#Alternate universe blind bags

[scribf1nite]

Bill Cipher gambles

[snotrockett]

i am a god damn chump for things that normally come in one color, but in a different color.

[solxamber]

Chasing Fairytales || Neige LeBlanche

Neige is convinced that you're either allergic to him specifically or he's done something to offend you with the way you're avoiding him. You're just trying not to get blinded by his smile.

Neige LeBlanche is baffled. Every time he sees you, your face contorts like you just bit into a lemon dipped in hot sauce while sitting on a cactus. It's a new look, and honestly, it worries him. You used to at least smile at him, maybe even nod, like normal people do. But now? Now, you treat him like he’s carrying some weird medieval plague.

He thinks back to every interaction. Did he step on your foot? Spill something on you? No, nothing comes to mind. One day you were acquaintances—maybe even teetering on the edge of friendship—and the next, you were bolting out of rooms faster than a cat hearing a vacuum.

Which brings him to his current situation: sitting in the house he shares with his friends. They’re all squished together on the couch, and Neige is surrounded by blank stares. These guys are his sounding board, but right now, they’re as useful as a broken umbrella in a hurricane.

“Did you sneeze on them?” Grum suggests, not even looking up from his game console.

“No, no, that wouldn’t be it,” Dominic pipes up, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe you accidentally sent them a weird text? Like one of those autocorrect disasters?”

Neige shakes his head, thoroughly confused. “I haven’t texted them anything strange…”

Hop, sitting cross-legged on the floor, nods sagely. “Maybe they saw you at a buffet once and you took the last of the mashed potatoes. People hold grudges over that kind of stuff.”

Timmy just blushes and mumbles something unintelligible while Snick chimes in with, “Could it be allergies? Maybe they’re allergic to you?”

At this point, Neige is spiraling. Allergies? Mashed potatoes? Is there a secret mashed potato incident he forgot about?

Toby simply taps Neige’s shoulder, holding up a drawing of two people holding hands with a big smiley face. Neige squints at it and tries to translate Toby's silent wisdom. “So… I should hold their hand? Is that what you’re saying?”

The group falls silent for a moment, pondering this profound suggestion. Then Shelpie yawns and says, “Maybe you’re just overthinking it. People are weird.”

Neige sighs, still no closer to figuring out why you’ve suddenly started acting like he’s carrying the plague.

Neige comes back to the club room after a long day of shooting and classes, ready to grab his bag and head home. As he's packing up, something catches his eye—a boxed lunch sitting right there on his desk. He blinks at it, confused. Is this...lost and found material? Was someone in too much of a hurry and just ditched it here?

But then he sees the note. "I’m cheering for you, Neige!" followed by a heart and a little smiley face. The handwriting is unmistakable—it’s yours. He stares at it, even more confused now, and kinda flattered too.

He scratches his head, wondering if he's entered some bizarre alternate universe where the person who avoids him like he's contagious is also sending him homemade lunches. "What did I do to deserve this?" he mumbles to himself, half expecting a hidden camera crew to pop out and yell “Surprise!”

Another day, Neige is stranded on campus, waiting for the rain to stop. His umbrella? Oh yeah, he gave that to a girl with a cold earlier because he's just that nice. Now he’s soaking and shivering under a tree, watching the downpour like it personally offended him.

Suddenly, he hears footsteps and sees you walking by, your jacket pulled tightly around you. It's the perfect chance to finally talk to you, to maybe say thanks for the mystery lunch. He smiles at you, hoping this might be the icebreaker he’s been waiting for.

Your reaction? You freeze like you’ve just seen a ghost, eyes wide and panicked, and before he can even get a "Hey, how are you?" out, you launch your umbrella at him like it's a grenade. "Wha—?" he barely gets the word out before you're gone, running away with your jacket awkwardly balanced over your head like a makeshift hood.

Neige stands there, soaked and confused, holding your umbrella and thinking, "We could have shared that, you know…"

The next day, he spots you again, this time crouched in the courtyard, petting a cat. You're cooing at it, making all those weird sounds people make when they think no one's watching, and the cat?

It's loving it, basking in the attention like it's at a spa. Neige sees an opportunity to approach—no rain this time, no excuses. He kneels beside you, reaching out to pet the cat too. "Cute, isn’t it?" he says, smiling softly.

You, on the other hand, barely look at him. "Yes, cat," you mumble like it's some kind of mantra, eyes darting nervously. Then you do a quick check of your phone and blurt out, “Oh no, I’m late for our class!” before bolting upright and sprinting off like a marathon runner.

Neige watches you go, utterly perplexed. "That class is in five hours," he says to the cat, who just looks up at him with a smug purr, like it's in on some cosmic joke that Neige will never understand.

Neige is lost. He's been called naive before, but this? This is a whole new level of confusion. And maybe—just maybe—a little heartbreak. You used to treat him like an actual person, not just a walking photoshoot waiting to happen.

Now? You're acting like he’s got some sort of rare, contagious celebrity plague, the kind of thing you’d catch from standing too close to a red carpet. Every time you see him, your face scrunches up like you just bit into an entire lemon, rind and all.

He’s walking through campus when he spots you with Vil. Now, Neige likes Vil. He admires him, even. Dreams of the day they’ll sit together, drink tea, and discuss which highlighter makes you look “ethereal but approachable.”

But right now, all he sees is you laughing and waving your hands like you’re auditioning for a role in a one-person circus, and Vil? He’s smiling at you like you’ve just told the funniest joke on the planet. And Neige feels something... alien.

It’s not heartburn from that extra-large mocha frappuccino he had earlier—no, this is worse. His stomach twists, his heart sinks, and it’s official: Neige, the cinnamon roll of the universe, is jealous.

Back home, he gathers his trusty team of consultants: Timmy, Toby, and the rest of the gang, who are sitting around the table, looking like they’re about to solve world hunger or invent a new kind of pizza. Neige dumps the whole story on them, his head in his hands.

“And then,” Neige groans, “they just ran away, like I had some kind of... I don’t know... ‘Famous-People-itis!’”

Timmy leans back, strokes his chin with all the fake wisdom of someone who has never solved a problem in his life, and says, “Neige, it’s obvious.”

Neige perks up. “It is?”

“Oh yeah.” Timmy nods solemnly, like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “They’re sick.”

Neige stares at him. “Sick?”

Hop jumps in, wide-eyed like he’s just cracked the code to the universe. “Yeah! It’s so clear! They’ve got a classic case of... uh... ‘Stage-Fright-itis.’ Happens all the time when regular folks meet people like you.”

Neige blinks. “That’s... not a thing.”

Hop waves him off, undeterred. “Totally a thing. Maybe they’re allergic to fame. It’s like how some people get hives around cats. You’re like a walking award show, man. Just your presence makes people break out in nervous sweats.”

Dominic nods sagely. “Or worse. They could’ve caught ‘Starstruck Syndrome.’”

Timmy gasps, clearly thrilled by this new theory. “Yes! Classic symptoms: sudden avoidance, inability to make eye contact, randomly throwing umbrellas at you instead of saying hello—textbook case.”

Neige stares between them, confused but desperate. “So... you think they’re avoiding me because they’re sick? Like, fame-sick?”

Snick shrugs. “I mean, what else could it be? You’re Neige LeBlanche, man! Maybe they’re just overwhelmed by your... Neigeness.”

Neige feels like he’s fallen into some kind of alternate reality where this actually makes sense. He nods slowly, trying to absorb it. “Okay, so... they’re not mad at me? They’re just... allergic to me?”

Timmy grins. “Exactly! Just give it time. Maybe bring them a cup of tea. Or like... a calming crystal. And if it gets worse, well, maybe invest in a hazmat suit. Just in case.”

You don’t know how this happened. One minute you’re chatting with Neige, all sunshine and sparkles, and the next, you wake up in a cold sweat, realizing you are absolutely, horrendously down bad for him. It’s not even subtle. It’s like a piano fell from the sky and crushed your chest with feelings.

But you? You’re... well, you. Neige is a celebrity, practically a walking ray of sunshine wrapped in a Disney Princess aura. Birds sing when he passes by, small woodland creatures would probably braid his hair if they had thumbs. And you? You’re the person who trips over their own shoes and talks to houseplants like they can solve your problems.

So, naturally, you do what any responsible person would do when faced with a crush that could upend their entire existence: you avoid him. Completely.

You’ll still be polite, of course—leave him the occasional lunch with a cute note, chuck an umbrella at him when it’s raining—but actual conversation? Nah.

That’s just asking for trouble. You’re already too attached, and the last thing you need is for this crush to grow into a full-blown romantic disaster.

One day, you’re chatting with Vil—well, "chatting" is a strong word. You’re pacing back and forth like a caffeinated squirrel, ranting about Neige and gesturing so wildly that Vil could probably make a whole meme compilation of just your hand movements.

“And he’s just so... pretty! It’s not fair! How can someone be that perfect? I swear, he’s like—like—” You flail dramatically, trying to find words for the cosmic injustice that is Neige LeBlanche.

Vil, who has been quietly sipping his tea, raises an eyebrow and watches the spectacle. At first, he’s mildly entertained. But the more you rant, the more he realizes something: you’re down bad.

You, who have somehow mastered the art of functional chaos, are completely, hopelessly in love with Neige. And Neige, poor, oblivious Neige, probably thinks you’ve contracted some rare, Neige-specific allergy.

Vil starts to laugh. Not just a chuckle, but a full-on, head-back, hand-over-mouth, this-is-the-best-day-ever laugh. He finds it hilarious that you, despite being tangled in your own feelings, have the emotional awareness of a potato. And Neige? Well, he’s just confused, which is even better.

“You’re fools,” Vil says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Both of you. Foolishly in love.”

You don’t even register his comment. You’re too busy waving your hands around, grumbling, “It’s just... it’s not fair! Why does he have to be that pretty? I mean, does he wake up with that face?”

Vil sips his tea, smirking. This is prime entertainment. And that’s when he notices Neige across the way, glancing over at you two with wide, unsure eyes. Ah, poor, innocent Neige.

With a bit of mischievous spite—and maybe a touch of pity—Vil lets out a soft sigh and shifts his expression. He stares at you with the most lovesick gaze he can muster, his eyes practically glowing with “adoration.” It’s a look straight out of a romance drama, and he knows it’s Oscar-worthy.

Neige sees it. And Vil sees him see it. The realization hits Neige like a freight train. His eyes widen, his mouth opens in a soft, shocked “O,” and Vil? Oh, Vil is living for this. The confusion, the dawning horror, the jealousy—all of it.

Neige, who probably hasn’t had a jealous bone in his body until this moment, now looks like he’s contemplating the meaning of life, death, and why Vil is looking at you like that.

Meanwhile, you’re still pacing, completely oblivious to the emotional chaos you’ve just triggered. “And another thing—how does he smell that nice all the time? It’s not normal, Vil. It’s witchcraft. I bet he’s got a secret team of scent specialists just following him around.”

Vil stifles another laugh. “Yes, yes. Quite the mystery.”

Neige, on the other hand, is staring at the two of you like you’ve just declared war. He doesn’t understand it yet, but for the first time in his life, he feels something dark and uncomfortable curl in his chest.

Vil catches his eye again and gives him the tiniest smirk. Neige stiffens.

You, still on your rant, throw your hands in the air. “I just... I don’t get it. It’s like... he’s too perfect. I can’t deal with it.” And Vil can't even muster the energy to get offended. He thinks this is prime entertainment.

Vil pats your shoulder, thoroughly amused. “Perhaps you should... have a word with him.”

You stop, finally noticing Vil’s smug grin. “What? Why?”

Vil just smirks and takes another sip of tea. “Oh, nothing. Just a hunch.”

You’ve finally decided that enough is enough. You’re going to talk to Neige. You’re not even sure what you’re going to say—probably something awkward about feelings and how he’s so perfect it makes your head spin—but the important thing is that you’ve made up your mind.

It’s time to stop running away like a scared cat and face him like a grown adult. Or, at the very least, someone who’s pretending to be a grown adult.

So, you walk to his house, your heart hammering in your chest, rehearsing about a dozen different ways to break the news. "Hey, Neige, I think I might be a little bit in love with you..." or maybe, "So, uh, funny story, I can’t look at you because you’re too attractive and it’s ruining my life."

But just as you raise your hand to knock, the door flies open, and there’s Neige, looking frazzled and... holding a hazmat suit.

“Here!” He thrusts it at you like it’s a life-saving device. You blink at the suit, then at him.

“Uh... why?”

“Because you’re allergic to me!” Neige says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

You stare. He stares back, eyes wide and earnest, and you can’t decide whether you want to laugh or cry.

“Neige, that’s not... that’s not a thing that happens to people.”

“But you’ve been avoiding me!” he blurts, clutching the hazmat suit like it’s his last defense. “Every time I see you, you run away, or—” he frowns slightly, “—you throw things at me, like umbrellas! I just thought... maybe you were... allergic?”

You feel a pang of guilt seeing the hurt in his eyes. Here’s Neige, genuinely thinking he’s the problem, when really the only issue is that he’s so perfect it makes your brain short-circuit.

You take a deep breath. It’s now or never. “Neige, I’m not allergic to you. I just...” You swallow, trying to find the right words. “I’ve been avoiding you because... I like you. A lot. Like, in a romantic way.”

For a moment, the world stops. Neige blinks, his face blank as his brain processes your words. Then his heart stutters, and before you know it, he’s dropping to one knee.

You panic. “Wait—what are you doing?!”

Is he skipping directly to a proposal? Is he about to reject you so hard he’s physically collapsing? You stare, horrified, wondering how things escalated this quickly.

But then Neige laughs, a bright, happy sound that immediately sets your heart racing in a different way. “No, no, I’m not proposing! I mean—unless you want me to—but, um, I was just going to ask if you’d be my partner.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and then before you can stop yourself, you grab him by the collar and kiss him. His lips taste like cotton candy and a dream come true, and for a moment, everything feels like a fairytale.

When you finally pull away, Neige’s smile is so blinding it’s a wonder the sun hasn’t given up trying. “I think I was... jealous?” he says, almost like he’s surprised by the revelation. “That’s never happened to me before. When I saw you with Vil... I didn’t like it.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. “Vil? Don’t worry about him. He’s my friend. He was just messing with you for fun.”

Before Neige can respond, there’s a loud achoo from behind a nearby bush. You both turn to see his friends slowly emerge, looking sheepish. Snick is rubbing his nose, and Grum is pretending he wasn’t just crouched in the bushes like a nosy little spy.

“Well, this is awkward,” you mutter, feeling your face heat up.

But they aren’t even phased. They burst out cheering, clapping and whistling like they’ve just witnessed the grand finale of a romantic drama. You can’t help but laugh as they chant congratulations, even though you want to crawl into a hole and die from embarrassment.

Neige turns to you, smiling that bright, pure smile of his. “Maybe this is a fairytale ending after all.”

And for once, you think maybe—just maybe—you’ve finally found your happily ever after.

Masterlist

[moody-alcoholic]

These Violent Delights

Chapter 11 - Moments before the Storm

Summary: Poly 141 x fem!reader, a/b/o alternate universe 7.4k words. More heat smut yes please... (these aren't going to get any better)

CW: MDNI +18 explicit content a/b/o alternative universe, a/b/o dynamics, typical a/b/o universe tropes (scenting, heats, knotting), mentions of past abuse, masturbation, brief mentions of blood, angst, sex, PiV sex, fingering, knotting, breeding talk, overuse of the word cock, brief mention of needles, brief description of weapons, language, angst, talk about birth control, mentions of pregnancy.

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Enjoy <3

“Idiot! That's what you are, you know that right? Fucking idiot!” Hale had been screaming in his ear for the better part of 5 minutes. He managed to slip out of the base, making it to the stash in the forest and the hidden phone. He was an idiot. He panicked that you were going to expose him. At least with your forced heat, he’s bought himself a few days.  

“You know what you have to do now. Your only job is to get the omega and get out of there.” 

“Of course sir, but can we trust Commander Graves to turn a blind eye to all this?” 

“I fucking paid him enough to.” 

“What about the bugs?” 

“Fuck,” Hale says. Then the line goes quiet. “Leave them, destroy them if you can, but the omega is more important. You still have everything you need in the stash correct?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you know what to do. Don’t let me down again.” The call ends. He looks down at the stash. A crate with weapons and a duffle bag with everything he needs to get the omega and take her to Professor Hale. He reaches down into the crate pulling out a pistol, pulling the barrel back and feeling the weight in his hand. 

This time he wouldn’t let Professor Hale down, if not for his own sake. 

You’ve been calling out ever since Gaz dropped you off in John’s room. Your whines and calls are slicing through the tension in the air. John hasn’t said a word since Dr. Piper explained forced heats the first time. Someone had done this, someone had assaulted you, had forced you to be in this state. It makes his blood boil. It makes him angry. He has to control his scent. You’re in heat. His anger could confuse you and make you distress. 

“Explain it again,” John says, pacing the room. The smell of honey is making his head spin. All he wants is to be with you. He can’t though, he needs to get to the bottom of this. He needs to keep it together and make a plan.

“Her heat has been forced. It's something that would naturally happen if she was around an alpha in rut. Hale would force her heats as punishment or to make her…susceptible. They’re not like normal heats, they’re shorter and more extreme. It forces her body to release eggs regardless of her cycle,” Dr. Montgomery explains. 

The door to the barracks flys open and Simon walks in. John watches his nostrils flair, his pupils dilating. John wants to jump on him and push him out the building. He shouldn’t be here around his omega. He balls his hands into fists, keeping an eye on him. Simon keeps his distance, and Johnny stands next to him.

“What happened?” he asks, swallowing thickly. Gaz comes up behind John. He can smell him trying to project his scent but it’s not doing anything. All he can smell is you, honey and strawberries thick in the air. 

“Explain,” John says, waving his hand at Dr. Montgomery. She explains the situation for what feels like the millionth time. He can hear the nerves in her voice now, can smell her fear in the air.  

“All of you go with Dr. Montgomery. I want you to search the lab, the scientists’ quarters. I don’t care what you have to do, just find out who did this,” John snaps, rubbing the back of his neck. He needs to be with you. He needs to be inside you. Your scent is intoxicating. He knows you need him, he knows you’re desperate for his knot. He can hear it in your calls, the pleading in your whines ringing in his ears.

“Forced heats are not the same as regular heats. She is going to be more needy, more desperate. Be careful. It's only going to last a day or so at the most. She can be alone, you don’t have to take care of her.” He digs his eyes into her. He can’t leave you even if he wanted to.

“Someone needs to stay with her, and it might as well be me,” he says. 

“Get Laswell to help, and try to keep this a away from Shepherd. The last thing we need is him breathing down our neck,” John says to the room. He looks up at Simon. He can tell he’s struggling, his usual hard demeanor changed. He’s unsure what to do, so he just turns to leave, everyone following out after him. 

“John,” Dr. Montgomery calls back as she stands in the doorway. “The betas will check on you and keep you updated.” 

John nods, turning to his room. He can hear your moans become more desperate as he walks through the door. 

Your fingers are still deep in your aching pussy as you try to get any release. John walks over to you pulling his top off over his head. You can smell him, taste him in the air. You pull your fingers out reaching out for him in your haze. He grabs your wrist, your hand soaked in your slick and pulls your fingers into his mouth. You hear a growl rise in his throat as he sucks on your digits. 

“Alpha,” you whine, rubbing your legs together. You press your fingers down on his hot tongue. You look over his body seeing his free hand unbuckle his belt as he shimmies his trousers off. You can see his cock almost bulging out of his boxers as he lets your hand go. You lick your lips reaching over to pull him out but he steps back. You whine out, almost falling off the bed, your chest flopping down. 

He steps back over to you reaching down and pulling his cock out. He’s just out of reach as he strokes himself. Your eyes go wide as you lay there watching him, his hand running down his shaft twisting upwards when he reaches the tip. You’re drooling when you see a bead of precum leak from the tip. 

He presses his thumb over to wipe it up but instead of smearing it down his cock he pushes his thumb in your mouth, smearing it across your tongue. 

“Be a good omega, show me how much you want it,” he says. His voice is low and commanding. Your mind doesn’t seem to comprehend the words but your body moves, turning and pressing your face down on the bed, your hips thrust in the air, legs apart, thighs wet with your slick.

You’re presenting for him. It’s all you can think to do. You’re desperate to feel his hands on you. You need his hands on you, you need him inside you. He takes a step towards you, his hands landing on your hips stroking around your curves as he inches closer to your aching cunt. 

“Please alpha,” you beg—you’re already begging. You try to shuffle closer to him, but his hands keep you in place. His scent is heavy in the air now, vanilla and smoke filling your nose. His hand moves to the small of your back pushing you down flat. You let him, as he scoops his arms under your thighs, pulling your legs off the end of the bed. 

You grip the bedding, moaning as your nipples drag against the fabric. His fingers press against your entrance, coating them in your slick before pushing them inside you. You clench around him moaning into the bed, bunching the sheets up in your fists. 

“Such a needy omega,” he says, his voice almost a growl as his fingers speed up inside you. You can’t even speak, your response just coming out as a murmur. You need more, more fingers, deeper, harder. Your brain is too foggy to process speech as he drives you closer to the edge. You're arching your back, wiggling your hips, gripping his fingers with each thrust.

“Are you going to cum on my fingers? Desperate needy omega.” His voice is hard, and you can smell his rut in the air. You don’t care, you need him. 

“Yes alpha, anything for you,” you pant as his fingers drive you over the edge. You cum hard, your legs tensing up and shaking as he rides you through the orgasm, his fingers making the most beautiful wet noises as his palm slaps against your ass. Slick coats his hand as he presses on the rough spot inside you. 

“Good girl,” John coos as he bends over you, his tongue running over the mark on the back of your neck. A warmth bubbles in your core at the praise, at the feel of his tongue pressing on your mark. Your mind goes back to the time he claimed you, the thrill, the adrenaline pumping through your system. 

His teeth claiming you as his omega forever.

“Alpha, I need you,” you beg. He kisses your mark before standing back up.

“What do you need?” he asks even though he’s already pressing against your entrance. 

“Your knot alpha, I need your knot,” you beg, trying to rock back on his cock. He slips between your folds, his tip knocking against your swollen clit. Each thrust sends shivers down your spine. It’s making you more desperate as you rock your hips back against him. He moans out, letting you tease yourself.

“Please,” you whine. He lets out a sigh. He sounds somewhat disappointed as he relents and eases himself into you. You bite down on the bedding, muffling your moan as you tighten around him causing him to throb inside you. It’s too much, finally being filled by your alpha is enough to push you over the edge again. 

“ Christ ,” John breathes as you cum around him, your cunt throbbing as he drags his cock through your swollen walls. You can feel each inch of him, each twitch and throb. It’s enough to make you crazy. 

“Yes alpha, please.” You don’t want him to stop as you shake around him. You need his knot. He reaches down gripping your hair pulling your head up uncomfortably as he drives into you. He’s rougher than he’s been with you before. You didn't think he could go deeper but he seems to find a way as you’re panting with each thrust.  

He’s grunting as he gets closer, his hips smacking into you. It feels amazing, almost too good. Your head goes blank. All you can think about is one thing: ‘ knot, knot, knot.’ You need your alpha to take you, to fill you with his seed, to fill you with babies.

“John,” you gasp as you get close, your body tensing as he drives you closer to the edge. 

“Relax, come on, nice and easy.” He slows down pressing his hand on the small of your back. If you relax you’re going to cum. You let out a breath as you relax your body letting him press into you faster. You’re not going to last long like this, and you can tell he can sense it too. 

“Alpha,” you moan, closing your eyes as you let your body rock against his hips.

“I know, I know,” he says. One hand holds your back down, the other has a tight grip on your hair. It only takes a few more pumps and you’re cuming again, clenching around him as he drives into you. Your body goes limp as you listen to his grunts. The scent of leather fills your nose making your head spin as you come down from the orgasm. 

He lets go of your hair and your head flops down on the bedding. Your vision is hazy as John reaches over, turning your head to the side. You get a moment of clarity as you try to normalize your breathing. John’s arms reach around you, picking you up, moving you around the bed. You let him, not having the energy to do anything other than let him fuck you again and again until he feels like you deserve his knot. He lays up behind you as you bring your legs to your chest. 

His lips are on your neck, softly pressing kisses around your mark. It makes your whole body tingle, a warmth rising inside you as the pain comes back between your legs. Your breathing picks up as John presses himself back inside of you. Going slow this time, his arms wrap around you. He breathes you in his nose, nuzzling into your neck. 

When you try to rock up against him, he holds you in place, his hand pressing down on your abdomen. You close your eyes letting him set the pace even though everything feels too slow, like it’s not enough. When his lips and tongue are not dragging across your skin, he presses his lips up against your ear, his voice low, growling as he tells you how good you’re being.

“Going to take my knot like a good omega?” he breathes feral in your ear as he nips at your ear lobe. 

“Yes alpha, I need your knot,” you beg, tipping your head back. John hums, one of his hands coming up and lazily pulling on your nipple. A moan catches in your throat as you grind your hips up against him. He keeps you in place though, controlling the speed as he huffs and moans. His breath is hot on your neck, panting in your ear. 

“C’mon, be a good omega for me,” John says in your ear pulling you tighter against him. “Cum for me, take my knot.” 

“Yes alpha, anything for you,” you say between pants as he drives into you harder. His arms tighten around you as he cums, throbbing in you as he fills you up, his cock expanding, making you feel full as your head goes stuffy. With his knot stretching you out, you’re overcome with a wave of tiredness. You’ve done your job, you have your alpha's knot and now you get to rest. 

John wraps his arms around you pulling you closer to his chest. You can feel his heart thumping as he tries to steady his breathing. You let out a breath as you relax into the pillow. John’s lips press against your neck, he hums as they rest against your mark. 

“Such a good omega,” he purrs. You smile at the praise, it makes the warm feeling grow inside you. You close your eyes, breathing in his scent, smoke and leather. Now you get to rest for a few hours before the cycle starts up again.

Ghost is shaking with anger as he walks over to the lab with everyone following behind him. He knew something like this might happen. He knew you were at risk. Dr. Montgomery’s explanation was not giving him peace of mind either. Forced heat, it sounds like hell. The thought of you being in pain makes his stomach twist. 

He needs to focus. He needs to find out who did this. Then he’ll feel better. He stops outside the door, turning back to look at everyone standing behind him. Dr. Montgomery looks worried, Soap and Gaz’s eyes are hard as they look at him, waiting for orders. 

“Gaz go get Laswell, meet us back here. Soap we’re going to strip this place from the ground up,” Ghost says, crossing his arms. Soap and Gaz nod, Gaz leaves and Ghost turns to Dr. Montgomery. She looks sad, worried, and guilty. 

“Dr. Montgomery, you need to go through the lab data. We need a timeline of who’s been accessing what chemicals at what time. Who’s been in the medical room other than you.” 

She nods, not saying anything. For a second Ghost feels bad for her. This is partly her fault though. She should know what her scientists are up to. 

She should have known. She should have stopped this. 

Simon goes into the lab. The place is empty. It’s a Friday night, some of the scientists will have already gone home. He turns to the doctor.

“Do you have a list of which scientists go home on a weekend?” Ghost asks her. She nods, heading to her office. 

“Soap go get the logs of who’s left the base. Try not to piss Graves off,” Ghost says as Soap heads out of the room. Ghost stands there looking around the lab. The place looks packed up for the weekend. There’s no sign people have been there for a good few hours. The lab door opens and Gaz and Laswell walk in. 

“What’s going on?” she asks, coming over to Ghost. 

“Someone forced the omega’s heat. We need to find out who and why,” he explains. Dr. Montgomery comes out of her office. She hands him a folder.

“We need to find out who’s here and who’s gone home for the weekend. How long ago do you think this could have happened?” Ghost asks the doctor. She looks around the lab holding her hands up, shrugging. 

“A few minutes. It depends on a lot of factors. If I knew how much or what she’s been given it would help,” she explains. She walks around a desk going over to the computer. Ghost throws the folder on one of the tables. 

“Where’s John?” Laswell asks, stepping up next to Ghost. 

“Someone needs to keep an eye on the omega.” Ghost folds his arms as Gaz opens the folder. Laswell nods, going over to help him. Ghost goes around to see what Dr. Montgomery is looking at, clicking away on a computer.

“What's that?” Ghost says. She doesn’t say anything, continuing to click around. 

“What about the hidden cameras and microphones?” she asks quietly leaning into him. He looks at her, meeting her eyeline. He looks over at Gaz and Laswell working through the paperwork. If they could find the cameras or microphones they might be able to find out who’s been messing around. 

“We’ll deal with that later. Right now we need to look at the staff. Is there anyone you would suspect?” he asks. She stands up from the computer putting her hands on her hips. 

“I don’t know, I would trust them but I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are still wishing they could work for Hale instead of me,” she says. Lawell looks up from the paperwork. 

“Let me know if you think of anything,” Ghost says, turning away from her. Then he sees it on the floor, a syringe sticking out from under a stool. He reaches down, picking it up. 

“Here,” he says, turning back around to Dr. Montgomery with it in his hands. She sighs when she sees it taking it out of his hands. 

“Can we test it for prints or something?” she asks.

“We’re army not police. Can you figure out what drug it is?” he asks. She nods. Ghost sighs walking around the room to help Laswell and Gaz. 

“LT, Graves said he won't give the logs without Price’s approval,” Soap’s voice comes through Ghost’s radio. Fucking Graves . Laswell and Gaz look up at Ghost.

“I’ll deal with it,” he replies, heading out of the building back to the barracks. He balls his hands up into fists. This whole thing was a mess. He waits for a few seconds with his hand on the barrack's door handle. He can smell you in the air before he’s even inside. Honey, vanilla and strawberries. He can smell Price too, leather and smoke, the ground after rain. 

He sighs, opening the door. The scents hit him hard, overwhelming him and making his head spin. His cock twitches in his pants. He wants to be near you, Christ, he needs to be near you. There are no noises, no moans or sounds of sex. The closer he gets to Price’s office the stronger it is, he can taste it in the air. He focuses all his energy on keeping his scent contained. No need to freak John out and make him think there’s a threat in the building. 

He goes into Price’s office going over to his computer sitting down on the chair and logging in. His mind wanders. You’re just on the other side of the thin walls. He bet if he pressed his ear up against the wall he could hear you. He’s trying to focus on what he needs to do, clicking through the pages when you moan out of nowhere. 

The noise makes Ghost squeeze his eyes shut. All he can imagine is you, laying naked in the bed ready and waiting for an alpha to fuck you. He wishes it was him. He opens his eyes again as the moaning dies down he shifts in the chair, his hardened cock pulling on his jeans. It’s almost painful. He can't help palming himself over the fabric. Christ , you’re going to be the death of him.  

He clicks through the other pages trying to find the right one. His brain is too preoccupied though, imagining you bent over, needy and ready. Your pussy aching for him. More moans from the other side of the wall make the decision for him, his hands unclipping his belt, reaching in and pulling his cock out. He lets out a quiet sigh of relief as he strokes himself already leaking with precum. 

This time your moans don’t stop. He can hear Price starting too. 

“Want more?” he asks sleepily. Ghost moves the chair closer to the wall, almost pressing his ear up against it. He can hear your whines and moans as the bed starts to creak and the wet sounds of sex start up. Simon bites his lip to stop himself from moaning out. He has to be careful, quiet. He breathes in your scent, and it makes his mouth water. He wishes he was in John’s position. 

“Alpha,” you whine as John grunts. It almost sounds like he's growling. It makes Ghost pump his cock harder, faster as the moans and panting continue. He wonders what position you’re in, bent over the bed? Laid flat on your back, your perfect tits bouncing with each thrust? He would reach over and grab them, play with your nipples if only to feel you clench tighter around him. A moan catches in his throat as he squeezes the base of his cock.

Too close.

He starts his thrusts again, slow and methodical, but it’s not long before he's giving into the scents again. It’s almost like you’re controlling the speed, his strokes in time with your cries. Each time you call out for your alpha it makes something bubble inside him, a warmth he’s never felt before. It just makes him ache for you more, his head spinning with each thrust of his hand. 

His toes curl in his boots as he gets close to the edge, his thumb brushing over the tip with each long stroke. He looks around for something to catch his release in, he reaches over to the tissue box pulling some out. His hand doesn’t slow, your panting getting louder through the walls, John’s moans speeding up. 

“Alpha, need you,” you whine.

“Tell me what you need,” Price’s voice comes back, low, grumbling. It makes Ghost tip his head back. 

“Cum, need to cum alpha.” Ghost can hear the desperation in your voice, Price’s increase of speed. He can hear each smack of Price’s hips against your ass. 

“C’mon then, been such good omega cum for me.” Price’s scent is strong in the air now. You cry out as you cum, Price’s panting turning to grunts. Simon can’t hold it any longer biting down on the inside of his cheek as he cums into the tissues. He sits there focusing all his energy on controlling his scent, his hand gripping the base of his cock as cum drips over his fingers. He moves the tissue, reaching over for more to clean himself up. 

It’s not even been a few seconds before you’re already sounding needy and desperate again. It must be exhausting to go for so long, Ghost thinks as he throws away the tissues, tucking himself back in his pants and going back to focusing on the task at hand. He finds the right form, filling it out and sending it. 

Now he needs to leave as quiet as he came. He turns the light off in the room, silently walking out the building. He waits until he’s made it back to the lab before unmuting his radio. 

“Soap, the request has been sent,” he says walking into the lab. He hears Soap reply then goes over to Dr. Montgomery. 

“Found anything?” he asks. 

“She was injected with the hormone that activates her heat. I’d say it’s going to last 2-3 days at least,” she explains. Ghost lets out a sigh. 2-3 days, he can work with that. As soon as Soap comes back they can start looking for bugs and check who’s been in and out of the base. 

His mind wanders back to earlier, you hugging him from behind, squeezing his hand. He remembers what it felt like, the dread, the horror of you being in fear. Smelling your fear in the air, harsh like metal, rust, Ghost couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Regardless it was a scent he never wanted to smell again. 

He looks over at Dr. Montgomery. He wishes he could be alone with her now, get things off his chest. She always knows the right thing to say. A few minutes later Soap comes back in the room with an armful of folders. He walks straight over to the table with Laswell and Gaz. 

“Gaz, Laswell, keep working on finding out where people are. Soap we’re going to clear the place for bugs,” Ghost says, his voice level as he orders them around.

“What bugs?” Gaz asks, looking confused. 

“Someone planted bugs in the lab. If we find them, we might be able to find out who did this,” he explains. 

“We’ll start upstairs,” Ghost says, nodding at Soap and heading to the stairs. 

It had been a full 24 hours before the noise in John’s room finally died down. Johnny and Kyle had been taking shifts waiting for them to be able to go in and check on you both. Johnny was awake for the next few hours. 

He waited an extra 40 minutes or so before finally deciding to go in and check. He picked up a bottle of water and a protein bar from the kitchen. He can smell you through the door, honey and leather. He opens the door slowly. The room is dark. Last time, John left the bedside light on. This time, Johnny has to use the corridor light from behind him to make sure he doesn’t trip over anything. 

He makes it to the bed and reaches out for John’s arm which is tightly wrapped around you. It doesn’t take much to stir John who immediately shushes him, reaching out to grab Johnny’s arm.

“You have no idea how long it took her to calm down,” he whispers. Johnny can’t help but smile at your sleeping form, completely knocked out, even snoring softly. It’s a stark difference from your last heat when you were somewhat aware of what was going on around you. 

“How do you feel?” Johnny whispers back to him, opening the bottle of water and pressing it in his hand.  

“Sore, tired,” he says, gulping the water down. “How’s things out there?”

“Simon and Laswell have been interviewing all the staff. Gaz has been busy decoding the hidden cameras,” Johnny says. 

“So he told you, then,” John says. Johnny nods. 

“Si thinks we could find some evidence on them.” 

“What about Dr. Montgomery?” You stir at the mention of her name. It has you whining into the pillow. John shushes you, hoping you’ll go back to sleep. 

“She’s feeling pretty guilty about the whole thing. She’s been helping where she can,” Johnny says. John hums. 

“Simon been getting any rest?” he asks. Johnny knows he already knows the answer. 

“He’s been busy. You know what he’s like,” Johnny says. John sighs, passing the empty bottle to him. 

“Make sure he gets some rest. He’s no use to anyone if he’s exhausted,” John says, laying back down. Johnny nods at him. He leaves the protein bar on the bedside table and leaves the room. 

You’re sore when you wake up. You’re in John’s bed but he’s not around. You can smell him in the air. Maybe he hasn’t been gone for too long. You’re cold and naked as you move to the other side of the bed. You need a drink. Your head is still stuffy, your body sore and throbbing. You swing your legs off the side of the bed using all your energy to sit up. You’re sticky and raw. A nice warm shower sounds amazing for your sore body.

Only when you go to stand your legs give way feeling like jelly as you hit the floor. You let out a yelp. You're going to feel that in the morning. Your head starts swimming and for a few seconds you don’t know if you will be able to stand up again. You close your eyes laying there wondering what to do when the door opens. 

“Christ lass, you should be in bed.” It’s Johnny, but you’re in too much pain to feel embarrassed as he hooks his arms under your armpits lifting you up to sit on the edge of the bed. You whine in his arms as he moves your body uncomfortably.

“Where’s John?” you ask, blinking the sleepiness out of your eyes. Johnny reaches over, picking up a bottle of water and opening it. You accept it when he hands it to you.

“He went to see how things were going with the search,” he says as you gulp the water down, realizing how dry your throat is.

“What search?” you ask finishing the water. 

“To find who did this to you,” he says. You feel sick. It feels like a knot is forming deep within you. 

“Do you remember anything?” Johnny asks you. A shiver runs up your body. You remember going to the lab. Why did you need to go to the lab? Maybe you needed to talk to Dr. Piper about something. Your head is still swimming, and you’re not quite feeling 100%. You go to stand up. Your legs still feel like jelly but you keep your balance, Johnny's hands resting on your shoulders. 

“You’re still warm, you should keep resting,” he says. You shake your head. You want a shower and you want to help. You can’t shake the feeling this is somehow your fault.

“How long has it been?” you ask.

“3 days,” he sighs, leaving you to grab a towel, throwing it around your back and over your shoulders. “Shower?” You nod following him out of the room. It’s dark out but you can’t tell if it's early morning or late evening. You don’t see or smell anyone other than Johnny. His hand presses on your back as you walk into the bathroom. 

“I’ll get you some PJ’s,” he says, leaving the room. You drop the towel stepping into the shower. You turn the heat up high letting the water turn your skin red. It feels like you’re washing off days of grime and sweat. Your legs are sticky and raw. You scrub your body with a thick layer of soap. When Johnny comes back in the room you turn to see him, he smiles at you picking up the towel off the floor placing it with your pajamas. 

You smile at him and turn back to the shower. You stick your head under the shower letting the water run down you, drowning out the world around you. You press your hands on the wall to support yourself. 

What happened? You need to think. Your heat was forced. It’s happened before. The Professor would do it all the time. Well, not all the time but more than you liked. The Professor is not here though. What were you doing before that? You helped with the training. You remember Simon in the stairwell. You turn the shower off, frustrated. 

Why can’t you remember? It’s like there is a block in your mind. You dry your body, looking in the mirror. You need to remember for their sake at least. You finish drying yourself and pulling on clean pajamas. You feel better, your muscles relaxed from the hot shower. You’re still aching, legs feeling stiff and your head is stuffy, like you’ve got the flu. 

You miss John too. You want to be near him. You should go back to bed, or at least steal his pillow. You head over to the door, and as soon as your hand hits the handle it’s like memories come flooding back. 

You remember laying on John’s lap just like you used to do for the Professor. Then you remember Dr. Miller, the drinks, the time skips. The needle in your neck. It was him; he did it. You’re rushing out the room, adrenaline coursing through your system. You see Johnny sat at the table.

“Where are they?” you ask, not hiding the shaking in your voice. 

“In the lab, what's up?” he says, frowning. You ignore him rushing out the building. You’re only in your thin pajamas and nothing on your feet but as soon as you hit the grass you’re sprinting across to the lab. You hear Johnny calling after you but you don’t care. Your lungs are burning, your body shaking as you slam into the lab door. You push your way in bracing your hands on your thighs as you try to catch your breath. 

“What the—” you hear Dr. Piper call as you look up. She’s jumping out of a chair rushing over to you. “You should be in bed, you should be resting.” The door to the lab opens behind you. There are more hands on you now, Johnny's warm hands, Dr. Piper's cold hands supporting you.

“Dr. Miller,” you say between breaths. Your wet hair is cold, water running down your back making you shiver as you stand up straight looking round the room. 

“What? Dr. Miller?” Dr. Piper asks. 

“He was the one. He was—I don’t know, but he was the one who injected me,” you say. You see Kyle and Kate have taken steps towards you. 

“He was the one who forced your heat?” she asks, You nod frantically, her hands leave you. 

“The alpha specialist?” Kyle asks as he looks back at John. You see John leaned back on a chair holding an icepack on his lap. The sound of heavy boots and a door slamming drags your attention to the other side of the room. 

“Gaz, go with him,” John orders. You watch as Kyle nods then leaves out the same door. You’ve calmed down now. You feel cold, shivering as goosebumps rise across your body. You can smell John’s alpha in the room. It makes you feel dizzy. You want to be near him. Your body is aching for him. 

“What happened?” Dr. Piper asks coming around to see your face. 

“I was coming to confront him, and he grabbed me. I don't remember what happened, but then he injected me and forced my heat,” you say looking down at the floor. You feel full of guilt. Tears come, this is all my fault. You can feel Johnny's hand start rubbing your back. 

“What did you want to confront him about?” she asks, her cold hand squeezing your shoulder. 

“I don’t know. I was having these memories, when I was helping Dr. Miller out. I would wake up in the medical room. He would say I passed out when he was trying to take my blood. I don’t ever remember what happened though.” You sniffle. You hear Dr. Piper sigh as her hand leaves your shoulder. You smell John’s scent stronger in the air now, and you can hear him moving towards you. 

His hand comes up to your cheek cupping it in his hand. He sighs, pulling your face up to look at him. You feel embarrassed. You wish you were better at reading his expression. You can’t smell anything other than his alpha. His eyes look around your face. All you want is to be with him, for him to hug you and tell you everything is going to be okay.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, his voice low. He almost sounds disappointed. 

“I thought it was just bad dreams, I thought it was all in my head. Dr. Miller was so nice. I didn’t think he was lying to me. I didn’t want to worry anyone,” you say. Maybe he’s trying to see if you’re lying or not. 

“What else did he do? What else do you remember?” he asks. He doesn’t sound disappointed anymore. His voice is level, commanding, and it makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. 

“I don’t remember much, I just remember waking up in the medical room.”

“How many times did this happen?” His voice is a little harsher now as his thumb rubs your cheek. 

“Twice,” you say, swallowing hard. He leans down pressing his forehead to yours before sighing. Maybe he’s not mad. His hand leaves your face and you feel alone. Johnny is still behind you, his hand rubbing your back. You brush the tears away feeling tired. 

“Take her back,” John says as he walks away. You look over at Dr. Piper. She looks sad. You let her down, you let them all down. 

“I’m sorry,” you say to no one in particular. 

“It’s alright, get some rest. We'll talk later,” John says, his back to you as he braces himself on a table. Johnny’s hands guide you out of the room. You feel the cold air hit your shaking body. As soon as you’ve made it down the steps, Johnny scoops you up in his arms. You look back into the lab, and you hear a crash as you see John swipe his arms across the table and then run his hands through his hair. 

This is all your fault. 

Guilt, that's all you feel. This is your fault. You should have told someone about Dr. Miller. You thought Dr. Piper knew. Why would she not know what her scientists were doing? You look over at Dr. Piper, her hands wrapped around her mug as she stares out the window. You can smell her guilt in the air.

You’re pushing food around your plate. You're not hungry. You’re just sore, sore and tired. You want to crawl back into bed. You miss John. He hasn’t been around. He didn’t come back last night, and you fell asleep on the sofa with Johnny. Dr. Piper came back around midday bringing you lunch. The last time you saw John was in the lab. You don’t blame him. He has to spend his time cleaning up your mess. You feel sick. Maybe that’s part of the guilt. 

You push your plate away, you're not hungry any more. 

“You need to eat,” she says looking over at you sipping on her coffee. You reluctantly reach out for the pudding cup. It’s chocolate today, that one is your favorite, although you feel like you don’t deserve it. You pull the lid off picking up the spoon. There’s a pit in your stomach, a horrible feeling inside you. You should have spoken to Dr. Piper. Maybe she thinks you don’t trust her. Maybe she thinks you don’t want to talk to her.

You spoon the pudding in your mouth, but the moment it hits your tongue you taste bitterness. It makes you gag. You straighten up in your chair. She turns to look at you, and you force yourself to swallow. It tastes horrible. You’re fine, you’re just worried, you don’t need Dr. Piper worrying too. 

You spoon more pudding in your mouth. You try to ignore the bitterness but you can't. You gag again. Dr. Piper's eyes are digging into you as you force yourself to swallow again. It doesn’t help and you feel your mouth fill with saliva as your stomach constricts.  

You’re off your feet running to the bathroom. The first toilet you see you throw yourself over, heaving as your back buckles. Dr. Piper is behind you pulling your hair up. Your body shakes as you empty your stomach. You slump down next to the toilet bowl. 

“I don’t know why the puddings do this. I used to like them.” you say sniffing. Dr. Piper frowns. 

“When have they started making you feel sick?” she asks. You shrug, wiping your mouth with toilet paper. 

“A week ago maybe,” you say, accepting her hand as she helps you to your feet. You see fear in her eyes. You smell it in the air, and it makes your stomach turn more than it already is. She doesn’t say anything, she just grabs your wrist pulling you through the barracks common room and out into the cold air. Your heart is beating in fear as you struggle to keep up with her. She takes you into the lab. You can see Kyle and John, they turn to see you as you’re dragged in.

“Everything okay?” John asks. You don’t know what to say, feeling tears well up in your eyes. 

“Everything is fine, just routine checks after her heat,” Dr. Piper says letting go of your wrist. You want to run into John’s arms. You want him to squeeze you tight and tell you everything is going to be okay. 

It’s not going to be okay though. It’s never going to be okay again and it’s all your fault. 

You follow Dr. Piper up the stairs and into the medical room. The whole place has been turned upside down. Cupboards opened and emptied, supplies thrown everywhere. They really have searched this place top to bottom. Dr. Piper goes through to the other room and comes back out with a cup. She hands it to you.

“I need a urine sample.” She guides you out of the room showing you where the toilet is. You don’t know what to say. You follow her instructions going into the bathroom and collecting the sample. You don’t like where this is going. When you get back into the medical room you give it to her and she gestures for you to jump up on the bed. 

You watch in silence as she opens something from a packet and dips it in the cup. 

“What's that?” you ask.

“Pregnancy test.” 

Your body freezes. Pregnancy test? That’s impossible. 

“I’m on birth control. I have the implant thing,” you say squeezing the top of your arm where Dr. Piper injected it a few months ago. You can even feel it just under your skin. It’s still there. You don’t know what to do. You can’t think. You can’t breathe.  

It’s not possible.

“I know, I know,” she says. She sounds nervous. You’re nervous now too. What are you going to do? This is all your fault. You sit there trying to control your breathing as you wait for Dr. Piper to say something. Anything. It feels like the seconds and minutes are dragging on forever. You hear her sigh and she turns to look at you. You’re holding your breath. 

“It’s positive,” she says. You don’t believe her. You want to laugh, you want to cry.

“That’s not possible.” You shake your head. You don’t believe her, you can't. She sighs, showing you a white stick with 2 little pink lines on it. 

“No. Do it again, it's wrong,” you say getting off the bed. Panic is rising in you now, and your chest feels tight. You can't breathe. Your hand flys up to your chest. Your legs start to shake. 

This is not possible. 

It can’t be possible. You grip onto Dr. Piper's arm, your whole body shaking now. 

“Okay, come on, sit down,” she says, her hands on your shoulders pushing you back up on the bed. You’re trying to suck in breaths of air but it just feels like it’s never enough.

“Look, I’ll take some blood. Blood drawn pregnancy tests are more accurate, okay?” You nod at her, her hand is still on your shoulder squeezing you. “You need to breathe though, look at me.” You look up at her. 

“Breathe. It’s going to be okay. You need to keep calm.” You nod, following her breathing as you suck in lungfuls of air. She nods, turning away from you to collect supplies. Then it hits you.

What was John going to think?

Next

Dividers by Plum98 & gild-ui Beta reader and editor - rememberwren

[ladybirdswritings]

Silken Webs & Pirouettes - Miguel O’Hara x Reader

Summary: Miguel comes up with a plan to make your time together much more tolerable. Ballerina!Reader & CEO!Miguel. Alternate Universe with most of the characters included as seen in "Across the Spiderverse." Many cameos ahead. Miguel is a successful business owner but personality is canon. This is a steamy reader insert, Miguel x You! Enjoy and pls leave me lots of love and comments as it keeps me motivated <333

notes: tysm for reading and i’m so srry for the delay but i hope this steamy chapter makes the wait worth it <33

chapter 10

Gold. Suffocating and blinding as it cascades upon the pale mounds and curves of your vessel. Your eyes a hue of darkness behind the shielding lids, your temples a pounding rhythm parallel to the beats you once waltzed amongst.

Your lips part, slumber’s dance with you slowly cascading into nothingness as luminous rays return to greet you. To tug your soft palms back into your reality.

Your lashes, fanned against your flushed skin now fan apart as your gaze is greeted with unavoidable radiance. The morning.

A breath leaves you, trembling as it greets the cool air. You force yourself upright and it is then that blood rushes from where it once lay dormant and pooled to spread itself evenly throughout you— enticing pins and needles from the tips of your fingers and toes.

You feel like a creature undead, following the actions as you would normally but in an imposter’s stance. Your feet drag you to the dimmer kitchen, and your temples are grateful to be secluded from the sun and its warmth.

A yawn overtakes your exhausted features as you open the russet metal of your refrigerator door. You must be dreaming still. It’s stocked with fresh fruits and produce bagged in tan wrappings. Your eyes wander over each welcoming color in the once vacant and lonesome, cold and gray space.

It’s lively now.

A burst of red peeking through behind awful greens piques your interest, and you bury your hands in the tufts of healthy emerald to pull the sweet basket filled to brim with blossomed strawberries. They are fresh and plentiful.

You truly are dreaming.

No longer do you notice the ache pounding at you. You only see red in the purest of ways. You shut the door with your foot and examine the seeded berry with hungry eyes before encasing your teeth round the plumpness of it.

It isn’t long before you part the ripe treat with pearly teeth, and you moan gratefully when you do. Juice drops from each corner of your mouth, down your chin as your lips suckle the nectar and swallow it in quick motion.

It’s the best one you’ve ever had.

Another bite, then another berry and another. You can only hear the soft chews of fresh fruit and sharp seed alongside the blood pumping in your ears.

You don’t hear the scorching water cascading to drain halt, and you don’t hear the rest until your eyes can register what your ears cannot.

As you munch upon the berries, you blink when a phantom creature turns the knob of your dilapidated washroom door and creaks the shield open. Steam rolls out into your living space like the waves of Poseidon’s great seas— but the only god to greet you beyond the mist is not one of oceans and pretty things.

It’s the evil one.

Hades.

Miguel.

A soft gasp leaves you as you swallow in the sight with dazed eyes, tufts of chocolate locks are coiled and dripping water all over your wooden floors. His suit pants are there as always, but his jacket is not present. No, not now. Only a white undershirt, tight to the body and tucked away into where a belt constricts is all he wears.

You gulp down the remainder of fruit you forgot to swallow and allow the severed berry to drop into its basket.

The man sighs, scrunching at his hair with the towel before tossing it on your couch. That would annoy you if you weren’t so baffled right here.

His eyes search the couch for you, and when he finds you vacant from your waltz with slumber— he scans the room quickly before settling on your frozen stance in the kitchen.

He locks eyes with you.

“Good morning.”

He says it with amusement, you’re certain. Laced behind his throat.

It is eerie, it is polar opposite.

He looks— calm.

Your mouth is ajar, you remind yourself to close it.

“I- what?”

He pays your confusion no mind as he approaches, weaving through your pathetic and unimportant home like he’s become comfortable with it— like he’s learned it.

He towers over all your trinkets and furniture, and the singular stool is bound to collapse under his weight. He eyes the broken thing then decides to lean forward against the counter instead.

You gulp, remnants of strawberry juice staining the newfound dryness in your throat. And the enigma of a man, he just studies you for a moment before turning over his palm. Waiting.

You gaze at it in confusion, wondering if he’s pointing out something upon you that you can’t see. Yet his eyes are on the basket.

Oh.

You pluck one from its leafy stem and shakily place it upon his calloused palm. His eyes lock back upon yours and he clears the tart berry in one bite— licking the juice from his lips with an eager tongue.

You squirm— knowing not what to do other than just slide over the basket. The silence is suffocating, reminding you of only two weeks prior when you practically begged the man before you for a place of employment alongside er— below him.

“I didn’t buy these!” You blurt out. Because you don’t know what else to say to break the quiet and because the thought only now crossed your mind. You know now. No appearance with him is any possibility of a dream.

The smell of palo santo is muted now. He smells of your floral soaps.

He indulges in another.

“I know. I did. Your fridge was pathetic.”

Oh.

Your eyes fall to the countertop, unwilling to meet his own. It’s far too tense, and far too confusing. You’re far too dazed.

“Why are you-?”

He interrupts you as if he had been expecting the question, “You were acting drunk, and stupid. I brought you home.”

You’d scowl at his description of you if you weren’t still coming to, searching the chilled air for answers you’d rather not be forced to ask of him. You knew well that you’d have to— he wouldn’t offer them any other way.

He must enjoy the torture. Inflicting it.

You narrow your eyes and the expression may seem devoid to most— but something tells you there’s more within it.

Fine, then.

Christ.

You shake your head, hearing him chew upon another berry as you greet your newly stocked fridge and steal a water from its stomach. Your back is to him as you swallow down heavy sips. You sigh after, and when the coolness has shocked you awake enough and you are satisfied- you turn.

A cool breath of air kisses your breast as result of the motion, and your eyes widen, shooting down to find a silken robe of powder pink all but you have clad on alongside your panties. It’s slipping.

Your eyes dart up to find him staring intensely at the spot where it does slip, and you twirl back away to harshly tug at it and fix it.

Your breasts are bare— your dress is gone.

Your jaw ticks and you turn again— taking quick strides toward the counter where he resides on the opposite side of.

“Did you fuck me?”

He is silent, eyes glazed over as if he’s lost in thoughts you cannot see or be apart of. He takes a moment to absorb your words, fingers twitching against the berry they clasp before he blinks and his dark orbs lock against your again.

They send an inferno against your flushed cheeks.

He hums.

You don’t know what at, but you have a strong feeling it’s at the thought.

You know, the thought of fucking you.

He stares on at you as he takes a bite of the berry, and slowly shakes his head back and forth.

It’s a no.

You sigh, but you’re not relieved.

You’re silent again, shakily taking a seat upon your creaky stool across from him. You fear if you stand for any longer under the brunt of his gaze, you’ll faint.

You bury your face in your hands, and you feel his eyes against your golden locks. The place where he stares, your scalp prickles.

Wood slides against chipped countertop.

“Eat these. You haven’t eaten.”

He seems to know a lot, right now. It makes you anxious.

And yet?

He tells you not a word of it.

It infuriates you.

This morning is odd enough, so you won’t stand for secrets. You force your head up and you’re unsurprised to find his gaze already locked upon your own.

“What happened?”

Your voice is firm, it sounds like more of a command than question and you’re certain he notes it. He studies you for a moment, and you don’t know why; but his eyes fan over your upturned lashes and the soft bridge of your nose. Down to your lips then back up to your eyes, again.

He takes his sweet, frustrating time to think his answer through. Just maybe though, your night was as rough as your morning has greeted you. Because he takes pity on you— he answers.

“You went out dancing. Made a big show at my club, drank all my good alcohol from every man willing to hand it to you, then you vanished without your things. Out my back door. Cindy came to me, and we went after you. There was a man out back. He was planning to— how did you put it? Fuck you, cariño… not me.”

You flush the color of persephone’s sweetest pomegranates— eyes wide as the images flash like some mortifying movie in your mind.

Oh my god.

“Oh my god…” you whisper in repetition of your horrified thoughts, pressing the coolness of your palms against the heat of your cheeks.

He hums again, but this time in agreement. It far from helps. You press two fingers against each temple, shaking your head as you search for suitable words.

“I don’t do this often or- at all, really. I just— I needed…”

“I know.” He cuts you off in the middle of your search for an end to your sentence, and it’s the first thing he’s done that you’re grateful for. Apart from the fridge full of food.

You remember now that you blew all your grocery money, so.

You feel ridiculous, mortified. He must think of you as some obsessed idiot who showed up at his club because you couldn’t be at his workplace.

God.

You can’t stand the thought.

Only you would chose there of all the clubs in New York.

You don’t even offer him any further explanation, you know well that it will be a mess you dig further and further. Deeper and deeper until you babble and stutter, you stay silent to avoid it.

You torture yourself in another way, reliving the night prior in quick flashes… piecing them together like a parted jigsaw. They weave in place swiftly, but there’s something missing…

You rack your brain, yet nothing comes of it in its crowded closet. You’re blank, baffled. You’re in a robe, a new robe and you’re topless underneath. Sitting across from Miguel O’Hara in your own pathetic kitchen.

Christ.

“You are a dancer.” He observes, making your head spin.

The conversation takes a left turn. Sharp, quick. Perhaps he’s not so used to seeing you this silent, perhaps he knows just the subject to get you talking again. It’s the most normal you both have ever talked, in fact.

“Was.” You correct in a shameful whisper, and you’re grateful when he doesn’t ask about it further. Your eyes drift to the framed photo he stares at behind you. It’s you, pretty as you are with one leg bent up to the heavens and the other firmly planted on tip toe into the ground. Your pale pink mesh cascaded from your hips and your golden locks were tamed into a perfected bun.

You adore that picture.

Yet as admirable as the memory is, it’s also sad. You don’t spare it another moment, your eyes fall to the surface below where it hangs. The Daily Bugle. It’s new, dewdrops of rain kissing the ink, bleeding some of it away. He must have gathered it for you.

Christ. He stayed here.

You wince at the thought, too plagued with headache to analyze his intentions— rushing forward to gather the fresh paper in your hands so you don’t have to worry about it any longer.

You’ll read the newspaper in silence or at least pretend to to avoid telling the three-headed Cerberus to leave and never return. He watches on at you, quiet and emotionless as you skim past the front page that speaks of sports nonsense. Further down, spending more time on the fashion column before reaching the golden page, the hot spot of Daily Bugle. Drama.

In all your years of consuming the horrid paper, you never leave this page unread. You feel slimey as you absorb, and yet it’s addictive. Miguel is still here, you remember. He must think even worse of you if it’s possible.

Just the girl who keeps reminding him of his dead daughter at every chance she gets. You wince, letting out a shaky breath as you smooth out the paper of the next page and finally see it.

In black and white proud, long curls cascading down a sequined number with heels higher than you’ve ever worn. Small, back flush against him. Your face is tilted to the side, captured blurred as it was in motion. Yet to you, it’s clear and recognizable. It’s a memory.

The puzzle piece, served up to you by the universe on a stupid, golden platter.

You’re on the front pages.

So is he.

You’re on the front pages, together.

CEO MIGUEL O’HARA ENJOYS A NIGHT OUT ON THE DANCE FLOOR WITH MYSTERIOUS PROCLAIMED “DANCING QUEEN”

You look— horrified, and he looks to be brushing his curled fingers against his tanned lips to stifle his amused grin. He can’t risk any other emotion than stoic, of course. Your eyes are wide as they snap up to him.

“You’re good publicity.” He offers.

His voice. It isn’t cold. It isn’t lifeless.

It’s as if something has laced itself within it. Something you don’t like.

Humor.

At the expense of you.

You’re angry. You’re confused and it makes you angry.

The puzzle is a painted picture now. The dance, the music, the heat, the grinding— god you’d just about melt if you weren’t so baffled and preoccupied right now.

You practically crush the paper in your hands. You look like a slutty girl taking her chance with the richest man readily available. How on earth will you ever work anywhere else again?

You’ll have to chop off your locks, you’ll have to—

He clears his throat as a weak attempt to conceal the amusement itching at his tongue.

You narrow your eyes at him.

“This is funny to you?”

This man. This mind fuck of a man has gone from towering over you with fury foaming at his mouth to forcing your hips to brush back against him to finding humor in your suffering in your own kitchen.

He narrows his eyes back,

“Very, cariño. Very funny to me.” His voice is dark, cold again.

You part your pink lips to curse him, but he interrupts the process before it even begins. He straightens his back, returning to the tower he is before rounding the counter till he’s right in front of you. You shrink again, your attitude melting as you remember the events of the week prior. His screaming, the ornament.

You shift, breath thinning as you turn your head away from him. He moves his head so his eyes may follow yours, when it doesn’t work— his jaw ticks.

“Mírame.”

You do, eyes snapping back to meet his gaze.

It’s soft, yet still commands your attention. You don’t have any other choice but to look on at him, you’ve noticed he has an odd thing for eye contact. You’d squirm, but your head is spinning.

No possibility to delay and procrastinate calling home now, it seems.

He sees your mind fogged with preoccupations, and you can’t keep like this any longer.

“What is going on, what are you doing?” You whisper, eyes darting to the paper then back to him. The question. It means far more than just now.

What is he doing?

Does he feel guilty? Is this how he’s apologizing?

You’re not sure, it’s impossible to know— to understand. Enigma doesn’t seem to be enough to describe him, nor does mystery.

He’s infuriating as he is simple, and maddening as he is tolerable. He’s back and he’s forth, up and he’s down and he’s killing you.

Why did he yell?

Why did he dance with you after it?

Why is he here now?

He sighs, his hands caging you up against the counter as he rests his palms on either side, grasping at the chipped marble and dipping his head to search for an answer.

It takes him a long moment, but when he’s satisfied? He lifts his head.

“I’m a good boss. A great one. I pay my girls generously, I would have done the same for you if you were capable of just following orders.”

You frown at that, he ignores it— continuing.

“You’re a shit employee.” He says it with conviction. As if his word is etched into stone at the birth of all life and creation. Your jaw nearly drops, but you allow tension to blossom like spring poppies within it instead.

“You’re an asshole.” You snap, gasping after the word leaves you. Your cheeks flush the color rose, and his expression remains cold and devoid as he tilts his head at you.

But his brows arch. Questioning.

You await for what seems like ages for him to respond, to snap, to scream— honestly you’re half expecting him to snatch the knife from the countertop and jab it into your gut to shut you up for good.

He does none of those things.

Warmth trails like caramel down a chasing tongue, rough and calloused palm sliding up the length of silken coverage from your knee and upward. Higher, higher. Your breath hitches in your throat, and his eyes burn furious holes into your face— your wide-eyed, pretty face.

The soft, small netting of nerves between your thighs jumps in excitement, and you’re certain your cheeks burn hotter than the sun. He reaches your hip, he halts— straightening his head. Almost unnoticed.

“I’m an asshole?”

A shiver overtakes you now, and you feel betrayal constrict you like that of a serpent as your pink nipples pucker themselves up for attention.

Don’t look, don’t look. You beg within the confines of your own mind.

The asshole…

His eyes flicker down immediately, as if he sensed your body calling to him.

It’s the first flash of emotion you’ve ever seen beyond anger. You can’t name it, you can’t understand it—you can’t even process it. You’re frozen here.

A noise, guttural— like that of a forest creature restraining itself from its natural instincts to slaughter a helpless lamb. It becomes him. From the very back of his throat.

You blink, tense, back straight and pushed firmly against the wall. His eyes find yours again and you’re certain then that you’ve bursted up in flames.

“You were saying?” He whispers, eyes wandering down. Past your puckered nipples and the bumps upon your skin. Down. Lower. To— there.

The action, it’s enough to shake you out of this trance. You push him back, he doesn’t protest the move and plays into it— you’re sure. You stumble from that suffocating wall and take a breath of air that feels awfully fresh even in your stuffy apartment.

His hand, where it once grazed you is a memorized motion replaying like a record shattered upon your leg.

He’s toying with you.

Getting his payment for his generosity, that must be it.

Or maybe he’s not. Maybe it was the dance…

Maybe— you don’t know which it is.

Now you’re angry.

Frustrated.

He’s put you through hell in the short amount of time he’s known you. Then suddenly, he does one good deed and takes it as a free ticket to fuck you?

You’re livid.

You turn on your heel, slamming your finger into the firmness of his chest.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

His hand, warm as fresh laundry wraps around your wrist. He tilts his head low like a charred olive branch extending, leveling with you.

“Testing my theory.”

It’s all he offers. You narrow your eyes to cold slits, electricity still buzzing between your thighs in opposition to your anger.

“What theory?” You sound exasperated, and you are.

The tick in his jaw is back. It jumps. He’s frustrated again.

How is it possible?

A man so stoic and cold, and yet so capable of flipping through emotions like an old scrapbook buried away from years past.

He breathes slowly through his nose, and when you nudge his chest again with your finger as hopes to provoke an answer? He moves. Quick.

In a flash moment, he walks you back against the countertop— caging you again.

He must like that.

Making you feel small.

He wastes no time once you are caged there, happy to be in control again.

“It seems like the only way I can stand you is when I respond with lust, and not logic… Dios mío…” he breathes the last part. It allows a chill to creep up the base of your spine, paralyzing you.

Silence blankets you both again and he bows his head once more. You breathe, shakily but nonetheless.

Lust?

For you?

Hair unruly and unkept, frizzed and wild. Too loud for your liking and too sharp of a tongue for his.

Maybe he’s truly lost it.

Maybe it’s been there all along.

Although the thought excites you, you know it’s silly. Men of his status and power— they don’t busy themselves with pretty things like you. It’s impossible. It’s a movie, a picture made for fantasy.

But here he his.

Toying with you.

You’re certain now.

It clicks then, his game with you. Revenge sweetly. Play pretend, get you to fall but not catch you when you do. It’s cruel. It’s like him.

You’ve been at the harsh hand of a man vengeful before. You won’t do it again.

Tears sting at your eyes.

“Don’t do this to me again.” You mean it to sound like a demand, yet it floats from your petal pink lips like a weak and pathetic sound. You speak to him, and you speak to the man before him. In your eyes, now, they’re the same. All your interactions before this were so inhuman and cold, and yet here you are— feeling all the colors of the damned sky before him. Interacting like humans do. Only, he’s got a motive behind his emotion. Not you. Never you.

He hears the weakness, the falter. His head snaps up again.

You avert your eyes, playing a balance game with the swelled tears threatening to parachute onto your cheeks. He straightens his back at the sight of them, he gives you space. You relax.

His eyes, they find a map upon your face and they wander amongst it. Observing, analyzing. When he’s satisfied, after you’ve swiped away at your tears, he speaks again.

“I have a job for you.”

You’re certain he’s lost it now.

Completely thrown himself off the deep end and into the insane asylum. How can he lust you and loathe you and employ you all at the same time? All within the same hour?

You need to rest, you’re exhausted.

“No.” It’s all you offer, turning your back on him. Hoping he will take it and leave you be. Silly you. A firm palm spins you back around, right back to where you were.

“Listen to me.”

It’s not a question, it’s a command; and as much as you hate him and his arrogance… you comply.

“Fuck… there’s more to you. Something that I can find behind my frustrations with you. A hunger… Last night was an annoyance, an amusing one no less. I just can’t get rid of you no matter how hard I try… but I think sometimes that this game we’re all playing is at someone’s hand. I need morale, you’ve made the front covers now. Jameson can eat shit for all I care but for the sake of my girls— I need to fix the mess I’m in…”

He muses the last part to himself, and baffled as you are at the events that have taken place in one morning alone… you straighten your back and cross your arms over your chest. Curious. Listening.

“I’ve been here all morning because I have been thinking close to the source. Thinking about what it is about you that is so fucking infuriating. I didn’t find an answer. But what I did find was a solution. After— fuck… after Gabi…”

Oh…

Oh.

He’s talking about her, and not because of your snappy mouth.

Like a fresh petal, you unfurl.

“Jameson. He wants to slander me. He wants my girls to read his bullshit and believe it and as much as I hate to admit it, the cabrón could manage it. And fucking morale… it can’t function when my morale girl is only working hard at pissing me off.”

It’s an insult, but you’re far too glued on the edge of your seat to interrupt his train of thought. You scowl softly and let him continue,

“I don’t want you in my office, I don’t want you talking about things you don’t get to talk about. I don’t want you to anger me with your stupidity because I don’t want to yell at you like that again. I won’t. But I am glad your idiocy brought us here last night, because I can see how much of a shithole you’re in.”

You flush again at that, nervous eyes glancing around your dainty apartment and its rotted walls.

“I’m in one too, in a different way. The tabloid is a good thing. When you were dancing, I tolerated you. I enjoyed you, even. And your presence made for a good paper with a headline not involving my baby girl. I— need that. I need these people to stay distracted and fuck, sweetheart. Soy la respuesta...”

Cruel as he is, you find your heart constrict— just for a small moment. You can’t imagine it. Losing your life, your whole sun, moon and stars and being constantly reminded of it on every newsstand and broadcast because of some awfully obsessed vampire.

So much so that it leaks into your glass tower in the sky and makes it crack, each new story another stone thrown until it cracks under the pressure.

But you… you stopped it.

Just once, at least.

Even so….

It amazes you.

Makes you feel powerful.

He is watching you close, gauging your reactions. You challenge his eyes, imploring him to continue. He does.

“I want you to play pretend with me, just like you did last night. Dos desconocidos bailando por primera vez, like two strangers dancing on the floor. I wanna feed them the shit they want to be fed and keep their mouths shut and satisfied. Only for a few months until I find a way to buy out the Bugle and bankrupt the hijo de puta… We can help each other. You’ll live in my suite and do whatever the hell you want all day. You’ll get a monthly allowance on top of your big check. You’ll help me keep them quiet.”

He speaks slow. Calculated and measured. In a way one would immediately understand. But somehow, you don’t.

You don’t get it.

Beyond the words for what they are, you’re baffled.

He wants you to play pretend, and it all seems perfect and fine except?

“You hate me…” it’s meant for yourself, truly. Yet it parts from your lips nonetheless. Your brows are furrowed and soft as you search the space beside him for an invisible answer with your eyes.

He sighs.

“No. I don’t. I don’t like you, but I don’t hate you. How could I when you move the way you do? So pretty under my lights, I like her a lot. Maybe we have to get you drunk more often, hmm?”

He means it to lighten the tension, to slice it with silver blade and yet all it does s quiet you further. He sees this, and a warmth floating within his very fingertips meets your chin. He turns you to him again.

“Dime que sí, cariño. Tell me yes. Stop letting yourself think about it.”

You have a million loose and frayed ends that you cannot seem to knit together on your own. You’re certain he won’t offer you any assistance either.

There’s a plague in the air, a sickness. One that causes nothing short of pure insanity. Why? Well because of what you see now.

Money.

No more debt.

Food plentiful.

A door that actually locks. A heater that will keep you warm on harsh winter nights.

No going home.

Another chance… another opportunity to dance again.

Only for a little while will you have to bare him. Only for a little while and then all your troubles get tossed upon the burning pile. You could start again. You could fix what you ruined. You could be her, again.

Your eyes wander to the gold trimmed frame with a girl that seems so unrecognizable and unreachable now.

But what if he— this cruel and baffling creature with all the money, power and influence in all of New York City and maybe beyond could help you reach her.

All you have to do is play pretend..

That’s it, right?

You gulp.

And Christ…

You whisper it like it’s a gruesome sin on the tip of your tongue. Like it poisonous and repulsive. Sealing the deal with the devil himself before it is too late to think it over again…

“Yes…”

🏷️’s: @reirain @needybitez @migueloharastruelove @laysmt @maomaimao @daisy-artfield @poutysprouty @chorizobeets @bimb00000 @tabalittlelong @iitangerine @queenb27sblog-blog @dprmooni @neptunieesworld @cyd2301 @amelialysm @justanothers-things @heartfeltlonging @coralreefses @knightowl019 @justanothers-things

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 9/10/2024

someone adopt this little orange man from me in Houston TX! more details here!

listening

the 1991 Ella Mae Morse compilation Capitol Collectors Series is the official driving-cats-to-the-vet album bc it is so mellow but still fun. this album has previously been featured several times in tuesdayposts but i think you should all listen to it again.

seven thousand three hundred days IS a long long time to sleep ur so right ella

-

reading

two different works that annoyed me: Emily Hamilton's The Stars Too Fondly. my first clue should have been that this is my least favorite poem, bc ppl would quote it to me smugly after my mom died. im sure they thought they were being so super comforting to a budding astronomer, but, much like how i can no longer eat lasagna bc ppl gave us Twenty! Party! Size! Platters! Of! Lasagna! after my mom died (they would just Appear on our front porch, frozen), too much of this poem really soured me.

i had this book on hold Forever and then delayed delivery twice bc i have not felt like reading lately. here's the publisher's description:

In her breathtaking debut—part space odyssey, part sapphic rom-com—Emily Hamilton weaves a suspenseful, charming, and irresistibly joyous tale of fierce friendship, improbable love, and wonder as vast as the universe itself. So, here’s the thing: Cleo and her friends really, truly didn’t mean to steal this spaceship. They just wanted to know why, twenty years ago, the entire Providence crew vanished without a trace. But then the stupid dark matter engine started all on its own, and now these four twenty-somethings are en route to Proxima Centauri, unable to turn around, and being harangued by a snarky hologram that has the face and attitude of the ship’s missing captain, Billie. Cleo has dreamt of being an astronaut all her life, and Earth is kind of a lost cause at this point, so this should be one of those blessings in disguise that people talk about. But as the ship gets deeper into space, the laws of physics start twisting, old mysteries come crawling back to life, and Cleo’s initially combative relationship with Billie turns into something deeper and more desperate than either woman was prepared for. Lying somewhere in the subspace between science fantasy and sapphic rom-com, The Stars Too Fondly is a soaring near-future adventure about dark matter and alternate dimensions, leaving home and finding family, and the galaxy-saving power of letting yourself love and be loved.

should be catnip for me, right? wrong. starts out as a chat fic, which i hate.

i had a lot of trouble finishing the first chapter, which also has an extended third-person omniscient narrator flashback in italics, a thing i also hate. i KNOW you can figure out how to integrate this information into the book in a better way instead of dumping it in my lap.

i think part of why this is not hitting like i wanted is the tone, because i think this veers more new adult than i was really hoping for. i think introducing a big group all at once is very hard to do effectively. i do not like a series of character introductions that feel like they are trying to sell me action figures. or perhaps blind-bag figures. i do not like a six-deep list of cheesy puns about someone's name. i do not have the patience to see if this debut novel finds its footing a little later on, though i am glad a sapphic ghost in the machine romance exists in this world.

i also read dean motter's mister x (both the original late eighties through early nineties run and the 2008 follow-on).

let's yoink the description from wikipedia:

Set in Radiant City, a dystopian municipality influenced by Bauhaus and Fritz Lang's Metropolis, the series concerns a mysterious figure who purports to be its architect. His radical theories of "psychetecture" cause the citizenry to go mad, just as he did, and he takes on the mission to repair his creation. To accomplish this he remains awake twenty-four hours a day by means of the drug "insomnalin", all the while coping with a Dick Tracy–like rogues gallery and supporting cast including his long-suffering ex-girlfriend Mercedes. (ed note: the redhead in the santa beard below)

the art in this comic book is really and truly stunning. everyone was firing on all cylinders. beautiful retrofuturistic advertisement vibes, very fun play with panels and word balloons while still being readable, there are airships, you know how it is. looooooooove a hardboiled noir.

the Concept of mister x, this horrible awful futuristic city that grinds its citizenry up and spits them out? both figuratively and sometimes literally? love it!!! love a great wounded beast of a city as a character!!!

unforch the "who is mister x" subplot does not resolve in a satisfying way, imo. there's a lot of flip-flopping, there's a lot of options, he ends up being (maybe?) someone he was very definitively proven NOT to be in an earlier issue, and it really soured me on the whole experience. and also i don't believe it! that specific person makes no fucking sense! who mister x is, is by far the least interesting part of the series. tell me more about how he's fixing the city. show me more of the city. shut up and dance, robot artists

-

watching

X-Men: Apocalypse (2016, dir. Singer). this movie did not need to be two and a half hours long. appreciated the EXTREMELY divorced energy from charles & erik though, quicksilver rescuing the school scene was also very fun. my bestie's husband has informed me we are NOT watching Dark Phoenix, i'm not sure if we're going to loop back and watch the ??? number of wolverine films or if we're going to see how i feel about deadpool. bc i find this character insufferable through clips only.

-

playing

there is a feature in the video game genshin impact to turn your World Level (TM) down in order to make overworld enemies a little easier. i am at seven out of nine bc i genuinely can't finish the boss to unlock world level 9, and i am finding some of the overworld enemies too hard at 8 and want to finish the achievements in a more relaxed fashion.

-

making

this is going to be a lot of previously posted pics so bear with me.

saturday morning/saturday evening. plants? repotted. porch and stairs? swept. old wasp nests? knocked down. different mirror on the porch to go out to the curb when i have the energy? yes. also a giant slab of engineered stone from the top of a dresser but that's out of frame.

speaking of the giant broken dresser that was in my apartment when i moved in just over a year ago, i ripped it apart with a crowbar and threw it in the dumpster. put my pretty zebrawood desk in the empty space and started thinking about what to hang on that wall. the wall across from it is maps, bc i think a cozy office should have lots of maps and it makes a good video conference background. maybe this will be the dedicated cowboy nonsense wall. i did so much dusting and vacuuming and mopping and the girls can't even hang out in here bc the orange boy is in the office bathroom. big sigh.

also a lot of driving around and emailing and calling thirty shelters and rescues figuring out how to get this orange man a home. please take this orange man off my hands.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Light Verse Project Complete!

As many of you know, Iron & Wine is my absolute favourite artist of all time. So when he released a new album earlier this year - Light Verse - I decided to do a fic for each song. And it's done! Here is the collection.

For anyone who is curious, here is what I did!

Track One: You Never Know

Fic: you could make light

Full lyric: You could make light, be the silly word Sitting on a tongue You could make nice or beat a drum

Summary: When a sudden blackout leaves May and Buck trapped for hours, the two find themselves getting a lot off their chests, and bonding over several important parts of their lives.

Track Two: Anyone's Game

Fic: no one can be born too many times

Full lyric: Anybody born knows how to play this little game No one can be born too many times First they kiss their lucky dice and then they dig themselves a grave They do this until it's killing them to try

Summary: When Ravi's younger brother shows up at the station unexpected, the 118 gets a better glimpse into his life, and Ravi gets a better perspective on both his families.

Track Three: All In Good Time

Fic: i told my future by reading your lips

Full lyric: All in good time, our plan went to shit I told my future by reading your lips You wore my ring until it didn't fit All in good time

Summary: In 2018, on their way to a call at a child beauty pageant, and feeling a little strange, Buck and Eddie are suddenly thrown into a fast-paced look at some key moments from their future. And, what they see? Well it can only lead to one logical conclusion.

Track Four: Cutting It Close

Fic: time likes pulling my teeth

Full lyric: Time likes pulling my teeth I never knew how many teeth I would need So it goes and it goes It doesn't matter but it's cutting it close

Summary: Buck is enjoying the last day of a family vacation with Eddie and Christopher. Over and over and over again. And Eddie seems determined to keep it that way.

Track Five: Taken By Surprise

Fic: i've seen a couple suns that set forever

Full lyric: I know this kind of moon It looks too full to come back down And I've seen a couple suns that set forever

Summary: Freshly home from Texas and faced with the prospect of his dad's feelings for Buck, Christopher's abandonment issues surface. A conversation with Bobby, and realizing the parallels between Buck's relationship with Bobby, and his relationship with Buck, gives Chris the perspective he needs.

Track Six: Yellow Jacket

Fic: a cold world for such a long life

Full lyric: Doves are losing lucky feathers in the sky Appaloosa's in the moonlight going blind What a cold world for such a long life Dogs are barking on the record every night

Summary: Eddie befriends Bobby's estranged older brother in a virtual support group for queer adults struggling to come out. The only problem? He has no idea that's who Charlie is.

Track Seven: Sweet Talk

Fic: Sweet Talk

Summary: Eddie asks to crash at the loft while Christopher is gone, struggling to be on his own. Only problem? There's only one bed, and no couch.

Track Eight: Tears That Don't Matter

Fic: are you not the lost and found?

Full lyric: Fly right, eat a rainbow Speak of the devil when gods in the details Meet the moment, kill kindness Finding and keeping that pot you can piss in

So are you or are you not the lost and found?

Summary: In which Bobby has the opportunity to meet an alternate universe version of his daughter, who has lived to adulthood, but her life has not been without its own complications - including their relationship.

Track Nine: Bag of Cats

Fic: treat an opportunity like it's treating you

Full lyric: Treat an opportunity like it's treating you Another plum thumbing for a ride Love is only fair 'Til all its favorite hair is falling out, falling out Falling out, falling out, falling out

Summary: After losing his leg as a result of the fire engine bombing, Buck is presented with the opportunity to have a service dog donated to him.

Track Ten: Angels Go Home

Fic: all our bruises beg for a chance

Full lyric: All our true believers break like fever All our bruises beg for a chance, beg for a chance

Summary:

Buck is adjusting to life living with Eddie, Chris, and his service dog Cranberry, when his parents visit for the first time since he lost his leg.

OR:

A Cranberry-verse take on the events of Buck Begins.

---

I am thinking of doing this for more albums! This was such a fun project!

[ppushable]

rose tinted hours

There's a small comfort in knowing my own insignificance. Not like watching a video comparing the size of the Earth to other celestial bodies, or experiencing a sudden moment of clarity in a bumper-to-bumper style traffic jam on the highway.

Insignificant in the sense that nothing really matters and that's okay, it's always been okay, and there's really no point in thinking about it. Insignificant like a caterpillar that doesn't care if the sun's going to explode in a fucktillion years and focusses on the leaf it sits on. Insignificant like falling seamlessly into the life that I've been sewn into from the beginning, stitch by stitch, blind, chewing, chewing.

So why is it? Why is it when I attend university, when I listen to my lectures and do my homework and finish my shifts and eat my meal, why is it when I look into your eyes, I become something?

--- previously two ibuprofen -- i just couldn't leave it a standalone oneshot

chapters won't be added linearly! i'm just gonna write whatever i want

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ao3 tags:

ok here we go / Alternate Universe - College/University / Sickfic / Sick Character / Fluff / Kissing / Alternate Universe - Modern Setting / Texting / Vomiting / Not at the same time / Winter / i dont know how to make tea / mentions of bagged milk / slight angst? i guess? if you squint? / reiner texts like a boomer and im sorry / POV First Person / Present Tense / Friends to Lovers / One Shot Collection / Driving / Eventual Smut / Other Additional Tags to Be Added / Slow To Update

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

part 1 - two ibuprofen part 2 - low tide

[g5mlp]

New Hasbro press release revealed multiple new my little pony merch, toys and future event.

MY LITTLE PONY x HEYDUDE: Just in time for back-to-school, HEYDUDE and MY LITTLE PONY introduce a limited-edition footwear collection featuring playful designs from the magical Pony universe. Available for purchase in July, the brands bring together comfort, style and adventure in one collection for both women and girls.

MY LITTLE PONY x DINOSAW: As MY LITTLE PONY Make Your Mark content spreads through China, the iconic pony brand teams up with Dinosaw to deliver high-quality and adorable mini versions of the cute pony characters. The blind box series offers regular painted figures along with metallic and glow-in-the-dark finishes and alternate poses. This all-new look brings fans a refresh take that matches the style that that fans and families know and love.

Hasbro also made a few other My Little Pony announcements in this press release, but it's not clear if they're related to G5.

DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, MAGIC: THE GATHERING, MY LITTLE PONY & TRANSFORMERS x TeeTurtle (NA): Famous for their reversible plushies, TeeTurtle is giving Hasbro’s beloved brands its collectibles treatment through fun, soft and cute plushies based on DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, MAGIC: THE GATHERING, MY LITTLE PONY and TRANSFORMERS.

FURBY, MY LITTLE PONY & POPPLES x Dolls Kill (NA): FURBY, MY LITTLE PONY and POPPLES are stepping into the world of the free spirit, goth glam fashion brand, Dolls Kill. The supercool apparel and accessory collaborations will be available for purchase in June via the Dolls Kill website.

MY LITTLE PONY x Costa (APAC – China): Costa is teaming up with the magical brand for the first time to launch its MY LITTLE PONY collection in summer 2024. Kicking off the new line is pony-inspired tableware and a coffee set with an afternoon tea party theme. Fans can also expect MY LITTLE PONY accessories, including hair accessories, bags, badges, keychains, and home goods, perfect for a ponyfied summer party!

[precioustarkey]

valentine's day surprise

au where drew is not an actor, but a barista? and in college?

summary: college can be hard, so having a place to escape can be refreshing.

warnings: none

monday morning. arguably the most dreaded time of the week. it was exceptionally difficult to pull myself out of bed this morning. i felt especially comforted by the warmth of the blankets wrapped tightly around me. however, the sound of my alarm was enough for me to throw the comfort out of the window as i smacked my phone angrily. i pull myself up, rubbing my eyes in an attempt to regain my sense of consciousness. 

i glance at the time: 7:36. the light in my closet nearly blinds me as i grab around for anything warm. i make my way to the bathroom, throwing my clothes on the toilet seat. when the warm water from the shower finally hits me i feel instantly rejuvenated. i carry on with my routine, getting dressed, brushing my teeth, etc. my professor cancelled my class for today, but i figured i may as well stick to my usual schedule. 

planning on doing assignments for my other classes, i pack my bag with everything i may need. throwing it over my shoulder and grabbing my phone, i make my way to the only thing that could save my sanity: the coffee shop down the street. cliche i know, but it has always been a goal of mine to be one of those mysterious girls who alternate between coffee shops in the city. 

actually, my mysterious girl fantasy is still in the works considering that almost every barista knows me by my name. i can feel my anxiety in the pit of my stomach as i see all of the red and pink hearts in the windows of every store coming and going. i am not one of those people who despises valentine's day, but i do worry my safe space will be crowded with couples due to the nearing holiday. i enjoy my time there more when it is mostly empty. 

when i step in the door, i am relieved by the warm air hitting my cold hands and face. i am also relieved to see that the crowd is no bigger than normal. my eyes then darted to see who was working today, and i immediately reconized the familiar smile behind the counter. "good morning, y/n," he greeted me as i made my way closer. my grin never leaves my face as i reply, "good morning, drew."

drew starkey. we go to the same university, but we come from very different sides of campus. i spend my nights studying for exams, and drew spends his nights going to frat parties and playing basketball. as much as i hate to admit it, i have grown quite fond of drew since our small talk in the coffee shop began. "do you want your old usual or your new usual?" he teases. i recently changed my order, and he was not happy that i threw off our routine. "new usual, please," i laugh, watching him playfully roll his eyes as he begins preparing my order.

"i have to say i'm shocked you're here so early," i comment as i lean forward, resting on the counter with my wallet ready. he lets out a quiet chuckle. "you have my schedule memorized? i'm flattered." now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "only because i'm here almost every day." "if that helps you sleep better at night," he teases. 

purposefully ignoring his comment, i grab the coffee from his hand, pulling my card out of my wallet. "don't worry about it," he says as he wipes down the counter where he had just prepared my drink. "drew, i'm not letting you pay for my coffee," i insist, handing him the card anyway. "consider it a valentine surprise," he smiles. "well, thank you very much starkey, i'll have to make it up to you," i wink, turning around and making my way to my favorite table. 

my schoolwork takes up about an hour and a half of my time. this time was also spent feeling intense stares in my direction. it was not unusual for drew to be flirty with me. i assume he is that way with most girls he comes into contact with, but the level of concentration he has on me today is new. i am almost uncomfortable. not because i feel unsafe, but because i immediately wonder what i have done to make him so interested. 

in my confusion, i slowly begin to pack up my things, and prepare myself to go back to my apartment. once again, i throw my bag over my shoulder, grab my empty cup and a few loose pieces of paper, and toss them into the trash can nearby. i look over to drew and give him a farewell smile. 

“hey, y/n, wait a second,” he says over the new crowd of people. i turned around curiously. “take this.” he’s holding a card in his hand. “what is this?” i tease, grabbing the card. “open it when you get wherever you’re going,” he grins, going back to his spot to wait on a customer who had appeared. 

i slide the card into one of the pockets on my bag and step outside, greeted by the chilly air. my curiosity is getting the better of me on what feels like the longest walk back home. when i finally see the familiar building, i am almost running to get inside. 

my bag thuds against the ground as i land myself at my desk. the card is still poking out ever so slightly. the ‘card’ being a folded up piece of paper. i quickly opened it to see drew’s messy handwriting. my heartbeat was getting quicker as i read his words: “to make it up to me, you could let me take you somewhere nicer than a coffee shop for valentine’s day.” his number was scratched at the bottom. 

the smile never leaves my face as i read the card again and again. my phone next to me, patiently waiting for his number to be entered. i decide against texting him until later in the day because of his shift. my thoughts race with wonder–had i made him nervous? is that why we shared so many awkward glances? 

maybe a date with drew starkey isn’t such a bad idea.

this is my first post please cut me some slack

[agent-cupcake]

Éphémère

I’ve been attempting to fill short kinktober prompts with the Final Fantasy XIV cast to procrastinate the larger project I've been doing. We’ll see where it goes. Most of them are AU's of some kind idk.

Pairing: Aymeric de Borel x f!Reader Kink: Semi-public / Blowjob Tags: Explicit, light D/s dynamic, alternate universe: modern Word Count: 2.7k

“What are you doing here?” Aymeric asked, his blue eyes widening with surprise upon seeing who had been knocking. You hadn’t called, although you should have. You didn’t want to risk being turned away, to be told you couldn’t steal a few precious moments from his busy life. Besides, you had a good cause this time. 

Given that your hands were full, you shut the door with your foot. His office was the same as ever. It was not quite as grand as someone might expect, clearly inhabited by somebody who favored efficiency over aesthetics. The air smelled like him and the corporate scent of floor polish and new upholstery. While the blinds covering the windows facing Ishgard were wide open, those over the windows looking into the main office space were closed. It gave a very strong illusion of isolation and intimacy, like it was just you and him. Emboldened by that thought, you fixed Aymeric with as serious a stare as you could. 

“I heard that you’re working way too hard, and that your staff is worried about you,” you said, having decided upon a cold open approach so he couldn’t wriggle out of your accusations. “I’ve even heard that it’s putting you in a bad mood. The men are losing morale.” You waited a beat for his response, but he just looked at you, completely befuddled. Eventually, you prompted him with a prodding,“So?” 

“So… what?” Aymeric asked.

“Is any of that true?”

“True?” he repeated, his dark eyebrows pinching in the middle. “Ah, no…  No, it is not.” Aymeric finally forced a reassuring smile. He wasn’t very good at faking. “I appreciate the concern, but I am fine.” You gave him a doubtful look, slowly meandering over to his cluttered desk. There was nothing to be said, you both knew that you were right. He could try to downplay it all he liked, but even Aymeric had his limits. He sighed. “I cannot afford to take a break yet. I promise to rest once this matter is resolved. Perhaps I’ll take a day off. We’ll go somewhere—anywhere you wish.”

“We won’t be going anywhere after you work yourself into a nervous breakdown,” you told him flatly. 

“Please, don’t say such things. I promise that I will be fine.”

You sighed. “Either way, I brought you something to eat,” you said, setting the bag of takeout on the tiny bit of space left on his desk. “I had a feeling you skipped lunch.” 

“Lunch?” he asked, brow furrowing. “What time is it?”

“Past lunch.”

“I see. I must have lost track of the time, I… Thank you.” He placed a hand over yours and smiled, a real smile, and you felt your chest clench. Even overworked and exhausted, he was beautiful. Far more beautiful than any man had a right to be. “I dare not consider where I might be without you.” 

You smiled, even knowing it was a platitude. He was the most resilient person you had ever met, and one of the most solitary. Aymeric would be just as okay on his own as with you, but you liked the idea that he needed you, if only for a fleeting moment. You liked to think that there was something only you could give him, something of value. 

And, just like that, you came to the conclusion that he didn’t look like he needed a meal. He looked taut as a bow string and ready to snap, he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked like he needed a bit more than lunch. 

“Hey, while I’m here, maybe…” you began, faltering with embarrassment as you tried to figure out the best way to phrase it. 

“Is there something else?” 

“I know there’s nothing I can say to make you take a break so I won’t ask. Still, I want to do something to brighten your day and honestly you look like you could use a pick-me-up,” you blurted out, speaking fast to keep your nerve. “I’ve thought about it before and I’m pretty sure I can fit under your desk,” you said, leaning forward to double check. Yeah, there was plenty of room. Three cheers for long legs. “Think of it as stress relief. Like a massage or something but, you know, with my mouth. What do you think?” 

Done with your awkward proposition, you looked back up at Aymeric with as innocent an expression as you could manage, meeting his eyes as if you hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary. It was always hard to predict how he might react to any given situation, mostly it was a question of whether or not his Catholic guilt and relentless sense of propriety would win out, but you pretty well expected the way his mouth snapped shut, a muscle in his jaw ticking as his entire body went taut. 

And then slowly, carefully, “Are you…” 

“Offering to give you head in your office at three in the afternoon on a Thursday?” you finished for him. “Um… Yeah, I guess I am.”  

“I… I don’t think… That is,” he cleared his throat, “obscenity of that sort would be extremely inappropriate for a man in my position.”

“C’mon, are you going to tell me that you’ve never thought about it? Doing secret, naughty things is the best part of getting a big, isolated office with a big, roomy desk. Or so I’ve been told.” 

Aymeric swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the door and back. “Even if I were comfortable with such an egregious breach in etiquette, it would be wrong of me to do so while everyone else is working so hard.” 

“You’re looking at it all wrong,” you argued. “If you work while you’re super stressed out, you won’t do as well, and you act all grumpy, and everybody is unhappy. If you take a teensy tiny little break to let me help you relax, you’ll work better, be nicer, and everybody will be happy... If you need an excuse, you can blame it all on me. You can say you got lured in by the irresistible charm of a succubus who would simply not take no for an answer.”  

He let out a single laugh, dry and nervous and humorless. “Is there any truth in that?” 

“I am pretty insatiable when it comes to you.”

Aymeric reached up to take hold of your chin, gently pulling your face towards his so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. And you knew that look. Conflict. Doubt. Desire.

“If you don’t want to, I’ll let it go,” you said. “But if it would make you feel better, I want to. I’d do anything… sir.” 

Aymeric’s expression hardened, his eyes darkening a shade, and it was a stare that demanded your submission. It was the kind of look that was usually followed with orders like remove your clothes or don’t move unless I say or open your legs or-

“Get on your knees.” Even half whispered, even though he always left enough space in his demands for you to deny him if you were truly uncomfortable, that wasn’t the sort of order you turned down. 

“Okay,” you said, your voice soft. His fingers squeezed your jaw a little bit tighter, his eyebrow raising ever so slightly. “Yes, sir,” you amended. Aymeric released your face and leaned back, watching as you fell to your knees. Although there was enough space under his desk for you to fit, crawling under it was kind of awkward. Good thing your skirt was flared, scrambling around like this in anything tight would have been impossible. 

“Is that okay?” he asked. “Should I move back?”

“No, sir. This is…” You breathed out, steadying yourself. “Perfect.”

Knowing you had a time limit, you undid his belt and the button of his pants, slowly pulling the zipper down. Aymeric was kind enough to shift his hips so you could push his trousers down and out of the way. Wanting to savor things at least a little, you traced the outline of his dick through the dark boxer briefs, feeling him harden beneath your touch. Aymeric’s hips shifted and he cleared his throat, prompting you to slip your fingers beneath the waistband to pull those down too. 

He wasn’t hard yet, but the choked noise Aymeric made and the way his hips jumped forward when you began to stroke his cock made you think that he wanted this at least almost as much as you did. He caught himself quickly afterwards. Always playing the stoic.

You realized early on in the relationship that, power dynamic notwithstanding, Aymeric was not the type of man to demand things of you sexually, at least not for his own pleasure. There was an element of trial and error to figure out what worked. It was all pretty complicated. So was he, for that matter. Pretty and complicated. 

Continuing to stroke the base, you paid your respects, kissing and licking your way across his cock. Every inch of him was perfect, though you could admit a preference for this particular part. Perfect, and, as you liked to think in your wildest moments, yours. Alternating between using just the tip of your tongue and the flat, you traced the veins running the length of his dick, following one along the underside until you reached the head, lavishing extra attention at the point where they met. You knew that got him, one of his hands finally finding its way to the top of your head. Humming happily, you did it again before pulling back to swirl your tongue around the swollen crown. His fingers curled against your scalp, not grabbing or pushing, but very insistently there. 

Now that Aymeric was fully hard, you couldn’t help but think about what he felt like inside of you. How full, how complete you were when he fucked you. The mere thought of it was enough to make you moan shakily, wrapping your lips around his cock and pushing forward, sucking and licking enthusiastically in the hopes that he would be able to feel your arousal. Your appreciation, your affection, your adoration. 

That wasn’t something you ever told him, not with words. You knew better than to distract him with too many of your feelings. He was so busy all the time, distant in a way that often left you cold. Not because he was cruel, or unfeeling, but because he lived in service to others, to lead, there was only so much of himself that he could give. Scraps, moments, little fragments of the most magnificent man you’d ever known. And he had been clear about that from the start. You made peace with it. For such a self-sacrificing man, the very least you could do was live in his service. If it was Aymeric, you didn’t mind so much. 

Finding a pace and rhythm that worked took a moment of experimentation, getting your hand and mouth to work together. Plus, you were trying to be quiet, and clean. That’s how these office affairs went, right? Top secret stuff. Aymeric’s hips pushed forward, throwing you off. 

“You needn’t hold yourself back,” he told you, his voice slightly muffled from above. “The walls are quite thick and-” he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I know you can do better.”

You hummed in understanding, although it probably didn’t sound like much with his cock in your mouth. It was one of Aymeric’s many contradictions. No matter how neat and put-together he always was, nights with him often ended with you teary eyed and dripping with sweat, your thighs slick with cum and saliva leaking from your open mouth, blissed out and sloppy. He wanted to know that you were enjoying yourself so much that you’d be reduced to a swooning, helpless mess. And still, he insisted he wasn’t any sort of sadist. Pretty, complicated, and terribly repressed. 

You gave him what he wanted. It sounded obscene, wet slurping and your little choked moans stifled by his cock, the slick back and forth of your hand working the base, the movements smoothed by your saliva. It was already messy enough to be dripping down your chin and onto your skirt. Probably onto his expensive trousers. He had spare suits at the office though, it was fine. 

“If you’re going to hump my leg, move your skirt out of the way,” Aymeric said. Embarrassing, although he said it with a measure of warmth. 

You stopped, pulling off with a slick pop and a shaky laugh. In your haze, you hadn’t even been aware of what your body was doing. “Ss-sorry, sir. I didn’t…”

“That wasn't a request.” You couldn’t see him, but you could imagine the imperious set of his sharp features, the way his perfect lips blushed dark pink and parted when he was turned on, how his inky dark eyelashes would flutter open so he could look at you with those gorgeous eyes.

You whimpered, a sound you couldn’t help. A bit awkwardly, you hiked your skirt out of the way, shuffling a little closer so you could better grind against his leg.

“Good girl,” he murmured softly. Sweetly, using the hand on your head to pet your hair. You shuddered hard, raising your chin and opening your mouth. Aymeric met you halfway, his hips pushing forward while you moved down, your saliva-slick hand jerking him off in tandem with each bob of your head. 

Now that you were actively trying, the pressure between your legs was intoxicating. You wondered how much he could feel with the heavy fabric of his trousers in the way, if he was aware of how hot you burned for him, how wet every little catch of his breath or groan he couldn’t hold back left you. The friction wasn’t enough, but it was good. At this point, he was practically hitting the back of your throat with each thrust, and you couldn’t tell who was guiding the pace. It was all you could do to sneak in a breath here and there, to remember to use your tongue, to try and keep your voice down as you well and truly lost yourself in the hazy depths of lust and need, shamelessly grinding against his leg. 

Aymeric clearly wasn’t concerned about volume control at all, the office was filled with wet squishing choking noises and your muffled moans. His breathing had become erratic and you could hear the low groans he tried to fight back. You wanted him to come. Desperately, desperately. You wanted to make him feel good, to make him relax, to narrow down his world until it was only you and him and the pleasure he could derive from you. You wanted him to throw you onto his desk and fuck you until you were screaming, to claim you because, God help you, you were his. Not just for a fleeting moment, a single afternoon, a day off, but always. Every second of every day, his. 

“I… can’t…” was the only hoarse warning you got before his hips stuttered, his hand holding your head in place as he came. You braced yourself to take it. For any other guy you wouldn’t have, but Aymeric... 

Aymeric. Every part of him was perfect, you would take anything he gave to you. 

He moaned so prettily, even if he tried to muffle it, the sounds stuttered and choked. You swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, desperate to prove yourself, to take whatever he saw fit to give you. To be his good girl. 

And then he stilled, his hand relaxing. His cock twitched in your mouth, and you pulled back with an unseemly amount of saliva. Like you thought, most of it was on your skirt. Not to mention your sore knees, stiff legs, and the lingering taste of cum in your mouth that was not nearly as pleasant when the act was finished. You needed to get up, the moment was over. He needed to get back to work. But, selfishly stealing a few more precious seconds, you rested your forehead against Aymeric’s knee, and he petted your head, and you let your eyes close. Just for a moment. 

[cubestrahm]

»{ Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm }« ✦ { ao3 }

«- previous chapter / next chapter -»

✦ Summary: This moment in time feels inevitable. It is as though Peter was always meant to wind up in the crushing dark with Mark Hoffman, tangled in a deadly situation that neither man can escape from unscathed. ✦ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ✦ Content/tags: Background Angelina Acomb/Lindsey Perez, Alternate Universe - Diners, Slow Burn, Canonical Character Death, Canon Typical Gore, Detailed Descriptions of Wounds, Improper Wound Care, Non-Sexual Nudity, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Divorced Peter Strahm, Murder, Masturbation, John Kramer is still jigging his saw ✦ Word count: 9,815 ✦ Status: Multi-chapter / Ongoing ✦ Author's note: Lindsey and Peter's friendship is so special... to me.

The sun is already beginning to dip below the horizon by the time Strahm parks his car in the parking lot forming a moat around the modest apartment building. Winter hours make the daylight run out like the seconds on a timer. The retired agent doesn’t mind. He’s never belonged in the light, even if he’d once believed he did.

Feeling his back protest, Peter unfolds himself from the seat of the Crown Vic. Once on his feet, he stabilizes himself with a hand on the roof before leaning down inside just far enough to snag a Tupperware container and his overnight bag off of the passenger seat. The plastic box is still warm to the touch. It’s a sharp contrast to the wind trying to gnaw through the leather of his jacket. The temperature is enough to get him to put a rush on his movements. With hurried motions, he slams the vehicle’s door and all but jogs up the steps to Lindsey’s unit.

When he knocks, it’s with a too hard rap of his knuckles against the wood. His days with the FBI make him feel like a haunted house at times. Ghosts of drug busts and serial murder cases roam the halls of his mind. How many doors had he and his partners kicked in over the years when they were too impatient or too cocksure to wait for the SWAT team? His hand keeps the memories even if his own mind lets go.

“Hello, good sir,” Lindsey greets, whipping the door open, “Pray tell. What’s the password for the keep?”

“It’s ‘I didn’t sign up for dinner at Medieval Times. I’m old and I’m tired’,” Peter grumbles, trying to sidestep her.

He really is tired. Despite Strahm’s best efforts, Detective Hoffman has set up residence in his thoughts and it’s been doing a number on his ability to sleep. Unsatisfied with his sour mood, Perez blocks his foot with hers in a squeak of bare toes against his boot. He recoils.

“Put some socks on,” he says, aghast.

“I already gave you a hint,” she prompts. She’s not letting him in until he guesses what movie she is alluding to. Like him, she doesn’t let go when her jaw is locked.

Not bothering to hide his sigh, he shifts the Tupperware container from one arm to the other. He’d made mozzarella and tomato sauce filled mini croissants tonight. His partner had been moaning about wanting homemade pizza all weekend, so he had decided to do the next best thing. Peter is almost regretting his act of care. Still, he wracks his brain trying to remember what they had watched last Monday.

Her wording being the hint… Oh, it was the one that’d had some blond jackass in tights. Lindsey had socked him in the arm for laughing before breaking down as well.

“Robin Hood,” he answers.

“Robin Hood, what?”

“Robin Hood… in tights?” he tries.

Her smile nearly blinds him. “Good enough, buddy. You’re not senile yet.”

“Every day, I pray for the oblivion of memory loss,” he says dryly as his partner lets him through.

Even facing her back, Strahm can tell that she rolls her eyes at him. He trails after Lindsey to the kitchenette only for her to shove two glasses and a jaw-droppingly large bottle of Cosmopolitan at him. It’s chock-full of edible glitter that shimmers in the pink depths. It’s disgustingly cheery and liable to get them absolutely plastered. Lindsey means business on sleepover nights and that doesn’t include his usual proclivity for what she says is “sad old man alcohol”.

He wouldn’t expect anything else from the woman who got him so drunk one night, he willingly participated in gluing rhinestones to their work phones. Peter had woken up hungover and aching on her couch only to get his ass chewed back at the Bureau for tampering with federally provided property and allowing his subordinate to do the same.

Lindsey, of course, had doubled down after getting reprimanded. She had gotten them both phone charms of a mouthless white cat wearing a bow out of a coin machine–with quarters he’d begrudgingly fished out of his own pocket because he has never wanted to deny her anything.

It had made him smile, to take out the device out back in those days. Looking at the phone had provided him with an unusual sort of comfort, especially during his second divorce. He would turn it over and over in his hand, letting the sharp edges of some of those cheap, plastic gems scrape against his palm. He’s sure that Lindsey doesn’t know just how many times she has saved his life over the years. Not with gunfire or violence, but with her presence alone. Knowing that she was there and had his back was enough to keep him placing one foot in front of the other.

When they had left the FBI together, he’d kept the cat charm after he had turned in his work phone. It’s tucked away in the part of his dresser that holds the ties that he still hasn’t gotten rid of. Perez had also kept her charm. He’s seen it nestled in alongside her earrings and other jewelry.

He’s been quiet for too long, lost in thought. Lindsey notices and shoos him out of the kitchen. “I’ll be there in a second. Go settle in.”

Peter cooperates and makes his way to her bedroom door. It’s the only one left ajar. Her roommate's is shut tight.

Once in the small room, he sets down his cargo beside the TV resting on the dresser. Peter eases the strap of his bag off his shoulder and lets it land with a soft thump on the carpeted floor. Bending down, he unlaces his boots before setting them alongside Lindsey’s shoe rack by her door. He keeps his socks on but shrugs off his leather jacket and hangs it up on the only free peg on the wall-mounted rack. Lindsey keeps it open for him.

In his own rental home, he has several spaces that he leaves empty for her in return. She stocks his preferred brand of toothpaste and he keeps a bottle of the hair oil she uses every Monday. They alternate movie night locations. Their lives are intertwined. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Strahm picks the remote up off of the made bedspread and turns on the TV before dropping it back onto the mattress. The CRT screen flares to live. He’s pre-gaming whatever movie Lindsey picks from her and her roommate’s shared collection in the living room with the news. He’s a simple man. On his nights, he just takes his Vic down to the video rental place and grabs an unvetted stack of DVDs. It’s one of the few things in his life he doesn’t overthink.

Unsurprisingly, every news station is reporting on the rash of murders committed by a serial killer the press has taken to calling “Jigsaw” on account of the puzzle piece shaped chunks of skin that the perpetrator has been carving out of the victim’s bodies. In missives relayed by survivors, this Jigsaw is claiming that they’re not a killer at all, merely a game maker seeking to provide enlightenment to the ungrateful.

In Strahm’s opinion, it’s all a crock of bullshit. People dying as a direct result of your actions makes you complicit in their deaths.

Eyes still on the screen, Peter pours himself a drink. The glass quickly fills up with the shimmering liquid. It sparkles in the changing light from the TV, picking up the colors being broadcast. It’s refreshingly cool in his calloused hand.

He moves away from the TV to take a seat on the bed, leaning back against the mountain of throw pillows Lindsey has decided to pile against the headboard. There’s part of him that thinks it might be a long con trap devised in the hope that he smothers in his sleep.

From what the current news station is claiming, the police department and their FBI liaison have allowed more information to leak to the general public. He is sure that it must be rankling at Special Agent Kerry—she had never been one to be open about case information when he had worked with her in the past.

With a series of jarring crime scene photos, the news anchor walks the viewers through one of the traps that had been used in a recent game. Like the majority of the others, it, too, had taken place in a desolate warehouse. To Strahm’s eyes, it is all a fucked up piece of work. The killer had used some kind of iron maiden style headgear that had snapped closed like a Venus flytrap. They’re calling it the death mask. The footage is a pixelated smear of black and red. He can hear the buzzing of flies through the screen, can almost smell the rot and the dry dust of the warehouse.

Flashes of the same trap in bluepoint pen on a flimsy napkin—the cheapest they could get, really—hammer at his brain. He sees Mark’s hand, the way he had hidden the napkin from view the minute he realized Strahm was playing the role of the voyeur.

“Oh shit,” Peter says, too loud. With his revelation, he nearly lets the glass slip out of his hand to go tumbling across the bed. He rests it on his jean-clad knee with a vice grip.

Lindsey stops in the doorway of her bedroom, pausing at his outburst. She’s holding a massive bowl of popcorn in her hands. It’s something she contributes every Monday night because it’s a heart attack in a bowl, laden down as it is with pretzels, m&m’s, peanuts, and a generous caramel drizzle. Sometimes Strahm thinks he could go out peacefully this way—in his sleep after several too-full glasses of alcohol and a sickening amount of Lindsey’s popcorn concoction, movie still playing in the background and illuminating the two friends.

“Pete?” she asks, concern coloring her voice.

“Saturday. You were out. He was drawing...” He points at the TV with the hand still holding onto the glass.

His partner comes around to look at the screen. Her face tightens once she realizes what he’s referring to. “Your detective?”

The weight of what she knows Peter is suggesting is suffocating. She snatches up the Tupperware container and slaps it and the bowl in the middle of the bed before picking up the remote.

“Don’t. Just talk to him next time he comes in.”

“Lindsey—”

“Peter,” she interrupts, changing the channel to the DVD player input.

The retired FBI agent takes a breath. Lindsey is right. He doesn’t want her to be. He wants to turn this over in his mind until he’s sick with possibilities. It’s not his case. It’s no longer his job to put a name to the monsters crawling the streets. He’ll be crushed under the weight of it all if he doesn’t listen to his partner.

He slings back a mouthful of Cosmo. He savors the slight burn of the vodka as it goes down and forces himself to file everything away in order to focus on the moment. Peter makes himself pay attention as Lindsey opens a DVD case and shoves the disk into the player.

“What are we watching?” he asks as if this is normal night and his habits are not battering down the front door.

“Some romance movie that Melanie swears is the most thing heartbreaking in the world,” she answers.

Pouring a glass of Cosmo for herself, she fast forwards thought the pre-menu trailers. With the remote and her drink in hand, she makes her way back to the bed. She settles onto it beside him. The popcorn bowl and Tupperware serve as a divider between them.

“I feel like her metric for that is skewed.”

Lindsey jabs him in the side with her finger, causing him to grunt. “Don’t be rude.”

“Linds, she started crying because I didn’t want to go on a date with her.”

“Well,” she fiddles with the remote and selects PLAY on the menu. “You did… disappoint her by acting like she’d shot you when she asked what your star sign is. She just wanted to know if you were ‘compatible’.”

“Maybe she should meet with my ex-wives, reminisce a little in a support group. I’m chronically incompatible and great at disappointing women,” he says, chasing his words with another swallow of his beverage.

“It should be on your resume. It’s a skill,” she agrees.

They settle in to watch the movie in a comfortable silence that doesn’t last for long.

“Oh, what the fuck—” Strahm starts.

“Maybe you were right—” Perez also speaks.

Lindsey makes a frustrated noise and downs the rest of her drink. She sets the glass on her nightstand with a clatter.

“If some guy climbed a Ferris wheel and tried to coerce me into a date by threatening to hurt himself and then wouldn’t take the damn hint when I said no again, I’d be filing a restraining order.”

“For sure,” he agrees and, with a groan at the sight of the soon-to-be couple laying in the street, adds, “Oh, fuck off.”

Much to their dismay, the movie doesn’t improve. Both Lindsey and Peter have to stand up more than once throughout it to refill their glasses. By the time the film is over, the diner owners are thoroughly sauced. As soon as the credits roll, Strahm stumbles to the bathroom to change into the sleep clothes he’d brought with him. The sweatpants are riddled with holes and marked with old paint stains from when they’d painted the diner together. He leaves the clip pinning up what Lindsey calls his "mid-life crisis mullet" on the counter.

Before reentering Lindsey’s bedroom, he knocks on the doorframe and waits for her “Yeah!”. Stepping back in, he finds that Lindsey has also swapped her clothing. She’s also perched on his side of the bed with a mozzarella roll crammed into her mouth. She’s put another movie in. The Tupperware container is resting on her lap. She has the remote in one hand and a bottle of hair oil in the other.

Already knowing what she wants, he takes the bottle from her and takes a seat behind her. He’s careful to leave enough space so that they don’t touch. She’s already brushed her hair and it lays in thick curls down her back.

“Here,” she says, offering him a roll over his shoulder. He leans forward and carefully snags it with his teeth.

He’s mid-chew and just spreading the oil on his fingers to apply to her scalp when she speaks again. “So, are you going to pull some Ferris wheel shit for Mark?”

He swallows hastily, too soon, tries not to choke. “What?”

“I’m not blind. You’ve got more chemistry with him than I’ve seen you have with anyone.”

He slips his fingers into the roots of her hair, starts working in careful circles. “Yeah, if that chemistry was dislike.”

“Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Peter rolls into the parking lot first, closely tailed by Lindsey’s yellow eyesore of a ‘02 Ford Ranger. As they park, he notices a pair of figures standing in front of the diner. Having seen at least one of them every single day for the past few weeks, he immediately recognizes them. It’s Mark and his sister.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath as he gets out of his car and meets Lindsey. Together, they approach the front door. Strahm’s already got the correct key primed. The realization of last night hasn’t left him, even if he is suffering from enough of a hangover to have necessitated Perez kicking at him to get his ass out of bed. He wouldn’t be surprised if he has a bruise.

He is a twice divorced man approaching middle age having what essentially boils down to slumber parties with his only friend. His time with Lindsey is the highlight of his weeks. It’s enough to be considered embarrassing without having a crisis because the man he thinks has been flirting with him might very well be one of the most notorious serial killers of their time. Peter knows that he’s a fucking joke.

As they get closer, Strahm realizes that the detective looks dead on his feet. The man is wearing a police slicker instead of his usual suit jacket. He’s wavering slightly, like a ship at sea despite leaning heavily against the side of the building. In contrast, Angelina looks chipper—radiant even.

“Good morning!” the woman shouts as soon as they get within earshot. Mark sways away from his sister as though her voice had physically hurt him.

“Morning!” Perez calls back, a sudden eagerness to her pace.

It surprises him. Lindsey is usually much more reserved. She’s chosen to be saddled with him for almost a decade. They don’t open for another half-hour, but he already knows that she is going to snuff out any suggestion from him that they leave these two on the stoop.

In another surprise, the two women meet in a hug. Peter skirts around them to unlock the door. At his side, too close for comfort, Mark rallies himself enough to engage in harassment.

“Where’s my hug and kiss, Peter?”

Barely resisting the urge to flip the detective off, he lets himself through the door first. He nearly clips Hoffman with the edge of it as the other man follows on his heels. Peter doesn’t want to think about what it might feel like to be that close to him, to feel the yielding bulk of his body in the circle of his arms.

He’s nice enough to pull the chairs off the top of Angie and Mark’s usual table before taking his jacket off and joining Lindsey as they go through the motions of getting the diner ready to open. The detective takes his seat wearily, arms on the table and forehead resting against them. His sister gives him a pat on the shoulder on the way to her own chair.

A few minutes before he needs to flip the sign, Strahm is back at at their table. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s slightly too warm from prepping the cook-top. He doesn’t bother to pull the notepad from his belt. They’re past menus and order sheets now.

“What do you want to eat?”

“Two orders of those pancakes with the faces, please. Oh, and some hashbrowns.” Angie says, glee lighting up her voice. She beckons Peter closer and shields her mouth from her brother. He obligingly leans down for her to speak into his ear.

“Can you make Mark’s look like him?” she whispers conspiratorially. He can’t help but return her shit-eating grin with a smile of his own.

“Sure thing.”

The man in question doesn’t even lift his head off the table as Strahm heads to the kitchen. He thinks that he might genuinely have dozed off.

Lindsey leaves him to it while he puts together the pair’s meals. Angie’s comes together easily. He does hers up to make a beamingly happy face. He remembers that she prefers bananas to blueberries and if she doesn’t have Linds’s house-made caramel sauce on it, she’ll look up to either of them for “just a drizzle, please”. Peter has unintentionally found himself filing away information about the brother and sibling like he does with Perez.

It’s only to avoid complaints, he tells himself. It’s a lie. What a disquieting thing it is to realize that he cares.

For Mark’s pancake, the crowning achievement is the lips. They’re made up of a thick sausage link cut in half and carefully arranged to form a pouting upper and lower lip. They glisten in the overhead light. He usually does bacon for the mouths, but it would not have done justice to Angelina’s request. Here at the diner, he’s all about customer satisfaction. Peter is just doing his job.

Lindsey sneaks at peak at the plates when he carries them out. She has to suppress a laugh. “Oh no.”

“It looks like him?”

“Definitely.”

He finds that Lindsey has already gotten them their beverages. Angie is sucking on the straw planted in her orange juice while Mark is staring into his barely touched coffee like it’s a crystal ball. He doesn’t look any more awake than he did on the doorstep.

Peter puts down Angie’s plate first. She gives it an approving nod before looking up at him, excitement barely contained. He sets the other plate down in front of Mark. The sausage lips jiggle a little upon impact and the detective’s sister is not disappointed. She only just manages to keep a straight face.

Mark looks back at the blueberry eyes beadily staring up at him from their whipped cream eye whites and turns to Peter with questioning expression on his face. Peter has a serious set to his mouth, the same distant appearance he used to wear during interrogations. He gives nothing away. Mark then faces Angie. She buries herself in her own pancake, refusing to make eye contact lest she break.

The seated man sighs, giving in. “I don’t have a yellow tie,” he says picking up a fork and gesturing at the egg that Strahm had fried and cut into the shape of the neck wear.

“Maybe you can get one at the clown convention next time it’s in town.” There’s no bite to Peter’s voice.

“Hmm,”Mark rumbles thoughtfully, almost fond, “maybe you can fuck off.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Peter is in the back, prepping a tray of roast for tomorrow. It will sit, covered, in the cooler overnight to marinate. He will cook it up mid-morning to be ready in time for their lunch special.

Having already encouraged Lindsey out of the door, he is alone in the diner with only the radio for company. She had done the bank run and had picked up some bottles of honey at the store. Their supplier had missed it in the shipment, leaving them bereft. Strahm felt like the extra work deserved an early night. Neither of the retired agents addressed that it was only an excuse for him to be alone. He has found himself needing solitude more as of late. There have been too many foreign feelings gnawing at his intestines like a parasite.

He flips over another chunk of meat in the bowl. He can’t help but wonder when Angelina and Mark became such an integral part of his life. Every morning, he finds himself looking forward to the moment the siblings walk through the door. Self-loathing sinks into his lungs as the raw meat held in his hands reminds him of the Jigsaw killer. Remembering his partner’s words, he shoves it aside and lets the idea of finding someone to focus on wash over him—someone who might not be up to their elbows in torture traps. Maybe it would be best if he try picking someone up at one of the clubs Lindsey occasionally drags him to instead of behaving like a guard dog and glowering over her shoulder at any men who don’t get the hint that it’s a gay-oriented bar and she’s not there to talk to guys looking for female action.

Surely, he could find someone there. Peter could make it work. He could smooth out the sharp, unlovable edges of himself to find a form of happiness. There’s an image materializing in his mind of the kind of man he would like to share a life with. Thick fingered hands, garishly patterned ties nestled between oversized pecs, full lips with a perpetual smug lift of the corners… Fuck, he thinks to himself, he’s just thinking of—

The doorbell clatters. It’s explosive in the calm, aggressive, and Strahm gets a hint of something he’s not encountered much in the time since he’s left the FBI.

He strips his gloves off and tosses them into the fifty-five gallon trash can. His hackles are already up. On the way through the swinging door separating the kitchen from the rest of the diner, he shoves his right hand into his pants pocket to mask the itch he has for a gun he had carried on his hip for over a decade.

“Can I help you?” he calls across the expanse separating him and the stranger.

A young man stares back at him with wild eyes ringed with anger before donning the mask of someone calmer. “Hi, yes, I’m just looking for my girlfriend.”

“That so?”

His smile has an ugly twist to it, a crack in the facade. He steps closer. “Angelina? Long dark hair, about this tall...” He holds a hand a few inches below his chin. “Probably with her brother all the time?”

Distrust whispers in his ear, prompting Peter to shrug. The gesture is accompanied by a wide swing of his arms. This man reeks of a disgruntled ex looking to get even. Strahm would be willing to put his share of the diner on him being the reason why Angie seems to look over her shoulder and shrink into herself when Mark isn’t at her side. Peter isn’t going to give him a damn thing.

“Look, man, I just need to have a talk with her.” His hands are lodged in the pockets of his jacket. Peter can see him faintly tracing something. It’s not a gun, probably a knife. “She’s not doing well, has some crazy ideas swirling around in that head of hers.”

“Can’t help you,” he says, curt. There’s a part of him that relishes a fight, wants the other man to draw the knife from his pocket and give Peter something to sink his teeth into. It’s been so long.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch, man.” The stranger is scowling, looking almost like he might give Strahm the release he’s craving.

The words prompt a sigh and the raising of his eyebrows. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Now.”

A smile of his own, more of a snarl graces the diner owner’s mouth. “Does it look like she’s here?” He gestures to the empty room, arms wide. “Get a hint.”

“I said—,” he starts.

“And I said to fuck off,” Peter interrupts. He takes a step forward, then another until he’s in the middle of the room. The man retreats, looking nervous. The cowardice makes Strahm even more irritated.

“Can you just tell her that I came looking? I’m the one that gets to decide when it’s over. Not her. She needs to remember…“ The stranger trails off. Back against the door now.

Peter puts his hand on the back of one of the chairs. He lifts it off the ground enough to get the point across that he will throw it. The feet scrape on the wood floor. It wouldn’t be the first time in his life he’s gotten pissed off enough to hurtle one.

The man puts his hands up, immediately showing his belly like a submissive dog. “My bad, man, my bad, have yourself a good night.”

He fumbles for the door and slips out. Peter lets go of the chair and stands in the silence. Headlights cut across the front of the diner as the stranger peels out of the parking lot. Strahm rubs his hands over his face and goes to lock the door and close the blinds. He swallows down the arid tang of disappointment.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“One of your sister’s associates came looking for her last night,” Peter says to Mark as he refills the detective’s coffee.

Angelina is seated at the counter for the time being while Lindsey plies her with flavored lemonade samples to test. Already, she’s working on the Spring menu. Mark has a spread of papers on the table that his sister had abandoned at. It looks like case reports for the Jigsaw situation, not that Strahm can scrutinize them too much under Mark’s careful gaze.

Mark’s full lips turn down in a frown. He looks troubled and when he speaks, his words don’t form a question. “Seth Baxter.”

“Yeah?”

“Angie broke up with him almost a year ago. Turns out he was a neo-nazi and all around piece of shit.”

“Wonderful.” He can’t say he’s surprised.

“He’s never taken no as answer. She hasn’t admitted to him doing anything to her but the guy is a problem. She’d had me there when she broke the news to him.”

“Did he act out then?”

“Nothing I could book him for.”

Peter nods, silent. He doesn’t blame Mark for entertaining that possibility. Encountering Baxter had felt like coming into contact with an oil slick. There was a residue left behind that just wouldn’t wash out with soap.

He leaves the detective alone to refill the next table’s mugs. Strahm still hasn’t broached the topic of Jigsaw to Mark. He hasn’t brought it up again to Lindsey either because he knows what she will say. Peter has found himself unable to muster up the will to confront the broad man in the fear that he might be right. In the daylight hours, it seems a ridiculous notion. Peter knows it’s possible. Time and time again, he’s seen the worst people put on the right masks to become loving family members, respectable members of their communities: the kind of people that would give the shirt off their own backs for a stranger.

Even the worst dregs of humanity have human moments. It’s what makes them so dangerous. It used to be his job to chisel away at the masks—to pull the shell off the snail and leave its innards manged and exposed to the naked eye. It’s not his duty anymore. He runs a diner with his best and only friend. He need to leave it alone. He’s no longer Special Agent Peter Strahm. That man lost his head, took on too much water and drowned.

Peter wants to believe that a better person left the building after turning in his badge. He knows one didn’t. There’s still something twisted and barely lying dormant inside of him, nestled between the cathedral of his ribs. It takes one monster to catch another.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The overhead bell clatters against the glass not even half an hour before closing. Strahm has already seen Perez out of the door. She had left early for a date that she’s shyly mentioned to him a couple of times over the course of the week. He knows it must be serious because she’s been tight-lipped and anxiously bursting at the seams. Peter will be staying up late, as he does every night, phone close at hand until she texts to let him know she’s made it back to her apartment.

“We’re closed,” he says.

Creaking footsteps cross the diner with no response from the intruder, and, finally, Peter looks up from the glasses he’s stocking below the counter. Irritation prickles at his skin. He’s half expecting to see Seth Baxter waiting for him when he stands up.

It’s Mark. The detective has dressed down for the late hour. It’s strange to see him without his blazer or his tie. Distractedly, the sleeves of the man’s dress shirt are rolled up to expose his large forearms. Strahm makes sure to look somewhere near Mark’s hairline.

“It’s you.”

“In the flesh, Peter,” the detective responds, smile across his lips.

“I’m curious as to why you’re here. Again.”

He watches as Mark settles himself onto a stool. The broad man rests his arms on the counter and leans over to encroach into Peter’s space. The retired FBI agent feels a little lightheaded when he realizes the position is only serving to highlight Mark’s chest through the open shirt collar. There’s honest to God cleavage. Ripping his traitorous eyes away from the scar snaking between Hoffman’s breasts, he meets his gaze and realizes that the detective looks tired.

“Angie had a date tonight, left me high and dry so I thought I’d come see you. Where’s Lindsey?”

“Out.” He kneels and lines the last few glasses up on the shelf and out of the drying crate. “Kitchen’s cold. I’m not turning the grill back on for you.”

“I’m sure you can figure something out for me, Pete. I’m hungry enough that I’ll eat anything you make me. You know how easy I can be.”

“Too easy,” he mutters. Mark just laughs, having heard him. “Fine, I don’t want to hear you complain.”

“Thank you, honey. You’re so good to me.”

A sigh and then he’s picking up the dish rack to take it back to the kitchen instead of throwing it at the seated man. Once in the back, he slots it in the nook beside the three-chamber sink before opening the door to vertical warmer and pulling out the two pans that have been resting on the racks. He shuts the machine off. It will be turned on again in the morning.

Largely using ingredients he’d be throwing out tonight anyway, he makes himself a sandwich with pot roast. He makes a second one for Mark. Both of them are plated with a side of macaroni destined for either his fridge at home or the trash can. The detective’s presence at the counter saves Strahm from having the hassle of taking home the leftovers.

Finished, he carries both plates out to the dining room. He bypasses the counter entirely to set the plates down on opposite ends of a small table. Before he sits down, he checks his watch. It’s a few minutes after closing time. He crosses the room to lock the door and flip the sign to closed. He draws the blinds on his way back to the table.

Hoffman is still. The weight of his eyes feels like a hand on the back of Strahm’s neck. It’s making his skin crawl. All too aware of the other man, he pulls out a chair with a screech of wood on wood and takes a seat facing the main room, back to the wall. He doesn’t verbally invite Mark, but he hears the shift of fabric and the sound of footsteps and then he is joined at the table.

“Didn’t feel like the stool?”

“No, don’t like having my back to the place.”

There’s a small grunt from the detective. “Were you a lawman?”

“FBI,” he says. Maybe Mark isn’t as stupid as he looks.

“Mmm, that would explain it. Were you good at your job, Special Agent?”

“Good enough.” For once, he doesn’t rise for the bait.

Peter toys with the fork in his hand, eyes on the man seated across from him. He watches closely, perhaps too closely as Mark slides his thick fingers under the sandwich and lifts it, cradled almost, to his mouth for a bite. Juice immediately spills free, running over Mark’s lips and liberally coating them in a filthy shine. He reaches for a napkin, but Peter’s hand is there first. Hoffman’s fingers skate over the back of his hand, thwarted. Peter receives a hard, considering look. There’s a dark gleam in the blue depths.

In an a long moment that reminds him of the morning the two of them had met, neither of them break their eye contact as Mark exaggeratedly licks his lips. Peter digs his fingers of his free hand into the meat of his thigh, hanging on for any glimmer of control while the other man sucks his own bottom lip into his mouth and releases it with a wet pop. He’s headspinningly hard in that instant, throbbing in his pants. He nearly curls over as if weathering a blow. Very nearly, he almost takes his hand off the napkin dispenser to press his palm against his crotch to relieve the pressure. Instead, he clamps down on the object harder, knuckles going white in the dim light.

With his dignity dangling on a thin line, he’s relieved that the table blocks Mark’s view. He’s struggling to stay in his seat. He wants to do something rash, destructive, transformative. His instincts are scrambled.

His own plate remains untouched as Mark takes another bite. The chewing is accompanied by a pleased hum, almost a lewd moan to Strahm’s ears.

“How… how does it taste?” He feels winded, out of breath.

Mark stops with the sandwich to his lips. He lowers it without taking another bite after swallowing. “Are you some kind of pervert?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious.

Strahm feels the last of his blood drain from his face.

“You’re one to talk,” he snaps. His tone does little else but highlight how defensive he’s feeling. Mark’s eyebrows raise. He’s got that smug look to him that makes Peter want to grab him by his shirt and smear his face against the floor until it worn down to the bone.

“Am I?” Mark is smiling now. “How do you figure?”

“You parade around looking like” he gestures in a broad sweep of his hand at the detective, “that.”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t think I do.” He has to be being purposely obtuse. Strahm doesn’t appreciate it.

The blood is starting to rise back up, he can feel himself starting to flush as he responds, “Like you’re begging for a scrap of attention. Like you’re just a whore with a gaping mouth waiting for someone to come along and fill it for you.”

Despite the crudeness of his words, Mark doesn’t look offended. He sets the sandwich down on his plate. With his fingers damp with the meat’s juices, he nudges Strahm’s hand out of the way to finally claim a napkin to wipe the mess away from his digits. Fingers clean, the other man pushes his plate across to him. It bumps against his with the sharp sound of ceramic against ceramic. He stands up, and for a critical moment, Peter thinks he’s made an error and the other man is going to deck him where he sits.

Violence doesn’t come. Peter is left shaken when Mark comes around to his side of the table and kneels, knees to the floor. The detective’s polished shoes squeak against the wood. He can see the way the bulk of Mark’s thighs strain against the confinement of his slacks.

“What…?” It comes out as a gasp. His lungs feel too compressed to draw in any air.

As a response, Mark shifts closer. Under encouragement from the detective's hands, Peter turns, letting the man rest his bulk between his spread knees. Hoffman’s eyes skate over his erection. The only acknowledgment he gives it is an impossibly more satisfied look as he meets Strahm’s gaze steadily.

“You said I wanted a full mouth, Peter. So fill it.” he says with a nod to the table.

Unable to look away, he watches Mark part his lips and wait. The detective’s mouth gleams wetly, salivating for what Peter is going to give him. He can see the moisture pooling in the space underneath his tongue, threatening to overflow the corners of his lips even as Peter’s own mouth goes devastatingly dry.

The retired FBI agent gropes blindly for Mark’s plate. He ends up offering the kneeling man a handful of macaroni and cheese. He is forced to put it into Mark’s mouth when he doesn’t reach for it with his own hands. The pads of Peter’s fingers brush over Mark’s tongue.

Pulse pounding, he gathers up another mouthful’s worth. He brings it to the other man’s mouth, pushes it inside and past those plump lips when, again, he doesn’t take it directly. Mark’s jaw is slack. He’s completely pliant, welcoming the intrusion of Strahm’s fingers. He chews and swallows when Peter withdraws.

He feeds him mouthful after mouthful. He takes from his own plate when he runs out of noodles on Mark’s. Slipping the last of it into Hoffman’s mouth, he looks at the mess he’s made. He gathers the smear of sauce and cheese off the detective’s bottom lip and feeds him that too. That simple motion brings curiosity with it. He slides his fingers into Mark’s mouth, so deep that the knuckles of his ring finger and pinky collide with the other man’s chin.

Mark swallows around them. The sudden, clenching heat makes him groan. His dick twitches in his jeans. Mark’s pupils are blown, and Peter doesn’t miss the way the other man’s hand clenches on his wide thigh at hearing the noise that Peter had let slip from his throat.

Again, he swallows around Peter’s fingers. This time, the action is accompanied by his teeth just lightly biting down on the digits encased between his lips, just testing the skin. There’s a pinch and he’s biting harder, properly digging his teeth in.

Peter’s free hand, the one adorned with a reminder of his failed marriages, shoots out. He presses it against Mark’s right cheek. The skin is smooth and unmarred underneath his palm. He doesn’t push Mark away. Strahm doesn’t want to stop him, not really. There’s a part of him not so far under the surface that wants the detective to sever the fingers between his teeth, to consume of Peter himself just has he had of the meal he had prepared for him.

Mark lets up and allows Peter to ease his fingers out just enough to thrust them back in. Strahm is panting, a ragged sound in the quiet of the diner. With each thrust of his fingers into the detective’s mouth, he imagines that it is his cock instead that’s rubbing back and forth over Mark’s eager tongue. His fingertips collide with the other man’s hard palate over and over again. He loses himself in the motion enough that Mark’s hand being placed on his thigh jolts him back into the moment.

The detective is drooling freely around his fingers. His chin is wet with his own saliva. It strings and drips, soaking the front of his shirt. The silk material is marked with darker patches, almost as if Strahm had placed his own mouth against the fabric and sucked at Mark’s chest and stomach through it. He looks debauched this way, used. His lips are swollen and pink.

As he observes Mark like a case file, he can’t help but notice that the other man’s slacks are straining over more than just his thighs. Peter can see the clear outline of his dick. He can almost swear the black fabric is somehow darker near the head of it. Mark is wet.

Wet for me, he thinks, nonsensical. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep the moan from escaping his mouth.

Extracting his fingers, he grips the edge of the table as Mark’s other hand hooks under Peter’s thigh. He spreads his legs wider to give the other man more access. Mark shuffles closer. He pulls Peter’s leg over his shoulder, spreading him open until he feels too vulnerable, too exposed.

His hands go to Strahm’s belt buckle, Peter tangles his hand in Mark’s hair, dampening the man’s locks with his own saliva. With as much protest as Peter himself had given, the leather of his belt easily slips free of the buckle. Hoffman’s fingers skate over the front of his jeans, seeking to undo the fastenings.

Even though the denim, Strahm can feel the heat of the detective’s breath on his dick. His cock twitches, almost as if it’s trying to get to the other man’s mouth. He feels both steadied and thrown off balance by the hand that Mark puts on his waist. He can barely think over the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. The drum beat of it drowns out the anxiety over being touched in such an intimate way. This man is going to be the death of him. He’s never been so hard in his fucking life.

A phone rings. Loud.

Face suddenly grim, Mark draws back. Peter’s hand slips free of the detective’s hair and he sags back in his chair. He busies himself with remembering how to breathe while Hoffman pulls his phone out from the pocket of his slacks. He flips it open and presses the button to accept the call.

“Detective Hoffman speaking.” His voice has a rough edge to it—the only indication that Strahm had been all but fucking his mouth with his fingers.

Choosing to look anywhere else but at Mark, his eyes resolutely lock onto the shelves behind the counter. He feels the shorter man slide his leg off his shoulder. It’s unsettlingly tender, the way Hoffman eases Strahm’s foot to the floor.

“Yeah… alright.” Peter can’t make out the voice on the other end of the line. “I’ll be there. Don’t mess with any unsecured doors this time, yeah?”

Peter hears the snap of the device being closed and glances at Hoffman. The man gets to his feet with a wince but with more spryness than Strahm himself would have been capable of under normal circumstances.

“Duty calls,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket and withdrawing his wallet.

Alarmed, he reaches out and stops him. “Don’t. The food was on the house.”

Mark gives him a look that Peter can’t quite read before closing his billfold and tucking it away. Hoffman’s erection is rapidly flagging. Whatever situation he was called about must be one hell of a mood killer. Meanwhile, Strahm can’t summon any of the blood back to his brain.

He nearly chokes on nothing when Mark’s fingers cup his cheek and he draws a thumb down over the scar mimicking an age line. He has to close his eyes.

“Goodnight, Pete.” The roughness that Strahm put there drags the nickname out into something obscene.

“’Night.” The retired agent manages.

And with that, Mark takes those characteristically stiff strides to the door, unlocks it, and slips through it. The bell jangles in his wake. He leaves Strahm alone and close to shivering in the absence of his warmth.

Like a man rising from a trance, he gets to his feet and locks the door behind the detective. His open belt clatters. The buckle collides with his thigh on every step, a reminder of what almost was. He leaves the plates on the table in favor of ducking into the diner’s single occupant bathroom. Out of habit, he locks the door. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see the creature he is in this moment. He chooses, instead, to press his forehead against the wall. He shuts his eyes.

Projected against the darkness of his eyelids, he imagines Mark on his knees again. He plays out the scene they had nearly had without the interruption that he is almost thankful for. While he thinks about Mark undoing his pants and taking Strahm’s cock out, he frees himself from the confines of his jeans and takes himself in hand. His dry palm is a far cry from the detective’s saliva-slick mouth.

Still, he strips his cock hard and fast. Mark had already had him on the brink of shamefully cumming in his pants. It’s not long before he’s spilling over his knuckles in hot spurts.

Wrung out and with his legs shaking, he lets go of his softening dick and fumbles for the paper towel dispenser. He wipes his hand off before tucking himself back into his pants and dropping onto the toilet toilet lid, exhausted. It feels like he had ran a marathon. He is going to have a heart attack in this bathroom and Lindsey is going to have to call for a morgue transport after she finds him in the morning.

“Fuck,” he says aloud. Revulsion has stuck its hand in him now that the fog of arousal has fled his body, and it’s rooting around elbow deep in his guts.

He gets to his feet. He washes his hands and still doesn’t meet his eyes in the mirror while he straightens himself up. This might not be the most shameful thing he’s ever done, but it’s higher on the list than he would like. He can gnaw on it while he works. He’s got a diner to clean

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning greets Strahm with all the grace of a punch to the jaw. He opens his eyes and squints against the light glaring at him through his windshield. He rubs both hands over his face. The brief shade they provide is a soothing balm to his pounding head. The ache radiating through his body like a missing tooth is a vivid reminder of last night.

He had been worked into too much of a shame-fueled frenzy to give the establishment the usual amount of care. No, he’d been on his hands and knees scrubbing the grout in the kitchen with a hard bristled brush until his hands were raw and he was satisfied surgery could be performed on the tile with no risk of infection. It not been the only task that he’d taken upon himself. He had spent so long handling his reaction to the unplanned intimacy that he had not bothered to go back to his rental. He had chosen to sleep in his car instead.

A glance at his watch reveals that he had woken up just after his usual alarm time. Peter drags himself out of his vehicle just as Lindsey’s yellow Ranger pulls into the lot and parks in the space beside his Vic.

“Good morning.” She looks cheerful, vibrant even.

“’Morning.” He grits out. His voice is so rough with sleep that it might as well have been his throat that was getting used last night.

“You look like shit.”

The only answer he gives her is a grunt. He nearly stumbles on the curb when he follows her to the front door.

“No, seriously. What happened?”

“Late night. Got wrapped up in cleaning.” It’s technically the truth. He doesn’t particularly want to confess that he almost fucked Mark and proved his co-owner right. Peter has never been one for losing, no matter the size of the stakes.

Sighing, Lindsey gets her key in the lock. She’s not buying it as being the whole story. If she were blind enough to just accept whatever bullshit he said to her, they never would have been able to be partners for so long.

“How did your date go?” he asks, heading her off before she can corner him in the back for an interrogation. He had gotten her text late last night, assuring him that she hadn’t been murdered in the street and was about go to bed.

Her face splits into a smile. “It went really, really well. She let me walk her to the door.”

“That’s great, Linds.” Her obvious joy manages to drag a returning smile out of him.

He listens to her chatter at him while they settle into their normal morning routine. She lets him get away with muttered responses and acknowledging hums, content to carry the interactions. It’s business as usual with the only the glaring absence of Mark and Angelina.

The sibling duo arrives after the breakfast rush has trickled into maintenance. Right away, Strahm notices that Hoffman looks as tired as he, himself, feels. There’s a serious set to his mouth and his movements are sluggish. They bypass their usual table on account of it being occupied and take up residence on stools at the counter.

“Just coffee for me.” Mark tells him when he silently stares at him in wait for the detective's order.

He feels like last night is written all over his face. If the both of them weren’t so tired, he’s sure some words would be getting thrown around. Unable to do more than exist, he turns to Angie, silently prompting her as well.

“Orange juice and one of those muffins, please,” she says. Like Lindsey, she’s all but glowing.

Nothing for him to cook. It’s just as well. Strahm is feeling he might just face-plant on the cooking surface. With any luck, he can take another nap in his car until Lindsey needs him for lunch support. With the distant sensation of moving through molasses, he pours Mark and Angie their drinks. He nearly knocks over Angelina’s glass when he tries to slide her muffin in front of her.

“Are you okay? I thought Marcus over here was half dead, but I think you got him beat.”

“I’ve always been a winner,” is Peter’s stab at levity.

He ignores Hoffman’s stifled scoff and drags out a notepad. Checking with the summary of items he’d marked as low in the dry storage last night, he writes down everything that he’s going to have to order tomorrow. Mark seems content to watch him while he drinks his coffee. Lindsey and Angelina chatter back and forth as his partner comes and goes. He tunes them out.

Blinking hard, he tries to focus his eyes on the paper in front of him. It’s threatening to triplicate. He sets down his pen and squeezes the bridge of his nose, hard. He needs to lay down.

There’s an explosion like a gunshot.

Peter feels a burning sensation race across the back of his shoulder and down his side. Adrenaline floods his system, burning away the exhaustion. He whips around in time to see Lindsey stumbling back from the coffee machine’s hot water spigot. Her hands are grasping at her face and she’s making noises he has never heard from her before—never thought he would hear. It’s the low, desperate whines of an injured animal.

Immediately, he reaches for her. Peter takes her into his arms, holding her securely against his chest where she curls into him in the blind trust that he can protect her, that he can keep her safe. She’s coughing, trembling. Even has she goes limp from shock, he supports her. She’s his partner and the closest thing he would dare call family.

There are shards of broken glass and hot water everywhere. Right away, it’s clear that a measuring cup had exploded. Hot water into a room temperature glass vessel had caused a rapid expansion. Something that they’d both done more than they should had finally caught up to them.

Mark is right next to him with his sister on his heels. Together, the two men guide Lindsey away from behind the counter and to a clear patch of floor. The detective strips off his blazer and folds it into a makeshift pillow for Strahm’s co-owner as Peter lowers her to the wood. Acid claws at his throat.

“Angie, call for an ambulance.” Mark’s voice is calm, lapping against the edges of Peter’s mind past the ringing in his ears.

The only thing he can focus on is Lindsey. His hands are shaking as he carefully tries to smooth her hair away from her face.

“Okay, c’mon, Shallow breaths. Okay? Stay with me.” He can’t hide the tremor in his voice. There’s so much blood seeping around the glass embedded in her face and neck. He has only seem this amount at crime scenes.

Lindsey reaches up and grabs weakly at his face. Her fingers hook briefly in the collar of his shirt. Peter catches her hand and squeezes it as much to reassure her as himself.

“Pete,” she whines. Tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“I’m here. I’m here, Lindsey. You’re gonna be fine, alright? You’re gonna be fine.” Maybe if he repeats it enough times, it’ll be true.

They had some close calls during their time in the FBI but it was all threats that he could negate. He would have put down any number of perps to ensure her safety. He would have ripped apart the world for her. But this… this was just an accident. He couldn’t protect her from this kind of thing.

He’s unaware of the panicked, half breathes that seize in his chest until Mark places his hand on his back. Peter doesn’t shrug it off. In the background, he can hear Angie on the phone. Her voice is wobbly, distorted through sobs.

After the paramedics arrive, Hoffman has to hold him back when Lindsey lets out a pained yelp from being moved onto the stretcher. She’s never been one to vocalize pain and it’s killing him to hear her.

“Easy… Easy, Peter.” Mark’s voice rumbles against him from where the detective has him held against the expanse of his chest.

Dimly, he realizes that Angelina has a grip on her brother’s arm. She has to be squeezing enough to hurt. Her knuckles are pale. He wonders at why she’s so torn up his partner and then it clicks. Mark had said Angelina had left him alone to go on a date last night. Lindsey had done the same to him. The two women had been together while he and Hoffman were doing whatever fucked up dance they’d been engaged in.

Strahm pushes out of the detective’s hold. He nearly collapses without the support he’d never admit he needed. It’s a smothering weight that he could be crushed under if he let it.

“Everybody out. Show’s over.” Peter calls as soon as Lindsey is wheeled out the door. “We’re closed. Meals are on the house today.”

A few people stand up, not enough. Mark speaks, his voice more vicious than Strahm’s. “You heard him. Have some respect and get the fuck out.”

It works. The customers pick up the pace and soon the diner is empty aside from them.

In daze, Peter steps into the kitchen and turns off the cook-top. He grabs his jacket and his keys from the back. The door hits him hard in the elbow. He nearly slips on the mixture of glass and cooling water. Mark’s hand is there to steady him. The other man plucks the keys from Peter’s grasp before steering both him and Angie across the diner and to the door. Peter lets himself be nudged out onto the step with Mark’s sister while the broad man flips the sign around and locks up for him.

“This way,” he says, leading them both to his car.

Numbly, he obeys as Mark has the two of them clamor into the back seat while he settles behind the wheel. He feels Angelina take his hand in hers. He lets her, just has he had let her brother touch him. Their fingers twist and grip onto each other until their joint hands make up one shared form. All he can see playing on repeat in his mind is the scared look on his partner’s bloody face.

He can’t tell which one of them is shaking. Is is Angie? Is it him? Is it the both of them?

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[ruiniel]

This storm

II. Silver lining

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen | Rating:🔞| Geto Suguru x fem!Reader | Count: 2.2K | Summary: This AU was a oneshot at first. More or less out of my control it's now a multichapter, not least because I wanted a Geto POV in here, and I'm a sucker for pining. | On AO3 | Tags & Warnings: my first fic for JJK, fem!reader, Second Person POV, Geto didn’t defect AU, But still has it rough, Set four years after Hidden Inventory, Friends with some benefits, Light angst, Feels, Mutual pining, Geto Suguru POV, Alternate Universe - Canon divergence, Sex pollen-ish eventually

< I

Just friends:

he watches my gauze dress

blowing on the line.

—Alexis Rotella

Morning light shivers across your eyelids, warms your cheek, and consciousness returns from its restful seclusion. The sheets and pillow cozily hug your naked form, as does the arm coiled about your waist and the body curled around yours. Memories from the night emerge, and your eyelashes flutter as you bask in this element of intimacy: his face hidden in your hair, nose touching the nape of your neck; his soft, regular breathing tickling your skin. As far as you can tell, Suguru’s not awake yet, his arm resting heavily around your middle. 

But when you try to rise, that arm slowly pulls you back in, accompanied by a low voice, roughened by sleep. “Stay… a little longer…”

You’d be lying if you said this awakens nothing in you, something safe, peaceful, and tender—but neither of you signed up for any of that. “Working early today,” you say through a smile. “Have to get ready, Suguru.”

“Mm… right,” comes a drowsy mumble, and his hold weakens as you slip off the bed. 

In the shower, you remember more fragments, aided by the aching muscles in your thighs and the bruises on your hips. You like that side of him, more than you thought you would. The subtle, controlling notes in his voice as he drove you insane, that ‘please’ spoken so eagerly by the end… 

You turn the water temperature even lower. That was then, this is now. Wake up. Nothing will change between the two of you, just like it didn’t last time—you’re aware enough to realize that, and you know he feels the same. Or, you think you know. Right, no use dwelling on that.

When you enter the living room and kitchenette area, Suguru’s there too, standing with his back to you, handling the glass water boiler. He’s pulled on his dark house pants and a gray t-shirt, his loose black hair draping over his shoulders. 

“Hey,” you yawn, dressed and ready, sitting at the table with your bag and trying not to groan at the slight muscular ache felt with each movement. He didn’t spare you at all, damn it.

But what are you going to do? Complain about giving you what you asked for? ‘Harder’, huh? The thought makes you smile and roll your eyes at yourself. 

“Tea or coffee?” Suguru asks, looking over his shoulder at you. “... what’s the smile for?”  He’s visibly relaxed, unburdened by the restlessness of the evening.  

“Oh, umm… nothing. Tea please… hibiscus! If there’s any left.”

“As long as I’m around, there will always be stock of that,” he turns back around. 

The lightness of his tone feels good, the choice of words less so. You choose not to ponder too much on it, though, instead rummaging inside your bag to ensure you have everything for work. “Heh, forgot you love the stuff.”

Suguru comes over and takes a seat opposite you at the table, pushing a cup of crimson tea within your reach.

“Thank you,” you say without looking his way, fiddling and arranging this and that object inside your workbag. 

Feeling watched, you pause and raise your eyes. Sun rays filter through the open blinds, softening his features with a warm glow. He’s propped leisurely against the backrest of the chair, cup of tea in hand. You find yourselves in the same position at the table as the night before, though the mood is wildly different.

“... what?” You like the geniality of his stare, an infrequent sight lately.

Suguru shakes his head, then drinks from his tea and leans forward, setting the cup aside. “We’re fine, aren’t we?”

Oh, is that what this is about? “Of course we are. I am. You…?”

A faint smile. “Never better.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “... then why ask?”

“Just… checking,” his gaze drifts towards the balcony, the smile still pulling at his lips. 

Suguru, ever the thoughtful one. You think this fondly, though with half a mind to make a joke about what he’s done to certain parts of your body. You’re not sure how he’d take that, though, so… better not. You’ve known each other for years, sure, but this was only the second time you’ve had sex, after all.

Distance means safety. 

But ever since you’ve started benefiting from each other this way, as much as you’d like to not think about it… there is a subtle, barely discernible change in that liminal space that separates you and him. You realize you’d been lost in thought as the door to the balcony closes, and you turn briefly to see Suguru outside, lighting a cigarette.

Suguru watches you rise and continue to prepare, arranging your shirt and going back to your bedroom—likely having forgotten something. He follows your silhouette with his eyes, taking a long drag of smoke into his lungs and holding it. On an exhale, his hand grasps the rail, eyes closing. 

Not for the first time he wonders what the hell he’s doing, and why. Last night, when he came home, he wasn’t tired; he was angry. Some curses he subdues do cause states he has to purge somehow afterward to regain his balance, but this was not one of them.

No, he was at the end of his tether, again. Nothing, nothing has ever been the same since his failure four years ago and he’s tried so, so hard and for so long. He tried to accept the consequences, to keep to his principles after Riko, even after finding Mimiko and Nanako. He often returns to that evening in the village, to that sight that made his heart drop to his feet, wondering how it could’ve been different. He’d done the right thing, he’d called Jujutsu officials that very moment to take the girls away but… 

He clenches his fist, turning briefly to the streets, where endless streams of people rush about. Is this all for them? Fear makes monsters of people. Fear of the unknown, of things they envy or can’t understand. 

He’d been alone for most of the time since those days, year after year. But he understands—like him, both Shoko and Satoru have their hands full with the ever-rising tide of curses, and sometimes the sinuous side of dealing with Jujutsu Tech politics. He doesn't envy Satoru at all in that respect.

Suguru raises his head, staring at a clear blue sky. It all used to be different, but then... change is the only constant. He does miss those moments with his old friends, sometimes painfully so. A sunny spring. Satoru. A chance missed. But then he forgot about all that when a girl's blood splattered his tunic. Sometimes, he still hears the gunshot and the clapping, intermingling in a mocking symphony. In his dreams she dies over and over again; and they all smile wider and applaud, hovering over her lifeless body.

He grits his teeth, shakes his head as though to free himself of his own mind. Is this all for… them… 

Suguru takes another drag of his cigarette. Yes, he’d been angry last night, his mind fogged with the taste and slime of negative emotions being absorbed by his cells and his spirit. And then he saw your face, and your worried glance depleted him of that helpless, overwhelming fury. Someone who cares, who knows nothing of his failures. You thought he was exhausted, and he let you. He took what you were willing to give, let himself be cleansed by your nearness, the scent of your skin and the heat of your body. Even now his heart beats faster remembering the way you cried his name.

If only he could freely express the relief he felt and tell you all that lies beyond it, but a part of him is ashamed; you hold him in so high esteem, you’ve let him so close, trusting him with so much, most of all your friendship. Suguru chews on his lip. Luckily for him, it appears you didn’t actually hear what he said to you at the end. That might’ve uselessly complicated everything.

He sighs. 

“I’m off, then.”

Your voice has him looking up. You’re standing there, on the balcony threshold. 

“Who are you working with today?” he asks.

You snap your fingers. “Haibara-san.”

“I see. That’s good.” He’s dependable enough. “Be careful.” 

You roll your eyes, nodding. “Am I not always? And right back at you, all right? See you today maybe—in one piece, hopefully.” 

“Hopefully,” Suguru snorts. “Hey, wait!” he calls after you, remembering. “Are you heading to the campus at all today?”

“I am. Setting out from there, why?”

He follows you inside, returning with two small satchels. “I might not make it. So, will you please stop by the dorm, and hand these over to Mimiko-chan and Nanako-chan for me? Small gifts from my trip to Nagoya.”

Your eyes smile. “Of course! Suguru, you…”

He tilts his head, expectant. 

You stare at him for a moment longer. “Those girls care for you deeply.” 

“As I do for them.” 

“You’re really something else.”

Oh, if only you knew. But his eyes turn to crescents as he smiles that benign, cheerful smile. 

“Well…” you stuff the satchels inside your bag. “See you later!” 

“Yes... later.” 

Each day either of you leaves for a mission, there’s no certainty of tomorrow. He’s never pulled you in, to urge you to be prudent in other ways, to show you his worry and embrace you like he wants to lately, outside the bounds of mutual convenience.

Hah… coward.

“Haibara-san… Haibara-san! Can you hear me?” 

The signal is never the best due to interference caused by the veil but it’s never failed like this before. Someone answers the phone. All you hear is static. 

Damn it. 

You stare anxiously at the dark barrier you’d lowered more than an hour ago over a funeral hall in Setagaya. Just the place for curses to gain momentum, you think. The brief said ‘semi-grade 1 cursed spirit’. Haibara dealt with those before over the past year, but you have little information to go on when it comes to this one’s abilities.

After several moments of hesitation, you reach a decision. Losing contact with the assigned mission lead usually warrants a call for backup, but you’ve been out with Haibara before. There is a level of trust and collaboration between you and despite being an auxiliary manager, you have enough cursed energy to support him if need be. Sometimes you wonder if you should’ve tried harder, aimed for graduating as a sorcerer yourself. Well, bygones. You also know just the person who’d be none too happy about that—which shouldn’t matter to you, not as much as it does, anyway. “You keep harping on about the dangers of being a sorcerer, Suguru, but what am I to do?” you mutter. It certainly would have helped now, you think, crossing through the veil.

The building is silent. “Haibara-san!” you call, your weapon at the ready—a tessen, a special grade cursed tool obtained via Satoru from his family stash. Suguru insisted, vehemently, that you accept it as a gift ever since you began heading out alone. It pulses in your hand, the cursed technique vibrating through your nerves. 

Cold sweat drips down your spine at the unnerving silence: you could never completely shed the fear from your body in high-strung conditions. Principal Yaga once said that’s healthy, a sign that you’re prepared to fight. 

Roof shingles are falling everywhere. You jump back, waving the tessen just in time to repel the debris and violet-tinted fumes bursting through the caved-in structure. 

You see the apparition, just barely, before a bright slash culls the creeping tendrils, turning them to dust. 

Haibara. 

“Are you hurt?!” 

“The tessen, use it now!” He yells back, both hands clamped together in a seal. 

Right. You snap the fan open, its metal ribs singing in your grip. You wave it in a pattern, focusing the aim of the cursed energy blow towards the apparition, through sheer luck timing it with the sorcerer’s strike. 

The curse withers to a strangled mess before you both, and you’re trapped there, watching as bruised fumes slither towards you—it’s not long before you’re gagging, eyes watery and lungs burning. You’re being dragged away by someone.

“Thank you… that was close… so-so close…” Haibara murmurs. “Thank you… we did it. Are you fine? I’m sorry, it was a stubborn one…”

“I’m fine.” You feel as though you've bathed in a pool of warm sake and drunk just as much while still coughing your lungs out. “Well...a little out of sorts... ”

You reach the car outside the dispersing veil, both leaning against its metal body and sighing in relief.

Haibara glances at you. You glance back. All things considered, he appears unhurt, maybe a bit ruffled.

“You don’t look so good,” he says.

Huh. “How do you mean?”

Haibara squints, then rubs at this right eye and observes you closer. “Your pupils look… strange. Maybe you should visit Ieiri-san for a check-up, just to make sure?” 

Your hearing is shot. Your vision is tinged with violet at the edges, and your legs feel weak at the joints. A peculiar taste is in your mouth. “... yeah. Yeah, that might be a good idea.”

“Come on,” he urges. “I’ll write up the mission report this time.”

The weather is far from hot. You pull at the collar of your shirt. You’ve struck a fever, or so it feels. “... t-thank you.”

tessen - Japanese war fan used as a weapon or for signalling

III >

[doyouknowhowtowaltz]

Drop Dead Gorgeous, Beast/Enoch

Title: Drop Dead Gorgeous

Summary: The executioner is a handsome man, tall and broad and smiling. The hot sun shines off the sweat on his brow, as he fits Herod with the hangman’s hitch.

“Better shoot the horse, too.” He advises as the executioner slips the bag over his head, “She’s far too mean to tolerate anyone else.”

And then, something very strange happens, the executioner starts to laugh.

Not long after that, the gunshots start up.

Tags: Debatably a rescue mission, Blind-folded Narrator, Horseback riding, Alternate Universe - Cowboys & Gunslingers, It’s a hanging crime but the jury’s hung.

[quotablefanfiction]

If Toshinori has learned something in the months he spent with young Midoriya, is that his young pupil is pretty much a trouble magnet. Once he’d graduate and go pro he’d surely be one of the most efficient heroes out there, if only for the fact that he didn’t had to search for problems: the problems just went straight for him.

Izuku has a reputation (chp. 31)

A beacon in the dark by NohaIjiachi (AO3) Boku no Hero Academia – Teen – Midroriya Izuku/Todoroki Shouto #Alternate Universe #What-If #Original Characters #Blind Izuku #Canon-Typical Violence #Angst #Not Beta Read #Takes liberties with canon #big liberties #Incomplete

“My thanks.” He says, smiling back. “What is your name, boy?”

“I’m Izuku! Izuku Midoriya, sir!” The boy replies, excited, looking up at him. And Toshinori looks into the unmoving washed out green, into milky white pupils visible behind the mess curly hair, and realizes.

The boy is blind.

The boy that he distinctly saw dodge a series of fairly quick attacks, light on his feet and clearly used to some kind of training, the boy that had thrown him the bottle at the perfect height and perfect speed, the boy that has easily collected his spilled groceries and orderly put them back into the little plastic bag—

The boy. Is blind.

[CURRENTLY ON HIATUS]

Note: This is a restricted story and requires an AO3 account in order to read

[thcrealheroes]

DARK!STARLIGHT AU : A LIGHT THAT IS NOTHING BUT DARKNESS. In every universe, there are Starlight who go above and beyond to protect those they love, a real hero; it seems like the light within her just sings brighter and prevents her from turning towards the evil that surrounds them... but while many starlight's are good in many alternate universes, you'll find a rare pile of starlight's who found comfort in the darkness, in the wrongs in life-- didn't care to hold back their power for the sake of humanity.

Annie January was born into a loving home; mom and dad joined together in a happy marriage, or so it seems. Her mother treated her as a show pony. Her mom would sign her up for every pageant, being more like a manager than a mother. She wanted her daughter to be perfect, to dance to songs that seemed inappropriate for a child her age, and her mother forced her to do things she didn't want. If she said no, her mom would guilt trip her, which worked many times. While her mother treated her as some show pony, her father, who had lost his job, had become depressed, bitter, and downright cruel. He thought he knew everything and thought he could train Annie to use her powers, that if she wanted to be a real hero one day, she needed to practice her powers, which-- he wasn't wrong, but he was bad for the pressure he'd put on little Annie. He didn't see her as a daughter anymore- every single day and night when Annie wasn't busy with her mother in her pageants, she'd be with her father. using her powers tired her out, and she would beg her dad to let her rest, but he wouldn't have none of that- and kept pushing and pushing until she burst the lightbulb near him, glass shattered, and hurt her own father, even when little annie said she was sorry- it was the first time her father had hurt her. Did her father hitting her really hurt her ? It did--- emotionally, laying there in the fetal position as he threw all kinds of kicks and punches. It didn't get any better from there; now that he knew he could use her as a personal punching bag, he did. towards her, towards her mother, but her mother did nothing about it. Just went on like any regular day.

Annie grew up with bitterness swelling inside her, but she smiled at the church, her friends, and the people in their town. The perfect family, the perfect daughter, and it all seemed too good to be true. The more she used her powers, the more Annie saw just how powerful she could be--- sometimes she even thought how easy it would be to use it against her own parents, how easy it would be to fry them. they were humans, after all, and she was beyond that. but that darkness hadn't consumed her yet, not until the day her father was drunk out of his mind, screaming and going on a rampage on her mother and on her--- that's when she did it, she had killed her father, and she felt nothing, didn't blink when she blinded him, didn't cry when she gripped him by the throat and with all her powers burned his skin. Didn't lie when she called Stan Edgar to tell him what she had done. Vought cleaned it up, Vought made it seem like her dad left--- and that was the story her and her mother went on with. Her mother was scared of her and good. She should be. Annie now knew GOD had better plans for Starlight- not annie anymore, just Starlight. She was faithful to the church and preached sins of the unknown. Still, they couldn't tell, someone with a smile as sweet as hers, someone so bright and loving- who spoke of GOD- when in reality she was manipulating humanity, treating it as a cult of her own, guiding them to a path to see supes as not heroes, but gods of their own.

Then, once Starlight joined the seven, it just came with more power and more lives to twist.