#I reiterate... the au where I never wanted any of this. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

almostfoxglove · 9 months ago

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HOLD STILL

written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.

SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.

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You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is.

For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun.

In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation.

Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.

It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.

He must know you do it for him.

It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight?

And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.

Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.

No, honey.

Honey.

Not tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.

Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.

Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below.

You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?

And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands.

When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”

You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.

Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs.

“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.

Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”

Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t budge. Don’t move.

“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.

Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.

“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”

“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”

Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”

You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.

One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.

“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”

He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.

Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.

Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.

Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.

Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze.

You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.

“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”

You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.

At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring.

Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.

Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”

You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.

“Good girl.”

You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin.

“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”

Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word.

“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”

Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.

“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.

You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.

It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.

He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.

As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.

As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.

He grins, wicked.

Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.

So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”

The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.

“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”

His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.

You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.

How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.

How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”

His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.

“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”

How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.

The snarl of his upper lip.

His knotted jaw.

Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.

The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take.

“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”

You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe.

That can make you sparkle now, to remember.

“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”

Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on.

Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#dave york fanfiction #dave york x reader #dave york #dave york smut #pedro pascal #dave york x you #the equalizer 2 #dave york fanfic #au august #shortieswritingchallenge #punkshort #myfics #almostfoxglove #smut #one shot #fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #fic: holdstill #do not perceive me for 3-6 business days

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forthelostones · 28 days ago

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𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ➺ 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 #10 (𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 2)

anderson construction and landscaping had been parked outside your door since you returned home from university. as if the summer couldn't get any hotter, the business owner works overtime in your area. anderson is collecting new, loyal clients of your neighbors, cementing her permanence in your life for the next few months. what's to come of your girlish crush when she keeps showing up?

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 18+ (mdni); age-gap, young!reader, older!abby, butch!abby, slow-burn, suggestive language, thoughts of infidelity, ellie ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of parents, nickname: sweetheart, and modern au.

𝚊𝚗. guys, you're awesome thanks for supporting me. i've recently stopped using grammarly for a more real writing experience. so if things are wonky, just know thats why! no more ai help.

♫ 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. come see me by jill scott ♫

I knew what I was doing when I brought her to this bar. There was women galore, lined up to attempt a grab at a young femme, it was typical behavior. In a different time, I would be the one dipping her. Nursing this strong drink accompanied by the hard hit of the snare was egging on a headache. I should be reeling over my night with Nora, ecstatic even, that a woman my age should find me remotely interesting. But my eyes couldn’t help but drift over and watch her. Awkwardly, I peer over my shoulder to see her face lit up and excited. The bunching of her slack around her waist and a sliver of soft belly from an invasive thumb under her button down was further intoxicating. I press a cold hand to my cheek because I knew exactly what my face looked like as heat rose to it.

Nora. I should message her, she hadn’t sent me anything after last night, and it would be the right thing to do. Reiterate that I enjoyed her company and the meal, hoping we can do it again. I reach in my jean pocket to retrieve my cellphone and glasses. I fished for her contact in my messages with Mrs. Harris and pasted it into the new message bar. A hot hand presses into my bicep and I look over to see my assistant standing waiting at attention. I quickly stuff my cellphone into my pants and rip away my specs.

Her eyes were wide as we shared a sliver of light on the floor. Her skin painted with small beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

“Woah, I have never been twirled so fast before.” She says out of breath.

Even though envy sat in my belly like a rock, I couldn’t help but smile at her amusement of a gentle stud. She had no clue about how older dykes went about treating women.

“You looked like you were having fun.” I say, unsure if my bitterness was cut with a little sweetness.

“Yes but I’d rather have fun with my boss for a bit.” She smiled and bumped me with her hip.

Once the song finally ends I had the clapping as an excuse to prevent me from doing something stupid. Like wrapping my hand around her waist and guiding her exactly where I wanted it. Instead I walk to place my empty glass on the bar and then she leads me directly in front of the stage where the band tatters out a tune that I can’t quite place. Our bodies naturally drifted closer to one another, elbow to elbow... I needed this. I rock back and forth, bumping into her so I could relish in the dampness of her skin. I sigh. The intoxicating scent of her perfume smelled like the peonies in Nora’s yard. Nora. I never messaged her. It was pathetic how I melted from an almost electrical connection when Nora and I had such a heated exchange before ending the night.

The song came into my mind as the bass guitar amped up, it was Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac. I close my eyes and let the lyrics melt alongside her flowery scent, remembering all the times this song was played on sites, in my bedroom, and in the truck with Dad. Too many things coasting around in my brain.

Her pinky jolts me out of my nostalgic storm and I turn to her, shoulders dipping one after the other, stepping side to side and ticking her hips. It was stupid but I slithered in front of her to join her in grooving along. I saunter in front of her and allow the band to sing me into confidence.

“You know Fleetwood?” I ask, my mouth dangerously close to her lobe, a place I tend to love to kiss and suckle.

She pushes up onto her toes, using my shoulder as leverage bringing her glossed mouth towards mine before shifting to my ear. A place where I like to be kissed and suckled.

“Yes, Ms. Anderson, I do.” She giggles.

I drop my head to follow her laughter unsure of where I want my hands to be. There was a danger in how her fingertips gripped my shoulder blades, nails slightly piercing my through my shirt into my skin.

“Saw them live in the 90’s and it was the best show of my life,” Out of habit a hand ghosts over her waist. “I’ll show you pictures later.”

She nods and we stand face to face mimicking each others. I drop my eyes to her mouth — it would be so easy to do it, let her taste the cherry notes of the scotch, and rock back and forth forgetting everything. Forgetting the rules, the company, my morals…

“I think I’m gonna get another drink.”

“Let me, what do you want?”

“May I have a margarita ma’am?”

Ma’am settled in her throat so easily. It was different from the other interactions we had where she would say it, more to be respectful and less flirty. This time it was intentional and had the purpose to shatter my loins to slither deeper into the crevasses of my mind. I loved how her voice sat in my mind even after the moment passes it still rings clearly as if she just said it.

The door opened more as a herd of women entered the building, our waitress was also our bartender, and mixed a cocktail that’s visibly bitter. Carrying it back to her a push into a different level of confidence in a way it was showing everyone that I was with her, even if it wasn’t in the capacity I truly desired. Her hand overlapped with mine to linger just a bit. Enough to make me slight quake in a way that didn’t happen last night. I know it’s the danger and the excitement, the sheer thrill of it all, if I get what I want, that will all fade away and disappear into nothingness if I take it another step too close.

Her tongue slithered out of her mouth to dissolve the salty crystals around the rim. I couldn’t look away and a I hope she didn’t notice the gap between my lips aiding my unstable breathing. She smacked her wet lips and smiled at me, thanking me for the drink, I know the pours were heavy here and she took it like a champ.

“Abigail?”

I turn over my left shoulder and was met with a familiar face, it was Melanie, my girlfriend prior to my longest term relationship, was standing before me. Just like me she never left this town. I reach out to hug her, arms tied around her waist like we were young again, she squeaks.

“Should've known I’d see you in here.” I cackled.

Mel and I had a stable two year relationship, moving in early and adopting a cat, actually finding a pattern within our relationship leading to wifely duties. I didn’t know any better at the time with the passing of Dad and the result falling deeper and deeper into work, I lost someone good. I was an asshole and in this moment I’m even glad that she even came to speak to me.

“You haven’t been here in ages, I mean you find yourself getting old on me and still running A&C, see your signs in all these yards.”

Her hair was longer, down to her shoulders which was unusual for her, she always liked it short and trimmed. But this looked better. Her face sagged slightly, wrinkles running across her forehead, and smile lines beautifully prominent.

“You’ll be proud to hear, I’m making some leadership changes, stepping up to solely boss.”

“Eight years too late it seems.” She frowns, never truly letting me go.

I turn to tap onto my assistants shoulder but saw she was already curious about the short interaction I was already having.

“Mel, this is my new assistant, uh this is Mel my ex-girlfriend.”

She waved her hand in Mel’s direction examining the woman whom I shared many memories with. Melanie waved back with her genuine smile, “Oh, she’s definitely your type,” She whispered to me. “She needs to bring you out more, it’s good for you.”

I shot her a glare before she gave me a kiss on the cheek and faded away among the crowd. A hand comes to my lower back and whose it is frightens me then settles me that it’s not another ghost from my past. Her hand is small compared to mine but it feels grand.

“Would it be okay if we dance?”

“What happened to your other butch?” I tease.

“I told her to leave me alone with my boss.” She smirks.

I reach behind my back to take her hand in mine with our fingers slightly tangled. Her fingers laid on top of mine in a sort of old-school hand dancing manner. Not crossing the line of interlocking our hands but somehow this was more intimate. I twisted around to adjust her position so my back was to the stage so I could twirl her under herself. She so carefully held her drink in her opposing hand. We both leaned back and I pulled her into my body so we were hipbone to hipbone, lung to lung, fully meshed.

Our chests fell and rose with pure intensity. Her body emitted a sweet heat, I felt her breasts press into my abdomen, her hand still in mine but now those same fingers that held my shoulder were entangled, into mine and her palm. I hope she couldn’t feel how clammy my hand is. In one gulp, she finished her drink and ran it to the bar leaving me feel suddenly freezing cold. I stood awkwardly awaiting her return and she twisted her hips on her way back with her smile as vibrant as ever.

The band transitions into an Aretha classic, A Natural Woman, a song that always resonated with me but never by thinking of anyone else. I reach out my hand and her empty one slopes across the back of my neck. I nearly sighed out loud from the tension wracking up in my body. I guided her other wrist to follow her feet inching forward so naturally I gripped her hips. I saw her inhale.

I stuttered backwards and pressed my lids together.

“We shouldn’t.” I said.

Her brows knitted together so innocently as she filled herself into the space that I created.

“Okay,”

That’s it. Okay? I wanted her to fight for me, this isn’t how I —

“Abigail, we were just dancing, nothing more.”

“Ms. Anderson,” I mutter. “Please.”

She steps closer.

“Ms. Anderson, I’m sorry I made you feel uncomfortable.”

We were practically inhaling each other. Those eyes had a low fury that ached to come out, she wasn’t upset with me but encouraged by me. Sipping every second and clinging to my words glancing at my lips and trying to sober up on them.

“No, it’s not your fault, I wasn’t uncomfortable.” I admit.

“Good, I didn’t mean anything by it,”

How do I tell her I wanted it to mean something?

“We can go if you like.”

We stared at each other and as I opened my mouth to speak, a tipsy young butch pushed me into her. Without thought I wrapped both hands around her waist, fingers grazing her ass, to stabilize myself. I twist my head around to face them upset at the fated events.

#lesbian #abby x reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson tlou2 #abby the last of us #tlou abby #abby anderson #wlw and nblw only #abby x you #the last of us part two #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson x reader

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beforetimes · 2 months ago

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hey mf what about healing in ur reversal au. huh. what about love. what about peace. also would this be romantic … would the role reversal also apply to their romantic feelings where its shen “so deep in denial” yuan who realizes he has a crush first … thats funny. but the most important part is the healing actually Can You Fix Them Now …

lllmmmfffaaaaooooo... i got you don't worry.....

yes! it would be romantic. but i think shen yuan's obliviousness is something that carries over throughout many universes and that rule would hold true here. instead of working with the 'luo binghe is going to kill me to get revenge' mindset, it's tweaked to be 'luo binghe is going to kill me to level up and become the greatest cultivator there was.'

i think luo binghe would probably figure out he's in love with shen yuan sometime after sacrificing himself for him in jinlan city. and he would resolve to try and convince shen yuan of this fact while shen yuan would just be? so entirely confused and conflicted. constantly swinging between 'luo binghe shouldn't be acting like this' and 'the plot dictates that i'll die by his hand, this must be a trap and i refuse to get caught in it.'

oh what would be fun! would be like. since i'm not including tianlang-jun's capture as canon in this. that storyline would shift over to these two! where cang qiong and huan hua's collection of cultivators tries to convince luo binghe to lure shen yuan someplace so they can trap him — because following luo binghe's 'death' in jinlan city, shen yuan went a bit. nuts.

luo binghe disagrees, obviously, but something happens that leads to shen yuan believing that he's been betrayed, anyway. sort of like the face off at the very end of the third novel, shen yuan and luo binghe tear away from the rest of the crowd and convinces him of what luo binghe's been trying to tell him for ages now—that he loves him and he'll never send him away again, he doesn't want shen yuan to leave, he never has, he keeps misspeaking and he needs shen yuan to know, without any confusion between them, that he'll stay with him forever. and he loves him.

whether or not they'll have sex is up in the air; i think here it wouldn't be necessary. shen yuan's relief at not dying and that his shizun still loves him despite his demonic nature would be enough for him.

and the healing; a lot of it i think would come down to communication. the bulk of misunderstandings between them were mostly due to luo binghe's words; "you can't leave," "you were supposed to be dead," etc. and shen yuan sees these and reads into them far too much—i think once the dust settled and the two departed from cang qiong mountain to live their own lives, shen yuan would always talk to luo binghe, at first hesitant as if he's scared to get scolded or told to be silent before picking up steam and getting less and less stilted as time passes. he would tell stories about his 'travels' (strange things he came upon while searching for luo binghe following his death in jinlan) and tell luo binghe about the demonic monsters he's grown so fond of.

and luo binghe would in turn! offer that same openness with shen yuan, instead of holding his cards close to his chest the way he did when he was depressed and unwilling to live, let alone speak. testing boundaries when it came to touch, pda, just about everything, would be done step by step, carefully on both ends; shen yuan scared that he'll hurt his shizun because of his demonic nature and luo binghe still harbouring guilt from pushing shen yuan into the abyss.

a lot of late night convos would be in the cards for them as well, i feel. moon shining over their bodies while they lay curled up, face to face in bed, fingers tangled together while shen yuan haltingly tells luo binghe about the abyss. and in turn, an almost clinical reiteration of qing jing peak's general upkeep following shen yuan's supposed death from luo binghe. getting it in the open doesn't make it better, necessarily, but they're both privy to slight habits to avoid, details not to mention, and smells and sounds to avoid as to not upset the other.

i think they wouldn't live in the bamboo home nor in the demon realm. a small home somewhere else, nestled in a quiet meadow within the heart of a forest where shen yuan could encounter the local wildlife and where luo binghe could retreat when his peak became too suffocating. books dotting just about every piece of furniture because shen yuan had a bad habit of starting a book and picking up a new one without finishing the former. luo binghe has the kitchen stocked to the brim and every few weeks invites shen yuan with him to search through the local flora for spices and vegetables, tending to a slowly-expanding garden next to their home. there's a stream nearby that leads to a deep and lonely pool that shen yuan and luo binghe sleep next to, sometimes, stars from the night sky reflected in the water so it feels like touching clouds and pinpricks of lights when shen yuan's hand skims over the surface.

i think shen yuan would have issues with doing his hair; he wasn't good at it as a disciple and got into the habit of letting shizun fix it up for him before he was sent into the abyss. and didn't have time to fix it between fighting for his life and being constantly drenched in blood. so upkeep with his hair always ignites a deep sense of dread in him. he tries and vaguely succeeds after coming back from the abyss, but it's always a fight to wrangle it that leaves his scalp stinging. luo binghe would make up for so much lost time by carefully and slowly gathering his hair, pulling it up and pinning it in place with a hairpiece, all with gentle hands every morning. and shen yuan would let himself get pampered before returning the favour, deft fingers combing through luo binghe's curls. i think! this is the first truly intimate thing between the two of them that they'd let become a habit.

their home would still be connected to the bamboo house; an array, maybe? so luo binghe could be there and back without too much travel. but as far as qing jing peak was aware, there was only the bamboo house and nothing else. shen yuan and luo binghe are very happy to let this assumption become an imagined universal truth.

edit: well i said sex wouldn't be a necessity but i thought up a version of that particular maigu ridge scene in this universe that could work and! now i am. definitely writing it in. trust

masterpost

#milez asks!#svsss #scum villain #scum villain's self saving system #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #shen yuan #svsss au #milez's role swap au #shizun luo binghe #disciple shen yuan

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eriochromatic · 4 months ago

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I have a question

What is Silco to Vi ? Only a care taker or even a father figure like in canon with Jinx *gasp* will she call him someday dad too ? 😱

(I'm assuming this is about my AU otherwise it would make no sense LMFAO)

yeah I would say he's definitely a father figure to Vi, but obviously their relationship is vastly different from Silco and Powder/Jinx in canon… Silco still sees himself in Vi but in the "hotblooded revolutionary ready to throw hands at topside" way rather than "I got betrayed by someone who was supposed to protect me" for Powder,,

I think in canon Silco was definitely projecting all his trauma w/ Vander onto Powder's relationship with Vi (I don't blame Silco though bc parents just want to help their children in any way they can, Silco thought by forging a new identity he was able to "get past that" so that's what he taught Powder) but if Silco is dealing with Vi instead, I don't think he'd do that since it's not relevant. Since Vi's older, it's not gonna be as easy to influence her compared to Powder who was like 10 or something.

We never get to see exactly what Silco tells Jinx about Vander (beyond that short conversation in the river where it seems he's still pretty bitter and Jinx is totally over him reiterating the same thing over and over again lol). Vi has a lot more memories with Vander compared to Powder (she would probably be Vander defender #1), so I feel like during those talks rather than Silco focusing on how Vander betrayed him specifically, he would focus on the fact that Vander in a certain way betrayed all of Zaun by making that deal w/ the enforcers. Vi was already sort of feeling that in s1e2 when Vander refused to fight the enforcers, Silco would definitely play into that frustration bc I mean, he still felt the same way. I think after the first few arguments about Vander both Silco and Vi would be on the same page of basically Vander being a good man but a stagnant leader who was too comfortable w/ the status quo (which is basically my point of view as well HAHAHA)

As for specifically calling him dad idk though HAHA I guess that's just not rlly a word I think the characters would use in the sense that like. Vi, Jinx (also Mylo) calls Vander "their father" but doesn't use the term "Dad" for him directly, they just call him Vander. I think it would be the same here where if you ask Vi who Silco is to her she'd probably say something like "he's like my father" (I don't think she'd directly say "he's my dad" since it would be too painful and she probably has emotional baggage abt erasing Vander and Connol's memories or smth idk) but the sentiment is still there. Same thing w/ Silco tbh like he'd obviously see Vi as his daughter but he would never say it out loud (unless he was pushed to the brink like the canon situation where he calls Jinx his daughter LMFAO hopefully that never happens to him). I think they would both outwardly downplay how much they actually care for each other

#erio's silco and vi au

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

Black Metal and Bourbon (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 10.7k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, smut, NSFW, sex & intimacy, praise kink, brief thoughts of exhibitionism, p-in-v, fingering, hand job, some sub/dom dynamics, sub!Simon for a bit, soft!Simon, property damage, bike crashes (wear helmets everyone), violence, past toxic relationship, sabotage, attempted murder, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your fingers tighten around Simon’s waist, the helmet you’d been given pressed into his shoulder as the both of you slice through wind—an engine roaring below you from the Honda Rebel 500. The fit was a tight one, Simon not having a proper second seat beside the passenger kit he’d been quick to install not a few hours before when you’d hesitantly asked for a ride into a neighboring town. Your body was directly above the back tire, and Simon had been firm in his words when he’d been adjusting the back suspension in the bustling shop.

“You’re not lettin’ go until we get there, copy? I feel your grip loosen, I’m pulling over.”

You had begrudgingly agreed, needing the high-quality art supplies a twenty-minute drive away. The stores here didn’t have what you needed, and, not owning a car as this town was entirely walkable if need be, this was your only option.

Once you’d gotten on that bike though, Simon hadn’t needed to reiterate himself about holding on—you did that all on your own. Yet, that wasn’t to say you weren’t enjoying this.

Lips peeled back into a smile, your eyes stare out across the unfolding hills and mountains in the distance; fields of verdant grasses and trees. The vibrations of the Rebel left your head jittering, but this view was the clearest you’d ever seen.

Chuckling, the driver under your rib-cranking hold blinked at the nearly missed sound, only able to tell from the movement of your chest at his spine. Simon’s sunglasses glinted over the thin sliver of flesh that would otherwise be the only piece of his face visible, and his fingers twitched as he stared ahead at the open road. The man had given you his leather jacket, taking a spare of black coloring like an all-dark cat, his boots and pants matching the theme that carries over.

You shout above the whipping of the airways.

“This is amazing!” Simon puffs a laugh at that, though his heart patters ever faster like a dog at the turn of a key. He doesn’t answer, even if his lips itch into a smirk to tell you he’s appreciating the spinal re-adjustment you’re giving him.

Your laugh echoes out through the scenery, and your heart has never been more full.

It had been a decent amount of time since Simon and the others had come into town—three weeks since you’d been hired on your off days to go and paint the mechanic’s shop. A base coat had already been applied, then the secondary and the final with the help of a very animated Soap saying that no one could get to the tops of the walls better. Gaz had seen him hit himself with the soggy paint roller not five minutes later after trying to flip it, and that had been the end of the interference on your work.

All that was left was to start the mural.

There hadn’t been a peep from Graham or his goons—they’d even left you alone on your walks back home. As much as you wanted to be elated about it, there was a brief stint of paranoia in the days that had followed the party. Graham Whitaker was a coward, but he didn’t…let things go.

But holding onto Simon Riley as he pulled into the nearby town made that sharpness at the back of your mind flee in an instant. The mountains and fields dissipate to tiny houses and long stretches of connected businesses—sun-washed bricks surround you as Simon shifts the tires to dodge potholes.

His head moves slightly to the side, and you hear the call through your borrowed helmet.

“Where am I headed?”

“East side!” You rest the bottom of the helmet on his shoulder, seeing a sliver of his October browns through his sunglasses as he rips his eyes back to the road. “Look for the rose bushes!”

“Makin’ me go deaf,” Simon mutters to himself, but he does as you instruct. Parking in the street outside of the art shop, he moves out the kickstand with one foot—the other resting on the ground so you don’t tip. He gives you a look over his shoulder to get off first as the engine cuts and the jungle of keys comes to silence inside of his pocket.

Giggling, you let go of his hard waist and step out to the concrete of the sidewalk, turning around and fixing the strap of your carry bag with a hidden grin.

“I think I just found a new form of transportation.”

“Then you can forget about it,” Simon smirks, taking off his sunglasses and sticking them to the neck of his compression shirt. “Helmet, Sunshine.” He reminds, looking around for a moment.

You slap your hands to the side of the item around your head as you continue to giggle like a child, elated and feeling the throws of wanderlust—you’d never felt so alive than when watching the world pass by at your sides. How quickly you can form a routine of boring days, one after the other. You felt…light again.

A finger grabs at the visor, flicking it up as your crinkled eyes come into view for the gruff man and his raised brow.

“You drunk?” Simon stares, tilting his head as he looms closer, studying you up and down.

“No, Brown-Eyes,” you roll your eyes teasingly, waving his hand away as you unclip and pop the helmet off before it’s leveled back to him. He takes it and holds it loosely in one grip, blinking at you slowly. “I’m excited. Can I not be excited, then, huh? Not happy seeing me enjoy your company?”

“Let's get this over with, yeah?” Simon shakes his head but his amusement is heard, slipping past as you eagerly follow after, expression airy.

You hum, leaning into him and smirking.

“C’mon Simon, you’re completely taken with me—I can see it.” There was no question that the two of you had become close. There was rarely a night when he didn’t come to visit you at the bar; had even taken up walking you back home too, though there was little need to. Simon had said it was because he had nothing else to do, but you doubted it. Since the shop had opened, there had been no shortage of work.

The man grunts as he opens the door for you with a shoulder, sending you a blank eye. “Taken aback.”

“Fucking jerk,” you grin at him as you slip inside, face loose with banter. Simon chuckles lowly and follows, standing behind you as his boots clop to polished tile floors.

This place was exactly how you remembered it—holding an old feel with the beams in the ceiling and the raw brick walls. There are tables with paints and brushes, all neat and orderly with unique looks and designs to them, even the wall has shelves of old wood holding hidden nicknacks and unique wonders.

Simon gazes around with a glint of interest in his eye, understanding now that the painting was better off in your hands. He has to wonder how you managed to find a place like this.

“Over here,” you say. Walking to the very back, your hands are already reaching for the quality brushes you’d need for the mural. Simon’s hands slip into his pockets, stance casual in a way he’d thought he’d lost a long time ago.

It was no secret that Simon trusted very few people. It wasn’t just because of his past military experience, it was his life in general—each turn led to something that could go wrong like a gun in the hands of a criminal. But you had been nearly sly in the way you’d grown on him.

The quick-witted comments, the way you spoke and carried yourself; your light and unapologetic attitude. He was ashamed to admit how many times he’d stared at the bar from his shop’s garage—under the body of some car with grease up to his elbows, legs dangling as his back was on top of the creeper. Brown eyes that can pinpoint your form before his mind blanks and sweat pools at his collarbone.

It was something that Simon was afraid to name.

“Bloody expensive,” the man mutters in the present, fingers pushing at the price tag of some paints nearby. “You sure you need this shit?”

“It’s not shit, Riley,” you scoff, grabbing two large brushes and three smaller ones from wall buckets, pointing one at him. “But I have to agree on the expensive part. You should see how much I would spend when I was really into art. You’d puke your blackened guts up.”

Simon hums, giving you his attention as you peer at a table of rich paints in smaller cans a few feet away.

“Why’d you stop?” He asks, the soft tinkling of piano music coming from somewhere in the back.

You pause, your back turned to him as you look at the label of a small aluminum container of enamel paint for vehicle detailing. Licking your lips, you clear your throat and ease out a nonchalant, “Graham,” and end the conversation there with less blood spilled.

Your Ex had almost sucked all of the individuality from you—you’d barely made it out as you are.

Simon’s eyes darken, clenching his jaw after a moment as looks away. It's only when you put back down the enamel paint can that he speaks again.

“He wasn’t worth your time,” he eases out, giving firm advice like orders. As if he wants you to believe what he’s saying to the fullest degree. “You know that?”

You snort, turning back around. “Yeah, I know it. Why do you think I threw the guy out? He ran through women like a damn kid with a stack of new playing cards.”

Simon blinks from over his mask as you walk to the counter, putting down your brushes and adding in a few containers of nice pigment. As your fingers ding the bell up front, your free hand digs for your wallet.

Before you can pull out the wads of cash that you’d need to pay, smelling of booze and all, a credit card hits the table. You stare at it in silence for a moment.

“Simon?”

“You’re putting it on my wall,” he rolls his shoulders to dispel tension from the previous conversion as the employee comes out from the back. “M’not going to make you pay for the tools to get the job done. Not a fuckin’ heartless bastard.”

“Heartless? No,” you tease, though your face burns and crashes with a fiery inferno of adoration. Inside of you, your stomach flips and your throat tightens. Oh, it was coming on bad, wasn't it? “A bastard…?”

“Shut it,” Simon glares from the corner of his eye as you raise your hands innocently.

“Alright, alright. A very handsome and generous bastard, better?” You hear a hum, a huff of breath.

“Getting there.”

The ride back was much the same, but it still filled you with awe. Your hands were looser now, even with the added weight from your filled bag, but that didn’t mean you weren’t aware of Simon’s presence. Once more your helmeted head was set at his shoulder blade, resting as your lungs pulled in fresh air even if it was a bit heated from the barrier. Simon had pushed the thing back onto your head the minute your leg was about to straddle the bike, firmly grabbing your chin and tilting your face forward as he shoved it on.

“Safety first, Sweetheart.” You had sworn you nearly went weak-kneed at that.

But the sturdy presence before you made a very comfortable headrest even if the longer ride was beginning to make your legs ache and give you a migraine from the noise.

Your hand was flat to the man’s covered flesh, the oversized jacket around your frame, and in that moment you discovered that you were almost entirely submerged in Simon Riley until it became impossible to remember who you’d been before him. You were drowned in his scent—his presence an ever-present weight of purpose and prospect.

Blinking over the view and feeling Simon’s pulse under your fingertips, you realize with a start that Graham had never made your stomach fill with butterflies over a simple word; never made you pause or have to re-think your thoughts because you’d entirely lost them when he entered a room.

With so much going on, and at the same time so little happening…what exactly were you supposed to make of it? There was no question you liked Simon—there was no question he liked you, either. It was obvious by the looks Price would give the two of you when you came by with lunch for them all; free drinks.

How the both of you would sit and talk, exchanging stories while Simon showed you the adjustments he had made to his bike. The issue was that you and Brown-Eyes were stubborn. Pigheaded.

Emotionally constipated.

Your eyes drag along the view, but they always shift back to the body that’s stuck in your grip; how his heat moved through his clothes, warming your wind-beaten hands. You’re right there at his back, hanging off him and you feel…good.

There just had to be something to make one of you snap.

Entering the garage, Simon once more parks his bike and lets you get off first, and you unclip your helmet and slip the object from your head with a puff of air.

“Thank you, Simon,” you breathe, watching him stand. “Drinks on me tonight, okay?”

“No need for that,” his brows pull in, confused. “If I didn’t want to, I would have told you.”

Your hands pass the helmet, which he takes as your fingers brush one another's lightly. You repress a sharp inhale, scoffing playfully at him as your eyes soften.

“I’m not going to leave without saying thank you and you taking it, Brown-Eyes.”

“Well, then I just took it, Sunshine.” Simon motions his head outside. “Now get going ‘fore I come to my senses.”

Laughing, you shrug and take your leave, all of your items safe in your bag for a time when you could use them next.

“I’m already gone,” you breathe, and a soft brown gaze sticks to your form as you cross the street and slip inside to clock in.

A truck parked down the street has its window glinting in the sunlight. It seems to agree.

—

Simon tipped back the last of his bourbon and sighed, putting it down on the bar top as you polished glasses.

“Anything happen today?” He asks you as you put the sparking material to the light, tipping it to try and find smudges before it passes your acute inspection.

“Nothing interesting,” you respond, humming. “Had to kick a few guys out, but it was nothing big.”

Simon’s interest makes his eyes shift to you like a wave, head tilting to stare as the warm light cascades over your figure. He waits for you to continue, but when you don’t, he prods with a slightly concerned undertone.

“Why?” Your lips twitch as you turn to look at him, exasperated.

“Put a cork in it, Big Guy, it was just a few who had too much to drink—I cut them off and sent ‘em home.”

Simon grunts, “That’s a girl.”

You ignore the way your heart jumps to your throat and the tingling of your arms. “Anything with you?” Your voice is higher than it should be. “Beat off any bartenders from your property?”

“Can only think ‘o one,” he speaks slowly, his voice wafting about as the both of you were the only people here. Your chuckle makes his heart constrict in on itself.

“Oh,” you tease, face pulling in with mock confusion. Your body moves closer as it leans into the wood. Simon’s lips twitch from where they're visible, the fabric of his balaclava pulled over his nose. “Tell me about her.”

“Yeah?” He speaks in a low murmur, eyes half-lidded in that dead-and-buried kind of way—only he could pull that off and still look so handsome. You had said once that he felt like danger, and you suppose that had to be true. Simon Riley was danger, and you had taken those snake fangs and put them directly in between the cross-hairs of your neck and your pulse, waiting, wanting for that fatal strike.

You had bet that the sting of those fangs might just be the best pain you’d ever felt.

Simon Riley was unabashed freedom.

“She likes to think that she’s the bloody boss o’ me,” Simon grunts, scars, and tattoos on full display; there’s blackened grease on his fingers, under his nails. You listen with bated breath. “Comes ‘round all the time now, hangs like she’s under a noose. I can’t figure her out. Not for the fuckin’ life of me.”

Simon doesn't know what he’s saying, but he can’t quite help himself when you’re looking at him like that. Your eyes going wider, your usually snappy and quick tongue silent as you take his words in like law. It was addictive to see you gobsmacked—the man has to stop himself from thanking Graham Whitaker for being such a fucking fool even if the thought of ever being near that man again made him want to clench his fists.

“And?” You push, trying to force your mouth into a playful smirk, but anyone can see it for what it is. Your faked emotion falls short, leaving behind only that which Simon can claim to be the sole owner of.

Astonishment. Admiration down to its base form—a woman gazing at something that should not be, and yet is here among the ashes and ruins of broken earth and open roads. A sliver of sky between the rain clouds.

“And?” Simon mirrors, that numb mock.

The both of you are closer now, puffs of air hitting the other. Everything in this bar became a backdrop, shifting colors and images like some dream. The dart in the ceiling was nothing to you—the tables that needed to be buffed, the bottles restocked; even the trash that you usually took out at this time was only a shape in the corner of your vision. It all blurred around him, and while you spoke again, Simon understood that he had left the city for something new; something that he could revel in and worship like he had his guns and his duty.

Your sentence is whispered.

“Why did you come here?” To this town? There was no answer for that. It was picked at random—even Price knew that. It was nothing special, not even to the bugs. But here…

Simon parts his lips and utters on the lightning of the air particles, all rushing past as if he was still on his motorcycle with you—your hands around his waist and your nails digging into his flesh.

“For a bartender that keeps making my damn head spin.”

For a long minute, there’s nothing that happens. The AC whirs and the lights outside flicker over the stretch of the empty street. In your chest, your heart hammers with the strength of the Titans. A mechanic, a veteran; a man with broken, October eyes.

How could he be the one thing you were looking for?

Your eyes stay locked, those shredded flecks of color holding secrets that you want to know instantly—you want to learn his tattoos and the way he thinks, know Simon's dreams and aspirations. To you, that was better than any physical destination or journey because it was one in and of itself.

Simon was an enigma.

“Keep talking,” you mutter, lips so close now that they brush the man’s own. He doesn’t blink as he watches you, his lungs unsteady in his chest as he takes down a deep breath.

“Why’s that, Sunshine?” His voice is raspy, and his accent makes you shiver.

Simon’s tongue comes out to lick at the corner of his mouth, sneaking back in as your gaze flickers down to watch pupils blown. “Because I like it when you speak to me like that,” you have to admit, a whine trapped in your throat that you won’t let out.

There’s a low chuckle that makes your legs close together, moving like honey through your veins.

“Can do more than talk.”

This is a game—a test—can either of you go this far? Is it more than lust, is it more than some strange attraction between two people who don’t belong here? A relationship of need rather than want?

You don’t care enough to test it, because if there’s one thing that this town taught you, it's that you don’t need to worry about the future so long as there’s something promising right in front of you.

And Simon Riley was as promising of a man as you had ever met.

Your lips meet his, and his hand is eager to snap to the back of your skull, pushing you into him as your eyes pull shut and the edge of the counter digs into your guts. Air is exhaled from your nose, mouth heavy, and skin hot as it digs and molds to the rough scrape of Simon’s stubble. His fingers pulse into your scalp, waves of something sawing you open as he stands quickly from his stool and pulls away only to push right back in.

Your hands move into fists on the counter, stuck in this dance of wet lips and shaky legs.

Simon groans into your mouth, shifting his head as a purr emanates from his chest and makes you respond with a silent gasp that he takes advantage of. A tongue slips to run over your own as the lights glint outside, pushing itself in before retreating just as swiftly before teeth nip at your swollen bottom lip. Your eyes snap open, locking with deep wells of brown that seem more endless than the depths of space.

You both breathe heavily, the bar silent to the two souls that seep into one another. Not once do either of you look away from one another.

The man seems hesitant, and before he speaks, the rasp in his voice is felt as he blinks.

“These parts in me have been shuttin’ down, Sunshine.” Your brows slightly pinch in for a moment, confused at this turn in tone—cocky had gone to still-stone as if Simon had laid eyes on Medusa herself.

But you know what he means. You’d seen it in his stature and how he spoke to others; you knew nothing much of his past beyond a handful of stories from his service and none of them had been pretty. And of his childhood, you knew nothing.

You know it can’t have been good.

Your head softly tilts, a small, delicate smile forming the words of some long-lost deity.

“I’m sure you have the tools to fix them, Simon.”

He blinks at you, fingers still stuck to your head. “Don’t know if I remember how to use ‘em.”

Simon’s giving you a way out of this if you want to take it; you know that he thinks you should.

“...Then you’ll just have to teach me, won’t you?” You whisper, stubborn as always. “I told you I was good at keeping secrets, right?” He hums, eyes the most open and soft you’d ever seen them as he melts—forehead connecting to yours as your smile grows wider, truer. “Then I’ll keep yours closest, Brown-Eyes.”

You both kiss once more, more delicate as the man takes a deep breath of you. Your smirk pulls along his flesh like a brand as he holds in a quiver.

“What’s a bartender without a bottle of Bourbon on her shelf?” He growls into you, and not wasting a moment rips his lips from yours and wipes at his face with the back of his arm.

“Such a mouth,” he mutters, moving as you stand there to push open the half-door to let him get to you. You stand waiting, pulse wild and lips tingling. “Cameras?”

Your head shakes without you knowing it, and a finger is hooked under your chin, maneuvering it as he sees fit. Another grabs onto your hip, kneading it slowly as you melt into him. Your hands grasp into the back of his belt and his eyes spark—hips canting instinctually.

There’s a hard prod at your inner thigh.

“Only one at the door.” You set your chin to his chest, gazing up. “Back room?”

“Won't have you on the floor,” Simon says bluntly, unphased. Your core pounds, stomach tightens as you have a sudden need to get rid of your pants and touch yourself as dampness pools through your underwear.

“Such a gentleman,” you’re breathless, voice airy. “Guess I’ll have to be on top.”

Simon’s breath gets caught as you slip past him, sauntering to the back door and pushing it open as you slip inside. You had already started fumbling with the zipped on your pants as the man pushed on the barrier just before it could close, coming in and letting it slam behind him as the click of a lock could be heard.

With your shoes off, you can feel Simon’s eyes burning into you as your fingers send the zipper down your navel, the sound of the metal teeth being separated from one another a call to action. When your thumbs hook the top, ready to send the fabric down, you let the man watch before your eyes shift back up to lock together.

Simon’s gaze was intense—unblinking and unmoving beyond the slam of his heart and the pulse of the erection in his pants, begging to be palmed as you stood only feet away. The man’s hands clenched, knuckles going white.

While holding eye contact, you let the pants—and your panties—drop to the ground with a whoosh of fabric. Simon tenses, but doesn’t look away.

You smirk, taking a few steps forward.

“I’m surprised.” Your hand captures his waist, one moving to stroke along the prominent v-line that’s hidden by his shirt. Simon’s heavy breath meets your head as his blown pupils make his eyes look black entirely. He’s almost in a trance. “Usually I’d be having to snap my fingers.”

“Better than that,” he grits out raggedly. You have to agree.

Your mouth finds his neck as he leans back against the door, letting you do what you wish as his hands settle on your hips once more, rubbing up and down as your own eagerness drips from you. Simon clenches his jaw as you bite down, taking and sucking on the skin as he hisses when you give him hickeys, eyes fluttering.

“‘Such a mouth’ you said,” you comment, hand falling lower to hear the jingle as you unclip his belt. He stares off as your hand rests and cups him, sharply inhaling when you rub your palm over the large tent. Simon fights the sway of his hips, but the widening of his legs is telling enough, pelvis knocking forward as you groan, a line of slick falling down your thigh. “I’d bet you’d like my mouth, Brown-Eyes, wouldn’t you?” Your joke and your teasing of his dick—your hickeys and your sly eyes—they all at once snap something inside of him.

You find yourself manhandled with a squeak of shock and a jump in your gut as your legs dangle, moved back, and pressed into the very door where Simon had been moments before. Your feet settle as his figure descends.

“Your mouth, Sunshine?” Brown eyes glint, staring you down from where he taps your legs open to the air, kneeling with an open belt and pre-cum staining his pants. “Want to see what mine can do?”

There’s no more than a dangerous smirk before his face slots itself into the clutch of your pussy.

You gasp, hands going down to his covered hair as his nose slides along your clit, making lightning go up your spine as you push down on him, grinding as a long stripe is licked, tongue flattening out at the nerve before a loud groan makes Simon’s mouth vibrate as it attaches itself to you.

Giving you your own medicine, teeth lightly bite, tongue flicking as your cunt clenches over nothing, fingers grasping guilty as your head knocks back with a loud whine.

“Fuck,” you gasp, toes curling as your hips move back and forth.

Your body can feel his smirk, your juices leaking out to drip at his chin, falling down his throat as this beast of a man sucks and mewls around your clit like he’s possessed. Hands grasped your thighs, holding them open. Well, one anyway.

Lost in the movements of his mouth, cursing and gasping as he keeps trying to build you up to the point of rapture with every hard flick and measured nip, there’s no way your dopamine-addled brain can comprehend the fingers at your cunt before they’re already inside and curling outward.

You moan out his name pleadingly, the pace of your hips instantly increasing as Simon’s chuckle makes your lungs constrict. A separate heart-beat lives in your navel, skin sweaty and slick making its way down his fingers.

“Being so good,” your voice breaks as Simon’s wide eyes from below meet you as your head lolls forward. He stutters, hearing the wet squelching of your pussy as his movements cease for a moment. You whimper, face pulling in, and he instantaneously gets back to it with increased fervor and ferocity as if he’d never just felt his cock twitch in his pants and his abdomen bunch up.

Your eyes widen, rapturous moans falling from your lips in blown-limpness as his mouth and fingers do sinful things to you.

The sounds coming from below were feral and animalistic at best, sopping wetness and loud groaning—it makes it all so much better.

“So thorough for me, Simon. Making me feel so good Brown-Eyes,” you babble, tightening your core and palming hands shoving him impossibly farther into you. “Such a fucking perfect mouth—perfect fingers, knew you could make me cum on ‘em, please, Simon, fuck, oh God right there,” you break off of the praise into desperate whines. Your quivering body shakes and ruts faster, Simon’s stubble making it all burn in such a way that leaves you gasping, back begging to arch as everything comes to a tipping point.

Simon can feel it by the way your walls flex and pull in, how their slipperiness gets so loose it’s not even a problem to finger-fuck you even as your cunt bares down like a noose. Your fluids drip past his elbow, falling to his pants as his pelvis involuntarily tries to get friction from his zipper by humping the air in broken intervals.

He’s breathing heavily, but not as much as you are, broken up by groans, grunts, and his open mouth licking of your engorged clit. He’d never admit to you how much your praise was making him want to bust in his own fucking pants.

“S-Simon,” you knock your head back into the wall, eyes going glassy as the knot in your navel goes painful, a vile itching so very close as your spine begins to arch for the man’s viewing pleasure. “So close, oh God, so fucking good. Need it, Simon, need it from—”

Your breath hitches, fingers twitching into tight fists of fabric and the hair underneath as your walls clamp down.

Orgasm ripping through you, your voice lets out broken, airy, moans of Simon’s name like a prayer, hips continuing to spasm and toes curling inwards. Not letting up his assault, the smug man’s tongue and fingers draw the entire experience out until your legs are too weak to hold you, having to be pressed back into the wall by white knuckles and fingers stained with your cum. You hear it drip to the floor and see it when your half-lidded eyes blurrily make out the ragged appearance of an arrogant Simon, clear beads falling off of his chin and his lower face decimated by your pleasures. The bottom of his balaclava is stained—sopping with absorbed juices.

You both stare—you, lust-blown, and Simon, ready to grasp at himself and stave off the near-painful erection that needs to be taken care of.

But you’re true to your words.

Not seconds after your release had flooded him, your hands pushed at his chest and shoved him to the floor. Simon grunts but lets your hands quickly fiddle with his zipper and send it down. Not a moment is wasted, and the man’s hands move your hips higher as you pull his pants and boxers down just enough to let his dick spring free and slap his abdomen.

Your hand curls around it and he groans long, pushing up into your hand as you stroke him quickly and mercilessly with the spread of his weeping tip. Simon’s words come out as a way to steady himself, but the work of your hand is easy to get lost in as his voice is a growl.

“Tase so bloody good, Sunshine, yeah? Be needin’ that every day,” his mouth is taken in a kiss, and you tase yourself on his tongue as he shakes and his fingers flex into your flesh. “Fuckin’ hell,” he says as you lick his lips, panting below you as he quickly loses himself. “Not gonna…”

Simon’s orgasm builds incredibly fast—and not once does your hand slow in its course. He blinks in a blind panic, mouth letting off soft sounds of confusion as he looks down to see his red cock and how you play with it like a toy. You chuckle at him as his sounds get louder, legs rising, and the slapping of skin on skin addictive.

“You are good with your mouth—and your hands. Should have guessed really, you are a mechanic after all. Got yourself all worked up.” Simon's hand comes up to your head pressing your lips back to his as his abdomen tightens and quivers, thighs shaking as his hips try to meet your break-neck pace but just can’t.

What were you doing to him? Why can’t he last longer than a few mere minutes?

You break off and connect your forehead to his, brown eyes fighting to not go blurry and his mouth open with fast breaths. You push out as you feel his tip twitch and spurt prematurely, “Be a good boy and cum, Simon.”

He groans loudly, eyes fluttering as they try to stay locked to yours before the wet splatter of his rapid ejaculation layers yours as well as his abdomen sticky and soaked. It keeps going, not stopping until Simon’s eyes have come back down from where they had fled to the back of his head and his small grunted whine lets you know you should stop pumping him so violently.

You release his member and go to rub along his abdomen, massaging the skin and laying kisses on his clothed chest slowly. His hands loosen on your hips, thumb pulling back to carefully run circles into the flesh as you hum in appreciation.

Simon's quivering slows to a stop.

“You sure you only work a bar, then? Bloody fuckin’ hell.” Simon hisses, looking down at himself. “Made a fuckin’ mess, yeah?”

“Only fair,” you mutter, moving up to press your lips together as you both sigh. Simon’s breath hitches as your stomach rubs him. “I like having you under me. It’s nice to see you look confused.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, and a red sheen comes to his flushed face. “Won’t happen again.”

Your face goes mischievous, head tilting. Simon growls a weak, “Don’t.” You chuckle and hide your face into his neck.

“Don’t test it?” You ask into his flesh, your body still pulsing and needy at the display you’d managed to pull from the stoic man. Your tongue licks over your placed hickey with a newfound appreciation for the black and blue mark, blowing on it as Simon feels himself harden again. “Or don’t acknowledge that Simon Riley has a praise kink and when a woman tells him what to do he—”

Your spine settles to the floor, hands stuck on either side of your head and digging into the wood. Simon’s eyes glint primarily, and you keen to him as your arms move to wrap around his neck as your cunt tightens.

“Thought you said you didn’t want me on the floor?” He grasps your chin, moving his face to be above yours so he can speak plainly and dead-like. A surge of power takes over his voice, and you yield with a rising of your legs and a shiver as his fluid-slick abdomen slides over top of yours.

“That was before you made me cum in a matter of fuckin’ minutes by just stroking my cock. Now,” he breathes, “now I’m going to fuck you how you deserve.”

He grasps your legs and pulls them around his waist, locking them as he lines up his half-hard dick and bullies it inside of you, your arching back bends into him, but your shocked moan is cut off as Simon starts to move. The pressure inside of your pussy is tight enough to feel like it could snap—your gummy walls taking the curve of his veins and the grate of his head as the tip curves upward. On girth and size, Simon is the largest you’d ever taken, and your face pulls in with a mix of pain and pleasure before the latter takes over completely.

“Get me to be your toy, eh, Sunshine?” Simon keeps your chin grasped, not letting you look away as you try to garble words over the heavy slap of wet skin. “Keep me ‘ere so you can play with me like you’ve been doin’ from the start?”

“So full,” you seem to have lost that edge, staring up into brown eyes as your spine digs into the wood below you, your cunt taking the fast slaps of Simon’s prod as it reaches every part of you that you could ever ask. Every trust makes your legs tighten, clamping down to keep him there and ring pleasure like water. “Such a big cock, Simon.”

He huffs, but his pace increases, panting at you as your lips meet for a sloppy and slobbering kiss of teeth and saliva. Sweat falls from both of you, coating your faces and lower halves with more liquid to make this dance easier—staining already ruined clothes.

“Splitting you open, am I? So tight,” Simon grumbles, grunting as his elbows shift to stay beside your head. “Gettin’ me off so easily, need ta return the favor for making me feel so good, Sunshine. Bloody perfect cunt, takes my cock like it was made for it. Hear that?” Your skull moves to push into the side of his face as he bites at your neck, ravishing you as the forward and backward motion of his body makes your mouth hold back mewls of raw need. So many sounds—so loud and wet it was lewd, borderline obscene with every pump of the man’s hips that more just spilled out of you, pooling with every back and forth spreading of your hole.

Simon bites a long whine back and angles himself higher, making you shout and cry as a burst of white light explodes in your eyes.

“Making me want to fill you full of myself. Over and over, make you drip with it—go until you can’t walk. You’d take it too, yeah? You’ve got such a good look on your face, you bloody love it when I stretch you open like this—takin’ my dick so well, Sweetheart.”

You were both animals trying to get fix after fix—drunk off scent and a biological urge.

At the words, your pussy tightens around him even more, Simon holding back a loud groan and letting your little puffs of air grace his ears along with the ravaging dig of his fucking.

“You like that?” You whine, face burning as a hand descends to play with your clit. You gasp loudly and moan, not hiding the way your hips jump and rut and fight to keep Simon’s cock taking you raw.

“Simon!” You call loudly. “I like it—fuck I love it, Brown-Eyes. Keep touching me, please, please keep going. Keep talking, love it when you talk like that.”

“Makin’ fun o’ me,” he scoffs, “but the little temptress has the same bastard kink, eh? It’s alright, then. I’ll just help me get you off—”

The front door of the bar opens from beyond the wall.

The both of you stop all carnal desires instantly, wide eyes snapping back and locking with each other. A pin could drop, fast breaths and fast hips held back even as you both quiver and your nerves plead to keep going. The need doesn’t last long. Simon's fat hand covers your mouth as your eyes glint with panic before getting right back to it.

You try to speak, to get the words out that you should go out there, but it’s all cut off by the way he rubs you every right way. Your hand anchors to his back as someone walks around the bar, their voice muffled just like yours is, but this person has no idea you’re getting railed in the back room by the mechanic from across the street.

Simon’s eyes are dark and urgent, but his hands can't as the slap of skin that’s still incredibly loud, and the wetness that follows all but telling. Your moans and whines are hidden, kept back by a tight palm as he smirks down at you. His hips are bruising yours and you can feel the hard bone of his pelvis as it slots itself fully into yours.

“Good girl,” he whispers, accepting the words with hard thrusts that make you whine like a dog, pawing at his gargantuan shoulder blades. “Keep quiet. I’ll make you feel good.”

Your heart hammers, walls flexing and clamping at the words. Outside the walking continues, searching for you, no doubt. Simon's hips increase, almost cruelly, and your cut-off cries spill from between his fingers.

The bastard chuckles and watches, letting your hips meet his as your release builds with the added need to finish quickly.

It was rabid now your back arched, how the person outside mattered so little to you now, in fact, maybe you even wanted them to hear you like this—being fucked so perfectly to the point where you had tears in your eyes and your body was growing numb; mind blanking to only pleasure and the grating press of a foreign entity all the way to where it digs at your cervix and makes you see starts with every addictive thrust.

You can’t hear anything over the previous sounds, that and rough breathing are the only things in this hot room—the air tense and ready; anticipation a drug of the highest order.

“C’mon,” Simon grunts into your ear, hand flexing as his lungs burn. He wasn’t far away either. “Let me see it—how your face screws up all nice and pretty for me.”

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you can only stare at the ceiling as the door of the bar slams shut once more, whoever there leaving. Simon releases your mouth and you fall apart with a spine-breaking arch and a high, feral, keen.

Your release is subsequently followed by Simon’s own, his body spasming as he gives three more violent pumps before the warmth of his cum seeps into your womb with a loud groan and a pound of his fist into the floor. He grinds you both through the aftershocks, the sparks of electricity that make both of your hips jerk just a few more times before you fall limp and useless.

Simon stays inside of you as he shifts to the side, hooking one of your hips over his thigh as you stay face-to-face as your bodies gasp and pant for air.

When the two of you come back to yourselves, some delirious minutes later, the first thing that you both notice is the tightness of your clothes and skin. Glancing down at the mess you’ve made of yourselves, you both slowly look back into each other's eyes, pausing.

You’re the first one to snort, before you have to hold your loud laughs back behind your hand.

“Well, I sure do have some more secrets to keep,” you say through your fit, knocking your head to Simon’s chin. The man is smiling, his eyes crinkled and mouth jerking in a series of chuckles.

“Proper few.” The laughter died down to a simmering emotion of amusement.

You smile at Simon, and he stares back, a hand coming up to touch your cheek delicately before it traces the lines of your face.

“You know I meant it, right?” You ask him, and those browns blink at you in question. “What I said before we decided to fuck. About keeping your secrets.” Simon’s face gets slightly more serious. Your hand cups his cheek, feeling the stubble on your fingertips.

“Simon,” you say, “I don’t want this to just be a one-time thing, okay?”

He watches you for any glint of hesitation—of a lie. But there is none.

“Why,” Simon asks. Your answer is simple as you smirk, recalling words from a while ago.

“You’re just going to have to stick around to find out.”

Simon shoves his lips to yours and drags you back on top of him.

—

You both exit the back room two hours later, clothes ruffled and bodies far dirtier than ever. You have a limp in your step, a pulsing ache between your bruised legs, and yet you’d never felt better.

Simon presses a kiss into your temple.

“Walking you home,” is what he says, and you sigh through an adoring look. You were tired, incredibly tired, and you hoped that Simon would share your bed tonight so he could hold you like he did back there.

“Deal,” you wink, and the man huffs a chuckle, back to that same stoic mechanic that you knew.

It’s only then that you realize that Celina had never shown up for her shift. Pausing behind the counter, you blink and look around, confused as you flatten out your clothes. Simon catches on quickly, brows pulling in with concern.

“Something wrong?”

“Celina,” you tell him, “she never showed up.”

A beat.

“...Probably kept away,” Simon tries to lightly say, implication enough to make you scowl.

“No,” you utter. “She would have tried to break the door down if she actually came in. She never would have walked away.”

The man hums, pulling down his balaclava and looking about.

“What do you want to do about it?” It wasn’t mocking—he was being honest. Your lips thinned out in thought.

“Well…I can’t leave the bar unattended, she needs to be here in order for me to go home.” You motion a hand helplessly, shaking your head and walking forward. Through a sigh you grumble, “I guess I have to call her or I’ll—” A shadow darts from across the street and your head snaps to the dark window.

Words coming to a swift stop, you gaze outside with blank eyes, mouth open in confusion. Simon stands taller, not having seen the strange event but not liking the shock on your face as he pivots to the view to study it.

Brown darts over the street lamps and the closed body of his shop, along the sliver of the obsidian street and the tops of bushes in the plant boxes. But there was nothing there and Simon glanced back at you from over his shoulder with furrowed brows.

“Thought I saw someone in a…” you frown, eyes not leaving the window as your heart tightens. “In a mask.”

“Mh,” Simon watches for a moment before he grunts and tension seeps into his muscles. “Mask?”

“Like yours,” you say quietly, suddenly very still. “Without the skeleton.”

Simon moves back slowly, one foot backing up before he’s behind the counter again and shifting nearer to you—your eyes flicker upward but swiftly return to the view. He pulled out his phone from his wrinkled pants, and no sooner had he put it to his ear that you saw the individual again. This time it wasn’t just one shadow, it was three, and there wasn’t just a flash of black mist and then poof gone again—it was worse than some schoolyard prank.

There was a bat. There was the swing of a strong arm. The glass explodes with a resounding shatter and the shrill yell falls from your mouth not milliseconds later.

Getting tackled down, Simon keeps your head to his chest as he shifts to hit the ground first, body sliding slightly before you’re forced under him and protected by his bulk. Grasping at him, you clench your eyes shut as large projectiles are hurled through the broken window and make contact with the bar shelf right above the two of you.

But Simon doesn't move for a second. Not as the bottles shatter and drown him in alcohol and colored glass, not as the bricks fall back from gravity and strike his spine with a loud thump. He holds you to him, curled over your body as if in reverent worship, grunting as he takes the beating without thought to anything else but your safety. Loud shouts and laughter echo in from outside, but your wide eyes only stay and focus on Simon, his fingers gripping across your back and creasing your shirt. You flinch as a spec of glass knicks your arm, slicing through it with a sharp drag of an uneven edge.

Simon growls into your scalp, but as he attempts to squish you farther into him, the barrage, just as it had come, entirely stops.

Staying there, breathing heavily and your mind panicked, you have no time to think before Simon shoves himself up and snaps his enraged eyes forward. Like a large beast, his hands are in shaking fists, alcohol dripping from his shirt and glass pinging against the wood. You can smell blood.

“Simon,” you say in concern, moving to stand up quickly as you try to get your breath back.

What the hell had just happened?!

“Stay there!” he barks, eyes tight as they dart back and forth to nothing until they find something.

No one was there anymore, but in that absence, the true damage was brought to light. You ignore Simon’s words and shift until you can peek over the top of the counter, fingers shaking and mouth dry. The man beside you is stone-still, his darkened eyes lighting like fire and brimstone as the anger can all but be tasted in the air.

The mechanic’s shop across the street. Seen through the broken remains of the bar as if a tornado had come through on the dusty air.

It had been ransacked.

—

The illumination of the police lights takes over everything, pushing the dark away as Sheriff Russel tries to get statements from the two of you. But your attention keeps getting brought back to the stiff-standing presence of Simon.

He hasn’t spoken beyond clipped sentences, even when he’d called Price, Johnny, and Gaz to explain the situation.

“Can you explain what you saw?” The Sheriff eases, and your attention is drawn back.

“It wasn’t much,” you stutter, shaken. “Shadows—men wearing masks. One had a bat and hit the window before they started throwing bricks.”

Simon’s eyes shift over the damage, numb gaze finding more broken glass, thrown paint, and dents in the garage door. The front had been trashed with garbage, and the lobby was ruined—it was by some miracle that the bikes had been left alone for whatever strange reason.

It didn’t make him any less full of wrath.

Your hands are still shaking, and your arm still leaking small droplets of blood down your flesh. Simon’s injuries were worse; he’d taken the brunt of it, but he didn’t seem to care at all, even as the crimson liquid stains his wet back.

“Simon needs medical attention,” you speak lowly to the Sheriff, head moving forward. “Can we do this later at the station?”

“I’m fine,” the man in question grunts, voice deep with anger before turning and walking back to the two of you. Not once do his eyes stop searching the area; on high alert even now and not eager to be out in the open. Those old instincts were creeping back over him, and he wanted to get you somewhere safe so he could handle this situation himself.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know who was responsible and while property was one thing, your comfort was another.

How dare anyone do something like that to you.

“You’re bleeding,” you explain, eyes tight. A hand brushes over your arm, taking it up and inspecting the small cut that you wear.

Feet shift, and through a clenched jaw Simon utters, “So are you.”

“You know what I mean, Brown-Eyes,” you try to make him listen, but it’s fruitless.

“Don’t worry about me,” the Sheriff walks to assess the damage, letting the two of you speak in hushed whispers and firm looks.

“You sound stupid,” you hiss, and Simon’s fingers rub your skin softly, his study of your body taking place in a slow sweep. “Of course I’m going to worry.”

“Need to stop shaking.” Your face creases at the comment.

“I’m not shaking.” Simon grabs your hand and puts his fingers through yours, raising it between you so you can look. Your eyes shift down, and your limb can clearly be seen vibrating like an engine in his hold; the fingers unable to close fully.

Not speaking, Simon cups it with his other hand and presses, grounding you as your lungs take a deep breath before you can clear your throat.

“I’m fine,” your words barely make it to the air.

“...Now who’s sounding like me?” The man mutters eyes creased as he stares. “Breathe.”

You listen, taking another deep breath and staring at Simon’s chest.

“Up ‘ere,” a finger moves out to tap under your jaw, making you tilt your head up to lock with his browns. “There we are, then. Focus. M’right here.”

“You’re good at this,” you grumble, put off by your own separation from your body.

Simon tilts his head. “Had to be.”

You spare a strangled huff at that.

How quickly things could go wrong—you had thought that tonight would be the best night of your life, but now it was just one single instant that things had made sense, the rest a stain on your memory.

“You know it was Graham and his friends?” Simon nods, still watching you and making sure you’re calming down properly, waiting for that adrenaline crash. He knows. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Right now?” The man pauses. “Nothing. You’re coming down with me to the Bed and Breakfast. Staying there.”

So that was how Simon shifted his priorities, walking you down the road as more and more police showed up—there would be more talking in the morning, you had given them everything you’d known so far. It was also how you were mobbed by three more concerned mechanics as you entered their temporary living situation until houses were purchased, blue and brown eyes blinking at the two of you quickly.

“What in the bloody hell is going on?” Gaz had asked, but you were much too tired to speak beyond leaning into Simon’s shoulder and grunting.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Johnny had muttered, only in boxers as he’d shoved out of his room. “Heard the sirens—what’s been happenin’ without me?”

Price had been the one to finally settle everyone and push out a stiff order to leave Simon and you alone for the night. With various glances and tense looks, you were both allowed into your room with little more trouble.

It was tiny but clean, and Simon had locked the door with a grumble and moved you over to the bed so you could sit, moving off to run a bath.

You heard the pipes squeak—the whoosh of water as it entered the tub.

Your mind has still not entirely caught up to itself as Simon leads you forward and begins undressing you; taking off your top and letting you shift out of your own pants. The bathroom tile is cold, and you wrap your arms around yourself when you’re entirely bare as you can’t find the words to speak. That is, before Simon takes his shirt off and you see the damage that’s been done.

You gasp, hand reaching out but stopping above the cut skin surrounded by a million bruises and large welts.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, delicately touching the skin. None of the slices were deep, but the horror was still there. “Simon…”

Brown eyes soften, and the balaclava is removed as well before a kiss is dug into your forehead. The shade of his hair matched his eyelashes, and now with the full picture, he was as handsome as you imagined him to be, though to all others the scars and the crookedness of his nose might be a shock. You hadn’t expected anything different.

“Just bruises, Love,” he pets your neck, thumb running over your pulsepoint.

“You’re all cut up,” your eyes water, but your stubbornness holds them back as you try to take everything in from his willingness to show you his face to the events of tonight. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know that he would do something like this, really, he was always a jerk but he was never…never bold like this.”

Cupping his cheeks, you kiss his jaw, salty water tracking down your face as you hear Simon take in a breath. He pulls you closer and hugs you tightly, curling over you as if another barrage of bricks was imminent.

But there wasn’t going to be any danger here. Not with three other veterans down the hall.

“He ever…?” You shake your head, shakily uttering a quick response to Simon’s trialed-off question.

“No. No, I’d never stand for that.” The man’s broken body loosens, a long sigh exiting his nose in blatant relief.

“Good,” is all he says. “Deserve better.”

You sniffle, getting a reign on your emotions. “I’ve got better.”

During the shared bath, you clean the others’ wounds, your back to the wall as you run water over the stretch of Simon’s shoulders, washing away the blood. Your nails drag over his skin as he shivers, not looking back at you as he reaches behind and takes one of your hands into his. The black stain of his tattoos rubs along your bare arm as fingers intertwine, your limb moved and held to his abdomen as you kiss one of the knobs in his spine softly and hum to him.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin.

Simon doesn’t respond, only leaning back into you more.

—

Two days pass with no sign from Graham or his friends—Celine, either. Everyone in town was on edge, and in that time you’d been put on paid leave from the bar on account of your involvement and the potential involvement of your coworker. So, you spent most of the time at the shop with Simon, as he’d asked you to so he could keep an eye out.

You had thought that maybe this was a one-time event, and had believed it, as well. Graham had made a point, and being the idiot that he was, he’d pay for it. If he was smart, he’d be out of the country by now—there was no mistaking Simon’s vendetta now. Price had to reel him back in the day after the vandalism.

You’d woken up to an empty bed, having been fitted into one of Simon’s incredibly large shirts and sweatpants for pajamas, and heard arguing. Feet padding like a cat, you had pressed your ear to the door and listened with held-back breath, as if only a peep would make the heated conversation stop.

“He made her bleed, Price. He put her in danger!”

“Get your head on, Simon, you aren’t in the service anymore,” Price had hissed, shadows slinking along from under the door. “You can’t do anything about it.”

There had been a low growl, an aggravated breath.

“I can’t sit ‘ere when he’s waiting like a fucking robber. This is my responsibility— happened on my watch.”

“Since when did that fucking happen, Simon, eh? What’s been going on with you two?”

A pause. “...It’s complicated.”

“Then un-complicate it—you’re thinking like a damn soldier.”

So here you are, fixing the streaks of miscolored paint that had been spattered over the mechanic’s shop as Simon comes out, wiping his hands with a rag.

“Good thing I didn’t start on the mural yet,” you comment to him, stepping back and putting your roller down. The rag is offered and you take it with a small smile while you slide it over your fingers. “Else I would have tracked him down myself.”

“Would ‘ave helped.” October eyes flicker along the drying paint—the marks still visible. “M’sorry.”

“If you won’t let me apologize,” you raise a brow in challenge. “I won’t let you either.”

Simon’s eyes crinkle from behind a new balaclava, missing the skeleton details. “Cheeky.”

“It’s called being truthful, Riley.” You sigh through the tilt of your head. “But the bad news is that I had to use up the paint, and I’m not even halfway done with this. It didn’t help that they used a darker color than what I wanted as the backdrop.”

“Want to take a drive out, then?” The question is swift and honest as it's aimed at you like a distraction from the anxiety. Simon motions his head to the garage. “Got a bit before I’m needed, m’sure you could use a break, yeah?”

“You don’t have to,” you utter, moving to rest a hand on his bicep. He almost purrs at the touch, leaning in.

“Want to,” Simon grunts slowly. “Bikes are still good. Bastards knew I’d skin them if they touched ‘em.”

“I’m sure,” you chuckle, teasing him through a smirk. “Big Bad Simon Riley.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes at that, turning back around as you follow after, laughing.

You both get onto the Rebel, and the brown leather jacket moves your way along with the helmet, slipping it over your head not seconds later as Simon grabs his spare.

“Are you sure you shouldn't ask for another helmet?” You had brought it up the first time as well—the prospect of a crash.

“Only a small ride—I’ll go slow, Sunshine.” Knuckles tap the top of the helmet in reassurance. “Matters more that you’re the one wearing it.”

Your face creases up, but you sigh and nod, wrapping your hands around Simon’s waist and tightly holding on as the engine starts rumbling below you. Moving your feet up to the rests, you scoot closer as the man pushes off the ground, flipping the kickstand back up before he leans forward slightly and lets the bike do the work.

As before, the two of you get out of town and nature opens up—but as soon as you really start to let your worries slide away and focus on Simon’s pulse and the freedom he gives you, there’s a cold wind from the west. Coming up and dragging along with it, a dark rain cloud sits over you both about a seven-minute drive in.

“Should we pull over?!” You shout in question as raindrops begin to patter off your helmet. The bike makes a strange chirping sound, and you blink over Simon’s shoulder until your attention is taken away by his answer.

“Soon!” You nod, trusting him to know, and ease back. Your fingers trace the small bulge of scars at his waist, shivering.

One minute later, you’re about to say you can see the town ahead when that chirping starts again. Brows furrowing, you grunt in the back of your throat and yell, “What’s that sound, Simon?”

He glances back briefly, unable to hear you.

“The sound!” Simon’s fingers flicker, head moving down to the bike below him—the hum of the engine was too strong up here, he can’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

“What are you—?!”

There’s a great shriek of black metal, and the Honda Rebel 500’s front wheel breaks off from the motorcycle fork and the bike flips.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @aldis-nuts, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

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dragobread · 2 months ago

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the swap au doodle page is done :D + headcanons under the cut

to reiterate, in this au the main 6 have their personality traits swapped with each other and that’s it. any other stuff like history and culture remains the same

and bonus art of their full outfits

(there may be some overlap between my headcanons for the original and swapped characters)

California

Tough outdoorsman who will absolutely rub in your face how much better he is at surviving in the wilderness than you.

Also very annoying about how his state having the largest population is more important than Alaska having the largest land area and will go on a 6 hour rant about it

The patch on his neck is a burn scar

Seems “at peace” when he’s in natural landscapes like mountains or canyons, some people think he’s just doing it to be pretentious but he genuinely does feel relaxed in nature.

^This is also partially the reason why he feels uneasy sleeping in a room that doesn’t have windows where he can see the night sky.

Florida

Overworked vacation planner who is the embodiment of all your travel anxiety. Did you remember to bring your passport to the airport? Because he’ll be on your ass about it every 2 minutes.

Would unironically make one of these tombstones that says “here lies Florida’s hopes and dreams”

“You have to be at the airport a MINIMUM of 3 hours before your flight”

A part of his soul dies every time tourists trash his beaches. And also every time the other states rent timeshares so that they can be in uncomfortably close proximity to him

Needs everything to go according to plan and gets really pissed off at sudden schedule changes

Gov

One could argue that this is just canon Gov if he crashed out..

Stereotypical loud American who puts USA flags on everything he owns. And also has no volume control. He is literally the worst person to be around if you’re hungover or tired.

Overuses “i know your IP address/i know where you live” jokes…but he’s literally the government so he’s not even joking when he says it. He is the reason why VPNs were invented.

The song lyrics in the doodle page are from here btw

Has a motorcycle and crashes it into the state house for fun. And then he does the sad hamster face when he has to face the consequences of his actions.

Louisiana

Gator hunter + fisherman who wants everyone to leave him alone >:(

Sort of like swap!California in terms of being a survivalist who thinks he’s better than everyone, but he doesn’t show off as much because he really doesn’t want any reason to be around other people

Will take care of you if you’re sick/injured but very begrudgingly and he’ll judge you the whole time. He won’t let you leave until he knows for sure that you’ve fully recovered. Unless you slander his state then he’ll just throw you out the window

^He doesn’t like sharing his house with others, but despite that he’s still the best caretaker out of the main 6.

Wants everyone to be scared of him even though he looks like this to them

New York

New York actually tolerates being around people now??��not clickbait??😱

Usually found at one of the many nightclubs in NYC. I mean, it’s not called the “city that never sleeps” for nothing…

Good at coming up with puns/dad jokes on the spot. May or may not overuse them to the point of pissing off the other states.

Most people think he’s incapable of taking things seriously, but he just doesn’t like worrying about things unneccesarily.

Texas

Country boy i love you…

Still has that Texan pride, he’s just a lot more passive-aggressive about it now. Like if someone insulted his state, he wouldn’t fight them face to face, he’d just vaguepost about it on twitter that night.

^Despite this, he is a lot nicer than canon Texas. Maybe he’ll finally get along with Austin?

Has protective instincts over anyone or anything that looks vulnerable, but he gets scared at the sight of blood and other such things so he’s not as good of a caretaker as Louisiana

Has a bunch of Applejack plushies that he cuddles with in his sleep

#wttt swap au #wttt #wttt fandom #welcome to the table #digital art #wttt fanart #fanart #wttt florida #wttt new york #wttt louisiana #wttt texas #wttt california #wttt gov #wttt headcanons #so eepy

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flowerfreya · 10 months ago

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Did you want a picture?

Social Media AU based off of this post

Pairing : John Price x reader

John is a divorced dad with two teenagers and reader is a famous influencer think Victoria Paris , Jackie Aina , Monet McMichales type beat

John Price is a famous retired hockey player that played for over twenty years in the NHL. He’s always been a famous athlete despite all his attempts not to. He didn’t do any press and he only did a handful of sponsorships. No matter that, the fans loved him.

John Price was with his highschool sweetheart for a little over seventeen years with two kids now teenagers when they got divorced, the split was amicable understanding that they are just not in love anymore. His ex-wife means a lot to him , he still pays all the bills, she doesn’t work and he had to decide to be the one that moved out the house. His kids come to visit him all the time and with them being teenagers of course they are on tiktok and they think that it is hilarious when they record anything and it gets posted by every sports channel because they have never seen this side of him before.

John knows that he’s famous not just for being an athlete anymore but for being famous on social media as well. A lot more younger fans have come up to him asking for a picture than he’s gotten in years and at first it threw him off , but a year in he’s used to it now.

He’s see’s you walking down the sidewalk with pink headphones on and one of his older jersey’s , you're walking towards him , playing on your phone not really paying attention, and when you get close enough, “You want a picture?”, he ask.

“Huh”, you reply.

He reiterates the question and that’s when you take off your headphones and ask, “Where’s your phone for the picture”.

“Wouldn’t we use your phone”, he replies.

“I’m sorry but I can’t give you my phone number”, you smile back at him but it’s a bit strained, thinking that this weird guy wants your number.

“I think there's some confusion,luv”,

You tilt your head to the side, “Aren’t you a fan?”

“No I’m not a fan, are you ?”

“I don’t know who you are”, you say with a laugh and you start to back away obviously this is not an interaction you want to be a part of.

“Your wearing my jersey”, John points down at your shirt, which makes you look down,

“You’re the Rangers?”, you ask sarcastically.

“No, but I am the man on the back of the jersey”, he says with a smile.

“Oh, anyway, did you want a picture”, you ask him, kind of over this back and forth.

“Sure,luv”, John hands you his phone and you lift it up in a selfie motion and right before you take the picture , you hear him sniff and then moan, which causes you to turn your head and snap the picture.

When John gets home , he’s ambushed by his teenage daughter demanding what he does to you? He’s confused , he doesn’t even remember having had a long day with practice and then meetings after that.

“What are you talking about?”, he ask his daughter calmly. She explains that someone had recorded the whole interaction about worlds colliding and memes being made about mixing the friend groups, and opposites attract.

He mentions that he ran into you but didn’t know who you were. John’s daughter just about screams when she realizes that her dad met just about the most famous influencer , maybe not in the world but you're up there. His daughter gets an idea, her dad needs to met you again, she saw the connection between the two of you, she hasn’t seen her dad like that , well ever.

#influencer!reader #hockey player!price #task force 141 #john price x readee #captain john price #dad!john price

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44-moved-44 · 4 months ago

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( i feel bad for being so bad at healing )

This piece is very personal to me as I've been going through an extremely tough time and Heart is an extremely personal character to me, so making an art piece about my specific AU of him's rough healing journey really helped despite the VICIOUS "(bad thoughts)" as Heart would call it going through my head.

Because of this, just this once, I want to reiterate that I do not want any Jashshippers, pro-shippers/dark-shippers of any kind, conservatives, TERFs, or anyone who takes pleasure/pride in being a bad, mean person (bragging about doing bad things, loving arguing, boasting about trash-talking, etc.). This art means a lot to me and these types of people are the exact types of people that made me spiral while drawing this (mostly pro-shippers), so please, I request that you leave this alone if you are one of those people. We don't have to fight, just please respect my boundaries.

With all that being said, I would be head over heels if any of you were to gush/over-analyse this art immensely. There's a lot to it.

General context: Lost at Sea is about as close-to-canon as my CCCC AUs get, and it's not close to canon at all. It takes place within a condensed Mindscape-island far off the coast of Long Island (formerly Australia, before Soul broke even more) where Heart and Mind had grown up in-isolation. It is generally inaccessible but there is a bus that can go to and from the island, which is how Heart and Mind had interacted with Soul's family and later on leave the Mindscape island itself. For most of Heart and Mind's life, they had only known each other; initially very close, before Soul's self-loathing had spiralled so far that Heart and Mind broke their oath to attempt to make Soul be "whole" again {unknowingly to Soul, Whole already exists; Whole is Soul when he's asleep, and Soul is Whole when Soul's asleep} and begun to become viciously at war with one another, in an attempt to repair Soul with their own ideals.

Heart had been so tired of never having been listened to by Mind or Soul and being simply rejected for being weaker and technically the cause of Soul's dismay that he had led Mind to a gap in the island's earth to shoot him, having come to the last resort that if he were to ever be understood it would need to be through intense violence. This… backfired, with Heart missing and Mind compromising the hole in-order to imprison Heart at the bottom of it; trapped in a large pool of water with chains forever attempting to pull him under, and Heart had fought for many weeks before giving up; allowing himself to "(die)", believing he could never make it and it was for the greater good.

This failed. Heart did not die and was retrieved several months later. He had developed severe pneumonia from the amount of fluid in his lungs and his muscles were severely atrophied, as he had already had underdeveloped muscles in his unique biology but they were now torn and damaged, meaning Heart could never be physically the same again.

Heart was emotionally damaged almost beyond repair. Mind and Soul believed it had "[{fixed}]" him in a way, albeit Soul was much more empathetic than Mind was; Mind was in-denial over how much it hurt to see his sister gone. Heart responded poorly to the coming months of healing, haunted by unending hours spent convincing himself to not give up only to slowly wear down his will and accept that his life was not worth the effort. The pain, the suffocation, the exhaustion, the hunger, it had all worn on him so much, and following his escape he'd lost over a dozen kilos and found little motivation to do much more than sleep and aimlessly scroll on social media.

All of my stories have some sort of sappy happy ending at the end of them because I just can't help myself, they gotta be happy eventually, and Heart does become happy in this AU eventually (he becomes an art therapist in New York City and lives with a few online friends in a cosy apartment!), but the process to recovery is often times harsh.

(REBLOGS > LIKES I WILL ACTUALLY CRY IF THIS FADES TO OBSCURITY BC IT ONLY GOT LIKES)

#chonny's charming chaos compendium #cccc heart #cj hms heart #chonny jash heart #cccc fanart #chonny jash fanart #cj hms fanart #chonny jash au #cccc au #cj hms au #chonny jash #cj hms #cccc #lost at sea

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kaitokitty19 · 1 year ago

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Pandora AU: Home pt.1

Snippet written for my Pandora AU where Kaito became immortal and he travels around with Hakuba. In the following part, Hakuba’s around his 40s.

———

"Don't you ever want to settle down somewhere?"

Right now, Kaito was curled up next to Saguru's body, which always generates heat like a furnace. It's chilling despite the heater. Kaito instinctively moved closer to the heat source.

In response, Hakuba only petted his hair absent-mindedly and gave a distracted hum. He was busy perusing the file marked "URGENT" Interpol had forwarded earlier that evening, interrupting their dinner. The file had been printed out into a thick stack of paper – getting along in his 40s, long screen time had started to tire Saguru's eyes out quicker; they’re always red and watery after staring at his monitor for a long case, hence the printing.

Always bringing murders and terrorists and whatnot horror into their bed, that bastard. But Kaito could hardly find it in him to complain; not when Saguru is this dastardly handsome with all his fine lines and glasses and laser focus. His juvenile cockiness might have dulled somewhat in age, but his eyes remained as sharp as ever. Kaito imagined he could be cut through with a look. God, he wish he could age with him.

"I already am."

"Huh?" Kaito startled, forgetting that it was him who asked.

"I said ‘I already am’," Saguru reiterated, eyes still glued to inked black and white and free hand waving vaguely around as if that alone should make sense, "settled, that is."

Kaito followed the directions of his wild gestures. Yes, their apartment is nice and all: a tasteful cream-colored motif, delicate plaster ceiling rose, high windows and ceilings, spacious, with a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower. The Hakuba Corp spared no expense in making sure its young master was happy, and this was no exception. From the most cutting-edge technology to the most beautiful antique furniture, everything seamlessly pieced together in a coherent harmony of livable space. Everything was at his fingertips. Kaito could spend all day mopping around the place without feeling an ounce of claustrophobia. And he did, occasionally - on which days Kaito felt more like a spoiled cat than an actual person. That Hakuba would come home from whatever businesses he tended to, shrug off his trench coat and shoes before bending over the sofa and spoil him with indulgent kisses certainly didn't help the case.

Even if he were to nitpick, there was nothing to bemoan about. But they had scantly been there 5 months. Kaito was sure there were suitcases at the bottom of their closet that had yet been unpacked. 'Settling down' wouldn't be how he would describe it. Nor would it apply to any of their previous many relocations.

"That's not... I mean, don’t you get tired, of moving around like this? Hardly get to see your friends and family? Never allow yourself to take root somewhere? Isn't it suffocating building your life around me?"

This had Saguru's attention. He lowered the case file and turned those keen eyes onto Kaito. The way Kaito's breath hitched was completely involuntary.

"Does it bother you?"

"It doesn't matter, does it? I don't have a choice." There was no use talking around it. With Pandora, Kaito could hardly stay anywhere longer than a handful of years before his unchanging appearance raised a few eyebrows. "But you do. Wouldn't you rather have a home to come back to instead of hotel rooms and new fancy penthouses every other year?"

They were already getting looks as they were, from the way master Hakuba always had a young twenty-something draping over his arm. There had been hushes and whispers that Kaito knew that Saguru feigned oblivion to, only to quietly have them moved within the week.

He hadn't noticed he had been fidgeting until Saguru took hold of his restless fingers, the warmth of his hand effectively stopped his anxious tingle from spreading from his fingertips.

"Kaito," Hakuba sighed, exasperated but firm, like he had said what he was going to say next a thousand times before and had absolute faith in it. And maybe he had. Kaito just couldn't quite bring himself to believe him, "as long as I am with you, I'm already home."

#pandora #dcmk #hakukai #hakuba saguru #detco #kuroba kaito #magic kaito #kaitou kid #sagukai #白快 #au #detective Conan #fic #pamdora au #writing

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66sharkteeth · 8 months ago

Note

Do you have any ideas for fun AU's or non-cannon stuff the crew gets into? Even just things fun things to imagine that you don't necessarily want/have time to draw.

i talk about college AU pretty often here, actually. that's the main one and most developed.

it doesn't really have a whole plot like CoB ofc, but is just kind of the cast if they were in college. some quick summaries-

-Mikiah and Rex were twins in this universe and Mikiah still died a few months before Rex left for college, much like in canon CoB. It was an accident that Rex blames himself for, and now he's majoring in some biology degree in honor of Mikiah because that's what Mikiah wanted to do. Rex struggles throughout because he's still grieving a lot more than he lets on and isn't doing well in his classes because he's frankly not passionate about the major he's in for Mikiah's sake. By the end, he's processed everything and actually ends up changing majors to study to be a therapist so he can help people who have gone through similar traumatic experiences.

-This is a recent addition, but just for the sake of being able to have Shnee in the picture, Shnee's his emotional support animal (Lauro did all the arrangements bc as if Rex knows how to go about making that official). Ofc, Rex doesn't really disclose this publicly and everyone is just kinda left wondering how this guy gets away with having a rottweiler in his dorm. He probably lies and says his rich aunt paid off the school.

-I've talked about this one before, but to reiterate for those new: Jericho and Claude are room mates (ofc). They both paid extra to have a two bedroom dorm, just for Claude to find out Jericho is using the extra room to house his 4ft pet monitor lizard, "The Scion." It's an absolute menace and Claude hates it. Jericho has some dirt on Claude (im still not sure what) which is how he's getting away with this entire arrangement. However, the pet lizard hogging the other room means Claude and Jericho share a room wink wink.

-They're both in art school, with Claude focusing in art history to be a museum curator and Jericho BSing his way through a modern arts degree. Jericho is a charmer who has BSed his way through most of his life, and feels he can just slide through art school pretending to make pretentious modern art with fake deep meanings. And actually, it works, but Claude is the only one who can see through his BS and know he actually has some talent and passion. Over time, Claude gets Jericho to actually take things seriously and drop his modern art degree and pursue fashion, which he's actually passionate about (Where Jules is one of his teachers). It's the first time Jericho actually has to work in his life, but he's all the better for it.

-On the relationship front, they do eventually end up together but definitely not right away. It starts with them hooking up and Claude thinking that means they're dating, just to come home and realize Jericho never got the memo they were exclusive if ya know what I mean. This leads to a big fight ofc, Claude not talking to Jericho for a while, eventually them becoming JUST friends again, until Jericho realizes he really wasted his chance with Claude and they do eventually actually date. However, this would be Jericho's first real relationship and he's not great at it, so they do a lot of off and on until Jericho finally kinda gets his shit together (possibly after they've all graduated college) and they finally end up together for good in an actually functioning relationship.

I have more but i feel like that's enough of a wall post for now.

#city of blank #college au #rex #shnee #claude #jericho

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sweetbillwriting · 7 months ago

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The Key To His Heart - VI

Characters: AU Bill Skarsgård where his life changes in 2013 and later 2019.

Setting: L.A, 2024 but in an alternative universe with Bill having a completely different life.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, heavy themes.

Cat Stevens' voice filled the atelier that day. He had been singing there for several months now, but Sienna didn't get tired of it. For the moment her son's favorite, and he sat among a mountain of cushions on the floor with his own drawing pad while Sienna painted on a big canvas on the white wall. You could only see the sketch of a horse’s face at that moment, but it would be full of color when it was done. She smiled at her son; she still had a bad conscience for leaving him and thought to herself she would never do it again, especially not for something as fruitless as a TV show. Most of the time it was just about waiting, hoping to be chosen to get invited for a date instead of just walking around the neighborhood on one more walk. The man didn't even seem to be interested in her and had other women he would rather put energy on. She wasn't that desperate; she had been single a long time and knew she didn't need a man to be happy, especially not a man who might not even like her.

She decided quite quickly to go home after her son had said he missed her on the phone. He rarely said such things, so the four words, “I miss you, mommy”, made her heart ache. It wasn't worth it. She packed her bag and contacted the production.

She spoke with a female producer who looked at her disappointedly.

“You understand you can't come back? This is your only chance?” She explained. Sienna nodded. The producer made it sound like a life changing opportunity, but Sienna didn't see it like that at all. Bill was handsome and sweet but too distant to be interesting. He never gave her any real attention.

“Do you meet men like Bill often?” Asked the producer. Sienna didn't understand the question and shrugged her shoulders.

“Living like this? Having this lifestyle? You're a painter, right?”

Sienna looked down at her hands. She knew what the producer tried to imply. Bill had money, she didn't. However, that was never the reason why she had wanted to be a part of the show, but when the producer said it like that, she still felt dirty.

“I know what I want. I want to go home to my son.”

The producer sighed and crossed her arms. She stood in deep thought for a while, while Sienna played with a rhinestone S keyring on her suitcase.

“Okay, but it's best if you leave in silence. We don't want a scene,” said the producer. Sienna furrowed her brows and looked uncomfortably at her.

"But I want to tell Bill myself? I think he deserves that.”

The producer gave her a tired look.

“It's better if he doesn't know.”

Sienna got a bad feeling in her stomach. Why didn't they want him to know? The only reason she could come up with was that they wanted to do it as a part of the show. She would be the runaway bitch, and he would be humiliated.

“How will you tell him?”

The producer smiled condescendingly towards her. Sienna noticed how the woman's way towards her had changed quickly after she had told her she would want to leave; this was not her behavior earlier.

“I can't talk about the production with you, but I want you to remember you're under contract, and leaving like this will maybe affect people's views of you, even in your normal life.”

Was that a threat? Sienna swallowed hard. They would really make her seem like the bitch, but right then and there she felt her conscience weigh heavy for Bill. Leaving was her choice, not his; still, they would humiliate him on international TV.

“Will it affect Bill?”

“I don't think you really care. But if you stay, we will not need to do a thing about this.”

Sienna scoffed and looked out from the window. The woman had threatened her twice now, but she had been through worse things in her life, so she didn't care.

“I just want to go home to my son.” She reiterated, and after that, the producer finally understood she would leave whatever she said.

×××

Of course Sienna felt her body ache from her bad conscience. She couldn't just leave Bill to his destiny. Even if she didn't really know him, she knew he wasn't worth that. She needed to talk to him. If he talked with his producer friend, maybe he could stop the humiliation from happening.

She knew his bedroom was a safe zone from cameras, so she needed to just creep by the cameramen from her bedroom up to his. It wouldn't be easy, but she could try. So she did. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest while creeping up the stairs that it felt like she was doing something criminal. Now he just needed to be there; otherwise, she wouldn't be able to tell him.

She didn't expect him to be so comfortable with letting her in, and she didn't expect how easy it was for her to step into his private place. She felt a warm presence from him when she walked into his room, and it felt familiar and safe. She hadn't felt that from him earlier, but they had never really been alone before. She saw another side of him, but that wouldn't change her mind.

It felt good to let him know what was happening behind his back. It felt good going home, but something also made her sad. She would never know who Bill was for real, behind the polished exterior. She could see a glimpse of it there, when they were alone, and could feel her cheeks warm by thinking back on his sensitive eyes.

×××

It was a phone number she didn't recognize that called her, and with discomfort, she answered and sat down in her son’s pillow mountain.

“Hi, Sienna. This is Herman Larson, one of the producers. We've met a few times.”

Sienna sighed. Would they threaten her again? Were they so desperate?

“How are you?” Herman asked politely, but Sienna didn't have energy for the small talk.

“Fine. What can I help you with?”

Herman laughed uncomfortably in her ear. Sienna didn't get a rude vibe from him like she had gotten from the woman, but he was slow with saying what he wanted, which was also annoying.

“Well, we want to bring someone back to the show, and Bill wants it to be you.”

Sienna felt something crawl around her stomach when Herman said Bill’s name. It was he who wanted her back. But it could also be a lie, a new trick to make her come back, to make the show interesting.

“No, thank you,” she said fast and looked down at her son's sketch, which was mostly just lines and circles.

“Bill wants to talk to you. Just a video chat. He really wants you to come back.”

“Why? He doesn't even know me?”

“To be honest, I don't know. He is just really certain of this.”

Sienna thought about it, feeling the snake in her stomach make it both hurt and tickle.

“I can talk to him, but I will not come back.”

×××

“I know, I know…” she said when she saw Bill's smiling face on the screen. It was obvious he had also felt something that short moment they had in his bedroom. It was like a clue into what they could have, and now they sat there, both of them with butterflies in their stomachs. Sienna covered her red cheeks with her hands while she looked at Bill's big eyes, even more magnetic because of the softly lit room he was in. Both of them sat in beds, but Sienna could see it wasn't his own. This had a beige headboard, while he had a black one.

“Ehm… I want you to come back? I really want to get to know you, Sienna. I don't know how to say it, but I think you can feel it too?”

He said it cryptically because it felt so naked to already say words like those he was thinking. Sienna sighed a little to herself and looked towards her son's bedroom. She didn't have her own bedroom; she slept in the living room, but she liked that so she could keep an eye on her son’s room.

“I can't…” She looked away, and it made Bill become nervous at once. He really thought her blushed cheeks and smile were an indication of what she felt, but clearly not.

“Please, I mean, I get that this shitshow is bullshit and awful. I feel that too. A TV show is not the way to date, but... I just want to get to know you, Sienna. I haven't been able to think straight since the last time we saw each other.”

Sienna looked at him now. He looked desperate and nervous. She felt bad for him, but also for herself. She wanted to get to know him but be a part of that circus again… No.

“I'm sorry, Bill.”

He looked down disappointed at the keyboard, and she could see him dusting away something from it while he nodded a little.

“Fuck… I should really not have judged you for that shoe chaff!” He said it half jokingly. Sienna laughed.

“It hurt like hell! I still have a wound!” She said and even lifted her foot against the camera, trying to show him her heel.

“I don't see,” said Bill amused.

"Yes, you do! It's just there! I will have it for the rest of my life!”

Bill laughed at her while she continued to try to show him the heel of her foot. The screen became too dark when she put her foot so close to the camera, but he wouldn't say that.

“Yeah, yeah, I see! Shit, I'm sorry for not taking it more seriously; I didn't know you were fifteen minutes from an amputation.” He smirked, and Sienna lowered her foot so she could see him. She smiled a bit amused but pretended to be insulted. Bill couldn't stop smiling big, and she started to laugh when she saw his silly expression. Both of them took a deep breath and a little pause before Bill started to talk again.

“I am really sorry I didn't give you the attention you deserved when you were here…”

“It's okay,” she smiled a little and fixed her hair. “I wasn't that easy either. I thought I would be able to open up with you, but with all the girls... I couldn't… And the production wanted to paint me up as a victim, and I refused to do that, and then... I just felt really uncomfortable.”

Bill looked at her seriously, moving his laptop a bit.

“Victim?”

“Yeah… Because I'm a single mom to a boy with autism. I didn't want to exploit him like that, and instead I decided to not mention it at all and... Well, I couldn't talk. I couldn't let you in.”

Bill didn't say anything for a few seconds, and it made Sienna nervous at once. She had met guys before who had dumped her because of her son. She lowered her gaze, preparing herself for Bill's rejection.

“How old is your son?” he asked with a kind smile, and Sienna looked up at him again with big eyes.

“He's five. He is the kindest baby,” she said with a proud smile, and Bill smiled big too. He knew it was a lot of work with autistic children, but instead of thinking about negative things, he was just impressed by her. She was alone in it and still didn't make herself, or her son, into victims.

“You're 28, right? So the both of us became parents when we were 23.”

“Yeah! It's far too young to be honest!” The both of them laughed.

“It is, but we made it work, right?”

“We did.” They smiled at each other knowingly. One more thing that made their connection feel deeper than the ones he had with the other women. Even if one of the other women had children, he could feel that Sienna would understand him better but also be a more natural part of his girls’ lives and being a process in healing the scars they carried.

The conversation continued easily, even if she wouldn't be a part of the show, even if Bill would need to pick another woman in just a few weeks.

They talked about their kids: Bill's daughter, who was a great soccer player, and his younger one, who wanted to help with cooking but in reality just wanted to eat. They were 11 and 5 years old and reminded him about what was most important in life. Her son was also 5 but couldn't talk that much. He liked to draw just like his mom and enjoyed music from the 60s and 70s. Bill laughed at that, impressed, because his own daughters just listened to Taylor Swift at the moment. He wished they also would like Cat Stevens and Paul Simon.

They talked about movies, and just to try her, he wondered if she had seen The Cuckoo Nest and Gone With the Wind.

“Of course! But Gone With the Wind is not my thing. I should be ashamed; it's such a classic, and the cast is amazing, but I think I saw it at too young of an age to feel it was interesting, and then that opinion stayed with me.”

Bill felt the butterflies in his stomach fly into each other. It was so silly, that such a thing would make his cheeks heat, but it was just amazing that a girl shared his interest, for real.

“Did the production for the show know about your movie interest?”

“Yeah, they asked so many questions before taking me in.” Bill nodded slowly. “Why?”

“I was on a date with one of the girls... In a theater. It must have been planned for you… And it would probably have been the best date ever if it was with you.”

Sienna smiled a little but also looked guilty.

“Don't say that…”

“Why not?”

“It's mean towards the other girl.”

“It's not like she hears me? I know it would be the best date ever. This, just talking with you like this, is the best date ever.”

Sienna looked embarrassed, and Bill smirked. He didn't care about the other girls' in that moment, just about Sienna.

They continued to talk until she needed to hang up because her son woke up. Bill felt the disappointment ache like a knife in his chest when she hung up, but he also felt so many glowing feelings flying around in his body. It was obvious she liked him too, and he would call her again, even if it wasn't appropriate.

Bill called Sienna again the next night, and they talked even longer, but even if he knew she would say no, he begged her to come back to Los Angeles, but she didn't want to leave her son. He understood that a child with autism needed safety and predictability. She needed to stay with him to not mess up his world. There was just one solution for this, because Sienna was the woman he wanted to get to know, the woman he had developed real feelings for. The solution was the only right thing for everyone, he thought. But maybe not everyone...

“Drop out? You can't drop out; it's your show!” Said Herman, upset, and looked at Bill, who sat calmly on the edge of his bed. He was dressed in a loose-fitting beige linen shirt and medium blue jeans. He dragged his palms against each other, believing Herman would give in, but Herman wouldn't do that; there was a lot of money in this show.

“I've found the woman I can see myself with. I don't need this anymore. We can do an episode about me realizing that-”

“That's not what people want! People want drama! The network wants a 12-episode show! Not half of it!”

Bill crossed his arms and looked at Herman with furrowed brows.

“But I don't want to.”

“Sucks to be you then because you're under a contract!”

“That's not fair to anyone. You mean I should continue this when I don't want any of the girls left?”

“I thought you liked Esmeralda!”

“She's nice, great even, but she isn't the one who... Sienna… It's just really different.”

“I don't care! This is your job right now!”

Bill scoffed.

“So you will force me?”

“Yes, I will force you, and you will play along! Do whatever you want with Sienna when the cameras are off, but when we're rolling, you're interested in Esmeralda and Brigitte, okay?”

Bill didn't know what to say because it didn't feel right at all, not towards Sienna and not towards the other girls.

×××

The girls stood in a row in front of him, like he would examine them one at a time. Tiffany, Brigitte, Maria, Violet, Esmeralda, Rose, and Odette. They stood by the stairs, waiting for him to say who would be able to stay. Odette already had a key as a gift because she came back. She looked at him with starry eyes, probably believing it was he who wanted her back. For him, it didn't matter because he didn't want any of them there. He wished he could go to New Jersey. It had gone so fast—five calls with Sienna, two dates, one with Odette and one with Tiffany. He was completely sure he wanted Sienna; he had fallen in love.

He looked at the girls and felt just a bad conscience. They thought they had a chance, but they were just there to create entertainment; his heart wasn't there anymore but in Sienna's paint-stained hands.

“Tiffany,” he said and tried to smile warmly. The smile was probably more believable than he thought because she smiled big at him when she walked up to get her key.

“Esmeralda.”

He had a really bad conscience towards her, and it was hard to look at her. Just the day before he had his first call with Sienna, he had laid next to her, kissing her and giggling like he had feelings for her. In that moment he also did, but they felt insignificant when he met Sienna's hazel eyes through the camera. Esmeralda was a girl he could see himself with, but Sienna was the girl he knew he wouldn't be able to live without.

Esmeralda smiled brightly at him, like she felt they had something special. Bill lowered his gaze but looked up with a fake smile. He needed to pretend, and the actor in him knew how.

Maria.

Rose.

Brigitte looked at him hurt but also embarrassed, like she was ashamed she had believed there was something special between them. It was a feeling all of the girls would feel the day they got to know Bill had already decided who he wanted—someone who wasn't even there. Brigitte smiled sadly at him when she walked up to him and followed him out on the porch without a word. It wasn't until they were alone that she walked up to him close and dragged her hands over his khaki colored button up. Bill pulled her hands away and smiled apologetically. She still stood just as close and looked at his smooth skin and plump lips.

“It's Esmeralda, isn't it?”

Bill looked away, ashamed, without saying anything.

“I think we all can see it…”

“I'm sorry, Brigitte.”

“Me too… I guess we will see each other at the reunion... With you and Esmeralda together.”

×××

“It feels awful because I don't want to see any of them; I just want to be with you,” he said sincerely to Sienna on the screen. They had an earlier night call than usual because her mom was at McDonald's with her son. She wore an oversized t-shirt with Ingmar Bergman, just as a silly thing to show Bill. He liked it so much he decided to steal it as soon as he could get his hands on it.

“We haven't talked much at all, Bill. Are you really sure? Not that I don't really, really like you, and believe you like me back but I don't have five guys standing outside of my bedroom door.”

“Thank fucking God for that!”

Sienna smirked because of the irony. Bill looked a bit guilty but smiled back.

“I'm sorry. I wish I could just drop out, but you don't understand how much money I would need to pay them if I did. I don't have that money.”

“It's okay, Bill. I will not demand that of you. But… Must you kiss them and so on?” She looked down a bit embarrassed. Bill was just happy she asked, that she didn't want him to be close to other girls, but then reality hit him.

“It says shit about commitment and understanding the entertainment value in the contract and… I don't know. I guess they could say I didn’t show enough commitment or something…” he said with a sigh. Sienna looked at him with big eyes and nodded a little. She didn't know what to say. Bill had asked her for forgiveness so many times for his messy life, so now it felt empty to say it again. He couldn't change anything. During the few seconds the both of them suffered in silence over the situation, there was a knock on Bill's door. He looked towards his bedroom door, confused, before he stood up awkwardly to open the door. Sienna was thankful Bill walked away because she could feel blood creep up to her cheeks. She didn't know what Bill wore more than the white tank; she had just imagined him wearing sweatpants, but when he stood up, she realized he wore just a pair of gray, tight boxers. When he stood up, she could see thick, hairy thighs but also his bulge, an impressive bulge. She didn't think she would see that much of him that night, but even if her face heated, she wished she could see more.

Bill opened the door slowly but took a relieved breath when it was Herman and not one of the girls.

“Are you already in bed?” Asked Herman. Bill looked towards his laptop that stood open on the bed, and Herman sighed.

“Sienna?”

“Yeah.” Bill moved away from the door so he could walk in. “Sienna, Herman is here, so you know,” said Bill and looked at her on the screen, then sat down again on the bed. Herman looked uncomfortable.

“Hey, Sienna… Sorry for-”

“Not letting Bill and I see each other?” She was irritated but sounded more teasing. Bill turned the laptop towards Herman so he could see Sienna, who was waiting for an answer.

“It's not that easy, Sienna…”

“I guess not, but if you're Bill's friend, you will do this as simply as possible for him.” Bill looked pleased and proud. Herman gave him a fast look. He had something in his eyes he hadn't seen before, and he couldn't stop looking at Sienna. He dragged a hand through his hair. Bill was his friend, and that thing in his eyes was something he wished Bill could show more often.

“I will try… But it's not easy. I can't decide everything.”

“But can you decide that we will take a break this weekend?” asked Bill. Herman wagged his head back and forth.

“So I can go to New Jersey?”

Sienna looked at Bill with a giggly smile.

“Do you want that? Come here?”

“Of course, babe.”

Sienna smiled with a blush, both because he wanted to come to her but also because of the nickname. Babe. She was his babe. Just like that.

Herman looked at them both awkwardly, but he knew he owed Bill to try to make it possible. If he could get his date with Sienna, he would probably be easier to work with and maybe he could make him make the best choices.

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