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spikedfearn · 14 days

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I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter I

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

a/n: a few things to note: 1. I expanded the colony’s population from 2781 inhabitants to just under 20,000 for the different sectors to make sense/work. 2. Jackson’s Star remains a mining colony but it’s set up to be a little bit closer to a dystopian society so I can play around with different settings

warnings/tags: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, sexual themes, non-linear narrative, trauma bonding, more tags to be added

wc: 2.6k

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It's incredibly warm tonight.

Made warmer by the fire burning in the rusted out steel drum in front of you and the others sitting around it, a glass beer bottle held loosely in your grip keeping your palm cool, the condensation clinging to it feeling nice against your skin.

The sizzling pop of the kindling wood has you distracted, tracking the embers trailing off the flames dancing in the stifled air, smoke feeding up into the dense cloud cover overhead.

It's become a tradition of sorts. Drinking around a bonfire in the rock quarry with the people you've grown fond of, far and away from the other colonists residing in sector six, all flocking to the bars to take the edge off after another rough work week.

Well—with the exception of one cocksure asshole.

You can't help but look over as your thoughts wander to him, watching as said asshole takes another long swig of his beer, eyes drawn down to the prominent bob of his Adam's apple then up to his tongue, poking out to lick over his lips and mop up any stray drops.

Laughter breaks out around you in response to a joke Tyler cracks, not that you hear any of it, too busy quietly simmering in your lawn chair. He hasn't even done anything so far tonight, still—you know it's only a matter of time before something erupts between the two of you, something always erupts between the two of you.

Sure enough, he catches you staring before you have the chance to look the other way, his features rearranging into something familiar, something smug, eyes alight with the fire your chairs are circled around and a particularly annoying brand of haughtiness he carries himself with.

Your fingers tighten around the bottle, already knowing what's about to happen. Just when you thought you could get through one night without him royally pissing you off, he proves otherwise. He's as predictable as he is frustrating.

“Take a picture love, it'll last longer,” he smirks, the stupid kiss he blows in your direction and the cocky little tilt of his head causing anger to flare through you as a result.

“How do you manage to get around with your head shoved so far up your own ass,” you bite, cutting through the good natured chatter around you, everyone groaning their displeasure in response.

They've gotten used to it, you and Bjorn being constantly at each other's throats whenever you're forced to interact through hangouts with your mutual group of friends. You don't know how they put up with him, even if he is family with half the people here, you've known him for just shy of six months and you wanna throttle him every time he opens his big fucking mouth.

You hear Navarro mutter something like, “god, here we go again,” under her breath, already sounding exasperated by your increasingly heated exchange. They all are, having put up with it since the night the two of you first met, when he said something stupid and snotty enough to make you bite his head off in front of everyone, setting the tone for your dynamic going forward.

“If you wanna sit on it you just hafta’ ask nicely, princess,” he says, words punctuated by an arrogant chuckle, canines gleaming broadly in the concentrated light.

"How about I chop it off instead, hmm? Do the world a favor and stop you from procreating?"

"Then you'd have nothing to drool over, now would you?" He fires back, running the flat of his tongue over his teeth.

“You know what,” you announce, feeling your blood begin to boil just beneath the surface, draining the rest of your beer before tossing it into the bushes with the others, “I think I'm gonna call it a night.”

It's not worth it, getting into it with Bjorn for the umpteenth time. It's been another rough week for everyone down in the mines, hands cracked and calloused, a residual cough still clogging all your diaphragms from inhaling the fumes permeating through the underground tunnel system.

That and you don't want to be liable for ruining everyone else's good time with your petty grudge, no matter how justified you might feel.

Besides—it's pointless, talking to Bjorn, your conversations (if you can call them that) are never constructive, typically involve him saying something intentionally rude or brash that has you exploding in anger, like it's his entire aim to piss you off.

Kay tugs lightly on your wrist in an attempt to convince you to sit back down and stay for just a little longer but the night’s been soured and your mind already made.

So you wish everyone apart from Bjorn to have a good rest of their night before swiftly turning around and leaving the quarry, the voices of your friends fading away in the shortly crossed distance, hearing Tyler reprimand his cousin for being “a right knob.”

They've all tried playing mediator at one point or another, hoping to get to the root of the problem, because that's what they're all good at, what they've been trained to do since they were big enough to harness a mining drill, to excavate all paths for valuable material.

And you appreciate their concern, you really do, having almost forgotten what that felt like—having someone care, but there isn't anything deeper to it, your mutual hostility for one another, Bjorn’s just an asshole and you don't tolerate anyone's bullshit.

Nothing more, nothing less.

You hear the rapid crunch of gravel approaching behind you, looking over your shoulder to see Kay jogging to catch up with you. You cease walking, allowing her to reach you, a buzz circulating through your veins.

“Hey,” Kay greets, a little breathless, coming to a halt once she's standing right in front of you, baby bump prominent beneath the overalls she's wearing, “don't let my asshole cousin get to you.”

“Too late,” you snort, sufficiently bothered by everything that's occurred over the last twenty minutes. You can't help it, how quick to anger you are when it comes to him, he just has this way of getting under your skin in a way no else can.

“I still don't get how you and Tyler are related to him. You're both so sweet and Bjorn is—Bjorn.”

She echoes your snort, eyes drifting back towards the bonfire, glowing like the lit end of a cigarette from this far away, “I know I know, trust me. He can be a bit…abrasive.”

You're powerless to stop the scoff that leaves you, gaze following Kay’s, "a bit?"

“Okay, he's really abrasive, but he means well. Usually.”

Maybe it's out of familial obligation that Kay—and to a greater extent Tyler, feel the need to excuse Bjorn’s shitty behavior, but it's really starting to wear on you.

“Does he? Because I sure as fuck don't feel that way. I think he just gets off on being a massive dickhead and I'm the only one who’ll call him out on it.”

Kay reaches out to you, letting her take hold of your hand, giving it a light squeeze, “I get it, I do. It's just—Bjorn’s been through a lot and keeping people at arm’s length is how he copes with everything. He's not all bad.”

You hate that she's right. He isn't all bad. You've witnessed it, how tender he can be with the people he cares about most, how protective he is of them. Like picking up Tyler's obligatory shifts when he came down with a bad case of the flu or getting into bar fights whenever some rando makes an unwanted pass at Rain or Kay or how he naturally steps into the big brother role even though he's younger than Navarro.

But the thing is—“we've all been through a lot.”

It’s true. You've all been born into the same shitty circumstances, forced to work in the mines until you inevitably die from black lung or some other variant of respiratory disease, that is if a mining collapse doesn't kill you first.

“We have,” Kay agrees, coughing into the crease of her elbow as if to prove your point, “all of us. But I think you two especially, and that's why you guys butt heads all the time. You're both super alike.”

“That's a really, really low blow,” you remark dryly, your eyes finding Kay’s again.

“No, I'm serious,” she laughs, her giggles tapering off into a small, winded smile. "You both have your walls up and you're both stubborn as fuck," parroting your earlier emphasis.

Which is also frustratingly true. You know everyone's story, all having opened up to you over time, as they integrated you into their little patchwork family.

Although—most of them can't say the same about you, having buried most of your trauma way down deep, further than any of them could reach. They know you don't have a family, that you've spent most of your life alone prior to your transfer but that's the extent of it, all you've been willing to share.

And they never push for more, letting you divulge personal information at your own pace, no matter how limited or vague it is, something you're immensely grateful for, more than they could ever know. It's a big reason why you've allowed yourself to get close to them despite your trepidation, forging emotional attachments even after promising yourself you never would again.

“You're right,” you concede, rolling your eyes playfully when Kay hums back, “always am.”

“Listen. I’ll do my best not to let him get to me—next time, but I really am tired, tired and sore, so. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” she affirms, squeezing your hand one last time before letting you go, cautioning you to “be safe!” as you resume walking.

The streets are empty as you move through them, navigating your way back to your shoebox of an apartment, half the streetlights lining the residential sidewalks flickering or out entirely. Which isn't unusual, like the higher-ups governing Jackson's Star would ever care for the upkeep of anything outside the mines.

Trudging through the door and relocking it behind you, you make your way down the tiny corridor leading into your bedroom, shoulders sagging in relief.

It's the only place you can ever truly relax, always looking forward to being able to pop some sleeping pills before crawling into bed immediately after, a short reprieve—the only reprieve—from the grueling sixteen hour work days you're subjected to.

You unscrew the cap on the pill bottle left on the nightstand by your bed and dry swallow two of them, too lazy and too tired to grab a glass of water in the little kitchenette in the next room over.

Thank god you have tomorrow off, planning to sleep in till noon if you're able to, what with your internal body clock having grown incredibly accustomed to getting up at the same time the other six days of the week.

You look out the sole window in your room, blinds drawn wide, everything around you bathed in red from the neighboring neon ‘BAR’ sign bleeding in through the glass because of it. It's strangely comforting in its familiarity, like a beacon of light welcoming you back every time you return, a reminder that you're still here, still breathing.

The window is small and high up enough that you're not concerned about anyone seeing you undress, grabbing at the hem of your thin cotton t-shirt to drag it up over your head before removing your hair tie next, slightly shaking your hair out with your fingers.

Maybe it's the exhaustion coupled with the drone of the generator funneling power into your apartment but you miss the sound of your door opening and the footsteps that move down the hall toward you.

It's not until you're pulling the metal prong of your belt buckle out of the last notch that you hear a low whistle, causing you to jump, shoulders curling inwards to try and cover yourself up, one of your bra straps falling down your arm.

“Well don't stop on account of me babes.”

Your eyes narrow seeing him leaning in your doorway, arms crossed over his chest with the sole of one boot planted against the doorframe, emphasizing the toned muscle hiding under his loose work shirt.

“I knew I'd regret giving you my door code.”

Bjorn chuckles back, that cocky little head tilt returning, “but then I'd miss out on this lovely little strip-tease.”

You feel your face grow warm in response, grateful for the red bar lighting masking your blush. “What are you doing here anyways? The others are gonna start noticing if we're always disappearing around the same time.”

“Relax,” he says, crossing the room to reach you, hands coming up to latch onto your shoulders while his thumbs press in between your shoulder blades, rubbing tight circles into your skin to loosen the tension gathered there, “everyone called it a night after your little hissy fit.”

A scowl etches itself onto your face, though you do nothing to stop him from massaging your shoulders, “shut up, I'm still mad at you.”

“Hmm, are you now?” He asks, leaning in close, until his plush lips are brushing your ear, “is that why you were giving me them fuck me eyes, love? All I said was you just needa ask nicely.”

“That's what I'm talking about! You're making it too obvious. The last thing I want is everyone else finding out about this. About us.”

It's still so new, hooking up with Bjorn behind everyone's back, a recent development that's entirely altered the course of your dynamic.

He still goes out of his way to piss you off whenever he can, but there's something more there now, a teasing edge that implies an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

And, despite knowing the others wouldn't care, you want it to stay that way. After all, this thing you two have going on now, whatever it is, is casual. Meaningless. You see no point in telling them about something that'll most likely run its course soon, once you've gotten the overwhelming urge to touch each other out of your systems, whenever that'll be.

“And why’s that?” He whispers, drawing a fingertip over your stomach, from the elastic of your underwear up to your navel, causing you to shudder on reflex. “Embarrassed they'll know I don't just get under your skin but in your pants too?”

“You're such a jackass,” you groan, feeling the solid mass of his body press up against you, his growing excitement poking you in the back. As you suspected, that's why he's here.

“Keep talking dirty to me babes,” he jokes, kissing a line down your neck, his fingers grabbing your chin to cock your head to one side, giving him more ground to cover, stubble scratching over your skin.

A soft moan escapes your lips, going pliant in his hands, Bjorn having mapped out all the sensitive spots that leave you weak-kneed and trembling, weaponizing his intel every chance he gets.

Your head falls back against his shoulder, letting him slide his hand down under the denim of your jeans, still in disbelief as to how you got here. Not that you would ever forget, the memory of that night still fresh in your mind.

#i know it cut it before it got to the good stuff but dw it'll be plenty spicy from here on out #bjorn alien romulus x reader #bjorn alien romulus #bjorn x reader #alien romulus #spike fearn

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enjoythesilentworld · 3 months

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💜💜

X Me (“Simon, my back really hurts after rowing practice. You think you can give me a massage?”)

hello anon <3 so, at this point we've learned that i'm incapable of drabbles. i hope this little 1.5k ficlet lives up to your expectations with that beautiful quote you've provided xx

also, i wondered how i was going to do this prompt without making it very horny. and, well, it's definitely horny, but also has some fluff sprinkled in! (very fade-to-black M-rating)

A not-so-short, but straight to the finally-falling-into-each-other, friends to lovers AU.

“Simon, my back really hurts after rowing practice. You think you can give me a massage?”

Simon lifted his gaze from where he’d been hunched over his laptop and found Wille standing in the entryway to their apartment. He was slightly sweaty and frowning, uncomfortably rolling his shoulders, but Simon could see the slight smirk hidden in his features, the challenge.

Things had begun to shift between them lately. Simon first met Wille in the freshman dorms on the first day he’d arrived at university. Nearly four years later, after many late night study sessions and trips to coffee shops and video game competitions, they were best friends and still lived together. The thing that had shifted was the fact that, since one month ago, both of them were finally single at the same time.

Either one or both of them had been in some kind of relationship for the past few years, and about a week after Wille ended his last fling, things began to change. He and Wille had always been more touchy than a typical friendship, but it was never weird for them. There was a certain blurry, invisible line they never crossed, but Simon never saw it as anything other than platonic. That was, until they were both single and suddenly the way Wille brushed past him in the kitchen with a hand to the small of Simon’s back or the way Simon sometimes curled up into Wille’s side on the couch had a very different undertone. Then, there was the time two weeks ago when they’d both gotten a little drunk at a party and danced together, a little too close to be casual. Or that other time one week ago when they’d gone out to dinner with friends and sat pressed up against each other in a booth and Wille put a hand on Simon’s thigh, a little too high to be friendly.

It was like they were playing a game, amping up the tension that had been building between them for— Honestly, for the last four years. If, on that first night in their shared dorm room, Wille hadn’t disappeared to go to some party with a cousin of his and hadn’t come back in the morning covered in hickies, things probably would’ve started between them much earlier.

Simon already felt like he was going to burst at the seams, and so it was really very cruel of Wille to return from rowing practice looking like that, asking Simon to do that, and doing a real terrible job of hiding the fact that he knew exactly what he was doing.

“What?” Simon asked, feigning cluelessness.

Wille took a few steps forward and dropped his bag on the floor. With a dry mouth, Simon watched him interlace his fingers behind his back, the damp, almost see-through material of his T-shirt stretching as he did.

“I think I might’ve pulled something,” Wille said, voice strained as he lifted his clasped hands, traps and upper biceps flexing with the movement. He pouted at Simon. “Please?”

Simon swallowed and kept his eyes locked on Wille’s, even as the man reached down and picked up the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe his sweaty brow. In his peripheral, Simon could still see the revealed expanse of skin.

He managed to keep his tone relatively casual, eyes flitting back down to his laptop, as he said, “Yeah, sure. But only if you take a shower first. I can smell you from here.”

“You’re the best,” Wille grinned and saluted Simon before heading to the bathroom.

The moment he heard the shower turn on, Simon stopped pretending to click away on his laptop and dropped his head into his hands, exhaling a long, suffering sigh.

It would be fine. Simon would pull himself together and give his roommate, who he was maybe-not-just-friends with, a massage and it would all be fine. He would not lose this game they’d started.

Because he needed to do something with his hands, and because he’d abandoned all hope of focusing on his essay any longer, Simon went to the kitchen and quickly made a smoothie for Wille. He knew that, after a rough practice, Wille was always too tired to make real food and would just end up having chips, which was not a very good post-workout meal.

The shower shut off just as Simon was cleaning out the blender. He whirled around when he heard the bathroom door swing open.

“Where do you want me?” Wille asked from the doorway, still damp, hair dripping, and nothing but a towel around his waist. His smirk softened to an adoring smile when he saw Simon approaching him, holding out the smoothie. “Oh— You made that for me?”

“Yes. You need real nutrients, Wille. That’s probably why you hurt yourself.”

Wille snorted and took the smoothie, giving Simon a quick peck on the cheek. His smell, fresh and soapy but still so Wille, overwhelmed Simon’s senses.

“God,” Wille moaned, licking his lips. “This is delicious. Maybe I should start neglecting my health more often. I swear your smoothies are better than mine.”

He would not lose this game.

Simon rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder into Wille’s as he brushed past. It left a damp mark on his shirt.

“Come on. It’ll be easiest if you lie down,” Simon said, letting himself into Wille’s room. “Do you have—”

“I’ve got this?”

Wille had followed after him and was holding out a half-empty bottle of massage oil.

“Right. Perfect,” Simon murmured, taking the bottle from him.

Wille took another big sip of his smoothie, then deposited the cup on the nightstand and lay down across the bed. His feet dangled off the edge. He sighed happily and shifted a bit, back muscles flexing, and half buried his face in the pillows.

Tentatively, Simon knelt on the edge of the bed. “Where?”

“Between my shoulder blades,” Wille said, voice muffled. Simon’s eyes tracked the bulging of his triceps, the rippling of his obliques, as he bent an arm at an awkward angle to gesture at the area.

He nodded then, realizing Wille had shut his eyes and couldn’t see him, stuttered, “O— Okay.”

With slow, careful hands, he pumped out a bit of the oil onto his hands and lathered it together between them to warm it up, then leaned forward and spread it gently across the expanse of Wille’s broad back.

He would not lose this game.

To keep his head, Simon focused on the feeling of the knots under his fingertips. There were a few along the bottom edges of his shoulder blades, and he also noticed that one side of the muscles along his spine were slightly more raised than the other. He ran a firm thumb over a spot of tightness and Wille punched out an exhalation.

Simon froze. “Did that hurt?”

“Yes,” Wille chuckled tightly. “But it’s nice.”

When Simon didn’t move, Wille added, “It’s okay, Simon. You can press harder. It feels really good. Honestly, a bit of pain makes it better.”

So he wouldn’t have to think about the double meaning of those words, about a very different context in which Wille could be saying them, Simon started again.

He would not lose this game.

He worked the heel of his hand over the tighter spots, pausing occasionally to add more oil. Starting near the base of his spine, then smoothing it up, up, up to right below his neck, then out across the top of his shoulder.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I am,” Wille said softly, “really grateful for you. I’m really glad you’re in my life.”

Simon smiled down at the side of Wille’s head, the way his face smushed into the pillows, the way his eyebrows drew together and he bit his lip as Simon worked over a particularly tight spot.

Voice tight, he mumbled, “I just love you, Simon.”

“I love you, Wille.” His hands slipped slightly, and he felt his cheeks flame with the words. It felt different than all the other times they’d said it. To hide how much his heart had soared at the exchange, he sassed, “Except you owe me after this,” then dug his thumb deep into a knot.

“Whatever you—fuck.” Wille’s fond words broke off into a heated moan and he arched slightly into Simon’s touch. “Fuck that feels so good, Simon.”

The tender moment was definitely lost, and the sounds shot straight to Simon’s groin. His resolve was crumbling.

“There?” Simon asked quietly, rubbing his thumb over the same spot.

“Th—yes. Right there. Shit.”

Wille stopped biting his lip, stopped muffling his groans, as Simon worked over the taut muscles. Right where Wille had indicated, then slowly moving down his back, over smooth, oiled, beautiful skin.

His fingers hesitated at the edge of the bath towel that still covered Wille’s lower half.

“Simon,” Wille breathed, tone almost pleading.

“Can I take this off?” he asked quietly, thumbing across the fluffy fabric.

“Please.”

Simon was plenty happy to lose this game.

#hope this staves away any remaining sunday scaries #had to cut myself off before we got *too* spicy #because well we were also already way too long #yr ficlet #wilmon #young royals #blank me

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