#Contour Interval

[multimilfs]

Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: The Bigger Bear

Summary: Agnes is set to be recognized for her work on a case, but getting her to the event leads to some... unexpected circumstances.

Ao3 + Part 1

Words: 10.6k

A/N: An enormous thank you to my beautiful beta readers; @saphiccarma , @louisaa-a , and @harknessshi who were kind enough to take their time and read over this for me!!!

Included: Established relationships, G!P, daddy kink, mommy kink, hand jobs, begging, dom/sub, kink exploration, car sex, accidental stimulation, accidental drug use, dirty talk, humiliation, possessive sex, porn with plot.

Tag List: @sapphicharknesss @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @milfslvr @kathrynscontroversiallyyounggf @raleighgay @ninatheronhahn @lizzieolsie216 @ajaasiopaoo @sweetestberryofthebunch @meiwan @pagetboobstarcomments @coffeemelko @alli23rt @thefearoffallingapartohohoh @ambessasevikasexslave @cowtownz @ilovehotactresses @supergirl107 @jillisselt @reignofnightmares @sapphic-gays @heady-pomegranate @dmtrxie @sp3c-tr0 @evie-101 @poisson-99 @renravens @scullysstrapblog @littlebminus @hvrkncss @blue2908 @lolitscaitlin @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @bqqbacenbuger @tastycadaversoup @women-are-so-ethereal @fruityrat47 @yluji @absolute-memegarbage @starryalexis @snickerdoodles-stuff @cheesee07 @rosie6reyes @kmaxmadness

With sleep still clouding every corner of your mind, you sigh, trudging down the stairs. 

The to-do list sits empty, which in theory allows for more time to relax; but relaxation often turns to boredom, and you find yourself missing Agnes. You sigh again as you aim for the kitchen, passing the living room.

Three steps past the living room you pause. 

You know every inch of your home top-to-bottom, down to the scuffs on the baseboards from Agnes kicking her shoes into them—which is why you know the dark mass sitting on the couch shouldn’t be there. You back up and blink at the sight of your wife. 

She’s clad in a flannel shirt and boxers, hair a frizzy halo around her head. Her glasses threaten to slide down her nose as she stares down at the pages of a book. 

“You’re home today?” You ask. 

“Chief told me to leave, take a ‘well deserved break.’” Agnes scoffs, not looking up from her book, “Just because we wrapped that case yesterday doesn’t mean there aren’t others.” 

“True. But you can look at the others with fresher eyes if you rest.” 

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were conspiring with him. He said the same thing.” 

“Common sense for those who believe in work-life balance.” You smile, crossing to the couch and sitting down, leaning into her, “What are you reading?” 

An arm loops around you, pulling you more firmly into her side. Long fingers brush against the exposed bit of flesh on your side. Warmth radiates from her and you cuddle into every bit of contact she offers. The sigh that leaves you this time is pleased—dreamy. 

Agnes switches to reading the book aloud. Yet you’re not paying attention to the words, but rather, her voice; the gravelly note in it as she keeps her voice low in the peace of the morning, how it speeds up and slows at different intervals depending on how eager she is to see what happens next. Head resting on her shoulder, you take in all of her with so much affection it could make you sick. 

Like the details of your home, you know every contour of Agnes’ face as if you possess a map. You know every wrinkle and smile line, the subtle freckles that become brighter in the summer. If she’d let you, you’d kiss every mark on her face a dozen times over. 

Instead, you settle for tracing your finger down the length of her nose. She pauses. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

“Admiring.” 

Hesitation, then she shrugs it off, “Okay.” 

She begins to read again, mouth twitching with a grin when you trace the sensitive spots of her skin. It makes you grin. Faintly, you have the thought of hooking a finger in her mouth to see how she’d react, but you’re enjoying the comfort of being near her too much. 

Her lashes flutter when she blinks behind her glasses. The muscles in her jaw work double-time when she reads faster. You drag your finger along said jaw with agonizing tenderness. 

Tenderness that fills you so fully you can’t keep silent any longer, murmuring, “My handsome girl.” 

She swallows roughly.

“What is your deal?” 

“I told you,” you smile, leaning in to kiss her jaw, “I’m admiring.” 

“You’re distracting.” 

“Part of my job, sorry.” 

“Don’t remember that being in the vows.” 

“If I remember correctly, you don’t remember any of the vows—your focus was on the wedding night. As if we’d never had sex before.” 

Agnes barks out a laugh, “A lot of you was on display, what else could I focus on?” 

“How much you love me, for starters.” You pout. 

At the sight of your expression, Agnes rolls her eyes, the hint of a grin still pulling at the edges of her oh-so-kissable lips. 

“That’s what the rest of our lives were for.” She waves you off, “The wedding night had its own purpose.” 

“Loving and fucking can and do exist at the same time, you know.”

“You don’t say.” 

You don’t dignify the comment with anything beyond a petulant huff. 

Like a cat sure of their rightful spot, you curl back into your wife’s side as if you own the space; as if the curve of her body was molded to match your own. The length of a strong shoulder plays the part of your pillow. 

Agnes’ fingers twitch around her book. She resumes reading, silent this time. 

The allure of sleep still beckons with a convincing hand. Your eyelids droop—but though you may close them, sleep does not come. You alternate between opening them to make a half-hearted attempt at reading the pages and letting them slip closed on the hope of slipping away. Similar fatigue plagues the whole of your body. 

A bird calls outside. There’s a brush against your foot as Scratchy hops by. 

The lingering notes of Agnes’ cologne tickle your nose. You press closer—as if it’s possible— wanting to drown yourself in the scent, in her. She huffs a near-silent laugh. 

Your stomach growls. It squeezes, searching and desperate. You should make something for the two of you, but that requires moving away, and you’d rather cut off your own hand than do that right now. 

But the noise doesn’t escape your wife’s notice, “Let me finish this chapter and I’ll make breakfast.” 

A simple, innocuous statement; yet it turns your heart to liquid. 

Before Agnes, how many times did you trudge through the day, ignoring your own needs due to your exhaustion? How many past partners had cared enough to put their tasks on hold to do something like make you breakfast? 

The offering doesn’t surprise you; you’ve been together too long—but in the silence, you’re painfully aware of a time where the idea of anyone caring felt impossible. You had only let yourself imagine someone like Agnes in the dead of night, where the lack twisted in your chest. And you had given up on ever finding what you needed… until she walked into your life and shook the foundations of what you knew to be true. 

The affection and gratitude gnaws at your insides, desperate to be expressed. How do you express the gravity of a love like yours? How do you explain to Agnes the way she makes you feel without her waving you off, unwilling to hear praise?

Without a word, you spit in your palm and slide it past the waistband of her boxers. 

Agnes jolts when you take her in hand. Her fingers press indents into the pages, eyes wide and searching your face for a hint of explanation. 

“Keep reading.” You say, with more force than intended. 

You’re stunned when she does so without argument.

Pages turn, minutes pass. You listen to how her breathing changes as your hand works over her length, varying your strokes, paying attention to what makes her hips twitch. The change is slow—gradual, the sun changing position as you bring Agnes’ cock to wakefulness. 

You don’t mind the time it takes; allowing you to revel in the closeness, breathing in the scent of her and embracing her warmth as she slowly grows hard in your palm. 

Every now and again, you’ll tilt your head back to admire her side profile again—the subtle pucker of her lips, her darling cheekbones, the beautiful meandering outline of her nose. You want to show her love so overwhelming that she never doubts her beauty again. You want to smother her in it. You want to sink your fucking teeth into her. 

Agnes inhales sharply when you squeeze, sitting up a bit straighter. You smile into the skin of her neck at how hard she’s growing, and how with every minute that passes she loses control over her focus. 

“Baby.” She whispers, pleading. 

A strange desire for a different title comes to life in the back of your mind. You shove it down. 

“Keep reading, Agnes.” 

A throaty whine. You like watching her try to do what you ask, but you want to see her squirm more. You nip at her neck. 

“You’re so perfect.” You whisper, hand stroking faster, “And all mine.” 

Though Agnes’ eyes are focused on the book in her white-knuckle grip, they don’t move across the page. Her chest rises and falls, hips twitching as she bucks into your palm. A thin sheen of sweat clings to her temples. 

When you run your thumb over the head of her cock, she whines, thrusting up. 

“So responsive, aren’t you?” You run your tongue along the shell of her ear, “So needy for more of me around your cock. You just can’t get enough.” 

The flutter of pages and a clatter as her book hits the floor. Head thrown back, she squeezes her eyes shut, throat bobbing. Slowing the movement of your hand, there’s a rush of heat between your legs at her pitiful little noises. God she’s fucking perfect. 

Her cock throbs as you drag your hand over every tense inch. Fist so loose you’re hardly making contact, Agnes’ hand seeks your own; gripping you around the wrist and tightening the grip for you, fucking herself into the warmth of your palm. 

That won’t do. 

Extracting yourself entirely, you tsk, “I didn’t say you could touch.” 

Agnes’ head rolls in your direction. Shadow falls over her face, her eyes darker for it. Pink and red paints an enchanting vision over her flesh. You resist the urge to give in and give her your cunt—because then she won’t learn, will she? 

“Baby,” she grits out, jaw tense, “don’t tease.” 

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d behave.” 

“I’m not a fucking dog.” 

“Oh?” Your head tilts. Her cock is pressed against the front of her boxers and you trace your finger along the outline of her, “But I thought you liked being a good boy.” 

A violent throb beneath your touch. Her hands clench in the couch cushions. 

“God.” 

You bring your ghosting touch up to her throat. Sweat clings to your fingertip as you dip along the sharp structures of her physique. An idea pops into your head that has you clenching your thighs. 

“Maybe I should put a collar on you. You’ll never forget who holds your leash if you’re wearing my name around your neck.” 

“Fuck no.”

Agnes twitches. 

You laugh—a mean sound that you don’t entirely recognize coming from your mouth. Oh. The sound of your own twisted confidence and the power wrapped within only deepens the heat between your thighs. 

“No?” 

A dangerous note lingers in your voice. Agnes—whether not noticing or not caring—snarls.

“No.” 

“What a shame.” 

In a beat, you’re gone; off the couch and out of her reach. You crouch to pick up her book and look up through your lashes. Agnes swallows, eyes blown out, cock straining enough that she must be in some kind of pain. 

The weak, pleading look on her face has been replaced by something harder—the veneer of Detective O’Connor, who spits in the face of higher forces and never once stops to ask for forgiveness. Your mouth feels too full; your tongue desperate to trace along the hard line of her jaw and into the divots of her collarbones, the press of bone firm against your soft appendage. 

You love her in power and control, but you want the glimpse caught in her office on Christmas Eve—you want her so desperate she’ll humiliate herself for a touch. 

With a sweet smile, you throw the book into her lap, “Have fun with your hand.” 

A brief glimpse of her shock makes you shiver with satisfaction. You’ve never walked away, never denied either of you; you’re the desperate one, willing to do any degrading little thing she suggests if it means she’ll take you. 

You’re not sure where this desire to dominate has been hiding, but god if it isn’t delicious. 

A step away from leaving the room, her raspy voice calls, “Wait.”

“Yes?” 

“Don’t… Don’t leave me like this.” 

Leaning against the doorway, you laugh, “I’m not taking orders.”

“Come on, baby,” She says, in a near-whine, “I don’t want my hand.” 

“You want mine?” 

For flair, you hold yours up, wiggling your fingers with a raised brow. She stares and gulps. Then, she nods. 

“Words, Agnes.” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

You step back into the room with an expression of faux-sympathy. But instead of returning to the couch where she waits, hard and wanting, you sink into the armchair at the edge of the room. The cushions caress your form without fuss. You sink deeper, getting comfortable. 

Agnes' eyes haven’t left you for a moment—good. You fold one leg over the other and finally meet her gaze. 

“You’ll have to come over here and earn it.” 

She’s up from the couch in less than a second. Her feet wobble beneath her, but she’s so eager that the questionable footing doesn’t stop her. 

You hold up a hand. 

Agnes stops. 

“Crawl.” 

Her teeth make an appearance, lip curling. You brace for a mouthful of venom as you prod at the pride she protects so viciously—but Agnes sinks to her knees. 

You feel as if you’re watching the scene in slow motion. Agnes crosses the space on all fours, hair obscuring her features, even as her eyes never leave your own—not even when the sharp rays of sun sneak through the slats of the blinds and light directly on the electric-blue orbs. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. 

Desire churns and makes you clench. The emptiness between your legs is so prominent that it’s painful. You want her inside you, but you have all day. 

When Agnes reaches you, there’s a split second where she looks unsure, hands twitching in front of her as she tries to decide what to do with them. You wait. Even if you’re enjoying holding all the power, you love how she surprises you. 

Agnes’ eyes leave you as she bends, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin of your ankle. 

“My angel.” She murmurs, alternating to the other side, “My love.” 

It’s a slow ascent. She’s taking her job seriously—worshipping every inch of you on her way up to the space between your legs, murmuring words of devotion and praise in a voice so reverent it almost feels out of place; you are the offering upon the altar she kneels before, and she’ll do whatever is required to demonstrate her piety. 

Your chest is heaving by the time her lips make it to your inner thighs. How unfair, how so like her to steal the power back by completely surrendering herself to you—tears prick at your eyes, your body searching for a way to release all this emotion inside. 

You have never loved or trusted anyone like her. You want to fucking ruin her for it. 

Before she can reach your covered center, you weave a hand in her hair and yank her head back. She groans. The sound makes you clench. But it’s nothing compared to how she looks up at you. 

The heart in your chest squeezes, you whisper, “Perfect.” 

She bristles like the words are an insult. You don’t give her time to argue, leaning down to capture her lips. Your tongue sweeps across them and into her mouth with a desperation that makes your heart race—the need to taste her, to taste your flesh upon her, drives you to near-madness. 

When you pull back a thin web of spit connects you and you lick it from where it meets her bottom lip. 

Unyielding, you grip her jaw in a hand, and stare into her eyes, “Who do you belong to, Agnes?”

A beat.

“You.” She breathes. 

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes from rolling back in your head. 

“Stand up.” 

Agnes does as you command as quickly as she can manage. You tamp down on your giggle when her knees crack, but you know she can see the amusement in your eyes; a matching look in her own. 

Said look fades when you remove your sleep shirt and yank her boxers down. 

The cold air of the room pebbles your nipples. From her position above you, Agnes licks her lips. You take her cock in hand once more and she throbs; no matter who is in control, she loses it seeing you beneath her. 

You squeeze. Her hips thrust forward. 

“Don’t tease, angel.” She begs. 

“Behave and I won’t have to.” 

Punctuating the statement with a firm stroke cuts off any arguments. Pretty blue eyes roll right back in her head, her hips moving, seeking more—soft little pants leaving her in place of words. 

It’s not going to take long to make her cum. 

When your hand falls into the rhythm that best suits, your mind begins to wander; it feels nice to touch her, taking your time—you’ve both found yourselves so caught up in life as of late that sex was a collection of frantic movements between tasks. Not that it was ever bad sex. But there’s something special about having time to tease and draw out the actions. 

How fortunate you had no plans today. 

You’re going to take your time and worship her like she worships you. You’re going to familiarize every inch of Agnes’ body with your tongue; imprinting her taste until it’s all you hold in your mouth. By the time you’re finished, every inch of her will shake at the reminder of how good you make her feel. 

Looking up through your lashes, that warm devotion in your chest expands until it’s hard to breathe. Her hand digs into your shoulder as she thrusts, eyes closed, completely trusting you to hold her steady. 

You push up the bottom of her shirt and press kisses to the soft skin of her stomach. Her hips stutter for a moment and you feel her tense, fighting her desire to check on you. But that isn’t what you want; you want her to take, to enjoy without guilt or worry. 

“Who do you belong to?” You repeat, speeding up your movements. 

Faintly, you remember why you don’t use your hand very often; your wrist hurts. 

A choked gasp, “You.” 

“Yeah you do.” You smile, bolstered by her affirmation, “Every inch of you is mine—mine to love, mine to cherish, mine to break. And I’m going to break you, baby. I’m going to fuck you until all you can do is pant like a fucking dog.” 

Agnes keens. Her chest is rising and falling so fast you worry she might hyperventilate, but she doesn’t once stop moving, fucking into your hand while whimpers of “yours, all yours” leave her lips. The power of taking every ounce of her fight makes your head feel floaty.

Her thrusts grow more erratic as she nears her peak. The hands on your shoulders tense and loosen. 

“Let me. Please l-let me—” She cries. 

You tense out of nowhere, waves of pleasure coalescing and rocking through you as you cum without a touch. Heaving gasps of air as you breathe through it. 

Your voice is weaker than you’d like, “Give me a pretty necklace, baby.” 

Agnes wastes no time in fulfilling your request. With one final snap of her hips, they stop, and spurts of cum shoot from her cock, painting the bottom of your face and neck in her desire. You watch every inch of her face—the furrow of her brows as she works through the feeling, and how every muscle loosens as the pleasure settles like a warm blanket. 

Carefully, you extract your hand from her softening length, licking her off your lips. She regards you through heavy-lidded eyes. 

You scoot to the side and make room to tug her down next to you. She allows it. Soft and pliant, she curls wordlessly into you, head falling on your shoulder—only narrowly avoiding the mess she’s made. 

“You did so well,” smiling, you kiss the top of her head, “you make me so happy when you let yourself have what you want. And you look so perfect when you do.” 

She grunts in acknowledgement. Her body weight is pressing against you more insistently with every passing second, and you let it, running your hand up and down her back until her breathing evens out. 

Even as she dozes off, you can resist whispering, “My love. My handsome girl.” 

---

Days later, you curse, every muscle still sore as you answer the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“This is Chief Proctor, would you—” 

You don’t think before rushing out, “What is it? What happened?” 

Did something happen when Agnes was out following a lead? She rarely goes alone, but you know how stubborn she can be about being made to wait. Did some perp try to fight back, or get her before she could get them? Fuck, did she get shot? 

“Everything’s fine, Agnes is just fine!” He rushes to reassure you, and you feel like you can breathe again, “I wanted to ask if you’d come in so I could run something by ya.” 

You put your head in your hand. The heart in your chest is still beating too fast, fear still coursing through your veins even though there is no danger. 

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there soon, Chief.”

---

 A few heads pop up when you walk into the station, but you don’t give them any attention; too exhausted from the scare earlier to entertain polite conversation with Agnes’ coworkers. You beeline straight for the Chief’s office when you spy that your wife’s is empty. 

Harold sits at his desk trying—and failing—to wipe a ketchup stain off his white shirt. 

“Sarah’s stain treatment must be holy with all the messes you make.” You say by way of greeting, plopping into the chair opposite his desk. 

An embarrassed flush works up his cheeks. He clears his throat, dropping the crumpled napkin on the desktop and straightening up. 

“Thanks for coming in. Sorry for scaring ya.” 

Waving off the apology, “What’s up?” 

“Well, you know the annual State banquet is coming up. I was wondering if you could get Agnes to be there.” 

You raise a brow. It takes all your will-power not to scoff at the request. 

“Chief, she hates those things.” 

“I know, I know—but look, they, uh, well what I mean to say is we—”

“Chief.” 

“They want to recognize Agnes for her work in the Maximoff case.” He blurts. 

The second he says it, you know you have no choice but to figure out a way to get her there. 

Ten months; that’s how long you watched Agnes agonize over the Maximoff case, obsessing over the details she was missing. She’d leave before dawn and come back after dark. And even when she was home, she spent half her time sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at all the photos. Some nights she brought Vidal with her—others, she sat in the dim kitchen alone, head in her hands while the world went on outside. 

She’d have worked 24/7 if you hadn’t insisted on days off. When she took them, she slept the whole day. 

Agnes doesn’t do her job for rewards, but you’ll be damned if you let her pass up recognition from the state; especially after everything she went through. 

“Fuck.” Dragging a hand down your face, you sigh, “She’s going to be a bear about this.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

---

“Did you pick up your suit from the dry-cleaners?” You ask in lieu of a greeting. 

Agnes’ scoff is faint. The front door shuts with a half-hearted slam. Then, the squeak of rubber on wood; you wish she would stop doing that. 

“No, honey, I came straight home after you texted me about it seven times.” 

She comes into the kitchen, plastic-covered suit in hand, and you relax. That’s the last thing on your list, ready and secured.

“Oh bite me.” 

Agnes grins, “With pleasure.” 

You turn when she rounds to you and accept her hello kiss. The taste of un-burnt coffee lingers on her lips and you frown. 

“Did you go out for lunch again?” 

“The guys needed a pick-me-up.” 

“Agnes.” You groan. 

“It was a few sandwiches, baby. It’s not going to break us.” 

“That would be true if you didn’t buy ‘a few sandwiches’ three times a week.” 

A hand is dragged down her face. She sighs. 

“I’m going to put the suit in the closet and do some work in the office, yeah? Yell when dinner’s ready.” 

You grab her before she can go too far, “No, hey, I’m sorry—I just, there’s been a lot coming out of the account this month and I’m worked up over it. I’m sorry. Stay, please.” 

Worked up over it being an understatement—the state you were in after paying the final installment on Nicky’s funeral arrangements this morning could’ve earned you an Oscar. But you don’t want to dwell on that. You want to finish dinner with some light banter from your wife, sit next to her at the table, and cuddle up in bed talking about nonsense; none of which you can do if she locks herself in her office. 

Agnes relaxes in your hold. She may let you handle the finances, but she’s just as aware of the bills, and likely has a hunch of which are bothering you. 

“When do you plan on telling me where we’re going?” 

“Just enjoy the surprise, baby.” 

“It wouldn’t take much digging to uncover your evil plans,” she says, making you snort, “if you save me the work I’m sure we can strike a deal.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Tell me what I want to know and we can knock your time down from six hours to three—less, with good behavior.” 

There’s a purposeful press of her hips against you. She’s not hard, yet, but you take her meaning. 

“You can’t last that long and you know it.” You taunt. 

“Practice makes perfect.” 

You roll your eyes. Playfully pushing her away, her grin nearly makes you melt—but you focus back on dinner before she can tempt you into letting it burn. 

“Go hang your suit up and stop harassing me.” 

Her grin feels like a brand when she kisses your cheek, “Yes, ma’am.” 

---

The door clicks open and you get a whiff of Agnes’ cologne. You smile, not looking up from where you’re fastening your own bracelet. 

“Can you help me with the tie?” 

After several failed attempts, you loop the clasp through the chain link. Looking up, your breath stops. You swallow. 

Agnes stands in the doorway of the bathroom in a deep brown suit, the jacket button undone to reveal the dress shirt beneath. It’s a bit big, offering a slouchy silhouette that makes her look phenomenal. The matching tie sits unraveled around the back of her neck just waiting for your hands. 

You stand to help and she shifts. The adjustment moves one side of the suit jacket and that’s when you see it—the carabiner with her keys attached to one of the belt loops; simple, something she has on her everyday, but the sight of it has you sinking to your knees in front of her. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

She smirks down at you through the mane of hair she hasn’t pulled back yet, “Stand up.” 

“I need you,” you whine, hands reaching for her belt-buckle, “please, Daddy, I need you so bad.” 

Her hands pause as they reach for you. Clear as a whistle, you both register the desperate want in your voice; the kind she’d expect to hear after edging you a few times. 

Something about the suit is driving you wild—sending you from 0 to 60 from the mere sight of her. Maybe it’s the effortless way she pulls it off. Maybe it’s that she’s so comfortable in a way she’s only displayed wearing her flannels. Maybe it’s both, combined with the reminder that this woman is yours. 

You love her so much it threatens to stop your heart and you need to fuck her about it. 

“Please.” 

Agnes snaps back into movement. Her hand grips your chin, firm, “I gave you an order. Stand up.” 

It’s mean and unfair and so fucking hot. You whine, but you do as she says—though not before pressing a kiss to the front of her pants, longing for the prize past the layer of fabric. 

“What did I ask you to do?” Agnes says when you’re stable on your feet. 

“Help you with the tie.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

Your hands find the fabric and go about the motions, though you have to slow down when your hands stutter. Even if she rarely wears them, you’re glad you memorized how to fix a tie, or this would be a significant loss to her ensemble. 

God you want her so bad. 

“Could we… just something quick?” You ask. 

“Oh no, honey, you’ve been on my ass about this dinner for weeks.” Agnes laughs, something cruel, “I’m not living in suspense any longer. You can handle an hour.” 

For an agonizing moment, you consider breaking—telling her that you’re about to be stuck in a stuffy government building with sub-par food, so she’ll refuse to go and punish you for trying to trick her—but then you remember the nights she ate Planter’s peanuts straight from the canister and got two hours of sleep, all so she wouldn’t leave the case for too long. 

“Okay.” 

Her smile softens, “Good girl. You’ll meet me downstairs when you’re ready?” 

“I shouldn’t be long.” 

She nods. Agnes presses a kiss to your forehead and squeezes you in a sweet gesture, before heading for the bedroom door. You listen to her go, unable to look—if you do, you might be tempted to use the rest of your time getting ready with your favorite vibrator. 

Half-way down the stairs, she calls, “Do we still have ibuprofen? My head is killing me.” 

“In the medicine cabinet. Bottom shelf.” 

She grunts an acknowledgement and you laugh. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you take a few deep breaths; it’s only a few hours—you can handle it. 

---

The second you pull up to the State House, Agnes stiffens. Her leg that’s been bouncing with agitation the past half-hour stills. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” 

“You’re the detective, you tell me.” 

Agnes glares, “Turn around.” 

“No.” 

Some defiance is commonplace in your relationship; it’s hard to earn a punishment if you don’t act up a little bit, after all—but the note in your voice now is firm, the kind you’d employ in the middle of a fight. Agnes regards you with steely eyes. 

“Excuse me?” She asks, slow. 

Her voice is tight, her jaw too. Slowly, you watch her hands tense over the armrests, as if she’s trying to measure her patience. A small murmur of fear prods you. 

This isn’t Agnes putting on a stern act to remind you of your place. This isn’t even a mild bit of annoyance you can tread lightly around. This is the type of anger that builds over time—and making her walk through those doors might drive it to bubble over. 

Chief Proctor’s words echo in your mind, “Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

You’ve driven the hour and a half here and she’s going to be pissed regardless. In for a penny… 

“I didn’t stutter.” You raise a brow, making direct eye contact, “I’ve driven us all the way here and I told the Chief we were coming. So we’re going to go inside, sit through this dinner, and play nice. Am I understood?” 

For a split second, you see her eyes widen. Then her face flushes a deeper red and her hand tightens on the armrest again. You are so dead. 

Her voice is surprisingly entreating, “Baby—” 

“Am I understood, Agnes?” 

A long, long moment of silence. 

“Fine.” 

You smile, triumphant. Leaning over the middle console and giving her ample time to reject your nearness, smugness burrows into your mood when she leans in closer; and you press a sweet kiss to her lips. 

Whispering against them when you pull back, “That’s my good boy.” 

Her broken groan makes you feel alive. 

---

As far as State banquets go, you’ve been through worse. They must’ve upped the budget in the years since the two of you stopped attending—the food isn’t half-bad and there’s an open bar; which is exactly where you’re waiting to get Agnes a drink when a warm presence slides up beside you. 

“I’m surprised you got her to come.” An amused voice comments. 

Agent Vidal is a vision in deep green. Her dark hair lays in soft waves over her shoulders, offset by gold earrings that catch the light when she shifts. A small smirk plays at the edges of her mouth. 

“She didn’t know until we pulled up outside.” You admit. 

That startles a laugh out of the woman. It’s a bit maniacal, but you like it—it suits her. 

“No wonder she looks so pissed,” A glass of champagne is passed over the bar and she takes it with a nod, “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

Silence lapses between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable as you’d expect. The bartender is dipping around and under the makeshift bar; you perk up, recognizing the ingredients for the drink you ordered Agnes. 

You glance over at Agnes and find her distracted; a couple of detectives have wandered over to your table. Her face is still flushed though she doesn’t seem as upset. Frowning, you wonder if maybe she’s coming down with something. 

The bartender passes you Agnes’ drink and you smile. Vidal hasn’t left your side. She looks you up and down with those rich brown eyes of hers. 

“I never had a chance to thank you for my Christmas gift.” A sultry grin replaces her smirk, and it’s your turn to flush, catching onto her meaning, “Though I’m disappointed it wasn’t delivered in person.” 

Your throat feels dry. Staring at the drink in hand, you consider whether a sip will help. 

“It was a spur of the moment thing.” 

“I guessed as much. Still, I was impressed.” 

“Thank you.” You smile, not sure if it’s the proper response. 

“Should you two ever find yourselves in my city and willing, don’t hesitate to call me up, sweetheart.” 

Vidal doesn’t give you time to respond before vanishing into the crowd. Good—you’re not entirely sure what you would’ve said. But it does a good job of reigniting your desire from earlier in the evening. 

There are people rushing around near the podium, which means you don’t have enough time to drag Agnes into the bathroom for a little relief. You settle for taking your seat next to her and lacing your fingers together. Though you blink at the heat coming from her. 

It isn’t until the other detectives take their leave that you murmur, “Do we need to go?” 

To hell with the award or recognition or whatever it is. Agnes’ health takes priority over everything. 

“I’m fine,” she says, gruff, “let’s just get through this and go home.” 

“My love—” 

“Leave it.” 

Every part of you screams to do the opposite, but you sigh and settle into your chair. You pull Agnes’ hand to your lips and kiss the back of it. Her eyes soften and that’s enough for you. 

You hold onto that soft look in her face as people step up to the podium and drone on about numbers and figures; nothing the actual workers in the room care about, but necessary to show the government officials in attendance that the state forces are still worth funding. As if they need even half of what the budgets are. To keep yourself from going crazy, you steal a few sips of Agnes’ drink. 

About an hour has gone by when Vidal steps up to the podium, unfolding a pair of glasses. You realize her purpose here seconds before understanding dawns on Anges—who turns with an inscrutable look. 

Pressing another kiss to the back of her hand, you smile. 

What Vidal says goes in one ear and out the other, try as you might to pay attention; but you’re too caught up in watching the emotions pass over Agnes’ face—surprise, hesitant softness, feigned indifference. She deserves every kind word being leveled her way, deserves to have everyone in this room know the hours she put in, deserves to be appreciated. 

When the clapping starts and all eyes turn to her, her flush deepens, and she looks unsure. Her eyes meet your own as she searches for comfort. 

You lean in and kiss her cheek, whispering in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.” 

And the look she gives you—fond, watery eyes and a hesitant smile—makes the entire evening worth it. 

---

When the speeches wind down, the two of you are swarmed by state officials and officers alike who want to give Agnes a kind word. She’s a bit tense through every interaction, but takes it in stride. Some well wishes are no trouble. 

It’s when the people you know come over that you can feel the trouble start. You hide your grin when they start trading jokes, Agnes scoffing, back in her element. 

Her glass sits empty on the table and you snatch it up discreetly. 

You manage to catch the bartender before he cleans up for the night. And though you can tell he’s not thrilled to do more work, he makes the drink—you slip him a twenty and his mood perks up. 

In the few minutes you were gone the table was completely occupied by your friends; Chief Proctor and his wife Sarah, John, a few of the other Westview detectives and some from Eastview, even Vidal. Every seat at the table is filled. You grin as their laughter echoes in the room, drawing eyes from other lingering groups. 

Vidal has stolen your seat. She leans back in it with the same air of poise she possesses in everything. Not for the first time, you completely understand what drew Agnes to her. 

While Chief Proctor captures the table's attention with a story, you offer Agnes her drink, and slip into her lap, unbothered. You can’t help the little squeak you let out. And though your wife manages to tamp down on any noises, her hand is digging into your hip, blunt nails threatening to draw blood. 

Agnes is painfully hard beneath you. 

Her behavior starts to make sense; the flushed face, how stilted her movements have been, her agitation. You blink. Agnes has been off since the drive here.

Without thinking, you adjust to get comfortable, and her grip tightens. 

Hissing so only the two of you can hear, “Don’t fucking move.” 

You’re impressed, past all the worry—she hasn’t been like this since Christmas Eve, and even then you think this might be worse. And you’ve put her in a precarious situation without meaning to. 

You’re deeply reminded of the moment in her office; how little it had taken to drive her over the edge. It’d been fun, though unintentional. But there’s an audience now.

Her breath is ragged. When you chance a look, her mouth is pinched, but her eyes are blown out. One shift—either in you standing up or moving on accident—and she’s going to put on the show of a lifetime. And no one seems in a hurry to leave. 

An idea hits you. 

“Where is your phone?” You whisper. 

Agnes slides it off the tabletop and into your hands without a word. She’s trying to measure her breathing—in 5, out 5. But the throbbing under you only seems to get stronger. 

You find the number without much fuss. 

You: Be discreet, but I need your help. 

If you weren’t moments from disaster, you’d be impressed; the recipient doesn’t so much as glance your way. They respond without even a blink out of place. 

Vidal: Go on. 

You: I need you to find a way to get everyone to leave. 

Vidal pauses after reading the message. She turns her attention back to the group while your heart beats in your ears. Then, you see her regard the two of you from her periphery. The corner of her mouth twitches. 

Vidal: What’s in it for me? 

You: Are you serious?

Vidal: As a heart-attack. 

Vidal: Tick-tock. It doesn’t look like she can hold out much longer. 

You resist the urge to sigh, worried it’ll jostle too much. 

You: Your offer becomes a promise. If we’re in your area, we’ll call. 

Vidal: You’ve got a deal, sweetheart. 

It doesn’t happen all at once. Rather, Vidal employs a slow form of manipulation on the group that leaves you breathless; she starts a small story you don’t really hear, drawing everyone in, only to end it with an exaggerated yawn. 

A yawn that passes through every other person at the table. 

God she’s good. 

Putting on an apologetic smile, she stands, “It’s been a long night—I know you all have a long drive home. Congratulations again, Agnes.” 

She throws a smile your way, eyes twinkling. Everyone else at the table stands as if on cue, offering their own apologetic goodbyes; leaving you to wonder if Vidal is some kind of witch. 

Only when everyone has departed do you turn to Agnes. Her face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

“If I move, are you going to…” You ask, soft. 

A hesitant nod. 

“What can I do?” 

Her voice is gravelly, “Just—give me a minute. Don’t talk.” 

You raise a brow at the second command, but don’t open your mouth to question her. She relaxes beneath you by just a hair. Each breath is slow, measured. 

Some of the organizers have begun to clean up around the edges of the room. They avoid interacting directly with any of the lingering guests, but their pointed looks aren’t subtle. 

A few groups take the hint and begin to head toward the front. It’s around this time that Agnes taps a finger against your hip. 

“Get up, carefully.” 

A despicable part of you considers doing the exact opposite. The room is mostly empty and she’s capable of being quiet when she tries; if you were to grind down hard and fast, she couldn’t do anything but accept the inevitable—the humiliating inevitable. 

But you shove that down and stand, using the arms of the chair to lift yourself so there’s as little friction as possible. 

Agnes huffs out a breath. 

“Are you okay to walk to the car?” You murmur. 

“I’m not going to lose it from walking,” she scoffs, “give me a little credit.” 

“You’re being very mean to the woman who could’ve utterly humiliated you a minute ago.” 

“The same woman who gets off on that?” 

You don’t deign to respond to that comment. Rather, you hold your hand out, wiggling your fingers expectantly. Agnes’ fond smile warms you as her hand slots into place in yours. 

The night air seems to help as you cross the parking lot. Agnes’ breathing loses its ragged edge, her gait a bit smoother. There’s only the sound of your intermingled breaths and the jingle of her keys; the reminder of earlier making you throb. 

Releasing her hand, you reach the passenger door before she can and pull it open, “Your carriage awaits.” 

Agnes scoffs. 

“Thanks.” She kisses your cheek before sliding into the car. 

You rush around to the driver’s side and don’t even turn the car on before leaning over, scrambling with her suit jacket to reach the belt buckle on her pants. Agnes straightens in her seat. When you brush her cock in your search, she twitches, swearing under her breath. A strong hand grabs your wrists. 

Blinking, you take her in with a look of disbelief. 

“Are you trying to torture yourself? Because that’s my job.” 

“You’re just—You’re going a bit fast.” 

“I’d say this is overdue in your current state.” 

“Drive and we can handle this at the house, yeah? Not in the car like a couple of horny teenagers.” 

You laugh, disbelief coloring the sound. 

“I think being hard this long has stopped the blood flow to your brain.” You deadpan, “Just let me suck you off and we can go home.” 

Agnes' eyes widen just a fraction. Inches from your hands, her hips twitch, as if unable to hold her movements back. But her grip on your wrists only gets tighter. 

“Let’s wait.” 

“We’ve both been thinking about your cock in my mouth since before we left.” 

“Baby—” 

“Do you not want my mouth? Because I’m more than ready to take you if we want to climb in the backseat and—” 

In your haste to fulfill your mutual desires, you missed the signs staring you right in the face. Or maybe you wanted to miss them. 

Agnes’ head hits the headrest with a thud that goes unheard beneath the volume of her moan. Every muscle in her form tenses, with the exception of her hips—which are rutting forward in search of anything to deepen the pleasure. 

Where you expect the hand on your wrist to slacken, it grows tighter. And as if on instinct, said hand falls to her length, effectively using yours to stroke herself through the rest of her orgasm. It’s messy, and her desire is seeping through her pants, but you can’t look away—not as her hips hump forward, almost in a frenzy, and as her mouth parts to let escape her groans. 

In time, her hips still. Silence reigns over the space. 

Your hand rests over her suit pants, where you can feel her cock continue to give weak little throbs. Her eyes have fallen closed. 

“Did I just get you off with my… voice?” You whisper. 

A breathless laugh, “You sound surprised.” 

“I’ve never heard of that happening before.” 

Her eyes open, then. It’s too dark to see the look in them, but what little light exists makes them sparkle. Your heart squeezes. 

How the hell did you get so lucky? 

Then she opens her mouth and says, ever so soft, “There’s no part of you that doesn’t drive me crazy.” 

You blink. Heat flares in your face and you look away, suddenly shy. But her finger beneath your chin brings your gaze right back up. 

“Agnes…” 

“Where’s all that boldness now?” 

Your blush deepens, “You liked it.” 

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She sounds slightly puzzled by the information, “You surprise me. Not many can.” 

There’s a lingering exhaustion in both of you that prompts you to start driving, eager to get home. Agnes sets one hand in the center console, palm up; and you place your own into hers. 

“Is that why you married me? Cause it gives you plenty of time to figure out my mind?” You tease once you’re safely on the highway. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, baby—your mouth was a contributing factor too.” 

You giggle. Your face flushes, again, despite the circumstances; Agnes has seen you in more situations of embarrassment and desire than anyone could hope to, and yet you still blush at her dirty jokes. 

In your periphery, the lights over the highway catch her smirk. 

“The same mouth I oh-so-generously offered, and you denied?” You ask with mock-hurt. 

“‘Oh-so-generously’ my ass. Don’t pretend that was a selfless act.” 

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” You pout, “You couldn’t keep yourself together long enough to get out of your pants.” 

Her hand tightens in yours. She jolts in her seat, as if flinching from the remark, and you glance over—but her face is impassive. 

You shake off the moment and settle into the rhythm of driving. Singing along to the music, there’s a calm over you as you traverse the open road, enjoying the lack of other drivers at this time of night. Agnes settles back into her seat, singing under her breath to the songs she knows—early 2000s rock, mostly. 

Halfway through the drive the song changes and you perk up. It’s modern with a heavy beat, the singer going back and forth between high notes and breathless singing, and you match it with a passion, not thinking too much about it. 

Agnes watches every movement. 

And when the song ends and you lean into the seat again, you hear a soft ‘fuck’ from her. You look over, brow raised. 

“Baby?” 

“Focus on the road.” She snaps. 

She avoids your eyes as you squint. The muscles in her neck are taut, a few straining, kinda like when—

Oh. Oh. 

“Agnes, are you hard again?”

“I’m fine.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Agnes huffs out a breath. Two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, “I don’t—This isn’t normal.” 

“You’re just having an up-day in the hormone department. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“This isn’t… It’s like I’m in my twenties again, getting turned on at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t mind if not for this fucking headache.” 

The information swirls around in your brain for a moment before striking like a snake. No fucking way. She couldn’t have been that careless, right? 

“Baby, what color were the pills you took?” 

She pauses, “What?” 

“The pills. For your headache. What color were they?” 

Agnes throws her hands up, looking baffled by the turn in conversation, “Blue, I think. What does it matter?” 

You laugh. You laugh so hard tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes—and you almost miss taking the first exit you find, looking for a dark, empty lot. 

“Ibuprofen is pink.” You finally force out. 

Her brows furrow. Then, like a switch flipped, it registers. Pink crawls up her neck. Veined hands tense on the armrests. 

A song comes on that is upbeat, a little cheery. Agnes slams the off button. 

“Why the fuck were those in the same place?” 

“It is the medicine cabinet. That’s where medicine goes.” 

You find a dark, empty lot and pull in. Agnes doesn’t seem to notice as she watches you. 

“That’s—You—Why were they on the same shelf?!” 

Your wife. Your beautiful, brilliant, decorated detective of a wife—who somehow managed to miss the bold label on the pill bottle. Another round of laughter bubbles up. 

“You’re an idiot,” you say, voice fond as you throw the car in park, “and I’m going to fuck you so hard.” 

Her mouth snaps shut. Something inside you purrs. 

You continue, “Get in the backseat, Agnes.” 

There’s a moment where she bristles. She leans toward the middle console, lip curling. But then—she winces. The car is turned off, then, with a deafening finality. 

It is only you and your wife and the wind outside. 

Leaning closer, your hand finds the length of her with ease. You trace a finger along all her straining inches. Dark, wanting eyes don’t blink as they take in the sight of you. Agnes is exquisite, cast in shadow and moonlight through the windshield. 

“I won’t ask again.” 

“And if I don’t?” She murmurs. 

“You’ll spend a lot of quality time with your hand.” 

Leaves rustle like insect wings. Trees above sway, dipping into the light kissing Agnes’ strong jaw. 

Her seatbelt unclicks. 

You smile. Agnes rolls her eyes. 

“This is your fault. It’s only right you fix it.” She grouses. 

Neither of you pay much attention to your surroundings as you clamber into the backseat. You’re parked in the middle of a town you don’t know, where any patrol officer could see you, but you don’t care—Agnes would talk her way out of it.

No, all you care about at this moment is having her inside you. 

You straddle her thighs as she furiously works the buckle of her belt. In her eagerness, her hands are fumbling, and you take over with a laugh. Strong hands settle on your hips. The hold pulls you forward a fraction, just enough to press her cock against your core. 

“Ass.” There is no way that action wasn’t intentional, “Condom or no condom?” 

“Need to feel you.” 

Her honesty is rewarded with a kiss. Managing to unclasp her belt, you waste no time in slipping a hand inside to free her. A stuttered gasp is your reward. 

Agnes is heavy in your palm. She’s throbbing, veins prominent along her length, absolutely flushed. You run your thumb over the tip to collect the fluid there and spread it down her slowly. It won’t be enough, though—so you reach between your legs for some more. 

When you spread the wetness down her and give an experimental pump, her hips jump. Agnes’ head falls against the headrest with a low moan. 

In shades of grey shadow she is a vision; limbs sprawled across the backseat, hair wild around her head. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Eyes squeezed shut, her mouth parting when you squeeze. Ecstasy softens her hard angles when you stroke reverently. 

Tears bead at the corners of your eyes. You blink them away. 

“My sweet, stupid baby.” Tittering, you tighten your grip, “Too silly to read the label on the bottles. Or are you so desperate for this pussy that you took them anyway?” 

You push your panties aside and rub yourself against her. Agnes grunts, pushing up for more. The tip of her cock hits your clit and stars erupt behind your eyes. 

“‘Was an accident.” Agnes defends. 

The defense feels pretty weak when she’s humping her cock against you like she’s never cum before, but you’re not much better. You’ve been wet and wanting since sitting in her lap. And even if you’re playing tough, all you want is to sink down on her length and ride her until you know nothing more than how she stretches your cunt. 

You clench at the mere thought of her. Of how perfect it feels to be so connected—and how warm you feel when she spills herself inside you, clutching any bit of you she can get her hands on. Fuck, you need her so bad. 

But—a little part of you whispers—don’t you want to play?

“I’m sure. Just a dumb little mistake.” 

“Mhm.” 

Seemingly unsatisfied with sitting back, Agnes sits up to mouth at your breasts over your clothing. It makes you bear down where you grind against her. The vibrations from her moan and the muted scrape of her teeth over your nipple makes the emptiness unbearable.

You reach between the two of you and—tentatively—slap her cock. Her startled whimper drives you wild. 

You’re reminded of your idea from a few days ago; of putting a pretty collar around her neck and treating her like a dog. It’d take some convincing, but she’d like it—letting you take control, the denial of begging, the heated destruction of her pride as she humps your flesh like she can’t help herself. 

Another blow to her length. 

Toes curling at the sound of her pretty little cry, you can’t stand the separation any longer. You need her deep inside you. If you don’t get it, it’ll kill you. 

“It’s so generous of me to fix your mistake for you, isn’t it?” You ask, “What do you say?” 

Whining, pathetic little breaths, “Thank you.”

“You want this pussy, baby boy?” 

“Yes, yes. Fuck.”

A thought bubbles up inside you—that wayward desire from the day she spent at home once more rearing its head, urging you to give it life. You’ve thought about it at length only in private moments. The want makes you hurt. 

But will it be too much? Will this be where Agnes draws the line? 

Fuck it. 

Trying to sound as sure as possible, “Tell Mommy how bad you want it.” 

The second you give it life, you’re terrified of seeing it die. You hadn’t been honest with yourself about just how bad you wanted it—too scared that it was wrong, or shameful. Calling Agnes Daddy has always been natural; but is calling you Mommy… wrong? 

You hold your breath as Agnes gasps. Tears threaten your composure. As you stare up at the ceiling of the car, you try to rid yourself of them. 

She’s going to laugh. Shame bubbles up. You should’ve kept it to yourself. 

Agnes’ nails dig into your flesh as she whines into your neck, “Mommy—please, please let me—let me have you, cum in you—I’ll be your good boy—please.” 

The tears fall, but they’re not sad—they’re euphoric. 

Not bothering to hide them as you line her up and sink down, adjusting to the stretch, you hope she knows how happy she makes you; how safe you feel in her arms, admitting the lurid desires in your mind and just being. With every inch of her cock you hope she understands that she is your everything. 

Her hands shake when she bottoms out. You can feel how desperate she is to just take it, but she waits. For you. 

Kissing her cheeks, lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead; you can’t get enough of her handsome face, “Take what you need, baby.”

The dam holding back her need breaks. Hips snap up hard and you would gasp—if you could draw enough breath between thrusts. Shivers descend through your body as she chases her peak, brushing that perfect spot inside you with every movement. 

This would normally be where Agnes taunts you, prying admissions between thrusts and holding back to make you talk; but both of you are too far gone to prolong what you want. 

Little uh uh uh moans dissolve into something more primal, grunting and growling into the flesh of your neck. It makes you clench hard around her. 

“Fuck.” 

You couldn’t have said it better yourself. 

“You like that?” 

Agnes nods against your neck. She’s panting, and the sound feels deafening in the silence of the backseat. At the speed she’s pistoning her cock inside you, she’s going to be sore tomorrow.

You reach down and toy with your clit, fingers slipping over the little bundle of nerves. Every thrust of Agnes’ cock drags more wetness from you. It fills your ears just as your wife’s noises do. You whine, struggling to get friction where you need it most. 

Long fingers brush your own away. They slip against the same spot but with better coverage. Then, she does it again. 

“Right there, right there.”

Her fingers never leave your clit. Even as you lift yourself up and slam back down, taking every inch of her with growing fervor. Even as her thrusts falter in their speed at how you clench. Agnes is dedicated, even when staring down her own ecstasy. 

She gives so much—and to no one more than you. 

A home. A love. Comfort from the hard edges of the world and a soft place to expose the truths of yourself. Agnes gives all of these things without hesitation, without asking for much in return. It’s her turn to take. 

You tamp down on the whine as you secure both of her wrists and hold them away from you. Her eyes—which had slipped closed in the heat of the moment—snap open. 

“What are you—” 

The question cuts off when you take the entire length of her once again. It becomes a pained-sounding groan, but her eyes don’t close. You clench and try not to come at the sight of her staring like you hung the moon. 

Agnes fights your hold admirably. Her hands ache to settle on some part of you, to make you feel good because that’s what she does. But you can’t let her—not right now. This has to be all about her. 

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. All I could think about was how I’d do anything to have you.” You pant, “And now look at you. You’re all mine.” 

Her agreement comes quicker than you anticipate, “All yours.” 

“All yours who?” 

“All yours, Mommy.” 

“That’s right. And you want to be Mommy’s good boy, don’t you?” 

A particularly violent throb inside you. 

The answering nod is a touch frantic, “Yes—yes.” 

“Then I’m going to give you instructions, and I expect you to follow them to the letter. Because you’re so good for me.”

No verbal response. Rather, Agnes' head falls to your chest, groaning into the fabric still separating the two of you. You continue to ride her even as her throbbing grows more insistent. You need to stop, to slow down, but the idea of stopping her pleasure for even a second hurts you. 

Continuing while you still can, “You’re going to use me like I’m a toy that only exists to please you. Can you do that, baby?” 

“Fuck, yes.” 

It’s a miracle she’s held herself back this long; given how tormented she’s been all evening. But she won’t be tormented any longer. No—she is driving herself into you at a punishing clip, so deep it hurts in just the way you crave. 

She’s snarling in your ear like an animal, and your eyes roll back in your head. This won’t take long if she’s descended to this level of pleasure. 

A few moments pass in which she says nothing. There’s the smacking of joining flesh and her ragged breath. Her hips begin to falter in rhythm as she fights your hold on her wrists.

“‘Wanna fuck a baby into you,” she pants, “make it stick this time.”

Your toes curl at the thought, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Wanna make you a Mama again.” 

Grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into a kiss, your hips frantic, Agnes shudders. She’s almost there. You are too. 

“Fill me,” you breathe against her lips, “I want it all. Want the world to see that you own me. Want you to make a baby in me.” 

Agnes freezes and snarls in your ear, “Fucking take it.” 

She spills herself inside you in forceful spurts. And you shudder, your walls squeezing as you come, milking her for all you’re worth. 

As you feel your orgasm fade, you wait, sitting still as Agnes’ continues. You’re so warm that you can’t tell if she’s still shooting, but you can feel the weakening throbs. With the extra assistance still in her system you gather it may be a minute. But you don’t mind. 

“You’re so perfect.” You murmur against her skin, “So beautiful.” 

Agnes only grunts in acknowledgment. 

You press little kisses wherever you can reach, but don’t say much else, letting her come down from the high. Her breathing slows, heartbeat no longer fluttering. 

One hand begins to rub circles on your back. 

“Thank you.” She whispers. 

Chuckling, “It was my pleasure. Literally.” 

“Not for that.” 

You soften. Brushing a few sweat-soaked pieces of hair from her face, you take in every inch of her; reveling in the feeling of skin on skin. 

“I’ve got you, baby. Always.” 

Agnes joins the two of you in a slow kiss. You sigh, utterly content, even if the two of you are tangled in the backseat of the car—because you have her, the woman others could only dream of. 

You shift to get closer and Agnes releases a pained noise; you had forgotten she was still inside you. 

“Is it safe to go home, or will we have to make another stop?” You ask. 

“I think I’ve hit my quota for the night.” 

“Aw.”

She chuckles, “Greedy.” 

“Guilty.” You grin, “Take me away, detective.” 

She does. She finishes the drive home with a hand on your thigh, smirking everytime you fidget; more of her leaking out of you each minute. The jerk. 

Somewhere along the way you fall asleep. And when she glances over every now and again to check up, she can’t help but grin. 

Maybe those pills aren’t so terrible after all. 

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part two: hush hush, baby

word count: 1.5k

warnings: just shock symptoms i think? creepy stranger vibes, that's abt it i think

one | two | three

Lando could tell she was in shock—he’d seen it before. Eyes wide, breath shallow, body trembling as though her very bones had been rattled. He took a tentative step closer, careful to keep his movements slow and non-threatening.

He had no interest in hurting her, not yet, not when she hadn’t done anything wrong. He never was a fan of collateral damage – meant you had messed up, gotten sloppy. It was unprofessional, if you asked him. However, it didn’t change the fact that sometimes, it was necessary. She had seen something she wasn’t meant to see, and while it was nothing personal, it had to be handled. He would handle it.

No need to rush things.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly, his voice smooth as he studied her. He offered her a hand, and though she hesitated, something made her instinctively reach for it. Her fingers trembled against his, cold to the touch.

“I know you’re scared, yeah?” he murmured, his tone soothing. “S’alright. Just breathe, m’kay? Can you do that fo’ me?”

He guided her back toward the mouth of the alley, where the streetlight’s soft glow illuminated the contours of her face. She crouched down, unable to keep standing, instead hugging her knees to herself as if trying to hold herself together in more ways than one. Her expression was distant, like she was in a place all on her own despite being right in front of him, lost in the vertigo.

“You’re in shock,” he says softly but firmly. The words are sure, certain– stable. “You’re going to feel dizzy, maybe a bit sick. It’s normal, yeah? But I need you to listen to me.” He knelt down, bringing himself to her level. He slowly reached a hand out, careful not to startle her, before he used a curled finger to tilt her chin up so her eyes could look at his. “Can you remember anything you saw?”

She stared at him, watching multicolored irises swirl with indiscernible colors in the low light. Her lips parted but no words came. She shook her head slightly, her eyes still unfocused.

“That’s okay. You don’t need to remember all of it. Just… just breathe with me, yeah? Deep breaths.”

She followed his guidance, barely. Her chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven intervals, and her skin was ghostly pale, but he could see the slight easing of tension in her face as she focused on her breathing. It was a start.

His lips pressed together, like he was debating something. "You shouldn’t be walking around here alone at night," he said, slipping his hands back into the pockets of his jacket after helping her up. "Bad people come out after dark."

Bad people like you?

The thought flitted through her mind, unspoken and unfounded. She didn't see the shooter’s face, not really. There was only saw shadows, movement, a vague shape pulling the trigger—but not enough to be sure.

She was sure of one thing, though: she had to get away.

"Thanks for the advice," she said, taking a shaky step back. "I’ll be fine."

But he didn't move.

"Look," he exhaled through his nose, glancing down the empty street before looking at her again. "I know you don’t know me, and I probably just scared the shit out of you by grabbing you, but I really don’t think you should be out here alone."

His concern was so convincing. So effortless.

And she believed him.

Because why wouldn’t she? To her, he was just some random stranger in the wrong place at the right time, someone who saw a terrified girl and stopped to make sure she was okay.

Not the man who had just executed someone in cold blood. Certainly not the reason she was shaking in the first place.

"I’ll walk you home?" he offered with a small, disarming smile on his lips.

She should have said no.

Every instinct she had—every book she’d ever read about murderers, crime, and the dangers of trusting strangers—told her to refuse. But fear made her irrational. The thought of being alone on this street, with the echo of that gunshot still ringing in her skull, made her stomach churn.

And this man—was warm, steady, safe. Green and grey irises that reminded you of green tea and graphite. And he smiled like everything would be fine, like it was all gonna be okay.

Maybe it would be. So she nodded.

"Okay."

“There we go. That’s it,” he encouraged. Once her breathing became less critical, Lando stood and moved to her side, wrapping his arm around her waist and supporting her weight. “Let’s get you home.”

Slowly, Lando guided her toward the nearby street, one hand lightly resting at the small of her back to keep her steady, the other carefully ensuring she didn’t stumble. Her steps were unsure, her mind too disoriented to make sense of the world around her. He could hear her breathing, still ragged and uneven. 

He didn’t rush her.

When they reached the end of his street he turned to face her, evaluating her condition. One strong breeze would probably still have her keeling over, with the way she trembled like a leaf in the wind. The silence was thick, almost suffocating. He could feel the tension in her shoulders, see the flicker of dread in her eyes every time they passed a shadowed corner, a streetlamp. But he kept his tone even, his voice low as he asked her, “I’m gonna walk you home, alright? Can you tell me where you live?”

Her voice was hoarse when she answered, barely above a whisper. "Just a few blocks... I—I just need to go home."

And so he took her there, slowly and patiently, glancing over at her every so often to make sure she wasn’t slipping too far into herself. He needed her steady. He needed her compliant.

When they arrived, he didn’t let her leave right away. With a reassuring smile, he followed her up the steps to her apartment, making sure she had steady footing as she fumbled with the keys. She dropped them —once, twice— before Lando was kind enough to take it from her shaking hands and twist the key into the lock with ease.

Inside, the apartment was small —humble, plain, barely furnished— but she didn’t seem to care about any of that. She collapsed onto the couch, still shaking. Lando didn’t waste time. He moved quickly, making her tea, setting the kettle to boil. The kitchen was modest, the place smelling faintly of fresh paint, pages and something sweet, something she probably liked to bake in better days.

She barely noticed him moving around, her eyes fixed on the floor, her hands still wringing the hem of her sleeve in a subconscious attempt to ground herself. He fumbled around with various cupboards, searching until he found whatever it is he was apparently looking for. When the tea was ready, he brought it to her, the warm mug cupped in both of her trembling hands.

“Here, drink this,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning her face, looking for any sign that she was about to crack, any slip that might reveal her thoughts, her suspicions. But she just stared down at the mug, nodding blankly. He slipped two pills into her palm as well – for the earache, he gestured.

Lando sat across from her, watching. Patient. Calculating. 

He’d done this before—comforted those who’d witnessed something they weren’t meant to. He could tell from her dazed, hollow expression that she wasn’t thinking about the death she had just seen. She was in survival mode. But what she didn’t realize was that she wasn’t just a witness. She was a potential threat. A loose end he couldn’t afford to leave untied.

“Hey,” he said after a long silence, leaning forward just slightly. “You’re not in trouble. It’s not your fault, okay? You don’t have to tell anyone about what you saw.” His voice was gentle, laced with what sounded like sincerity. "You don’t have to do anythin’, alright?"

Her eyes flicked to his, her gaze vacant, but she nodded—softly, almost imperceptibly. It was enough for him.

He didn’t leave immediately. He stayed long enough to ensure she was too shaken to remember much of anything—long enough to watch her fingers loosen around the mug as the tea worked its magic on her mind. “You’re going to be just fine, sweetheart. You can forget about tonight, get some rest. You’re alright,” he said softly, the words sweet, even reassuring. And when he finally stood, he made sure to give her one last look—just to be sure. Her eyelids began to droop with exhaustion, the adrenaline finally wearing off.

“Take care,” he whispered. And then, with a final glance, he left. Quietly, like he’d never been there in the first place.

But as he walked out into the chill of night, he knew. No one would ever hear what she'd witnessed tonight.

The final sound in the neighborhood that night is the click of the closing door of a sleek black sports car before it drives into the darkness of the night.

[chthonia27]

Divine paradox

Dick Grayson x F!reader.

Content: Two unlikely souls entwined in a sacred affinity, the dance of Life and Death, a romance etched in the skies.

Tw: nudity, suggestive tone implied.

WC: 2k

Yin and Yang, push and pull. Life and death. That was a dance performed since the beginning of time. The balance needed so that the cosmos don’t devolve into chaos, so that all may know the value of life, and the importance of death. Sat on his throne, dressed in the finest of fabrics and engraving of pure gold, a halo of light surrounding his raven hair, was the God of life, Dick. The benevolent ruler of the universe, creator of all life and love, protector of souls. Everything the god touched, life would prosper. His sacred space, the realm to which he resides in, what could only be described as paradise, paled in comparison to his longing for Death.

He ran a thumb over the carved intricacies of his throne, his pink lips curled into a pout as his soul sang in longing for his counterpart, needing her presence always beside him. The god of life was rather.. clingy, to say the least. Such a primordial would be expected to act impartial, however he was absolutely taken by his love. Huffing and puffing, he bridged the distance to her realm without much difficulty. A cold, lifeless interval, wherein his love resided. Death. Such a misunderstood primordial being. She wasn’t evil by any means, contrary to popular belief. Merely continuing the cycle, no matter how intimidating, or outright spine chilling her presence was, she cared for the souls she looked after and justly punished those who have led less than desirable lives, allowing them to atone and relive the pain they’ve caused before their souls may evolve. She was anything but cruel, forgiving in fact. Comforting the souls of the lost, the sick, the injured and the young, a solace for their frayed souls.

Death. So just, so equal to all, so final. It was beautiful, really. How the creations he’d created with his own essence and loved so dearly would always be in her sweet embrace when the time called for it. Almost as if a piece of him would always be with her, cared for in the darkness of the underworld and in her cold yet loving embrace. At least that’s how he viewed it. The God of Life promptly arrived to the gates of none other than the terror of most entities. Calling out to his love, rather obnoxiously, he entered her realm. Death was.. difficult, to say the least. Authorative, hard headed, cold and incredibly standoffish, she was. But hauntingly beautiful, her entire being called out to the god of life’s like no other, akin to the sea nymphs that lured unsuspecting sailors into the trenches of the dark ocean depths. The moon to his sun, the counterpart to his being, his soulmate. The flower to which the beast of his jealousy guards ever so fiercely. None other designed so perfectly for him, and he for her, an indestructible bond so pure shared between the two divinities, a bond so etched into their souls unlike anything ever seen. She was always so curt and dry, never sparing another glance or thought to other beings of the galaxy, never paying any mind to the fruitless dramas that roamed the community of the gods, focusing solely on her duties. He however coaxed another complex faction of hers since the dawn of time, albeit subtle. Wether it was how he’d always pique her interest, her eyes trailing him wherever he’d advance, or the softening of her gaze and even the way she’d pepper gentle kisses to the slope of his nose and the contour of his jaw in the comfort of their realms, he knew deep within his being that he was loved.

”My Death! Where are you, my love?”, he yelled as he passed her soulless garden. Decaying roses, bare and withering trees along the edges of the stream of souls, dried soil and thorned vines covering the masses of the land, but he could only see beauty in it all. Beauty in her. He made his way to her throne room, the very same one to which all beings would enter and be passed judgment upon. His silk, white robes dragging at the stone as he walked to her, his eyes sparkling with sincere, unmistakable endearment as he eyed her form perched on her throne.

“My Death, there you are. I’ve missed you. Still brooding?” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips as he kissed her knuckles. “No smile for me? Not even happy to see me? You wound me, dear. I shall die by the cold hands of death herself. Poetic, no?” He complained with no real malice, only meaning to rile her up. It’s fair to say he isn’t the only one who draws out a different narrative from the other, as she always brought out his mischief, his inner most chaos, and yet still displayed in ways that were reverential to her.

“Must you always be so boisterous in your arrival?”

A deep, velvety laugh escaped him as his eyes fixed on her alluring face, the softness of her plush lips pleading to be kissed. “I am simply expressing my enthusiasm for finally being in your presence after eons of not being in your graces, beloved.” She gave him a deadpan expression as she replied, “it has only been an hour since you last left.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“For you.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress the fond smile that graced her ethereal features, in turn igniting a deep sense of satisfaction in the aforementioned god. She lifted herself from her throne and wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling his chest as she inhaled the naturally intoxicating aroma of the earthy and slightly Smokey notes of her beloved.

“Ah, so you do have a heart.”

“Must you always ruin the moment?”

He gasped dramatically, almost shifting his weight completely on her as he feigned faintness. “Beloved! Must you always be so cruel to your husband?!” He bellowed out, his loudness echoing in the throne room in such a way that almost caused him to wince, the weight of his body crushing his beloved and nearly making her loose her footing.

“Ugh! Dick!”

“You remember my name!”

They both knew well she’d intentionally said it with a dual meaning behind her words, but they’d chosen to ignore it for now. He wrapped his hands on the back of her thighs, hoisting her up so that she may wrap her legs over his waist. He pressed a reverent kiss to her collar bone and to the sternum of her chest, nipping lightly at her cleavage before meeting her gaze once more. He simply admired her beauty, one so unmatched and unique, one that plagued his mind and has during his entire existence. A beauty so special he could worship until the ends of time. The look in his eyes could only be described as love-struck, pupils blown wide and his lips parted as he imagined the feel of once more capturing hers in a kiss. She was perfect, the epitome of beauty to him, no other could ever hold candles to his beloved. He closed his eyes and buried his face in the crevice of her neck before setting her down once more.

“Come with me.”

“Oh?”

That piqued his interest, curious eyes searching her face for any inkling as to what she had planned. She took his hand in hers and turned around, leading him from the throne room to her private chambers, and he couldn’t help but notice how hypnotically her hips swayed as she walked. The soulfully tied divinities navigated through the large expanse of the underworld before arriving at her bedchambers, entering the adjoining bathroom. His eyes scanned the area, a large crystal bathtub, that could truthfully be classed as pool due to its sheer size, coated in rose petals, candles situated on every surface of the room. He inhaled deeply, the sweet scent of vanilla tickling his senses.

“What’s this, beloved?”

“I’ve missed you.”

His heart flipped and his chest tightened with affection at her declaration. The love he felt coursing through his veins only sizzled beneath his tanned skin. He gently backed her up on the sink, forehead resting against hers as he kissed the corners of her mouth.

“Let me help you.”

Slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs gently rubbing the nape of her neck. “Hm, my love, so beautiful..” His fingers found the straps of her dress, slowly slipping them off her shoulders and lowering them down her arms to expose her skin. Ever so gently, he ran his hands over the now exposed skin, admiring her like it was the first time he saw her nude body.

He slowly untied the back of her dress, lowering it further, the soft, silky material falling to her hips. “My beautiful mistress of death..” He gently pulled her body against his, his hands trailing over her bare chest and stomach. He continued to shower her in kisses, his lips moving down her neck and shoulder, his hand exploring her body. His mouth soon found her ear, his breath warm against her skin as he whispered quietly.

“I’m the most fortunate god in the whole universe.”

Kneeling down, he slid the dress completely off of her, gently lifting her legs and pressing kisses from her calves up to her thighs, worshipping her form with the purest of devotions. Once done, the god stood in between her legs, arms wrapped around her waist as he lowered himself to press a chaste kiss to her lips, tongue darting out to lick along her bottom lip, seeking entry into the warm cavern of her mouth. When permitted, the muscle danced with her own, exploring the familiarity of her as he tugged her impossibly closer, the feeling of her soft hands coming to unrobe him sending shivers down his spine. After the soft material of his clothing had pooled at his feet, he hoisted her up once more and slowly sat in the bathtub, his beloved straddling his lap as he continued the kiss, calloused hands palming at the softness of her skin, then moving to cup her face and run his digits through the silky strands on her head. The aroma of vanilla wafted through the room, the gentle flicker of the flames licking divinely on her features, illuminating her beauty even more. He pulled back only to catch his breath, the sensation of her bare body on his enough to make him want to abandon everything and spend eternity in the safety of her arms. He wordlessly pulled her flush against him, her soft curves contrasting with the hard planes of his hard chest and abdomen, lips coming to pepper kisses on her temples as he began to wash her. Skilled fingers massaging at her scalp, rinsing and repeating his steps before applying the conditioner to her strands. He loved to cater to her, his presence in the cosmos was designed for this. To love her, worship her as she should be. He then began to soothe the knots out of her tense shoulders, lips suckling at her neck, leaving evidence of his love in the physical form, gently washing her stresses away.

After completing their routine, lovingly caring for the other in such cherished ways, they simply continued to hold one another, whispering sweet nothings as the worries of their days melted away into the abyss of the forgotten. The warm water washed over the pair as they embraced, their bodies moulding into one, testament of their affections. Their skin slick and smooth from the water, arms around each other, relishing in the security provided within each other, the consolation of their presence a soothing balm to their souls, a comfort only they could find in each other away from the rest of the cosmos.

In the quietness of their moment, in the safety of their embrace and the intimacy thick with their love, there truly is no other place the god of life would rather be.

“I love you.”

[twilightrocksfanfic]

Paul meets his imprint and they have a one night stand

author's note: Reader picks Paul up in a bar and he decides he is in it for a good time not a long time. (Yes he does imprint but he doesn't want to drag anyone into his messy life so he decides to just create this one beautiful memory) This story technically continues as it is part of my twilight literary universe (aka my multiverse of madness) so I could totally do a part 2 if anyone's interested

warnings: mentions of alcohol consumption, fake IDs (both reader and Paul are over 18), no smut but obvious allusions to sex, mentions of y/n

(please let me know if I missed anything)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Josie was the first to tell you that a guy across the bar was staring at you. You laughed at her, in a mix of disbelief and excitement but you did turn to look at him. You immediately knew who she was talking about because sitting amidst a group of young men there was one who very obviously had his eyes on you.

You swallowed under his gaze and were immediately sure that he knew you had noticed him. One of his friends patted him on the shoulder and he turned away from you, though he wasn't meeting his friends eyes.

You heard your friends laugh next to you but unlike him you didn't want to tear your eyes of him yet. He had dark hair and in the dimly lit bar his face was contoured by shadows that just conveniently fell in all the right places, he looked a little tense for a bar, but when he turned back to look at you, you waved and smiled, he smiled back.

You turned back to Josie to find that Justin and Liza had returned from their bathroom trip. All four of you burst into laughter and you took another sip. You were only on your second wine of the night but something about flirting with strangers just got you into a giggly mood.

The night progressed. The intervals of Liza and Justin having to go to the restroom at the same time grew shorter and Josies encouragement that you should go over to the stranger grew louder. He had been staring at you all night. Of course, the only way you knew that was because you stole a glance in his direction every chance you got but he didn’t need to know that.

After your third glass you ordered a water and your head was getting clear again. And as it did you somehow convinced yourself that you should indeed go over, just to see what would happen.

When Liza and Justin got back, Josie ran her fingers through your hair and off you went.

He looked at you while walking, smiling and then saying something to his friends. You slid down on the bench next to him before turning your entire body to him.

“You know considering you’ve been staring at me the whole night and how attractive you are I really would’ve expected you to come over first.” You said before looking past him and smiling at his friends.

He seemed perplexed for a second then he returned your smirk.

“How about I make up for it with another drink? I’m Paul by the way.”

“Y/N” you held out your hand and he firmly shook it.

And thus, the night progressed. You were unsure when his friends disappeared, you hadn’t even asked their names. You’ve been too busy trying to scoot your thigh close to his in a casual and coincidental way while maintaining conversation.

From the moment you had gone over to his table you had been quite certain that you did not intend to leave the bar with your friends tonight and as the night went on and the ‘accidental’ touches between the two of you grew more frequent, you saw yourself confronted with the horrifying truth that you would have to tell them that.

You told Paul about the bookstore you had gone to that day, and he made some stupid joke about you being book smart which perfectly balanced his street smartness when you leaned in laughing and he grabbed your chin to kiss you for the first time.

It was explosive.

His hands and lips and the air around him seemed to be on fire and you couldn’t help but pull him in by his T-shirt as you slid your tongue into his mouth.

When you broke apart you looked at each other. He seemed to be waiting for something.

You smiled before saying: “Let’s get out of here, mhh?”

You took his hand and pulled him over to your friends to grab your purse and say good bye (and make sure they all had a good look of him in case anything happened).

Thankfully none of them was making an inappropriate joke, though you knew they were only saving them for after. That would be an issue for future you though, Paul looked like he would be worth the trouble.

You weren’t sure how you ended up on his lap on the back of his truck though. Originally you had wanted to drive to his place, sneak in through the window. The thought had been kind of exciting. You had never sneaked in or out of a boy’s house before.

Either way, your hands were tangled in his hair now, neither of you were wearing shirts anymore, so it did not look like you were going to make it to a second location.

His warm fingers were tracing up and down your thighs as he pushed himself against any free inch of skin he could get. There was something hungry about the way he held you, like he would never get enough of you.

Maybe you were only imagining that though because it was the exact same way, he made you feel. His smell was intoxicating, like a forest after rain mixed with the mild but lingering taste of beer on his lips.

“Can we pause for a second” because the thought of alcohol had suddenly made you feel guilty. He pulled back and looked at you, waiting.

The night had started with going to the bookstore with a friend and somehow ended on top of a half-naked stranger in the back of his car. You were glad for his hands on your waist, they helped steady you.

Your hands rested on Paul's bare chest; his skin so hot under yours you were worried about burning. You didn't, he was just warm enough that the cold air around you barely bothered you.

"I uhm..." You took your fingers off his chest and looked away from him for fear his eyes and lips and body would make you forget your train of thought once more.

"I'm not 21. I used a fake ID to get those drinks. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

Paul shuffled under you, moving away and reaching for your shirt, which he had so willingly pulled over your head just a few minutes prior. He gave it to you and looked up into your face.

You couldn’t read his expression. Was he mad? Sad? Annoyed?

“I mean, I'm 18 you're not doing anything illegal here or anything, just a little younger than you probably expected” you added quickly because it suddenly dawned on you that he was probably worried about that. You covered yourself with your t-shirt without putting it back on and then his face turned into a smile.

Without saying anything, he reached into his pants and pulled out a wallet. He handed you his driver’s license, which told you that he too had also just turned 18, only a few months after you. 

You slapped his chest, and he used that hand to pull you in for another kiss. 

"I was actually feeling bad because I lied to you" you mumbled into a kiss, and he smiled again.

"I could tell."

You bid down on his lower lip, as your hands wandered down to his pants. You let your fingers brush over the soft skin on his stomach and casually let them slip into the band of his pants just a little. He exhaled against your lips, his pulling into a smile.

His hands were all over your upper body, leaving goose bumps everywhere they went. He lightly brushed against the side of your bra, you nodded in encouragement and his hand brushed over your covered breasts for the first time causing you to shiver. His fingers followed the seam from your front to your back, coming to a halt at your bra clip. They lingered, softly brushing your skin, as he pulled back to look at you, waiting for some sort of signal. You smiled and kissed him again.

You've never had sex with a stranger before and somehow you felt closer to this really hot guy you've met a few hours ago than you did to the majority of guys in your high school.

Your bra came loose, and you had started to unbutton his pants when he interrupted the kiss once more. 

"Anything else I should know?" You thought for a second and shook your head, and he started to consume, to devour you.

He pressed hot kisses onto every inch of skin he could reach. 

This wasn't what you had imagined a one-night stand in the back of a car to be like. Paul was making you shiver in the best way possible, and you gladly let him.

Paul hugged you close to his chest for a few seconds, but you could feel him getting soft and you needed to get the condom off before that was all for nothing.

Your legs were shaking even with Paul supporting them, as you slid off him and sat down on the car seat next to him. Leaning against his shoulders and leaving a kiss there. Although the sex was over it felt so right to keep touching him, to keep kissing him, that you did.

You caressed his body as you helped him take the condom off without spilling anything. You wrapped it in a tissue and put it in a plastic bag you had gotten at the bookstore.

Neither of you said anything. The realization of what had happened began to dawn on you. What were you supposed to do now? Were your supposed to leave? Ask for a ride home? Call someone to pick you up?

Paul took your hand, and pulled one of your legs back over his, resting his hand there. You couldn’t help but look at him. His hair was a little damp and extremely messy and the smile on his lips was so bright you wanted to bottle it up and take it home for bad days.

"You, okay?" He looked so genuinely concerned. At least you hadn't picked up some asshole.

You gave him a small smile.

"Yeah, I think I'm good. Are you okay?" You realized how tight he was holding onto your leg, as if he was afraid of letting go. 

He nodded. There was something in his eyes, it felt like there was something he wasn't telling you and it bothered you. Obviously, this man was a complete stranger and under no obligation to say anything, but the way he looked at you made you want to know every thought he’s ever thought.

“Would it be okay if we just... lay down here?” He asked after a moment of silence.

You nodded and he opened his arms for you to lay down on his chest. Instinctively you started to run your fingers over his upper body again, tracing the lines between muscles and squeezing anything your fingers could comfortably grip.

At first there was only silence between you. Then, you started talking. First about how you originally had the day planned. Then about other things. Your friends, school. And he told you things too, although considerably less.

Mostly he brushed his fingertips over your naked skin and hair. He leaned down a few times to kiss the top of your head and then seemed to stop himself.

Each time you pretended you didn't notice and each time you hoped that he actually would do it this time.

Eventually he did. First your hair, then your forehead. it only took minutes before you were straddling him again and savouring the taste of his lips.

The night passed and only as the sun started to rise in the window shield did you acknowledge that it was going to end.

Paul helped you put your clothes back on and offered to drive you home without taking no for an answer. You were both spent but at the same time, you had not felt this alive in a long time. 

Paul dropped you off.

He didn’t ask for your number, and you didn’t ask for his and so you gave him a smile and then waved from the front door.

And that was it.

[guyghoul]

My takeaways from this video:

An important part of leitmotifs is contours, intervals, and rhythm. Even if you change the key and instrumentation of a leitmotif, the contours, intervals, and rhythm keep the leitmotif recognisable.

A leitmotif that has sufficiently distinct contours, intervals, and rhythm will still sound rather recognisable even if you deviate one of these traits. Such a leitmotif is dynamic and can therefore be used in many contexts.

Toby's use of leitmotifs tends to be variations of the leitmotif chained together. However, these variations all relate to the original leitmotif: a variation may actually end with the beginning of the original leitmotif. His aim is elaborati on the ideas of his leitmotif.

Even when he introduces a new, monotony-breaking musical idea, he still relates the idea to a previous idea through the song. These relations can get recursive from other relations up to the beginning.

Sometimes, Toby makes a smoother transition between elaborations or ideas by varying the notes leading up to the transition.

In fact, there are times when the leitmotif changes in a way that fits with the context of a current section.

[redfilledfantasies]

First Sight (Chapter 2 of 7)

Carmella Hill entered the upscale Manhattan gym with the same precision she applied to cardiac surgery. Her workout bag hung from her shoulder at a precise forty-five-degree angle, the weight of it calibrated against her perfect posture. The glass doors parted before her like obedient patients, and she inhaled the familiar mixture of disinfectant and exertion that permeated the air. Her prescription glasses caught the light as she surveyed the space, mentally mapping her routine with the same exactitude she used to chart the chambers of a human heart.

The day's final consultations clung to her like a stubborn murmur, echoing in the recesses of her thoughts. Seven patients, three concerning arrhythmias, one potential valve replacement—the details filed with mechanical efficiency in the orderly cabinets of her mind.

She nodded curtly to the receptionist, a polite acknowledgment without the unnecessary complication of small talk. Her compression leggings hugged the sculpted contours of her thighs, the moisture-wicking fabric clinging to the considerable muscle she had cultivated through years of disciplined training.

The matching top accentuated her perfect physique, the material stretched taut across her breasts before tapering to reveal the ridges of her abdomen—six distinct sections of defined muscle that most anatomy textbooks would struggle to illustrate with such clarity. Carmella had constructed this body with the same methodical attention she applied to her medical practice, each muscle group an exercise in controlled perfection.

The locker room welcomed her with clinical fluorescence, the white surfaces reflecting her meticulous movements. She selected the same locker she always chose—third from the end, second row—and arranged her belongings with surgical precision. Shoes aligned perpendicular to the bench, towel folded in exact thirds, water bottle positioned for optimal hydration intervals. She removed her designer prescription glasses briefly, cleaning the lenses with a microfiber cloth she kept specifically for this purpose, ten clockwise circles followed by ten counterclockwise. The ritual was soothing, a controlled variable in the experiment of her day.

She adjusted the glasses on her nose, the world snapping back into analytical focus. Her reflection stared back at her from the locker room mirror—hair trimmed to fall precisely at her jawline, not a strand out of place despite the day's exertions. She stretched experimentally, feeling the pleasant tension in her muscles, cataloging the minor soreness in her left deltoid from yesterday's workout with detached interest.

The main floor of the gym pulsed with evening activity, the synchronized exertion of Manhattan's elite creating a rhythm as regular as any electrocardiogram. Carmella claimed her usual position on the mat near the free weights, appreciating both the optimal stretching space and the unobstructed sightlines to all major equipment. She began her warm-up with the same attention she gave to surgical preparation—each movement executed with deliberate purpose, her joints moving through precisely calculated ranges of motion.

Her focus was absolute, internal, a meditation on musculature and blood flow. Fifteen seconds per stretch, sixty seconds for compound movements, heart rate increasing by a predictable increment with each completed set. The routine was as familiar as her own heartbeat, requiring no conscious thought, leaving her mind free to process the day's diagnostic challenges. Until a flash of movement registered in her peripheral vision, disrupting the careful rhythm of her routine.

Carmella's head turned with clinical interest, her attention caught by unfamiliar motion across the gym floor. A new trainer—female, athletic build, vibrant red hair pulled back in a functional ponytail—was demonstrating proper form to a client attempting a complicated lift. The intrusion of novelty in her carefully calibrated environment was jarring, like an unexpected blip on an otherwise normal ECG reading.

Her stretch faltered, the symmetry of her movement compromised by the momentary distraction. Carmella corrected herself immediately, but her focus had shifted, her analytical gaze now recording data about the unknown trainer with the same precision she applied to echocardiograms.

The woman moved with remarkable authority, her hands confident as they adjusted her client's posture. Her freckled skin caught the gym's harsh lighting, creating a topography of light and shadow across impressively defined musculature. Carmella estimated her age at early forties based on subtle markers around her eyes, though her physique suggested someone decades younger. The contradiction was medically fascinating.

Carmella completed her hamstring stretch while cataloging the trainer's physical attributes with dispassionate expertise. The woman's quadriceps engaged with textbook perfection as she demonstrated a proper squat, the separation between muscle groups visible even from across the room.

Her arms displayed impressive vascularity, suggesting both exceptional cardiovascular health and remarkably low body fat percentage. The trainer's sports bra revealed abdominal definition comparable to Carmella's own—a rarity she had not observed in another woman at this gym.

She shifted into a hip flexor stretch, angling her body to maintain sightlines to the trainer. The woman's voice carried across the gym—authoritative, encouraging, with a timbre that suggested optimal lung capacity. "Control the movement," she instructed her client, the command resonating with unexpectedly personal impact in Carmella's ears.

Carmella observed the trainer's breathing pattern—diaphragmatic, efficient, approximately sixteen breaths per minute at rest. A textbook example of athletic conditioning. Her own breath synchronized unconsciously, matching the rhythm she observed. The synchronicity registered as a curious physiological response, one worthy of further study.

The trainer smiled at her client's progress, revealing teeth as perfect as her form. Carmella's pulse quickened by approximately twelve beats per minute—a reaction she noted with clinical detachment even as heat spread beneath her skin. She adjusted her glasses, ostensibly to improve visual acuity, though the trainer was already in perfect focus.

As she transitioned to her core warm-up, Carmella found her movements echoing the trainer's demonstrations—the angle of her spine, the engagement of her core muscles, unconscious mimicry that she recognized with mild professional embarrassment. She forced herself back into her established routine, though her attention remained divided, one part of her brain continuing to gather data on the red-haired trainer with the exceptional physique.

The woman's body was a testament to physiological optimization—large breasts that defied gravitational expectations, perfectly round gluteal development indicating comprehensive strength training protocols, the kind of muscle symmetry that medical textbooks illustrated but rarely manifested in living subjects.

Carmella found herself calculating body fat percentages, estimating muscle fiber composition, hypothesizing about cardiac output with the same intensity she applied to particularly complex cases. Her pulse remained elevated, a persistent tachycardia she couldn't attribute to her warm-up's modest exertion.

She noted the dilation of her own pupils in her compact mirror, the subtle flush spreading across her clavicles. The symptoms aligned with autonomic nervous system activation—a textbook stress response, though she wasn't experiencing stress in the conventional sense. Carmella completed her final stretch, her routine disrupted by these unexpected observations. She gathered her water bottle and towel, moving toward the cardio machines with more haste than precision.

For the first time in recent memory, her carefully constructed workout plan had been modified spontaneously, the cardio equipment selected not for its biomechanical advantages but for the unobstructed view it provided of the red-haired trainer across the gym floor. The deviation from routine should have troubled her. Instead, she felt a spark of something unfamiliar—static from the dry air, perhaps, but it jolted her nonetheless.

Carmella selected the elliptical machine with surgical precision, her decision based not on muscle group prioritization but on optimal sightlines to the free weights area. Her fingers gripped the handles with unusual tension, the programmed resistance on the machine failing to explain the sudden strain in her joints. She adjusted her glasses and began her cardio workout, her legs moving in perfect rhythm while her eyes fixed on the red-haired trainer with unwavering focus. The distance between them—approximately forty-two feet—was insufficient to prevent detailed observation.

From this vantage point, Carmella could catalog the trainer's physical attributes with greater specificity. The woman demonstrated a shoulder press to a middle-aged male client, her deltoids contracting with remarkable definition beneath freckled skin. Carmella estimated the weight at thirty pounds, noting with clinical interest how effortlessly the trainer manipulated the dumbbell, suggesting significant functional strength rather than merely aesthetic development.

When the trainer turned to adjust her client's form, the laminated badge clipped to her sports bra caught the overhead lighting. The distance would have rendered the text illegible to most observers, but Carmella's prescription glasses brought the name into perfect focus: Audrey O'Rourke. She repeated the name silently, the syllables joining the rhythmic data she was collecting.

Audrey moved to assist another client, a woman struggling with proper squat depth. The movement provided Carmella with a comprehensive view of her physique—large breasts contained in a high-performance sports bra, their perfect symmetry defying natural probability. Beneath them lay the most impressive abdominal development Carmella had witnessed outside her own reflection: six distinct sections of muscle, perfectly delineated, the kind of definition that required both genetic predisposition and relentless discipline.

Her eyes tracked lower, noting the muscular thighs that powered Audrey's movements, the exceptional balance maintained through a posteriorly-developed gluteal structure that matched Carmella's own carefully cultivated curves. The similarities in their physiques were striking—almost like examining her own body through an alternate genetic expression, one where melanin concentrated in freckle formations rather than distributing evenly.

Carmella's fingers adjusted the resistance on the elliptical machine higher, the increased exertion an unconscious response to the intensity of her observation. Her calculated stride never faltered, but her attention was no longer divided between exercise and analysis—it was wholly consumed by Audrey O'Rourke.

Based on subtle markers—the faint lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, the particular elasticity of skin at her neck, the development pattern of her musculature—Carmella's trained diagnostic eye estimated Audrey's age at early forties.

Yet her vitality, skin tone, and physical development suggested someone at least fifteen years younger. The contradiction was professionally fascinating, a physiological anomaly worthy of documentation. Audrey demonstrated a complex core movement for an older female client, her body bending with a flexibility that contradicted her muscular density.

Carmella found herself unconsciously adjusting her own posture on the elliptical, spine aligning to mirror the trainer's form. When Audrey inhaled deeply before instructing her client, Carmella's own breath synchronized without conscious intent. The involuntary mimicry was unlike her—a neurological response typically observed in individuals experiencing strong attraction or deep admiration.

Her hands were steady on the machine's handles, but she felt a warmth in her chest, an uncomfortable heat that she recognized as fascination bordering on fixation. The sensation was clinically significant—increased blood flow, endorphin release patterns consistent with attraction rather than exertion. Carmella cataloged these symptoms with the same precision she would apply to a patient, though the conclusions she reached were far more personal than professional.

Audrey's training schedule appeared systematic. Carmella observed her move from client to client with precise timing—thirty minutes per session, five minutes of transition and preparation between appointments. This regularity allowed Carmella to anticipate Audrey's movements, to adjust her own position on the cardio equipment to maintain optimal observation angles.

She found herself extending her cardio session well beyond her programmed twenty minutes, adding intervals with uncharacteristic spontaneity. Her usual workout called for weight training to follow cardio, but today's plan reconfigured itself around this unexpected variable. Deviation from established routine was uncommon for Carmella, a diagnostic flag her analytical mind could not ignore.

Audrey guided a new client through basic form principles, her hands making precise adjustments to the woman's shoulder alignment. Carmella counted Audrey's breaths during the demonstration—fourteen per minute, consistent with exceptional aerobic conditioning. Her movements suggested a resting heart rate of approximately 45-50 beats per minute, significantly below average even for elite athletes.

"Maintain control throughout the entire motion," Audrey instructed her client, her voice carrying across the gym with authoritative clarity. "The tempo is as important as the weight." Carmella found herself responding to the directive, adjusting her elliptical pace to a more controlled rhythm. The involuntary compliance was unprecedented, a surrender of autonomy that should have triggered immediate correction. Instead, she maintained the adjusted tempo, finding unexpected satisfaction in the synchronicity.

She continued her observation, noting the vascularity visible along Audrey's forearms as she demonstrated a rowing motion—clear evidence of exceptional circulation and minimal subcutaneous fat. When Audrey laughed at something her client said, Carmella observed the perfect symmetry of her facial expression, the precise angle of her neck as she tilted her head back. The movement exposed the carotid artery, and Carmella found herself estimating pulse rates from the subtle, visible pulsation.

Between clients, Audrey paused to drink water, and Carmella tracked the rhythmic contractions of her throat as she swallowed. The trainer wiped her brow with a small towel, the action revealing a momentary glimpse of additional freckles along her upper ribs. Carmella adjusted her glasses again, though her vision was perfectly clear.

Her own heart rate had increased beyond what the moderate exercise demanded. The monitor on the elliptical displayed 142 beats per minute—approximately 15% higher than expected for her current exertion level. The data point was anomalous, requiring explanation. Carmella attributed it to increased ambient temperature in the gym, though the environmental controls remained constant at 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

Forty-seven minutes into her extended cardio session, Carmella became aware of her persistent focus on Audrey. The realization brought an unusual sensation—a constriction in her chest, a heightened awareness of her own breathing pattern. Her clinical detachment, the professional distance she maintained even from her own physiological responses, showed the first evidence of structural weakness.

She observed Audrey demonstrating a perfect deadlift, the alignment of her spine textbook-precise, the engagement of her posterior chain displaying years of refined technique. The movement was poetry expressed through biomechanics, and Carmella found herself admiring more than mere form. The aesthetic appreciation registered as an unexpected variable in her otherwise analytical observation.

Audrey's green eyes caught the light as she turned, their brightness visible even from Carmella's calculated distance. The color created a striking contrast against her freckled skin and red hair—genetic expressions that together occurred in less than 2% of the population. The statistical rarity aligned with the exceptional nature of her physique, creating a subject of undeniable scientific interest.

Yet Carmella's continued observation had progressed beyond scientific curiosity. Her pupils remained dilated despite the gym's bright lighting. The elliptical's timer had long exceeded her planned duration. Her breathing pattern had altered to match Audrey's rhythm rather than optimizing for her own exercise efficiency.

These deviations from established patterns were symptomatic of something Carmella hesitated to diagnose, even in the privacy of her own analytical mind. She increased the resistance on the elliptical again, as if the additional physical challenge might distract from the intensifying fascination. The machine beeped in protest—she had reached maximum resistance, another boundary exceeded.

Her hands gripped the handles with unnecessary force, fingers registering the strain as they compressed against unyielding plastic. The excessive pressure did nothing to diminish the warmth spreading through her chest, a heat unrelated to exertion. Her clinical detachment, that carefully constructed barrier between observation and engagement, developed hairline fractures with each passing minute of study.

Carmella continued her extended observation, her body moving with mechanical precision while her mind documented every detail of Audrey O'Rourke with unprecedented attention. Her workout had transformed from a predictable exercise in control to an unexpected study in fascination, and the implications of this shift remained undiagnosed in her meticulous mind.

Carmella completed her final set with mechanical precision, each repetition a perfect mirror of the one before. Her body had performed to exact specifications, yet her mind had strayed far from its usual disciplined paths. She recorded her progress in the fitness tracking app on her phone, the data points failing to capture the most significant variable in today's workout. The time display showed she had exceeded her standard routine by twenty-seven minutes, an anomaly that would require explanation if she were her own patient.

Still, she found herself reluctant to leave, inventing additional stretches that positioned her within visual range of the trainer whose movements had captured her attention with such unexpected force. The gym had begun its evening transition, the crowd thinning as Manhattan's professionals departed for dinner reservations and evening commitments.

This temporal shift created a quieter environment, the reduced population density allowing for even more precise observation. Carmella positioned her mat with calculated casualness, the angle providing unobstructed sightlines to where Audrey had begun preparing for her personal workout.

She extended into a hamstring stretch, her flexibility allowing her to maintain the position with minimal effort while her attention remained fixed elsewhere. The charade of stretching was unlike her—a deliberate deception contrasting sharply with her typically straightforward methodology. She acknowledged the behavior as anomalous even as she continued it, adding unnecessary repetitions to prolong her presence.

Audrey bid goodbye to her final client of the evening, her red ponytail catching the light as she nodded a farewell. Her freckled hand raised in a brief wave, the musculature of her arm displaying exceptional definition even in this casual gesture. Carmella observed the trainer's preparation ritual with intense focus, cataloging each movement as Audrey arranged her equipment with a precision that rivaled Carmella's own.

With her professional obligations completed, Audrey transitioned to her personal training regimen with fluid efficiency. She began with a complex warm-up sequence, movements flowing together with choreographed precision. Her body moved through space with remarkable control, each position held with perfect stability before transitioning to the next. The display of kinesthetic awareness was exceptional, suggesting proprioceptive capabilities far exceeding population norms.

Carmella's stretch had long exceeded its optimal duration, but she maintained the position, her hamstrings protesting against the prolonged extension. The minor discomfort registered as irrelevant data compared to the significance of her observations. She shifted to another position, her eyes never leaving Audrey's form as the trainer moved to the free weights area.

Audrey began with compound movements, selecting weights that Carmella noted were approximately 65% heavier than those used by most female gym members. The trainer performed clean and press repetitions with impressive control, her body functioning as a single coordinated unit. The activation sequence of muscle groups was textbook-perfect—powerful contraction of the posterior chain initiating the movement, seamless transition to shoulder engagement for the press, controlled eccentric return.

The weight moved through space with deceptive ease, belying the significant force required. Carmella calculated the power output, estimating the caloric expenditure and oxygen consumption necessary to sustain such exertion. Her academic analysis ran parallel to a more visceral appreciation of the display before her—the sheen of exertion on freckled skin, the controlled rhythm of Audrey's breathing, the remarkable symmetry of muscle engagement across her frame.

Carmella reached for her water bottle, her fingers tightening around the plastic with unnecessary force. The container crinkled in protest, the sound drawing a momentary glance from a nearby gym member. She loosened her grip with conscious effort, the loss of physical control as alarming as it was unprecedented. Her usual precision had abandoned her, replaced by a tense energy that manifested in unexpected ways.

When Audrey moved to the squat rack, Carmella abandoned all pretense of stretching and relocated to the nearby abdominal training area. The new position provided continued sightlines while giving the appearance of purposeful exercise. She began a series of core exercises, her own remarkable abdominal definition visible as her top rode up slightly with each movement.

Audrey loaded the barbell with impressive weight—Carmella estimated 185 pounds—and positioned herself beneath it with perfect form. The depth of her squat defied conventional flexibility limitations, especially considering her muscular development.

Each repetition displayed exceptional control through both concentric and eccentric phases. Carmella counted the trainer's breaths, noting the efficient oxygen utilization pattern—two controlled inhalations per repetition, exhalation timed precisely with maximum exertion points. After completing three sets, Audrey moved to the deadlift platform.

The barbell was loaded progressively heavier, culminating in a weight Carmella calculated at approximately 225 pounds—exceptional for a woman of Audrey's size, regardless of her obvious strength. The trainer approached the bar with focused intensity, her red hair falling forward slightly as she positioned her stance.

The deadlift began with textbook form—spine neutral, shoulders retracted, core engaged. As Audrey initiated the pull, Carmella observed the sequential activation of muscle groups: hamstrings, gluteal muscles, erector spinae, trapezius. The coordination was flawless, the biomechanical efficiency nearly perfect. When the weight reached its apex, Audrey's body formed a living anatomy chart—every major muscle group visible beneath her skin, vascularity pronounced across her forearms and shoulders.

Carmella's grip tightened again, this time on the edge of the bench where she sat. Her own breathing had synchronized with Audrey's without conscious effort, her inhalations matching the trainer's preparatory breath before each lift. The physiological mirroring was beyond her control, her body responding to visual stimuli with unusual autonomy.

As Audrey completed her final deadlift repetition, a small smile of satisfaction crossed her face. The expression triggered an unexpected response in Carmella—a constriction in her chest, a momentary acceleration of her pulse that had nothing to do with her minimal exertion. She adjusted her glasses again, the habitual gesture failing to create its usual sense of control.

Her professional curiosity had fully merged with personal fascination, the clinical boundaries she maintained with such vigilance now permeable and uncertain. Carmella's mind still cataloged the objective data—muscle recruitment patterns, biomechanical efficiency, estimated metabolic rates—but these observations were colored by an appreciation that extended far beyond scientific interest.

She noted with analytical detachment the physical signs of her own response: pupils dilated to approximately 5mm despite the bright gymnasium lighting, respiratory rate increased to 18 breaths per minute without corresponding exertion, surface temperature elevated by an estimated 1.2 degrees Celsius. The constellation of symptoms aligned with a diagnosis she was reluctant to acknowledge, even to herself.

Audrey moved to the cable machine, adjusting the settings with practiced efficiency. Her arms extended in the first repetition of a pull-down, the latissimus dorsi muscles expanding like wings beneath her freckled skin. The visual impact was striking—anatomical perfection expressed through functional movement. Carmella found herself leaning forward slightly, reducing the distance between observation and subject by an incremental but meaningful margin.

When Audrey turned slightly, her bright green eyes swept across the gym in a casual survey. For a fraction of a second, her gaze intercepted Carmella's, the brief connection sending an unexpected current through the doctor's carefully controlled system. Carmella looked away with uncharacteristic haste, her usual composure fracturing under the momentary recognition.

The exchange, brief as it was, triggered an abrupt awareness in Carmella of the duration and intensity of her observation. She had maintained surveillance of a single subject for approximately seventy-three minutes—an unprecedented allocation of attention that couldn't be justified by professional curiosity alone.

The realization brought with it an uncomfortable heat that spread across her chest and neck, a physiological response she recognized as embarrassment—another rarity in her emotional landscape. She gathered her belongings with uncharacteristic haste, the precision of her usual packing routine abandoned in favor of expedience.

Her water bottle was secured with minimal attention to its alignment in her bag, her towel folded in halves rather than precise thirds. These deviations from standard protocol were further evidence of her disturbed equilibrium. As she moved toward the exit, Carmella permitted herself one final glance at Audrey.

The trainer had begun a set of pull-ups, her body rising with controlled power, freckled arms displaying striated musculature that medical textbooks rarely captured with such clarity. The image burned itself into Carmella's memory with perfect resolution, a data point that would not be easily filed away. She pushed through the glass doors into the evening air, the temperature differential providing momentary clarity.

Her mind, typically ordered and methodical, now buzzed with calculations, observations, and an unfamiliar undercurrent of anticipation. She found herself automatically adjusting tomorrow's schedule, creating a precise window that would align with Audrey's training hours. The modification to her routine should have registered as problematic—a deviation from optimal efficiency based on non-essential factors.

Instead, she felt a curl of something like satisfaction as she confirmed the adjusted timing in her calendar. Her ordered mind, usually filled with cardiac rhythms and diagnostic puzzles, now contained new data points: the exact shade of Audrey's green eyes, the precise pattern of freckles across her shoulders, the perfect arc of her spine during a deadlift.

Carmella walked toward her apartment with measured steps, her exterior composure gradually reasserting itself even as her thoughts remained fixed on the exceptional physical specimen she had observed. Tomorrow's return to the gym had transformed from a matter of routine to an exercise in anticipation, and the distinction was as troubling as it was exhilarating.

[crownprincessofmalfoy]

The Onyx Kokoshnik Tiara is a refined and unusually modern piece, crafted in 1914 by Cartier at the request of Queen Elladora IV of Malfoy. Designed in the traditional kokoshnik silhouette, the tiara features a stylized Art Deco tree at its center, its graceful platinum branches radiating outward and culminating in black onyx leaves—each set against a luminous diamond backdrop. Delicate pearls are placed at rhythmic intervals along the upper edge, bringing movement and light to its otherwise seamless contours; the pearls can be removed for a more streamlined appearance. Most recently, the tiara was worn by Crown Princess Alexandra of Malfoy at the gala dinner during Caverdaam Innovation Weekend in November 2020, held in Lillistaad.

[jamlessjj]

Portrait of Bono - colored pencil on 8.5 in. x 5.5 in. paper

I dedicate this post to my ultramarine blue colored pencil. Rest In Peace, you were this drawing's strongest soldier. 

The Short Version

I expect this post to be lengthy, but to summarize: 

There is music to be found in a face. I enjoy the way Bono's face harmonizes with itself, and I do not necessarily mean it in the sense of uniformity or the blend between a perfect interval. When I think of the harmonies in his face, I think of tension and contradiction, and an ambiguity that is pleasant to sit in and marvel at. It is kind of like hearing a full, tall chord that makes something in you buzz when struck, or seeing a mountain range jut into the sky, making the air ring from its boldness (I totally equate Bono's nose to a mountain, and those close to me know I love mountains). Sitting in this ambiguity, I felt like his features connected with one another in unexpected and exciting ways. To make another comparison, I feel the same way when I watch the moon rise at its fullest and map out a face in its craters.

Now, if you so desire to know the nitty-gritty of my experience with this drawing, read on. 

The Long Version

If you were to look up the dictionary definition of trusting the process, me working on this portrait would be exhibit A. Deciding to proceed with a portrait done in full color really set the tone. The last piece I have done fully in color dates back to August 2022. So, the evolution of this drawing began with me staring skeptically at my colored pencils and oil pastels for a good half hour, until I felt brave enough to even breathe on them. 

Right off the bat, I knew I wanted to generally structure the process around chiaroscuro, an effect and/or technique that focuses on strong contrast between light and dark values. In drawing and painting, the chiaroscuro technique involves beginning on a mid-tone surface. Darker (usually thinner) layers of the subject are added first, then the subject is built upon with increasingly lighter (usually thicker) layers. I felt like this focus on strong contrast would, in addition to shadows and highlights, also bring out the contrasting features in Bono's face, such as the harshness of his eyebrows versus the roundness/softness of his eyes. Whether the final product truly looks like a chiaroscuro piece is debatable, though I think following the technique's general guidelines helped me achieve the depth I was going for. 

I did not have any mid-tone paper on me, so the first 40 minutes or so were spent covering the paper in a thin layer of colored pencil: 

When working in color, I like to utilize complimentary color schemes. I am especially crazy about color schemes centered around blue and orange, and wanted to lean into that here. My rule of thumb was for the darker, shadowy layers, I would use blue tones, and for lighter layers, I would use orange tones. The blue layers were a place for me to loosely shape points of shadow and recession in Bono's face, and simply get the lines that make up his features down on paper. To be frank, it was at this point I began to wonder if committing to the bit and drawing Bono was a mistake. 

Engaging with the portrait at this stage was akin to repeating the same word so many times it fails to sound like itself. I was so intensely fixated on the tiny aspects of him that get lost in a glance--is the contour of his bottom lip aligned with his chin? Did I get the asymmetry between his eyelids right? Should I draw his freckles now or later? It was jarring to step back and consider each of these details in tandem with one another. I asked myself, are these features even working in tandem with one another, is this even Bono? Bomaybe? In retrospect, I think what alarmed me was seeing this layer exist on its own. To bring the harmony analogy back, I had struck only a single note with this layer instead of multiple. It simply lacked the context for depth and movement that other layers would hopefully provide. 

As for the lighter layers, I had mixed feelings about how to proceed medium-wise. Colored pencil is not a medium I frequently use, so I doubted my ability to get the thickness I wanted these layers to have with colored pencil alone. Initially, I considered using oil pastels for the lighter layers, but ultimately decided in this case, the textural disconnect between colored pencil and oil pastel might create some unwanted separation between the shadows and highlights. I ended up sticking with colored pencils, and I think this helped elevate the interplay between angular areas and softer areas of Bono's face.

Watching the layers slowly converge was quite satisfying. And, I finally got to draw his freckles!

Here is a close-up of the finished piece.

And the reference, shot by Anton Corbijn:

That's all for now. If anyone stuck around to the end of this post, thank you for taking the time to read it! I had a great time with this portrait, so definitely expect more U2 art.

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'Like Silver Set Ablaze' by @jack-of-crowns

"Tell us, Cyclops, how to craft a theionic organ?"

A baleful glare and a dull rumbling roar, all the answer Okkules gives in reply to the panopticon's imagery before him. Flashes of pain from the buckling columns of the living forge fill his psyche as gryphenes from the Luminarian dreadnoughts simultaneously dissolve and regenerate them; the assault's impact is beyond comprehension, and yet he keeps careful count of what spacetime remains.

"Not that any such single-minded beings as angels could begin to grasp the complexities," he labours, managing to grit out the words between measured pumps from plasma bellows and the rhythmic tap-tapping of the autonomous gravity hammers.

The flame-shrouded Salamanders surrounding him vent hissfully back in response, black-carapaced hull armour crackling with all the rage inherent in the effort required to keep the constant operable pressures required for the atomized gold of their synth vultures. Orbits drift forward, the leashes ease back on the gryphenes, sensors reading Okkules' pain thresholds. "Transmission, Submission, Manumission," the droning chants on and on.

Okkules thinks of his ancestors, the Cyclopes who crafted the first living forges that kept his kind alive long after the death of the star that spawned them. There will be no giving away of their sacred knowledge to the ravagers of the red giant, no turning a blinded eye to their unyielding demands for power. Not on this day; this day it his turn to release those given up for dead so that all may live.

He closes his eye and begins the memories of the spell; even a tekton of his level must concentrate against the bright might of the Luminarian Empire, once allies from a companion star, now dread foes. 'As in most quantum communications systems, the periodicity of the intervals between signals is key.' There is the slightest of tremors beneath the forge. 'The whenwhere of the ionic plasma surges at every phase during the nova shock event is most critical.'

The Salamanders seem oblivious to the resonance overflow that Okkules can feel growing in the depths of his psyche as the corpse of the dead white dwarf begins to stir back to life outside the force walls of the forge, greyish wraiths of sulfur arise and whirl themselves into the accretion disc, swirling as the spell's densities start to set in. Hopefully, his count has been true, for the plancks seem to tick by slowly.

'Just before the moment of accumulation spark, pay exceeding care as to how the red giant bleeds, for their lifeblood is the fuel whereby the tarnished silver of this dwarf's corpse will be polished and lit.' The glamour has them all now, the moment closing. 'Every probability must be utilized to the fullest.'

The trinary conjunction of spellcraft and conjoined stars is creating uncertainty in the biocircuits of his tormentors; they hemorrhage with indecision. Okkules shapes the final contours of artifice; within the continuum's echoed folds, he hears his father's voice, thundering upon principles of soul forging.

- After all, of what use is it to divise theorems from which no practical devices can be constructed? -

Bursting light, crisscross currents of electromagnetism shredding shells of the quanta of spacetime as a mad sculptor deburring a statue, and Okkules passes through the wave front as the prow of a breaking ship; his count has been true. The very act of casting the forging spell hastens the thermonuclear explosion, catching the Salamander dreadnoughts with shields down. In the planck before the nova shock, he is one with the sulfuric filaments of plasma erupting from the white dwarf, a dandelion's skeleton dancing throughout alternity.

'Still, they ask mockingly;' this bit of scripture a presage of his tormentors' fate. Okkules wields his psyche as hammer and chisel, shaping the quanta on either side of the moment, forging the light into sound, plasma energy into solid pipes. He pauses before he breathes into his theionic organ, giving thanks for once and again being celebrant in this sacred space, where the instruments of The One Who Is All resound as loud as thunderclaps, a resonance to shake the stars of heaven to their very cores. Then he joins the joyous music; all around him are Cyclopes bursting forth from beneath the dark veils of spacetime, masterworks and master workers. They are a chorus of shining sparks, singing themselves into creation, singeing cold voids about them with living silver, like silver set ablaze.

[levunalangs]

Sdefa Sdaturday #8

I made a new script for Sdefa! It’s not a replacement for the other one, I just thought it would be nice to have more than one. They work in very different ways, and reflect different aspects of the structure of the language.

In this system, there are seven letters, plus two diacritics. Each letter represents either an interval or a note. The intervals are more often used, so let’s start there.

The first letter is for a unison, or repetition of the same note. If the standard terminology for intervals made any sense, it would be represented by 0, but since it doesn’t it’s 1. (In my own notes I use 0 for a unison, ±1 for seconds, ±2 for thirds, and so on, but that isn’t standard and can be confusing so for this post I’ll go from 1 to 7 instead of 0 to 6. For a unison, I’ll write -1 but it’s actually neither up nor down.) The second letter is for a second (step) up, or a seventh down. It doesn’t matter if it’s a major or minor second (whole or half step); that can be specified with diacritics later. Since a step up from C is D, a seventh down from C is also D, and meaning in Sdefa isn’t affected by octave, the same letter is used for both. The rest of the letters work the same way: the third letter is for a third up or a sixth down, the next for a fourth up or fifth down, and so on.

Normally when making a conlang script I don’t like to have more than a small handful of letters be reflections or rotations of other letters, let alone almost all of them. It can be visually confusing and hard to keep track of, but I think it makes sense in this case. I want there to be visual similarities between a scale up and a scale down, an arpeggio up and an arpeggio down, and so on. There are also not that many letters to keep track of, so that helps reduce potential confusion.

Within a word, a sequence of these letters will tell you the melodic contour. They can combine into ligatures, some of which are shown below:

In order to know what pitches we’re actually playing, though, we need a reference point. For that reason, the first letter of a text and the first letter after a space represent specific notes rather than intervals from the previous note:

These are the same notes that each letter would represent if the previous note was a C, so you can think of C as being an unwritten, unheard reference note between each word. This is useful because it can be very easy to lose track of where you are in a longer text, so having somewhat regular signposts for what the actual notes are is helpful.

I said “the first letter after a space” rather than “the first letter of a word” because prefixes are written separately from the words they are affixed to, in this notation system. This is done so that the first letter of a root word will always be the same, and the word will therefore be consistently recognizable. Because of the restrictions on the lengths of Sdefa roots and affixes, it’s never ambiguous as to whether a given string of letters is a prefix or sequence of prefixes or a root with one or more suffixes.

Here are some examples:

The first word begins with G, or a fifth above the reference pitch C. Then a third down is E, a step down is D, another step down is C, and a step up is D. So the whole word is G E D C D, which means “grass” (a reference to the finale of Sunday in the Park with George, the line “on the green purple yellow red grass”). The next word begins with a third above the reference pitch C, but the dot below means that we lower it from the expected E to E♭. Then we have a step down (D), a step up (E—accidentals only apply to the note they’re on), a step up (F), and a third up (A). That spells out E♭ D E F A, aka “Sdefa.” The third word begins with B, followed by a third down or sixth up (G), a step down, raised by a half step (F♯), and a step up (G). This is B G F♯ G, or “Sunday” (borrowed from the same song as before: “Sunday, by the blue purple yellow red water”).

So why use two systems in one writing system—why not have each letter represent a note all the time, instead of a note sometimes and an interval at other times? The reason is the affixes, which are determined based on intervals rather than notes. The first-person singular suffix is up a third and down a step, with the first note matching the last note of the word it’s affixed to. So if that starting note is A it could be any of {A C B}, {A C B♭}, {A C♯ B}, or {A C♯ B♯}. Affixed to a different word it might be any of {E♭ G F}, {E♭ G F♯}, {E♭ G♭ F}, or {E♭ G♭ F♭}, and there are just as many possibilities for every other starting pitch. If the different letters only represented notes, each of these possibilities would look completely different. But with this system, they all look like this, plus or minus some dots above and/or below the letters for the sharps and flats:

To wrap up, here’s the image from the beginning of the post again:

You may recognize the first word from the previous examples: it’s “Sdefa,” plus a suffix that goes A G F (-1-2-2 in terms of intervals). The next word is A B G D, meaning “Saturday,” followed by the suffix D C♯ D (-1-2+2). Both of these suffixes are third-person suffixes, used here to show which one will go with which noun. The final root is C B C B, which is the locative verb. It has two suffixes, the notes of which are B A G G F♯ G. In terms of intervals, that’s -1-2-2-1-2+2, the same two suffixes from before, showing that the noun corresponding to the first suffix is in, at, or on the noun corresponding to the second one. This therefore says “Sdefa is on Saturday(s),” aka “Sdefa Sdaturday.” You can see that written out musically here (with audio) and written in the other Sdefa script here.

[louda-theory]

2. The Heart Of Harmony (Melody)

When listening to a music, one of the most prominent elements for many people is the melody and before you turn around and tell me the vocals stand out to you the most, listen more closely to your favorite track and you just might realize that the vocals can also act as a melody.

But what is melody?

Melody is usually a linear sequence of notes the listener hears as a single entity. The melody of a song is the foreground to the backing elements and is a combination of pitch and rhythm. Sequences of notes that comprise melody are musically satisfying and are often the most memorable part of a song. Amazing melodies when broken down feature eight key characteristics:

Pitch: Pitch refers to the perceived frequency of a sound, determining how high or low a note sounds and melodies consist of a series of pitches arranged in a specific order.

Rhythm: The timing and duration of notes within the melody. Rhythm influences how a melody flows and its overall feel.

Interval: The distance between two pitches. Intervals can create tension, resolution, or emotional nuance within the melody.

Contour: The overall shape of the melody as it moves up and down in pitch. Contour helps define the character and direction of the melodic line.

Phrasing: Melodies are often organized into phrases, similar to sentences in written language. Each phrase expresses a complete musical thought.

Repetition and Variation: Melodies often use repetition to create familiarity, while variation introduces new elements to keep the music engaging.

Range: The span of pitches used in a melody, from the lowest to the highest note. A wide range can add excitement, while a narrow range may create a more subdued feel.

Dynamics: The volume of notes and changes in intensity throughout the melody. Dynamics contribute to the emotional expression and drama of the music.

Melodies can be produced in a number of different ways including the human voice, marimbas, flutes, synthesizers, guitars and any other instrument that produces a pitch and whatever your chosen medium is to create your melodies if it features most or all of the above characteristics it will sound great.

Here is an example of a track with a prominent melody:

Happy writing!

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Sleep in

Inspired by this post:

This is written especially so someone doesn't ever call for a mutiny against me again for being evil and writing angst, you know who you are.

Everyone else, enjoy!

Warnings: angst and death

Morning light filters through the window, gentle and warm, a golden undertone to the white glow. It shines beautifully on Lan Wangji’s face, bathing it as if into a halo.

Wei Wuxian caresses his cheek, the touch feather-light, the skin underneath his fingertips soft.

“You’re so beautiful in the morning, Lan Zhan. Most people look a mess when they wake up, yet you’re nothing short of a god.”

Lan Wangji’s eyelids flutter open, molten gold glimmering in the sunlight as his eyes take in his surroundings and his husband’s beautiful face, loving and fond, hair cascading over his form like endless, dark rivulets.

“I’m so happy to have you, Lan Zhan. To have had you.” His fingers trace over the man’s sharp jawline, and stop at the seam of his lips. “I love you more than words could say, more than I could ever express through anything I’d ever do.”

Lan Wangji tries a smile, the corners of his mouth weakly turning upwards.

“I know you said there is no need for thank yous between the two of us... but I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me, for everything we’ve done together.”

Lan Wangji wishes he could open his mouth to say something, or move his body to hold his husband in response to his words. But he cannot do more than look at him, eyes heavy, blurry with unshed tears.

Wei Wuxian knows – they’ve always been so synchronized – so he envelops Lan Wangji in his arms instead, and presses a kiss to the top of his head, a kiss that’s wet with salty tears.

“I love you so much, Lan Zhan. I love you and I love our life and our marriage and our kids and...” deep, shaky breath, “...and I want you to know that it’s okay. You’ve been so brave, you’ve beaten all of the odds... but you can rest now, my love. You can let go.”

Lan Wangji sighs, deeply, as if the air had been trapped inside of his lungs for far too long. Wei Wuxian presses his lips to his husband’s hair, and lets his tears fall freely as he runs his hands gently down Lan Wangji’s back, in comfort.

He feels the ridges of the man’s whip scars and his heart squeezes, as it always does when he remembers they exist, but he doesn’t dwell on them this time. Instead, he tries to imprint into his mind the warmth of his love’s body, the contours of him, the smell of him, everything.

Lan Wangji sighs again, just as deeply, and Wei Wuxian feels his eyelashes caress his collarbones as his eyes close. His muscles relax, slowly, then all at once, and his breaths come out in longer and longer intervals.

“I... love you...” Lan Wangji manages, somehow, putting all his might, all his heart and soul into uttering those three words that he’s always felt like he’d never get to say enough.

Wei Wuxian can’t hide a sob now, and leans down to leave one final kiss to his husband’s now colorless lips.

He feels the last of his breath as Lan Wangji moves against his lips ever so slightly before his body goes lax in Wei Wuxian’s arms, heavy and lifeless.

Wei Wuxian will have to let the servants know about it so all the funerary rituals could proceed. He will have to announce his family – no, their family – and their children, and... deal with everything else that came after.

But the sun has just risen, and it still bathes Lan Wangji’s features in a golden halo, and if Wei Wuxian tries hard enough, he can still feel the last embers of his husband’s warmth.

He will have to face the world and the reality of iy soon.

But now he holds the only thing he has left of his husband and sleeps.

Sleeps in his favorite place, for the very last time.

[vulpinexi]

[ HICKEY ][ HIPS ]+“ you sound so pretty when you moan. “ (Ichigo)

Moonlight   pours   through   the   TRANSLUCENT   curtains   like   liquid   argent,   an   ethereal   glow   enveloping   the   dimmed   room   in   tranquil,   sinuous   waves.   A   gust   of   air   passes   through   the   open   aperture,   cool   fingers   tracing   fevered   tissue,   a   gentle   caress   that   makes   her   shiver—sharp,   irresistible   contrast   to   the   heat   accumulating   deep   in   her   abdomen,   dense   as   syrup,   relentless   as   the   tide.

The   only   other   light   comes   from   the   lava   lamp,   its   molten   reds   and   golds   pulsing   in   slow,   HYPNOTIC   undulations,   painting   erratic   silhouettes   that   dance   over   tangled   linens,   above   exposed   chests,   pressing   against   each   other—no   space   left   for   hesitancy,   doubt,   anything   but   this.

Time   ticks   in   the   corner,   pendulum’s   deliberate   rhythm,   as   continuous   as   a   heartbeat,   or   perhaps   a   countdown.   However,   the   sound   is   EVISCERATED   by   breathless   intervals,   by   the   way   their   exhales   stumble   and   collide,   dissolving   into   something   softer.   A   sigh,   barely   audible.   A   whisper   of   skin   meeting   skin,   of   palms   tightening,   hips   shifting—electric,   inflamed,   inescapable.   The   tension   between   them   is   palpable   as   summer   air   before   a   storm.

Inoue's   fingers   weave   into   his   orange   tresses,   a   silent   plea,   a   quiet   demand   all   at   once.   His   hands   tighten   against   her   calves,   anchoring   her   in   place,   pulling   closer   with   a   certainty   that   obliterates   indecision,   and   leaves   no   room   for   anything   but   compliance.   A   sharp   pull,   and   world   SUCCUMBS   to   this—bodies   caught   in   the   pull   of   something   gravitational,   something   predestined,   something   neither   of   them   can   name   but   both   refuse   to   oppose.

Her   breath   chokes,   throat   constricting   before   unspooling   on   a   long,   trembling   exhale.   She   melts   against   him,   her   contours   languid,   undone,   the   space   between   them   blurring   like   vapor   in   the   brisk   air.   His   touch   renders   her   liquid—seeping,   spilling,   filling   every   crevice   where   his   flesh   finds   hers,   where   his   fingers   press   into   skin,   where   his   mouth   lingers   like   indelible   ink.

Orihime's   heartbeat   thunders   against   her   ribs,   urgent   and   persistent,   an   echo   of   passionate   desire   coursing   through   her   arteries,   a   rhythm   only   he   can   set.   Kurosaki's   fingers   move,   carving   paths   along   her   curves,   setting   fire   to   every   nerve   in   their   wake,   leaving   her   trembling,   gasping,   arching   into   his   touch.   Scent   lingers   in   the   air—soft,   sweet,   intoxicating,   like   summer   apricots   and   vanilla,   like   the   warmth   of   late   afternoons   spent   tangled   in   silk   and   sunlight.   She   is   poetry   personified,   a   goddess   sculpted   from   supple   curves   and   silken   pores.

She   inspects   him—the   angular   lines   of   his   abdomen,   sinew   of   his   arms,   the   manner   in   which   muscle   contracts   beneath   skin   fevered   by   appetite.   Her   touch   is   tentative   at   first,   then   more   confident,   a   gradual   exploration   that   borders   on   worship.   A   pink   flush   erupts   on   her   cheeks,   warm   as   embers.   Body   arches   toward   him,   seeking,   needing.

His   lips   graze   her   trachea,   and   she   shudders—a   full-body   tremor,   an   acceptance.   A   sigh   emerges   from   her,   breath   caught   before   turning   into   something   softer,   beseeching,   urgent   when   his   teeth   brush   over   her   tender   skin.

She   gives.

She   burns.

Like   a   candle   against   the   darkness,   her   desire   flickers—insistent,   consuming,   irresistible.

Ichigo's   teeth   press   deeper,   indenting   his   imprint   against   her   collarbone,   a   silent   declaration,   a   promise,   an   oath   rendered   in   the   vernacular   of   flesh   and   crave.   She   bends,   meeting   him,   chasing   the   sensation   that   splinters   through   her   like   electricity.   Then   he   descends,   lips   charting   a   path   downward,   below   her   collarbone,   lower   still,   until   he   finds   her   velvet   soft   thigh.   Another   mark.   Another   claim.   His   palms   roam,   surveying,   learning,   committing.

In   a   slow,   unhurried   manner,   his   breath   brushes   against   the   ear's   shell.

"You   sound   so   pretty   when   you   moan."

Instinctual   urge   spirals   low   in   her   pelvis,   tightening,   pulling.   Instinct   takes   hold,   legs   contract   around   him,   drawing   him   closer,   breath   catching   on   the   precipice   of   something   unspoken.   Inoue's   arms   crisscross   around   his   neck,   lips   tracing   a   gentle   path   along   his   jawline,   finding   a   rapid   pulse   beneath   his   epidermis,   lingering   there   before   rising   to   his   ears.   Her   voice,   low,   knowing,   velvet   and   honey   and   sin,   murmurs.

"Perhaps   I   could   offer   just   a   little   more."

|| prompted: @captastrophe ||

[er-cryptid]

Ambulance Maneuvering Vocabulary

4-5-12 Rule -- keep a 4 second interval between ambulance and car ahead when below 55 miles an hour -- keep a 5 second interval between ambulance and car ahead when above 55 miles an hour -- encompass a 12 second visual lead time

Black Ice -- a thin film of water frozen on the road

Brake Fade -- a condition in which brakes become ineffective -- secondary to heat build-up in the braking system

Braking Distance -- the physical stopping distance of the vehicle once the brakes are applied

Camber -- the banking of the roadway -- an arched road surface

Contour -- the curvature of a roadway

Crown -- the slope of a roadway -- designed to help water and debris drain from the roadway

Following Distance -- the distance between a vehicle and the vehicle ahead of it

Friction -- resistance of an object to slide over another

Gravity -- force that pulls objects towards the earth -- results in weight

Gross Vehicle Weight Rating -- GVWR -- the maximum weight limit of a vehicle

Hydroplaning -- driving situation -- a rolling tire rides up on a thin layer of water -- tire tread does not touch road surface

Inertia -- the resistance of an object to change its direction or speed

Kinetic Energy -- the energy of a moving object -- based on weight and speed

Payload -- total weight a vehicle can carry within its GVWR

Perception Distance -- the distance a vehicle travels during the time it takes to recognize a hazard

Potential Energy -- the energy an object possesses while at rest

Reaction Distance -- the distance a vehicle travels during reaction time after perceiving a hazard but before applying the brakes

Safety Cushion -- an adequate vehicle clearance around all sides of the vehicle

Sipe -- small slit in the tire tread -- allows water to seep up within the tread block

.

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[catboibanshee]

Listen to: Contour Interval by Hello Meteor

[dustedmagazine]

the sheaves — A Salve for Institution (Dot Dash Sounds/SDZ)

The sheaves, from Arizona, make music out of disintegration, out of entropy, out of the center not holding. Two guitars battle in screeching, trebly agitation, way up on the neck in close, painful intervals. The vocals, often doubled, talking over one another, mutter lethargic, illegible poetry over the bump and clangor of post-punk catharsis. A tootling keyboard drifts into view, its mad circus vibe not at all cheerful, more haunted and eerie. The drums flail wildly trying to keep this fractious stew of sensations in some sort of order; it works about a quarter of the time.

The band’s last album, Excess Death Cult, came out on Minimum Table Stacks in 2023, with much the same anarchic energy. In my review, I observed, “Like end-stage Fall, the sheaves are always falling apart, always dissolving into chemicals, always losing the thread. Listening to Excess Death Cult Time is like trying to make sense of a dream you’re having, not later, but while it’s still going on.” Nothing in Salve for Institution has changed my mind about his fascinating, enticing but off-putting band.

Except that maybe, the last one had a couple of semi-bops, if you can extend your definition of “bop” to include the swampier territories of GBV, the more obstreperous, late-period regions of the Fall. This one is harsher and more confrontational all the way through, its riffs going off like rubber bands made of barbed wire, snapping back to hurt people, yet snapping all the same. The sheaves scrawl in black sharpie on industrial grade sandpaper, emphatic but blurred enough at the edges that you can’t quite make out what’s going on.

They start right in the middle of things with “Toilet of Venus,” a scrum of guitars caught mid-sentence in a continuing rant, as the singer mutters disconsolately, over enunciating but never quite making himself clear. It ends suddenly in a souring chord, which hangs like the dust the Road Runner leaves after he’s jetted off to parts unknown.

Songs like “In Center (X-Static)” groove slouchily, mired in inertia. Riffs like Saints’ outtakes rage then slip under a muck of hiss and static, but the siren-y call to arms gets through. “Dull Harem” jitters a la Bog Shed drunk on cough syrup, its hammering cadence of guitar/bass/drums slurred over with narcotized chant. The sheaves are under no obligation to make things pretty for you; they’d rather smear sharp contours with messy drawls.

And those are the “song” songs. “To Leave Sanctuary” emerges out of inchoate drone, a bit of the Stooges “Dirt” in its detuned howl. Dual guitars ping blues bent dissonances. The vocals overlap, talking past each other, a word or phrase (“Can you imagine that?”) occasionally breaking through.

You can’t quite make sense of the sheaves’ music, it is powerful anyway, and maybe the struggle to understand it contributes to the appeal. “Sanctum Cross” is a pop song with a 100 needles sticking out of it. Grasp it hard, and you’ll end up bloody, but admire it from a step away, and you’ll see it glitter.

Jennifer Kelly