#divider @saradikagraphics

[notmyneighbor]

sway | female doppel reader x francis mosses

rating | explicit

words | 4.2k

alcohol, cigarettes, sexual content

ao3 link

The hotel cocktail lounge is like an open buffet for doppelgangers.

You’d really lucked out cloning that young, attractive, newly hired lounge singer, disposing of the original before she could cause any trouble. While so many of your brethren struggled to get into the heavily guarded, overcrowded apartments for shelter (and food, of course) you had the better fortune of landing a job at the swanky city hotel with the added bonus of a room upstairs to reside in. Working smarter, not harder.

Sure, you might not enjoy the aftertaste of all that alcohol that’s saturated the humans’ systems but hey, it’s still easy pickings for a hungry invader like yourself. You have a set of genuine documents that verify your identity, pilfered from your victim. No one even bothers to screen in the lounge, because if you’ve made it that far inside, it was too late to worry about it. The identification cards are still required, though, ensuring you’re the legal age to drink. Funny, what humans thought important, when their world was being devoured right out from under them.

Perhaps the most impressive feature of your stolen life is the fact that you actually like your new employment.

At first you’d balked at the idea of working for the humans, but you’ve really started to warm to it lately. You enjoy the music. The pretty gowns you get to wear. The admiring stares which you return easily. Meat regarding meat, right? The ones you liked the least became your next meal, lured to the parking lot, the side alley, hell, you’d even snacked on one in a housekeeping closet. You were careful to space feedings apart, though. Discreet. You’re not going to fuck up a good thing like this.

There’s a new customer at the bar tonight. You’ve been here long enough now to recognize who’s a local and who’s passing through, the regulars and the fleeting visitors. Another reason this was such a good place to hunt for prey—so many people coming and going. You tried to leave the locals alone and fix your sights more on the traveling folks instead. Their absences could be more readily explained. No one would notice them missing right away, and by the time they did, well, it was much too late.

In spite of the fact that he’s a newcomer to the establishment, you recognize the milkman that’s seated at the far end of the bar as a local. He looks as if he’s come straight from his job, with undereyes so smudged it seems as if he’s been working in a coal mine, not delivering dairy products. The bowtie around his neck is loosened and draped in careless wrinkles, the top button of his shirt undone. His cap is on the counter, next to a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. After a few rounds the man serving alcohol had finally just left the bottle. You’ve been served free vodka between sets, clear like water but damn, that taste. You’d have to be pretty desperate to force that down straight on the regular.

Still, you nod your thanks and glance at the stranger again. He’s completely focused on the drink. Shame that, because the more you look at him, the more you find yourself appreciating his appearance. As wretchedly exhausted as his features are, there’s still something oddly appealing about his face. You study the way he swirls the liquid in the glass before taking a contemplative sip, the movement of the pronounced arch of his throat as he swallows it down. You’ve never thought of the humans as attractive before, but this one…

It wasn’t completely unheard of for doppels to have some fun with the inhabitants of this planet. It wasn’t always just copying, killing, eating. You yourself have never indulged. No one has captured your attention like this. Maybe it’s because he disregards you so strongly. Immune to the charms you’ve replicated. What was it he liked in a girl? You could make yourself look like anyone he might desire. The ideal lover, really. A new face and body to suit every mood.

There are other customers already gathering at your elbows, praising your singing talents, your beauty. You smile and murmur polite gratitude but you’re not interested in any of them. It’s that milkman you want.

Your target polishes off the last of the glass in front of him, dragging the back of his wrist across his mouth. He reaches for the sealed pack of cigarettes now, tapping the box against his palm to pack the tobacco tighter before peeling off the plastic wrapper and flipping the cardboard top open. He withdraws one of the cylinders inside and tucks it between his lips, next seeking out the book of matches. Red phosphorous struck, you can detect the faintest scent of it as the match is lit, the end of the cigarette now aflame, the match shaken violently until it’s extinguished, then tossed into the ash tray nearby.

Now your eyes follow the path of that lit paper roll, tucked between the middle and index fingers, brought to his mouth, the deep inhale and then exhale, a thin white stream of smoke clouding the air in front of him.

For a moment you allow yourself to indulge in imagining yourself sitting next to him. Lifting that cap off the counter and placing it on your own head, teasing him to retrieve it, staying just out of reach. Getting closer. Walking your fingers up his sleeve. Playfully tugging the cigarette free from his fingers and slotting it into your own mouth. You don’t truly understand the humans’ fondness for the nicotine laced tubes. You’ve never tried one yourself, only in a second hand kind of way after you’ve chomped on someone who indulges in the habit. But this man made it look appealing. You’re wondering at the taste. At the way it feels to breathe those substances inside.

Your name is called—not your real name, of course, but the identity you’d stolen. The manager, reminding you it’s time you retook the stage, break time over. There is some polite clapping, some whistles. The lighting changes as you take up your position behind the microphone on the stand, nodding to the musicians behind you. You have copies of all of the artist’s whose songs you’re covering in your room, an extensive selection of records. You’d learned the lyrics easily, and if you messed up during performance, no one seemed to mind much. The place was more about a feeling. A relaxed, languid kind of atmosphere. Unwinding after a long day of work. Taking a respite during travel. It’s Dean Martin’s sultry crooning you adopt now, your fingers stroking the stand as gently as if you might caress a lover.

When marimba rhythms start to play

Dance with me, make me sway

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore

Hold me close, sway me more

You move your hips gently in time to the music. The light catches on the sequins of your emerald gown, making them sparkle. It’s low cut, molded to the curves of your body. You glance over at the man still seated with his back to you. You’re going to get this man to turn around and pay attention, one way or another.

Like a flower bending in the breeze

Bend with me, sway with ease

When we dance you have a way with me

Stay with me, sway with me

You’ve descended the stage, bringing the microphone with you. Each table is draped in a white cloth, with a candle centerpiece. You move around the room, gifting attention to patrons at random, batting your eyelashes or blowing kisses from your painted lips. It���s all for show, all smoke and mirrors, concealing what your true intentions are.

Other dancers may be on the floor

Dear, but my eyes will see only you

Only you have the magic technique

When we sway I go weak

The range for the wireless mic is limited, so you can only travel so far. Your milkman is frustratingly out of reach, for the moment.

I can hear the sounds of violins

Long before it begins

Make me thrill as only you know how

Sway me smooth, sway me now

You return to the stage, and the tired looking human has finally turned on the bar stool to regard your performance. He hadn’t been here during your first set. It seems you’ve finally made him take notice. Your eyes lock with his as you sing the chorus.

Other dancers may be on the floor

Dear, but my eyes will see only you

Only you have the magic technique

When we sway I go weak

The stage lights snap off in time to the music, your fellow artists pausing for a dramatic effect before resuming playing as you reach the final verse, the lights now focused solely on you.

I can hear the sounds of violins

Long before it begins

Make me thrill as only you know how

Sway me smooth, sway me now

Applause. More wolf whistles and cat calls. You smile and thank the patrons, your gaze once again flicking toward the man at the bar. The cigarette in his mouth has been forgotten, the charred end lengthening, threatening to drop off on its own. He hasn’t touched the glass that he’d poured before you began singing.

You’ve got him.

***

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about the males of any species, it’s that the more you ignore them, the more they pursue you.

So you don’t follow up on the progress you’ve made with the milkman that first evening. Truth be told, you’re starting to get hungry, and the sweating man with the shifty eyes at the rear of the lounge looks like he’ll keep you satisfied for a couple of days, at least. It’s all too easy to convince the human male to follow you into the recesses of the alley between the hotel building and the warehouse next door, your actions concealed by the rows of dumpsters when your impromptu ‘date’ turns into a meeting with teeth and claws.

You get a night off from work in between sessions, allowing other acts the chance to perform, but word of mouth is quickly spreading your borrowed name as the favorite. It’s you the customers really want to see.

Wednesday evening arrives and your milkman is back. A beer in front of him now. No cigarettes today. He looks a little less rumpled. Bowtie fastened. His eyes are still bruised looking, though. Did the man ever sleep?

You’ve got a little time before you’re due to begin. You’re not supposed to favor any one particular patron, but you figure you’re a big enough attraction now that you’ve earned a little autonomy. You saunter to the bar—he’s chosen the same seat again—and lean against the counter. Today you’re clad in ebony. Same shape as the dress you’d worn previously, hugging your figure and leaving little to the imagination with its tight fit, the teasing bits of skin exposed through the slit of the skirt, the low dip of the bodice and the narrow straps keeping the sparkling garment hooked on your otherwise bare shoulders daring anyone to resist that offered temptation.

This delivery driver doesn’t look. He’s too polite for that, apparently, even though the way you’re leaning would allow him a great view of your décolletage. Or maybe he’s too shy. There’s a nice bit of color in his cheeks, blossoming after you’d approached, and you don’t think alcohol is solely responsible for that effect.

You reach for the ID card he’s left beside his cap, dropped there after entering the lounge. “Francis Mosses,” you read out loud, thumb smoothing over the DDD logo in the corner, eyes roving over the expiration date. The cards and the entry requests were tricky to get just right, especially if you didn’t know your target well enough or if the doorman was too astute. Or just plain overzealous. You wonder how many innocent humans had been unintentionally eradicated by the very person that was supposed to be screening for invaders and protecting them from harm.

“You go by Frankie? Or Frank?”

“My…my mom used to call me that. Frankie,” he adds for clarification. His cheeks are scarlet now.

You smirk, tapping the card on the counter. “Hmmm. But you’re not a little boy anymore, are you, Francis? All grown up now.” You boldly reach for the beer on the counter, taking a swig directly from the bottle. It tastes as putrid as all the alcohol you’ve sampled thus far, but that’s not why you’re imbibing it. The milkman stares at you, transfixed by your every movement.

“Better keep this somewhere safe. Wouldn’t want this to fall into the wrong hands—or claws—would we?” You rest a hand on one shoulder, tucking the card into the pocket of his work shirt. You see the nervous gulp of his throat, feel the warmth radiating from his body in that brief touch.

You complete your first set—five songs, running your total time performing just under a half hour—and begin making your rounds again, schmoozing with the attendees. Saving Francis for last.

“Wait for me by the elevators after I’m done. You know where they are?” Your lips are close to his ear. You can still smell his aftershave from what must have been early that morning. You hate rising before dawn. You much prefer the nights. Easier to hide. Take what you want. Feast.

“Yes,” he manages to croak out softly.

“Good. See you then, honey,” you purr into his ear, making him shiver.

***

The man sticks out like a sore thumb.

Francis is pacing restlessly back and forth in front of the elevator doors when you arrive later that evening after your last set, rubbing the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable until you approach and then he freezes, standing rigid. Maybe a little of his natural instincts were kicking in, prey sensing predator. You’re not going to harm him; at least not unless that’s what he wanted. Maybe shy boy liked it rough. You would soon find out.

Wordlessly you push the button for the elevator and step into the carriage, gesturing for him to join you when it seems as if he is truly welded in place, forever stuck to the hotel’s carpets. You reside on the third floor, at the rear of the building. The room is generously sized and nicely furnished. You step out of your high heels gratefully as soon as you’ve cleared the door, one of the nuances of fashion that you don’t appreciate quite as much. They were really quite uncomfortable to walk in.

The human male hovers just inside the doorway, his nervousness radiating from him. You’re starting to wonder how much experience he has with females in general. Maybe you should have waited for a night when he’d been a little more intoxicated, when his inhibitions had been a little lower. But you’d been impatient. Careful about all those other details when it came to consumption, but this type of hunger, this lust, is a demanding mistress you aren’t accustomed to dealing with.

“Have a seat. Get comfortable.” You switch on the living room lamp and gesture towards the plush white couch and he sits stiffly at one end, his cap clutched by the brim in his fidgeting fingers.

You pull the hat away gently and toss it onto the coffee table, then sink down at the opposite end, not wanting to intimidate him too much just yet. You can see the pulse jumping in his neck. Such a lovely throat. You’re willing to bet the blood inside would be sugar sweet.

“You got a girl?”

“Uh…no. I’m single. I live alone. I have a daughter. Her mother and I…we all live in the same apartment building.”

“Hmmm.” Your polished nails drum on the arm rest. “That delivery job of yours stresses you out, huh?”

“It’s just the hours. Longer days. A lot of people don’t want to leave the house anymore, now that…” His voice trails off.

“Now that the doppelgangers have invaded,” you finish for him.

“Right.”

“You ever see one?”

“No. I mean, not that I know of. Kind of seems like the last thing you’d ever see if you did. That’s another part of what makes the job difficult. You don’t really know what’s on the other side of the door. Have you ever…?”

Every day when I look in the mirror, you think. You merely shake your head for his benefit.

“You know how to give a massage? My feet are killing me.”

“I, uh…”

“It doesn’t take much skill. You’re just rubbing.” You lift the train of your dress and shift positions so your nylon clad feet rest on his lap, stretching out across the length of the couch. You see the slightly alarmed look on his features and your voice is soothing, patient. “It’s okay, Francis. You’ve got this.”

His hands reach tentatively for one foot, placing one over the top and the other underneath. His movement are stiff, brisk, awkward, until you begin to hum that Dean Martin song he’d seemed to enjoy, making his hands slacker, softer, caressing the sore areas. You interrupt the melody to groan appreciatively, stretching further, letting your heels grind against his thighs. It’s starting to feel good. He has nice hands. You want them on you in other places.

You slide one foot closer to his crotch, gently stroking. He’s gone immobile again, startled. You drag both feet back and stand, now moving in front of the seated man, lifting your dress so you can straddle his lap. His hands reflexively reach for your waist. You dig your hands into his thick russet hair, tugging his head back slightly.

“You ever have any of those lonely housewives ask you to come in? Make a special delivery?”

“N…no. It’s just business. No one notices…”

“You sure about that? Maybe you’re just too polite to notice when a woman is hungry.” Your free hand tugs on the bow tie, loosening it. You undo the first two buttons of his shirt. You want a taste of that gorgeous throat of his, even if it’s only the top layer and not the succulent fluids below that you’re after.

The pleasant scent of that aftershave assaults you again as soon as your face bends to sample the arch. His skin is slightly rough, the facial hair he’d scraped away reclaiming its territory at this late hour. You lick from the base all the way up to his jaw, and the fingers on your waist tighten.

“You think maybe you’ve got one more batch you need to deliver, honey?” Your hand dives straight for the fly of his pants, pleased to feel he’s already becoming aroused.

A choked sound escapes the man’s lips. Maybe an attempt at a word that becomes garbled with incoherent pleasure. Your impatience is growing. Too many layers. Earthlings insisted on wearing so many. Your species didn’t care about that, in your natural habitat. You could shred them to pieces so easily with your claws, but that would mean revealing what you truly are, and you don’t want to do that just yet. The man is anxious enough as it is.

So you settle for using the human hands you’ve replicated to unfasten the belt and zipper and undo the button, reaching beneath the waistband of his underwear and dragging his cock free. Ample. Leaking. You stroke over it and he hisses, a feral sound not unlike one a male of your species might make. Your teeth nip his earlobe, tease his bottom lip before you finally sink your tongue inside his mouth. There’s the faint, lingering taste of alcohol, but you ignore that and instead concentrate on the feeling of that wet maw, stroking cheeks and tongue and teeth and palate, exploring thoroughly. You don’t even have to guide him to the straps of your dress, feeling them slid over your shoulders, then moving to the front of your dress to knead the further exposed globes of flesh there.

“That’s good, doll. That’s really, really good.” His fingers are beneath the fabric, pinching and rolling your nipples, making them erect. You like it, but it’s not where you need him most. There’s a wet heat between your legs that’s throbbing. A hollow space waiting to be filled, and the prick in your hands is perfect for the job.

You gently push on his forearm and he takes over from there, snaking beneath the slit of your dress, the seam ripping a bit as it’s still partially tucked beneath you. He pauses. “Shit, sorry…”

“I have plenty of other dresses. I don’t care. Touch me, Francis.” The lingerie you’re wearing is skimpy. Nearly indecent. Clinging, and he tears more fabric in his urgency to work beneath the pair of panties. His digits find moisture and you moan into his mouth. That was what you needed. The pads of his fingers rolling across your clit. Parting your lips. Digging into your entrance. He’s becoming bolder now. The desire coded into DNA so long ago to ensure the propagation of the species continues taking over.

Your head tips back as you gently ride a pair of his fingers. You’re still stroking him, keeping him slick and hard. Back at his mouth again. You like kissing him. A lot. It makes your insides flutter. You’re getting even wetter.

Eventually you move away. You have to, if you’re ever going to get what you need. You lift your dress and bend over the armrest of the couch, your panties dragged down just past the lace edge of your thigh high stockings. The milkman’s dick finds your opening and slides in smooth, straight to the hilt, stretching and filling you. Your nails dig into the fabric of the couch. You’re so tempted to let the natural claws peak out, to allow the gentle incisors lining the front of your mouth shift to the genuine, sharper cuspids. It takes tremendous effort to keep the monster within restrained. The bloodlust mingles with the other, surprising you with its intensity. You’d fed so well. You shouldn’t be this hungry again so soon.

The man’s hands grip your hips, aiding him as he thrusts in and out. He’s still holding back, still gentler than what you’d like. “Fuck me harder, Francis. I want that cock in as deep as it can go.”

He grunts, maybe a little surprised with how aggressive your words are. Nice young women didn’t talk like this. Then again, you’re not a nice young woman. Not really. You just look like one, bent over with your ass cheeks spread, letting a virtual stranger violate you. You fucking love it.

His hips slap against you a little faster now, a little rougher. You push back to meet him, matching his rhythm, driving him in even further. So good. He’s hitting a tender spot inside just right. You’re getting close to achieving orgasm.

Francis is, too. You feel it in the tremors that make his hands shake on your body, the breath that stutters in rasping pants.

“Fill me up, honey. I want every drop of that milk.”

Spurred on by this last request, he moans and you feel the wet heat of his release painting your insides. You tip over the edge at that exact moment, the walls of your canal contracting and squeezing his cock, making sure to extract every bit of his seed.

If the man had looked tired before, he looked absolutely exhausted now. Spent. Drained. He flops wearily onto the couch after pulling out. You drag your panties back into place and let your hem fall down, sliding the straps of your gown back over your shoulders as you join him. You’re a little tired yourself, after that brief, intense session.

“What time do you have to get up in the morning?”

“Four.”

You clench your tongue with your teeth, sucking in a sympathetic draft of air. “It’s midnight now.”

“Yeah.”

“You want to stay? I’ll make sure to wake you up on time. Set the alarm.”

“No. It’s too far from work. I still have to load up the truck in the morning. I’m better off going home.”

“Alright.” You’re not particularly upset at him declining your offer. You are curious about something else, though. “Are you coming back to the hotel on Friday? That will be my last performance of the week.”

He looks over at you. “Yes, I will.”

“Maybe you could stay over that night. You don’t work on the weekend, do you?”

“No. Someone else has that shift.” He reaches out tentatively to touch your cheek, his thumb stroking your bottom lip. “I’ll stay that night, if you want.”

“Yes. I want.” You lean over to kiss him, the gesture gentle this time. Soothing, like the song you’d hummed earlier. “Go get some sleep, doll. You’re going to need the energy for Friday night.” For just the briefest, fleeting moment, the glamour shielding your true eyes from view slips, and the milkman’s own flare in alarm. But then you’re disguised again, so swiftly you know he’s questioning if he’d really seen what he thought he’d seen, or if it’s just fatigue that’s making his eyes play tricks on him.

You couldn’t possibly be a doppelganger.

[oftenwantedafton]

begin again | springtrap x female reader

words | 2.6k

cw | mature rating, body horror

ao3 link

You enter the barn with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

The owner of the property you’re invited to leads you through the clouds of dust stirred up as you enter the building, the disturbed particles flickering like chips of mica in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun filtering through the doorway of the rotting structure. The entire farm has the same feeling of neglect, of demands that can no longer be met, as wilted as the elderly man that lumbers along in an arthritic kind of manner, joints undoubtedly aching as badly as the support beams of the building you’re now standing inside. He’s weathered, his body clearly failing, but his eyes are sharp and his voice is still strong and resonant as he gestures to something large covered with a tarp just ahead of you. To a casual onlooker their guess might have been an automobile or a piece of farm equipment tucked beneath that material, but you’re no casual onlooker. You know exactly what you’re looking for, and you think maybe, just maybe, this man has somehow stumbled upon it through some random happenstance, some chance encounter.

“It’s there. Go on, have a look, missy.”

You stiffen at this term of address but choose to ignore it, stepping forward and letting your fingers grasp the edge of the blue covering. It’s as battered and filthy as everything else around here, and you wonder if the item it’s shielding can really be in much better condition.

You hold your breath and pull. Pull and pull and pull, because there is a lot to expose, thrusting the tarp aside and finally exhaling when you catch sight of the seven foot long object. Yes, it is what you’ve been seeking and yes, it is in terrible condition. But it can be fixed. You know how.

“Uglier than sin, that,” the man mutters, pacing around a little to ease up his stiffening joints. “Grandson was proud as anything lugging that here. Tried to tell him it wasn’t worth—” He abruptly clamps his mouth shut. He’s not about to admit what he has in storage has little monetary value.

“It’s an original. One of the actual originals,” you murmur appreciatively, taking in the sight of it from all angles. A lot of damage on the left side. It will take months to repair. Your favorite type of project.

“‘Told ya. Came from that accursed restaurant, just like I said on the phone.”

You finish surveying the object and turn to face the farmer. “How much are you asking?”

The elderly man’s bushy white eyebrows lower as his eyes narrow shrewdly, trying to estimate how much he can price gouge. His gaze flicks down to your shoes, then over to your handbag. Designer originals, or knockoffs? He’s looking into your eyes now, sucking in a whistling rasp of air. “It’s going to cost a bit, missy. Being so rare and all. An original, like you said.”

Perhaps you should have omitted voicing that information out loud. Too late now, though, isn’t it? You’re about to find out just how much that slip up will cost you. “How much?” You repeat again.

“Ten grand.”

You bark a laugh. “Extortion. No deal.”

“Eight,” he counters.

“Seven and a half. Cash. Final offer.”

The man scowls but nods.

“How did you get it in here, anyway?”

“Grandson and his buddies used the tractor.”

“I’ll tip them an extra five hundred if they help load it onto the truck. I can call for help, but it will save me some time.”

“I’m sure he’ll oblige. He’s up at the house.” The man begins to turn away, then pauses, glancing back at you. “I went to that place, you know. The pizzeria. Years ago, back when it was open. Met the owner. Had that same look in his eye as you. That raw hunger. He didn’t come to a good end, as I understand. You might want to take caution before you end up the same as him.”

“Noted,” you say, digging a paper envelope out of your purse and counting out the bills. There are still plenty leftover. $10k wouldn’t have been a bad amount to pay in all honesty. But why not barter? The repairs will be costly.

The man scowls and then turns away again, beginning the painful journey back to the farmhouse.

You think you’ve gotten the better end of the deal.

***

Thirty years have passed.

He doesn’t know this number, precisely, because that stretch of years has altered his composition. He is neither dead nor alive, neither human nor machine. There is no name for what he has evolved into because nothing like him has ever existed before. He is new, yet old. Eternal.

Over time the joints have become locked in place, rusted and frozen. The stagnant air of the abandoned pizzeria permeates the holes in the ripped costume, but cannot inflate the withered lungs within. Back when he had been closer to human, there had still been a sense of taste, a bitter metallic mixture of his own blood and the internal components of the suit combining where they had pierced his jaw. He cannot speak; has not made a sound for a long time. Punctured airways, slipping past his trachea and dipping between ribs, have made this feat impossible. His imprisoned body has been folded in on itself in the most unnatural of ways, shoved inside a vent, trapping him in what could be considered part of the building’s circulatory system, if such a thing could exist, not unlike a clot trapped inside a blood vessel, comprised not of clotting particles and protein threads but steel and plastic, wiring and circuitry, fur and felt and the unsavory desicated corpse of the establishment’s owner deep within, entombed, mummy-like.

This is how he is when he is found, pored over like an old, broken toy rediscovered, temporarily reigniting a sense of wonder that had once existed. For a moment, the yellow rabbit has meaning again. He is extracted and shipped to a barn, then covered with a tarpaulin, waiting for the highest bidder, for someone to make use of him again.

Waiting, perhaps, for you.

The giant rabbit has no way of knowing that he’s been purchased by someone who is expert on animatronic engineering, someone intent on keeping him, allowing him to narrowly avoid the fate of being put on display in a gruesome sort of museum commemorating not the memories of a place meant to bring happiness, but the secret terror that has instead endured. That place will still undoubtedly become a reality but he will never be a part of it, thanks to your intervention.

He does not feel the first sets of hands that manipulate him, roughly dragging him from his confinement; has no conscious awareness he has even shifted locations immediately. It is not until weeks later when he begins to return to himself, slowly drip feeding alertness into whatever this new creature he has become is. These hands on him now—your hands—are gentle and careful. They card carefully though the rotting fur and dance softly over the gaping holes, cautious about touching the exposed alloys and electronics within.

His restoration begins with a passive range of motion performed on his still locked up joints not so unlike the farmer who had sold him. You test each extremity, deciding what can be salvaged and what rusted parts must be replaced. You have apparently decided to work from the bottom up, beginning with the overly large, almost comical feet before reaching his legs.

You speak to him as you perform each task, your voice soothing like water moving over pebbles in a brook, a gentle murmuring sort of sound. He finds himself missing that noise when you are not present, forced to wait on the work table until you return each day.

Once you’ve finished with his lower extremities, your path diverts from his torso to manage his arms, repeating the same process as before. He is curious who you are; how you come to be so intimately acquainted with the workings of an animatronic suit. Grudgingly impressed with how brave you are when encountering the bits of decayed flesh plastered on bone during the excavation process, leaving these parts as intact and unscathed as possible, carefully continuing to focus on the synthetic pieces of the mascot.

Now that all four of his limbs are accounted for, it is time to shift attention to the large chest piece. This process alone takes a great deal of time. The bulk of the suit, and the failed springlocks that had doomed the human within, lie in this cavity. It is a tricky business to move those unrelenting claws that resemble human ribs, extracting damaged components and replacing them with new technology. The safety devices that should have protected his comparatively fragile body had not kept it from injury, but instead done quite the opposite, the dangerous internal workings of the mascot lodging in and merging with their victim.

When this job is finally completed, days or weeks or months later—he still cannot accurately say, his sense of time still distorted in this odd sort of half reality he occupies now—it is time for the work on the headpiece to begin.

His own eyes have been destroyed, but the animatronic’s have not, and it is on these you devote yourself to next. It is a startling thing for you both when they flare to life again, a dull silver glow that becomes brighter and brighter, like the headlights of an oncoming vehicle approaching on a lonely stretch of road at night. He can see your face, peering at him as you lean over, pupils following the surprised flutter of lashes as if they are a penlight being shown during a physical exam in a physician’s office. He tracks your movements and they become smoother beats, the delays imperceptible now. You smile and he feels something in that gesture. He’s pleased you, the science project you’ve been working on proving to be a success.

A memory stirs. His eldest with a school project for the science fair. Seventh or eighth grade. Struggling for a topic. He’s inherited none of his father’s penchance for engineering. Harbors no passion for the sciences. Perhaps this has evolved from his father’s growing lack of time and interest invested in his own family, his attention increasingly focused on the business he manages, the mechanical creations taking precedent over his own flesh and blood ones. It would have, perhaps, been a chance for him to bond more with the boy, but instead he’d been ignored, the rift between them widening further still. It would be much, much worse later, when he’d inadvertently caused the death of his baby brother.

But that was all in the past now. All of his children are gone, and he is gone, too, but not quite in the same manner. He shuts the memories away again, sliding the drawer of that mental filing cabinet closed and locking it tight.

***

You do not return the next day, or the one after that. You are gone for a long while, and it is alarming. He is still immobile, still unable to move at will, save for his eyes, which cannot see much more than the ceiling tiles above him. He rages internally against his body, but it is futile. He has no control, until he is given it; until you restore it to him. There is renewed anger, an emotion he’d felt so often as a human.

There are new visitors to the room he dwells in, and they are not kind like you.

They do not handle him with care like you do. There is no reverence, no respect. He is manipulated to the point of being broken, both the remains of his human body and the recently repaired animatronic one. There is pain, when limbs are twisted backwards and he’s heaved onto the floor, and this sensation, while unpleasant, means that he is, in some manner, becoming more alive. He holds onto that feeling, mentally envisioning gritting teeth, fingers tightening. He will not let go.

You finally return, discovering him like this, a crumpled, broken mess on the floor. Your delicate surgeries undone, your progress trampled. You do not speak, remaining silent, like he is. You have to find others to help you move him back into position, lying supine on the work surface. He hears mutters about time wasted, mockery over your dedication, comparing you to Frankenstein with his freakish creation. The anger flares anew and he is glad when they are gone.

Tears begin dropping between the rabbit’s teeth, sliding past his own. It is likely only his imagination that he can taste that salted liquid, but he savors that moisture, the first he’s known in so long. Finally you speak, asking forgiveness for being away. He has never been one to forgive or forget, but he finds it in himself to grant you mercy.

You begin again.

You work long hours. So long that eventually one evening you fall asleep right there beside him, head pillowed on one arm, the circuit board you’d finished soldering waiting to be placed resting on his torso. He listens to the sound of your breathing, the steady in and out, and he wonders if you are dreaming.

***

Your attention is now directed to his throat, to the severed vocal chords and collapsed cartilage. Even after the voice box is installed, there is still the matter of his jaw to be addressed. This is where the man trapped within is most visible, through the gaps of the teeth in the headpiece, to the human set fixed inside, gaping in some silent eternal torment.

“How do I…” you wonder aloud, and indeed, how do you solve this problem? You cannot remove the headpiece because of the way it is attached, mascot welded to skeleton. Yet you cannot access the interior through such a narrow gap in the character’s mouth. Elsewhere you had been able to work around such fusions. But here, you have no such space. Your fingers rest along the rabbit’s jaw. So close. You’re so close to completing the restoration process.

***

You have no way of knowing how it feels, to have your fingers rake across the new golden fur you’ve gifted. He shouldn’t be able to feel that, and yet he is, and it shocks him how vibrantly pleasurable it is. As adoring as a lover’s caress. Pride in what you’ve achieved, affection for what you’ve salvaged. He’s baffled by it, unable to fathom why you would ever find something as wretched as himself deserving of such feelings, and yet here you are, lavishing it upon him. He feels your hand resting somewhere above where his human heart resides, cold, unfeeling thing though it had been, and he wills that dried husk of an organ to beat once again. When you rest your face against it, he imagines his lungs inflating once more, lifting your head gently. He longs to settle one steel encased hand in your hair, but he still cannot move of his own free will. There is something lacking. Some final, missing piece of the puzzle that eludes you both.

“I tried. I’m sorry. I don’t know how,” you whisper. Your nose touches his. Your breath creeps in through the rabbit’s mouth, easing past the trapped man’s stretched maw. There is no blue fairy to make the artificial creature come to life. There is just you, this woman, working so diligently, so desperately.

Who are you? The yellow rabbit wonders, again, and again.

Your lips brush the corner of the mascot’s mouth before you straighten. A spark of heat. The sluggish flutter of dried valves. The creature gasps and a fresh burst of air fills it. A series of taps as the fingers of one hand move against the metal work surface. Your eyes, wide and full of wonder, as he reaches for you.

[deadplatedrops]

the main course | vincent charbonneau x rody lamoree

words | 3.3k

cw | blood and violence, mature themes, explicit sexual content 18+ mdni

ao3 link

The stranger tastes like paper and ink, the transfer of the newsprint from Vincent’s hands to the man’s cock now adding a new layer of seasoning, a further depth of flavor.

That newspaper is beneath his knees now, barely a cushion for the pavement in the alley outside the pub. A priest would never grovel and worship on such a thin surface, but he’s a chef, and he’s desperate, because ever since that redhead had entered his restaurant looking for a job he’s been absolutely besotted with him. So a nameless man with a face he doesn’t care to remember fills the role of surrogate because he’s got a similar build and nearly the same tousled carrot top and it’s so, so close to the one he wants. His mouth lies and his mind believes as he lavs the scarlet flesh. The hands that had been basting coq au vin scant hours before now clutch the winged crests of hip bones and he sighs around the arousal when he feels fingers in his sooty hair, when he hears the muttered “Tu vas me faire jouir,” a spill of hot, bitter seed striking his palate seconds later.

Back on his feet and the culinary expert is stroked in short, rough bursts that do not satisfy him but it does not matter, because what he wants now, the dessert to follow the main course, is within easy reach. The carving knife has been carefully tucked beneath the sleeve of his coat this entire time, now eased free and poised at the side of the bar patron’s throat. “Plus fort, plus vite,” he breathes into his ear, lips touching the brassy curl of hair that’s tumbled over it, messy like the one he wants; he knows he can make Rody taste the most exquisite banquet, he just needs a little more culinary practice with this new type of cuisine. That treasure in his freezer will surely keep until he’s ready.

These thoughts work far better than the other man’s hand on his dick, spurring him closer to climax. The tired eyes slide closed and the waiter’s name escapes his lips. “Rody, s’il te plaît…”

A puzzled hum, the rhythm of the curled fingers stutter on his cock but it’s too late; far, far too late. Vincent’s already cumming and he’s slipped the blade in just there, rewarded with a burst of dark crimson. It lands on his lips and he licks them, hand clamped over the startled victim’s mouth, his release spilling carelessly over the front of his work pants.

His eyes dart to either side of the alley but there is no one there. His crime is without witness. He hastily refastens his fly and drags the body away with an ease of strength that belies his slender figure. Cooking required muscle. Heavy pots and pans to lift, thick meat with muscle, tendons, and sinew to slice. Cracked bones. Breaking down animals wasn’t so different from breaking down humans.

He’s left a footprint behind on the newspaper, but it’s washed away by the next morning’s rain, never seen, just like the stray drops of blood that disappear, diluted until they are water, later evaporated to nothing, leaving no trace of their existence.

***

Vincent watches Rody Lamoree with hungry eyes, starving eyes, as the young man hurriedly ties the flaps of the garbage bag in the kitchen and shoves the door leading to the dumpsters in the back open with one apron clad hip. He’d just been back there himself, for a brief respite from the hot cooking area, savoring one of the few things that tastes good to him: a cigarette, lit with one of the pilot lights on the stove. He’d inhaled those chemicals and blown smoke, lost in the ash and embers, in his obsessive thoughts of Rody.

He’s still not certain what to do with the locket Manon had been wearing. He keeps it with him, not so much because it’s a trophy but because it has that coveted man’s picture in it. He’s already dug the pretty girl’s face from the frame. Now there is just her former lover to look upon. He shoves a hand in his pants pocket and feels the metal, the pattern of sweet roses and twining vines now as familiar to him as the recipes on the day’s menu.

Back inside, the bistro is bustling. Rody can hardly keep up with the volume of customers. It’s too much for one man, but Vincent refuses to hire another. He has his sous chefs and that is all he requires. Let them churn out the simpler dishes, the appetizers and sides. He focuses on the main courses, the artful desserts.

A violent crash has everyone facing the kitchen. Rody’s dropped a plate again. The man is positively inept. Vincent folds his arms and watches the waiter scramble to collect the pieces, trying to dodge the other employees moving around the kitchen. He slices his index finger and Vincent’s hearing goes muffled, his vision tunneling. Everything narrows and focuses on that streak of red dripping from the injured man’s digit.

“Honestly. Isn’t it bad enough you’ve broken so many dishes we hardly have any left to serve the customers? And now you’re fixing to add to my expenses with a hospital bill. Come with me.”

He turns without waiting to see if Rody will follow, because he knows he will. He no doubt has those soft, wet, bright looking puppy eyes that plead for forgiveness aimed at his back. He can feel them even if he doesn’t see them.

“I’m sorry, Chef.” He allows his hand to be brought under the faucet of the employee restroom, wincing at the feel of the water striking the laceration.

“Getting an infection and then being out of work, was that your plan? You want to ruin me?”

Rody wants nothing of the sort, of course, and Vincent knows this. But it’s easier to hide behind anger. The waiter likely thinks the hand cupping his is trembling from anger. He has no idea it’s from tightly restrained desire. He can barely resist bringing that cut to his lips and tasting him. Wondering at the exact rusted tang. Not all blood was of the same vintage, he was beginning to learn.

“There’s a first aid kit in my office. Don’t drip anything on my floors. Keep your hand pressed here, firmly.” For now, it is a wad of paper towels pressed to the cut that serves as a makeshift bandage. Once inside the office that is more comfortable than one might have thought likely in such a setting, the owner retrieves the emergency supplies from the bottom desk drawer and removes the bloodstained paper, applying gauze and rolling more around the wound. “It looks shallow. I don’t think you’ll need stitches. But you need to keep it clean and dry.” His movements are brisk. He wants the task completed. He can’t have that kind of temptation in front of him for too long.

Rody’s eyes are wandering. There is a lot to look at in that space. Bookshelves. Framed reviews. Typewriter. Potted plant—this looking wilted and neglected. An overflowing rubbish bin. Vincent spent a great deal of time coming up with new menus. The discarded ideas are what fill that bucket.

“There are customers waiting. Get back to work,” the chef snaps, and the waiter mumbles his gratitude, leaving the office. The dark haired man’s eyes fall on the bloody paper towels littering the surface of his desk. He crumples them, hesitates, brings them to his nostrils. He smells copper and thinks of Rody’s fiery mane of hair and his pants tighten. He wants him. Wants to devour, consume…no. He doesn’t want to destroy him. But he’d take a sample, a little amuse bouche before serving the man his ex girlfriend. A little savory aperitif, perhaps lapped from that finger if it’s still wounded then, perhaps from another cut he’ll bestow himself later.

His eyes dart to the clock on the wall. Should he self indulge now, or wait for later? Timing is so important in this profession. Ensuring a fine sear early on to enhance the meat’s flavor later. Deglazing a pan, luring those tasty carmelized bits free. A smooth, lavish roux to thicken the sauce. A bright crush of berries, mixed with sugar and boiled on the stove, later spread over some baked treat. The menu for tomorrow, perhaps.

As for the other…later, he decides.

The best way to savor.

***

Rody is always a straggler.

Always one of the last employees to leave, like the occasional patron that dawdles a bit too long for Vincent’s liking, perhaps intoxicated from the recommended wine or just lingering with a belly stretched full, their mind lethargic. He must usher them out after murmuring words of gratitude, casting a meaningful glance at the waiter to clear the table so he can close up the bistro for the day and retire to his apartment upstairs.

The bells on the door tinkle softly as the owner closes and locks the door with a grateful, tired sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he pushes on the doors leading to the kitchen.

Rody’s dropped something again.

The redhead has managed not to break a dish this time, but he has tipped one of the half full pots still waiting to be emptied and washed. His white shirt is now stained yellow and he looks helplessly at the stern face of his employer. “I’m sorry, Chef.”

“It’s always ‘I’m sorry, Chef,’ isn’t it, Lamoree? Do you know how tired I am of hearing that?”

“I’m s—” The other man’s voice cuts off midway before the apology can be repeated.

“You’re not sorry at all, that’s the worst part. No consideration for wasting another man’s time and money.”

“I won’t be here much longer. I’ve nearly got enough saved up now.”

Vincent’s eyes flare at this declaration. He had, somehow, forgotten the employee had only promised to fill the position temporarily.

He was running out of time. Out of chances.

“Have you heard from your significant other?”

Rody blinks. Vincent never inquired about personal matters. “No. I’ve been calling every night when I get home, but she never answers,” he admits, looking crestfallen. “I thought maybe if she saw I was serious, she might change her mind and we could get back together. But now…”

The chef has to bite back a grin. He knows damn well Manon hasn’t been answering her phone. How can she, when she’s tucked securely away in the depths of the walk in freezer? The key for it is around his neck. He never removes it. No one is allowed inside that area.

“Perhaps she’s already moved on,” Vincent offers unsympathetically. “Maybe you should, too.”

The other man laughs hesitantly. “It’s only been a week.”

“Hmmm.” Now he’s wishing he hadn’t mentioned his envisioned rival. He doesn’t want Rody thinking about her. Being distracted. Time to change the subject. “How is your cut healing? Do I need to be worried about another bill?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve been careful with it.”

“Like you were careful with the dishes just now? Let me see.” He doesn’t wait for the waiter to offer the hand for examination, instead reaching and pulling it over to him. He doesn’t inspect the outer dressing for long, plucking at the tape sealing it shut to expose a dark line underneath. The edges did appear like they were approximated well, the surrounding skin clear from signs of infection.

“See? Told you.”

Vincent’s dark eyes lift, finding emerald ones. He never breaks the contact as his fingers ease past the injured finger and trace the creases of Rody’s palm. His skin is rough and reddened. He hasn’t learned how to care for it yet, the constant submergence in hot water already leaving its mark. A short distance later he reaches the man’s wrist, pressing lightly against the blue vessels visible beneath his fair skin. “Your heart is beating very fast,” he murmurs.

Rody gulps, frozen into apparent immobility by his employer’s sudden caress. “I…”

“Hurry up and help me clean the rest of this. It’s been a long day.” He drops his hand and turns away.

The waiter stares open mouthed at the sudden shift in mood, the spell binding him seemingly broken. He hastens to help his employer clean the remaining dishes, then gathers up the trash from the rubbish bin for the final time that shift.

The sound of the door behind him closing again causes him to turn his head, the bag falling into the dumpster with a wet sort of thud.

“Chef?”

“You ever smoke, Rody? No, I doubt that. Jamais,” he mutters, taking a drag.

“No,” the other man agrees, looking puzzled. Wondering why the owner was suddenly lingering when moments before he’d been impatient to depart.

“Life isn’t truly experienced if you neglect to try all it offers. Even things that seem unappealing. In fact, sometimes those ill flavors make you appreciate the favorable ones more.” The end of the cigarette glows. A dog barks in the distance. The lighting at the rear of the building is minimal. The chef’s features are bathed in shadows.

“I guess that makes sense.” Rody moves closer to the door the other man is still blocking. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be heading home now.”

“You’ve tarried this long. Surely a few more minutes won’t make a difference.” He imagines Rody reaching for the phone as soon as he’s showered and changed. Thinking perhaps tonight will be the night Manon will answer. “Try it, then you’ll know for certain.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” He tries to step around Vincent but he’s blocked again by that wiry figure.

“Try it,” he insists again, offering the paper cylinder to his companion.

Rody hesitates, then claims the cigarette and takes a tentative inhale. He coughs and sends clouds of smoke into the air and the other man chuckles darkly, snatching the offensive object back.

“There’s a skill to it. You have to practice.”

“I’m good, thanks.” He thumps a hand against his chest, looking a little bleary eyed.

Vincent clucks his tongue impatiently, taking another deep pull. Before Rody has a chance to react, he’s got his face between his hands and his mouth on his lips.

The little sound of surprise provides him with an opportunity to shotgun the smoke directly into his mouth. The waiter doesn’t taste like much of anything, not that he’d expected any differently, but he enjoys those first few moments of surprise when he can stroke his tongue.

Rody breaks away, dragging the back of his wrist over his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing?” He’s never once dared raise his voice; Vincent doesn’t think he’s ever even heard him use profanity before this.

“Giving you another chance to enjoy it.”

“I don’t. I already told you. I’m going home now. Please move.”

“No.” The cigarette is slotted lazily at one corner of Vincent’s mouth, the smoke drifting up in a thin stream. He’s folded his arms, leaning back against the door.

“Move,” Rody repeats more forcefully, his hand clutching his boss’ upper arm. The dark haired man settles his hand over the server’s bare forearm, stroking lightly until he’s shaken off. “Don’t touch me.” Voice still firm, but trembling a little. He can hear it.

“Or what? What are you going to do about it?” He withdraws the paper tube from his mouth and tosses it to the ground, extinguishing it with the sole of his shoe.

“I’ll quit, right now.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You can’t afford to.”

“Near enough. I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re getting quite the track record, Rody. Nearly thirty jobs in seven years? You’ll not get a reference from me. In fact, I’ll make sure you never work in this part of town again.”

“Then I’ll find another town.”

“No one will want you. No one will want you like…” His voice trails off. He’s never seen such determination from the young man before. “You can’t leave.”

“Like hell I can’t.” He reaches to push Vincent and the chef’s hand curls around Rody’s tie—rumpled, the man was always so unkempt and careless, always rolling up his shirt sleeves even though he’d told him dozens of times not to, the restaurant had a reputation to maintain, an appearance—dragging his upper body forward. There’s a confused passage of time where the men struggle, gripping and shoving, tugging and scrabbling for the handle of the door, ending similarly to how it started, with Vincent’s back pressed against the door and Rody pressed against him.

The pair are panting, hands full of each other’s clothing. Vincent kisses Rody again, a rough crush of mouths while the redhead vainly pushes along his employer’s shoulders. He feels the other man’s arousal at the same moment Rody seemingly becomes consciously aware of it, the waiter’s grip softening, mirroring how sweetly his lips surrender. Vincent sucks them, laps at them, nips and travels to his jaw, his neck, his ear, and feels a shudder in response to his ministrations.

“I thought you hated me, I don’t understand…”

“You foolish, foolish boy.” His hips roll forward and he grinds against the other man’s erection, eliciting a harsh gasp. “Je te désire…”

Through a joint effort they manage to make their way back inside, pausing for another round of frenzied kisses here and there. Vincent harbors no delusions that they’ll make it any further than that kitchen. The bedroom upstairs will have to wait for another time. He’s too consumed with this giddy feeling of triumph; he’s winning over his body, and his heart will surely follow, once he creates that forbidden feast.

Rody is pushed again and his hand knocks over a bottle on the counter. Cooking oil. It begins to spill before it can be righted, the man’s fingers coated, and the mock scolding that he’d been about to be gifted instead shifts to praise, those slick fingers now guided over cocks released from their imprisonment.

“Ta bitte, c’est alléchant…”

Rody groans, his hand stretching to accommodate both men’s pricks, stroking both simultaneously, mashing them together. “Merde…”

Another surprised sound from the waiter. Vincent’s sucked his bottom lip a little too firmly, splitting it and drawing blood. The chef can barely contain himself. At last, at last he has a taste of what he’s been coveting, and this, unlike everything else that is ash and dust, this marvelous liquid lifeforce is divine, sweet and savory both. He sucks harder and ruts against his employee’s hand and it’s all he can do not to grab a knife from the block and drag even more of that delicious vintage from him.

“Fais-moi jouir,” the chef urges, letting a trail of saliva ooze into the other man’s gasping mouth. His fingers knot in his tresses and a faint scent of shampoo wafts over him, stirred back to life from the shower so many hours ago before the shift had started.

“Rody,” he groans in warning just before his turgid member erupts, spilling seed all over the waiter’s hand and cock. It takes only seconds before he cums, returning the favor, bathing the chef in a hot wash of sperm.

“Mon dieu…” The redhead steps back, looking at the mess the two of them have made.

“We’ll take care of it in the morning,” Vincent says dismissively, prioritizing his present recovery, his breathing labored. He’s still got the taste of Rody’s blood on his tongue.

“Come upstairs with me,” he invites once they’ve straightened their clothing, watching as the other man hesitates, then nods.

Vincent slides his hand into his pants pocket to find the hidden jewelry warm to the touch, so different from the cold, cold room that Manon now resides in.

Waiting.

[osleeplessflowero]

It's been long enough, time to bring back some content for this series. I hope you all enjoy! (Also yay new lily divider! Gonna start putting these around my notes from now on :] credits are in the tags!)

*Notes - Reader Soultype: Bravery🧡 - Reader Gender: Ambiguous, They/Them pronouns by default - Horror goes by Sans - Context from the first two parts is needed for this one to make sense - Words: 3,906

☕Previous Part☕ 🎃First Part 🪓Oneshot Masterpost/List 💜💙 In-Progress Fics Masterpost/List💚💛

Content Warning: Swearing, Violence, Light Blood

A while passed since your coffee meetup with Sans. You've been texting each other pretty much daily, discussing this and that and getting a good laugh out of each other from time to time. He's been really supportive of you since your emotions from your breakup had started hitting you like a truck, bringing your spirits back up when they started to spiral. You really appreciate him for that..

At the moment, you're currently sitting in your living room and replying to the last message your skeleton companion sent you. The two of you had been having a long conversation about something obscure he found, before the topic shifted to meeting his brother, like you'd asked about when you went to go get coffee. Upon being informed, Sans said he was delighted at the idea, and wanted to invite you over for dinner. You eagerly accepted, but not without saying you'd want to bring something over as well.. call it a gift exchange. Perhaps dessert would be best, since he's really looking forward to making dinner.

Thing is, you have no idea what this guy likes, so you don't know how well your decision making could be..

i mean i could just go to the store with you if you need help picking it aint like i have shit to do

You perk up at his reply, grinning. That's perfect! If anybody would know what he likes, it'd be him. And it's an excuse to hang out a little earlier than expected.

sounds awesome, where should we meet? i could just come pick you up tho idk if ur comfortable with me knowing where u live i mean its not like youd be coming over to kidnap me lmao i dont mind sent attachment sick ok i think i know where that is ill be there in a few alrrr i'll get ready then

You hop up from your seat on the couch, walking into your room and picking out some warm clothes so you're comfortable outside. The air has definitely gotten more and more chilly after Halloween, and you're not quite sure if you like that sensation or not.

Hopping a bit to pull on your shoes, you hear your doorbell ring and drop your leg to walk over and look through the peephole. Sure enough, you're met with the skeleton waiting with a bored expression before you open the door.

"Hey! Wow, I didn't think you'd get here so quick." You muse, earning a chuckle from the skeleton as you step aside to let him in out of the cold. Can skeletons feel temperatures? You assume not because of the lack of skin.

He puts his hands in his pockets as he enters, watching you close the door behind him. "i took a shortcut, didn't take long at all. nice place."

"Thanks, it's nothing big, but it's home. That's all that matters, right?" You smile, walking to your bathroom and heading inside to fix your hair how you like it (if you have any, that is.) You leave the door open, glancing over briefly when he stands in the doorway to speak with you.

"yeah, doesn't matter what size. home's a home, anyway." His eyelight drifts around as he inspects what he can see, learning a little bit more about you from observing some of your favorite things. You give him a smile before exiting the bathroom, walking over to the front door to hold it open for him. He follows you out silently, and the two of you begin your walk down the street.

"So..does he like any particular kinds of desserts? Cakes, cookies, brownies, etcetera.. throw me a bone here." You hold up your phone and open your notes app so you can get an idea of what to look for.

"well, anything made from the heart's gonna appeal to him right off the bat. but if you wanna go for something he'll really like.. he loves sugar cookies. like the kind with icing, he eats those up when i get 'em." He smiles, thinking back to a memory. You nod, saving "sugar cookies" to your phone. If you're gonna bake, then it's gotta be something he'd love! That's one way to win him over.

"Sugar cookies it is! Any specific kind of frosting flavor?"

There's a pause. You wait patiently, but when Sans' reply never comes, you look up at his face. His eyes have gone blank, almost like he'd shut down.

"Sans? Are you alright?"

"just..hang on, i..i know it's in there. i know i can remember that, i know i can." He speaks softly, and you frown, stopping in place and stopping him as well.

"Hey. Don't worry if you can't remember. I'll figure something out, don't strain yourself. It's okay, Sans." You reach your hands up, placing them on his shoulders with a reassuring smile. His eyelight slowly reforms in his eye, warbling a bit before returning to its usual large shape.

"..okay. thanks."

You nod, leading the big skeleton along until you finally reach your destination: the grocery store. A nostalgic song plays as you both hear the doors slide open, granting you both access. Thankfully not too many people are inside at the moment, which gives you more room to look and gives Sans a bit more peace.

Seeing as you probably won't need a bunch of ingredients, you settle for a basket and begin walking to look for the baking section. Sans simply walks right beside you, ignoring any stares from other people inside.

"Okay, sugar cookies..I need a box with a mix..I'm not getting the frozen ones, I just wanna make these myself. I could get some red icing maybe, like strawberry? Or cherry? Is there cherry icing? I'm sure there is." You mutter to yourself as you walk, unaware of Sans' fond smile as he watches you talk, making sure to pay attention in case you ask him something out of the blue.

"I could make cute little patterns on them- ooor I could just cover them..I dunno, we'll see how I feel when the baking starts." You smile, reaching your hand up to try and grab a box of the mix you need, but frown when you can't reach it. Gonna need a step stool..

Sans leans a little over you from behind, putting a hand on your shoulder and reaching up to grab the box for you. You smile up at him, thanking him promptly as he shrugs it off. You should ask him to shop with you more often, it'd definitely be easier than climbing the shelves. You used to do that when you were younger, and had gotten caught a few times..well, you won't get caught again!

You look through some different cookie cutters, debating cutting the cookies into shapes, and if so, what shapes in particular to use. Your peace is interrupted when you hear quiet whispering a good distance away, furrowing your brows when you overhear what some people are saying.

Sans tries to pretend not to notice, but you can tell it's really starting to bother him..

You hold out your arm. He looks at you with confusion, raising a browbone.

"Take my arm in yours." You whisper, earning even more confusion. "C'mon, just do it!"

He holds out his arm slightly, and you take that as a cue to wrap yours around it, walking with him down another aisle. When you walk beside the few whispering, you glare daggers at them before looking over some different cookie cutters that are much more to your liking, wondering why they hadn't put them where you were. Poor organization..

Sans keeps his skull turned away, a mix of a blue and red flush covering his cheekbones as he avoids looking at your face. You don't seem to notice, which he's admittedly a bit thankful for.

"Okay! I think that's all that I-"

You hear your name being called, stopping mid sentence. Your eyes quickly dart over to the source, spotting him..

Your Ex.

Your grip tightens on Sans' arm. He snaps back to reality, looking between you and them before realizing. You glare at him as he approaches.

"So. One day you just ditch me out of the blue and now you're hanging out with monster trash. Man, I didn't think you'd stoop that low."

"Shut up. Nobody cares what you have to say. You're the only one who's trash here. Just leave me alone, and get out of my life."

"Woah, easy." He holds up his hands in mock defense. "Got me shaking in my boots, babe! So scary.."

"Yeah, still scared after we spooked the shit out of you in the haunted house?" You tilt your head, a sly smile on your face. His face darkens, and his brows furrow.

"Whatever- Look, you-"

"I just want you to leave me alone. The only reason you finally want to spend time with me now is because I'm gone. You had your chance with me, and now I'm spending my time with way better people. We are through, we will always be through, so leave me be."

"You really think a monster is better than me? You're kidding yourself! Just.. look at him. He's probably an actual axe murdere-"

You move before you can think, punching him square in the nose and watching him stumble. It isn't until you see his blood on your hand and his widened eyes that you realize what you just did, quickly ushering Sans away and pulling him to the checkout section. You have what you need, time to get out of here.

It's quiet as you pay, before you both leave the store. Sans tugs a little on your hand, so you stop, facing him as you calm your breathing down.

"..you okay?" He sounds a little worried.

"Yeah. I'm..I'm alright, now. Are.. you okay?"

"you just punched a guy for me." He states, a smile creeping onto his face.

"Well, yeah. I hate him and he was being a jerk, of course I did. Nobody messes with the people I care about." You grab some napkins from the bag, wiping away your ex's blood as you both make your way across the street.

Sans bumps your hand with his, so you unclench your fingers, allowing him to hold it. ..He's..never done that before. That's new.

Heat rises to your face, and you pray to anyone above that it doesn't show. That's all you need right now.

You enter your home, turning on the lights. "Just go wherever, my house is your house and all that jazz. I'm gonna wear something for baking." You smile, walking to your room. He gives you a thumbs up before you go, sitting down on your couch and covering his face with his hands.

Stars, feelings are complicated. You just made his soul do a somersault twice in a row without even meaning to. It's not fair, why does he have to feel so- conflicted?! He moves his hands down, groaning before taking a deep breath as you walk back in.

"Okay. You wanna bake with me?" You smile innocently, completely unaware of the rollercoaster looping around in his skull. He nods, walking into the kitchen after you, simply watching as you grab an apron and set the oven up for baking.

Several seconds of ingredient hunting later, you set everything out on the counter and get to work. Crack the eggs, add some butter, throw in some oil.. mix. You move around like a robot, earning an amused chuckle from the skeleton as he sits on the same counter to watch you, sending some ingredients over when you need them using magic.

Once you have the cookie dough mixed up properly, you smack his hand away once with a spatula to make sure he doesn't try and snatch any up. Your focus then shifts to the icing, making a bit of a mess as you stir. A bit of it lands on your face that you don't seem to notice, but a certain someone with you does.

"hey, c'mere." He slides off the counter with ease, making you stop in your tracks. He holds his hand up to your cheek, resting his thumb over a small bit of icing. He pauses for a moment, the two of you staring into each other's eyes. Heat rushes to both of your faces, his cheekbones erupting in a blue and red mixed blush as he raises his thumb to his mouth, allowing his mixed tongue to lick away the icing in question.

Oh. Oh man.

You avert your eyes when he does, focusing back on the icing. That's new. A lot of things are new today.

The tension eventually fades out once the cookies have been brought out, now cut into lovely different shapes Sans is sure Papyrus will love. He shares a few stories he can remember from the past, you happily listening along and sometimes replying with witty comebacks to his jokes.

Time flies, and finally the cookies are finished, ready to eat! You almost feel kinda bad that these'll be gone soon..but it'll be worth it if he likes them! You hang up your apron, grinning slyly when you turn back to Sans. He raises a browbone in your direction, when you place a small bit of icing on his nose. He laughs, a determined glint to his eye as he tries to get some of the leftover stuff on you, the two of you chasing each other around the kitchen before you erupt into laughter.

He looks up from the floor at you, and his breath hitches. You have a really nice smile..he should tell you that some time. Not yet, though. No..it's too soon for that.

You grin, licking any leftover icing on you and walking to your room to change into the clothes you'd set out previously for when you go with Sans back to his house. Alright, first impressions are everything! Gotta look nice for the occasion.

Sans stares at the ceiling for a little bit while he waits for you, trying to remember some obscure TV show he watched once as a child with his brother he just can't seem to put a name on. You eventually walk back into the room, determined and ready to go. You walk into the kitchen and grab the lovely bowl of cookies you baked, holding it under your arm.

"So, shall we walk?" You smile as he walks up to you, but then raise a brow in confusion when he shakes his head. Maybe he'd prefer driving? You didn't see a car outside, though..

"i know a faster way to get there, if you're okay with it."

"Sure. What is it?"

"hold my arm for a sec. you might feel kinda dizzy for a little bit." He offers his arm to you, and you accept it quickly.

"OkaaAAAY-" You panic when the ground disappears from beneath your feet, holding onto him tightly and squeezing your eyes shut. It is only when you're back on the ground that you open them, glancing around. ..You appear to be in someone's driveway, someone who owns a very lovely home.

"aaaand we're here. tada." He grins, letting you regain your balance. How did he do that? When did he learn he could do that? Why did he not tell you he could do that befo- that's how he got to your house so fast. Of course. A "shortcut".

"You're really amazing, Sans." You smile up at him, chuckling a little to yourself when he looks away. He leads you up the porch steps to the front door, knocking in a rhythmic pattern and waiting for a moment before it swings abruptly open.

"AH! Brother, There You Are!" The much-taller-than-you'd-expected skeleton exclaims, pushing up his glasses a bit so he can see better. "And You've Brought The Human Along With You! Excellent! I've Just Gotten Started On Tonight's Dinner. Do Come Inside! It's Certainly Much Warmer Than It Is Out There. Sans, You Both Didn't Walk, Did You? It's Easy For Humans To Get Colds!"

You both smile at his rambling as Sans reassures him that he used a shortcut to get here. He's a total contrast to his brother, a ball of energy to counter his brother's overall tired and "lazy" demeanor.

Papyrus gestures for you to walk in, you both promptly remove your shoes at the door when you see that there are a few pairs of boots there already. You can assume literally all of them belong to Papyrus, because Sans is usually either wearing slippers or sneakers.

"Ah! Where Are My Manners." He clasps his gloved hands together, grinning down at you. "I Am The Great Papyrus! I'm Certain My Brother Has Told You About Me Already." He grins, his braces shining when the light of the ceiling fan above him hits them.

You smile, moving one of your arms to hold it out to shake his hand, watching him eagerly grab it. "It's nice to meet you in person, Papyrus." You tell him your name, and he makes sure to remember it for next time.

"Sans told me you were really looking forward to making dinner tonight, sooo I thought I'd bake some cookies! We can have them after dinner's over with, and you guys can keep them for a while until you run out. And if you like them, well..I'd be more than happy to make some more."

Papyrus gasps, putting a hand where his heart would be, as if he'd been struck right through it. "Oh, That's So Kind Of You! And Fitting For The Occasion! You Can Place Them On The Counter For Now, There Should Be An Open Space."

You do as instructed, admiring all the lovely little details in the home. They certainly tell you plenty about the two, and the things they like.. There's a ton of pretty patterns in the wood in some parts of the kitchen, presumably crafted by Paps himself. There are some red gingham curtains gently blowing with the breeze from outside before he closes the windows, and you briefly catch a glance of a clothesline with drying clothes. Huh, Papyrus must be into cosplay. That's cool!

Sans spooks you, giving you a pat on the shoulder as he walks up to his room. Ooh..this gives you an opportunity to see it..you would hate to pry, though. Maybe another time you can. You'll definitely be visiting later.

Deciding not to pester him, you focus your attention on Papyrus, who's happily humming a tune you don't recognize and cooking up something that makes your mouth water.

"So," His voice catches you off guard, making you jolt. "How'd It Happen?"

"How'd..what happen, exactly?" You smile, leaning a bit on the counter to watch him work.

"How'd You Meet, And How'd You Convince My Brother To Think So Fondly Of You?"

"We met at a- wait, he thinks fondly of me?"

"Well, Of Course He Does! Don't Tell Me You're As Blind As I Am Without Glasses." He lets out a nyeh-heh, stirring something. "He Talks About You Quite Often!"

"He does?.." Your voice is soft when you ask, heat creeping back up to your cheeks before you shake your head to try and make it go away.

"Indeed! Now, I'll Repeat The Other Part..How'd You Meet? I'm Very Curious About That."

"Well, it all started when me and my..well, he's my ex now-"

"Oh, Is This Drama? Now I've Certainly Got To Hear About This. I Love A Little Bit Of Gossip." He grins slyly, and you let out a laugh before going into detail about everything.

Papyrus is such a lovely person to talk to, even if you have to repeat what you say a few times because of his hearing problems. You can definitely understand why Sans thinks so highly of his brother.

Speaking of Sans, he finally joins you both downstairs after a while, having changed into an almost exact replica of the clothes he had been wearing before but much cleaner. Look at him, getting dressed up for the occasion..

Papyrus finishes making his masterpiece, and you all sit down at the table together. It's such a warm environment..Sans cracking jokes, Papyrus groaning but making a few of his own in return..the two sharing fond stories from the past..Papyrus talking about his work and what he loves to do..you could listen to him for hours. The food is immaculate, and you fight the urge to groan with delight at the taste.

When dinner is finished, you send your compliments to the chef, and the taste test for the cookies begins..you stare with anxious anticipation as he inspects a skull-shaped cookie, amused by your choice before biting into it. Silence fills the room before he grins in your direction, putting his hands on his hips.

"This Is Excellent! You Did Wonderfully! Stars, I May Run Out Of These Within The Week! GAH!" He puts his hands on his skull, you and Sans letting out a laugh at his expressions.

"Don't worry, Paps. I'll definitely make some more for you later."

"Wonderful! You Simply Must Show Me How You Make Them. They're Exquisite!"

"Maaybe..but good magicians never reveal their secrets, do they?" You smile slyly. He gasps in understanding, before placing his fist against his palm.

"Right. Fair Enough!"

You don't realize how fast time flies when you're having fun. You could spend eternity with these guys, without changing a thing. They're both so much fun to be around, and..it's really nice, being surrounded by such caring people.

Before you know it you're sitting on the couch, listening to Papyrus ramble about scandals in the monster celebrity world, promptly gasping when you hear something shocking. Sans simply watches the both of you with a lazy smile, chiming in from time to time before you all focus on whatever movie's playing on the TV.

One movie turns into several..

You feel your eyes slowly close as you lean against something big and warm, relaxing with a smile.

Sans freezes when he looks down at you, holding his hands in the air and unsure where to put them. Papyrus scoffs, motioning for him to put his arm around you. Sans looks at him with an expression that screams "are you crazy?!" before Papyrus shoots one back, rolling his eyes and waving him off before whispering a good night to him and heading upstairs. Fuck. What does he do? He couldn't just..could he?

His eyelight darts around until it rests on your sleeping form. He sighs for a moment, before abruptly shortcutting to your house and ensuring that the doors are locked, reappearing in the spot he had been sitting in before. You readjust your position, getting even closer this time.. His face flushes again as he lowers an arm over you, unable to look away. Oh jeez.. Ain't this complicated? Well..lots of things are, aren't they?

Hearing your soft breathing leaves him feeling calm..content. He's..alright with this. He'll embrace the moment for a little while, while it lasts. He focuses on the screen, until his eyes begin to close as well..maybe a nap wouldn't hurt.

[devilfruitdyke]

[ID: a text box of susie from deltarune saying "arright, listen up"/a GIF divider of a green chain. end ID.]

dallasstarsdyke -> devilfruitdyke (i dont wanna talk about it)

aren ☆ she/he/any ☆ bigender bisexual

i try to keep this blog accessible, so i write image descriptions and triggers are tagged as #[subject]. lmk if you need anything tagged

dividers + stamps are animatedglittergraphics-n-more and saradikagraphics

free palestine trans women are women

[ID: a divider of a green heart rate monitor. end ID.]

stamps below the cut [flashing]

[ID: a stamp of goldfish swimming / a stamp of a jack o lantern on a teal background that says "we are the jack o lanterns in july" / 2 stamps of swimming sharks. end ID.]

[notmyneighbor]

here is the news | doppel! izaack gauss x female reader

words | 4k

cw | explicit sexual content, fluff and smut

ao3 link

Everyone in the city knows who Izaack Gauss is.

The famed news reporter for the local tv station has won countless awards for the journalism considered brave, gritty, unflinching and detailed. Always on the cusp of a breaking story, it was uncanny how often the man seemed to be at exactly the right place at exactly the right time. He was a household name, a favorite with a variety of age groups. Handsome and compelling. A face you couldn’t stop staring at, a voice you couldn’t stop listening to. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t gotten off to the sight and sound of him on more than one occasion. A girl has needs, right? And it’s not like guys don’t do the same thing all the time. You’re just…evening the score a little.

Now, that man you’d daydreamed about and climaxed to was in your booth inside the apartment building you both lived in, about to conduct an interview with you, the guard, responsible for screening for sneaky doppelgangers trying to trick their way into the building to harm the residents.

There is a lot of preparation that goes into the event. There are multiple cameras you’re constantly told to turn to. Pauses midway while hair and makeup is touched up. The attention is overwhelming, but at your young age, you’ve got a flawless track record for correctly identifying the doppels and it’s caught the attention of many, including your intrepid journalist neighbor.

Once the dust has settled, once there are no more set lights shined in your eyes or powder applied to your nose or Izaack’s rich voice bidding you to smile again for the camera, the sudden quiet is a relief. The crew has gone home. Everyone has left, save you and the news reporter.

You’re not quite done for the day, though. The segments you’d just filmed would be edited down. In truth, probably very little of the footage would even be used. But you guessed that’s just how the magic of television really works behind the scenes. The last chore for you today is to do a dry run through the interview you’ll be participating in live on air tomorrow night. You’re still seated in the swivel chair behind the desk inside your security booth, leaving the reporter to perch on the corner of the desk, one hip cocked over the edge, the lifted leg so long it still nearly touches the floor. Izaack is six foot four, and broad shouldered, an intimidatingly large figure. It’s no wonder, considering he’d played football in highschool and college.

He hasn’t lost any muscle mass in spite of his cessation of playing sports, the considerable physique still apparent even within the confines of the charcoal suit he’s wearing. You’re willing to bet he exercises to keep that appearance, to maintain his appeal with his adoring fans. His skin is smooth and unblemished, his raven hair always styled in neat waves. He’s got a strong jaw with a cleft chin just below a pair of full lips so generous they’d make any woman envious. They part often to flash brilliantly white, even teeth.

Those teeth are dazzling you right now. Trying to make you feel less nervous, no doubt, but you find the gesture intimidating instead. He might not be a Hollywood movie star, but he was still a local celebrity, and the source of more than one successful late night round of self pleasure. You squirm nervously in your seat and it squeaks, making your cheeks flush.

“You can relax, you know. I’m not going to ask anything you don’t know the answers to.” His voice is rich, deep, velvety. You nod and swallow thickly, waiting for him to begin.

He doesn’t even look down at the pad of paper clutched in one hand, nor the ballpoint pen seated in the other. His azure eyes are locked on your face and the color reminds you of the tropical ocean you’d seen on a poster in a travel agency’s window once, some exotic destination that you’ll likely never get the opportunity to visit.

“Why don’t we begin by you telling our viewers what you do each day.”

You clear your throat. “Well, the shift begins with a list of expected visitors to the building handed to me by an official DDD staff member, which I keep posted on this wall here,” you say, gesturing to a now blank spot to the left of the window. “I have a checklist of things I should be expecting from each person. This includes their appearance, their identification card, their entry request form, and, as I’ve just mentioned, the listing on the day’s expected visitors.”

Gauss nods. So far, so good. “What are some of the things that are a tip off about the identification card being incorrect?”

“One of the first things I look at is the serial number. We have a complete record of all the inhabitants of the building, complete with their photographs, their distinguishing facial characteristics, their addresses, professions, and relatives.

The next step is to compare the image on the card with the image we have on file, paying close attention to those unique appearance details. For example, someone may have a mole on one cheek, or have freckles spread across their nose.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“The DDD logo must be present. This is something that gets missed quite often. It is required on both the ID card and the entry request form. The expiration date on the ID is the last thing that needs to be verified. Seems simple, but you’d be surprised how many doppelgangers ignore the importance of a valid date that hasn’t expired yet.” You point to the calendar tacked to the wall.

Izaack taps his pen against the pad of paper thoughtfully. “What about the entry request?”

“Well, that’s similar in some ways, and different in others. It, like the ID card, needs to have the DDD logo. It also features a photograph of the resident, along with their name and address. These names can be misspelled or the apartment numbers incorrectly labeled. The final piece of the puzzle is the reason for travel. It can be very obvious when a doppel is using a forgery. Some are more astute than others, but a lot of them lack the knowledge of a plausible reason to explain their absence. I once saw one state they were going out to do ‘human things’” you say with a little chuckle, and the dark haired reporter smiles indulgently.

“It certainly seems like you’re quite the expert. No wonder the residents of the building feel safer with you around. A perfect safety record thus far, I understand.”

You lower your eyes, blushing, feeling a little blossom of pride blooming inside of you. “I try my best.”

Izaack slides from his perch, straightening, the pad of paper and pen disappearing back into a deep pocket of the trench coat he’d left draped beside him. “That’s basically how the interview will go. You’re a natural. Just replicate that same confidence and you’ll do fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, there is one more thing,” he says as you stand. “If you wouldn’t mind indulging just one more question. Off the record, as it were.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“What if the paperwork looks correct, and the doppel’s appearance is a perfect match?”

“Oh, that reminds me. I forgot to mention it. I call the residence to verify the identity, either by a family member, or—”

“—But supposing there was no one home to answer. The visitor is on the day’s list. They’re expected to be out and returning home. They live alone. There is no one to vouch for them one way or the other. And every other detail seems correct. What do you do?”

You draw in a deep breath. “Well, thankfully, my instincts have helped me in those rare situations when they occur.”

“I see.”

You step forward, thinking the older man will be exiting the office, but he remains where he is, blocking the doorway.

“Um, Mr. Gauss, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be getting home now.”

“Oh, I do mind. I mind very much. You see, my dear, your so called instincts, those ones you’re so proud of, have failed you.”

Your blood runs cold. You’d been tricked by a doppelganger. You back away now, your hand reaching for the alarm. It’s too late to worry about shuttering the office, but it will still alert the residents that something is amiss.

“Don’t even think of touching that button. Or the phone, either. Your DDD pals won’t be coming to your rescue tonight.” The tall mimic smiles, gesturing towards the chair beside you. “Why don’t you sit down, get comfortable.”

“Why? You’re just going to kill me. Eat me, or whatever.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll be killing you. Eating you though, now that is an idea.” His teeth flash again, and this time they are no longer the perfect pearl white specimens you’re accustomed to, but pointed, slightly yellowed teeth. The turquoise eyes are now black, the white orbs bloodshot. “Sit down,” he says again, “before I change my mind about the not murdering you part.”

You sink back into the swivel chair, your heart pounding. How had you not known? How long has he been pretending to be Izaack for? Where was the real version?

As if reading your mind, the creature elaborates about the fate of the male human he’s pretending to be. “He’s not dead. Someone like that is too valuable to waste. Let’s just say we’re keeping him tucked away safely for now.”

You wonder if the new reporter’s capture is truly a better fate than a swift passing. “Don’t hurt him, please.”

“Why? Isn’t he a virtual stranger to you?”

“He’s my neighbor.”

The wide shoulders lift and drop in a shrug. “You have plenty of others. Or was there some other reason making you so concerned about this particular individual? Something a little more personal? A touch more…intimate, shall we say?”

It’s disconcerting how transparent your thoughts and feelings seem to be. The invader’s hands, now tipped in dark claws and studded with jagged veins that look ready to burst through the skin, curl around the armrests and tug you closer, the wheels bringing you right up to the doppel. “I can guarantee you if I was the real Gauss right now, he wouldn’t have spared you a second glance. He’d never have gotten this close. He’s arrogant and obnoxious, so nauseatingly self absorbed that I wager you wouldn’t be nearly so taken with him if you got to know him as well as I have. I’ve done you a favor, trust me.” The irony of that last utterance is not lost on you. A master of deceit imploring you to believe his word. Insanity.

The replicant’s mood shifts and his voice softens, drawing you out of your reverie. “I bet if I were to just peel this off of you, I’d find something very sweet and tasty beneath it.” The sharp tip of one digit sinks midway through the fabric of your skirt, dangerously close to your thighs, and splits it wide open. He grabs each flap and tugs, tearing the material further until it’s completely separated. You wince when you feel his hand seat on one leg, the claws scratching but not piercing the skin. It doesn’t take them long to shred your panties, leaving your lower half bare save for your shoes and stockings. “Spread your legs for me.”

You resist, shaking your head and clamping your lower extremities close together.

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

A choked sound escapes you as your legs spread open.

“My, my. That does look delicious. So pink and pretty. Just a perfect little pussy to snack on.”

You hate that your body responds to his words, your sex throbbing from the attention, from being bare in your work space. The fake reporter kneels down, but his presence is still no less initimidating even at this reduced height.

“A lot of people would be glad to trade places with you right now, you know. So many of you humans lust for this face, this body. Are you one of them?” The claws have vanished, the only bit of relief you find, gasping when those human looking fingers stroke right over your damp sex. Your clit pulses needily and the movement is not lost on the doppel. “I think the answer to that question is a resounding yes.” His thumb massages that sensitive pearl while his middle finger spears your drooling entrance. You are soaked. You can hardly believe your body is betraying you like this.

“Oh, look how wet you are. Tight, too. It’s a good thing I have the right tool for the job to pry you open properly.” A tongue emerges from between the rows of sharp teeth, a dark maroon colored tentacle looking object with a pointed tip that flicks your bud and has your hips involuntarily lurching, seeking more contact with the foreign muscle. “Delicious,” he murmurs. “Best fucking thing I’ve had to eat so far on this miserable planet.” Then his mouth crushes against your pussy.

You need something to hold onto, and that something becomes the carefully coiffed hair of the news anchor, instantly sending the coal dark tresses into disarray. He sucks so hard you think your clit is going to be pulled right away from your body. He adds a second finger and, at times, that wicked, alien tongue into your channel and you no longer care that you’re getting your cunt eaten out by a doppel. Your throat burns from how rapidly you’ve been searching for air. You feel like you’re going to cum, but that something else is about to happen, too. There’s a pressure inside, similar to needing to void, but slightly different. That bizarre, wonderfully obscene tongue of his keeps touching your g spot and it’s doing things. Things you can’t control.

His eyes lift and they’re that pretty teal color again, the hair you’ve mussed tumbling across his ivory forehead, and you fall apart against that Adonis face, the orgasm so intense you find yourself squirting, splashing fluids into the waiting mouth that sucks and swallows and laps every stray droplet, seeking more.

Your legs are shaking violently and you’re embarrassed and you’re afraid, too, but the lust is doing a nice job of muting that last feeling somewhat.

“Absolutely fucking delectable. That was a pleasant surprise, dear.”

“I didn’t know…I…”

“First time for everything, isn’t that how the expression you humans use goes?” He licks his lips—fully back to the human features again, normal tongue, teeth, eyes—and rises to his feet. “Perhaps you’d like to continue this elsewhere? Somewhere a little more comfortable?”

“Um…” You’re still coming down off your post orgasmic high, the nerves in your legs firing and tingling. You’d just squirted in a doppelganger’s mouth. Had a mind blowing climax, the best of your life. With an imitation copy of famed news reporter Izaack Gauss. Fuck.

“Or I can bend you over the desk and fuck you right here. Your choice, dear. But make up your mind quickly, or I’ll choose for you.”

The brazen declaration strikes you iron hot in your core. Either offer sounded tempting. “Um…” You repeat helplessly.

The replicant clucks his tongue softly. “Cock dumb already, are we? And you haven’t even seen it yet, let alone felt it.”

“Upstairs,” you manage to blurt your decision.

“Fine. My place or yours?”

“You mean Izaack’s?”

“I mean mine. He’s hardly in a position to use it at present.”

“Oh. Yours, then.” You suddenly realize you’re naked from the waist down and you no longer have any intact garments to cover your nudity. “My clothes…”

“Use this.” He lifts his coat from the desk and tosses it at you. It’s absurdly long but it does the trick, shielding your naked body from view.

The doppel says nothing to you on the elevator, seemingly unconcerned if anyone were to run into you now, or if you had any thoughts of trying to escape. There’s a slight delay when he realizes his apartment key is still tucked into his coat pocket, shoving his hand into the outerwear he’s loaned you, the sudden warm press of him inviting, in spite of everything, and then you’re ushered inside.

The reporter’s living space is modernly furnished, and neat as a pin. You’re guided to the bedroom, a large portion of which is occupied by an enormous closet full of clothes—necessary for the job, you suppose, although to your eye one suit is much the same as the next—and a king sized bed covered in a steel gray sheet set and comforter.

“It’s, um…your place is nice,” you say, feeling a need to fill the sudden silence.

The doppelganger grunts at the compliment, thumbing open the button of his suit jacket and tossing it over the back of the chair in front of the desk placed before the window. He tugs on his tie, a silk item that’s a few shades lighter than his eye color, and this joins the blazer. His fingers move briskly over the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, then unfasten the row of buttons draped over his torso. He sheds the shirt and the undershirt unceremoniously and you have your first glimpse of the body the copycat has adopted.

There were a few paparazzi photos snapped here and there that had circulated the tabloids, so it’s not as if you’ve never seen the man on one of those glorious resort beaches you know you’ll never experience in your lifetime, but seeing those muscles in person is much, much different. You can’t help but appreciate the beauty of the figure in front of you, even if it is a phony.

“Like what you see, do you?” There’s a little smirk on the imposter’s lips now as he begins working open his pants.

You stare open mouthed, gaping like a fish out of water as he continues shedding clothing. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his cock size. At all. If anything, he’d been too conservative. He was going to break you in two. You’d be slain after all.

His gaze sharpens, piercing you after he finishes undressing. “You’re not going to clam up like this during the interview tomorrow night, are you?”

“I…what? We’re still doing the interview?”

“Of course.”

“But…but I thought…” You can’t stop staring at the massive erection saluting you.

“It’s a hassle changing faces sometimes. I’ve got a good thing going here. Good job, nice place to live. Appreciative viewers,” he murmurs, his fingers tucking under your chin. “So I'm not keen to do anything to draw attention to myself. You keep my secret and I’ll make sure you’re…compensated. Deal?”

You nod, unable to form words. If you declined, you feel certain the consequences would be dire.

“Good. Now get out of that coat—mind you place it nicely on the chair there until I can hang it up later, I do like this human’s wardrobe—and I’ll see about making some more of those fantasies come true, hmm?”

You’re blushing again. He’s already seen your pussy up close; is removing the rest of your clothes after the borrowed coat such a hardship? You let the blouse and brassiere fall to the floor, about to peel the stockings off but he bids you to keep them on, pushing you gently back onto the bed after he drags the comforter off. “In case you have another…episode.”

He’s talking about the squirting. You glance away hurriedly.

“Look at me,” he says, drawing your gaze back to his features. His knee sinks into the mattress, joined soon after by the other. He climbs over you and you’re struck again by how large the creature is in every single way. His face dips to yours and he kisses you for the first time and you forget all of your earlier misgivings in an instant. Those plump lips were made for this, for stroking and brushing against another’s. Your own part and his tongue slides between them, nudging yours, trying a little sample of the taste of your mouth. Ink smudged fingers caress your breasts and smooth over your ribs. Everywhere your own hands touch meets firm, muscular flesh. Everything is toned, lean. You knead his shoulders and stroke his chest and squeeze his biceps, marveling at how massive his arms are, far more than your fingers can stretch around. You’re still not brave enough to explore further south on your own.

“Touch me,” he whispers beside your ear before nibbling on it, and your hands collide with something scalding. You’ve found his cock. Wet at the tip. He groans a little, his hips pushing that erect organ through the circle of your fingers, effectively fucking them. “Good girl,” he praises, and you feel a fresh flood leaking from your sex. “Let’s get you nice and filled.” His hand wedges between your thighs and you instantly spread them open. He strokes the head of his prick over the moist petals and then pushes at your opening and oh, it burns, it’s too much, too much but not enough, you want more, rolling your hips up to help him sink in further. “Hungry little thing, aren’t you? Just like a doppel.”

At the utterance of this final word his face changes again, his true form once again asserting dominance, revealing itself. You can’t kiss him like you had earlier, not with those razor teeth, but his tongue reaches your mouth easily, twining around inside, poking and prodding. His hands brace against your thighs and fold you over and he goes in even deeper, sinking into your wet cunt that sucks at him, throbbing, already trying to milk seed from the alien.

You can feel him burrowing inside—feel him from the outside, even, the bulge palpable through the exterior wall of your abdomen—and the ache starts to become more pleasurable. Your body wants this. It wants to mate with this imposter.

The gentle introduction completed, Gauss’ replica starts pumping faster. You’ve still got one orgasm up on him and he wants his now. “Fuck, you feel so good. Are you going to cum on my cock this time? I’d love to feel that hot, wet cunt of yours spasming around me.” He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking your clit again.

“Mmmm…Izaack….” You realize you’d just addressed the clone by his human name and your tongue freezes against his, your rocking hips halting.

“You can call me that.” Softer mouth again. Human lips. Wet against your throat. “Let me hear how much pleasure I’m giving you.”

The permission relaxes you, draping you in warm comfort. You card through his hair—now a tangled licorice shaded mess—and gaze into aqua eyes, moaning his name over and over. His hips slam into yours roughly, at odds with the gentle circles he’s still tracing along your nub, and it pushes you over the brink. The smirk is back, that satisfied curve of lips followed by a Cheshire Cat grin that fades as his own release builds.

“Here it comes, get ready for it…fuck, it’s so good…”

A series of jets of hot liquid fill your womb and you shudder as the invader fills you with his cum. His teeth sink into your shoulder—human ones, but biting hard enough to leave temporary dents—and then he collapses beside you.

“That was, um…”

“Good?” He supplies, still sounding a little breathless.

“Yeah. Really good.”

“Mmmm.” He folds his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling while he recovers. You shift on your side and he glances over at you. “You’re sure you’re good for the interview tomorrow? Remember what you’re going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to rehearse it again?”

Ah. A concealed invitation. “Maybe we should. Just to be sure we have all the details just right.”

“My thoughts exactly.” The doppelganger pulls you into his arms.

[notmyneighbor]

in the dark | izaack gauss x francis mosses

explicit

part 1/?

words | 2.5k

cw | fluff and smut

ao3 link

Francis Mosses has a crush on local news anchor Izaack Gauss, who also just happens to live in the same apartment building, one floor below.

He’s not even aware of his feelings at first. He tunes into the local television station early in the morning, before he leaves to deliver dairy products to the citizens of the neighborhood, intending to get the day’s weather report. But that excuse gets flimsier as time wears on. Sometimes he doesn’t even pay attention to the meteorologist. He has eyes only for the handsome reporter with his broad shoulders and generous smile, his wavy dark hair and the prettiest teal blue eyes he’s ever seen.

He’ll just finish making a delivery to one of several bakeries on the weekend run when he picks up a shift and sometimes Izaack will be filling in as well, his image captured on one of the television screens in the window display at the local electronics shop. The milkman freezes in his tracks and just stares until his neck feels hot and the starched work uniform starts chafing just a bit too much in certain areas and then he hastily returns to the truck, hoping no one has noticed.

Despite the fact that both men reside in the same apartment building, they don’t cross paths very often. At most they might share an elevator ride, at the least line up one after the other to present their required documents to the DDD doorman. Francis doesn’t dare let his eyes linger, no matter how much he feels the irresistible pull to gaze at the object of his desire in such close proximity. He can’t look at the source of his most depraved fantasies, when he finally succumbs in the shower or in bed and it’s just him, alone in the dark, wishing and wanting so bad it hurts worse than the ache of desire, the shame that spills guilty, hot and sticky over his hands.

The bachelor tells himself he’s not going to be one of the groupies that hangs around the news station, harassing the poor man for an autograph, but he ends up there anyway, feeling so out of place among the crowd of women of varying ages. Gauss seems to choose whom to gift a signature to at random, scrawling on whatever he can easily reach, typically a photograph of himself or the cover of one of the many magazines he’s graced on more than one occassion.

Francis has none of these items. He’s carrying a copy of a book that the news anchor had mentioned had been a personal favorite of his once. He doesn’t expect the man to make eye contact, to offer a smile that feels a fair bit different as he reaches for the literature. The delivery man has that feeling again, that rushing heat, that uncontrollable itch of skin as he focuses on the plush curves of the television star’s lips, the slight caress his tongue makes to moisten them, the way the lock of raven hair falls forward over his brow as he bends to scrawl on the title page. He hands the book back and their hands touch for the briefest of moments and Francis actually forgets how to breathe for a moment.

He doesn’t view his prize until he’s back in his apartment, fingers trembling when he lifts the cover of the hardback and there is more than just a name there, written in elegant cursive. There is a phone number as well, and he stares at that sequence of digits in stunned disbelief.

It’s late at night by the time he finally works up the courage to dial the number, clearing his throat hastily, the words he’d been rehearsing all day instantly gone out of his head. Izaack’s mellow voice answers and Francis is left to awkwardly stammer, choking. He very nearly hangs up right then. He can’t do this. He’s completely out of his depth.

“It’s…it’s me. From earlier today. With the book, at the autograph session outside the studio.” There. Words. Strung together to form sentences. Not so hard to utter, right?

“Ah. I was wondering when I would hear from you.”

“Uh, yeah.” Francis rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“You want to meet up somewhere for a drink?”

“I don’t uh…I don’t really drink.” He mentally kicks himself immediately. Stupid. The man was inviting him out. For what, he’s still not certain. He has his hopes, but they seem more grounded in fantasy than reality.

“Conversation, then, if alcohol doesn’t suit you.”

“Um…” It’s different, hearing that voice crooning into his ear. On television he’s brisk and professional, formally addressing a large population. The intimacy, the rich sensuality of it directed only at him, like this, is quite a different experience. “Yes, that would be fine.”

“Excellent. You live on the third floor, don’t you? Second apartment?”

“Yes. How did you…I didn’t think you’d noticed…”

“I noticed,” he says, and those two words are velvet and silk, black cherry and whipped cream, sinfully rich and smooth and full of promise. “How about tomorrow night, around seven? I’ll stop by your place.”

“Okay.” Francis’ heart hammers in his chest. So soon. And yet not soon enough.

“See you then.”

***

Francis’ entire closet has been emptied.

He’s not a fashion guru by any stretch, but he wants to look his best for Izaack. The man always wore the nicest looking suits, a new one for every broadcast, or at least he’d never recognized the same tie twice. He doesnt think a tie seems quite right for this outing. Maybe just a long sleeve shirt and slacks. White and black. Not unlike his milkman uniform colors.

He spends a great deal of time in the bathroom. Extra time shaving. Cursing when he knicks his cheeks and throat with the razor more than once. His hair, of course, is refusing to cooperate. Stubborn cow licks standing this way and that. He runs his fingers underneath his eyes. They’re as bruised looking as ever. He’s never slept well, and the position he works doesn’t exactly help that cause, either. Getting up before the birds five days a week or more isn’t exactly conducive to getting adequate rest.

He sighs, finally surrendering. There’s nothing else he can do. He doesn’t own the expensive looking, tailor made Italian cut suits or have that thick head of charcoal hair that sits perfectly in place, the flawless complexion or muscular physique. He looks like someone playing dress up, a pretender. Tired and pale. He can’t imagine what about him has attracted the news reporter’s eye.

Gauss is prompt, arriving precisely at the designated hour. He raps on the door softly and the milkman finds himself face to face with a man he’s coveted for a very long time. Mosses had though his height of six feet had been decent, but Izaack’s got a good half foot piled on top of that. And as well fitting as his suits are (and yes, he is wearing one now) there’s no concealing the muscles that strain the seams at times as he gestures during a newscast. Francis feels so small next to him.

“Ready to go?” The smile is meant to be reassuring, but it only makes the third floor resident’s stomach flutter. He nods and fumbles the door closed and follows the taller man to the elevator and then outside the building. The dark sedan he’s lead towards is unrecognizeable—he’d had no idea what type of vehicle the reporter drove before this. It suits him, though. Sleek and posh and classy, just like its owner.

The seats inside the car are cushioned in plush leather that Francis sinks down into. He secures the lap restraint which earns a little amused smile from his companion before the engine purrs to life.

The milkman has not been on a date in a long time, and he has not been driven anywhere for even longer. He’s accustomed to being behind the wheel, not being chauffeured around. It seems to further offset the balance between the two men. He feels inferior. Even a bit helpless. His eyes focus on the dark hairs lining the hand that grips the steering wheel, the platinum banded watch that probably costs more than what the delivery man earns in a year. He wonders what common ground they can possibly find for conversation. Worlds apart. What was he even doing, living in that apartment building? Surely there were more elegant, upscale offerings in the city. Easily obtainable for a man of his standing and economic means.

“Where are we going?” It seems as safe as any other option to dive into a discourse.

“Someplace nice. I think you’ll like it.”

Francis can’t imagine how the man would know what he does and doesn’t enjoy. They’re virtual strangers.

The car halts at a traffic light and the milkman feels the other man’s eyes on him. He swallows nervously and glances over.

“You look very tense,” the reporter remarks, one arm casually reaching across the seats to drape over Francis’ shoulders. He stiffens and Izaack hums thoughtfully, his thumb pressing against the knotted muscles between his neck and shoulder, working in small circles. “Must be those long hours sitting in that wretched delivery truck. You could do with a proper massage.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

The light turns green and the hand slithers back across, fingernails scraping the fabric of his shirt. Francis thinks he might just spontaneously combust right then. It was all so much, so quickly. He doesn’t know how to respond. Well, maybe not with words. Other parts of him certainly seemed to know.

He squirms in his seat, staring hard outside the passenger window, willing the rising arousal to calm down. He notices a billboard atop one of the high rises advertising the television station the man beside him works at, featuring a larger than life display of their star reporter, and it doesn’t help things any. He can’t escape the man. He’s everywhere.

Francis doesn’t recognize the building he’s brought to. It’s dark and unmarked, with a stern looking bouncer outside that gives even the formidable Gauss’ muscles a run for their money. Izaack parks along a stockade fence behind the establishment, a fair distance away from the building and any other patrons’ cars. He turns the key in the ignition and then leans back, the leather seat creaking slightly.

Francis doesn’t know what to do. Should he open the passenger door? His palms feel clammy. He’s got the entire instrument panel memorized now. The chrome detail of the interior’s trim. He doesn’t know where else to gaze.

“Look at me.”

Francis turns his head slowly. It’s dark in the parking lot. The nearest streetlight is some distance away. The taller man’s features are bathed in shadows.

“You’re nervous.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t go out. Haven’t in a long time. And I’ve never been…out with a man,” he finishes in a breathless sort of rush. He’s heard stories about what happens to people that dared to express homosexuality openly. It wasn’t just a shunned, taboo practice. People were harmed. Worse than. It was the kind of thing you had to keep behind closed doors. A big risk for someone of Izaack’s notoriety to be taking, if this place is what Francis is beginning to suspect it might be.

“No one here is going to judge you for that. Trust me.”

The milkman isn’t confident, even if his companion exudes so much faith in the alleged discretion and safety of this location. “Have you…have you ever…”

“Been with a man?” He supplies. Francis nods. “Yes. And women, too. But I prefer the company of the former.”

“You could have anybody. Why me?”

Izaack’s head tips thoughtfully. “Why not you?”

“I’m not famous like you. Not…refined. I don’t have nice clothes or a fancy car or any of that.”

“The fame doesn’t matter. Yes, it affords one nice things, and yes, I enjoy them. But those things are material and fleeting. At the end of the day, they don’t really matter. I come home to an apartment full of them, and it still feels empty. I don’t care what you’re wearing. I’m more interested in the man beneath.”

Francis stares, open mouthed. He doesn’t know what he’s expected the reporter to be like up close and personal but this…this isn’t it. So candid. So raw.

“Look, maybe we should just get something over with right now. Break the ice, you know. Then you’re not going to be worrying and wondering about it the whole time we’re trying to have a conversation inside.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Something like this.” Izaack’s knuckles graze his jaw. “Relax, Francis. I’m not going to bite. Unless you want me to,” he adds with a mischievous smirk. Then his expression softens and he leans over to kiss him.

Oh.

It’s soft and sweet in the beginning, just a light brush. Then the kiss deepens, gets rougher. He feels Izaack’s tongue prodding his mouth open and he surrenders with a moan. Kissing a woman is nothing like this, not that he’d had a lot of practice with the opposite sex, either. But women have smaller jaws and mouths and more delicate bone structure in general. Everything curved where with this man it is all angles: strong, blocky jaw and cleft square chin and a sharp jut of aquiline nose, every feature digging in, demanding its presence to be known. His fingers curl around the side of Francis’ throat, and for one wild moment he thinks the reporter is going to squeeze and the idea excites him more than terrifies him and that, right there, should give him pause. But he’s at the apex of a rollercoaster and there is nowhere to go except plummeting downward. His own fingers curl around the news anchor’s lapel and he sucks and licks and even lets his teeth boldly nip at those juicy lips and that thrusting tongue and it’s wet and messy and absolutely glorious. His cock hurts, struggling so fiercely against the seam of his fly, demanding release. He’s panting, desperately seeking air when they finally draw apart, and for all his suave, confident demeanor, the man behind the wheel looks just as shaken as he feels.

A lazy, crooked sort of smile curves Izaack’s mouth, just barely visible in the dim interior of the luxury automobile. “Well, I think it’s safe to say you definitely prefer the company of men as well.”

“Not men. You.”

“Me,” he agrees, his smile broadening. “Need a minute before we head inside?”

“Uh…yeah.”

Francis tries to find something else to occupy his thoughts and ease the bulge tenting his slacks. But it’s difficult.

More difficult than ever, now that he knows exactly what he can have, right within arm’s reach.

[oftenwantedafton]

the wraith | dave miller x female reader

rating | explicit

part 1/?

words | 3.5k

cw | none for this chapter

ao3 link

You’ve got a crush on your neighbor who lives across the street.

And really, aren’t you just embarrassed, ashamed to be feeling something like this obsessive, borderline manic schoolgirl affection at your age? Two decades on this planet and you haven’t learned any better by now?

No, you’re not embarrassed nor ashamed and no, you haven’t learned any better either, apparently, because from the moment you’d phoned the number on the advertisement in the local newspaper, inquiring about the affordable apartment that’s just become vacant, you’d been doomed to this fate.

Cursed to become besotted with the man that you see standing so casually beneath the pergola leading to the side yard smoking a cigarette, the wood beams laden with pendulous boughs of wisteria, their sweet perfume flooding the air, even at this distance. You’re just bringing the last of your things inside and he’s just leaving for work, apparently, the lanky figure clad in a security guard uniform crossing the front yard to reach the driveway and enter a toffee colored sedan, leaving a puff of smoke in his wake.

Even though it had been the briefest of glimpses, you’re already hooked, addicted, infatuated. That sooty, messy hair, those tired eyes, the contrasting gaunt cheekbones and generous lips appeal to you instantly. He moves differently, too; not just a normal human stride, but something more stealthy, slinky, smooth, the way a panther might prowl across the grass. You’ve forgotten, for a moment, how to breathe; forgotten the box that weighs your arms down, your attention focused solely on capturing every moment of your new neighbor’s movements during this twilight hour.

“I wouldn’t.” You hear a voice and the spell finally breaks, his car gone and your attention wavering. Its owner is the elderly woman who lives downstairs from you. It’s her that’s renting the apartment, now that her grandson has moved out and into a home of his own. She’s talkative, this one; you’d noticed it instantly. Lonely, perhaps, now that the last family member has left.

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Get involved with that one. Call him the wraith, because that’s what he is. A ghost that can’t stop haunting what he once had, a sliver of who he used to be. Thought himself so high and mighty, once. Had a wife, children. Ran that restaurant, the one with the talking robot animals. He’s changed his name, had moved out for awhile, but now he’s back and I remember him. I remember who he was.” Her voice gets a soft touch of reverie at the end as she grows lost in some memory.

You blink, overwhelmed by the information dump, but it doesn’t daunt you in the slightest. “What’s his name?”

“I forget,” she mumbles, frowning. “Dave something is what he’s calling himself.” She turns and opens the screen door, pausing. “Miller,” she says.

“Like the beer,” you joke.

“I wouldn’t know.”

The door snaps shut behind her.

***

You think you hear the vintage car returning the next morning, sometime around seven. It doesn’t sound like modern automobiles; it has more of a distinctive, throaty purr. You’re still tired from unpacking the night before, still have a lot left ahead of you, so you don’t rise to peer out the window. That comes later in the day, with you staring across the street, watching and waiting for him to reappear, but he doesn’t. You’re sitting at the bottom of the stairs on the side of the house that lead to your new apartment later that evening, chin in hand, wondering what he might be doing inside. Getting caught up on sleep? Chores? What did he do all day, in that big house, all by himself?

“You back out here again moping? I told you to leave it alone. You don’t want the kind of trouble that man brings, believe you me,” your landlord mutters, moving down the line of her flower boxes, giving each a healthy dose of water.

“What kind of trouble does he bring?” You let your hand drop, tucking it with its partner between your knees.

“Kids went missing from that restaurant of his. Snatched them right up from under their parents’ noses. God only knows what he did with them.”

“If that’s the case, then why isn’t he in jail?”

“Because they couldn’t prove it. Never found any bodies. They just vanished. But we knew. We all knew.”

You worry your bottom lip. Suddenly your prospective crush didn’t seem quite as appealing. “But how did you know, if there was no proof?”

The watering can empties, the last few drops falling, and the woman gives you a sharp look. “We just did. And the wife knew it, too. They never said exactly how she passed on. Maybe he did her in, or maybe she did herself in. And his own kids…well, all labeled as accidents, but I doubt that’s fully the truth, either.”

“That’s horrible.”

“‘Course it is. That’s why I’m trying to steer you right. Stay away from that man. You’ll be glad you did. I’m heading in now, before the mosquitos eat me alive. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” You hear the screen door snap closed, signaling her return indoors. You’re just about to rise and do the same when you see the man back beneath the pergola again, the end of another cigarette flaring to life. He glances in your direction, in what might have been a casual observation, but it doesn’t feel anything like that. Those eyes are boring right into you, even at this distance. Your breath hitches and your hand remains frozen on the railing. You think there might be a slight twitch of his lips around that paper roll slotted between them, an almost-not-quite smile, before you turn around and ascend the staircase, returning to your apartment. You twitch aside the curtain when you reach your bedroom to discover he’s still standing there, head tipping back slightly to exhale a stream of smoke, and you swear he’s looking at you again. You let the curtain drop back into place, your heart pounding.

It takes you a very long time to fall asleep.

***

The next night is bingo night, and you’re invited, which you politely decline.

You have to admit your landlord looks charming, all dressed up, lipstick on, ready for an evening out. You promise to water the flowers for her and wave as she settles into the car of one of her friends who’s dropped by to give her a ride to the local bingo hall. You fill up the watering can, noting the water leaking out around the spout of the faucet. The gasket has probably rotted out. You’ll mention it the next time you see her, it wasn’t a difficult fix.

You turn, and of course the man across the street is outside once again, in his customary security uniform, one hand tucked into his pants pocket, the other bringing the usual cigarette to his lips. You wonder if that’s all he exists on, accounting for his thin build. Maybe just cigarettes and coffee, and the occasional solid item just to survive, the bare minimum necessary.

You busy yourself with the watering and do your best to ignore him, knowing he’s watching you, wanting desperately to look but forcing yourself not to. You reach the end of the line of flower boxes and the watering can runs out of water. You’ll have to face in his direction to return it to where the homeowner keeps it tucked beside the porch, right next to the latticed edging. You inhale deeply and resolve to meet his gaze.

Oh. He’s still staring, and you can’t look away this time. You bend slightly to set the watering can down and find yourself moving across the street, glancing to either side just long enough to check for approaching cars before crossing the road. You step on the lawn which looks like it’s quite overdue for a trim, ducking beneath the long pergola dripping purple blossoms, finally grinding to a halt when you reach your neighbor. He is so pretty, so stupidly attractive. Even his hands warrant attention, you think, noting a willowy wrist peeking from beneath the fastened shirt sleeve, the fingers pinching the cigarette long and slender.

“It’s too hot to wear long sleeves.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Not how you’d planned on greeting him, not that you’d planned on greeting him at all, but here you are, standing on his property.

He takes a drag and shrugs. Broadly spread shoulders, but thin. “Do I look hot?”

You want to answer yes. Even his voice. Even his voice is sultry, raspy, sinful. Instead you introduce yourself, stating your name, declaring you’ve moved in across the street. Nothing like stating the obvious. “You’ve been watching me,” you conclude.

One dark eyebrow rises, stirring the obsidian hair that tumbles over his forehead. “You’ve been watching me,” he replies. Caught. Guilty as charged.

“Not really,” you mumble. The scent of the wisteria is stronger here. It’s almost too much, too cloying, overpowering. “My landlord says your name is Dave Miller.” It’s like pulling teeth, trying to get the man to volunteer dialogue. Customary to introduce oneself once you’ve been told the other person’s name, but he isn’t picking up on any of the traditional polite social cues, or maybe he’s just choosing to ignore them outright.

“That’s not all she’s said, I’ll wager.” He flicks a bit of ash onto the lawn. You’re noticing now there are burned patches here and there from previous careless strikes where he’s missed the cement squares that had once served as a smooth walkway, now overgrown. “Well? Am I right?”

“Yes,” you admit grudgingly. God, those eyes. What would it be like to have those hovering right above your face when he…

“And?” Dave prompts. “What did she say?”

“She said she remembers you from before. You used to live here with a wife and kids. Owned a restaurant.”

“She’s mistaken. A touch senile, I’m afraid. The man who lived here before me looked quite different, I assure you. Double my size easily, or so I’ve heard.”

Heard from whom?, you think. “She doesn’t seem senile to me.”

“There’s more, isn’t there? I can see that there is. Out with it, then. You might as well follow through to the end. You’ve come this far.”

You scuff the toe of your shoe over one of the charred patches of lawn. “She said kids went missing from the restaurant. And you never got caught. And now you’re back,” you conclude.

“I remember that story. Terrible tragedy, all those poor missing children.” Miller sounds like he’s being sincere, his tone sympathetic, but you wonder if it’s false, a coverup for what’s really hiding beneath.

“She seems so sure you’re the original owner of the restaurant. And this house.”

“Would I be working as a security guard if I owned a restaurant? And why would I come back to live in the same house? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t know.”

He tosses the end of the cigarette down—it lands squarely on the center of the paving stone this time—and grinds it beneath his heel. “Like I said, she’s senile. She’s confusing her details.”

“Maybe,” you say. You’re not convinced one way or the other. The elderly woman had seemed so certain. Could she really be mistaken? The man certainly wasn’t senile, but he could surely be lying. You simply can’t tell who’s right and who’s wrong. You don’t know either of them well enough yet to decide.

“Speaking of my job, I have to leave for work now.”

“Right. I should be heading back, too.” You begin walking away, turning back when you hear the older man’s voice calling one last statement to you.

“Welcome to the neighborhood.”

***

You don’t mention your conversation with Dave Miller to your landlord.

You’re still undecided about him, still wary, still hopelessly attracted to him. It’s Saturday now, and you’ve just helped her bring in the groceries, thinking maybe this is a sort of penance for the sin of your omission.

You exit the front door and for once you see Dave standing outside in regular clothes, dark pants and a long sleeve shirt of a similar color. Reminiscent of a cat burglar. You’re back in his yard before you even process what you’re doing.

“Back again? What’s the latest slander your landlord is spreading?”

“Nothing. She hasn’t said anything else.” You’re talking in a hushed tone, which is foolish, really, because she certainly couldn’t hear you at this distance.

“Hmmm.” He takes a contemplative drag. “You didn’t tell her we’ve spoken, did you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just doesn’t seem like I needed to. I’m an adult. I can do what I want.”

“You’re good at keeping secrets, then.”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

He makes a little humming sound. “What’s your story, then? Work? School? Boyfriend?” This last said with a smirk.

“I work in medical records. Going to start my training to get my associate’s degree in the fall. I want to be a medical transcriptionist. No boyfriend.”

The dark haired man taps the end of his cigarette. “Good with your hands, then? Typing,” he adds, doing a quick little mimicking gesture with those nimble looking fingers of his, but you think the implied innuendo was quite intentional.

“I manage alright, yes,” you admit, feeling color rise in your cheeks.

“Don’t mind all those gruesome descriptions? I can imagine some of it must be quite graphic.”

“No, it doesn’t bother me.”

Miller inhales and exhales, looking thoughtful. You feel yourself being measured, judged. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

“Walk with me. Your friend is spying. I can see her from here.” He nods and you turn to see the lace curtains in the first floor window shifting. You can only imagine the lecture you’re going to get for not heeding her advice later on.

The raven haired man leads you to the back of the property, where you discover plots of dirt that are full of weeds and a patio area that looks as neglected as the front and side yard, the furniture coated in pollen and dirt.

“It’s a shame there’s nothing planted here. The soil looks good,” you murmur.

“You have a green thumb?” He sounds surprised.

“A bit. My parents had a garden at their house. Vegetables, mostly.”

“I’ve no use for it, really. The inside of the house is in a similar state. Unused, untouched space.”

“Why buy it? If it’s just you…”

He smiles bitterly. “It was very cheap. They were practically giving it away.”

“Because of what happened to the wife and kids?”

Dave’s gaze sharpens, the cigarette pinched between his fingers temporarily forgotten. “What do you know about that?”

“Not much. Just heard there were accidents,” you answer carefully. You’re still not sure what to make of this creature. Maybe your landlord was right after all. There’s something a bit unsettling about the clean shaven man standing beside you, as attractive as he still is to you. You just can’t figure out what it is yet.

“She does like to gossip, doesn’t she?” A fresh cloud of smoke blooms, courteously diverted to the side. He almost looks relieved.

“I think she’s just lonely.”

“What about you? Are you lonely?”

The question startles you. You haven’t given the matter much thought. You suppose you are a bit isolated at the moment. That’s how it is, starting over in a new town. But you get along with your coworkers, and you think you’ll do fine in school. You’re due for a visit with family soon, too. “No, I…I don’t think so,” you stammer. “I’m managing alright.”

Your companion grunts, grinding out the last of the nicotine laced roll. At the rate he’s going, the yard is going to be littered with them in no time, you think.

“Listen. The house could use some cleaning and organizing. I can’t be bothered with half the things that need to be done. Would you be interested in working part time, maybe one or two days a week?”

“Working as a housekeeper for you?”

“Yes, something like that.”

You blink, surprised by this offer. You’re once again wondering why this man would want this home, cheap or not, when he clearly has no interest in its care and maintenance.

Dave rakes a hand through his hair and smiles at you, the first, seemingly most sincere one he’s offered. You can see his teeth now, noting the chipped gap between two of the molars on the top row on the left side. They’re surprisingly white, in spite of the smoking habit; perhaps this was a newer addiction to supplement a previous one. “I’ll give you a tour if you want. You can think about it. Let me know what you think. No pressure.”

“Um, yeah. I guess. Sure.” You find yourself returning the smile somewhat apprehensively. He pulls the back door open and gestures for you to step inside.

You hesitate. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.

Don’t be ridiculous, you argue silently. What, is he going to murder you in broad daylight? With people all around?

“So where do you work, anyway? What do you guard?” You’re trying to keep your voice casual as you step inside. It’s not well lit. It smells dusty.

The older man is just behind you. The door clicks shut. The dusty odor is replaced with the scent of the cigarette he’d just smoked. Aftershave. He stands very close, so near your sleeves practically brush each other.

“Didn’t I mention it already?”

“No, you didn’t.” You wait for him to move forward, to guide you. Instead he makes a gesture for you to lead the way, to explore. You’re in a kitchen. Large. Copper molds hanging from the backsplash, in need of cleaning. Dishes in the sink. You’re willing to bet the refrigerator was either empty like a typical bachelor’s or else filled with forgotten, expired items. You’re hoping it’s the former.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Where do you work?”

He steps past you now, finally taking the lead. Dining room, living room. These dusty as well but otherwise not alarmingly untidy. Upright piano in the corner, you note.

“Freddy’s,” he says off handedly.

“What’s that?”

“You’ve never heard of it?”

“No.”

He clicks his tongue. “Children these days.”

“I’m not a child,” you remind him. “I’m also not from around here.”

“That’s right. Well. It’s—it was—a children’s party themed restaurant. Arcade. Animatronics. Quite impressive.”

“Wait. You mean the place with the talking robot animals?”

His eyes narrow. “A very crude and vulgar way to refer to the genius instilled in that place, but yes. The very same.”

“So you’re working at the restaurant, the same one, that the guy who kidnapped the kids from owned?”

“Allegedly kidnapped,” he murmurs. “Yes.”

“And you live in his house.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think that’s maybe just a little bit of a strange coincidence?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Why are you guarding the place if it closed down?”

“Because people are thieves. People are nosy, like your landlord. Someone has to stand guard.”

“I guess,” you mumble, unconvinced.

“Shall we continue the tour then?”

“Okay.”

“Half bath here. Basement,” he taps on one door as you pass it. “Stays locked. Don’t go down there.”

“Yeah, don’t worry. Basements creep me out.”

“Four bedrooms upstairs.” He ascends the steps two at a time. You can barely keep up. The man was speedy. “One’s being used for storage, you can ignore that for now. One’s been converted to an office. This is the master. Full bathroom there. And the final room is a guest room.”

“Plan on having guests?”

“You never know.”

“Right. Well, it doesn’t seem too rough. I could tackle it. Couple days a week, like you said.”

“Precisely.”

“What are you going to do about the outside?”

“I don’t know. Hire a lawn service, I guess.”

“But what about the garden and all that?”

“As I’ve said, I’ve no use for it.”

“It’s a shame to let it go to waste, really.”

Another shrug. You follow him back down the stairs and your eyes fall on the piano again. “Do you play?”

“No. That came with the house. Just like the rest of the furniture.”

“Oh.” You rub your bare arms nervously. “Well, I guess that’s it then. Any particular days you were thinking of?”

“Maybe Tuesday and Saturday, afternoons, if that suits you?”

“Alright.” You pause. “Aren’t you going to be sleeping before you go to work? I’m not going to disturb you?”

“It’ll be fine.”

Miller escorts you to the front door this time. “Tell your friend I said hello. I’m sure she’s got herself in an absolute state by now. You’ve just gotten to see something she’s likely been curious about for years.”

“She’s not bad, honestly. I think it’s all just a misunderstanding.”

“Maybe,” he says, cracking another one of those bright smiles. “See you Tuesday.”

The door closes behind you and you feel as if you’re waking from a dream, the entire experience surreal.

Had you really just agreed to clean the neighbor's house twice a week?

[notmyneighbor]

in the dark | izaack gauss x francis mosses

part 2/?

words | 2.4k

cw | explicit sexual content

ao3 link

Francis Mosses isn’t sure what he expects to find inside the unmarked establishment Izaack Gauss has brought him to.

The interior of the building isn’t much better illuminated than its exterior. The milkman cautiously follows his neighbor down two flights of bland cement stairs that lead into a much cozier looking lounge area with circular, candlelit tables and padded booths. There is soft music playing and the air is hazy with cigarette smoke. It’s more than a little disconcerting that the bouncer outside hadn’t even screened them, apparently recognizing Izaack, a subtle nod the only indication that the pair of men were cleared to enter. That makes Francis wonder just how often his date frequents this questionable establishment.

Izaack sits at one of the tables tucked against the wall—apparently there is no formality when it comes to which seating area the patrons occupy—and a waitress drifts over to inquire if they would like drinks. Mosses sticks with a seltzer while Gauss orders a martini. It doesn’t take long for the beverages to arrive.

Francis takes a small sip from his glass, toying with the napkin it’s been placed on. He surreptitiously glances around the room. There are a mixture of same sex couples, pairs of males and females as well. Everyone seems preoccupied with one another, barely sparing the newcomers a glance. Very preoccupied, in some cases. He spies more than one couple kissing or holding hands, intimate public displays that make the new patron feel even more nervous. He jumps when he feels his companion’s hand settle on his thigh. The circular arrangement of the seating has them side by side instead of across from each other, further heightening his anxiety.

“I told you that you can relax here. No one is paying any attention,” Izaack murmurs, but removes his hand. His companion still feels its weight, the heat lingering even after its departure.

“There are never police raids?”

The news anchor waves a hand in the air dismissively. “The authorities have other things to worry about these days.”

“What about the doppels? We didn’t even get screened at the door.”

The news anchor sets his glass down. “We did get screened, just not in the way that you’re accustomed to.”

Francis frowns. “What does that mean?”

It’s Izaack’s turn to fuss with the beverage napkin beneath his drink. “The doppelgängers aren’t what you think. What they’ve been portrayed as.”

“I’m not following.”

The reporter sighs. “It’s a story I’m working on. A big one. But I’ve got to do more research. I need more evidence before I can present it to the public.”

“You’re making it sound like you’re a doppel sympathizer, Izaack. That’s dangerous. Even more dangerous than this,” he hisses under his breath.

“I’m aware of the risks involved. But they’re worth taking.”

The shorter man shakes his head, running his fingers absently over the condensation on his mostly untouched glass. “I don’t want to get dragged into some game I don’t know the rules for.”

Izaack drains the rest of his gin and dry vermouth blended cocktail and leans back, signaling for another drink. He waits until after it’s been brought before he resumes the conversation. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Francis. Nothing about this—whatever this thing between us potentially is—is going to be easy. For multiple reasons, not the least of which is who I am, a well known television personality. Coupled with the distasteful laws against what we both desire, which naturally complicates things. As for the story I’m working on, that has to stay secret for now. It’s in everyone’s best interests. All that being said, I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t have complete confidence in its safety. I want you to relax and enjoy yourself.”

The other man’s words don’t really reassure him. “How many other men have you brought here?”

Izaack takes a long swallow before answering. He hadn’t touched the olive in the first drink. This time he clutches tbe toothpick between his teeth and drags the pitted garnish free, chewing and stalling further. “Some of it was business related,” he finally responds.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I want to get to know you better. That’s why I took you here tonight.”

“You’re still deflecting.”

Izaack smirks. “I think you might have missed your calling. You’d be a good reporter. Relentless.” The smile fades. “A few, Francis. And none of those dalliances became serious. Pleasant encounters of varying lengths that ended with amicable partings for one reason or another. I think it’s going to be different with you.”

He reaches for the other man’s hand. Francis has to force himself to allow it, still wary of being observed.

“Anything worth having in life involves taking risks. I know this is a lot. That’s why I’m being up front with you. I’d understand if you decided you’d rather not pursue this. And I won’t hold it against you. I’ll respect whatever decision you make.”

The milkman hesitates as he weighs his reply. There is the obvious appeal of intimacy with the man he’s harbored a crush on for a long time. But he’s not just any man. He is well known. And allegedly working on a breaking story that paints the enemy doppelgängers in a very different light. Not to mention homosexual relationships were, simply put, illegal. He’s heard what happens to people that were caught and convicted. The abuse suffered in jail. It was a death sentence, sometimes, with guards turning heads or even participating.

Was a relationship with this man—who might not want more than another of his so called brief dalliances, in spite of his implication that it might be different between them—worth so much risk?

Francis sucks in a deep breath, gathering courage. “I’m willing to give it a try. That’s all I can promise, Izaack.”

The reporter nods. “That’s fair. If you’d answered quickly, I would’ve been worried. You’re a thoughtful, careful sort of person. It’s not a bad trait to have. It’ll balance me out nicely, I think. Now that we’ve settled that, let’s move on to more pleasant topics. Namely, you. I want to know more about you, Francis. What you do in your free time. What your hopes for the future are. What makes you tick, and…what makes you tick,” he says, concluding with a smirk after the final word.

The delivery man blinks. He doesn’t think he has many interesting hobbies. He doesn’t really think that much about the future. He’s just kind of been meandering from day to day, taking each one as it comes, doing his job and living a quiet life.

Maybe it was time to change that.

***

Francis has finally surrendered and gotten a couple of drinks. Just beers, nothing exotic, but it had taken the edge off his nerves a bit, making the words slip out easier.

He talks more than he ever has to anyone, ever.

He’s aware that’s probably largely due to the influence of the person seated beside him. The man does this for a living. Of course he’s adept at withdrawing information.

But there’s something easy about it. Comfortable. Izaack really listens, not just murmuring little grunts of acknowledment or nodding his head but following the words raptly, his eyes focused, his chin eventually coming to rest on his hand. He makes Francis feel as if he actually has something interesting to say, becoming deserving of his attention. There is a brief outline of childhood, where he grew up, his family. A farm, the green thumb never really leaving him. He has garden boxes on his balcony. A miniature vegetable garden, a nod towards his past. A book of handwritten recipes passed down through generations is another relic he’s kept in use. Nothing tastes as good as when his mother makes it, but he’s tried to keep the tradition alive. He enjoys crossword puzzles. He always does the one in the Sunday paper. He likes visiting the library and poring over old photographs. Seeing what the city looked like in its early days. Noting which buildings had persevered.

It’s late by the time the flow of words seem to slow and dry up like a tightened faucet. The lounge is emptying. Francis isn’t sure precisely how much alcohol he’s consumed. More than intended. He’s feeling lightheaded.

Izaack waits for him outside the restroom. The stairs suddenly seem a daunting task but he manages them, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The bouncer says nothing when they pass by him upon exiting.

“This way, Francis, remember?” Izaack tucks an arm beneath the milkman’s pair, partially guiding and partially keeping him upright. “You are a lightweight, that’s for certain. And that wasn’t even hard liquor. I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Didn’t eat all day. Too nervous,” he mumbles.

“You should have told me. We could have gotten something.”

Francis shakes his head. They’ve reached the reporter’s dark luxury sedan again. He leans heavily against it while Izaack unlocks the passenger door for him. He slumps heavily inside.

“Am I making an ass out of myself?” He asks once the news anchor has slid behind the wheel.

“Not too badly, I think,” he says gently.

The intoxicated man blinks at his companion. “How come you’re not drunk?”

“Size difference. Tolerance. I’m a little buzzed, in truth, but I promise to get you home safely.”

“You know the address?”

“I should hope so. We both live in the same building, remember?”

“Oh.” Francis’ cheeks turn scarlet. He had, in his inebriated state, actually forgotten.

“You goose. Honestly.” Izaack leans over to press a kiss on his shoulder before starting the engine and Francis’ body hums at the feeling of that brief gesture of affection.

They ride in silence the rest of the way home. Izaack eases into a parking spot behind the DDD guarded building and glances over at his companion.

Francis’ head is tipped into the cradle of the headrest. He gives the reporter a languid smile. “You’re really handsome.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“I’m not. I’m very plain. Ordinary. Average.”

“No,” the other man disagrees. “None of those things.”

“Hmph.” He shoves at the door, frowning until the news anchor helpfully leans over to unlock it for him. “I knew that,” he says defensively.

The doorman doesn’t look pleased at being disturbed in the middle of the night. There is a great deal of scowling and muttering, particularly when it is the milkman’s turn. He hears the relieved sigh his companion utters once they are granted entrance and reach the elevator.

The doors slide open after a soft chime and Francis sees the familiar sight of his apartment door. Izaack waits patiently for him to fumble the key out of his pocket.

“I’d like to come in and say goodnight to you properly.”

Even through the haze of his drunken stupor, Francis recognizes the intention behind those words. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, come in.” He unlocks the door and the taller man follows him inside. He stands there, listing slightly, feeling awkward as his companion closes the door. What was he supposed to do?

The reporter solves the problem for him. “Come here, Fran.” He’s not sure how he feels about this new nickname. Maybe it’s okay. Izaack pulls him close, pressing him back against the door. “I’m not taking advantage of you, am I?”

“Fuck, no.” The words surprise both of them, hanging heavy in the sudden silence. “Sorry,” he apologizes hastily.

“Don’t be. I like that dirty mouth of yours. Suits you.” The news anchor’s fingers follow the curves of the milkman’s buttocks while his mouth finds his. Francis is instantly, painfully hard and much, much more sober. He doesn’t like all the layers still shielding the other man from his eyes and his fingers. He tugs at the suit jacket and the other man shrugs out of it, letting it drop on the floor. The suspenders are a joint effort to pull over muscular shoulders. That’s as far as he gets before Izaack’s working on both of their flies.

“Oh, God.” He’s got Izaack’s hand and cock pressed against his own dick. Rubbing both at the same time in rough, sloppy jerks. He can’t even tell who’s pre is lubricating the activity. It’s just sleek heat and that perfect, warm hand stroking their pricks up and down.

Francis whimpers and it’s needy. He can’t even believe he’s doing this, who he’s doing this with. He suddenly feels a surge of jealousy, wondering who else has known this pleasure, this intimacy. His kisses grow rougher and his hands curl possessively in Izaack’s shirt.

“I’ve got you, babe. Cum for me. I want to see this pretty cock shoot,” he hums beside his ear.

“Izaack…” Francis cums almost at the same instant his partner does. There is a sudden eruption of hot fluid, and a chorus of moans and gasps. Izaack’s forehead drops to rest against his and he feels the perspiration there, the dark curls damp with sweat. He tastes the salt of it on the lips that gently kiss him.

“Good, Fran?”

Still not sure about that nickname. “Yeah, good,” he agrees. “But I really need to piss.”

Izaack chuckles. “Yeah, same. Let’s take care of that before we say goodnight for real.”

The second floor resident graciously allows him to go first. When they’ve both finished, Francis finds himself back at his apartment door. The reporter has his jacket slung over one shoulder, his suspenders back in place, the tie around his neck still loosened. There’s a tempting little patch of dark hair in the v of that opened neckline that Francis stares hard at, his mouth watering.

“We should do this again. Soon. Very soon,” the news anchor adds, the series of pecks he’s delivering deepening with each word uttered. “Thank you for coming out with me. I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did.”

“Yeah.” It’s about all the milkman can manage. He’s exhausted. He wishes the other man would stay, but he knows it’s too soon for that. So he kisses him again and murmurs a final goodbye, shutting and locking the door and then leaning back against it for a few moments to collect his thoughts before he walks to his bedroom and drops onto the mattress, soon sleeping more soundly than he has in years.

[notmyneighbor]

in the dark | izaack gauss x francis mosses

part 3/?

words | 2.3k

cw | explicit sexual content

ao3 link

Francis’ next shift passes by in a blur.

It’s a lucky thing that the delivery truck seems to know the route, requiring little beyond his absent minded steering to each destination.

He can’t stop thinking about Izaack.

In truth, that fact is nothing new, really; he’s had a crush on the news reporter for some time now. But now there are memories, playing on endless loop. Real, actual things that they’d experienced together. He now knows the taste of his mouth, before and after cocktails. The feel of his body pressing to his, the rich, sensuous heat of his most intimate place slotted against his own, gripped by Izaack’s hand. The even hotter spill as they’d both climaxed, oozing release over each other. Even that strange discussion about the special news story he was working on, something about the doppelgangers not actually being what they seemed, works its way into these recollections, reminding him of its existence, hinting that the full disclosure of this secret may be life changing one day, for everyone, doppels and humans alike.

These thoughts swirl through his mind relentlessly throughout the course of the day. They persist as he presents his documents to the doorman once he returns home, further distracting him once he steps onto the elevator. He’s requested the wrong floor, something that’s easily remedied, but instead of simply pushing the button for the third floor he steps out onto the second, aiming for Izaack’s door.

He hesitates before knocking. They’d left things on a positive note—a very positive note, in fact—but the promise of when exactly they’d see each other next had been vague. He’s not sure what the procedure is. If he was supposed to wait for a phone call or a visit. Maybe he should let the more experienced news anchor run the show.

Well, he was here now. Might as well give it a shot. His knuckles strike the door. He thinks he hears movement inside. The door creaks open.

There he is, in all his glory. Still wearing his work clothes, the same suit Francis had seen him in that morning on television, minus the jacket, the long sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He smiles at the milkman, a slow, steady kind of buildup, not the bright flash of teeth he displays for the television cameras but a more intimate gesture, like a zipper being dragged open. Oh, not that analogy. He was aroused enough already.

Francis shuffles his feet. “Hi, Izaack.”

“Hi, Fran. This is a nice surprise.”

“I didn’t know if it was okay for me to come over or not. I just got back.”

“I can see that,” he murmurs, eyes roving over the milkman’s uniform. “And yes, it’s okay. More than. Come in.”

The taller man steps back to give him room to enter. The door clicks shut behind him and he hears the lock being turned, but he’s only barely aware of these actions.

Gauss’ apartment is gorgeous.

It’s hard to believe it’s the same square footage as his own; the identical layout of rooms, in fact. But whereas his own was barely furnished, much of it second hand and well worn, the news anchor’s was modernly decorated, with contemporary colors, flashy accents and an overall feel of luxury. He really did enjoy what his career had afforded him, just like he’d implied the previous evening.

“Wow.”

“Like it?”

“It’s so different from my place.” Suddenly he’s realizing the other man has already seen some of his apartment. He knows exactly how much of a disparity there is.

“Have a seat. I was just doing some typing. I’ll get you something to drink, if you like. Non alcoholic, don’t worry.”

Francis feels himself flushing as he sinks into the plush couch. He’d really embarrassed himself with the drinking last night, hadn’t he?

“How did you make out this morning? Not too hungover, I hope.” Izaack says, as if sensing his thoughts, handing him a glass and settling beside him.

“Headache. A little dehydrated. But not terrible.” He drains three quarters of the glass—just cold water this time, likely chilled in the refrigerator, but refreshing and much needed—and then sets it on top of a magazine sitting on the coffee table in front of him. “You looked good on the news. I mean, you always do. You couldn’t tell you’d been out late drinking the night before. I mean…”

Izaack smiles gently over his visitor’s stumbling. “Thank you. Having a team of makeup artists does help somewhat. I have to give credit where it’s due.” He stretches an arm out along the back of the couch and his fingers lightly stroke through the hair at the nape of Francis’ neck, then trace the curve of his ear, causing him to shiver. “You look good, too.”

“I look tired. I always do,” he mutters.

“You look good,” he repeats more firmly. “You’re so hard on yourself, Fran.”

“I don’t see what you see.”

Izaack’s arm drops. He stands, holding out a hand for Francis to take. “Let me show you, then, hmm?”

Francis’ heart pounds. He takes the offered appendage and he’s tugged easily to his feet. So strong. How does he keep forgetting, when he’s got all those bulging muscles on display right in front of him, straining the seams of his posh clothing?

The reporter’s bedroom is dark, the blinds still closed. He flips the lightswitch on his way inside the room, guiding the milkman forward. “You’re nervous, huh?”

Francis nods. He’s still not used to this. Any of this. It still feels like some wild dream come true.

“You know we’re going to take it as slow as you need to, right? There’s no rush. I just want to be with you. Make you feel good.” He lifts the cap from Francis’ head and tosses it on the nightstand, raking a hand through his russet hair that no doubt bears an imprint of the hat he has to wear for work. The bowtie surrenders easily soon after, the ends falling loose around his throat. Izaack licks up that column—honest to God, as if he’s enjoying an ice cream cone—before planting a messy wet kiss on his mouth.

The reporter hums in satisfaction at the other man’s response, his lips parting, his tongue already dipping back inside of Izaack’s mouth. He’s got a hand on the curve of one buttocks, squeezing, keeping their bodies pressed tightly together. He’d thought the drink he’d been gifted earlier had been thirst quenching, but it pales in comparison to this experience. Francis drinks from Izaack’s mouth, sucking his lips and his tongue, collecting saliva and letting it drip back in, only to have it thrust back inside his own mouth, a thick amalgamation of both men’s spit. His wrists twine around the television star’s broad neck. The third floor resident is pushed effortlessly onto the mattress, with the apartment’s owner following close behind, climbing over his body, at his mouth once again.

“So fucking pretty,” Izaack murmurs by his ear, raking his nails down his shirtfront. From there he begins working on the opening of Francis’ work pants and he hastily drags his shirt hem up and out of the way. Izaack kisses his stomach and each hip before he drags his briefs down. The milkman is torn between wanting to watch and wanting to just lie back and close his eyes, savoring the feel of that first swipe across the head of his leaking cock. Better than any fantasy he’d previously concocted during his rounds of self pleasure, the reality of the feel of that man’s mouth engulfing his erection, sliding down, eyes locked with his and okay, he’s going to watch every minute of this display, staring at and drowning in those gorgeous aqua gems. One of Izaack’s massive hands positively shrouds one hip, the fingers digging in deeply as his mouth descends closer to his pelvis, the other hand shoved beneath his shirt, teasing a nipple.

“Fuck…Izaack…” He doesn’t swear often, but the word is pulled from his lips, just like the news reporter’s tongue drags another round of early release from the opening of his prick. The dark haired man sucks and bobs his head up and down and that pleasant combination of suction and sliding has him positively humming. Francis is clutching a handful of the comforter and a handful of Izaack’s hair and his body still can’t get enough, hips lifting up to meet that damp, heavenly cavern, fucking his mouth and he lets him, he actually relinquishes control and fucking lets him use his mouth, his throat even, thrusting all the way inside. He feels the reaction of the gag reflex and it only spurs him on further. He’s completely lost in the sensation of being buried in that wet maw, sheathed and then withdrawn shallowly before slamming back inside again, only relenting when he’s on the brink of orgasm, gasping a brief warning to his partner. “Izaack, I’m gonna cum, I’m…”

The man actually makes a sound of encouragement around the cock shoved in his mouth and that’s it, that final vibration sending him over the edge. He curses again and shoots into the reporter’s mouth, the hand knotted in the licorice tresses shaking as each spurt of hot jizz is delivered. He doesn’t think he’s ever cum quite so hard or so much before, every time with this man always granting him new achievements.

He swallows—Francis hears it, and that sound, that knowledge that Izaack is gulping down a load of his cum, makes his cock twitch yet again. He knows what his release tastes like; he’d sampled it once out of curiosity in his youth, and he’s not going to say it was particularly pleasant, mainly kind of sour and bitter—but that flavor is completely different when it’s gifted second hand from Izaack’s tongue when he climbs back up to kiss him. Francis reaches for the other man’s belt, hurriedly trying to gain access to his erection, eager to return the favor of ultimate pleasure.

“You’re so fucking hot. So delicious. Making me choke on your cock. I can’t wait to fuck you. Let you fill me up, too…” He nips Francis’ ear, hissing when the milkman’s fingers curl around his cock. “You gonna jerk me off, babe? Make me shoot all over you?”

Francis is struggling to form a coherent sentence at this point. He’s still in that foggy post orgasmic state, now reeling from the filthy talk crooned into his ear. He makes a sort of choked moan that passes for agreement and it doesn’t take long for Izaack to fulfill that request, fucking into the tight circle of the other man’s fingers much as he’d fucked his throat, dumping a load of hot seed onto his stomach and chest, the uniform shirt just barely escaping, shoved up further at the last moment. His face tucks into the side of Francis’ neck and he remains there for a moment, panting, struggling to recover.

The reporter drops down beside him on the mattress, head tipping to one side to view his new lover, that lazy, seductive smile making its appearance once again. “Good, Fran?”

“Yeah.” He’s still quite overwhelmed by it all; by his own actions; by Izaack’s dirty talk; by all of it. The mess spread on his torso is cooling unpleasantly and he really wants a shower—normally something he does as soon as he gets home from work—but he’s stupidly, ridiculously content right now, lying beside the other man. He stares into those blown pupils and admires the normally carefully coiffed waves of hair falling in damp, messy tendrils and he thinks, I’ve done this. I’ve taken him apart. This is a side of him most people never get to see. Could never even imagine.

“Shower?”

“Yes, please.”

“Then dinner?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Izaack agrees, leaning over for another kiss.

***

It just might be the best shower Francis has ever had in his life.

Granted, he’s never actually bathed with anyone else before, so he doesn’t have much to compare it to except taking one by himself, but this is so, so much better.

There’s something special about being pressed against the other man under that hot stream of water, caressed by the pulsating sprays and Izaack’s digits lathered with soap. Massaging over all those glorious muscles, so different from his own much narrower build. But the reporter has a way of making him feel like he’s just as irresistibly attractive, worshipping mouth pressed along temple and shoulder and collar bone, shower water spilled over lips and over tongues. He tucks against him once they’ve left that blissful stall and dried off, Francis now wearing an undershirt and briefs borrowed from Izaack—and it feels right, in a way he can’t explain other than that. He’s forgotten his earlier nervousness. He burrows and clings and the other man is receptive to all of it, returning it all tenfold.

Dinner is reheated takeout Izaack had picked up on the way home, and it’s perfect, too. They eat on the couch while watching television and Francis thinks, This is what other people, some lucky people, have. Someone to come home to. Someone to share a meal with. Make fun of silly characters on television. Steal kisses from. This is what I’ve been missing.

He wants to spend the night. But they’ve both got work again tomorrow and they’ve still got the neighbors to deal with. Leaving an apartment at night, not too suspicious. Guys hung out all the time. Unwind after work, have a few beers, watch a sports program. Emerging together in the early morning, though? That was less easily explained.

So Francis reluctantly redresses after the meal and now hovers by Izaack’s door. His face is cupped between the news anchor’s hands and he’s kissed and then he finds himself back on the elevator. That was all he could have, for now.

He knows this is only going to get harder the further on they go.

[oftenwantedafton]

A Consolation Prize - William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

Word Count - 5k

Summary - William Afton’s never really noticed you before tonight. Now that he has, he can’t stop looking.

Content/Warnings - dubious consent, creep game verse William Afton smut, oral sex, masturbation, touching, grinding, voyeurism

Also available on AO3

William Afton really craves a cigarette.

He’s already used up the last pack he’d squirreled away for emergencies and he hasn’t yet had a chance to get another one. His wife hates it when he smokes, but he doesn’t particularly care about that anymore. It’s not like she’ll get close enough to him to even notice any lingering scent, let alone taste. Several times a week turning to once a week shifting to monthly and now…well, he’s lost count, to be honest. Just like she seems to have lost interest. It’s always The kids will hear or I’m too tired. As if he isn’t tired, too; as if running a restaurant isn’t as much effort as raising children, one nearly grown and the middle not that far behind. It’s become a solo routine now. Just a quick release. Barely enjoyable.

So he’s made up his mind he’s just going to step out for a bit from his pizzeria and pick up a fresh pack. Maybe two. Fuck it, an entire carton. And that’s when he bumps into you by the rear exit that leads to the employee parking lot.

Shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Tears spilling down your cheeks. Well, fuck.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Afton, I know I’m supposed to be inside working, I just…”

“What happened?”

“My boyfriend just dumped me.”

He sighs. Teenage drama. Hardly his concern. But you’re so clearly distraught and it makes him feel something. Instinct taking over. He’s always been good with young people. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He said I was taking up too much of his time. He wanted to see more of his friends.”

“Without knowing the young man, I’m going to make a blanket statement here and say that boys his age are immature. He’ll regret his decision in time.”

“You think so?”

A hopeful note in your query. You still want to be with him, then. “Perhaps. And if he doesn’t, well, he’s an even bigger fool. Not worth your time. Certainly not worth all these tears.”

You sniffle, scrubbing at your cheeks. “I guess.”

The handkerchief in his shirt pocket doesn’t see much practical use; it’s become more of a fashion accent than anything. The last time he can recall using it was when his youngest had taken a tumble in the parking lot and had skinned his knee. Now it seems tonight it’s going to be put back into service. Dark purple nestled against the lighter violet shade of his dress shirt slipped free. He hands it to you and you hesitate.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Easy enough to wash.”

You seem a little embarrassed. Some of the pink coloring in your cheeks not from sorrow. A hasty swipe across your face, your runny nose quickly wiped.

The owner glances at his watch. It’s only an hour until close. “Why don’t you take the rest of the night off? Go home, take a shower, get a good night’s sleep. I won’t deduct it from your wages,” he adds.

“He was my ride home.”

“Well, I’m heading to the store. I can drop you off on the way.”

“You…you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” He fishes for his car keys, dragging them from his pants pocket.

“I have to go get my stuff.”

“Sure. I’ll wait.” A tentative smile from you. Pretty. You were pretty, even with your slightly puffy eyes and dripping nose. Afton leans back against the brick and mortar. The door clicks shut. Thumbs hooked into suspenders. Head tipping back to admire the evening sky. Nice evening. Early spring. The perfect temperature.

The door beside him reopens. You’ve got a backpack on your shoulder. He guides you to his car. Large sedan. Roomy. Necessary when you have a family. You settle into the passenger seat. “You can put your bag in the back if you want.” Waits for you to get settled, seatbelt secured. Starts the engine. A deep rumble of sound.

Your eyes linger on his bare forearms. He’d rolled up his sleeves earlier, finally surrendering to the warmth indoors. Pink scars beneath the dark hairs. He doesn’t even notice them anymore. But of course you do. Only natural to be curious. An accident. That’s what the rumor mill generated. And it was true enough, so he’d left it at that.

William pulls up to the gas station. Too many lights. So overwhelmingly illuminated. Lit up like fucking Christmas, a beacon in the otherwise dark stretch of road. “I’ll be right back. Want anything?” You shake your head. You’re still clutching the bit of fabric he’s lent you. But the tears have ceased. Your features are dry now. He leaves the keys in the ignition, depressing the lighter before he exits. They’re out of the cartons of the brand he likes, so he settles for a couple of packs. Tosses a candy bar down. He’s never known a woman to turn down chocolate. Sees the bucket of long stemmed roses on the counter and adds that to his purchases. Crimson petals. Baby’s breath. Tightly wrapped in plastic sheeting. Hands it to you when he gets back in the car, along with the candy. You’re hesitating again, tentatively reaching for this latest offering.

“You’ve had a shitty night. You deserve a treat.” Maybe he shouldn’t use profanity in front of you. You look a little wide eyed.

“Apologies. I tend to have a bit of a potty mouth when it’s this late. It’s been a long day.”

“It’s okay.” You glance down at your gifts. “You didn’t have to do this. Thank you.”

The older man nods, pulling on the bit of plastic to unwind the top casing of one of the packs of cigarettes. Cranks the drivers side window down partially and sits a cigarette between his teeth before pressing the glowing ring of the lighter to the tip of the paper wrapping. A grateful inhale and exhale aimed towards the open window. He replaced the lighter back in the slot and glances over at you. “Another bad habit. I try not indulge too often but…” A sort of apology. You shrug.

“My boy—my ex never got me anything.” You’re still looking at his purchases now resting on your lap.

He grunts. “How long were you together?”

“Almost six months.”

He shakes his head, taking another drag. “I think he’s probably done you a favor by leaving, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now. Doesn’t know how to treat a lady. Immature punk didn’t deserve you in the first place.” Said a bit vehemently. “You can do better.”

You don’t look entirely convinced, but that’s to be expected. You’re young, yet. You’ll learn.

“You ready to go?”

You nod. You live close by. Simple directions. Barely enough time to finish his cigarette. He pulls into your driveway, reaching over the seat to retrieve your backpack. You unzip it and tuck the rose and chocolate inside carefully. The plum handkerchief still resting on your thighs, carefully refolded so that your bodily fluids are discretely secured in the innermost portions.

“Just leave it there.” You follow his instructions, dropping it into the cupholder.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Afton. And…everything else.”

“My pleasure.”

Afton waits until he sees you’ve made it safely into the house. Withdraws a second cigarette from the pack before he shifts the vehicle into reverse. Another hasty shove at the lighter to heat the coil. Glancing over at the now vacant seat you’d occupied. Funny how he’d never really noticed you before tonight. He’s not even certain where you work. The prize counter, maybe? He’s trying to recall seeing you on the cameras in his office. Still uncertain. Lights the cigarette and inhales deeply. Smoke clouding the car. Back in the rear parking lot behind the pizzeria. The last of the dose of nicotine consumed. Still remaining seated.

Thinking.

***

Time heals all wounds. Or so they say.

William isn’t certain he agrees with that sentiment, but in your case it seems to be holding true. He’d been correct. You do work the prize counter. Collecting tickets and distributing trinkets to the customers. The solemn line of your lips curving more easily into a smile now that several weeks have passed. Your movements lighter, less burdened. He watches you in person. On the cameras in the privacy of his office. And it’s not just your features he’s admiring now, either. The black work pants cling to your ass when you bend over. Sometimes he’s lucky enough to view you coming through the employee entrance still in your school uniform. Plaid skirt. Blouse and jumper. Knee high socks. His mouth waters. He shouldn’t be looking. But he can’t stop now that he’s started.

It’s been a long while since Afton’s jerked off. Trying to get his wife to surrender even for a brief session but she’s still uninterested. His pent up desire is taking its toll. He needs release. He could just stroke to some porn. Easy enough to pull it up on his computer, especially at work, where no one else has access and he can do as he likes without fear of someone seeing his browsing history. But he doesn’t want to watch some actress pretending. Even the alleged amateurs feel scripted and staged and unnatural. And he doesn’t really need any of that anyway, does he? Because there you are. Onscreen. Real. Vibrant. He makes certain his office door is locked. Eases suspender straps over his shoulders. Thumbs open the button of his fly and drags the zipper down. Shoving the hem of his dress shirt out of the way. Was he really doing this? Jerking off to one of his teenage, barely legal employees? Apparently so. Because his cock is already fully erect and in his hand. The gnawing guilt suppressed by his unsated lust. Is this what he’s become? Dirty, perverted old man, he scolds himself silently. But his dick doesn’t care. It’s already drooling at the sight of you. Precum making his fingers glide over the glans, smearing over that delicate underside. He can’t remember the last time he’d been this level of aroused. Maybe the night he’d made his last son. That thought might have stopped him right there, but his mind knows how to twist that idea back away from his wife and family to you. Imagines breeding you. Filling you up. He’s willing to bet you’re a virgin. He doubts that loser you’d dated had ever gotten you off. How he’d love to try his hand. His mouth. Impale you on this fat prick of his. That plush ass riding him. Inhaling sharply through his nostrils, his body automatically moving to the edge of the desk where the monitors are stacked. Pumping faster, his cock sliding in and out of digits that form a tight ring, then loosen and caress the head. Over and over. Pushing into those pretty pink lips of yours. The ones he can view right now. The ones he can’t. His balls tight. Building pressure. He’s going to do it. You’re going to make him.

Cum shooting across the scant space between his cock and the screen. Spraying over it. Over the image of your body. His free hand grasping the edge of the desk. Fuck. So much jizz. He’d waited too long. He should do this more often.

Should he do this more often? This or…

Cleaning the glass. Wiping whatever was left off his cock, his hands. The handkerchief seeing use again. He reaches for the smoke alarm, dragging the nine volt battery out if its compartment to disable it. Sits heavily in the swivel chair behind the desk and lights a cigarette.

Thinking again of you. Impure thoughts. So many.

***

William’s waiting for you by the employee entrance when you arrive after school the next day. You smile and greet him, already moving to the restroom to get changed when he halts you, his hand heavy on your arm.

“I’ve been going through the employee files and I’ve just realized you’ve never completed the training videos.”

“Oh. Well, I mean, there’s not much to running the prize counter. I think I’m good.”

He doesn’t remove his hand. “They’re not that kind of training video. More like…what to do in an emergency situation. Fire safety. Disaster protocols. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Another little breath of sound. “So, is it something I can watch at home? Like a video?”

“Afraid not. Company property and policy wouldn’t allow it. I’m supposed to supervise the viewing. There’s a written exam portion as well.”

“So when can I view it, then?”

“I’ve got someone covering the counter. You can get it over with right now.”

“Okay.” Is there a flicker of doubt in your eyes? Maybe. But you still trust him. He’d never given you reason not to. He’s never been anything but kind to you, after all. “I’ll just go get changed. Where am I going to watch it?”

Afton wishes there was an excuse for you to remain in your skirt. But there really isn’t any that he can readily think of. “My office.”

The doubt a little more visible this time. “Are there a lot of people that got missed?”

“A few. But they’re not on today. It’ll just be you and I.” A smile that is less than savory. He can’t help himself. He really can’t. “I’ll be waiting in my office.”

You change quickly. You’ve never had a reason to be in his office before. He sees you looking around the space. Noting the only chair is the one the owner is seated in. The stacks of monitors. The television and VCR on the wheeled cart positioned within view from his chair.

“Shut the door. The noise, you know.” So innocently explained. Such a lie.

You do so, walking uncertainly towards his desk. “Should I go get a chair or…”

“Not at all. Have a seat.” The older man pats his thigh.

Openly skeptical now. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

“Nonsense. It’s not going to be for long, anyway.”

“I’ll just stand.”

“You’ll sit.” A dark edge to his tone now. His teeth flash in a mock consulatory grin. “Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.”

He sees your throat shift to accommodate the thick wash of saliva you’re shoving down. So nervous. He imagines you heartbeat is quite rapid, like his own. Moving reluctantly. Barely touching him, hovering, really. “Relax, get comfortable.” As if being perched on your employer’s thigh was such. Your legs are tightly tucked together until he shifts and they spread over his leg, close to his knee, one hand splayed across your front to stabilize you. Fingers just shy of anything dangerous. Merely spread over your waist and stomach. The television screen illuminated when he thumbs the remote with his unoccupied hand. There actually was a safety training video; he hadn’t been lying about that.

You’re so tense against him, your spine ramrod straight. His cock is already hardening but it’s you he devotes his attention to. Lifting his leg ever so subtly. Your crotch warm against him. The faintest response back. Your thighs tightening. Clutching him. Perhaps feeling the seam of your pants pressing against your clit. The volume of the television is low, barely audible. He’d heard you’d reconciled with that boy again. Lesson apparently not learned. And he’d cheated. This time you’d been the one to leave. He imagines you feel hurt and betrayed. Unsatisfied. Still searching for something you keep being denied. Why not get a little revenge? Anyone can forgive a rapid rebound. He’s murmuring these things to you now. His free hand squeezing your thigh, just shy of your crotch. Your body tightening around him again. The grinding motion unmistakable. You want it. You want him. So feverish against his thigh. Damp now. Your arousal saturating your panties, your work slacks, straight through to his own. His cock screaming for attention, straining against the zipper. Not yet. As much as he’d love to just ruin you right now, he’s going to wait. Make you want it even more.

Your fingers close over the ones still draped over your thigh. William squeezes them. Whispers somewhere along your back, near your shoulder. “Good girl, you’re such a good girl, so beautiful…” A needy sound escapes your throat. “That’s it, sweetheart. Cum for me, let go…”

Your body shakes violently against him. You’re louder than he’d anticipated. Perhaps he should have locked the door. Now rag doll limp against him. Panting. Maybe not the first time you’d ever climaxed, but your first time getting off with someone else. Using him. So wonton. It’s going to take him absolutely no time at all to spill his seed after this little session. The video has ended, the screen now a solid state of blue.

You seem to have recovered. Sliding free. A definitely wet spot on his trousers. Your cheeks flaming red when you see that mark of debauchery. Flicking to his crotch. He can hardly blame you. He’s larger than average and it’s certainly demanding attention. You look hurriedly away.

“You can go now. You’re all set.” Your boss shuts the television off, standing to push the cart back to the side of the room.

You’re staring. Mouth open. Breathing still a little haggard. “What about the exam?”

“You’ve passed. I’ll be sure to mark it down in your file. Shut the door on your way back out, please.” You seem confused by his sudden dismissal. That’s to be expected. It’s just as far as he’s willing to take it right now. The start of your descent with him. Leaving innocence behind.

As soon as you’re gone his cock is in his hands. Afton’s staring at the wet stain you’ve placed on him. Another orgasm that leaves him breathless and cursing.

***

The restaurant closes for the evening. William’s car is in the shop. An unfortunate break down on the way to work. His business partner has conveniently chosen that day to visit, only too happy to offer a ride, the man’s wife in the passenger seat after Afton volunteers to sit in the back with a fellow employee who also needs a ride.

You, of course.

You’re seated close to the door, as if you’re ready to bolt from the vehicle at any moment. No one in the front of the car is paying you any mind. Conversing with each other, with the pizzeria owner. Talking and laughing. William’s left hand is stealthily unfastening the front of your pants. A quick, panicked look from you that he senses rather than sees in the near darkness. Fingers deftly dipping beneath the elastic waistband of your panties. His first time touching you like this. A little gasp that goes unheard beneath the layers of talk. Of course you’re already slick. He’s circling your clit. Feels you moving, perhaps involuntarily, perhaps not. Trying to get him deeper, further down. But he’s not violating you tonight. His middle finger rests beside the nub and begins rotating it against the bone beneath. Another gasp, this one much louder. His lips by your ear, laid along the nest of your fragrant hair. “You’re going to need to be quiet when you cum this time, love.”

William’s name is uttered from the front of the vehicle. He’s lost the thread of conversation. Apologizes and resumes the discussion. You rest your elbow on the narrow shelf of padding at the top of the door, curled fingers in your mouth, your teeth clutching your index finger. Your employer quickens his pace. Feels the tremors beginning. He can only imagine how tightly you’re biting down to keep silent. Relentlessly fondling your hooded button. Your thighs squeezing together, trapping his hand when you explode. He persists in fondling you until he’s certain he’s wrung you out. Finally withdraws, leaving you to refasten your pants. You’ve arrived at your destination. You murmur a quick thanks to the driver. Your eyes find Afton’s. “See you tomorrow,” he says cheerfully. The fingers that have touched you between your legs are brought to his lips. Long tongue curling around them. Eyes rolling back in rapture at the taste of you. You escape indoors, safe from him for tonight.

Tomorrow will be a different story.

***

On Friday and Saturday evenings, the pizzeria is open for an additional hour, but that often gets pushed closer to two. Midnight. Witching hour. The final stragglers finally exiting the building.

You’re locking the cabinets at the prize counter, ready to depart too.

William makes his way to you in such a way that it looks casual. Unintentional. Just heading in that direction, past staff that are scurrying to finish clearing the tables. “Don’t go anywhere.” Low under his breath. You have that look of going tharn. Deer frozen in headlights. Frightened little rabbit. He strides away. Assists with the last of the clean up. Whatever it takes to get people to leave faster so he can be alone with you.

Front and rear door closed and locked. Lights dimmed. It’s just you and Afton now.

Casually lifting a chair from beneath one of the tables. Red vinyl padded seat cushion. Twining curls of dark stained wood for the back support. He sets it at one end of the prize counter. You’re still behind it. Had been fussing with things, making yourself look busy if anyone happened to be curious as to why you were delaying.

He rounds the corner and approaches. Advancing towards you. Sees you retreat until you bump against the glass casing. “I heard you’ve reconciled with that boy again.” His voice low. Disapproving.

You blink, swallowing nervously. “He said he was sorry. He’s been doing better.”

“You think he meant it? Better how? Is he buying you things? Taking you to nice places?”

“No, but—”

“Is he satisfying you? Making you cum?” You flush. A little gasp. Still a virgin, then. Afton inwardly sighs with relief. “Well? I’m waiting for an answer.”

“No.”

“I thought not.” He unfastens the button of your fly and roughly drags the zipper down. “Do you think you deserve to be touched? After you keep going behind my back with this boy? I guarantee you he’s not faithful. Once a cheater, always a cheater.”

“You’re a cheater, too,” you mumble.

The hand reaching for your panties freezes. “Only because my wife won’t go near me. So it’s come to this. And I hardly,” he jerks your underwear and pants down over your hips in one go, “think you’re in any position to pass judgment on someone who’s your elder.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Afton.”

He grunts. “Are you, though? I wonder. Take all of this off.” He steps back, looking at you expectantly.

“What, like everything?”

“Yes, like everything. Not a stitch on.”

He sees you hesitate and scowls. “You’re disappointing me,” he warns.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur hastily. He watches as you pull your shirt with the restaurant logo over your head and set it on the counter. Unhook your bra and shyly slide the straps over your shoulders. Finish removing the garments covering the lower half of your body after unlacing canvas sneakers and pulling off your ankle socks. Completely nude now. His eyes roving over you appreciatively.

“Let’s get you up on the counter here.” He has to assist you, hands at your waist, lifting you to sit on the glass surface. You’re avoiding his gaze. “What is it about that boy you like so much?”

You shrug uncomfortably. “He loves me.”

“He says he loves you,” William corrects. “What else?”

“He kisses me.”

A feral grin. “Is that what you want? Someone to lie to you and tell you they love you? Do you imagine a teenager fumbling at your mouth is better than an adult, experienced man?” Another shrug. “Look at me. Look at me,” he repeats, gripping your chin and turning your face to his. “I will only say this once. He is nothing. You will leave him again, and you will not go back.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you are mine. If you do not comply, I’ll be forced to take more…drastic measures. Understood? Don’t make me repeat myself. Answer me when I speak to you.”

“Yes, Mr. Afton.”

“Good girl. Now that that unpleasantness is sorted, we can turn to other matters. I’m willing to bet that pussy of yours is already drooling all over that counter you’re sitting on. Shall I check? Or maybe just…” He grabs your legs, lifting them up and then dragging you until you’re near the edge of the cabinet. Your skin squeaks against the glass. “Lie back.”

You’re shivering. He runs his hands over your thighs. “Relax. You’re going to enjoy this, I promise you. Having a real man take care of you.” His hand heavy on the back of your neck. “You want a real kiss?” You nod. He smirks. “Open your legs.” A slight parting. “No, that won’t do. Spread them the way you do when you touch yourself and you think about me. Don’t look so surprised. I know that’s what you do. Maybe as soon as you get home from work. Rushing up to your room claiming you’re tired, you have homework. But that’s not it, is it?” His fingers snake along the inside of one thigh. “Rubbing your clit and wondering when the next time I’m going to touch you will be. I don’t even need to touch you for you to come, though, do I? Just sitting on my lap was enough. Debasing yourself like some cheap whore. Open your fucking legs.” The teasing tone abandoned, the last sentence uttered through gritted teeth. You hastily comply. He slumps into the chair, hands cupping your hips and dragging you still closer until you’re barely on the edge. Tongue darting out to stroke along your inner labia, parting them, scooping up the fluids pooling at your entrance, dragging up to your clit. Your back arches off the counter and you whimper, your thighs reflexively trying to clamp together but he’s holding you open now. There’s no escaping his mouth. And now that he’s had a taste of you, he’s not going to stop.

“You’re soaked. That ripe cunt is begging for it.” Sucking the bundle of nerve endings. Lewd sounds when his tongue flicks across your flesh. Around and between the pink petals, darting lower, then moving back up to tease the swelling hooded area. All too soon he can sense your orgasm building and he retreats, the strokes of muscle less rapid, less firm. Soft brushes of his lips. Kisses along the inside of your thighs. On your mound. You’re brave enough to seed your fingers in his hair. Pulling him more firmly against your pussy. “You want to cum? You think you deserve it?”

“Please, Mr. Afton…”

You sounded so needy. So eager. Whining. Begging. It’s music to his ears. He continues teasing you. Prolonging. Bringing you to the brink and then dragging you back from the edge. Over and over. The muscles in your legs tremoring violently. The forearm that extends so you can clutch his hair held taut. Your neck craning up to watch what he’s doing before dropping back down, thudding loudly against the glass. Shifting the contents below, the cheap toys in the bins jostling together. Stuffed animals taking a tumble. His tongue fucks your opening. Mouth closing over your clit now. Sucking hard. Relentless this time. You’re keening. Pulling his hair, mashing him against you even tighter.

“Mr. Afton…oh my God, I’m cumming, oh fuck...” Now there’s a word he hasn’t anticipated you uttering. Sullied so easily. Not so pure now, and he’s only just begun your lessons in corruption.

William releases your trembling thighs and rises from the chair. He could eat your delicious cunt all night and be perfectly content but he knows you have to return home soon. Parents expecting you and all that. So he’s going to make his own release quick. You don’t even need to lift a finger. Just lying there like a blank canvas waiting to be painted. Jerking off right in front of your flushed sex. Spilling white over the pink. He wishes it was inside of you. He’s halfway tempted to scoop it up and feed it to that ravenous pussy of yours. Shove coated fingers deep inside you. That urge to breed you surging through him. He misses it. Swollen belly and milk filled tits. Fuck. A few last pumps and he’s finally drained.

When you’ve both recovered, he helps you down from the counter. The glass a streaked mess. He sees you looking at it. Waves a hand in the air. “Don’t concern yourself with that. Go get cleaned up.” You gather your clothes. Disappear to the nearest restroom. Afton grabs a bottle of spray ammonia and a roll of paper towels from the nearby cabinet, scrubbing until the surface is crystal clear. Decides the interior can be straightened out tomorrow. Returns the chair to its proper place and ensures he’s all put together again. Shirt tucked neatly. Pants fastened. Suspenders and bowtie in place. Hair smoothed back into place, face cleared of any of your residual fluids. Again, not that anyone at home would notice. He doesn��t really know why he’s bothering.

You’re standing by the rear exit. Your boss is surprised, thinking you might already have left. Waiting for permission, maybe. He nods and you reach for the handle. “Wait.” You turn back to face him. Looking a little wary. Wondering what else he’ll demand of you tonight.

Fingers tucking under your chin, lifting it. His lips brushing yours. You’re tense at first. Then relax. Melting. His tongue parts your lips, licking you open. A soft moan that he echoes. He likes this. He should have kissed you sooner. His cock stirring again. He wishes there was more time. He wonders what you think of the taste of yourself. If you’ve already sampled the honey from that nether region, out of curiousity, of lust.

“Goodnight,” William says roughly.

Do you seem a little reluctant to part? Or is he imagining it? “Goodnight, Mr. Afton.”

Then you’re through the door. Gone. He locks it behind himself. Walking to the only car left in the parking lot, yours already departed. Lighting a cigarette before he leaves. Nicotine laced with your nectar heavy on his tongue.

[osleeplessflowero]

"Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms.."

Time for some more Dust appreciation. :)

Oneshot Masterpost * Notes: - Gender Neutral Reader - Part of the Bad Sanses collection

Alone With You

It's truly a lovely night. The stars twinkle overhead in the sky, the moon shining its natural spotlight over Nightmare's castle. A mission had gone quite well a few hours prior in the day, so you suggested the idea of having a little party to celebrate such a feat. With slight reluctance, you managed to get the others to agree.

So here you are, currently decorating the living room while Killer lifts you using his magic, your soul covered in a pretty shade of blue that illuminates the space around you. With a smile, you finish taping up a banner, and give him a thumbs up so he puts you back down onto the ground. Your legs wobble slightly as you land, adjusting yourself by grabbing onto one of the various couches.

"alright, you got this area pretty much covered. like i genuinely can't find a spot you didn't overly decorate." Killer grins, looking at your handiwork. Well, he's right: the room is covered from head to toe with party decorations, a few boxes of supplies now empty. Nightmare shakes his head at your antics as he watches from his favorite chair, legs crossed.

"And you'll be the ones to clean it up when this is over. Right?" He silently warns, a challenging smirk on his face. Killer gulps comically, letting out a sheepish laugh. You nudge his shoulder, before nodding at Nightmare.

"Yes, we will." You smile, the ruler's own relaxing a bit when your eyes meet. Dust and Horror enter the room from different directions, the latter going over to get a drink from the small table you set up. Dust leans on one of the walls, occasionally glancing off to the side and muttering things to..well, as far as you know, no one.

You find yourself glancing over at him from time to time, before Killer claps his hands, a sign that you're finally done decorating anywhere you could think of. "mkay! let's get this party STARTED- i'm feelin' up for some karaoke..HIT IT HORROR-"

"no." Is all he says as he lifts his drink to his teeth, taking a sip. "oKAY!" Killer goes to start up a song himself. You let out a snicker at their shenanigans, Nightmare rolling his eyelight in response. Some upbeat music begins to play as Killer grabs a mic, posing dramatically before the lyrics begin to pop up on screen.

Your gaze shifts from him to Dust when you see the other skeleton moving a hand into the darkened depths of his hood, your brows furrowing in worry. He steps outside after a few minutes of Killer's performance, needing a break..you look over to the others who seem to be distracted at the moment before opening the door leading outside as well, closing it gently behind you.

You spot him leaning against a wall of the castle, holding his head and wincing, muttering again..

"i know, i- fuck, stop being so loud. it's too much. too loud. it hurts my skull. please." There's a short pause, and he seems to calm down.. lifting up a small box from his pocket and taking out a magic infused cigarette, lighting it and taking a puff.

You frown as you walk over, stopping in place when his eyelights drift over to you. You smile a little at being acknowledged, but your worry is still obvious due to your furrowed brows.

"Hey, stranger. You feeling okay? You left all of a sudden..just wanted to make sure you're alright." You continue walking until you're by his side, leaning on the wall next to him and crossing your arms. He lets out a slight huff, looking up at the stars.

"just kinda..overstimulated. needed some quiet to calm down and killer singing california girls in there was not helping."

You let out a slight laugh, the skeleton beside you smiling a bit at the fact that it was because of him. "Yeah, I get that. If it helps..I could stay out here with you for a little bit."

He turns to look at you more directly.

"Ah- um-" You start to backtrack, getting a little nervous. "Of course, if you'd prefer to be alone I totally get that, I can go back inside and wait for you-"

"i'd like that. you don't have to stay out here if you don't want to, though. you spent all that time in there.."

"I do want to spend time with you, though..we've got all night for the party. I want.." You trail off when you realize how close he's standing now, leaning over you and looking down. You can only see his eyelights within the darkness of his hood thanks to your dark environment, the sun usually causing his eyes to be shrouded in darkness as well. His gaze is constant..he barely blinks, his eyes relaxed since he's in your presence. You clear your throat. "I want to stay with you as long as you're out here."

"well, alright then.. if that's what you really want." He backs away from you, dropping the cig after a few more puffs and crushing it with his shoe, walking along a path and motioning for you to follow. You do, hurrying a little to stay behind him as he makes his way over to the large stone fountain by Nightmare's rose garden.

You both sit at a small distance from each other on the fountain, Dust leaning back to stargaze and you fiddling with your thumbs. It'd been a hot minute since you could be alone together..and while you're not exactly happy with the fact it's because he was overstimulated, you are glad you can spend some time with him anyway.

"you know.. i don't think it ever gets old." There's a fondness to his voice as you look over. "the stars, i mean. looking at them reminds me of the first time i got to see them.. things're a lot different now, but..i know they'll always remain the same. a nice view on nice nights."

"You really like them, huh?" You smile, looking up yourself.

"yeah..one sight i could never get tired of." He smiles, even though you can't see it from where you're sitting.

"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?" You look up at it as the skeleton's eyelights drift over to you, his eyelights softening.

"yeah..it really is."

You look over at him, your face beginning to feel warm upon seeing his expression. He puts his hand on his forehead, letting out a chuckle.

"you have got to stop looking at me like that."

"It's not like I mean to, you did this to me." You frown, furrowing your brows. He lets out a laugh at that, shifting his position and putting his arms around you..you freeze in place, knowing fully well that Dust is not usually one to initiate contact.

He's warm..the magic within him gives you warmth, despite his bones being so cold. You rest your head on his shoulder, looking vacantly into the distance. His arms rest comfortably around your body, holding you as comfortably close as possible..his chin resting on your head.

"sorry..just..need this for a little bit. i need to be a little selfish from time to time."

You sigh, hugging him gently. "I don't mind it at all, Dust. You can hold me whenever you want." You smile when you hear him chuckle again, closing his eyes.

"that's the thing..can't really say that if it's all the time." "Dust.."

The music inside changes, and you can't seem to hear Killer's muffled voice anymore. He must've decided to stop for a little bit.

Hearing one song in particular, you slowly move away from Dust..holding out your hand with a smile. He tilts his head to show confusion in response, looking between you and your hand.

"C'mon..let's have a little party of our own." Your smile shifts into a grin, and after a moment of contemplation, he agrees. He takes your hand, letting you pull him up off of the fountain (with a slight struggle because he's a big guy).

He seems to realize what you want to do, placing his arms around your waist before abruptly pulling you towards himself. You feel your face flush a bit darker as you look up into his eyelights before rolling your eyes at his now faintly visible smug grin.

You raise your arms and put them around his neck, the two of you beginning to slowly sway to the beat of the song playing inside. Someone slightly cracks the door so it's louder before disappearing back inside..you have a feeling you know who it is.

"What on earth are they doing out there?" Nightmare glances out the window from his chair, Killer standing a little closer to it to watch.

"they're having a moment, boss- i gotta give 'em a good setup."

"My my..I'd expected you to want to sabotage their time together, due to how jealous you few tend to get." Nightmare raises a browbone.

"well..we're all their partners. so we should all have time at some point." Killer rests his chin between his hands, smiling as he observes the two of you.

"..thanks for sticking with me. i didn't really want you to go." Dust averts his eyes, and you let out a little laugh.

"I know. I could tell. I wasn't gonna go anyway.. I'd prefer for everybody to be together, the party wouldn't be the same without you." You smile, seeing a bright shade of purple illuminating his hood and revealing his face.

"..you're too sweet for me. i don't deserve you."

"Untrue. You're perfect for me, and I'm perfect for you in..some way."

He chuckles again, a fondness to his eyes as he leans down and steals your lips with a kiss. You slowly close your eyes, leaning into it and holding still..savoring the moment. Magic fills your senses, a sour taste that you don't mind all that much hitting your tongue.

Eventually you have to break the kiss to breathe, taking a few light breaths and pressing your forehead against his. It's peaceful for a few seconds before he whispers to you.

"i think i'm ready to go back in now." You smile and nod at his statement, taking his hand and leading him along the path back to the door. Killer jolts in his spot, going back to pretend he was doing something while waiting on you both.

"heeey! glad you guys are back, who's up for some party games?" He grins, holding up some board game boxes. The two of you share a glance, before nodding in his direction.

"You can pick, Killer. I don't mind. You guys wanna play anything in particular?" You sit down, Killer sitting on your right and Dust on your left. Nightmare remains where he is, and Horror sits across from you.

"he can pick anything except for candyland. i'm sick of it." Dust rests his arms on the table, his chin resting on top of them.

"you're just salty i beat you last time." Killer taunts, earning a scoff from him. "you wanna go there? okay bet, let's play candyland."

You roll your eyes as Killer quickly begins setting up the board, smiling to yourself as you think of how the evening's gone so far.