. Yet, you never once curled in on yourself. Intimacy burrowed within his scorn. Johnny eagerly takes the drink Eddie offers, practically ripping it from the man’s hands, and tries to excuse the warmth simmering across his skin as the burn of whiskey down his throat.

Maybe you’ve always been just like him in ways he didn’t expect.

“Jealousy’s a mighty wicked thing,” he admits with a sigh. Picking up his drink and watching the whiskey swirl, “gnawin’ on my bones whenever I saw you.”

You hum, it’s a soothing thing. Could be mistaken for a lullaby.

In the dim light of the Breaker Box, it’s easy to convince himself it’s just you and him. Close, shoulders brushing gingerly and apologetic smiles thrown after. The small bubble you two occupy builds up enough courage for a thought to bloom in his head. He imagines the pad of his finger trailing the corner of your mouth, removing the obligatory garnish that circles the rim of every drink you order, and you parting your lips. It makes his chest grow tight and he shakes his head, dismissing it as soon as it came.

“I kept thinkin’, darlin’,” he picks at the loofah pinned to the collar of his shirt. He used to obsessively groom himself before every show, the habit faltering each time he descended the stage. “if I watched you for long enough, it'd all come together.”

When he first said your name, he recollected how the syllabus clicked together and stayed at the tip of his tongue. As if it needed to be repeated just to get the full effect. He thought his own would be similar—a thing to be worn in and taken care of. Only you had said it that way, echoed in the dusty attic amongst clubs and spades.

“You got potential, compa, and that’s greater than talent.” You gingerly slide a hand to his shoulder, fingers tapping a trail and climbing to reach the summit. He likes the way it feels like you could’ve always been friends. Slotting itself into the groove and absently toying at his plastic coat, “My voice was gravelly when I was younger. I hated the sound like hail against a window, scratchy.”

His gaze trails along your features and stops when he finds himself staring into your eyes. Unwavering. As if blinking would break this, “Hoarse.”

He notices the hitch in your breath at the word. Then you nod, a tight smile curling at your lips. It frays at the edges, a little bit of teeth show.

“I used to sing to Marcel when we were kids.”

“Did the same thing. Well, if a hound can be counted as a kid but my mama would listen too.”

He was just a faucet when small harmonies would flow through his spout. His mama, a little worn and rusted down, had joined him in song no matter the weather. She sang faintly and tenderly, too afraid to let the song gush forward for the backyard to hear. He’s hesitant to name the day when his pipes had been outfitted for a shower. Johnny just knew he was burdened with songs and no one to lead the melody.

He rests his head within the palm of his hands. Rubbing at his face, wishing the action could wipe away the memory too.

“It was just me and him for a while. He used to burn holes in tortillas and I cried cause I didn’t like chile.” 

Right, the kitchen. One of his fingers part so he can take you in and pictures  you smaller, snot dribbling down your nose with big fat tears rolling down the length of your face. A clumsy song peaking through hiccups as you embraced your twin for comfort. Something nostalgic stirs from within him despite being an abstract figment.

You continue, “An older owner left us behind and the other before this one didn’t have the first clue about using us.”

Even as Johnny laments about his purpose, he’s never worried about being forgotten. He, admittedly, makes it an astonishing task. Still, he can’t conceive being tossed aside—he’s a staple within the house no matter how many may begin to argue. There’s a frown etched deep in your features, maybe envisioning the eternity you could’ve spent stashed away in some cupboard. He wants to pry, wants to know about every aspect of every thought that comes to you, wants you to know that you have become the single thing occupying his every action these past few weeks.

Instead, he tilts his head so he can gaze at you. Temple perched upon a clenched fist and catches the gleam of admiration thrumming through you.

“Even if you don’t hit all the notes right, you tuck it under your chin. Wait another night to do it all over again. Couldn’t imagine doing that alone.”

There’s no teasing laced within your words. He keeps waiting for when you unveiled yourself to have drawn him in by some falsehood. Waits for you to be cruel like he’s always invented you to be. Instead, you raise your glass to awkwardly clink against his glass and smooth out the stiffness snagged between his shoulders with a fragile press of your fingers. He releases it and adjusts to the small pressure that lingers.

“Ah, everyone must see me as a deadhead. I’m no good.”

“C’mon, you’re the bravest person I know.” Your hand moves to toy with the small fringe growing near his neck. A smirk grows sharp against your mouth, “And hey, you’re a looker.”

He perks up at that, “You certain?”

You let your drink rest upon your bottom lip, nodding, “For sure, not buying drinks for any leaky shower.”

His face blossoms into a rose tint, “How’d you know I’m leakin’?”

“I didn’t, cariño, but we’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

Johnny’s certain that steam must be rising from his skin at this point. It used to make him feel like he was beginning to boil. Bubbling with this animosity that seemed to possess him day and night.

Now, it’s tender. He’s clouded with the idea of you being so close to him. Captivated by the scent of spice and something that tinges on being woody. Watching you bathed in the spotlight and listening to you for an eternity. He finds it a little foolish and registers that maybe he’s held more against you than you ever did to him.

A dopey smile can’t help but slip itself onto his lips. Regards you with lidded eyes, “Anyone ever say you’re a real charmer?”

You huff, a gentle thing he’s getting used to hearing. “I’m not, but maybe I’ll believe you after another drink.”

He hails Eddie down with the same flick of the wrist he’s seen you do. The bartender trudges over, unamused in his poor imitation of you. Yet, he catches you in his periphery, a buzzed grin pulling at your cheeks and flushed from the club’s lighting shimmering against your skin. Johnny hopes he can buy you drinks for a long time.

Johnny finds you in the kitchen more often than not. Your silhouette traced by the sunlight that swarms the countertops and cabinets in canary yellow. Chatting with Marcel as you sit at the dining table, throwing around lyrics that are woven and cut to create the tapestry of a new song. Each page is either stained heavily or almost burnt to a crisp but neither of you appear deterred by the blemishes.

In fact, you seem encouraged by the impermanence of your work. Spurred on to remember the lyrics before they’re reduced to ashes. You’ve both written him songs before, pieces reworked to his fitting. Better than most of the chorus he’s created under the thick fog that swallows the bathroom.

Unsurprisingly, he gets heckled less often. They still find his voice to be a slight nuisance. A more pleasant nuisance, he decides.

He encounters you in a similar setting, though you’re perched upon the countertop. Sinclaire questions the both of you, handles raised high, before the sink storms off into the laundry room. He doesn’t want to ask, the urge doesn’t even arise. Johnny sees you and he comes to a realization that he can never fully grasp—you’ve decided you want to be his. His mind spins at the idea of it and witnesses you working from the threshold of the main hallway.

“Sugarplum?” he murmurs at the edge of the room.

Your face brightens once it lands on him. “Churri,” you chirp and pull out a chair. A flick of your fingers beckons him to sit beside you.

He finds he’s learning. The small motions that speak for you above all else, considering himself to be less of a stranger in this new language. Johnny collects your hand and presses a kiss to the back of your palm before settling. You roll your eyes but you smile. Tender and shy. Still adjusting to the fact that you’ve let someone else know you.

Marcel groans, squints his eyes and blocks the two of you with his palm for extra assurance. “I think it’s sickly the two of you do this in the kitchen.”

“Bitter cause your vieja left you.” Marcel balks but you ignore it. It’s a constant competition between the two of you. One of assurance and torment but you both seem to strive in the barbs tangled within every conversation. You fully turn towards Johnny and whisper what must be an open wound for your twin. “Tortilla press, nasty little thing.”

He looks at you, really looks at you. Wants to memorize every freckle and bump scattered on your skin. Count how many lashes fan across both eyes lids.  Memorize how full your cheeks get when radiating with absolute joy. Thinks he could if he really tried but instead resigns himself to resting his head upon your chest.

“Why do you use my trauma against me? She was el amor de mi vida, man.”

Marcel continues to splutter but you gingerly lay your chin upon his head. A stray hand running through his locks, darkened and slick, before wrapping the strands around your fingers to curl them back into place. Sometimes they still and lightly scratch at his scalp, scrunching his hair at the base. Warm breath fanning over him in a rhythm he’s sure you don’t notice—one of those musical qualities you’re quick to deny. Moments like these aren’t rare but he can’t help but long for them.

“I wrote something for you,” you mumble into his hair and your other hand reaches out to slide a few pages to the edge of the table. “sin Marcel. Quería que fuera de mí para ti.”

You speak to him in Spanish as if his desire for you would somehow make the words clear to him. Still, you use certain phrases enough that it bridges a slight understanding. Sin is without, you told him once while slicing through a pepper. Watching as the thin rounds were grounded into seeds and mush. He smiles at the thought and threads his fingers with yours.

Johnny slots himself into the crook of your neck. Nipping at every area of skin exposed to him, “Well, ain’t you sweeter than a can o’ peaches? Not sure I’m strong enough to stop myself from eatin’ you up, gorgeous.”

“Sick! The both of you!”

You take his chin into your palm, squeezing at his cheeks. He melts into it. You offer, “Another time, yeah?”

You wink at him, a grin is split open by your canine. He nods and returns to your shoulder.

Johnny thinks he would wait until he rusted over if it would earn a single moment by your side.

[loves-alibi]

i cared

MDNI simon "ghost" riley x f!reader summary: three and a half years ago and an ocean away, he tore you apart. now he's turned up at your door. wordcount: 4.1k warnings: smut (fingering), drinking, AFAB reader, possible past dub-con (reader was in a bad mental state and simon knew), simon is a shitty guy in this, talk of hypothetical suicide, talk of past bad mental state (depression), mentioned PTSD, heartbreak on both sides, death mention (MW:III canon) a/n: hey remember when i said that my next fic would be joel and i posted a little insert. that was a lie! instead of working on that (12k word, currently) monster, i wrote something else. if you couldn't tell, i started this before the holidays and then forgot about it.

ao3

The house is much nicer than Simon anticipated. When he saw the New York City address, he had expected you to be crammed into a shitty 6th-floor walk-up. But no, not you. Instead, you have an honest-to-God three-story home with red brick delicately dusted with snow. You certainly couldn’t afford it on the 141 salary. He always suspected you came from means. This just confirms it. It just makes him wonder why the hell you decided to slum it in the services for so long.

It reminds Simon that he shouldn’t be there. You weren't made for that life and left for a reason. Who is he to ruin your peace?

He’s not alone on the street. Well-to-do families of strangers pass by, all watching the masked man observe their neighbor’s home. He can still turn around and leave you to the life you so clearly want.

Something shifts in one of the windows, the curtain being tousled by something. A dog. You got a dog– a golden retriever with sharp eyes and, evidently, an even sharper bark. The canine goes berserk, barking and howling and growling at Simon through the window. It’s Simon’s cue to leave, to leave you be with your semi-rabid, semi-domestic canine.

But before he can move, the curtain shifts again– pulled this time –and you’re there. You squint for a moment, surely wondering what masked freak is standing in your walkway like he owns the damn place. He lets you scrutinize him. It’s now or never. Either you’ll tell him to fuck off once you realize who he is or you’ll call the police on him, though it’s not like they would do anything after he calls Kate.

Instead, you disappear behind the curtain, your loyal steed of a dog following hot on your heels. In a moment’s notice, the large front door, with a gilded knocker and door knob open. You beckon him in. He follows, eyes trailing up and down your body once you’re facing away from him. You’re dressed casually but smartly in a short denim skirt and cashmere sweater. Simon’s never seen you in that getup before, even when going out to the pub.

“Shoes off,” you order, motioning towards the neat shoe rack next to the door. They’re all women's shoes of the same size. Simon’s shoulders relax, and he slips off his boots. It was for the best, he figures. His old boots would have just dragged dirt into your space. He takes off his mask too, hanging it up with his jacket. It’s nothing you haven't seen before.

Simon follows you into the sitting room– at least, that’s what Simon guesses the room is. It’s too neat for your taste, or his memory of what your taste is exactly. The couch and single chair seem untouched, the air still, like Simon’s presence is cutting through some sacred stillness.

You point to a couch and Simon obeys, sitting with his hands on his knees. Your eyes lock with his without granting him any semblance of your thoughts. Simon keeps his gaze soft, neutral. You can scrutinize him all you need.

You sigh, straightening your posture. A smile pulls at your lips. Your smile lines crease deeper than he remembered. Or maybe they always creased that deep.

“Tea?”

***

“He’s quite protective,” you drop two sugar cubes into a cup of tea. The spoon in your hand lets out a delicate tink as it hits the porcelain cup. You hand Simon the teacup, it’s just how he likes it. “Always has his haunches raised, even when he’s not working.”

Ah. A service animal. He’s surprised to not have put that together sooner. Always loyal, the pooch plants himself at your feet, gaze burning into Simon. If looks could kill…

“Your home?” Simon asks. He lifts the teacup to his lips and sips. Simon places the teacup on its saucer impossibly slowly. Simon can’t believe you’d trust him with something so delicate.

“I inherited it.”

A smile creeps on Simon’s face. Teacups and generational wealth. He always knew you were posh. Or whatever Americans call posh.

“You’re on holiday?” You ask.

“‘Tis the season.”

You hum. Your house is the only one on the block without some sort of holiday decor. Simon wonders if it was a pointed decision.

“And you came here.” Why?

He can’t tell you the truth. The fact is that every day since you left– all one thousand two hundred ninety-eight of them since John uttered to his fuming lieutenant that you just weren’t fit to serve any more –he’s ached. One thousand two hundred ninety-eight days of no contact. Of his only proof that you ever existed being a photo and a tear-stained note with one sentence scribbled in ink: John has contact info– emergencies only.

“I wanted to wish you a happy holidays.”

You laugh dryly, though it sends a pang of pain through Simon. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Usually people send a card for that.”

You observe Simon with precision, like you never left the force, though the way you scratch Yogi’s belly unconsciously betrays the hardened exterior. It’s a glimpse into the last three and a half years. Of the woman you’ve become– so foreign to Simon. Foreign to your past self. Or not. Maybe this is who you’ve been all along, just hidden behind fatigues. Maybe the woman Simon thought he knew was just a farce. Rich girl playing army for a few years.

Maybe you joined the force just to fuck around for a bit. After a few years, you’d have stories to tell your socialite friends back home. Except, you didn’t get what you wanted, didn’t you? Simon knows well and good that serving, the 141, and him, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, destroyed something in you. 

You tap the porcelain of your teacup. It makes a pleasant ding. “Did John tell you where to find me?”

“No. Well–” Simon tries to tell you the truth without throwing his comrade under the bus. The truth was, John had indulged in one too many drinks at the pub one night and hadn’t locked his quarters. An envelope addressed to you sat front in center on his desk. “Not intentionally.”

It’s a satisfying enough answer. Only a small twinge of annoyance crosses your face before you hum. “This isn’t a guilt thing, right Simon?” You ask, “I didn’t do what I did because of what happened.”

“What we did back then, on the field,” Simon traps you under his gaze. His stare is aggressive, but he hopes it conveys the intense feelings he’s struggling with. “I can’t just leave it. That’s why I came.”

Simon doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t dare breathe while he watches you process his words. It’s a load of crap, he knows it, and he knows you know it. It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to kick him out.

You smize, teeth coming out to tug at your bottom lip. “Have you ever had New York pizza?”

***

You order two pies, hushing Simon when he insists it’s too much. You were right. Two isn’t enough. Simon scarfs down one pie without coming up for air. It’s delicious. It isn’t until he’s four slices deep that he realizes that you, smiling widely at him, haven’t yet picked up your first.

You’re a gracious host– a natural, really. You perch yourself on the kitchen island, legs crossed in a way that makes your skirt ride so sinfully up your thighs. Simon doesn’t look of course, he’s a gentleman. At least, he is for the first bottle of the ungodly expensive red wine you procure. It’s then that you perch your leg on the counter opposite your spot on the island, right next to Simon. Old habits die hard– especially when inebriated –and Simon places a hand on your leg, massaging the skin of your ankle.

You pay no mind to Simon’s ministrations, though, lost in the domestic bliss and mindless conversations you’ve probably been drowning yourself in for the last few years. You wave the glass of wine wildly about, like you wouldn’t give a damn if it spilled all over your expensive clothes. It seems so natural for you. Simon wonders what you were ever doing with the 141 when posh city living fits you like a second skin.

Simon inches his hand higher up your leg as you speak. He doesn’t get very far, but it’s enough so that he can trace patterns into the soft skin of your thigh. It’s too much, though, because your eyes lock onto his. But you’re not mad. You don’t tell him to stop. Rather, you examine him, and in your eyes Simon sees what looks like mirth.

“I missed this,” Simon says. He cringes at the words leaving his mouth. He’s succumbing to the domestic bliss you’ve created, looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses.

You reach for a third bottle of wine and a corkscrew, furrowing your brow in thought while twisting the screw. “I didn't want to abandon you,” you say. Simon, watching you pop the cork off with ease, almost forgets that you’re talking to him until you lock eyes. He watches you sniff the cork, pause, then sniff it again before topping off your glass. You take a heaping swig, like that Pinot Noir worth more than Simon’s monthly pay is unremarkable. “I left for a reason, you know.”

Oh, Simon certainly knows. The rumors had been inescapable in the first weeks of your absence. All around base every soldier had entertained the question of what happened to the American chick in the 141. Simon had only so many threatening looks to give privates before curiosity got the better of him. He abated the desire to ask John for so long, but there was only so much longing he could handle coupled with the cacophony of voices asking the same thing he desperately wanted to know.

John didn’t flounder when Simon finally came to him, demanding to know why you left.

She was discharged.

Why?

For… mental reasons.

Simon lost his shit in Price’s office that morning. He collapsed onto the couch with a gasp, a hand grasping and squeezing his heart. His breath left him, but Simon was too bloody stupid to understand what the hell was going on until Price was handing him a brown paper bag.

Breathe, son.

“Simon,” you breathe, your saccharine voice the most tantalizing sound Simon has ever heard. You lean forward, your finger tracing the scar parallel to the cut of his jaw. You were there for it, saw the knife slice through his mask and the skin underneath. You bandaged it in the helicopter after, making Simon promise to go to medical afterwards. He promised he would. That night he closed the wound with superglue. “Why did you really come?”

Because you disappeared. Because Price said you were on the brink of becoming a statistic. Because I fucked up. Because I said things I didn’t mean and I thought that it killed you.

“Johnny’s dead,” he lies. But it isn’t a lie. It’s true, sure, Johnny’s been reduced to ashes and scattered in the Scottish highlands. But that isn't why he came.

“I know.” You sniffle. Christ, Simon’s made you cry. Nausea washes over him. A voice in his head screams, fix it, idiot! But emotions were never Simon’s strong suit. Instead, Simon reaches for the bottle and tops off your glass of wine, probably a bit more than he should have, but it seems like you need it.

You mutter a thank you and down a bit more than half of the glass. You come up for air and hiccup. “John told me.”

“Price?” He asks, as though there was any other John. Anything to get you talking rather than crying.

You nod. “He dropped by around Thanksgiving. Asked if I wanted to be there when you all…” You wave your hand in the air, “You know.”

Something ugly festers in his chest. Maybe if he actually went to a therapist, Simon could recognize what it is.

“You said no?” He asks.

“I didn’t think I could.”

Simon nods, holding your gaze in a way that he hopes conveys his sense of understanding.

“How’d it happen?” You croak. Your eyes are glassy, a reminder of the ever-looming threat that you could fall apart again. Simon reminds himself that you wouldn’t be crying if he had just kept his distance.

“Bullet in the head.”

You tense, your head flying to Simon. Your eyes are frantic, searching for something in his face. “He…he…?”

Christ. 

“No, no,” Simon scrambles to get his next words out, “Makarov. It was-” His voice cracks. Unusual. “-was too fast to stop it. To save himself.”

You hum, slumping down like it’s comforting to you that Johnny had his life torn from his arms. Like it’s comforting that Johnny couldn’t go on his own terms, but on the terms of a Russian terrorist.

“You know,” you say like you know he knows, “Johnny’s the reason I got out.”

Simon shifts. Johnny never talked about your discharge, always responding to speculation like he was none the wiser. “He is?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. It’s deep and watery. “Things were…bad one night. He found me. Talked me through the night. Listened to me.” You throw your head back, eyes tracing imaginary patterns on the ceiling.

“He told Price?”

You nod.

“That was after we…”

You nod again. Simon feels sick.

“It had nothing to do with you, Simon.”

“I never thought it did.”

“Then why,” you ask, “did you bring it up?”

Simon shifts. “Thought it was relevant.”

You smile, though your eyes are still lined with tears. “Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not, love,” Simon laughs, hoping you buy it. It works, he thinks. You seem to deflate, slumping a bit. You take some time to think. Simon, panicking at the thought that your self-reflection could send him out the door, pulls out the one trick he has over you.

He lets your legs fall. They bang against the cabinets with a soft umph from your lips. Simon slides off of the counter and stalks your way. You watch him and put up no fight as he slots his wide body between your knees. You don't even complain as the parting of your legs forces your skirt to ride even higher.

Fingers card through Simon’s hair. He hums.

“Why did you do it?” You ask.

Simon tilts his head, and with the wine in his veins and your hand in his hair, the world spins. Your other hand slips under the hem of Simon’s shirt. Warm fingers graze the skin of his stomach and then side, before your hand settles on his back, palm splaying across scarred flesh.

“I–” Simon croaks, “–I felt something for you.”

You snort. Simon’s chest burns and he takes some deep breaths to calm himself. He imagines Price’s paper bag, inflating and crinkling over and over.

“You knew I would leave. That’s it, isn’t it?” You accuse with a gleam in your eyes. “I was in a bad place and was leaving so it didn’t matter if you hit it and quit it.” You laugh. “You got what you wanted without risking your position.”

“That’s not true.”

Your thighs bracket his legs, trapping him against you. Your words curl around your wine-stained tongue. “‘I don’t love you’. Isn’t that what you said Simon?”

“Love–”

You tense, thighs squeezing him like a vice. “Love,” you coo, the imitation of Simon’s long vowels curtles unnaturally on your tongue. “Love, love, love. You know Simon,” you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and lean into the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin as you speak, “You say it, but you’ve never meant it.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon utters, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“You’re not.”

He’s not. He doesn’t argue. He could– should, rather –but he can’t think straight with you this close to him. The scent of your perfume itches the deepest part of his brain. You never wore perfume when on duty, rather, always coated in the aroma of base-issued shampoo and sweat.

“I really cared for you, you know,” you whisper, your lips millimeters from his, them parting when his fingers rub you through the fabric of your underwear.

“I know,” Simon closes the distance, capturing your lips with his.

He pushes you back onto the counter, you let him, lets Simon cage your body like he has the right to. You groan into his mouth when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth and melt when his fingers slip past the hem of your panties, his fingers plunging through the wetness into your cunt.

It’s obscene— the noises you make as he thrusts his fingers into you. With his free hand, Simon pushes your skirt up over your hips so he can watch your cunt squeeze around him.

He slides his thumb up to your clit and you gasp. “Simon,” you moan. He nearly stops. It’s been years since he’s heard you say his name, let alone moan it. Fuck, Simon can’t help but grind his cock against the island counter, groaning.

It doesn’t take much to work you into an orgasm. Before he knows it, your moans become softer, higher pitched, and you’re coming apart, clenching hard on Simon’s fingers.

He works you through your orgasm, whispering praise into your ears. Simon gives you no time before pouncing, fisting his hands in your hair and devouring you. You wiggle underneath his weight, uttering something, but the words are lost into Simon’s mouth. He pulls away, his eyes meeting your expectant ones.

“What?”

“Upstairs,” you say, chest heaving. “My room is upstairs.”

***

Simon wakes before dawn. He’s lying on top of you, your strong breath rocking him up and down. Your limbs are impossibly tangled. He’s reminded of an identical morning, years ago, of what he did then, and what that choice led him to. But that was years ago. You were different then, broken. How was he supposed to know that his choice would make you shatter?

He untangles himself slowly. It feels like the process takes hours, though the sun fails to make an appearance by the time he slips out of bed. The clock reads four in the morning. That explains it. It also explains the way the room around him is spinning slightly. He’s still drunk– or at least buzzed –from the night before.

His pants are an easy find, discarded by the door. His shirt though… Simon spins around the room, eyes glazing over the space. He tries not to take anything in too deeply, too personal for this morning.

He spots his shirt on your vanity. Simon yanks it off, but something hard and heavy comes with it. It nearly drops to the floor, but Simon catches it before it can hit and wake you up.

It’s a perfume bottle, heavy and half-filled. Simon can’t suppress the urge of his half-drunk brain to sniff it. The scent— the scent of you —explodes in his synapses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, ensuring you’re still asleep, before pocketing the bottle.

The dog follows Simon as he walks through the house. Luckily, as he slips on his shoes, the dog disappears into the rest of the house.

Simon lingers with a hand wrapped around the door knob. It warms under his touch.

“Are we doing this again?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, “I ‘ave to.” Simon stays facing the door, though he doesn’t make a move to turn around. He knows how he must look to you, too cowardly to face you. He’s reminded of the last time he spent the night with you. He got out scot-free. What would have happened if you found him then? Simon can’t say for certain whether or not he would have left then, if you called out for him in the same delicate voice.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“In New York,” you say, voice dry with sleep. “With me. Get out of the SAS, the 141, all that bullshit.”

“‘S not that easy.”

“It is. I left. You can leave. Or you can stay and end up like Johnny–”

“What do you know about Johnny,’ Simon growls, turning on his heels. He straightens his spine, puffing his chest up like you’re a threat. Your dog buys it, growling and worming himself between you and Simon. You don't take the bait though. You honest to God laugh in Simon’s face.

“I know enough.” You step closer to Simon. The pooch gets the memo, clearing the way for you. Simon almost does the same, he wants to. Some instinctual part of his brain needs to cave to you. “You mean something, Simon,” you flick your eyebrows up, letting them drop immediately. It feels like a challenge, like you were asking Simon the silent question. Do you matter? 

“You’re more than a soldier– more than a body on a field, waiting to drop.” There are tears in your eyes. You don't let them fall. Simon hopes you’ve finally realized that he isn’t worth your heartbreak. He’s never been, but at least your realization would stop his cruel cycle of him chewing you up and spitting you right back out.

“Come to New York, Simon, please. There– there’s a butcher shop up the block, they’re always looking for help. You said you used to do that stuff, right?”

Fucking hell. He had said it to you, years ago after a mission. Simon went drink for drink with Johnny and Gaz and got positively wasted. It was the night he first set his sight on you, when your tenderness sunk its claws into his heart and refused to let go. You didn’t know then what it would lead to. Simon did. Every love Simon had wilted in his claws. Why would you be different?

“Come here,” you plead, “Take the job with them. I can help you find an apartment or you can live with me but–” You grab Simon’s shoulders, tugging. It isn’t strong enough to turn him around, but he does. Your cheeks are wet and eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Simon, it’s too late for us, but don’t let it be too late for you.”

Simon lifts his hand to your cheek, fingers grazing the plump skin. It slides to the back of your head and tugs– yanks you into his embrace as he crashes your lips against his own. The morning makes you soft though, as Simon nips your lips with his teeth, you melt, softening and slowing your movements.

It’s you that pulls away first, staring at Simon. You let him swipe his finger across your cheek, caressing you.

“Please,” you beg, kissing the palm of his hand.

Simon lets his hand fall from you. It sits achingly cold at his side.

It would be cowardly to leave you without a goodbye after forcing himself back into your life, even if it was for one night. Simon considers himself to be many things, but never a coward. Yet, standing in front of you, staring into your expectant eyes, words don’t come easy.

You step towards him. Simon steps back. The door knob presses into his back. His heart is pounding, the blood in his eyes deafening him. Your scent wafts his way, your perfume. The one whose bottle he knocked over, nearly let slip through his fingers and shatter. The one which you never got to wear in the 141. The one weighing down his back pocket.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Simon says.

He doesn’t look back. Not when you gasp his name. Not when he opens the door. Not when he walks down the snowy street.

Price and Gaz will ask about his holiday. They’re kind like that. In the cab to the airport, passing the bottle of perfume between his hands, Simon considers his answer. Single word answers are his forté, but won’t suffice with the prying curiosities of his captain and sergeant.

The answer comes to him when he sniffs the perfume once more.

In the coming week, when Gaz claps him on the back, he will ask, “How was the holiday, Ghost?”

Simon will answer, “I had a meal with an old friend.”

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for qwertynerd97 behind the cut; Kara gets to Earth on time and the Kents get a two-for-one special on free kids.  (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Pa finishes closing up the barn doors and then beckons Kara after him, and she follows him into the house much earlier than they’d normally go inside. Kal is sitting on the sitting room rug playing with his stuffed Krypto, and Ma is flitting around the house and seems to be doing different chores from usual too. She’s collected an odd assortment of things on the table in the kitchen–a box of fat white wax cylinders and a bigger metal cylinder with a clear flat lens at one end but no accompanying lens to see through on the other, and a small square-shaped metal device with a metal spiral on top and a dial on its side, and also some strange-smelling metal cans sitting on the floor next to the “fridd”. There’s a few other things scattered around the kitchen and living room that Kara doesn’t recognize or know the purpose of, but she doesn’t really know what to think of any of them. 

They’re just, well–things.

Kara’s getting used to not knowing what things are. Getting used to the constant sense of disorientation, the confusion, the displacement; the feeling of everything always being alien. Nothing ever being familiar. Nothing ever feeling–

She’s getting used to all that. Yes. 

She doesn’t have a choice about it, because nothing will ever be familiar again. 

Nothing ever can be familiar again, because the only thing left of their “familiar” is her and Kal and some smashed wreckage and a few crystals. 

And Kal won’t even know the difference in the end, assuming he even knows the difference now.

He’s never cried for Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor the way she expected him to. Never . . . 

She’d thought he’d cry for them. Thought he’d be inconsolable without them. Thought the grief would come for him too, and the loss and frustration and need, and . . . 

She doesn’t even know if he cares they’re gone. 

He–cares, she tells herself; of course he cares. He . . . he must. 

( if he knows. if he understands. if he even REMEMBERS them, remembers ANYTHING, remembers– )

Kara makes herself smile for Kal as she crosses the living room and crouches down beside him to check on him. He’s playing with his stuffed Krypto, still, and a few of the set of painted wooden cubes that Ma and Pa like to stack for him and he likes to knock over are scattered around him, along with the soft little patchwork blanket Ma gave him. He seems happy, and unconcerned with anything else. He babbles at her and baps his Krypto against her face. She tries not to concentrate on the flat, toneless register his babbling keeps slipping into; the way he’s clearly imitating the aliens’ language more than he is Kryptonian. 

“Krippo! Krippo!” Kal announces excitedly, and Kara doesn’t concentrate on the missing notes in his voice. 

Or on his accent on the word “Krypto”, and how close it is to the way Ma and Pa say it. 

“Hi, Krypto,” she says, poking his soft stuffed nose gently in return. Kal giggles and baps her harder. 

“Krippo Krippo!” he says happily, and then–“Krippo pie!” 

He means he wants a snack, she knows. Kal’s started doing things like that; suggests “feeding” Krypto when he’s hungry or wants something to eat himself. “Krippo up” and “Krippo out” are both new additions to his vocabulary too. He uses words almost as much as he chimes, even, or even uses any other calls at all. 

She didn’t know he’d start talking so quickly. Just–after the first few words, he got to phrases much quicker than she expected, so simple sentences probably aren’t too far away either. Which–Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor are both–were both brilliant, obviously, so she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. Though she doesn’t really know how quickly most babies learn either, so maybe it’s not even as quick as it feels to her. 

Just–it feels so fast. He couldn’t talk at all when they got here. He’s taller than when they got here. Taller and broader and heavier and better at using his hands, and crawling better and better and even pulling himself up to standing against the furniture, sometimes. She’s seen him try to take steps with its support, even, though he hasn’t quite figured it out yet and she usually has to catch or steady him before he can fall. Even his hair’s grown a little, and it’s curling more and more. 

It’s . . . it’s been so much change in him, it feels like. So much change that Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor never saw, and never will. So much more change to come that they’ll never, ever know about. He never said a word to either of them. He never . . . never . . . 

Someday he’ll be grown enough they wouldn’t even recognize him if they saw him. If they could see him, she means. 

But they can’t, of course. 

Kara makes herself keep smiling for him and picks up a couple of the cubes to stack up for him too. They're brightly-colored, at least for this planet–almost nothing here seems to be quite as intensely saturated as anything back home was, and it’s all just as flat as the alien’s voices. There’s no iridescence to the whites, no texture or shimmer in the blacks, and all the other colors are just one or two-note hues at best. 

The little yellow sun’s light is as layered as a nebula, still holding little glimpses of its past bright white youth and already glimpses of its future powerful red maturity, but mostly just a thousand shades of swirling, burning yellow shining with eager purpose and promise and depth, but that’s the only thing. Everything else is just . . . flat. 

Sometimes it makes Kara feel like she isn’t even real. Like the aliens and their planet aren’t even real, and she’s dreaming all this in stasis as her ship chases Kal’s across the stars. 

Or she’s dreaming all this as their whole world burns down and falls apart and self-immolates in the last moments of her life, with no hope or chance at survival at all. 

She stacks another couple of cubes into a tower. Kal knocks it over with his Krypto, and laughs in delight as it falls apart. 

It doesn’t burn, but Kara can taste ash in her mouth anyway. 

[heylittleriotact]

𝐸𝓂𝒷𝒶𝓁𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝒾𝒹:

Used to preserve deceased individuals, sometimes only until the funeral, other times indefinitely.

(for @emmg who was thirsty for Emmrich porn avec whiskey dick and I am nothing if not accommodating)

Under the cut and on ao3

Hours had passed since they first set foot in the high-class cocktail lounge tucked behind a secret entrance down an unsuspecting alleyway in Minrathous.

That should have been his first clue that this night was going to end up wildly out of hand. This was no humble tavern with a starving bard strumming their lute in the corner, singing about some woman named Sera while a harried barmaid slung pints of warm ale and unidentified meat to patrons, warding off the occasional pinch to her rear with quick fingers that told just how long she’d been tending bar in the city.

No, instead of a bard, there was a somber, balding man at a harpsichord in the corner, dispensing sophisticated chamber music, and there was no barmaid in sight: only a portly middle-aged Orlesian man who introduced himself to Emmrich and Amina as ‘Guillaume’ and walked with a labored gait that Emmrich suspected immediately to be caused by an active and rather nasty flare-up of gout.

There were no windows in this cocktail lounge, given its exclusive and ‘well-hidden’ existence, and the only light sources were small oil lanterns placed on each of the small round white-linened tables. 

A password. They had needed a password to be admitted into this place. 

While admittedly some part of him felt thrilled at the cloak-and-dagger charm and implication that attending this venue was somehow rebellious in nature, he did think it a bit ostentatious, even for his tastes, but Neve had suggested the lounge, going so far as admitting that it claimed the spot at the top of the list of venues to take dates she was really interested in.

Emmrich didn’t ask where she ended up taking the ones she wasn’t as optimistic about.

Guillaume hobbled over to their table and folded his white-gloved hands before inquiring if the monsieur and mademoiselle would like another beverage. They probably should have stopped two or three rounds earlier, truth be told, but conversation flowed so naturally - so easily - between them, and they simply never ran out of things to talk about.

Emmrich watched Amina lift the little leather-bound menu and squint in the dim light as she attempted to discern the feathery cursive on its pages. A thick strand of her bone-straight black hair slipped over her shoulder as she leaned forward, humming thoughtfully and tugging up the neckline of her plunging burgundy top as if the motion would do anything to protect her modesty. They were both more than a few drinks in, and she wasn’t a heavy drinker to begin with, so about an hour earlier when she’d beckoned him close over the table and whispered in his ear that she wanted him to cum in her mouth later, he knew she was properly in her cups.

He decided he was too as he tilted the empty crystal glass in his hand, watching the large cube of ice within drift over the bottom until it met the side. He’d had what… five or six whiskey cocktails and that one with the gin, vermouth, and olives? Spaced over the three or so hours they’d been here, there was no denying the light around the lanterns had developed a misty glow and he felt very relaxed… and increasingly distracted by the curve of her breasts peeking over the top that was doing its very best to conceal them. 

“I’ll try the Sazerac, please,” she primly closed the menu and held it out to Emmrich, who accepted it from her, arching a brow discreetly in her direction when he felt the pointed toe of her nugskin heel travelling sensually up the inside of his leg under the table, staring at him with kohl rimmed eyes and drawing her lower lip through her teeth like she was a housecat ready to pounce on a fat songbird - him. 

She knew what those naughty little shoes did to him, the minx. 

“One more of these, if you’d be so kind,” he lifted the empty glass and tried his best to sound cordial and unassuming as Amina’s foot meandered up his thigh and the sole of her shoe came to rest on his crotch, which enthusiastically responded to her attention. “And we’ll settle up with you as well, please: we’ve another engagement this evening we must be off to.” He grabbed Amina’s ankle to halt her taunting movements against him, and she shot him a coquettish smile over the rim of her tinted coupé glass before tipping it back and draining the remnants of the cocktail - some concoction of gin, wildflower wine, elderflower, and bitters, among other things… he’d had a sip: it tasted floral and lively like a late spring breeze dancing down a winding country road on a clear day.

Guillaume tipped his head and limped away, returning a few minutes later with the cocktails and a handwritten bill tucked into a little leather folder which he placed in front of Emmrich without hesitation after setting down the drinks. 

As soon as Guillaume was far enough away, Amina reached over the table for the folder, but Emmrich snatched it away, holding it out of her reach.

“This doesn’t concern you, darling.” 

Her outstretched hand did not move. “Don’t be ridiculous, Emmrich. This is hardly my first time at a place like this - I know this isn’t a cheap night.” How lovely she looked with that delicate rush of colour over her cheeks and nose.

Emmrich thumbed the folder open and skimmed over the bill, his expression stoic. “No darling, but I knew before we started seeing each other formally that you’re a woman of expensive tastes.” 

Expensive tastes to the tune of precisely two-hundred-forty-seven gulder… and an appropriate gratuity on top of that. He withdrew his purse from the inside of his waistcoat to start counting out coin. 

Amina knocked back half her Sazerac in one go and said confidentially, hiding the side of her face with her glass so no one but him could see her mouth, “You’re right about that, but there is something I know that you don’t, Professor Volkarin.” 

“What might that be, Ms. Ingellvar?”

She leaned close - almost close enough to taste the booze on her breath. 

“I’m not wearing any underthings.” 

His cock twitched and he felt the colour in his cheeks deepen further at the thought of her warm, wet cunt separated from him by only the expanse of table linen and expectations of public decency. It wasn’t that he needed to drink to feel attracted to her - no, that came as effortlessly to him as breathing - but in the haze of perhaps one or two too many fancy cocktails, his mind was consumed by thoughts of ravishing her for the remainder of the night and well into the early morning if they could get away with it. 

“What a charming surprise.” He counted out payment, set it on the table, swallowed a good deal of his drink, the burn of it doing little to quell the urgent desire to bend her over the table and bury himself in her then and there. “Finish your drink, darling, and let’s get you home, shall we?”

She was already tugging at buttons and closures by the time they tumbled through the eluvian into the Lighthouse, giggling feverishly and twining around him like an affectionate cat. Her shoes were abandoned in the eluvian room, and her shirt was doffed in a careless heap on the floor at the top of the stairs to the library.

“Remember when I sucked you off by the bookshelf and you were soooo worried that someone was going to catch us?” She grabbed his hand and put it over her bare breast as she meandered unsteadily backwards towards the stairs to their respective rooms.

Filling his hand with the warm weight of her flesh and tugging at her nipple gently, he hushed her inebriated titter with his mouth over hers, knowing full well that he was far too drunk to be wandering around attached to someone at the mouth with his eyes closed, but not able to find it within himself to behave responsibly for a change. 

“Davrin very nearly did: you’re a bad influence, Ms. Ingellvar,” he purred, sucking her lower lip into his mouth and catching it with his teeth. She moaned into the slight hurt and threw her arms around his shoulders, then her legs, trusting him to catch her - which of course he did. He could drink the city of Minrathous dry and he’d never drop her. Not her. Not precious, beautiful, lovely, entrancing Amina…

He carried her all the way down to his bedroom, admittedly a little unsteady on his feet and taking extra care as he descended the stairs from the laboratory into the well-appointed cavern where he slept and kept his personal effects. 

Placing her gently on the bed, he did away with his boots and joined her, crawling atop her and devouring her with another hungry kiss as he slipped his hand up her thigh, past the bunched up hem of her skirt until his fingers met with the dripping heat between her legs. 

“I’m beginning to think you deeply begrudge smallclothes, darling. It seems you’re completely averse to wearing them unless absolutely necessary…” He circled her clit with his thumb almost tauntingly before slipping two fingers inside her, working them slowly, stretching her, slickness slowly travelling down his palm and the back of his hand.

Arching against his touch, Amina groaned. “I never did have much patience for pointless things.” 

She palmed him through his pants, humming approvingly when she found him hard and straining against the material. “I wanna kiss it,” she declared, her voice semi-slurred, looking up at him with glassy eyes. 

“You want to kiss it,” he corrected smarmily.

She poked him in the side, hitting a spot she knew was ticklish and making him flinch, but his fingers remained within her. “This is not… that’s not how one successfully goes about getting their dick sucked.” Despite the admonishment, her fingers worked at the closures of his trousers, and despite the turgid gracelessness of her motions, she managed to free him.

Leaving the comforting warmth between her legs, he fell to the bed, still completely clothed, and Amina slinked downwards, bending her legs at the knee behind her and crossing her feet at the ankles as she rested on her belly so he could enjoy the sight of her petite little soles and well cared for toes while she sucked him off because she knew he enjoyed that. 

How lucky he was. How unexpectedly fortunate to find himself on this harrowing but exhilarating adventure of a lifetime to begin with, and then to find companionship as well? True, genuine connection with another person that he hadn’t felt in years - he certainly hadn’t responded to that letter from Bellara requesting a meeting operating under the assumption he would find himself entangled with someone as wonderful as Amina... 

There was little refinement to her approach of pleasuring him - no slow, sensuous teasing with that tongue of hers, not tonight, oh no: her nose was already already buried in his pubic hair, and the tip of his cock was residing somewhere in the neighbourhood of her tonsils. Uninhibited by the numerous cocktails she’d downed, she was going down on him like he was her last meal and it sent his mind reeling to witness her so liberated and shameless in her movements and actions.

Her eyes met his and she let his cock slide from her lips, a fat rope of saliva still tethering him to her, and the naughty thing actually winked at him before a heavy bead of drool dangled from her open mouth and spread over him, the heat and depravity of it forcing the air from his lungs. 

Working the slick all over him with her callused hand, he watched her and something in his brain stopped working altogether when she lowered her head and enveloped him again, her sage green eyes locked on his the entire time.

Messy, sloppy, unseemly. Every memory of a polite greeting and an understanding smile held in sharp relief against the undisciplined young woman currently slobbering on his dick.

It was exceptionally attractive.

But then something was off. The steady thrum of his pulse beating hard through his nethers vanished with worrying haste.

Oh no… 

No-no-no-no… 

No?

He dared a glance at her and could tell in the instant before his eyes snapped shut from sheer embarrassment that she had indeed realized that something had changed as well. Specifically his cock, and the firmness of it - it was rapidly softening in her mouth… practically deflating in her hand, the blood fleeing from it deciding to circulate elsewhere at the worst possible moment. 

You loser, Volkarin!

He could practically hear Johanna’s snide tone in his mind. Why he was hearing her voice in his internal monologue at this exact moment in time was a mystery to him, but that didn’t change the fact that he heard it like she was kneeling on the bed next to him, berating him directly. 

Amina’s lips twitched upwards in a helplessly sympathetic expression that for the first time in his life had him considering that embracing death might not be so terrible as she continued to do her best to resuscitate his wilting manhood. 

A few drinks and your boudoir performance turns into a mummer’s farce! She’ll come to regret crawling into bed with your feeble bony carcass if this is the best you can do! Poor thing… her, to be clear - not you. I knew you were a lightweight, but this is pathetic!

Too much time had passed with neither of them saying anything - it was becoming increasingly awkward as moments ticked by and his traitorous loins continued to play shy. 

One of them had to say something. 

It had to be him. 

“D-darling–” he stammered uselessly.

Amina sat back, tucking her legs beneath her, his limp cock flopping against his trousers with all the sprightliness of a dead herring. She rubbed her palms on her thighs and blinked rapidly. “It’s… it’s fine!” The put-on shrillness of her voice told him that it very much was not fine. “If it wasn’t doing it for you, you could have just said so.” Her lip trembled and she looked at the pillow above his head instead of him. 

Fade take him: she thought he wasn’t enjoying himself - that she was the reason for his… impotence. 

“No, no, no, dearest - that’s not true at all!” He scrambled for words and her wrists so he could pull her close and try to at least undo some of the damage that had been done, knowing from the redness of her eyes and the knit of her brow that it was far too late: she resisted his gentle tug and stayed sitting on her knees between his legs. 

Of course they were both drunk, and where he found himself unable to perform, she found herself weepy. 

Oh dear.

What a mess he had made of an otherwise lovely evening…

“You must believe me that this isn’t your fault, darling. I… I’ve had too much to drink, I’m afraid, and, and this is tremendously embarrassing - I… this doesn’t happen often, really, I swear, and I want nothing more than to make love to you, it’s just… I just…” his face felt redder than it had all night and the amount of liquor he consumed had nothing to do with it. 

Amina hiccuped wretchedly and finally let him pull her down against him so he could wrap his arms around her and stroke her beautiful night-dark hair. 

“Let me make it up to you?” He murmured drunkenly, softly tracing the shape of her ear with a finger. “Just because I’m not up for it - much to my own chagrin, I must emphasize - doesn’t mean you need to go to bed unsatisfied, hmmm?”

“Please Emmrich, it’s not any fun if you’re doing it out of pity,” she groused into his shoulder, her dissatisfaction with his proposed arrangement apparent. 

What was he to do? He hadn’t run into this particular difficulty with a partner in so long that his memory strained to recall how he’d handled it back then. It seemed cold and uncouth to shrug his shoulders and call it a night, leaving her unfulfilled, but there was little chance of him finding arousal again in this state… not for a few hours at least.

“We… we could try again in a while, perhaps?” He offered weakly, hating himself, hating his uncooperative anatomy, and hating the very existence of the spirit known as whiskey. It would be a miracle if she wanted anything to do with him after this…

Amina heaved a tormented sigh, still not lifting her head from the space between his neck and his shoulder. “I don’t… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do things for me if you don’t want to. It just makes everything… weird.”

He shifted his shoulder, lifting her face from him and then cupping her cheek, forcing her gaze to his. “I do want to though, darling, don’t you understand?” Her fingers found his wrist, warming skin and gold under her searing touch. “I am consumed by thoughts of you from the moment sleep leaves me in the morning to the very moment dreams find me at night, and those dreams have been conquered by you too.”

His other hand skimmed up her thigh, back underneath her skirt, finding her heat again. She shuddered against his touch, still wet and engorged, and he bitterly wished his cock could replace his fingers. 

Would it be like this after he achieved lichdom? Certainly there would be… changes to their intimate dynamic, but would it be fraught with this same awkward tension that currently lingered unpleasantly somewhere between resentment and pity? 

He considered this previously unconsidered eventuality as he laid her down on the sheets and spread her open, filling his nose with the scent of her - feminine and lively: a natural blend of salt and sweetness and sweat that made his mouth water reflexively.

That scent would no longer exist for him after lichdom. Not without olfactory receptors lining the tissue of his nasal cavity. It was indeed difficult to the sense being replaced with something better, but being able to smell was vital to being able to taste, and as he lapped at her deeply, tonguing her hot flesh as one would indulge in a ripe, messy summer peach, something twisted in his chest, compounding the pre-existing misery caused by his inability to perform.

One hand gripped the top of her muscular thigh, the other stretched over her lower belly, covering it almost entirely, hovering over her womb that was hidden under a network of muscle and sinew.

He would no longer be able to taste her, nor would he be able to please her in this way either. 

Never again would he feel her warm juices dripping into his mouth and rolling down his cheeks, saturating the hair above his lip and dwelling there so that he would catch scintillating traces of her in the hours afterwards, making it difficult to concentrate on anything but the memory of her underneath him, chanting his name as he brought her over the edge.

He undid her with ease despite his inebriated state, knowing exactly where and when to lick, how hard, and when to introduce his fingers again, working them inside of her in tandem with his tongue against her clit. 

Touch would still be an option, he supposed, crooking his fingers towards himself and finding the rough, textured spot within her that immediately made her hips buck and her thighs clench against his head. She moaned his name and he placed a gentle sucking kiss on her clit, then told her she was a good girl before returning to his ministrations - and his ruminations.

Would she even desire that, though? Not being able to jointly enjoy each other intimately tonight clearly hadn’t sat well with her, so what were the chances that she would be satisfied - let alone eager - to find release by way of skeletal - albeit loving - hands, and whatever metaphysically similar connection he might unlock?

Would she even want him to touch her anymore once his flesh was shucked away eternally, replaced by linen wrappings and the illusion of a glamour that catered only to the sense of sight?

Her knees pressed against the sides of his skull so hard he thought she might crush it, but he did nothing to remove them or attempt to ease her grip.

How would he even kiss her without lips? Embrace her? Comfort her with his body that was rigid and hard and hollow and cold? 

How could he be anything for her in that form?

… What if she decided she wanted a child?

He liked to think that she would see past it - that her true feelings and affection for him would outweigh her apprehension and need for physical connection - that lichdom and all that came with it outweighed the confines of mortal flesh. But as Amina’s fingers curled in his hair and she gripped him hard as she spent herself, her sweet release gushing down his throat, he knew deep down that the chances of her seeing it that way was about as likely as his cock coming back to life tonight. 

Even still, he couldn’t find it within himself to think her shallow or unfair for it: while he was pleased at the sight of her panting and gasping for breath from his place between her legs, he missed at least having the option to incorporate his own anatomy into their activities, and it was just natural fact that having had a cock for the entirety of his life up until this point, the prospect of having to part with it wasn’t at the top of the list of things he looked forward to experiencing when he finally attempted lichdom.

He should be above such things. He should be beyond such attachments if he was truly ready for the gift of immortality.

He finished licking up every drop of her from her perfect sex, then tucked her in, then tucked himself in alongside her. He smoothed her hair as she nuzzled into him, exhausted and blissed-out as he knew she would be. 

“I’m sorry, darling,” he told her.

“Don’t be,” she mumbled sleepily, already dozing off, uncaring that they were both at least partially clothed. 

He wanted to do as she said, but as he watched her fall asleep in his arms he couldn’t.

Couldn’t let go of the sickly, creeping feeling that he was going to lose her when all was said and done, and this was only a glimpse of a not-too-distant future. 

The next morning, despite the vicious hangover that was ravaging the insides of his eye sockets and his stomach, he dragged an equally hungover Amina to the market in Treviso and wouldn’t let her leave until he bought her three new pairs of shoes, an expensive new perfume to replace the passable but cheap label she normally wore, and a tasteful but very authentic gold anklet with half a dozen flawless sapphires along the chain. 

It was obvious to both of them what he was doing: making up for his dysfunction the night before. 

But it was more than that for Emmrich. This wasn’t just an apology - it was a promise: I might not be able to please you in the ways that you deserve and desire, but you will never feel unloved. You will never want for anything. 

That’s enough, isn’t it?

I’m enough?

He remained unconvinced.

[leashybebes]

fuck it friday

okay, i guess this is happening. i'll be tagging ex-borg tommy in case you want to filter it out! also lol i'm very aware it's not friday in my timezone anymore shhh

the first fanfic i ever wrote, just for myself, was star trek. i cannot believe the first one i show the internet is a weewoo show au.

In the galley he finds Eddie, eating emergency rations and scrolling through a PADD. He tends to save up his replicator rations for an occasional blow-out, and Buck has no idea how he manages to choke the ration bars down so frequently.

"Hey," Buck says and Eddie's head jerks up. He glances over Buck's shoulder and beckons him closer.

"We have a problem."

"Yeah, I just left him in the brig."

"Not - well, okay, yeah, kinda. I got Hen to isolate his human DNA. Buck, he's Starfleet."

"Oh. Shit."

"He was lost at Wolf 359," Eddie says, and his voice is steady, but Buck knows what that means, both in the abstract, and for Eddie to talk about it. Buck was on practically the other side of the quadrant when it happened, and he didn't know any of the crew, let alone Eddie at that point. But everyone knows about The Battle of Wolf 359, when one of the pillars of the Federation was taken and turned against them, when he unleashed that single, haunting, seemingly unstoppable Borg cube on the Alpha quadrant and destroyed wave after wave of Federation vessels.

Buck always knew, vaguely, that Eddie had been there, and that it was why he left Starfleet, but it had taken years of friendship and several bottles of Romulan Ale before Buck learned the whole of it. That Chris and Eddie had narrowly escaped, making them two of only a few handfuls of survivors, but that Shannon had died when the ship they were both serving on, the USS Constance, had burned in space, one of the 11000 dead or assimilated.

"Do you think they'd want him back?"

"He's been Borg a long time," is all Eddie says, but Buck can see him thinking. He might know things. He might be useful.

"What's his name?" Buck asks.

"Lieutenant Tommy Kinard," Eddie says. "He was a pilot on the USS Firebrand."

He nudges the PADD towards Buck who takes it and looks down at the image of a man who is barely recognisable as the recently former Borg in the brig. The file shows his official Starfleet identification and so it shows a handsome, serious-faced young man with a sharp jaw and waves of dark hair. A command-gold shirt is visible across his shoulders before the image is cut off. Buck scrolls through the fairly minimal publicly available information - born on a moon near a mining base, joined Starfleet young, took to the stars.

Where he was taken and changed by a force no one even began to understand until it was too late.

"Well, shit," Buck says. "Have you told the others?"

"Not yet," Eddie says, looking through the information again. "More importantly, how do we tell him?"

[official-megumin]

the cube beckons