#(not caught up on the show at all maybe he already has)

[heylittleriotact]

𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

Emmrich works, Rook shops, dinner is imminent

Link to ao3 or read below the cut.

“Three times?”

“Yup.”

“And then this morning too?”

“Mhmm.”

“Damn. He must have been thirsting after you for ages.”

Rook tried not to look too pleased with herself as she regarded the shelf of dried pastas in front of her, purportedly deciding what shape she wanted, but in reality her mind was wandering down the enthralling path of recently forged memories from the night before.

The feeling of his lips on hers.

His scent.

The way he moaned while he was fucking her: not forced or put on. Instead, it was like he had never enjoyed anything in life quite so much as being entangled with her…

I’m in the grocery store with my best friend, picking up supplies for dinner - now is not the time.

Too late though: thoughts of Emmrich had already taken root, and sinful need slithered through her organs, twining around her guts and settling deep in her belly, impossible to ignore.

Later. Soon…

“Does he have Instagram? Facebook? I wanna see this silver-fox-fuck-machine for myself.”

“He doesn’t,” Rook said quietly, her lips curling at the absurdity of Emmrich having any kind of social media accounts. Most funeral professionals had nearly invisible online footprints - in an age where everyone you ever met was likely to look you up online, remaining largely unsearchable was the only sure way to guarantee your privacy.

“LinkedIn?”

Rook wrinkled her nose and pulled a box of linguine off the shelf, tossing it in the basket Leon held. “What? Cuz he’s old?”

“I mean… yeah?” Leon shrugged, his soft, dark brown eyes widening innocently.

“Shut up, Leon,” Rook squeezed past him, bumping her shoulder against his pointedly despite the abundance of space in the empty aisle.

“What?” He giggled, falling into step behind her, shaking his luxurious mane of thick black hair. “Nothing to be ashamed of - you were the one that couldn’t shut up about him at the Mussels Absinthe show a few weeks ago. You bagged yourself a sugar daddy - good for you! Wish I had that pull.”

Her cheeks heated as they wandered towards the produce section, “Can you maybe try not using your fucking radio voice while we’re discussing my sex life in the grocery store on a Thursday afternoon?”

“Just sex then?” Leon forged on, not bothering to lower his warm, booming voice at all. “Or have the seeds of romance been planted and fertilized?”

“Leon.” Rook ground out, looking around to make sure no one else was being subjected to this.

“Oh yeah,” he remarked observantly, “You fucking like him, don’t you?”

“What’s not to like?” Rook retorted, manhandling a practical, sound-minded bit of dignity into the conversation as she selected a basket of mushrooms. “He’s stable, supports himself, has a functioning vehicle that’s not filled to the windows with garbage, doesn’t bitch when I tell him to wear a condom, and knows how to get a girl off.” She dropped a mesh bag of garlic bulbs into the basket with unwarranted spite. “Bet he won’t ask me to buy weed for him and his band buddies, or go running to Mummy for rent money each month either.”

“I love it.” Leon said, rubber voice adopting a whimsical tone, as he switched the basket to his other hand and squeezed a grapefruit because Rook knew he’d eyed it and felt like he needed to. “The complete about-face rebound from pie-in-the-sky wannabe rockstar burnout to sophisticated man-about-town is truly inspiring. Tommy is gonna shit himself.”

“It’s not a rebound, and Tommy’s not gonna know a damn thing about it,” Rook snapped, sounding just as harsh as she intended to. “That fucking dickhead doesn’t deserve a window into whatever happens to be going on in my life. He lost that privilege when he fucked that stupid waitress at The Hanged Man… and that was after the shithead already fucked around once and got caught.” She shoved a few shallots into a bag, pretending she was shoving them down Tommy’s throat. “I know he asks around about me - I’m not stupid - and you’d better not be fucking telling him anything about me: I don’t want him knowing where I work, what I’m up to, who I’m fucking, or even what I’m doing with my fucking hair these days. He’s a piece of shit and I hope he chokes on his fucking tongue.”

“Point taken,” Leon raised his eyebrows. “And just so you know: I haven’t said a word to him - and I never would. I haven’t even seen him around at shows or anything for the past month at least.”

“Good,” Rook quipped, calm entering her voice. “Maybe he’s finally made himself useful and gotten a fucking job. Or better yet: done us all a favour and dropped dead.”

It was always one thing to make arrangements with a family that clearly didn’t know much about their loved one in life, but it was quite another thing altogether to sit in an arrangement office with the overwhelmed family trying to guide them towards decisions while simultaneously steering them away from ones that their loved one was blatantly disagreeing with in real time.

“Next! I really don’t care for gerber daisies and I haven’t a clue as to why they think I have some sort of attachment to them.”

Emmrich subtly glanced up from the pages of the binder of floral arrangements into the ghostly visage of the recently deceased octogenarian hovering around it with the rest of her family.

Over the years he had mastered the art of subtly urging the living towards the decisions of the dead, but it wasn’t always easy: it was a balancing act on both fronts that to his knowledge, no other funeral professionals but himself had to manage: the rest only had to worry about satisfying the living. Emmrich had to make sure everyone was pleased.

Try explaining that to the dead, though: the average person rarely considered it in life, but the reality was that funerals were - and always had been - just as much for the living as they were for the dead. Of course celebrating the life and legacy of the departed was of utmost importance, but the communal event itself: the ritual of a funeral, be it Andrastian, Qunari, non denominational, or anything in between was arguably more for the people left behind than the ones who did the leaving: an opportunity for the bereaved to come together and support each other through the heaviest days of their grief. To weep, and laugh, and share stories and regrets. But the world was changing, and fewer and fewer people saw the value in said rituals. Thought them trite and old-fashioned and impractical.

It was a shame, really. But as it stood, society seemed to prefer to grieve privately… or not at all, preferring to bury their sorrows in busy things like work, and commitments; happy to deny that they felt anything at all in favour of letting that vacuous wound inside of them fester and scar rather than accepting the laborious journey of grief and the healing that came with it. No one liked saying goodbye. No one enjoyed losing a loved one. But… that was life, wasn’t it?

And of course, what came after death was a mystery to everyone. Even Emmrich, who had been able to commune with the metaphysical imprints of the recently deceased since childhood was unable to say for certain what followed that final breath: not everyone became a ghost, it seemed, and those that did tended not to linger overlong - less out of choice, he knew: the echo of a soul could seemingly only sustain itself in this realm for a finite time, becoming progressively less substantial before eventually fading away forever. Where it went after that, he couldn’t say.

That was what kept him awake at night. Not the awful music someone might choose, or the fear that his funeral would be poorly attended. No - it was the creeping, uncaring entropy of death itself. The utterly dispassionate way it claimed everybody and everything. The way it would eventually claim him too.

“While we were working on your Mother’s obituary, I recall that you indicated she kept a garden at your childhood home in Cumberland. Are you able to remember if there were any flowers that she particularly enjoyed growing there?”

Of course he was asking her surviving son and daughter, but he was most certainly asking the ghost of Maude Laviolette as well. Something to go off of from any of them would be helpful at this point - they had been in arrangements for nearly two hours by then, and it was clear that everyone was growing tired.

“Delphiniums. Stock. Snapdragons.” Mrs. Laviolette ticked off garden flowers on her ghostly fingers, her voice an echoing melody composed of emotion and memory.

As the Laviolette siblings looked at each other over the table, trying to work out exactly what flowers their mother might have grown all those years ago, Emmrich flipped a few laminated pages of the binder, allowing himself to idly wonder what sort of flowers Rook liked - or if she even cared for them at all. It was so difficult to tell with her - assumptions almost always turned out to be wrong in her case, but she clearly had an affection for things that grew, so surely she appreciated the beauty of flowers?

“Perhaps an arrangement similar to this one here? The ‘Garden Stroll’ casket spray?” He tapped a ringed finger over the picture of a stunning arrangement of delphiniums, spray roses, mums, and iris that ranged from a delicate, powdery blue, to deep violet, to white.

“Oooooh you clever man!” The echo of the elderly woman clasped her hands under her chin and joy crept into her voice. “This is lovely! Could we swap out the mums for stocks and add in some snapdragons?”

“Oh yeah! Some of these look a lot like what Mum grew. The blue ones especially!” Eve Laviolette looked at her brother and pointed at the delphiniums in the photo. “Remember these ones, Aiden?”

Aiden Laviolette scratched at his dark brown beard and squinted at the binder.“I do. I do remember those. But there were others too that were kind of similar…”

“Snapdragons?” Emmrich prompted, for all intents and purposes, a senior mortician who was very well acquainted with flowers after so many years of doing this.

“That’s it!” Aiden exclaimed, “Snapdragons!”

“May I suggest if you’re adding the snapdragons, for the overall shape and spirit of the arrangement, you might consider switching out the chrysanthemums for some nice, gentle stocks? I’ve seen a similar arrangement where it was done to great effect.”

It wasn’t lying. Not really. Just… massaging the truth such that everyone - whether they had a pulse or not - was happy… or as happy as they could be given the circumstances…

He flipped to another page to show them an arrangement that featured some stocks.

“Eve, don’t you think that maybe Mum grew these too?”

Eve leaned over the page to take a closer look and gasped. “She did! What are the odds?” She looked up at Emmrich, her thin lips curving into a generous smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she was giving you instructions from beyond the grave!”

Emmrich returned the smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling warmly as his face took on the oft-used expression that imparted comfort and peace to those living through dark days.

“A happy coincidence only, I’m afraid, but one that Mrs. Laviolette would be pleased with, I hope.”

His eyes strayed ever so slightly over Eve’s shoulder to see the phantom of Maude Laviolette, looking chuffed as anything as she looked over her daughter at the picture of the chosen floral arrangement.

“Thank you, young man,” she said, rubbing her daughter’s upper arm with the tender familiarity that only a mother could impart. Eve’s expression changed to one of surprise as she looked up at the touch, looking over her shoulder and seeing nothing. “You really are a credit to your profession. Thank you for taking such good care of my kids - Maker knows they need it right now.”

Emmrich entered the customizations for the casket spray into the file, went over the remaining details that needed to be decided that day, and printed the contracts to the administration office.

Taking the navy blue garment bag containing the clothing that Mrs. Laviolette’s family had brought for her to wear, he excused himself, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him. He would see to the contracts and give Eve and Adrien a few minutes to chat openly amongst themselves and have some space without the pressure of a near-stranger sharing the room with them.

Rebecca (‘Becks’ as she was known to most) handed him the itemized clothing intake form he’d gone over with the family and printed out, and he folded it in half and placed it inside the garment bag before writing Mrs. Laviollete’s name on a manila tag and attaching it to the clothing hanger with a rubber band.

“Thank you, Rebecca,” he handed the permanent marker he’d used to sign the tag back to Becks and took the contracts from her next. “Oh, could I trouble you for a jewelry envelope? They also brought her glasses, her wedding rings, and a pair of earrings if memory serves.”

The relief admin reached into a drawer under the desk and surfaced with a self-sealing, manila envelope, adding it to Emmrich’s growing pile of paperwork.

It was always strange seeing someone else sitting at Rook’s desk. He’d gotten so used to seeing her there over the past months. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Rebecca - quite the contrary: she was very good at her job, and a lovely person, but she wasn’t Rook.

“Did you get permission to post the obit on the website?”

“Ah! I thought I may have forgotten something… my apologies, Rebecca - I’ll be sure to ask before they leave.” He treated her to an apologetic smile and scrawled a few x’s on the contract to better indicate where the family needed to sign.

“Forgetting things, Emmrich?” Remarked Joan, the other permanent chapel administrator from her own desk. She was in her forties and had tightly curled hair the exact colour of nutmeg. She twirled her pen in her hand and smirked at Emmrich - this sort of harmless teasing was not unusual from Joan. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the fight you clearly lost with an octopus last night, would it?”

Oh dear - his collar must have slipped down, revealing the deep mauve love bites Rook had left on his neck.

“That’s hardly any of your business, dear Joan,” he retorted curtly, adjusting his collar with dignity as he continued to review the funeral contracts.

“You gonna bring them to the Wintersend dinner?” She demanded, and Emmrich threw a cautionary glance at Becks as she failed to subtly lean over her desk to try and catch a glimpse at his neck.

“Perhaps,” he flipped the page, circled the price of the casket upgrade that they had discussed. His phone vibrated in his breast pocket, heralding the arrival of a text message - he already knew who it was from, and his stomach fluttered pleasantly. “We shall see.”

“You haven’t brought a date in years,” Joan said. “Was just talking about it with Wayne-“ ah yes, Wayne: Joan’s husband who worked at the nearby cemetery - somewhat rough around the edges, but a lovely fellow all the same. “- last one was that uh… what was she an art appraiser or something?”

“An art dealer,” Emmrich sighed, focusing intently on the contract hoping that Joan would take the hint: he saw little reason to stand around discussing a former flame with colleagues. Not with a family next door.

“That’s right!” Joan pointed her pen at him. “Any idea what she’s up to these days?”

Emmrich bit back his annoyance and forced his expression to remain stoic. “I haven’t any reason to, so no.”

He preferred not to think about Philomena. Preferred not to think about how the avant-gardé and eclectic Orlesian patron of the arts was initially swept off her feet by his charm and eccentricity; his passionate need to understand death and all of its facets, and his almost poetic talent for finding splendour and hope amongst decay and putrefaction.

He felt terrible about himself whenever he thought too hard about her, and he was reminded by his subconscious that she’d gone back to Orlais about a year into their relationship and stopped calling him, texting him, and emailing him without a word of warning.

He never really understood why - never got a tidy explanation - but he had a few guesses: likely a culmination of many things - one too many cocktail or dinner parties amongst the elite creatives of Nevarra where he misread the room. One too many anecdotes about death or decomposition delivered with the casual ease of someone describing the process of preparing an omelette: “It’s a commonly held misconception that rigor mortis is a permanent affliction, however, the stiffening of joints and muscles after you pass on only lasts for a few short hours. Admittedly it can make it challenging for one to manipulate the extremities during that time, but simply massaging the affected areas causes rigor to subside in short order, restoring flaccidity and range of movement so the limbs can be moved freely once more.”

“… Ohhh!” Someone would say with feigned enthusiasm after too many moments had passed without anyone saying anything. “How… interesting!”

The slightly agape mouths and raised eyebrows told a different story.

Add to that one too many declarations of love and romantic intent: words trotted out in flowery verse; expensive gifts lavished with the unspoken hope that they could make him enough in her eyes: I can provide, see? You will never want for anything. I am safe. I am kind. I love you, I love you, I love you - will you love me?

He knew he got too attached too quickly and too easily. He always had, and when he was inevitably left to clean up the aftermath of another lover’s hasty departure from his life, his old friend and colleague, Johanna was always quick to point out that of course he had managed to frighten yet another one away with his saccharine yearning - as if he needed reminding.

Not that he cared what Johanna thought, but he could practically hear her calling him a cradle-robbing pervert upon learning about Rook.

And would she be wrong?

Sighing again, he marked up one more place on the contract before heading back to the arrangement office.

As he vanished around the corner, he heard Joan say to Becks too loudly for it to be accidental, “Seems pretty miserable for a dude that just got laid.”

I really should have taken her out for dinner first. How thoughtless of me…

The guilt hadn’t subsided by the time he arrived home to shower, change, feed Manfred, and return to Rook’s apartment.

She’d messaged him twice throughout the day. Once in the morning to say she���d had a nice night, and once in the afternoon to say she was looking forward to seeing him again shortly - that one had been accompanied by a picture of her wearing nothing but a towel, the curves of her perfect breasts just barely concealed by the grey terry; drenched hair dripping tantalizingly over her skin.

He was grateful he’d waited to look at that one until after the Laviolette family left, because within minutes of opening it, the utterly gorgeous still frame of her had him rock hard, and he found himself shamefully jerking off in a stall in the staff bathroom, desperate to finish so he could refocus himself and concentrate on his final arrangement meeting of the day like he wasn’t some sort of lurid sex obsessed deviant who had successfully reduced a woman like Rook down to a vapid sex object.

He was grateful for a change that the family he was assisting wanted a direct cremation with no service, no viewing, and no obituary. The sole executor brought the will, and was the only person attending the meeting. Everything had been prepaid in advance by the deceased, so there were no changes nor any new decisions to be made: simple, quick, and to the point.

Despite this, Emmrich still managed to spell the word ‘preparation’ incorrectly three times in a row, and almost gave the son making the arrangements Rook’s business card instead of his own.

There was nothing for it: he was a mess.

A besotted, smitten, horny mess, and at this rate it wouldn’t be long before he frightened her away too. What was he thinking? That this young, beautiful creature with a lifetime of promise and possibilities before her would be in a hurry to tie herself down to a man old enough to be her father?

That she would happily embrace the strange looks they would almost certainly get in public as people drew conclusions they had no business drawing?

That she would quickly come to know the worst of him that dwelled beneath the thin veneer that was the ‘best’? The insecurity and loneliness and self-loathing; the irrational fears and anxieties that kept him awake at night and overwhelmed his mind at times, leaving him little more than a quivering, hyperventilating wreck, curled up under the blankets and praying for the Ativan to kick in soon.

She would figure out that he was too much. Too different. Too weird - even by the very broad definition applied by morticians.

He would have to tell her that he could see and speak with the dead.

He would have to tell her that more than anything in life, he was afraid of dying - a wildly contradictory fear for one in this profession.

She was going to know before long that the carefully crafted facade of Emmrich Volkarin was a lie - brazenly thrust into the world, and effective only because of the sheer amount of time he’d been insisting upon it.

She doesn’t deserve this.

She deserves a future full of joy and potential and dreams that are entirely attainable, should she only dare to wish for them.

I didn’t even ask her to dinner before I slept with her…

It seemed stupid to get hung up on that, but he was: mutual feelings or not, it fell to him to take the lead, and rather than controlling himself and treating Rook with the respect she was due, he took her to bed and didn’t even have the decency to spend the entire night.

She deserves respect, and here I’m treating her like a fantasy…

Tuning out Manfred as he twined around and through his ankles, coating the hem of his pant legs with white fur, Emmrich sighed and pulled out his phone, preparing to call Rook and tell her he couldn’t do it - he wasn’t coming over.

But before he could place the call, a banner appeared at the top of his screen.

Another message from Rook.

‘Are you on your way yet?’

A reasonable and fair question - that wasn’t the part of the message that made his eyes prickle unexpectedly. It was the words that followed.

‘I miss you.’

‘I just made it home - I’ll be over soon - close to 7:00. I miss you too, Rook. I missed you all day.’

Just as he said he would, Emmrich arrived right at 7:00. Rook had spent the last twenty minutes stationed at the window again, staring down the length of her street, her stomach leaping whenever she saw headlights turn off the main road.

When she finally saw the recognizable shape of Emmrich’s lights, her stomach flip-flopped even harder, and she pushed away from the window, taking a moment to check herself over one last time in the mirrored closet doors to make sure she had dressed herself properly: her hair was nicely pinned up in a bun with stray wisps pulled loose to frame her face, and she turned her back to the mirror, looking over her shoulder to check for the twentieth time that she hadn’t accidentally tucked the hem of her stretchy burgundy velvet mini dress into her thong. Her stockings were free of runs, and she hadn’t managed to soak sweat stains under her arms yet - though she suspected that was about to change. Her makeup still looked pristine, and the softly tinted gloss she’d chosen over her traditional matte red lipstick still looked good.

Satisfied, she slipped out of her apartment and down the stairs where she waited at the front door for Emmrich to appear, emerging from the dark to stride up the walkway, as elegant and refined as ever.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight she’d been waiting all day to see: him - with his perfectly styled silver hair and his angular, distinguished face. He wore the same black pea coat from the night before, and had switched out the brown chinos for charcoal grey tweed trousers that bore the same impeccable tailoring. With his expensive looking Antivan wingtips and his cream coloured scarf he looked like a bougie fashion journalist or something.

He looked fucking hot.

“Fuck me…” she murmured under her breath before flinging the door open and grinning at him. “Hey.”

“Hello, Rook,” he beamed, stepping inside and taking the weight of the door from Rook, letting it close shut gently behind him.

He was holding a white paper shopping bag, and his glasses fogged up again the same way they had before, and for a moment she was at a loss for what to do with herself as they occupied the small vestibule.

Making a decision for both of them, he swept her against him with his unburdened arm and brushed his lips over her left cheek, then her right, before releasing her.

“I’m sorry it took me so long - traffic and Manfred, you see.”

Hoping he couldn’t see her sway in place as the elation of being touched by him again negated her ability to balance properly, she unlocked the main door and he followed her inside and up the stairs.

“Oh no… no problem at all. I know it’s a long drive. How was Manfred?”

“Oh he managed to break into the pantry today and ate an entire loaf of bread. I think he’s rather upset that I was absent last night for far longer than I usually am.”

Guilt wrung Rook’s gut then. “Sorry,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, offering a sympathetic grimace as they continued their ascent. “I’d say you could bring him with you next time, but there’s a ‘no pets’ policy and my landlord is a real prick about it - last year the old man in 204 got a hermit crab to keep him company after his wife died and the prick made him get rid of the little guy.”

“How sad,” Emmrich frowned, looking genuinely sorrowful at this.

“I brought him a house plant - a cutting of Perry, actually - and I try to visit him once a week for coffee. He’s grateful, but I think he’d be happier with his hermit crab… or his wife for that matter.”

Emmrich’s mouth curved in a soft smile, though the melancholy didn’t leave his eyes. “That’s very sweet of you, Rook.”

“It’s not,” she argued placidly. “It’s just the right thing to do: people should look out for each other, but for some reason they just… don’t and it annoys the fuck out of me.”

“That makes two of us,” Emmrich agreed, wincing slightly as they made it to the landing of Rook’s floor.

“Shit, sorry - are you okay?”

“Oh yes, just the ever-present protestations of knees that I should have cared for better in my youth.”

Rook didn’t know what to say to that. She certainly couldn’t render solidarity in the form of a believable ‘Ugh! Me too! Fucking achy joints amirite?’

She didn’t have achy joints: she was 25.

So instead she just nodded and opened the door to her apartment, ushering Emmrich inside with the same elevated politeness that she ushered families into visitation rooms with.

“What have you got there?” She asked, pointing at the bag that he had set down in the entryway so he could undo his scarf and slip out of his coat.

“Give me a moment to sort myself out and I’ll show you,” he retorted with the tempered ease she’d come to know. He hung his coat and the scarf on a hanger and put them in the closet before removing his shoes. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Damn right I do - I don’t dress up in my own house for just anybody.

“Thank you.”

Emmrich straightened and pushed his shoes to the side of the mat with his foot. He was wearing dark green dress socks with a beige diamond pattern on them, and a black turtleneck that made for a decidedly Warhol-esque look.

They regarded each other silently for moments that lasted far longer than they had any right to, clearly both at a loss as to how best to proceed.

“I uh… haven’t started dinner yet, but if you want some wine, I—“

Something seemed to snap into place in Emmrich’s brain and his eyes widened at her words. “Wine. Right!” He scooped the white paper bag up from the floor and reached inside, withdrawing a visibly dusty bottle and handing it to Rook. “You must forgive me - I didn’t think to ask what was on the menu tonight, so it might be a poor pairing - foolish of me - but the… the wine I brought you last night is… well it’s…“ he sighed wearily, “This will be far more palatable, trust me.”

Rook looked at the bottle in her hands, swaths of dust cleared away to reveal dark, shining glass where her fingers and his had touched it.

She was far from a connoisseur of wines, generally opting to drink anything that had a price tag of $10 or less - or came in a box - and would surely get her drunk faster than beer.

“This is… this is… really nice wine, isn’t it?”

Emmrich made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, “Hardly the nicest, but a definitive improvement on anything with a screw-top.”

Rook swallowed, feeling out of her depth: poor… stupid… uncultured.

Seeming to pick up on her discomfort, he plucked the bottle from her hands and wiped the remaining dust from the label. “It’s from my personal collection: one of a few that I have left from a good year. I think I purchased a case of these for eighteen dollars per bottle, so it’s less that I broke the bank, and more that I stumbled upon something good and decided I wanted to hold onto it.”

“I don’t even know if I have a corkscrew,” she admitted, still feeling sheepish.

“Well we’ll sort that out if we need to,” he treated her to that easy, nonjudgmental smile again and picked up the bag again, handing it to her. “For you.”

Rook’s eyebrow raised when she accepted the bag. She peered into it, then back to Emmrich, then she abandoned the entryway, placing the bag on the kitchen counter and reaching inside.

Her fingers closed around a hard ceramic pot, swaddled in cardboard and plastic. Carefully lifting it, she set the pot on the counter and pried the plastic away, revealing a plant with deep green leaves and a woody stem. Its delicate limbs curled prettily upwards, and small white buds were nestled in the fragrant greenery.

She gently rubbed a leaf between her thumb and forefinger, saying hello to her new friend.

“You brought me a plant?” She asked, staring at the fledgling creature, her heart filling. “What florist is even open at this hour?”

“Odella’s, of course,” Emmrich answered, naming the florist that McDermott & Rafferty had contracted out for funeral flowers for years.

She felt his presence drawing close to her, heard him place the wine bottle on the counter gently, then felt his hand on the narrow curve of her waist - almost tentatively at first until it became obvious that she was not going to flinch away… only then did it settle. With his other hand he brushed a sprig of leaves and stooped slightly behind her, placing his face alongside hers.

“I thought to bring you flowers at first, but this seemed a more fitting offering than an impermanent and fleeting bouquet, given your passion for growing things.”

She didn’t understand why at the time, but the fact that he remembered - or even cared - about her affinity for houseplants made something tighten in her chest.

Tommy hated them. He thought they were a waste of time. Told her if she was gonna bother putting so much energy into growing something, it might as well be smokable.

“Do you… like it?”

Rook realized that she hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t said anything. Not so much as a ‘thank you’.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, though she hadn’t any clue what it was. “It’s… it’s a…?”

“A jasmine plant,” Emmrich assisted. “It will bloom for you in time, so the flowers are forthcoming.”

Rook pulled her gaze from the small potted plant and turned against the edge of the counter so she was facing Emmrich.

“Something to look forward to, then,” she smiled, looking up at his kind face. She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Thank you. For the plant, and the wine… you didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” he entreated, his sweet, spearmint scented breath washing over her cheeks as she fixated on the enticing shape of his lips.

She still needed to start dinner. She hadn’t even put music on. She promised him a meal, and here she was, wasting time…

“You been tested recently?”

The amorous look in Emmrich’s eyes vanished, replaced with confusion. “Tested? I—?”

“STI panel.”

“Oh!” The faintest blush crept over the bridge of his nose and he looked at the cupboards over her shoulder. “Every year, or after a new partner, whichever comes first, but… I haven’t had a new partner in some time and-“

“You’re clean?”

The flush deepened, diffusing over his cheeks. “W-well yes, of course, but-"

Satisfied, Rook pushed away from the counter enough to drop to a crouch, one knee brushing the floor as she undid Emmrich’s belt buckle and slipped the button of his trousers loose.

Catching on, he managed to babble, “Rook, darling, y-you don’t have to-“ before she dropped his zipper and pulled his dick out of his underwear, casting one cheeky look up at the stammering man in front of her before taking him in her hand and dragging her tongue up the underside of his cock.

“Ah!” He moaned unbidden at the sudden wet warmth when she took him into her mouth, buckling slightly against the counter behind her. “R-Rook!”

Her other hand found the back of his thigh and she locked him in place, filling her mouth with his semi-hard length, hollowing her cheeks and sucking him in, her pussy immediately responding to the high pitchy breaths - little half groans and whimpers - that poured from his lips.

He was surprised by this sudden turn of events, yes, but he didn’t pull away; didn’t tell her to stop. Instead, his gasps gave way to deep elated sighs as she worked him with her mouth and her hand, taking her time and worshipping his long, thin cock, tracing every handsome vein; revelling in the salty tang of his skin and the slickness of his precum on her tongue as she knelt in front of him.

“S-so good…” he whispered, carding the fingers of one hand through her hair, his head tipping back, “Oh… that feels so, so good…”

I know it does, handsome…

Rook hummed approvingly around him, feeling him throb against the roof of her mouth. She let go of his cock, wrapping her wet fingers around the back of his other thigh before slackening her jaw, opening her throat, then taking him deep, deep, and deeper still until she felt him butt against the space just beyond her tonsils. He squirmed in her hands, biceps femoris fluttering coyly under her fingertips. His hand tightened in her hair, but not enough to hurt.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, filling her lungs and belly, lost in the cathartic victory of the bliss she was subjecting him to; the smell of him; the dainty sweetness of the viscous, anticipatory fluid that continued to seep from his sensitive slit...

He moaned her name quietly again when she eased him further down her throat, exhaling slowly… so slowly through her nose as she went, bobbing her head slightly and going further with each stroke until he was fully seated and her nose brushed skin beneath the coarse thatch of hair on his lower belly.

He positively vibrated in her hands - ass clenching, thighs spasming, hips jerking, the nails of his free hand scrabbling over the smooth surface of the counter as Rook swallowed around him and fucked him with her throat, each lewd wet thrust punctuated by the unseemly sound her vocal cords made as they were repetitively prodded by his intrusive length.

“Darling…” he whined, a man toeing the chasm of abandon. “D-darling please… I can’t… oh - I’m going to— ohhh!”

His words were cut short and he went rigid as a corpse before uttering a strangled yelp and collapsing against the counter with a thud, propped on an elbow as his hips jerked gracelessly against Rook’s face and she felt his hot, thick cum spill down her throat - one satisfying, relieving pulse after another.

She moaned as she swallowed him, cunt aching as she drank him deep, his warmth spreading through her, her name falling raggedly from his mouth over and over and over, each repetition more reverent than the last.

When he was done, she twitched her jaw, let him slip wetly from her, traced her lips with her tongue, and smiled up at his fucked-out face.

“I was looking forward to an appetizer, and it was delicious…” she rose, tucking his cock back into his pants and doing them up. “So… how about that glass of wine, handsome?”

It was actually pretty funny, the way that Emmrich was gaping at her with his unusually clumsy fingers absently trying to configure his belt buckle, his face flushed and shiny with post-orgasmic bliss.

“Wine,” he swallowed, throat bobbing, hazel eyes blown out behind the lenses of his glasses. “Yes, yes… allow me.”

He seemed to grasp onto some scant flotsam of rational thought amongst the pitching sea of post-nut clarity and finished with his belt, sliding his sleeves up his forearms and clearing his throat before saying (roughly), “If you did happen to have a corkscrew, where might it be?”

[skyward-floored]

Part two to the hdw fic where Link gets kidnapped and poisoned :) It got a lot longer than I was expecting though, so there’ll actually be another part after this (sorry). Please enjoy Volga doing a lot of panicking about his son.

(Warning for some blood, injury, and just a little vomit)

Part 1

————————————————————

Link stops responding, and Volga curses.

These blasted ruins are utterly confusing, his sense of direction getting all turned around in its twisting hallways and narrow passageways. Normally Volga thrives in such conditions, having lived in caves most of his life, but something about the collapsed stones and manmade walls throw him off.

Or maybe it’s just the panic beating inside his chest.

Link lets out a weak moan, and Volga tries to quicken his steps even further. He’d hoped never to have to deal with night safflina again; he’d made it a personal mission to burn any sprig of it he came across, destroyed any supplies he knew of. Yet despite his efforts, his son is fighting for his life against it in his arms.

Volga hisses to himself, cursing again. This is not something he can fight. He can’t tear it to pieces with his claws, burn it to a crisp, stab it with his spear. He is helpless in this situation, and the more Link fades in his arms, the more frantic he gets.

Link moans again, and for some reason Volga carefully adjusts him to a more comfortable position.

When did he get so attached to this boy? He didn’t even know that he existed up until a few months ago, and they haven’t spent much time together. Their relationship is a mess, and Volga can count on one hand the amount of remotely positive interactions they’ve had. Link had only just stopped regularly flinching when Volga made sudden movements towards him— which makes the fact that he’s currently curled into Volga’s hold and weakly clutching at him all the more unusual. Most of their interactions have involved them trying to kill each other.

Though... is this particular show of vulnerability so unusual? He still remembers how terrified Link had looked when he’d burst into the room, blood streaming down his cheek, knife held inches from his eye. Relief had quickly taken its place as Volga freed him, and though Volga may have been his enemy in the past, Link obviously trusts him to get them out of this.

...Or perhaps it’s merely the poison addling his senses.

Link’s head shifts minutely when Volga turns a corner, eyes half-lidded and in no way lucid. Volga knows shaking him didn’t help last time, but he tries it a little again anyway as he runs, calling for him to wake. Link doesn’t react.

Volga hisses and rips some vines out of his path, briefly wishing he had backup with him. If someone else were here then he would be able to drop Link off and go for the antidote, but that isn’t an option. And he can’t leave Link here alone with those men still around.

Perhaps it had been foolish to storm off the moment he’d heard Link had gone missing, scouring the land for any sign of him and rushing into the ruins by himself the moment he’d caught his scent. But Volga has never been one to hesitate.

And besides, if he’d come here any later, Link would be in much worse shape.

He looks down at the boy again. As it is, his current condition even apart from the poison is rather concerning, bruises beginning to show, blood in his hair, coating his cheek, and trickling slowly down his chin. Volga doesn’t have time to stop and clean or wrap it, but he wipes the blood off a little, cursing again the men who did this as he looks at the cuts still sluggishly bleeding. What did they even want with him?

...No, he knows the answer to that. They had safflina. This was always going to end in an attempt on his life.

As if as a reminder, he catches a faint whiff of the accursed plant on Link, a sweet, biting scent that burns his nostrils, and his stomach flips.

If Link were full dragon he would already be dead. Night safflina killed from the inside out, tearing through the blood and eventually constricting the heart. No matter what form a dragon was in, it was deadly within an hour.

Link’s Sheikah blood might be the only thing that will save him now.

Volga finally turns and finds himself in a hallway that’s familiar, and he breaks into a full sprint, leaping over broken stones and cracked walls, wishing he could slip into his other form. It’s too small in here for him to make much progress that way though, and he wouldn’t be able to comfortably hold Link anyway. He’ll have to figure that out once he escapes.

So far he hasn’t been stopped by any major obstacles, none of the men who’d captured Link daring to come stop him, only a few hazards for him to dodge. He’d had to fight his way in, but it seems as if there’s barely any opposition left to stop him from leaving, which is strange.

Another piece of this situation that doesn’t seem to quite add up.

Volga’s nearing the place where he entered now, more plants creeping in and less stone. A gagging noise comes from his arms, and he has to stop to let Link retch weakly onto the ground again, barely anything coming up this time except small strings of saliva and bile. Volga ignores the bit of blood at the corner of his mouth, Link pressing his face against his arm with a whine, and keeps running.

Only to come to a halt as he finds his path barred, a line of huge plants with teeth blocking his way to the exit.

Volga stares, certain the monsters hadn’t been here before. The plants spot him somehow, despite having no visible eyes, and send leering grins his direction, teeth bared, vines writhing. Poison drips from their leaves, a purple miasma rising off the floor, and Volga knows he doesn’t have time to fight them all.

Link doesn’t have time.

Fury boils in his gut. Volga doesn’t know how they got here, but they’re blocking his path, and every precious second counts right now.

Volga roars, rushing forward and blasting a huge plume of fire at the plant monsters blocking his path.

Leaves shrivel and he hears shrieking sounds, but Volga ignores them all, shielding Link as he darts through the flames and runs to the other side. Teeth gnash and something scrapes along his arm through his armor, but Volga ignores the flicker of pain, shoving his way through as he blasts more fire.

Something glints in his vision, and he looks down to see a small spray of scales trailing up Link’s arm that weren’t there before, revealed by the heat of the flames.

Volga shakes his head and keeps running, flames flying as he leaves the plants to burn. He’d nearly forgotten about that fight they’d had up on the sky island, where he’d seen Link’s scales for the first time. His memories of the war are sketchy at best, but he does remember Link’s halting explanation of being his son.

His son who he barely knows. His son whom he tried to kill multiple times.

His son who’s currently dying.

Volga roars again in fury and explodes out of the ruins, setting Link down and shifting back to his dragon form in the same movement. He’s careful to pick Link back up once he’s done, taking a moment to settle him in clawed talons, and then takes off for the army’s camp.

It’s not the most comfortable mode of transportation for Link, and Volga thinks his expression looks more pained than before, but there’s no time to figure out anything better. He holds Link closer, trying to shelter him from the cold wind, and flies as fast as he physically can without crashing.

Trying not to panic. Trying not to spiral into memories.

He focuses only on beating his wings.

(...)

The trip takes forever and yet passes in moments, and the Hylian army’s camp soon comes into view.

It’s late, but the area is a swarm of activity the same as it was when Volga left, Link’s disappearance sending the whole army into a frenzy. He only hopes Impa is still in camp and hasn’t left to join the search. He doesn’t trust any of the soldiers around to keep Link safe at the moment.

Volga folds his wings and makes a beeline for the first open area he finds, dropping into the middle of camp and transforming back in one swift movement. He startles the handful of soldiers around who look on with wide eyes at the bloody hero clutched to his chest, but he ignores them.

“General!” Volga roars into the night, and the moment he sees Impa appear across the clearing, he sprints for her.

Her eyes grow wide as she sees Link in his arms, and alarm crosses her face before switching to steely determination.

“What happened?” she demands, rushing to his side. Volga merely thrusts Link into her arms and only pauses long enough to make sure she has a firm grip on him before rushing away. “Volga!”

“He’s been poisoned, I need to get the cure,” Volga snaps back. “Keep him alive, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“No, wait,” Impa demands, grabbing his shoulder before he can turn into a dragon and leave. Volga twitches at the pain it sends up his arm. “Volga I need more information, he’s barely breathing. What did they poison him with?!”

“Safflina,” he growls in a low voice. “A rare strain of it. I know how to counteract it, but I need to leave now or he will die.”

Impa goes as pale as her hair. “Is there anything I can do to slow it?”

Volga swallows, and looks down at Link just once, his son ashen-faced and limp, then looks at Impa, her face stricken.

“...Not that I know of,” Volga says more quietly. “Keep him warm. Keep him alive.”

Then he leaps into the air and turns into a dragon, flying as hard and fast as he can.

Link will not die from this.

He won’t.

...

Impa watches Volga fly into the night, then looks down at her son again, terror crawling up her throat.

Link is freezing where he lies limp in her arms (he’s always so warm, he’s never cold—), barely perceptible gasps the only sign he’s alive. There’s blood coating his hair and the side of his face, bruises on his skin, and flecks of vomit on his tunic, mixed with stains of blood. His eyes are rolled so far back in his head she can only see white with how little they’re open, and he’s pure deadweight in her arms.

Impa takes only a moment to process all this, them shouts for someone to find a medic. A soldier runs off, and Zelda appears at Impa’s side as she begins to move, her face horrified as she takes in Link’s condition.

“Link! How did— what—”

“Volga found him,” Impa breathes as Zelda helps her support Link so won’t be as jostled. “He said he’s been poisoned, he left to get the antidote.”

“How did Volga even— never mind, that’s not important now,” Zelda says with a shake of her head. Link lets out another weak gasp, and she touches his shoulder, face fearful. “He’s been poisoned?”

“Badly,” Impa hisses. “And that’s not all that’s been done to him.”

She briefly meets Zelda’s gaze, and sees the question in her own eyes reflected there.

How could we let this happen?

Link’s disappearance had been discovered a few hours ago, signs of a fight leaving his tent in disarray. Volga had left the moment he’d seen the blood on the ground, face furious, but Impa had stayed, determined to figure this out in a manner more precise then simply flying around and hoping she happened across their missing son.

A part of her hoped the traitors (for what else could they be inside their own camp?) were still nearby— the blood was fresh, and there were bootprints in the dirt, so it was likely they hadn’t gotten far. Impa had immediately begun tracking them, Zelda joining her, and they’d gotten all the way outside of camp and into the middle of the woods, when the tracks just... stopped.

They’d scoured the area, checking every nook and cranny, bush and tree, but there’d been no sign of Link or his captors. They’d seemingly vanished into thin air.

“...Magic,” Zelda had said finally, anger in her voice. “They must have had a mage with them.”

That meant Link could be almost anywhere, and Impa and Zelda had been able to do nothing but head back to camp, fear twisting sharply in Impa’s gut for her son. She knew that going out and searching herself wouldn’t do any good, not without any clue where he’d been taken, but she dearly wanted to rush out of camp and do something, anything.

They’d taken her son. And she hadn’t even realized.

Lana had stated she might be able to track the spell when they’d shown the area to her, given some time, but she didn’t know how long it would take. And without any clue of what Link’s captors were planning to do with him, Impa knew it might be too late by the time Lana figured it out.

So despite the fact that the last thing she’d wanted to do was to stay still, Impa had sent out scouts and begun organizing bigger search parties, gathering likely locations for them to search, and ignoring the anxiety squeezing around her heart in a death grip.

She hadn’t gotten very far when she’d heard Volga’s roar.

Link makes a sound in her arms, somewhere between a rattle and a moan, and Impa bursts into her own tent, her and Zelda setting him down as gently as possible on her cot. Impa starts with cleaning the blood from his face while they wait for the medic, and the pit in her stomach grows at the lines gouged into his cheek.

How could he have been taken right under their noses? How had none of them noticed? The mess in his tent had been fresh, but not as much as it could have been. She’d put it at over an hour old by the time they’d stumbled upon it.

How could she have let this happen?

Link’s head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering briefly, but they close just as fast. Impa smooths bloody, sweaty bangs from his face as the medic arrives, and she thinks he might lean into the touch just a little as the medic examines him, face only growing more grim.

“You said the dragon is getting the cure?” he asks finally, and Impa nods. “Any idea how long he’ll be?”

“No. He just said he would be as quick as he could,” Impa replies, and the medic sighs.

“I’ll do what I can without it, but I’ll be frank General, it doesn’t look good. I’d be shocked if he makes it another hour, no less the night,” he says grimly, and Impa closes her eyes as Zelda sucks in a sharp breath, the words drilling into her with a chill colder than a redead’s scream.

Then she reopens them, steadying herself.

“Then let’s do what we can. We’ll give him as much of a fighting chance as possible until we have the antidote,” she says with a confidence she doesn’t feel. “Whatever you can do to help him, do it.”

The medic nods, and he opens the bag he’d brought with him and begins to rifle through the contents, his face still grim, but with a hint of determination. Impa barely realizes her hand is still resting on Link’s head until the medic asks her to move it, and she slowly withdraws her fingers, hating how cold his skin still is.

He feels like death. Feels like countless soldiers she’s watched die, like her best friend’s hand growing cold in hers, a grief that still lingers with her even years later. It’s only the slight rise and fall of Link’s chest, the weak gasps he lets out that stop her from fully sinking into despair.

There’s a cure. Volga knows where it is. He’s getting it right now.

Link will not die.

A new voice suddenly gasps, and Impa turns to see Lana rush in, her hands covering her mouth in horror as she looks at Link. A winged glow of blue is right behind her, and there’s a shrill, jingly shriek.

“Link! Link!” Proxi wails, speeding for him and fluttering frantically around his face. “Link, wake up, please!”

Link’s eyes flutter, but he doesn’t move otherwise, and Proxi lets out a distraught noise, settling herself at Link’s shoulder. Her wings are fluttering with anxiety, and Zelda smooths a hand over them, reassuring her quietly.

“I’m sorry! I went to visit a fountain while Link was sleeping, I— Lana said he’d been taken while I was— oh Link,” she hiccups in a wobbly chime.

“You didn’t know Proxi, it’s not your fault,” Impa says quietly, and the fairy doesn’t anything further, huddling close to Link.

“What happened?” Lana asks in an surprisingly level voice, and Zelda explains what they know, the medic still working, another arriving and joining him. Impa doesn’t listen much, her thoughts spiraling in several directions, though she hears when Lana offers to try and heal Link a bit. She watches as the sorceress’s hands light up and ease some of the cuts and bruises marring his skin, though nothing else about his condition improves. Apparently even half of the guardian of time can’t heal poison.

Impa sets her hand over Link’s freezing one as she finishes, listening to the rasp of his breathing as Lana and the medics draw back.

Link is cleaned up now, injuries bandaged and blood scrubbed away, tended to as much as they can. Somehow he looks worse than when Volga pressed him into her arms though, pale as death, dark veins spreading across his skin, especially thick in one place on his arm.

Impa swallows. They’re in a waiting game now. They’ll do what they can to keep Link alive before Volga returns, but there isn’t a lot they can do. She helps tilt his body when he weakly retches, adjusts blankets and even sits beside him to try and warm his freezing skin, but there’s nothing they can do to stop the poison’s creep through Link’s veins.

All they can do is what they’re already doing, and as time drags forward, Impa feels like she may explode.

Link is dying. There’s no getting around it.

His strength leaves him more by the minute, his skin turning almost grey. Impa watches him fade and fade and fade, unable to lift a finger to help him, and she glances repeatedly outside, scanning the dark strip of sky she can see while Link grows ever weaker and her desperation grows stronger.

Volga, where are you?

(...)

It’s the longest night of Volga’s life.

It takes him hours to find the berries he knows will counteract the poison’s effects— they only grow in cold locations, which slows him down, and even then it’s the wrong time of year for the berries to even be ripe. The mountain he flies to is rife with icy beasts, which fall quickly enough to his fire, but it’s yet more delays to his goal.

Volga only half believes in the goddesses, but he tosses a short plea their direction anyway.

His ancestors were their servants. Perhaps that counts for something.

The moonlight is blinding against the layer of snow on the ground, casting sharp shadows wherever rocks stick up from it. Volga’s stuck to his dragon form thus far, deeming it quicker and warmer, but now he shifts back, the snow-covered undergrowth looking promising. He digs around in the snow, uncovering all the bushes and plants he can get his hands on, blowing small puffs of flame to keep his fingers warm.

It feels like hours go by as he crawls around digging through snow-covered branches, dirt catching in his claws, breath puffing into steam.

You’re taking too long, it’s been too long—

Familiar leaves suddenly glint in the moonlight, and Volga pounces, clawing almost desperately at the snow covering the bush’s form. He takes care not to hurt the plant beneath the snow, and gently lifts up a branch.

And sure enough, pale, yellowish berries reveal themselves, glowing almost like stars in the light of Volga’s flame.

Volga lets out a harsh breath of relief, wondering briefly if the goddesses really did listen to his plea. That or they don’t want their chosen hero dying on them. Such things are beyond him though, so Volga doesn’t waste time thinking about it and quickly picks every fruit he sees, tying them in a secure pouch at his hip.

The sky is beginning to lighten by the time he’s in the air again, and every beat of his wings seems to mark the minutes trickling away, more poison slipping through Link’s veins.

You’ve taken too long, he’s already dead, his thoughts hiss, but Volga thrusts them aside. Link isn’t full dragon. The poison won’t kill him as quickly.

But despite his attempts to reassure himself, the thoughts don’t go away, only growing louder the longer he takes. Volga watches the moon set, stars fading, and his mind starts to figure how many hours it’s been, surely too many for Link to have survived.

He must be dead by now.

Volga swallows. He wonders if it was quick, Link’s fluttering heart merely going still, or if his lungs had filled with fluid, drowning him on land, choking him in blood. Perhaps his throat had closed up, slowly suffocating him.

Volga doesn’t slow his speed at all at the gruesome thoughts, but there’s dread weighing down his wings, and no small fear at what he’ll find when he arrives. Will Impa cry? He’s only ever seen her truly cry once, and that had been more out of anger than anything. Will the loss of her only child be enough to break her stoicism? Will he cry?

What will he even do if Link is dead?

He may be his son, but Volga barely knows him. They’ve been enemies longer than allies, and a few months ago Volga was so entrenched on Cia’s side that he wouldn’t even have cared to hear he’d met his demise.

But... somehow now he does.

He barely knows Link, but the little he’s seen is bright and fierce and courageous, loyal to a fault, determined and with a spirit that refuses to give up. He has his faults surely, but overall he’s quite the formidable warrior, hero, even. Volga had no hand in raising him, but somehow he’s... proud of him, proud of the man he became while Volga wasn’t looking.

But all that likely doesn’t matter now. If Link is alive it would be a miracle, and Volga isn’t feeling optimistic.

He dives past a cloud, his wings beginning to tire from the long night. He hates this uncertainty. This ache in his chest, a tightness in his throat. It’s half his fault all of this even happened— it’s obvious Link was targeted at least partially for his relation to Volga. And now it’ll be his fault he’s dead, too.

Does he even have the right to mourn?

...

He doesn’t know.

Volga tries to fly faster with his stinging wings, squeezing his eyes shut, hating how much his heart aches.

He doesn’t know.

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch 2

“For good services and cute waitresses”

pairing: pre militaryljk x fuckbuddy!oc

contents: mild language, no smut (yet), fluff, humour, celeb au, a bit of angst, flirting, TENSION. lowkey mean manager. kind of dramatic oc.

wc: 4k

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: if anyone wants to join pls comment!!

masterlist , <prev | next>

It’s 1am, and you and Nari have decided to have a girls night at her apartment. Nari’s apartment is cosy, you and her are sat in front of her TV on her comfy floor-sofa (Which you convinced her to buy rather than a traditional sofa.) She’s glad to have listened however, night’s like these sitting on her floor, blasting music and simply enjoying each other’s company with side of wine make you grateful for having this kind of friendship.

You’d both came straight after work. It’s been a couple of days, two exactly, since Jungkook and his friends had showed up to your work, and you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince when you tell yourself you don’t care and all the exchanges between you were simply out of respect and making small talk. But honestly, who cares? Jungkook is undeniably attractive, you’re probably just another waiter he’s hitting on for fun, you’ll likely never see him again and you don’t wan-

“Do you think we’ll see them again?” Nari’s voice cuts through your thoughts, realising you’ve not been paying attention to the TV playing in the background. “Who?”

She scoffs, tucking her feet under her knees, nudging yours. “Don’t play dumb,” She’s smirking at you, and you’re biting your lip before you answer.

“I doubt it, why? And does it even matter?” You’re taking a sip of your wine, playing it cool, but Nari’s already deadpanning you as you avoid eye contact with her.

“Y/n, you don’t have to lie to me!” Shes whining, giving you puppy dog eyes and you roll your eyes and chuckle.

“Okay- Fine, maybe i do want them to come back, but i honestly don’t care if they don’t, i mean they’re just normal people right? Also, I heard some of their fans are crazy and i seriously don’t want to get caught in the middle of- What the fuck!”

Your breath catches in your throat while you stare at your phone screen, wine glass frozen mid air. Nari, instantly alert, scoots closer, “What?! What happened?”

You don’t answer, too busy reading the words in front of you. It’s a Twitter post- in fact, multiple posts—flooding your screen mid-rant, you’d decided to search Jungkook’s name up and it turns out, he wasn’t the only talk of the town today.

“JEON JUNGKOOK SPOTTED TALKING TO A MYSTERY GIRL AT RESTAURANT IN SEOUL WHO IS SHE?”

Beneath it is a blurry photo of you standing beside their table- table 3. You can tell it was taken secretly—the angle is weird, the lighting is off, but it’s unmistakably you. And even more unmistakably him. In the picture, it’s only Jungkook talking to you, the others are engrossed into the food, and Jungkook’s smirking up at you. And the comments?

“Omg she’s so lucky wtf.”

“They look kinda cute together not gonna lie.”

“Who is she??? Someone find her @.”

“She better stay away.”

“She’s literally doing her job, y’all are so weird.”

“THIS BETTER BE FAKE.”

“Oh shit.” Nari’s snatching your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the posts with wide eyes, and your stomach is churning, the longer you sit there, the more you feel like vomit’s crawling up your throat.

“Theyre talking about me..” You whisper, as if saying it out loud would make it worser than it already is. Nari hums in agreement, still scrolling. “Yep. And they’re crazy. Look at this one—‘someone find her @’? What the fuck?”

Your heart pounds as you snatch the phone back, scrolling faster. The tweet has thousands of likes already, and it’s spreading. You can see people speculating in real-time, some trying to figure out your name, others joking about Jungkook flirting with every waitress he meets.

You try to ignore that. Seeing the far bigger issue at hand.

You hate the spotlight. And this was seriously your worst nightmare, and definitely not how you’d want to end up in it if you ever did.

“Fuck- what if Jungkook sees this? What if he thinks i’ve taken the picture- Oh my god what if he thinks im a creep! I can’t, Nari-“

“Okay, first of all, he probably will see it eventually-“ That somehow makes your stomach drop further, he’ll see it. What a stupid question, of course he will. He’ll see the picture, the comments and all the speculation. “And y/n, that doesn’t even make sense, why and how would you take a picture of yourself, from that angle too?”

“I don’t know!” you groan, throwing yourself back onto the floor sofa, staring up at the ceiling. This is too much. You were fine just a few minutes ago, sipping wine and enjoying your night. Now your face is floating around Twitter alongside his, and you don’t know what to do about it.

Nari nudges your leg, giving you a look of sympathy . “Look, it’s like 2am, let’s sleep it off for now, it’ll probably die down soon, forget about this.”

You wish you could believe that. But as your phone continues to buzz, you have a sinking feeling this is just the beginning.

——

You’re shuffling through the backdoor of the restaurant, head down low and mentally cursing yourself for actually coming to work today. First of all, you’re hungover and you’d tossed and turned next to Nari all night, trying to avoid your phone and updating yourself on the… scandal.

It took some convincing on Nari’s side for you to actually come to work today. After she’d woken you up at the crack of fucking dawn all you wanted to do was go home and rot in bed, and maybe shoot your phone too. Avoid the drama.

Eventually, you gave in. Realising that suddenly not showing up makes you look suspicious- guilty. And that’s why you’re walking in, the smell of grease filling your nose.

Nari’s already behind the bar, handling customers. She notices you, waving while the regulars also wave, you smile back, however it doesn’t really reach your eyes and you know she notices.

—

You’ve changed into your work slacks and shirt, walking up to Nari when the buzz of the early morning starts to die down a bit.

“You seriously look like you wanna die.” Nari snorts when you rub your eyes, sliding a bottle of water in front of you, and you grab it and chug it fast. “Damn, thirsty much?”

You groan, crossing your arms after putting the bottle into the trash, “That obvious?”

“Just a little.” She winks, leaning against the bar, propping her chin on her palm. “But, at least you showed up. I was worried you’d actually quit and run off to live in the mountains or something. And- leave me here, to serve overpriced coffee and processed food to rich people, alone!”

You’re grinning when you look back at her and retort, “Honestly tempting, thanks for the idea.”

“Mm, I don’t think you’d last. No phone, no music, nothing.”

“You’re right, who am i kidding? I’d die within a day.” You’re rubbing your eyes again, sighing. “I still don’t know why I even bothered coming here today, everything’s moving pretty slow,”

Nari’s deadpanning you, “Its 10am. And this restaurant is never quiet. And you’re also a responsible adult with bills to pay.”

“Or because someone called Nari guilt-tripped me into it.”

“That too,” she grins.

For a split second, things feel normal—just the usual banter between you and Nari. No online chaos, no invasive speculation. Just work. Just routine.

Then, of course, the moment doesn’t last.

Two customers approach the bar, and before you can ask what they’d like to order, one of them leans in a little too eagerly.

“Oh my god,” the girl whispers, eyes wide with excitement. “You’re that girl, aren’t you?”

You blink, already knowing where this is going. “…What?”

“You know,” she grins, as if she’s in on some big secret. “The one from Twitter! The one Jungkook was talking to! We came to the right place, Unni! Oh my god- you have to tell me where he sat, where did he sit?!”

They’re both squealing, looking around the restaurant. Your stomach sinks. And just like that, the peace is gone.

Nari’s rolling her eyes, and you simply reply. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“She’s totally lying! You’re pretty- i guess, seems like the type of girl he’d go for surely, you can tell us, we wont say anything.” They’re winking, as if you’d tell a stranger that you’re dating a major celebrity. Crazy fans! You cant help but clench your jaw, you take a glance down and you notice they’re sporting Jung-kook’s merch, photo cards, keychains, you name it. You make a mental note to not slip anything about him at all, as if theres any thing to slip anyway… right?

“Im not lying, he only came here to eat, thats it, im just doing my job.” You clearly sound annoyed, and it’s getting worse when you see they clearly cant take a fucking hint.

The second girl gasps, grabbing her friend’s arm. “She’s totally lying!”

The first one giggles. “Come on! Tell us! You’re telling me you actually got to interact with the Jeon Jungkook and you arent telling anyone? Did he say anything? Does he flirt in real life the way he does on camera? Oh my god- are you.. secretly dating?!”

Your jaw tightens, irritation bubbling up. It’s always the same thing—his looks, his charm, the way he flirts on camera. No one ever seems to care about anything beyond that. It’s like he isn’t a real person to them, just some fantasy they like to add shit onto.

And now, because you happened to cross paths with him, they’re dragging you into it too. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be some character in the story of Jeon Jungkook’s life.

Your fingers tighten around the rag in your hand. You inhale sharply, trying to keep your patience, but the way they’re both gawking at you like you’re some kind of rare exhibit is making your skin crawl.

“I was just doing my job. That’s it.”

“But-“

Nari’s had enough. She’s barging beside you, slightly nudging you to the side. “Seriously?! She she’s already said nothing happened, do you not have anything better to do?” One of the girl’s flinch at her raised voice slightly, “So if you’re not here to actually buy food and just here to harrass my friend, i suggest you leave before i call security.”

The first girl’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, while her friend looks absolutely scandalized.

“Harassing?! We weren’t harassing her!”

“Yeah, you kind of were,” Nari deadpans.

“Now, what’s it gonna be? Drinks, or are you leaving?”

A pause. Then, with a few grumbles under their breaths, the girls exchange one last look before turning on their heels and storming off.

Nari watches them go, rolling her eyes. “Fucking weirdos.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping against the counter. “I seriously hate this.”

She clicks her tongue, patting your shoulder. “Yeah, well. Better get used to it.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“Tell that to Jungkook if he shows up again.”

Your heart stops, he wouldn’t… right? Not again. Unless he hasn’t seen the shambles on social media, which you highly doubt. Him coming here again is a recipe for destruction.

—

You spoke too soon once again.

You’re already having a bad day, but this? This honestly just makes everything worse.

Are you fucking serious?

You’re lowering your head slightly, glancing toward the entrance as Jungkook walks in—alone. Of course, he is. Because why wouldn’t he want make this even harder for you? It’s not enough that people have been whispering, not enough that eyes linger on you when they think you won’t notice. Now he’s here, and there’s nothing to remove the attention. No group of friends, no distraction, just him walking in alone so casually, like he owns the place, completely unaware of the storm you’re stuck in because of him.

You exhale sharply, gripping the menu a little too tight as he scans the restaurant. It’s almost a relief when he picks a booth in the back—almost. At least from there, you’ll have a good view of anyone sneaky enough to try taking pictures. But it still doesn’t change the fact that he’s here, and now you have to deal with it.

“Do you want me to go instead?” Nari asks under her breath, her voice low so only you can hear.

“No, I have to go talk to him.“ Shes giving you a smile and nod of encouragement, and you pick up a menu, smiling back and walking over to the booth.

By the time you reach him, your frustration is simmering just under your skin, and you don’t even bother hiding it. Instead of setting the menu down gently, you drop it onto the table with a sharp thwap. Jungkook flinches, looking up at you with wide eyes, clearly caught off guard. Your heart clenches at his big, huge doe eyes. Why does he have to be so… cute! Ugh!

You cross your arms, glaring at him.”Seriously?”

He blinks. “Uh… what?”

You scoff. “Why am I in the middle of this?” You gesture vaguely, but he knows exactly what you mean. The posts, the speculation, the hushed conversations happening the moment you turn your back. “I really don’t want to be a part of this.”

For a moment, Jungkook just watches you. Then he leans back slightly, draping an arm lazily over the back of the booth, like this is just another casual conversation. Like this is nothing to him. “It happens all the time,” he says, completely unfazed, and you couldn’t be more pissed off. “I’m sorry.”

You narrow your eyes. “Yeah, of course you’re just sorry, well guess what Jungkook, im not you, okay? I’m not used to this- I dont want to be in this”

You don’t mean to snap, but the words come out sharper than you intended. Something flickers in Jungkook’s expression. His confidence doesn’t disappear entirely, but he’s hesitating and biting his lip ring—just for a second. His gaze flickers across your face like he’s actually seeing you now, realizing this isn’t just some minor inconvenience for you. You don’t know what to make of that. It throws you off, just a little. But you hold your ground.

“Im sorry, I didn’t want this to happen- I know how it feels, and ill do what i can to get it under control.” He’s speaking softer, looking up at you before he gets distracted by something in the back.

Before either of you can say anything else, Nari arrives with utensils and plates , setting them down a little harder than necessary. You startle.

“Here you go.”

Jungkook barely acknowledges her, murmuring a quick, “Thank you,” before reaching for his utensils. The interaction is completely normal—just a regular customer getting his order—but you watch anyway, searching for something you can’t quite name.

You trail off after Nari, giving him a tight lipped smile, picking up the plates around the tables near him. Something distracts you- someone. He’s old, in a casual, but smart outfit. Walking up to Jungkook. The man himself seems quite annoyed, like he dosen’t want to be there. You figure he’s his manager.

You’re still watching when Jungkook’s manager walks in and slides into the seat across from him.

Immediately, the atmosphere changes.

“You seriously need to lay low,” his manager says in a hushed but firm voice.

Your grip tightens around the tray in your hands. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but you don’t have to. The tension is clear as day, thick enough to press against your chest. You don’t know why, but something about the conversation makes you uneasy.

Jungkook doesn’t say much—just nods along, eyes downcast as he eats. Whatever they’re talking about, it’s serious.

You decide it’s time for a toilet break.

—

As you step into the bathroom, the cool air and muffled hum of the restaurant give you a moment to breathe. Exhaling slowly, shaking your head to yourself. This entire night has been one giant headache, and you’re barely keeping up.

The door swings open behind you, and in the mirror’s reflection, you see Nari stepping in. Her eyes meet yours briefly before she heads to the sink, washing her hands with the same frustration you’re feeling.

“You okay?” she asks, glancing at you through the mirror.

You let out a dry laugh. “I was gonna ask you that first.”

Nari snorts, shaking her hands off before grabbing a tissue. “Yeah, well. I figured you might need to hear it first.” She tosses the towel in the bin and leans against the counter, taking out her lipgloss and applying some. “What the hell is going on out there?”

“Trust me, i wish i knew.” You groan, rubbing your temples.

Nari raises an eyebrow. “So, what? You two got some unfinished business or something? Cause it kinda looks like it.”

You shoot her a look. “No. Definitely not.”

She hums, unconvinced. “I dunno… that was a lot of tension back there. Thought you were about to start throwing hands or—”

“Nari.”

“Okay, okay.” Shes grinning, nudging your arm. “But really, are you okay? You looked ready to bite his head off.”

You sigh, leaning back against the counter next to her. “I just… I don’t like this attention. The stares. The way people assume things just because he walks in here.”

Nari nods, her expression softening. “Yeah. I feel you, especially those girls earlier, that already annoyed me, i couldn’t imagine being you right now.”

“Exactly.” You run a hand through your hair.

“And now, one of his managers is all over him about laying low, and I’m caught in the middle of it.”

Nari makes a disgusted noise. “Ugh. I hate that. Like, what are you supposed to do? Ban him from the restaurant?”

“Right?”

There’s a brief silence before Nari shifts, giving you a sly side-eye. “But… if we ignore the part where this is a disaster… he is kinda hot, right?”

You groan, shoving her shoulder. “Nari.”

She laughs, raising her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying! If this was some corny romance film, you guys would so be two scenes away from a heated argument turning into—”

“Nope. Not happening.” You shake your head firmly, pushing off the counter.

“Mm-hmm.” Nari sing songs, but doesn’t push further. “Well, whatever’s going on, you’ll figure it out.” She gives your arm a light squeeze before heading for the door. “I’ll cover if you need a few more minutes.”

You smile, feeling a little lighter. “Thanks, Nari.”

She winks. “Anytime, Mrs Celebrity.”

You groan again as the door swings shut behind her, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

When that the calmness of the bathroom suddenly isnt so relaxing anymore, you make your way out, deciding that if you stay any longer, it may look like your actually hiding from him.

Stepping back out onto the floor, the buzz of the restaurant greets you again. You scan the room, gaze flickering toward Jungkook’s table. He’s still there, picking at his food and watching something on his phone but his manager is gone. For a second, you think he left completely—until you spot him at the bar, sitting stiffly, drumming his fingers against the counter like he’s waiting for something.

Or someone.

You sigh, steeling yourself, before walking over. “Can I get you anything?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral.

The manager barely glances at you before exhaling sharply through his nose, looking back to the side and it irks you. Pisses you off. “What you can do is tell me whats going on here. I’ve seen the posts, do you know who he is? Im sure you do, and you know the consequences of these things,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Frankly, I dont care what you kids are doing, but you and him should not be doing this so confidently out in the open.” He scoffs under his breath, fixing his watch around on his wrist absentmindedly on the counter. “But whatever. You don’t seem like the type to listen.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

His gaze flicks to you properly now, sharp and assessing. “I’m saying,” he continues, lowering his voice, “I understand that you have your own life to live, but Jungkook isn’t just anyone. He’s got an entire career, a reputation, and people looking for any excuse to pick him apart. So, unless you want to become the next big scandal, I’d suggest you be a little more careful.”

You cross your arms. “First of all, I’m just doing my job and theres nothing going on between us,” Irritation is building up, you couldn’t be famous. If this is the tiny amount of control you’d have over yourself? You seriously wonder how celebrities can deal with it. “Secondly, Jungkook’s also a grown man, and you cant sit here and babysit him.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “Trust me, I know.” His fingers tap against the glass again, thoughtful. “That’s the problem.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his head, letting out another sigh before pushing back from the bar. “It means that he always gets what he wants,” he says, standing up. “That’s all.”

You stand there for a moment, still processing, before glancing over at Jungkook.

His manager is leaving when you turn back, why the fuck is everyone leaving you riddles to solve?!

—

Its a few minutes later when Jungkook’s at the bar, interrupting your zone out sesh, annoyingly enough, he has that same smirk on his face, and what looks to be the bill in his hand.

“Hey,” he interrupts smoothly, stepping between you and your thoughts, “I have to leave a little earlier tonight.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes and making sure what you next say comes off as a joke, “And why would I care?”

Jungkook hesitates just a little, then tilts his head slightly, flashing a quick, teasing smile. “Hm, not sure, you do seem kind of invested.”

You roll your eyes, biting down the urge to smile just to be difficult. “Yeah, in my paycheck. Which I better still have after all this.”

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh. “Good to know where we stand.”

“You’re a customer, and I work here. That’s where we stand.” You remind him. And you don’t know who you’re trying to convince when you tell him.

“Mm.” He hums, expression faltering the slightest, but you dont miss it. He’s resting his elbows on the bar. “But I don’t see you talking to your other customers like this.”

You scoff, reaching for a glass just to have something to do. “That’s because they’re not you.”

His grin deepens. “Exactly.”

His manager’s coming back through the door, looking out of breath, seemingly in a rush and exhales sharply, clearly fed up. “Jungkook, we need to go. Look’s like someones seen you,”

You look outside, its not a crowd yet, but theres the same two girls standing outside, you make sure to put your head down, not making it too suspicious that you’re hiding but you seem to cover your face successfully behind the bar glasses and you are praying to the Gods that your face isn’t going to be plastered all over your timeline tonight.

Jungkook doesn’t move. He just stays there, watching you, like he’s waiting for you to say something first.

You meet his gaze, feeling that tension again—annoying, frustrating, but undeniably there.

After a long beat, you raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be laying low?”

Jungkook smirks. “I’m working on it.”

The manager mutters something under his breath and finally leaves the restaurant. Jungkook takes his time following, sliding a tip across the bar before turning toward the door.

And like last time, you wait until he’s gone before checking.

Scribbled next to his unnecessarily large tip, in his barely legible handwriting, is a number, and the same emoji he has tatted into his middle finger drawn terribly next to it.

You freeze.

Jungkook left you his number.

[authoratmidnight]

So I was looking through the OptiRatch tag, as you do, when I saw @energon-depo's post about 'Smokescreen is an OptiRatch kid'

And unfortunately it takes very little to get my brain worms going and that one did and I kinda wanna write this. Or at least, a re-imagining of episode 18 where that's the case.

Like. Sometime waaaaaay before canon, before the war, Orion and Ratchet had a little sparkling (Smokescreen). But then (perhaps near the beginning of the war? just after he became a Prime?) he went missing/was kidnapped. He was just gone (I'm sort of thinking maybe Ratchet and Smokescreen were caught in an attack and separated and when the smoke and dust settled he looked everywhere for the little one to no avail).

Eventually they had to conclude he'd died in the attack, because what else can they do? So they grieve and mourn (esp grieving the fact that, now with everything going on, they'll probably never have another one-not only is it far to dangerous to bring a life like that into the world, but if anyone were to find out that Optimus had family like that, it would be painting a target on their backs. he already has to keep his relationship w/ Ratchet on the down low now, a child would be far to risky).

Then we fast forward ahead however many tens of thousands-millions of years have passed and it's the present day on Earth. Team Prime is investigating that escape pod, gets jumped by the 'Cons and then BAM. Smokescreen appears.

And to Ratchet and Optimus, the moment they see his face, it's like they've just seen a ghost. Because he may be grown up now, but that face, those colours/markings, those features, it's the same, it's their sparkling. Of course they mask this well enough under a guise of just. Surprise at seeing another young Autobot. Meanwhile they're looking at each other like 'you're seeing this right??'

So they bring him back to base and ofc ask him about himself, how her got there, his name (b/c it can't possibly be him. it just can't). He gives the spiel we know. But also further prodding on Ratchet's part (while giving him a physical to make sure he's in good condition, don't need another wounded warrior on their hands) reveals that (as far as he knows) any family he had died in the war. His memories as a sparkling are hazy at best, he doesn't remember his parents.

He grew up alone and basically went from alone to the Elite Guard, to his station w/ Alpha Trion and then on Earth.

Meanwhile, Ratchet and Optimus are just 'oh sweet Solus Prime it IS him' esp when a test that Ratchet ran while doing his physical confirms relations.

So on one hand, they're ecstatic that their missing sparkling is alive and well. On the other, do they tell him??? They want to, Primus knows they want to, but at the same time it would be so dangerous, cause it would and could get back to the Cons and that would be painting the biggest ever 'take me hostage' sign on him. So maybe not yet but, perhaps one day.

Smokescreen is woefully oblivious to any favouritism going his way (getting to call Ratchet 'doc' w/o issue, being allowed to just. use the Phase Shifter whenever. god they try not to show favouritism but they slip up sometimes)

And then the s2 ending/s3 staring events happen and Ratchet is just gripped with grief at the thought he's lost not just his partner, but his child for the second time in his life. He is beyond relieved when they turn up alive.

Smokescreen isn't quite sure why Ratchet hugs him so tightly once they're reunited. Like, he's glad to see him too but uh, Ratchet you ok? He's also a bit surprised that Optimus isn't mad at him for disobeying orders (going back to save him when the base blew up, using the forge on him to save him), but he's not gonna complain cause it did work out.

Now Ratchet really wants to tell Smokescreen. After all that he deserves to know. Optimus still isn't sure (even though he does want to as well).

Maybe one day, when the war is over, when it's safer.

Also. Alpha Trion 100% knew who Smokescreen was (b/c he knows like everything) and orchestrated getting him guard duty there, with him, to keep an eye on Smokescreen/keep him safe. He also told him stories about Optimus Prime as a way for him to know about his dad (Smokescreen always had a fascination about him that Alpha Trion was happy to feed). He also orchestrated getting Smokescreen to Earth so he'd one day meet Optimus again.

[purinfelix]

do i wanna know? ✮⋆˙ - park jongseong

summary: while attending a performance by your friend's band, you locked eyes with their guitarist up on stage - though you wouldn't have guessed that you caught a lot more than just his gaze ──────── rock guitarist! jay x reader || sfw, lots of tension, jay's a bit mean (but i like him like that) || w/c: 1.3k

a/n: TRUST ive been busy this week guys so i had to fart this one out real quick when i felt the inspo come to me - i promise im working on part 2s for the others but i hope u enjoy this one !!! (cus it lowk is quite self-indulgent lol)

Jay had never made a mistake on stage before.

If he ever had though, it wouldn't have been a huge deal. It wasn't like his band was that famous yet, and he was only the guitarist after all. If he had been in Heeseung's position as the singer or Niki on bass, then maybe his little hiccup would've been more noticeable. Luckily for him though, he had been practising with these guys for as long as he could remember, and playing guitar for even longer than that - so he had never once questioned his skill.

Until tonight, when he spotted you in the crowd, standing in stark contrast to the rowdy men who surrounded you - the typical audience his band drew in. There was no way he couldn't have noticed you when you were dressed like that and looking at him like that, like he was the only one on stage, the only one in the world. He'd have to be some sort of god not to stuff up, at least a little.

All concerns about the complaints he'd have to hear after the show washed away quickly when he found himself locking eyes with you, an eager smirk spreading across his features. It's electric, and he feels his heart swell with pride in a way it never has before. It only takes a small nudge from Heeseung, though, and he's back, fingers moving swiftly and falling smoothly back into the rhythm of the song - though you don't leave his mind.

"Seriously, dude?" Jake sighs as they file off of the stage, having to yell a bit over the sound of the crowd chanting for an encore as he twirls his drumstick in one hand.

"What," Jay spits, though he already knows what's coming.

"You can't just be stuffing up like that, especially not on stage," the drummer sighs, pushing him to the side.

"Whatever, finger just slipped, alright?" Jay scoffed in response as they headed into the break room, unlooping his guitar strap from around him and settling it down in his case.

"Well, it better not happen again," Heeseung's voice is laced with malice, "I'm serious."

"Well, I'm going out for a smoke," Jay replies, half-heartedly waving to the rest of his bandmates, cigarette already dangling from his lips as he pushes past them to the back exit.

The cold night air hits him stronger than he was expecting, and in combination with the deadly quiet, the atmosphere forces him to sober up a little bit. Sure, it was dumb making a mistake like that, he knows, but no one smart has ever been a rockstar. He leans against the back wall with a sigh, looking upward to the empty night sky. Then in a swift, almost automatic motion, he pulls his lighter out of his back pocket, cupping it to the end of his cigarette.

In between tours, practices and performing, he can't remember the last time he's had a moment to himself that was this quiet and he can audibly hear the faint crackle his cigarette lets out as it sparks to life - as well as the impatient tapping of what sounds like a high-heeled boot coming not far away from him.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," you huff, crossing your arms over yourself in an attempt to protect your bare skin from the weather, "just wan't expecting it to be this damn cold."

He laughs, low and a little cocky, almost as if he's entertaining you with it. "What are you doing out here then, sweetheart?"

You choose to ignore his pet name, "isn't it obvious?"

He raises an interested brow, moving towards you at an infuriatingly slow pace, his boots scraping against the pavement. He stops just close enough that you catch the faint scent of smoke mixed with something softer - his cologne? You bite your bottom lip in irritation, not at the slow way he looks you up and down, as if he's savouring you, but rather at the strange way it makes you feel.

"Waiting for someone?" There's a sudden tenderness in his tone, and he's unable to hide his intrigue.

You nod, "for Jake."

"Ah," he says, almost in disappointment, as he leans back against the wall with a soft thud, and you watch intently as his slender hands come up to pull his cigarette away from his mouth - shortly followed by the smooth grey smoke that pierces through the dark air. His silver rings glimmer in the moonlight, catching your eye. "You're one of his groupies."

"I wouldn't call myself th-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, what ridiculous name has he come up for you guys now, hm? His darlings? His angels?"

"I'm his friend," you say curtly, shifting your weight from one foot onto the other, "plus I'm just here to watch the show."

Jay hums, tilting his head as he exhales another slow stream of smoke, though you notice he makes an effort to do it away from your direction. "So you came all the way out here in that," his eyes flick down to your outfit, lingering just long enough to make a point, "just to see the show?"

"Believe it or not, yeah."

"Interesting," he says, dragging out the word. "You know I knew Jake was dense, but keeping a pretty thing like you around just as a friend is just plain stupid."

You're taken aback, caught between feeling offended and weirdly flattered. "Well, better a friend then some weird stranger I'm only entertaining because I'm waiting for him, hm?"

"And yet you're here talking to me still and not waiting backstage to throw yourself at him," he tilts his head with a smirk, as if he's figured something out, "doesn't really seem like you're in a rush to see him."

You scoff, crossing your arms even tighter. "Not that it's any of your business, but I don't throw myself at anyone."

"You don't?" His lips curl at the edges in a way that makes you narrow your eyes. "Could've fooled me with the way you were looking at me up on stage."

You feel a heat prick at the back of your neck - you didn't think he'd noticed that, but you refuse to let him get to you. "You mean when you messed up your set?" you say back teasingly. "Yeah, I did notice that."

He laughs, but this time it's more genuine, almost as if he's actually impressed by your response. "You're good, quick, I like that in a woman."

"Don't care."

"Liar."

You glare at him, and he just grins like he's enjoying this far too much - and judging from the way he's looking at you, he is, and guessing from the way your heart pounds in your chest, you might be too.

Before you can fire back, the door swings open, and Jake's voice cuts through the thick tension. "There you are!" His brows furrow when he sees Jay and just how close the two of you are standing. "What are you doing out here with her?"

"I was just giving your friend here some directions," he smirks, tossing his cigarette onto the pavement and stepping on it with his boot.

Jake's frown deepens, and he reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently but firmly toward the door. "Come on, let's go."

You let him pull you inside, but not before glancing over your shoulder. Jay's still leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you - though this time his gaze is heavier. You twist your head, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing you were looking, but not before catching the flicker of his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, like he's tasted something intriguing - something he's not quite done with yet.

[darkchemistryfanboy]

ok so this is my proposal for a Reverse Robins AU that's actually a Reverse Batfamily AU because Duke and the girls deserve some swapping too.

The typical joining the batfam timeline goes like this:

Dick-> Barbara-> Jason-> Tim-> Steph-> Cass-> Damian-> Duke

So let's swap

Duke:

both of his parents are severely incapacitated via rogue attack

since he grew up relatively normal, and has two parents he very much love and are technically still alive, he becomes Bruce's ward

the light to batman's darkness

overall very sunny personality but with some darkness one could explore

you can have his teenage angst phase start due to the awakening of his powers

no metas in Gotham and all that

so he goes to his own city and becomes his own separate vigilante

Damian

ok so this might be a little bit of a stretch but hear me out

he meets batman already trained and capable

and older than the current sidekick

also, his stance of killing may make him a kinda separate thing from batman

like, definitely not his sidekick

especially assuming this Damian is already a teen by the time he meets Bruce

it's not exactly the same, but near enough

his career ending injury could be related to the LoA

and instead of going hacker, he could go doctor

idk, think about it

Cass

ok this one's pretty easy

young child is found feral in the streets and gets adopted

she becomes the second signal or whatever name duke chose

and she is basically a really great child: appreciative of everything, actually goes to school, and so on and so forth

and then lady Shiva shows up

Shiva challenges her to a death match, Cass wins but refuses to kill her, since that's her mother, and gets killed for her troubles

now for her vilain arc it'd be a little different than Jason's

but I think it could happen

first she kills Shiva and steals her title

and when she does she has some epiphany about how some people will never regret the things they do

and she could become an assassin

killing the people who are truly horrendous, who she can clearly see are doing evil and regretting nothing

Steph

ok so while she would probably not grab Cass's/Duke's name, she would definitely be going out

and Batman gets PTSD seeing this small young vigilante going out and putting herself in danger

and tries to stop her

but Steph is too stubborn enough to actually stop

eventually he allows it but only on strict supervision

and maybe this is where she becomes the Signal III or whatever

at some point her father figures out who she is and while she's dealing with that she gives Tim the title

you could play on the fact that she's clue master's daughter and make her develop her detective skills

maybe enough that when Bruce "Dies" and Tim tells her of some suspicions she leaves with him to investigate

becomes Spoiler again and finds Bruce

Tim

ok so this one is kind of a stretch but just hang on

Tim, like always, is a fanboy

but since there's no Dick, he never figures out who Batman is

but he still loves the bats

and figures with all his money there's definitely something he could do

so he starts heading out to the streets, aiming to help

the others don't take him seriously because they see him as just a batman fanboy

so he has to struggle and try and fail and try again to be considered part of the team

he only becomes a part of the team when he becomes signal in that Steph fiasco

due to not being trusted, he starts a gang war, and Leslie fakes his death

he spends a year around the world, building his sense of identity and acting as a vigilante

and when Bruce disappears, he thinks something's fishy

and he keeps the name

Jason

this one fits way too well

Jason either never steals the tires or steals them quickly enough to never get caught

he continues living as a street kid, stealing, being a snarky asshole, and helping the alley kids when he can

he could become some sort of informant for the bats, as well as an opportunistic vigilante

as in never actually going out intending to stop crime, but ending up doing it when possible

he brings crucial info on cases, also stopping muggings, and becomes closer and closer to the batfam

eventually, being one of the biggest informants of the city, and an incredibly smart kid, he gets enough info to figure out the Bats identities

and Bruce adopts him

he decides to go out and save as many people as possible

he also has a very strong moral code

his father was forced into being a criminal by being excon, so he recognizes that sometimes you don't have a choice

he also is against excessive violence, since breaking bones, while it may not kill, it puts you in excessive medical debt and that's way too shitty

he and Cass argue constantly about this

Barbara

ok so this is the stretchiest one of them all

so try and stay with me

young Barbara, trained my a cop for self defense purposes, decides to go out and use her abilities for other people's defense

the batfam catch her, and snitch on her with her dad

while she is grounded, she manages to hack into their comms and uses this opportunity to try and annoy the batfam into letting her become a vigilante

eventually Bruce "dies" Steph and Tim leave, and Duke becomes batman

left with half his backup gone, and realizing there is no way he can keep Barbara sealed by herself with only Jason for help (Cass is an assassin, Damian can't go out into the field, and the rest are either Bruce or looking for him) he decides to make her the fifth signal

she's snarky at the fact they stopped her from helping people for so long mirroring Damian's attitude

Dick

this one is easy with some changes

the flying graysons get murdered later, with Dick being in his teens

instead of going full vigilante, dick joins the we are signal gang, and eventually becomes part of the batfam in a similar way to Duke

naturally, he names himself Robin

of anyone has some ideas to add or improve on this prompt, feel free to do so (respectfully), also if someone writes a fanfic please tag me, I'd love to read this story

also this was inspired by a post by @too0bsessedformyowngood , so you should definitely read that

[c-kiddo]

from a wee bit ago, while watching the cr bg3 vod ^_^

[image description: 2 digitally coloured pencil drawings of critical role characters. the first is of ashton, leaning on their elbows, smirking and and flipping someone off, labelled 'to chet'. the second image is a portrait of caduceus, based on his level 20 design. he is smiling slightly and looking to the side. end ID]

[plainclothesdisaster]

DPxDC Mechanical Engineer Danny

Danny caught the attention of Batman while studying at Gotham University for his alternative energy projects. He’s hired right out of college to work on the Watchtower.

He shows absolutely no tell of his abilities till there’s a dire situation- Flash’s electric discharge messes with one of his projects in progress and the whole base would have lost air pressure if he hadn’t done a quick fix using telekinesis and ice.

Of course Batman notices.

Batman assumes the worst- he suspects Danny’s a rogue of some kind, someone who has infiltrated the Justice League with an ulterior motive. But he can’t just fire Danny now- he’s the only one who knows how the new Watchtower energy source works. Plus, he’s not letting Danny go anywhere until he’s figured out his true motives.

Cue Batman subtly testing Danny- tossing things at him to trigger inhuman fast reflexes, having him lift too-heavy machinery, setting up convenient opportunities to steal or snoop or otherwise be up to no good. Danny does take advantage but only once, to use a computer terminal with unlocked clearance. He didn’t plant any bugs that Barman could find, and he otherwise kept up his powerless civilian act perfectly.

Still, Batman’s not satisfied. He brings an infrasonic sound emitter to Danny’s lab one day, and that, of all things, is what gets Danny to break.

“I know what you’re doing,” Danny admits with a sigh, finally. “If you’re really that suspicious of me, I can leave, but I kinda like my job so I’d prefer not to. The benefits are insane compared to what’s standard.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure. yeah. How about you turn off the freaking noise generator and we can talk?”

“Hm.” Batman obliges, and he takes the stool next to Danny at his gesture.

“Number one, I’m not a meta. Despite all the data and conclusions you’ve probably drawn otherwise. Number two, I’m on your side. I’m here to work on the base, that’s it. I follow your rules to the letter.”

“The-“

“The classified files I looked at? Yeah that was the one exception. You already know what I looked at, I’m sure, but maybe you haven’t figured out why. It goes back to point one- I may not be a meta, but I am something that organization, the GIW, cares about. I looked at your files on them to sus out your relations. Seeing as I don’t particularly love being the victim to twelve degrees of human rights violations if I can avoid it.”

“Hm.” The Ghost Intelligence Ward was one of many government agencies that the Justice League hadn’t worked closely with. But they also hadn’t been flagged for Justice League investigation. Danny’s comments made him doubt that call.

“Any other questions?”

“If you’re not a meta, what are you?”

“I���m an engineer. A pretty decent one. And I’d really, really like it to stay that way.”

Batman considers, and ultimately lets him stay. He likes Danny (everyone likes Danny), and it would be a massive pain in the ass to replace him. He really is a good engineer.

It’s only much later that his faith in Danny is repaid in spades.

Batman finds Danny on the Watchtower command bridge. Alarms are blaring, the station has been knocked out of orbit, out the window there’s shrapnel floating everywhere as a space battle rages around them.

On the station it’s chaos. Technicians run around, shouts from the med bay, sparks from the walls.

Batman and Danny stand at the main controls, watching the battle outside, stoic, unmoving.

Wonder Woman’s harried voice crackles through on coms: “We need backup.”

“There is no more backup.” Batman replies, while looking pointedly at Danny.

“What?”

Batman doesn’t move.

“What.”

“The impact from Darkseid’s initial attack should have sent this station on a terminal trajectory toward the planet.”

“Well. We aren’t currently plummeting to our deaths, so turns out it didn’t do that.”

“You did something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe Superman nudged us back on course in all the chaos.”

“I’ve been watching the trackers. No one else with the capability has come near the station.”

“Can’t you just be grateful we got lucky?”

Sounds of peril screech over the coms. Danny’s face scrunches.

“Luck had nothing to do with it. As it is now, we are going to lose this fight.”

“Isn’t there anyone else you can call?”

“I’m asking you. You can help, can’t you?”

The glare-off lasts a long moment more before Danny breaks.

“Fuck. Fuckity fuck.” Danny runs his hands through his hair. “Shit. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to save this and countless other worlds from a genocide. I’m also asking you to save my friends.”

Danny looks at him, hard, weary, and with a kind of deep resolve that feels far too ancient to be on the face of a supposed twenty-something.

“Fine. Fine. Okay.” He steps back and transforms. If Batman is surprised when he shakes off his human appearance like an old coat, he doesn’t show it. But what’s undeniable is the being in Danny’s place has the unmistakable presence of power.

“No one else can know.” His voice echoes in a way that’s sonically impossible, both sounding closer and further away than he should be.

He pulls a gear-shaped medallion seemingly out of thin air and puts it over his head in one motion.

“If I get in trouble for this, I’m blaming you.”

He vanishes. Outside, the shape of the battle changes instantly. The stars seem to glow brighter as the arms of the galaxy flash with the colors of the aurora. Then it’s like the void of space itself comes alive. It moves the spaceships back like they’re toys, plucking them from one side of the field to the other. It finds Darkseid at the heart of the chaos and massive arms of nothingness and darkness wrap around him. He’s screaming as it swallows him whole.

His armies scatter. The battle turns. The JL deal with the stragglers, but the air of relief is palpable.

Danny reappears next to Batman, once again donning his grease-stained coveralls. Arms folded.

“Happy?”

It took all of five minutes. Less, probably. Batman tamps down a thousand questions.

“Thank you.”

“I’m gonna need two weeks off minimum.” Danny snaps. “One to deal with the bureaucratic nightmare you’ve just caused me, and another to recover from the headache.”

Batman blanks. “Granted.”

Danny sighs. “And I’m not fixing the station until I’m back. It won’t fall out of the sky as is. Make up whatever excuse you want.”

“Done.” He considers. “I would prefer to tell them the truth. That you saved us.”

Danny glares. “I’m not supposed to save you. I made a pact not to use my power to influence the mortal realm.”

“A pact with who?”

Danny rolls his eyes. “The embodiment of Time. The concept of Justice. Among others.” He smirks at Batman’s confusion.

“And what, exactly, does that make you?”

He stands, framed by the space window, haloed by the stars. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

Batman frowns.

“Look. I like you guys. I like working on your base. I like supporting the work you do. But you can not go factoring me in to any of your plans or contingencies. This was a one time thing.

“So to answer your question again: I’m an engineer.”

[celesteleoves]

hcs of bakugou / todoroki being a hardcore simp for reader maybe?

“I WANNA BE YOURS.”

KATSUKI BAKUGOU/SHOTO TODOROKI x fem!reader.

summary: what the request said!

warnings: swearing (bakugou…), mentions of todoroki’s childhood (very brief), that’s it i believe!

a/n: i love this request. i hope i wrote this to your liking!

—

BAKUGOU KATSUKI —

he is a very subtle simp. you probably wouldn’t even think he liked you if you guys weren’t already dating. the way he shows his love for you is… questionable.

he does the simple things like following you around like a lost puppy (even though he swears he does NOT) .

he’ll definitely demand you never leave his side so he can always be there to protect you.

“you’re so weak, you need me to be there to protect you at all times.”

you’ll just nod, enjoying your boyfriends presence. (he’s actually geeking over you aswell and the fact you grace him with your presence).

he takes you everywhere with him and doesn’t care about what anyone says. oh, aizawa paired him up with kirishima? you’re coming with. you can’t stay a second away from him before he’s rushing around like a headless chicken looking for you.

your biggest fan by far, anything you do he’s practically on the floor worshipping you. then the next second he’ll be calling your outfit disgusting in the sweetest way possible.

he’ll also deny the fact he’s a simp for you. one time, kirishima caught the poor boy gazing at you, dare i say LOVINGLY, across the room as you did a mundane task.

kirishima has never grinned wider than he did when he noticed this. your boyfriend noticed the quiet chuckles leaving his friend and turned towards him.

“what the fuck are you laughing at?”

“you stalking y/n!”

“I WAS NOT STARING AT HER.” sure… liar. you literally just outed yourself…

bakugou loved you, even though he shows it in his weird, weird ways.

SHOTO TODOROKI —

the sweetest, sweetest boyfriend ever. literally the ideal boyfriend anyone could have SIMPLY because of how doting he is towards his partner.

he’s absolutely enamoured with you. he isn’t shameful about it either! (referencing one of my other head-canons) .

this boy will downright show his love for you.

we all know shoto has a hard time with social cues, he blames it on his childhood and the lack of social times he had – always being isolated.

that’s also the reason why he doesn’t understand why he can’t stare you down like a hawk and not expect people to be slightly worried… why is he staring at you like he wants to eat you?

cuteness aggression is a thing. you both get it when you’re with each other.

you can’t believe you managed to secure this boy. he never opened up to just anyone, yet for you he made an exception. you flew that all the time.

meanwhile your boyfriend is still in denial you two are dating. every time you bring up your realtionship he’s blushing like a maniac and shying away from you.

your classmates notice the little things. such as you placing your phone face up only for it to be face down a couple seconds later because todoroki fixed it for you knowing you don’t want people staring at every notification on your phone (this is so me guys i’m sorry).

he is very attentive, he’s such a simp. he’ll pick up on the little things. sometimes, you feel like he knows you better than you know yourself.

there was definitely one time you had been making yourself a snack in the kitchen, forgetting to get one of your favourite piece of food for the snack .

once your snack was made, you frowned at the missing piece of your food you wanted.

starting to get upset, you looked around for something to make up for this.

“here.” a soft voice spoke causing you to relax at the sound of todorokis gentle tone.

“i can’t find my-”

“y/n. here.”

you looked at your boyfriends hand, noticing he was holding multiple variations of the missing food item you craved.

your lips trembled at his thoughtfulness and you pulled your boyfriend in for a hug as he returned it with a soft smile on his face.

he’s too sweet for you and such a simp!

—

a/n: guys, bare with me if there is spelling errors. this was not proof-read! i hope this was good enough, it was kind of short.

SEND REQUESTS! 🤍🤍

[roturo]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ SHE'S BACK!

GUESS HE COULDN'T KEEP IT IN, SO HE HAD TO KEEP IT INSIDE! ₊˚⊹♡ dilf!gojo satoru x teacher!reader

tags: smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, exhibitionism, getting caught, he fucks you while he's on the phone, overstimulation, dumbfication, fluff, gojo has an ex-wife, yuuji is gojo's son, age-gap.

A/N: well, this was surely and adventure and maybe self-indulgent title because guess what?, i'm back baby.

It was a nice morning, he felt clean. Like his life was finally steadying. Even after some stressful weeks trying to get rid of his now ex-wife, he won the trial and kept Yuuji. Poor little boy, just turning 5 years old and he’s already facing all this type of stress. But thankfully he will not be experiencing enduring his crazy mother behavior. Which basically was a gold digger, and a bitch– Not that he would ever say that outloud, maybe with other words? Bastard? Witch? Not that it really matters right now.

He could finally take a break now, just focusing on raising his little boy, and being an old boring 31 year old dad. Life doesn’t sound that bad.

“Daddy! Daddy!,” His son went running to his arms, almost stumbling by himself- clear happiness shown on his face. Quickly, Gojo opened his arms ready to lift the young kid. “Miss Y/N congratulated me on my homework! She was pretty amazed!”

Your name wasn’t unknown to him, Yuuji was very open when talking about his favorite teacher, even though he hasn’t seen you yet- from what he’s been told you’re the kid’s favorite, including Yuuji’s. “I had to talk about who’s my hero, and I chose you!” If this day wasn’t going great, it was now. Because his son's comment just made his whole week, life even.

“Oh look dad!” The little boy pointed towards your moving frame, each time getting clñoser towards them. “Daddy, this is Miss Y/N!” Yuuji kept presenting the both of you. He was really excited to present his two favorite persons to each other- but all Gojo could think of what’s how young and beautiful you looked. He expected someone older, maybe even an old lady with wrinkles and that loving grandma vibes, but what he saw made his heart beat in a way he never thought he would feel ever more.

“Daddy? Are you paying attention?” The little boy gained Gojo’s attention back, face now looking at him again. “I’m sorry kiddo, kinda just zoned out there. What did you just say?”

“Uhh, what was it? Oh! Did I tell you Miss Y/N told me you were a very handsome man?”

“Yuuji!” His gaze moved towards your blushed face, a hand covering part of your face. “I’m so sorry Mr.Gojo, I didn’t intend to say-”

Gojo cut you off before you could continue apologizing “It’s okay, I also think Ms.Y/N is a very beautiful woman.” 

Uh, well. So this is how kinda you found yourself in this situation right now.

You swear it wasn’t your intention! You really tried, you really did, but how could someone say no to Mr.Gojo? And mostly because he really showed his attraction towards you. Sending Yuuji with a rose for you every day, and the little boy was rooting for his dad, because dear god- he did not shut up about him, and how happy he would be with a new girlfriend and maybe one he could call ‘mommy’ and give him a sister. 

That made you blush. 

Not only because the little boy commented on it, and was agreeing- but because it was his dad’s idea.

“You’re so wet, s-shit.” Loud thrusts filled the room, he was fucking you raw on his sofa– waiting for Yuuji’s mom to bring him back, the little boy was eager to come back and ‘see Ms.Y/N and his daddy finally starting to fall in love’

Kids being kids. But, he was right- the both of you were falling in love with eachother.

Gojo throws back his head, immersed in the warmth radiating off your walls and he lets your moans take him to another world. In a haste decision, he slips your dress over your head before tossing it. He mouths at your tits, plump and stiff between his lips, and he hurdles a deeper round of thrusts inside you. 

When you get a little too loud, his hand comes over to clamp your mouth, wolf like eyes staring back at you, “Shut it. You don’t deserve to speak.”

His thin white tee that stays a barrier between you and him does not hide the rippling body underneath that seemed to be sculpted by gods. He presses into you, grunting, using you like his personal sex doll and you embrace it, thrive from it, come to it. Your hips contract, slewing in perfect circles, before having your legs fall gradually lifeless as you arousal drip down your thighs.

“Ffffucckkk- oh baby, would you like that? Be full of me and my baby? Make me a daddy again?”

“yesyesyesyes, make me yours Mr.Gojo-” 

He pays your climax no mind,a smirk clearly showing on his face while he fucks you on his sofa- You could muffle your screams of pleasure easier here. Turning your head back to face him, you notice now he’s shirtless–taut and shiny from sweat like a large set of Hawaiian rolls–before seeing how quick he is to fit back inside you.

“Good girl.” His husky voice resonates and pushes you back into the sheets. “Good girls get rewards, don’t they?” Your poor fucked up mind couldn’t think clearly now. The way your abused and overstimulated pussy was still taking his rock hard cock gratefully inside you was making every feel giddy. A sudden noise bringing back a little part of your senses, Gojo clearly grunting grabbed his what you suppose phone, and answered. Not bothering to stop his thrusts.

“Yeah?,” His voice sounded almost like a whisper because of how breathy it was. “Gojo? I’m almost at your house- Yuuji wanted some ice-cream and bought some for you and… your new girlfriend?” His chuckle interrupted his ex-wife’s conversation, accompanied with a whimper at the feeling of you clenching on him- overstimulation clearly bringing you back to climax soon again.

A slap was heard from his part of the line, an unbelievable laugh coming from his ex-wife line, clearly noticing what was going on and then she finally heard you moan. You couldn’t keep it in anymore, and you were too fucked out to feel embarrased about it right now.

“Finish before I leave Yuuji- Enjoy yourself.” Gojo was so lost in pleasure that he didn’t even realize she hung up before he even processed what happened.

His grunts and sounds of skins slapping are all you hear as he pounds you back into the sofa. It feels like heaven beneath his weight. You were feeling flushed to the touch, but making contact with his skin was like an inferno. He was the embodiment of heat and as suffocating as that could’ve been, it melts you like it’s how it always should’ve been.

His pace eventually falters, followed by a hushed “fuck,” and he empties out into your used hole. The moment he pulled out, a knock was heard. 

“Shit. Can you walk?”

PART 2

[heylittleriotact]

👻 WIP WEDNESDAY 👻

Have I vindicated myself? Will I be flagged as a pervert again? Only one way to find out!

Thanks for the tag, @by-ilmater! Already loving your bodyguard AU!

Tagging @emmg @razildor @mageofquandrix @allofthebarks

Emmrich x Rook Modern Funeral Home AU

“Three times?”

“Yup.”

“And then this morning too?”

“Mhmm.”

“Damn. He must have been thirsting after you for ages.”

Rook tried not to look too pleased with herself as she regarded the shelf of dried pastas in front of her, for all intents and purposes supposedly deciding what kind she wanted, but in reality her mind was wandering down the path of recently forged memories from the night before.

The feeling of his lips on hers.

His scent.

The way he moaned while he was fucking her - not forced or put on. Instead, it was like he had never enjoyed anything in life quite so much as being entangled with her.

I’m in the grocery store with my best friend, picking up supplies for dinner - now is not the time.

Too late though: thoughts of Emmrich had already taken root, and arousal was already coiling deep and heavy in her core.

Later. Soon…

“Does he have Instagram? Facebook? I wanna see this silver-fox-fuck-machine for myself.”

“He doesn’t,” Rook said quietly, her lips curling at the absurdity of Emmrich having any kind of social media accounts. Most funeral professionals had nearly invisible online footprints - in an age where everyone you ever met was likely to look you up online, remaining largely unsearchable was the only sure way to guarantee your privacy.

“LinkedIn?”

Rook wrinkled her nose and pulled a box of linguine off the shelf, tossing it in the basket Leon held. “What? Cuz he’s old?”

“I mean… yeah?” Leon shrugged, his soft, dark brown eyes widening innocently.

“Shut up, Leon,” Rook squeezed past him, bumping her shoulder against his pointedly despite the abundance of space in the empty aisle.

“What?” He giggled, falling into step behind her, shaking his luxurious mane of thick black hair. “Nothing to be ashamed of - you were the one that couldn’t shut up about him at the Mussels Absinthe show a few weeks ago. You bagged yourself a sugar daddy - good for you. Wish I had that pull.”

Her cheeks heated as they wandered towards the produce section, “Can you maybe try not using your fucking radio voice while we’re discussing my sex life in the grocery store on a Thursday afternoon?”

“Just sex then?” Leon forged on, not bothering to lower his warm, booming voice at all. “Or have the seeds of romance been planted and fertilized?”

“Leon.” Rook ground out, looking around to make sure no one else was being subjected to this.

“Oh yeah,” he remarked observantly, “You fucking like him, don’t you?”

“What’s not to like?” Rook retorted, injecting a practical, sound-minded bit of dignity into the conversation as she selected a basket of mushrooms. “He’s stable, supports himself, has a functioning vehicle that’s not filled to the windows with garbage, doesn’t bitch when I tell him to wear a condom, and knows how to get a girl off.” She dropped a mesh bag of garlic bulbs into the basket with unwarranted spite. “Bet he won’t ask me to buy weed for him and his band buddies, or go running to Mummy for rent money each month.”

“I love it.” Leon said, switching the basket to his other hand and squeezing a grapefruit because Rook knew he’d eyed it and felt like he needed to. “The complete about-face rebound from pie-in-the-sky wannabe rockstar burnout to sophisticated man-about-town is truly inspiring. Tommy is gonna shit himself.”

“It’s not a rebound, and Tommy’s not gonna know a damn thing about it,” Rook snapped, sounding just as harsh as she intended to. “That fucking dickhead doesn’t deserve a front row seat to whatever happens to be going on in my life. He lost that privilege when he fucked that stupid waitress at The Hanged Man - despite having fucked around and gotten caught before.” She shoved a few shallots into a bag and tied it off, imagining she was shoving them down Tommy’s throat. “I know he asks around about me - I’m not stupid - and you’d better not be fucking telling him anything about me - I don’t want him knowing where I work, what I’m up to, who I’m fucking, or what I’m doing with my hair these days. He’s a piece of shit and I hope he chokes on his fucking tongue.”

“Point taken,” Leon raised his eyebrows. “And just so you know: I haven’t said a word to him. Haven’t even seen him around at shows or anything for the past month at least.”

“Good,” Rook quipped, calm entering her voice. “Maybe he’s finally made himself useful and gotten a fucking job. Or better yet: done us all a favour and dropped dead.”

It was always one thing to make arrangements with a family that clearly didn’t know much about their loved one in life, but it was quite another thing altogether to sit in an arrangement office with the overwhelmed family trying to guide them towards decisions while simultaneously steering them away from ones that their loved one was blatantly disagreeing with in real time.

“Next! I really don’t care for gerber daisies and I haven’t a clue as to why they think I have some sort of attachment to them.”

Emmrich subtly glanced up from the pages of the binder of floral arrangements into the ghostly visage of the recently deceased octogenarian hovering around it with the rest of her family.

Over the years he had mastered the art of subtly urging the living towards the decisions of the dead, but it wasn’t always easy: it was a balancing act on both fronts that to his knowledge, no other funeral professionals but himself had to manage.

The average person rarely considered it, but the reality was that funerals were - and always had been - just as much for the living as they were for the dead. Of course celebrating the life and legacy of the departed was of utmost importance, but the communal event itself: the ritual of a funeral, be it Andrastian, Qunari, non denominational, or anything in between was arguably more for the people left behind than the ones who did the leaving: an opportunity for the bereaved to come together and support each other through the darkest days of their grief. To weep, and laugh, and share stories and regrets. But the world was changing, and fewer and fewer people saw the value in said rituals. Thought them trite and old-fashioned and impractical.

It was a shame, really. But as it stood, society seemed to prefer to grieve privately - to bury their sorrows in busy things like work, and commitments; happy to deny that they felt anything at all in favour of letting that vacuous wound inside of them fester and scar.

What came after death was a mystery to everyone, even Emmrich, who had been able to commune with the metaphysical imprints of the recently deceased since childhood was unable to say for certain what followed that final breath: not everyone became a ghost, it seemed, and those that did tended not to linger overlong - less out of choice, he knew: the echo of a soul could only sustain itself in this realm for a finite time, becoming progressively less substantial before eventually fading away forever. Where it went after that, he couldn’t say.

“While we were working on your Mother’s obituary, I recall that you indicated she kept a garden at your childhood home in Cumberland. Are you able to remember if there were any flowers that she particularly enjoyed growing there?”

Of course he was asking her surviving son and daughter, but he was most certainly asking the ghost of Maude Laviolette as well. Something to go off of from any of them would be helpful at this point - they had been in arrangements for nearly two hours by then, and it was clear that everyone was growing tired.

“Delphiniums. Stock. Snap Dragons.” Mrs. Laviolette ticked off garden flowers on her ghostly fingers, her voice an echoing melody composed of emotion and memory.

As the Laviolette family looked at each other over the table, trying to work out exactly what flowers their mother might have grown all those years ago, Emmrich flipped a few laminated pages of the binder, allowing himself to idly wonder what sort of flowers Rook liked - or if she even cared for them at all. It was so difficult to tell with her - assumptions almost always turned out to be wrong in her case, but she clearly had an affection for things that grew, so surely she appreciated the beauty of flowers?

[megumismyhusband]

“how long was the bet supposed to last?”

rin freezes.

your voice is calm. too calm. the kind of calm that feels unnatural, like the quiet before a storm. but there’s no storm in your face—no anger, no hurt, nothing at all. just an empty, unreadable expression that makes his stomach churn.

“who told you?” his voice comes out rough, forced.

you shrug, like it doesn’t even matter. like he doesn’t even matter. “does it make a difference?”

it doesn’t. he knows that. he also knows that this is bad. really bad.

“was it a week? a month?” you tilt your head slightly, staring him down. “or were you just gonna keep going until you got bored?”

his jaw tightens. “it wasn’t like that.”

“really?” you let out a breathy laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “because from where i’m standing, it kinda seems like it was.”

rin clenches his fists, frustration curling in his chest. frustration at himself, at shidou, at the whole stupid situation that never should’ve happened in the first place.

“you weren’t a joke to me,” he says, voice low.

“that’s funny,” you murmur. “because i kinda feel like one.”

he wants to fix this. to reach out, to grab your wrist, to tell you the truth—how the bet stopped meaning anything the second he got to know you, how he tried to find the right moment to come clean but was too much of a coward to risk losing you.

but he waits too long.

“say something, rin,” you say quietly. “anything.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. because nothing he says right now will be enough.

so you nod, like you expected this, like you already knew how this would end.

“got it.”

and then you walk away.

rin lets you. because what else can he do?

—

the next day, your favorite drink is waiting on your desk.

you don’t touch it.

the day after, rin is standing by your locker, holding out your books.

“you don’t have to do this,” you mutter, not even looking at him.

“i know.” but he still shoves them into your arms before walking away.

the day after that, he shows up at practice late because he spent an hour in line getting that stupid pastry you like.

“you think buying me stuff is gonna fix this?” you ask, raising a brow.

“no.” he stares at the bag in your hands. “but i know you like them, so just take it.”

you sigh, but you don’t give it back.

on friday, he carries your bag before you can complain, waits for you after school even though you ignore him the whole walk home, and when you finally snap and ask what the hell he’s doing, he just says, “making it up to you.”

saturday morning, you open your door to find him standing there, hair messy, dark circles under his eyes, holding a stupidly large bag of snacks.

“seriously?” you cross your arms. “you’re still on this?”

“yeah.”

“why?”

he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “because i’m not giving up on you.”

you blink, caught off guard by how sure he sounds. how raw he looks.

he looks tired. frustrated. desperate.

like this actually means something to him. like you actually mean something to him.

you chew on your lip, eyes flicking between him and the bag in his hands.

“…you got my favorites?”

“obviously.”

“did you get the right drink this time?”

he exhales, shoving it into your hands. “yes.”

you stare at it for a moment. then sigh, stepping aside.

“fine. come in before you start looking even more pathetic.”

rin doesn’t need to be told twice. he steps inside, and for the first time all week, his chest feels a little lighter.

he still has a long way to go, he knows that. but if you’re letting him in, even just a little, then maybe, just maybe, he still has a chance to prove that this was never just a bet to him.

[gf2bellamy]

caught — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: hotch gives you a call to inform you that you have a case and to bring spencer. the problem? you haven't announced your relationship to anyone yet. content warnings: reader and spencer being worried a/n: one of my fav things i have written actually i love sleepy spencer

The shrill sound of a phone ringing broke the stillness of the dimly lit bedroom. You groaned, your head sinking deeper into the pillow.

“Spence,” you mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. 

A soft hum came from beside you as Spencer stirred. His head rested on your shoulder, and his messy curls tickled your face as he shifted slightly.

“Hmm?” he murmured, barely awake. 

“Your phone is ringing,” you muttered, nudging him gently. 

He lazily lifted an arm, reaching over you to the nightstand. His fingers fumbled briefly before he grabbed the vibrating phone. He cracked open one hazel eye to glance at the screen, then let out a sleepy exhale. 

“That’s yours,” he mumbled, handing the phone over to you before dropping his head back onto your shoulder. His breath was warm against your collarbone, and you felt the weight of him settling back in, clearly ready to fall asleep again. 

You sighed, equally exhausted but resigned, and brought the phone to your ear. “Hello?” you rasped, your voice thick with sleep. 

A familiar voice responded on the other end, monotone and all business. “We’ve got a case. I need you and Reid here in 20 minutes.” 

Your head thudded back against the pillow as you closed your eyes, already dreading leaving the warm cocoon of the bed.

“We’ll be right there,” you mumbled. 

You placed the phone back on the nightstand with a sigh. “Spence,” you repeated softly, nudging him lightly. 

All you got in return was a sleepy “Mmhmm,” muffled against your shoulder. 

You glanced down at him, brushing a few unruly curls out of his face. He looked peaceful, his lips slightly parted and his breath steady.

You almost hated to disturb him. “We have a case,” you murmured, your voice still sleepy. 

Spencer let out a loud, groggy groan, burying his face deeper into your shoulder like a petulant child refusing to wake up. His arms tightened around your waist. 

“Hotch needs us,” you added , trying to sound more awake, though the fog of sleep still clung to your mind. 

“Us?” he muttered, finally cracking one eye open to peer up at you. His voice was hoarse with sleep.

“He didn’t call me,” he said, confusion lacing his tone as he reached for his phone on the nightstand. 

You seized the moment to untangle yourself from his hold, though he made an effort to keep you there, his hand brushing your arm as you slipped away.

Sitting up in bed, you watched over his shoulder as he checked his phone. 

“See?” he said, holding the phone up to show you his blank notifications screen. “No missed calls, no texts. Maybe he forgot about me,” he joked, as he glanced over at you. 

You smirked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and pushed the covers away. “Ha, maybe he did,” you teased, stretching your arms over your head with a yawn. 

Spencer sat up beside you now, the weight of sleep slowly lifting from his features. His curls were a mess, sticking up in every direction, and you had to stifle a laugh at how endearingly disheveled he looked. 

Spencer’s gaze followed you as you stood up moving toward the closet, his eyes lingering as though he was working through something in his mind.

“Hey,” he said softly, calling your name to catch your attention. 

You paused, turning slightly to look over your shoulder. “What?” you asked, your brows furrowed at the expression on his face. 

He was staring at you, mouth slightly agape as though he were on the verge of some grand realization. “What exactly did Hotch say?” 

Your confusion deepened. “What do you mean?” 

Spencer straightened up a little. “Word for word,” he insisted, his hazel eyes now wide and alert, all traces of sleep gone. 

You frowned, trying to recall the conversation from a few minutes earlier. “Uh…” You hesitated for a moment, squinting. “He said, ‘We have a case. I want you and Reid here in 20 minutes.’” 

The words replayed in your mind, and suddenly, you felt your stomach drop. Your mouth fell open as you turned fully toward Spencer, realizing what he was getting at. 

“How did he know?” you whispered, eyes widening. 

Spencer was already on his feet now, running a hand through his messy curls. “Exactly,” he mumbled, pacing a small circle next to the bed.

His fingers raked through his hair repeatedly, a sure sign he was overthinking every possible explanation. 

Your mind raced as well. “I mean… we’ve been careful, right?” you asked, your voice tinged with uncertainty. 

Spencer glanced at you. “Careful? Yes. But this is Hotch we’re talking about. He probably knew the second we—” He stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head as though dismissing the thought. 

You sat down on the edge of the bed, your hands fidgeting in your lap. “Do you think he’s mad? Or… I don’t know, does he care? Oh god,” you mumbled, burying your face in your hands as the weight of the situation settled on you. 

Kneeling down in front of you, his hands gently rested on your knees.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice steady and soothing.

Spencer carefully pulled your hands away from your face, his warm gaze meeting yours.

“We’re going to be okay,” he assured you, his tone carrying a confidence that you weren’t sure if he fully believed himself. 

You stared at him for a second, your expression skeptical. “It’s just Hotch,” he added, like that was supposed to make you feel better. 

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes narrowing in silent disbelief. The unspoken that’s not helping was written all over your face. 

Spencer gave a small, sheepish smile, a little self-conscious but entirely endearing.

“Okay, fair,” he admitted with a soft chuckle. “But—” His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest tighten.

“I’m pretty sure he’s going to be more mad if we’re late. Which, uh… we probably already are.” 

Your head snapped toward the alarm clock on the nightstand. The numbers glowed mockingly in the dim room, and your stomach dropped. “Oh my god,” you groaned, shooting to your feet. “He’s going to kill us.” 

Spencer stood with you, his hands instinctively coming up to steady you as you stumbled slightly in your haste. “Not literally,” he offered, his tone dry but amused. “Probably.” 

“Not helping, Spence!” you shot back, your voice tinged with panic as you grabbed your bag and quickly started tossing things inside. 

“We’ll make it. Statistically, as long as we leave in the next three minutes, we’ll only be…” He paused, doing the math in his head. “Twelve minutes late, which is still within Hotch’s frustration threshold.” 

You whirled around to face him, your hair a mess from your frantic movements. “How do you even know that?” 

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “He’s lectured Morgan for being thirteen minutes late before. Never twelve.” 

“Good to know,” you muttered, zipping up your bag. “But let’s not test the theory, genius.” 

You were now hopping on one foot as you tried to pull on your pants, your mind racing just as fast as your heart.

“What if he's already waiting for us ?” you asked, panic creeping back into your voice. “What if he’s standing in the bullpen, glaring at the clock, just waiting for us to walk in so he can give us that look?” 

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh quietly as he grabbed your jacket from the back of a chair and handed it to you. “If he’s waiting for us,” he said, his tone light and teasing, “then the longer we stand here worrying about it, the worse it’s going to be.” 

You shot him a mock glare as you took the jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves. “You’re lucky I like you,” you muttered under your breath, grabbing your bag and heading toward the door. 

Spencer grinned as he followed after you, his hand brushing against yours for a brief moment. “I know,” he replied softly.  

[jeonginsleftcheek]

All on board

~ thanks @furioussheepluminary for fueling my fantasy🫠🫶🏻

pairing: pilot!hyunjin x stewardess!reader

genre: filthy smut

wc: 1.1k

warnings: degradation, reader is called slut and bitch, hyunjin is called sir, face fucking, unprotected sex, fingering, spanking, pussy slaps, creampie, cum eating, hair pulling

a/n: pls i tried i had one hell of a day sorry if there are mistakes or if this is not very good😭🫠 also i've never written mean dom so djkdlcl

~ masterlist

Working as a stewardess for a big airline definitely had its perks. Like traveling all over the world, the exciting feeling of being so high up in the sky and well...

"Miss l/n, could you come to the flight deck, please?" your pilot's voice rang out, a shiver running down your spine as you bit your lip with a smile.

"Yes, Sir?" you followed his voice to the front of the plane, blinking your eyes innocently at him.

Yes, another perk of being with this airline was Hyunjin. Maybe even the biggest perk according to you.

"I need to perform the preflight inspection." he smirked at you and you giggled as you walked closer to him.

You knew what that meant of course, this wasn't the first nor the last time you were doing this.

"Of course." you said. "Sir." you added as he lifted his brow at you, his eyes traveling all over your body.

You stood in front of him and started unbuttoning your blazer, followed by your blouse, revealing a sweet white lacy bra adorning your breasts.

Hyunjin's face flushed and his pants started to get tighter but he kept looking at you sternly, trying to hold in the need to just kiss you stupid.

You bunched up your skirt, showing him the matching panties underneath.

"Good, good. Let's see." he smirked, coming closer to you, his fingertips on your inner thigh. He slowly moved them up towards your core, pressing them into the wet patch that has already appeared on them.

"For me? Aren't you an eager little slut, hm?" he leaned over you, making you whimper as he tapped your clit with his fingers.

"Yes I am, Sir." you confirmed and he smirked.

"I know baby, that pussy is already crying to be stuffed." he chuckled and you whined a little, becoming desperate to be touched.

Hyunjin unbuttoned his white pants before pushing them down together with his underwear.

"Come on. Get me wet, slut." he ordered.

"Yes, Sir." you whined as you got down on your knees.

"Open your mouth." he grabbed his cock and you did as you were told.

Hyunjin smacked your tongue with his tip a few times before pushing it in and your eyes rolled back as you took it.

"Yes, like that." he groaned when you started bobbing your head up and down. He grabbed at your head, ruining the tidy bun you had put your hair in.

You moaned around him as he gripped you harder, fucking into your mouth as you gagged.

"I know you love choking on it." he smirked and fucked your face harder, every time his tip hit the back of your throat you gagged, tears rolling down your cheeks as you grabbed at his thighs.

Your nails dug into his skin as he moaned, fucking you even faster as his hips snapped.

"Fuck!" he whined, pulling out before he could cum.

"Get up." he almost growled and you obeyed immediately, standing up and turning around so you can bend over the chair he'll be sitting in soon.

He chuckled behind you, pushing your panties to the side. Your breath got caught in your throat as you anticipated his fingers on your folds, instead your pussy got slapped.

You yelped, your legs trembling as he chuckled again.

"Louder, bitch." he said lowly before slapping your pussy again and you moaned louder.

"Who owns this pussy?" he asked, slapping you again.

"You, Sir, you own it." you whimpered as he slapped your throbbing pussy once more.

"That's right. It's only mine to play with." he said before plunging two fingers inside you, making you yelp again. He spanked your ass as a warning to stay still before he started fucking you with his fingers, scissoring them to prep you for his cock.

"Ah! H-Hyunjin!" you moaned and he let out a little laugh as he pushed into your sweet spot.

"What did you call me?"

"Sir! I'm sorry!" you cried, fresh tears falling down your cheeks as he started spanking your ass.

You gripped onto the chair, whimpering loudly as he assaulted your ass and fucked you with his fingers at the same time.

"I-I can't!" you moaned out, you couldn't hold it in as you squirted all over his fingers and your thighs.

"I didn't give you permission to cum." he growled as you cried, your heart beating hard against your chest.

"I'm so sorry for disappointing you, Sir." you said quietly.

"Oh, you'll be sorry, bitch." he smirked as you braced yourself. He gripped his cock and pushed it into your pussy forcefully, making you take his entire length in one thrust.

"Ah!" you screamed out as he started pounding into you hard immediately, rattling your entire body with the force of his hips.

"You're getting too loud." he frowned, gripping your hair and pulling you up as you arched your back for him. He brought his other hand to your lips and pushed the fingers he fucked you with into your mouth.

You moaned around them, tasting your release on them as you started sucking and licking at them.

"Don't you dare cum. If you do, I won't breed this little pussy." he smirked evilly, knowing that this was your favorite part.

You whimpered around his fingers as he gripped your hair harshly, fucking into you sloppily. Your pussy was so wet and overstimulated and you just wanted to cum again so badly but you knew the consequences so you tried holding it in.

Hyunjin decided to taunt you even more as he pulled his fingers out of your mouth and brought them to your sensitive clit.

"Fuck!" you whimpered.

"Hold it in." he ordered and you could hear the teasing smirk in his voice.

It took everything in you not to cum, just so you could feel him explode inside you and fill you up with his warm cum.

"Mm, take it." he moaned under his breath as he finished inside you.

Hyunjin pulled out, replacing his cock with his fingers as he gathered some cum and brought it to your lips.

"Taste." he said and you licked around his fingers, looking straight into his eyes.

"You did well." he smirked.

"Thank you, Hyunjin. Sir." you chuckled.

"I'll let it slide this once." he teased, leaning in to kiss you.

"Thank you for being so kind." you teased back.

"Let's clean up, we have a plane to fly." he wiggled his eyebrows at you before kissing you again, as always he was addicted to your lips just like you were addicted to him.

Yes, flying with your boyfriend definitely had its perks.

taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @starlost-mochi-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun @scarlet789 @skzdust @schniti-is-in-the-house @eastjonowhere @sona1800 @channiesrightasscheek @justwonder113 @yvettemint @inaribu00 @httpdwaekki @possum-playground @ria-april @yn-x-them @mariahxrrera @0omillo0 @halfwinterhalfuniverse @cooldeermagazine @delulkpopstan143

[f0ofishies]

FL*SHING THEM AFTER AN ARGUEMENT

tsukishima kei, ushijima wakatoshi, oikawa tōru

Tsukishima Kei, your beloved fiance. You loved the man to death, you swear.. it's just that he's always been like this. All of the damn time. There was one time when you argued over dinner because someone didn't want to eat Italian. Seriously? How'd you even date this guy and later on accept a ring from him.

Just kidding, he has his cute moments. The man had prioritized you a lot during his college days. He must've fallen hard for you, huh? When he did get on one knee, you thought it was a prank. Nonetheless, you said yes— already being engaged for 4 months, too!

Back on topic, he's always been a cranky mother fucker and even more when he lose that volleyball match. You looked at him— in astonishment. This man had the audacity to even be too confident in a little fun of chess?

You couldn't even believe the audacity of him. He'd been laughing at your move on your black horse.. "Gee, just get one with it, babe..!" Another ridiculing sentence from him could've sparked a fire inside you. "Hah? Seriously, why'd you even do this rematch— when you clearly don't know chess."

Your eye must've twitched at that, you love him, and you swear to that on your life. But, seriously, he's getting on your last nerve. As he quickly moved his queen, grabbing your knight in the process. You moved another piece as he smiled. "Thank god, we don't do rematches in volleyball."

Your joke immediately made his smirk turn sour. As you chuckled to your own statement, your eyes glanced up to his. He immediately gave a disgusted face at you. "What, Tsuki?—" You tease, almost pinching his face as he has moved away from your hand.

"What is your problem..?" Now that made you raise an eyebrow. "My problem—?" He can't be serious right now. And that's how he ended up giving you the silent treatment, ending the chess match when it just started. You were utterly confused... even bewildered by his actions

Knowing your fiance won't crumble to a piece of you, you just quickly called out. "Kei?" He didn't even look at you.. oh, so that's how he was going to play. "Tsuki?" No budge, huh? The man had some nerves for ignoring his future wife. "Tsukishima Kei." Last call, he finally whipped his head to you.

Rolling your shirt up— his golden brown eyes dilated at the sight of your perky, wait, wait, this was cheating. "That's right, doofus.. I know you can't ignore them." You could totally hear the clogs in his brain working. Even bouncing them a bit— He quickly pulled your shirt down. "Hey—! what was that for??"

"You're in one hell of a ride, do that shit again. I dare you, baby."

How much aura did you gain after marrying the Ushijima Wakatoshi? You, the lovely wife, as ever.. had always been the cheeky one in the marriage. During one of his games, you'd literally chant his name out so loud. Maybe the whole stadium could hear you.

He'd be there happily, holding the ring chained around his neck. Giving you a small smile— You couldn't help but beam as you show off your ring finger too! Now that was months ago, your husband came home in a sour face after meeting his parents.

"Baby, how were your parents?" You asked him, quickly smiling as you cooked your signature curry. "Fine like usual." His deep voice caught you off guard as you felt a hand crept behind you. "Oh, so what did they—" "Can we not." You tilted your head.. "Sure.. okay." You compiled because who were you to say anything about that?

You looked at him as he ate, he felt your stare. "Yes, love?" The way your hand had been tapping on to counter.. like crazy. Lost in thought, you look up at him. "Toshi.. you know you can tell me anything?" Of course he knew that so he raised an eyebrow. "I know."

You were itching to know why he's so persistent on not telling you why.. he would usually just tell you at this point. But he seriously didn't want to talk about it, so he dismissed your concerns once again. "But babe.." You whined.. something in him just snapped.

"No, can you stop trying?" You huffed at his tone of language.. it was kind of your fault for being this nosy. So now here you were having a full blow argument. Were you petty? Definitely, a hundred percent. So when your husband had genuinely left you in the kitchen. You huffed—

Clearly, he needed a lot of space, huh? Shutting the bedroom door very tight— you wanted to go sleep there, but how? He had locked it from the inside. "Toshi..?" You called out. No answer. "Ushijima Wakatoshi!" You yelled out and finally the familiar 'click!' You finally let out a sigh and practically go in fast.

He's still on the bed, clearly trying to sleep. "Toshi..~" Your sweet velvety voice intoxicating him then sliding onto the bed— even straddling onto him. Still, the man laid bare, not even checking you out. You intentionally grind, trying to find the best friction. His hands finally with all of its glory wrapped around your hips.

"Look up." Your command might've sent a shudder on your poor husband. The blood pumping down to his familiar friend down there— oh how a vixen you were.. Seriously, he saw the way you held your shirt up. Those breasts out in the air just for him. "Mmm? Want it bad?"

"I swear, wife— you're always all talk and no action.."

That Argentinan volleyball player was taken by you! Who knew he had the hots for you. Tōru Oikawa, he had recently left Japan for Argentina.. then he met you. Somehow, you two clicked. Clearly, you only thought he was just getting into your pants but nope!

The infamous girlfriend of the volleyball player never really visited his games. Probably because your work always consumed your time. Tōru was beyond okay with that— of course he was. But after such a long tiring game, all he wanted to do was a date night with you. Sadly, you were still out at work.. in overtime. How could you not remember it at all? When you came home, his first response was immediate silence. Seriously nothing!!

"Tōru?" You called out in the shared apartment, finally slipping off your shoes. Stretching your arms wide as no response. "...Babe?" You called out once more. Absolutely nothing— you panicked, of course. Already running around to find him.That's when you spotted your sulky boyfriend, buried deep into the bed among all the plushies you have.

"Shit, babe.. did something happen at practice?" You asked him as he finally noticed your presence. An immediate huffed was heard, thanks to him. "Babe..? Baby..!!" You whined the petname, trying to uncover the blankets.

There he was, your lovely boyfriend. Tōru glared at you, those dark brown hues of his. "What's made you so sour..?" You asked him once more, trying to coerce him out of his moodiness. "I wonder why." He interrupted you, that made you raise an eyebrow. "Babe..."

You were utterly clueless, even when he avoided your touches. It suddenly clicked to you, a promise to him on for a date. You internally groan at that, "Shit, Tōru you know I didn't mean to forget.." Your hand itching to grasp his— yet he pulled away once again. "You always forget about me.." He whined into your shared pillows. "No I don't.. baby.. I'll make it up to you!!" You try to reason with him.

That's what got him to lash out at you. You did kind of deserve it— so here you are on the bed trying to get a sulky Tōru out of your shared bedroom once more. An idea popped into your head! "Tōru.. I have something to show you.." You found the man finally walk out of the bedroom. His disheveled appearance still looked way too good for your own eyes.

Your fingers found their way to your blouse— giving him a sweet smile. Only halfway through, you were damn thankful for picking a good bra for today. "Baby, I'm really sorry.." You whispered. And finally— your breasts were in full view of his sight. Nothing could have prepared you for the feral Tōru ravishing you!

The man was full on groping your breasts, even fiddling with those buds.. was he really that turned on? You couldn't believe you've let him play with you like this. On the tips of your heels— you needed more friction down there, too. So you whined at him, how your cunt needed his fingers too! And that's what he did, dipped them into your soaked panties.

"Fffuck— that's not fair, babe.. yknow your boobs and pussy are my weakness..!"

[alnilaem]

coyote head and the body of a man — (e)

ghost/fem reader There's a killer on the loose. But your logging town is small and quaint and doesn't even appear on maps, so you know you're safe. That all changes when a gruff, big, taciturn man shows up at your workplace one day. Or; Simon is a fugitive serial killer, and you're the housekeeping girl that caught his eye.

cw for explicit content, graphic violence, possessive behaviour, size difference, cunnilingus, stalking

pinterest board | ao3 | for @spidehpig <3

You believe you were born in the centre of an exploding star. 

Born on the crest of death and fated for a bleak life. Dead, before you even had a chance.

The universe sweeps before you. Infinite. Expansive. Hungry. You float at the mouth of the galaxy and it swallows you whole, but doesn’t seem to like the taste of you—too bland, too trite—so it spits you back out and sends you tailspinning. 

You land with a lack of courtesy. Tossed between trees and dropped in a basin. You find yourself in nowhere, Oregon. In a town flecked by a lake inlet and a clement fjord, where the moose population outnumbers the people population. It has a maritime allure but strangely enough, isn’t commercial enough to be a tourist hub. It’s too hidden in the thicket. Too deep in a borehole.

Every day here is the same. It's an abyss that yawns before you with no end in sight, lacking undue entertainment and vividness and excitement. There’s no light pollution so far off the beaten track, so oftentimes, you’ll wish upon shooting stars for someone to come for your deliverance. 

There’s a reason they say be careful what you wish for.

The day isn’t even halfway over and your bone tips already ache with hard work. 

It isn’t to say your workplace is busy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. A cut-rate motel with more vacancies than residents found far-removed from the highway, taking only cash, no card, which is good for deterring paper trails and welcoming the transient but is bad for providing records when the police come knocking. 

You’ll get the occasional trucker, the sparse backpacker. In any case, folks stay here when they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll drive past the splintery welcome sign and stop at the diner for earthy, full-bodied coffee and a slice of famous rhubarb pie. They’ll recuperate in the motel and leave before sunrise, and you’ll be there to clean up what they leave behind, scrubbing the memory out of the fibreglass bathtub for whoever’s next. 

It’s a place where time fleets away. Hallucinatory. Where people pay their due and you hang your head because after all, you’re nothing more than the housekeeping girl. Cottony pinafore and a black dress. Mary Jane flats. Fingers desquamating from years of bleach and vinegar stuck in your nail beds. You get handed dog-eared tips and in return, you don’t ask questions. But maybe you should have.

You’re sliding the window cleaner back into its compartment on the cleaning cart just as your boss scales the veranda. He’s grinning and sporting sweat stains across his armpits. A patchy beard. A loose tie. 

Your nerves lock up tight when he grasps your shoulders. His razorous fingers and the pinchbeck of his wedding band saws under your skin. The dregs of his afternoon drinking knocks into you, and you try not to let your body betray you. Despite that, your eyes water and your nose crinkles. You white-knuckle your dress and almost pop the fabric of your pinafore. 

“How’s my favourite employee?” he grins. “Is she workin’ hard?”

There’s an irreverent innuendo somewhere in his smile. You ignore it and opt for a stale smile.

“I’m working,” you eke out. “I've got to restock the bathroom, then I’m done.”

“That’s good, peach. Real good,” he watches you collect toiletry essentials, then tacks on, “there’s a man in the lobby.”

You falter. The travel-sized shampoo bottle almost slips between your forefinger and thumb. 

“An outsider.”

It’s an observation, not a question. If the man in the lobby were a local, Phillip would have given you a name because in this town, everybody knows everybody. The fact that a name was bereft tells you your new guest came from elsewhere. Maybe he’s cutting through the main road on his way to Yachats for your town’s cascade mountains and bigleaf maple, or for the diner’s famous rhubarb pie. In any case, he's in need of a rest stop. 

“Mh. I’m gonna check him in. Just wanted to let you know I’m givin’ him this room, so try to hurry it up, okay peach?”

You blink slowly. This motel holds twelve rooms—there’s never been a need for any more—and currently, nine of those are occupied. That leaves three. There’s no reason for your boss to put up the new guest in Room 11, especially when you’re still cleaning it.

Phillip reads the question in the bend of your eyebrow. He smiles knowingly and pats your head. “He requested a room on the higher level. Room 9’s aircon is busted and Room 6 shares a wall with the Pettie’s. They’re loud.”

You sigh. “Ah.”

“Sorry peach,” he smiles like he’s apologetic, but you don’t think that’s the case. “Just get it done, alright? And add some extra coffee packets."

You furrow your lips. Displeasure flutters over you but you wash it away with a smile, refusing to irk him. You nod and pivot, bones bending against your skin for an escape as his hand whispers against your bum in an encouraging caress.

Anger simmers in your marrow. Phillip simply chuckles, disparaging.

“That’s a sweet peach.”

His voice gets muted by the tinny, rattling radiator as you make it to the bathroom. You stock it up dutifully—perhaps taking extra long to ensure he's not waiting outside for you—and spritz air freshener around the room when you finish. It’s a flaky, expired bottle of Platinum Ice which barely masks the town’s deep-seated smell of old-growth forest, petrichor and woody debris. You hope the new guest doesn’t have a sharp nose. 

You make sure to stuff the coffee station with extra packets before stepping out of the room. Off the mysteriously stained carpet, onto the veranda. You putter around with your large keyring, thumbing through the nickel-brass since you also have a key to the elementary school, post office, and city hall (aptly titled shitty hall by locals, since this town isn’t much of a city and the building’s roof is held together by nothing but rusty rivets and tassels of sprig collected in the corners). You’ve got so many keys because again, everybody knows everybody, and it isn’t rare to see the housekeeping girl at the motor lodge supplementing her income as a part-time teaching aid. 

Finally, you find the master key. You lock the room and roll the cleaning cart into the utility room before locking that too. Your wrist drags across your forehead, wiping away sweat, and you tug on your dress because perspiration has pasted it onto the pert curve of your breasts, the squish of your thighs. You furtively glance down your bodice and watch how the sweat pocks your skin, knotting your nipples against your cheap bra. Lament catches you in regards to your shower after work—it’s going to be freezing since the heating system here is so fickle—and in the paroxysm of your grief, the sound of heavy breathing eludes you. 

You don’t hear his footsteps. He’s an ambush predator. Stalking and shadowing in the tall grass, waiting for the moment your hackles melt to bite into your neck like an unripe stone fruit. You don’t see him, but you feel him. His breath tickling down your neck. The erogenous zone behind your ear. 

A gasp parts your lips and you whip around, coming face-to-face with a paunchy chest plated by moth-eaten flannel. You heft your head up, exercising the hinge in your neck. Paling at the sight that greets you.

He has a Cabela’s cap on. It’s pulled over his eyes, but a few blonde curls peek out from under the crown of his hat. He has a damaged, blistered face. A cauliflower ear. Nicks on his cheeks that distend from his skin and have turned pallid with time, rippling like seafoam petticoats on waves as he flickers his jaw. He wears jeans and mud-clogged boots and holds a duffel bag. 

His gaze unties you. You slowly find words, fitting them in an orderly queue in your mind as you avert your gaze and stare at the floor. Squirming. Preening. Sweltering.

“Welcome to Sockeye Inn, mister…” 

Silence. He lets your words awkwardly trail off. Doesn’t do anything to belay the discomfort in your belly. The man simply stares at you with brown eyes. 

Humiliation crawls up your spine and settles on your cheeks. It burns through your skin, withering you away, to which you fidget with your fingers and baldly nod towards the door.

“Your room is ready,” you murmur. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Uh– if you need anything just give us a shout. Phone’s on the bedside table.” 

Foolishly, you wait for a response again. Nothing. He towers over you, owlishly blinking, one slower than the other because he seems to have a lazy eye. You clench your skirt and softly shoulder past him, heading for the stairs as you hear him putter with the keyhole. 

You’ve halfway scaled it when a rasp distorted by what seems to be years of cigarettes stops you dead in your tracks. 

“Bring me a BLT and root beer.” 

You burn up at the muscle in his voice. The drag. Just as you’re about to reply, his room door slams shut and rocks across the veranda. 

Your dress is stickier than it was before. Perhaps an ice cold shower isn’t so bad after all.

The end of your shift slowly arrogates. 

After delivering food to Simon Riley—you glinted at the logbook while waiting for his order, reading his name—you left his room as soon as possible. You set the food down and found yourself plugging your nose. The Platinum Ice you sprayed before didn’t accost you— instead, it was pomade. Lucky Strike cigarettes. Decaying heartwood. Bleach. 

You pointedly breathed through your mouth. It didn’t actually help though, since you could taste it then. The ethanol in the air drizzled over your pockmarked tongue and glided down your throat. Collected in your stomach. 

You almost retched it back up at the sight of him.

Through the foggy shower wall, the colour of his hazy contour was striking. It seemed to be a tight fit for him, hemming in his lumberjack build. The shampoo bottle looked like a damn accessory in his large hands and his chased shoulder blades pressed soap against the glass pane, sudsy. 

Your curiosity pulled your gaze lower. Down to the heavy mass between his thighs, thick and fat. Bulbous. 

His spine suddenly went erect, straightening like a chary animal. As if by the agitated pappus of his skin, his chin lifted in your direction, and that’s when the earth collapsed under your feet and you beetled for the door. 

You distract yourself in the kitchen. Emptying the dishwasher. Taking the garbage to the bear-proof receptacles. Putting the oven on steam clean. Kate, the kitchen supervisor, stares at you oddly under her hairnet but she isn’t going to reject a set of helping hands. 

You scrub at a pan hoping it will erase the image burned into your mind. Hoping that the steel wool will have the same effect on your temporal lobe as it does on the pan. You don’t realize your hands are chafing and the pan is flaking, not until Kate is passionately complaining beside you, her spit dashing onto the side of your face.

“—fuckin’ freeloaders. They drain our taxes but can’t even do their damn jobs. Wait until one of their family gets butchered, you’ll see, that’s when they’ll start taking this seriously.”

She waves a newspaper in your face. The paper stack fans in front of you, blowing you with cool air. You’re just barely able to read the big, blocky headline. 

Connection Made Between Ventura, Gilroy and Eugene Serial Killer — Aptly Coined the Ghost.

“Eugene!” Kate slaps the newspaper, frazzled. “Not even three hours from us!”

You scarcely listen to her, her voice ripening into white noise as you scrutinize the police sketch on the newspaper’s margin. The offender is drawn with an overripe balaclava and probing eyes. Dark brown, as if his corneal opacity has laid claim before death. His eyelids have no tension, but a furl of crow's feet gather at the corners. It’s uncanny. Eerie. And even though he’s pressed on paper, you can’t help the unease welling inside you. 

A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to manifest and crawl out of the paper, dripping ink and viscous tar, ruining your Mary Jane flats and the floor you’d just mopped.

Hemlock hits the back of your throat. Lemony, sedgy. Your eyes fixate on the information detailing his crimes. Spines broken and necks snapped with inhumane strength. Pieces of flesh carved with the precision of either a surgeon or a butcher. Rigour mortis locking the victims in a scream, nail beds caked with skin which implies a struggle, but leads nowhere since the Ghost’s DNA hasn’t been found on any database.

(He’s as elusive as his name suggests. Investigators say he could be foreign, or that he has a clean record. The latter seems unlikely for the violent calibre of his crimes.)

There’s also his modus operandi—slicing off his victim’s ring finger, taking it with him. A cruel reward. 

“They say he’s taking Route 101,” Kate tacks on. “That he’s a long-hauler. How the hell will they catch a long-hauler?”

You shake your head, shrugging. Your tongue is too heavy and your gums rub against the round of your cheeks when you try speaking. The sentence gets snagged on your molars, and all that comes out are sparse words, lamely falling to the floor with how out of breath you are. 

“…They’ll catch him.”

“They better,” she shortly huffs. “I don’t want this town making the paper for all the wrong reasons.” 

Death comes to you in a cornfield. 

You’re sprinting through the crop, barefoot and scantily clad and pricked by thorns. Your clothing catches on thistle and corn husk, slowing you down, but the quick-footed trampling at your tail keeps your pace steady and stable.

Your lungs burn. Your bones rasp. Your eyes well up with how fast you’re moving, with how your retinas strain to see more in the pitch black than just reflective corn silk and the crescent moon. 

The midnight sky is close to swallowing you whole, but at this point that would be an act of mercy. The whistle of his cleaver slicing through the air and the stomp of his boots are promptly catching up, heckling you, barely whispering against the flowy cotton of your dress.

By a cruel twist of fate your foot catches on a tiller and sends you flying. Your nose softens the impact, the crack of cartilage reverberating through your skull, glutinous red spurting down your chin as you try scrambling to your feet.

But true to his name, Ghost, he slips through matter and suddenly, he’s standing in front of you.

Black, sweaty tank top. Freshly sharpened meat cleaver. Stout arms. Predatory eyes. Rotting balaclava—which at this point, you’re starting to believe was grafted onto his face, fitting him like skin. 

You raise your hands for mercy. 

But you should know dead stars have exhausted all their luminosity—that after death, they hold no power. That space is a graveyard. That’s why the Ghost poises his cleaver behind him. That’s why the last thing you see is his cleaver handle swinging towards you, about to collide with and shatter your cheekbone into a million pieces—

—but daylight strikes you with no clear trajectory. 

It’s your alarm that rings, waking you up from a nightmare, telling you to brush your teeth and scrub yourself down and pop your supplements before biking to work. You do so sluggishly, standing under the shower spray as you massage your cheekbone. Burning your toast as you scour the news for developing details on the Ghost case. Ordering a cup of coffee from the local diner and gulping it down behind the motel lest Phillip catches you.  

Your nightmare—omen, prophecy, portent of death?—pursues you like the persistent stench of fish on an angler’s hands all morning. You flinch at the slightest noise while scrubbing toilets, you constantly look over your shoulder while sweeping floors.

Malaise builds in your blood vessels like creosote. It doesn’t thin into fluid, flowing in and out of your appendages and around your sex until you situate yourself in front of Room 11. Fluffing up your skirt and puffing out your chest.

You announce your presence and rap the door with your Mary Jane flat because your hands are occupied with new bed sheets. Your knuckles blanch around the linen, quivering, struggling to keep it in your grip. The sheets almost flutter to your feet when a voice penetrates the door, abrasive and husky. Rough. Grating against your spine and shaving down the vertebrae. 

“Door’s open.”

You wait a few seconds before contorting yourself against the threshold. You try the handle and lo and behold, it’s unlocked, swinging open when you press your weight onto it. 

You step inside and toe off your flats. Next to Simon’s boots, they look fit for a doll, and a dizzy spell ricochets through you at the size difference. At the stark reminder that he’s as big and packed as a thick tree stump.

You walk inside and heed the CRT television playing the news. 

It does nothing to soften the scream that rips out of you as you round the corner.

Simon is in bed, pulling on a cigarette. His pudgy tummy and bristly chest are bared, the steel wool of his happy trail disappearing into the bed sheets furled around his hips. The flat sheet is thin enough to outline something stirring. Something thick and pressed against his inner thigh. 

He stares at you, eyes of Argus. It’s so intense you’re sure he can sense the slick running down your back. The dew that settles in the gusset of your panties. 

You stutter. “I can come back later.”

Simon sits up with a groan. It rattles you. His joints must be fettered with age, or hard work, but in any case your head goes cottony with the picture of him splitting wood and hauling heavy bovine flanks. 

You swallow thick as he shakes his head. “It’s no problem, sugar. I’m not even here.”

The pet name makes you squirm. You sure do feel like it—sugar, that is—with the way you could melt on his tongue, wedge yourself between his teeth. Turn syrupy and sappy at the back of his throat.  

He takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch raptly as his jaw feathers around it, lips proffering another plume of smoke. 

He blinks. “Well?”

You eke out an apology and fiddle with your hands. 

“I’ll have to, um, change your bedsheets first.”

Simon shakes his head. He taps the ashy casualties off the tip of his cigarette and you watch as it sinks onto the bed sheet, almost burning through the floral motif. “No need.”

“Well,” you cough, forcing your eyes away from him, “if I don’t, my boss…”

Simon pricks up. The hind of his spine straightens the same way a dog would sit straight and plumb after hearing rustling in a bush. His muscles tighten, thick, and his face twists into a sneer. The bed sheet around him falls and you lock up tight lest it bare his pubic bone. 

“Is he a minger?”

“I’m sorry?”

He huffs. “‘s he a bully?”

“Oh, no,” you blandly laugh. “Mister Graves isn’t a bully. He just…”

“Makes you uncomfortable?”

There’s a lapse between acknowledging his question and spitting out an answer that makes you kick yourself. Simon already looks dubious. You hug the sheets closer to your chest and smile, your cheeks feathering like beeswax.

“He’s a kind man.”

“Not wha’ I asked,” he says. The bed creaks as he leans forward, the sheets slipping lower, scarcely covering his sex. “I asked if he does stuff he shouldn’t be doin’.”

Your heartbeat quickens. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it. He probably can, albeit softly, due to his lumpy cauliflower ear.

“He’s a married man,” you mumble. “He doesn’t touch me if that’s what you mean. Not like that.”

“There’s only one way to touch someone,” Simon grunts. His chest starts churning a little, as if he’s agitated. “Does he put his hands on you?”

Your skin burns, remembering. A phantom scar runs through you, long and creeping, mapping all the places in which Phillip’s pinchbeck wedding ring has burned you. The suture of your spine, the pappy flesh of your neck, the rise of your hips where his palm has melted through your dress and smarted your skin.  

Your silence makes Simon grunt. 

Panic surges up your throat. You feel the need to defend Phillip, in some approximation of gratitude and fear since you’re on his payroll and you don’t want to reap the consequences should you rat on him and he find out. 

“No!” you hurry. “Mister Graves isn’t like that. He’s a good man. Honest.”

Simon’s eyes push against your skin. He scrutinizes you, tests you. Waits to see if you’ll fidget too much and flake away and sink into the carpet. 

He growls. “You fancy him, is tha’ it?”

Answering yes is the only way to shake him off your leg. You do so archly, so it seems as though the thought of your boss has you flushing when really it’s Simon. He’s fully upright, and now you can see the girthy base of his cock. Stirring, twitching. You suppress a moan.

“Yeah…” you murmur. You can feel your makeup turning blotchy, running down your cheeks. “It’s just a bit…embarrassing, is all.”

He lapses into it again. Staring at you. Razoring his way into your head and thumbing through your consciousness, searching for an Achilles’ heel. A crack he can break into a hole because he has the size for it—barrel-chested, stupidly thick fingers. 

Simon slips out of bed and disturbs the coiled aches of the mattress. He holds a washcloth over his crotch. It’s crusty and keeps shape and covers almost nothing, confirming your inkling. 

His bulbous cockhead winks at you from under the hem. It’s heavy. Leaky. Dripping precum that laves down his legs and gets caught in the wiry hair of his thigh. 

Anxiety pools in your armpits and around your groin. Or maybe that’s just arousal. Brackish and sticky, rubbing your pussy lips together, hugging your clit. 

Simon pulls on his cigarette once more and then folds it into the bedside table. You should scold him. You should tell him that he’ll have to pay for damages even though the wood is already degraded and mouldy. You should scuttle out of the room and call for Phillip, but that would be a crueler fate. Instead you stay fixed to the carpet as Simon steps forward. Cock swinging between his legs, tummy jiggling. 

You don’t know whether he’s going to pull you in for a kiss or rip off your dress or—and you’re unsure why you think of this—take you by your skull and smash it against the television stand. He has the muscle to, surely, but somehow you know he won’t. And the thought of that makes your skin hot.

You’re at his mercy.

You gird yourself for his lips or for your dress to be torn off, but your preparations flux away as Simon steps close and crowds you against the television stand. The stench of Lucky Strike cigarettes and gamey meat impair you, as he reaches behind you and increases the television volume. You want to say something but cotton fills your mouth and the news report floods your ears. It’s fragmentary—you can only heed oddments of the news anchor’s latest updates. 

The Ghost is still at large. Corpses keep popping up around California and Oregon, each with their ring fingers sliced off. The tipline has been leading investigators nowhere, shepherding them to the end of the earth and over the edge, floating, where they’ll move through molasses and will never be able to catch him. 

White male. 6’4”. 196 centimetres. Brown eyes. Heavyset. Likely military background. Likely a surgeon, or a butcher. A dangerous, ruthless individual. 

If spotted, do not approach. 

Simon’s breath fans against your neck, rousing the bristles of your warm cheeks. He turns off the television and steps back. An ether opens up in the pit of your stomach as your gaze falls on his bulging pelvis, on the purplish veins and webbing muscle, sitting like a tuft under his navel, disappearing behind the washcloth where his cock stirs. 

Simon tuts. “World’s goin’ to shite.”

You nod.

“You shouldn’t be out here anyway,” he tacks on. “Should be at home takin’ care of your man’s house. Keepin’ safe.”

You flash your naked ring finger embarrassingly fast. “I-It’s just me…and my cat.”

His eyes darken. His head tilts down at you. He purrs. 

“Better get started on mine then,” he breathes. “Put yourself to good use.”

You shyly get to cleaning his room. 

You try to ignore his hand disappearing behind the washcloth, pumping his cock. You can’t ignore the silk ruining your panties. Scarcely, you manage to ignore the caution creeping up your back. Your lower instinct that screams at you as you feel his stare tracking you across the room, burning. Smouldering. Warning. 

Daylight scissors into you.

It melts the sleep in the corners of your eyes. It clears the haze in your head. It interrupts the sultry dream you were having. Your flesh is still pocked and your clit is still peaked, as you rehash the contents of it. 

You can still feel Simon’s weight on top of you, sweat compressioning you, the sheets gathering under your slick back. Your underwear had dangled from one of your ankles, flapping and swaying as Simon pounded into you. Your head bobbed over the lip of the mattress. Your tits bounced, nipples caught between his gnashers. Your slick ran down your cunt and over your asshole, pooling onto the floral bed sheets. You just quit your job. You didn’t care about the sheets. Or the Pettie’s down the veranda. Phillip was on the other side of the door too, and he could hear everything. Your moans. Simon’s balls dragging over your furled hole. His groans—

—And the sudden tearing of cartilage and skin stretching, rubbery, as Simon shifted into something else above you. Something larger. Deadlier. His drool dripped onto your chest, and his cock was suddenly too big for your pussy, popping back out until only his tip managed to squeeze inside your puffy hole. He snarled down at you, but it got covered by a creeping balaclava. You still reached your orgasm, quivering around his cockhead. Watching him go spotty and graphite-like in your vision, as if he were a composite sketch.

You get out of bed and wash the absurd dream away under the shower. The nozzle hits your clit weakly, and you never reach your high. You show up to work pigeon-toed and sweaty. Pent-up. You scrub harder at bathtubs and almost snap at Phillip when he swats your bum. Almost. Simon is watching from the dining hall, and he makes you skittish.

The day rolls by sluggishly. There’s a Do Not Disturb sign dangling from Simon’s door, so you don’t get the chance to see him in his room. You huff and puff at the Pettie’s and give Kate attitude. It’s the peak of afternoon when you’re sent home, shoulders stiff because Phillip squeezed them and tacked on, ”I can always help out if you’re stressed, peach,” before shepherding you out the door.  

You bike into town. Indulge in the diner’s famous rhubarb pie because the motel’s cherry pie is nowhere near as good, though you’ll never tell Kate that. You polish off your treat then ride to the beach (which is more of a graveyard for birds and braided, washed ashore sea meadow), and prop your bike against the wooden bollards.

The beach is familiar with you. It sees you when you're overwhelmed by the monotonous colour of your life. You never worry about meddling kids or loud teenagers or anything, because the stench of fish usually keeps them away anyway. It's your own Shangri-La. Your little Eden. Albeit overcast and greyscale, with an ocean spray that gets into your hair and dries out your mouth.

You slip out of your Mary Jane flats and wade through the sand dunes, breathing in salt and sulfur and tasting it on your lips. You maneuver around seawrack and driftwood and eventually find yourself seated behind a tussock of seaoats, watching as the waves lazily beat against the shore.

It's easy for you to lie down and get comfortable among the scent of iodine and the feel of pillowy granules. It's also easy to let your eyes flutter shut, lulled into limbo by the ebbing tide and murmuring waves.

You stir awake with flaccid lungs.

Presentiment hangs in the air, thick, like a blanket of smog. It interrupts your breathing pattern and makes you light-headed. Vertiginous. Makes you see things that aren't there…

…Such as the off-white scleras and twists of dilated blood vessels that stare at you from the foreshore.

They approach you eerily. Two pieces of driftwood floating over the waves, jolting slightly as it hits the sand, splintery and mossy and heavy.

The man feathers toward you from the blue glow of the beach. You squint through the darkness, because maybe it's the sheriff, but you know he walks with a drunken gait and he…strides like a bear on its hind legs.

The way he lurches for you says otherwise. Perhaps he's rather a panther or a coyote, or some crude backyard breed of all three.

A large palm splits itself over your mouth. An arm lays beside you and secretes a musk of sweat and iron. A knee digs into the plush of your cunt, agitating your clit, as a warm breath fans over your pulse point.

"Waited for me, didn't you?" he rasps against your neck.

In your stupor, you brace your hands against his shoulders. A sticky substance coats his skin, too viscous to be sweat.

Nausea knots in your throat. Tremors wash over your body. You dig your nails into his flesh, and when your hands don't fall through it like you hoped, you gravely realize he's made of muscle and skin instead of your drunken, sleep-inspired imagination.

You experience a cruel loss of equilibruim. If you weren't already lying down, you'd collapse to the ground. You go limp in the sand, thawing into his hands which you unwillingly notice are caked with that sticky substance too.

"There's dangerous folk 'round here," he grunts. "What if someone else followed you? A big, bad man?"

A chord of recognition stirs in your brain at his voice. That brash accent.

"Simon…?"

He chuckles. "It's me, sugar."

You squeeze your thighs together but it's abortive. He pries them apart anyway, and cups your pussy through your panties.

He rubs you through the gauze, knuckling your soft lips. Through the darkness you barely see the misshapen silhouette of his mouth. That snarl, curling off him as if he suffers from some chronic wasting disease, slowly atrophying and turning into some vestigal cadaver.

He kisses down your sternum. Grips your hand and forces it over his crotch. Your fingers brush over the solid mass. It's hard due to both stiffened denim and his thickening cock.

"All for you," he mumbles. "Take it out, sugar."

You fumble with the metal teeth of his zipper. You pull him out with both hands and your mouth goes dry. Tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deadly nightshade hitting the back of your throat. Despite you, your thighs squish together, and a rumbling chuckle slips through the seam of his lips.

He's huge. Fat and heavy, so much so you need both fingers to wrap around him.

"Give it a kiss, yeah?" he coos. "Like a sweet girl."

You spread your lips against his cockhead. You pull away and a string of precum chases you, but Simon is pushing your head back down and bucking his bristly pubic bone into to your nose.

"There it is," he grumbles. "Such a big girl, aren't you?"

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes.

The stiffs of hair on his pubic bone tickle your nose. You smell sweat and iron, but you can't tilt your head away, because the stout muscle of his arms keep you in place.

Fighting is futile. His cockhead hits the back of your throat like oleander and he holds your jaw in place, dimpling your cheeks with his rough fingers, letting his balls slap against your chin.

Just as you're getting used to his size, he pulls out, breaking the strands of saliva and precum between you.

"Take off y'panties, sugar."

You pull them off and squirm at the way the gusset clings to your pussy lips a little while longer. Simon takes it against his nose and sniffs it, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading your slick.

You don't get a warning before he's curling one of his fingers into you. Massaging your walls. Scissoring you open. Thumbing your clit.

He adds another and twists them deeper—meaner—into you. He swallows your whimpers but spits them back into your mouth when he empties his saliva down your throat. He keeps stroking the inside of your pussy, your sticky walls, and rubbing your clit.

He squeezes your cheeks together and gives you a big kiss. He coos condescendingly into your lips, and licks away your fresh track of tears. "It's supposed to hurt, baby. Don't be mad, alright? It'll feel good soon."

He gets deeper and deeper. Knuckle-deep, when he curls his fingers inside you. You lock up tight and thrust your hips through the bulk of your orgasm, trembling and quivering around him.

Your lips quiver around a plea when he pulls his fingers out. It's a lapse of judgement on your part—you know it—but you can't help it anymore.

"Please what?" He grins. It's ugly. Like a truss of stitching falling off his face, mangled and chewed up.

"Can you g-go…" you squirm when he rolls his tumb over your clit, agonizingly slow. "Can you go–"

"C'mon baby," he whispers against your lips, "spit it out. Big girls use their words."

"Canyougodownonme?" you gasp and grip onto him, bucking your cunt into his palm.

He chuckles against your mouth. He kisses down your chest. He crinkles his nose against the husk of your pussy. He deeply inhales and vibrates at your scent. He darts his tongue out and flattens it against your dewy folds, licking a stripe up your slit.

You writhe but he holds you in place with those big, thickened hands of his. They're wet but at this point you can't tell if it's your arousal or that mysterious substance on him. You can't even think about it, not with your thoughts melting away, escaping you like the humming waves.

Simon's a bit too aggressive in how he eats you out. It doesn't come from a juvenile attempt influenced by sex-on-screen with undue emphasis, but rather his tongue spelling devotion into the fat of your cunt.

Your fingers flex into his blonde head of hair. It's closely cropped, but you still manage to pull him closer, grinding yourself down on the bumpy bridge his nose. You pull on his hair and he growls and sends a quake up your spine. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue further into you, softly suckling your juices out.

The waves fold over each other, beating against the shore. They crest and crash and just as they race up the sand dune, teasing your flexing toes, your second orgasm crashes into you too. You twist and twirl Simon's hair in your grip and almost miss the feel of something cold being slipped onto your finger.

You're shaking, trembling, as you raise your hand. You're hazy and the moonlight is shrouded by clouds. It makes the mystery object look smeared across your vision, blotchy and spotty.

You hold it a little closer to your face, examining the twinkle as Simon massages your thighs to ease the quiver.

You turn your hand over and whisper your thumb over its curve.

You bristle when you realize what it is. It hangs off you a little loosely, burning your knuckle.

A pinchbeck wedding ring.

Stained with red, and still warm from the body it was pulled from.

Bile gathers in your throat and burns your mouth. Tears gather in your eyes. A small gasp parts your lips, billowing out of you like the mushroom-head of a flare just as realization fully commits itself to you.

You shiver. Both through realization, and your orgasm. "…What did you do to him?"

"Took care of him," Simon grunts, caressing your hair. "I'm supposed to handle the monsters under your bed, ain't I?"

You spare him a glance. You heed the white of his teeth and a smudge of—you know it's blood—across his cheek. His eyes, hidden in the shadowy canopy. His nose, bent out of shape and speckled with blood.

"You're not going to hurt me."

He brushes your hair back. "No."

You pant into him when he captures you for a kiss. "…Why?"

"I'm supposed to take care of ya," he grunts. "That's what couples do, no?"

He pushes something in your grasp—a folding knife. Your thumb slips over the two initials engraved into the handle—your initials.

"How do y'feel about Kate?" he asks.

Your coworker flashes into your mind. "I like her"

Simon—the Ghost—grunts. "And what about that bloke at the diner? What's his name?"

"I– Franklin?"

"Hn. Does he bother you?"

You thumb through your memory. Perhaps what you say is an embellishment, giddy of what Simon's going for.

"He did steal my bike once…" you mumble.

Simon pricks up. His chest puffs out and squishes against your arm. "He married?"

"Yeah, um," you swallow, "for about ten years."

"You want his pretty ring? Or his wife's?" Simon asks, then kisses you. "Anythin' you want."

Your lips stretch into a smile.

Simon cups your cheek, blood rubbing off on you. For the first time ever, you feel exhilarated at the thought of the future. At the thought of being taken care of. Doted on.

Suddenly the town doesn't feel so cold anymore. It doesn't feel like an invisible barricade is hemming you in. Simon is your ticket out of here, and a ticket to your new life.

You can abandon your pinafore and Mary Jane flats and maybe he'll spoil you with frilly socks and a cute sundress. Maybe he'll fuck you in his truck or in gas station bathrooms as the corpse of a man who wronged you rots in the truckbed. Maybe you'll get caught but at least you'll be together and at least your name will finally be known.

Not as the housekeeper girl, but Mrs Riley.