#Off Shoulder Tops Manufacturers

[whoelsaledress]

How You Can Look Ravishing In The Off-Shoulder Top

Have you lately found your love for off-shoulder tops? Want to know how to look elegant in them? Start reading the blog! https://www.alanic.clothing/understanding-the-off-shoulder-top-game/

[littlest-rhythms]

me scrolling thru any online clothes store: this garment is made for people with no boobs. this garment is made for people with no ass. this garment is made for people with no thighs. this garment is made for people with no waist. this garment is made for people with no boobs. this garment is made for people with no calves. this garment is made for people with no waist. this garment is made for people with no boobs. this garment is made for people with no boobs. this garment is made for people with no boobs. this garment is ma

[coxblogs]

Discover the Latest in Fashion Forward Crop Tops

Dive into a world of style with our curated collection of fashion-forward crop tops. Elevate your look and stay ahead of the trends in 2024

[ddejavvu]

I just saw an ad Instagram for a thong that said ‘all you can eat buffet’ on it and I am BEGGING you to write James reacting to r wearing it 😭

this post is 18+, minors dni.

It's a gag, nothing more. The block letters are ugly, big white shapes that are already cracking on the surface of the red fabric. But their message is worth it: ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET'.

An ad for the thong had jumped out at you during your nightly social media scroll only a few weeks ago, and you'd ordered it while James was snoring beside you. He appreciates a good joke, but he's also been known to appreciate a good meal, and you wonder if the manufacturer had made them personally for you and James.

You wear them beneath the little sleep shorts that drive James crazy, the ones that are so loose he can always catch a glimpse of your underwear beneath them. You're just tucking yourself beneath the blankets, keeping your thigh purposefully visible, when James stumbles into the room with a hand buried deep in his curls, scratching away at them.

He's mid-yawn, and you're slightly taken aback when he refrains from making a comment about your attire. He's usually all over you, and you have no doubt that he'll be nearly on top of you when you're both beneath the covers, but you can't believe he managed to keep a crass comment out of his mouth.

"Sirius wants to try out a new bike repair shop tomorrow," James mumbles, clearly tired as he shucks off his joggers and heads for bed with only his shirt and briefs remaining, "'Says the place opens bloody early- six I think? Closes at nine. So I've gotta haul my ass up before then."

"Oh." You retort, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice as you settle, "Sorry, Jamie. We can sleep early tonight."

He hums encouragingly into the sheets as he gets situated, reaching immediately for you just as you'd known he would. His large hands gravitate towards your waist, and even if he's too tired and responsible to think about sex tonight, his hand snakes into the waistband of your shorts for safekeeping.

He feels the blocky, stiff cool of the lettering on the front of your thong and you feel his brows furrow where his head is pressed into your shoulder. He peeks over it now, stretching the waistband of your shorts open and keeping the blankets lifted so that he can see what you're wearing in the dim lights you have yet to turn off.

"What-" He squints, trying to read upside-down without his glasses, but it's a hopeless case. You're already halfway towards a fit of giggles, and you shimmy out of your shorts to stand proudly on your knees close enough for him to see.

"All you can eat buffet," He reads, murmuring the words while his face lights up and a hearty laugh escapes his throat, "Darling! That's cheeky, where did you get that?"

"I found it online." You giggle, and he braces a hand on your thigh to admire it. He studies you for a moment, still chuckling, and then he moves to sit up, staring at you expectantly.

"Well lay down, darling." He invites you, "Let's see this buffet."

"No, James, it's alright!" You insist, "You have to be up early for Sirius. It can wait, I'll wear them some other time for you."

"No," He whines, sounding petulant, "Your terrible jokes and impulsive financial habits have charmed me. On your back, darling."

"James, you don't-" You shake your head but he takes your face in his hands, pressing his head closer to yours so that you're pushed back and subsequently laid down, "-you don't have to do this, we can-"

"God, you make eating pussy sound like a chore." He mumbles between kisses, kissing next at your chin, then the pudge beneath it as you lay on the bed, "Relax, darling. All-you-can-eats are my favorite, and I've just realized I'm hungry."

[stuck-writing-sickos]

In Poor Taste [P2]

[Series Link]

(Yandere x Reader)

[Warning: misogyny, xenophobia, hint to racism, explicit language, asshole male lead]

You were never crazy about spoiled rich men. They were nothing but troubles.

He knew your type. Quiet, agreeable, and a little bit of a pushover.

He didn't say it, but he had noticed your lack of reaction when Tahara revoked your right to the summer break. Truth was, he never paid attention to women like you when he was in college. The quiet ones who took things seriously as if they had something to lose, those were hard to get. He never bothered with those who were hard to get when there were plenty of other options. He liked the sunkissed  blondes who knew to dress up in white sundresses and spaghetti straps, those who knew to party on Saturday and yoga class on Sunday. They never put up a hard fight, just the right amount, and when he got bored so did they. In and out of his bedroom they whirled, whimsical and effortless. He never bothered to find out if they were smart or complicated, and if they tried to show him, he'd move on to the next. A part of him felt bad, but the encouraging jokes and nudges of his frat brothers overrode that twinge in his chest when he saw sad eyes following him down the campus walkway. It didn't matter, not if he got the liquor and summer yatch trips.

He also liked other types. Soft-spoken brunettes who listened to sad songs and doodled hearts onto his notes. Fierce raven-haired girls who knew to throw back shots and moved their bodies to the music. The rich exchange girls who, despite their attitudes, knew their ways around his body and submitted to his rhythm. He liked them all because he could consume them, so he said he support women. Those he didn't like, well, they were on their own.

So he didn't mind that you were older and reserved. True, he never bothered with women like you because he thought he could do without them, but now that he was in Tokyo all alone, he could see your values. So, he thought to look.

You were the serious type. Soft-spoken, patient, and reserved. You looked after yourself rather dilligently - your clothes fit well, and you smelled of subtle floral perfume. Your movement when you walked around the school were gentle but decisive - you knew what to do, and you did it quick, as if you always had something better to do. A part of him didn't like that. For why, he didn't interrogate. "Why" was never a questioned he bothered with, since he could do well for the first 22 years of his life without it. When someone always get what they want, they hardly ever want to know "why".

He knew he was brash and bold to ask you out for dinner, but he assumed you knew the implication. He was interested enough. You had a fine body, and you knew how to look good. "Late bloomer" was what he liked to call women like you, the type who took themselves too seriously in school, but then learnt how to be pretty in their latter years. They would know how to relax, to not be so uptight.

So there he sat in a booth at a restaurant downtown, waiting, a little impatient to see that you were late. Perhaps he was to blame to tell you to take your time and freshen up at home. He wondered if you would doll up. Where would you show your skin? Where would you shave? He liked it shaved. His fingers toyed with the small tea cup, tapping its side and running down the curve of its rim.

"Hi! Sorry for the wait... I was caught up with a phone call."

He looked up. There you were, smiling down at him. He shamelessly looked at your body, studying the way the nice dress pants accentuate your hip and ass. Then, as you sat down, he took notes of your off-shoulder top, then the blink of your earrings. You may tried to make it seem innocuous, but he could tell. You dressed up for him.

"Not at all! I just got here."

You kept your smile on. He didn't notice that it was manufactured. He was caught up watching you leaning forward, your fingers flipping over the menu. The way your cleavage was catching shadow captured his attention.

"So, how is Tokyo treating you?"

He didn't think you would speak first. You barely humored any small talks during the day, only giving him just enough.

"It's good, it's good", he mused, "I'm enjoying the new culture and people. It's all very new to me, so I'm excited."

You looked up at him now, your eyes narrowing as your smile widened.

"It's a great city. There's always something to look at. Do you ever miss your friends and family, though?"

He leaned in as well, closing the gap. He could see you flinch just barely as his fluffy black curls almost tickle your forehead.

"Well, of course. I miss my family a lot, especially my sister. She's applying for college soon, and I wish I could be there to support her, you know?"

"You have a sister?"

He was pleased to see you following the script so far. Girls were often intrigued by the fact that he had a sister - it means he grew up knowing how to be sensitive and protective. It was a reliable card to play.

"Yeah, we grew up quite close, you know. I still remember her crying like a baby when I left for college", he chuckled, "now it's her turn."

You laughed softly at that.

"Yeah... she must be so sad to see you go to Japan, right?"

He nods, his eyes flickering between your face and your neck, eager to peer right down your top. You must be wearing those stick-on nipple covers to rock a top like that.

"Oh, she was, but she's more excited to be independent in college. Too excited, to be honest. I had to warn her not to get in troubles."

"What kind of trouble?"

He found himself looking at your lips now. Your gentle voice and soft gaze managed to distract him. For a second, he found himself pausing to stare.

"Oh... alcohol, drugs, bad friends. You know the deal."

"Did you get into troubles in college, too?"

The simple question now seemed so implicative. He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, and he saw that you looked. Your lashes flutterred for a second before your eyes met his.

Empty.

You were harder to read than he thought. Perhaps it was the age difference, he wondered, or the fact that your naturally composed attitude had sealed your attraction toward him. He never hit on an older woman before, so he supposed it was only natural that he couldn't catch your energy right away. Or were you secretly experienced? Three years seemed little to him at first, but he suddenly felt self-conscious at your still demeanor. You were still smiling and expectant, but in a different way than he imagined. You were yet to be doe-eyed, yet to melt when she heard about his bond with his sister. How many men had had their ways with you? Did you please them well? Did you moved and squirm under their touch? He felt himself heating up.

"Good afternoon, dear customers. May I take your order?"

He almost jumped. You didn't. Awkwardly pointing to the menu, he glanced at you who quickly said your orders. You seemed comfortable.

Did he lose his edge?

The waiter swiftly left. Lukas felt that the chemistry was disrupted. His keen eyes watched your form pulling back away from him, and he caught the faint perfume wafting his way. He decided to keep his posture forward, staying on the offensive side.

"I guess I did get into some troubles", he admitted, his hand instinctively rubbing the nape of his neck, as if to conceal what his clothes couldn't. His skin was warm to the touch.

"Well, what kind?"

He couldn't tell if you were interested. You were asking him lots of questions, even from the start. Did you want to know more about him?

"Oh, we were crazy. One time, a pledge covered himself in lighter fluid and lit himself on fire before jumping into the pool."

"Ah... so the typical frat bros stuff. I guess I've seen something like that at X. Uni", you nodded, your smile turning a bit cheeky.

He shifted even closer.

"Yeah, we were bad boys. Were you in a sorrority? Greek life is big at X."

You shook yout head slowly.

"No... It seemed very fun, but I guess I was too focused on other stuff."

"What stuff?"

"I was trying to keep my scholarship, so that took most of my time, I guess. I wasn't too involved with student life aside trom the school's art magazine."

"So you are a smartie?"

You hung your head humbly.

"I guess you could say that."

"So what did you do to blow off steam, then? Or were you at the library all day?"

He felt just a bit desperate trying to know you. He knew his bombarding questions were coming off a little strong, but he didn't want to feel exposed and insecure anymore. He had opened up, he thought it would be fair if you let him in a little. Wind down, be less uptight.

"I went to Ellum sometimes."

Ellum, the bar street. So you knew how to party after all. Maybe you did have experiences with men.

"Oh, me and my boys liked it there."

"For troubles?"

He laughed.

"For troubles, yeah. It'd be crazy if we met and never knew it."

"Well, it was all dark and loud in there. Maybe we did."

"Then it's fate."

He felt corny saying it, but the words slipped out anyway. His heart twisted when you laughed at that, your chest vibrating. You lifted your hand to cover your smile, and he saw a glimpse of ink as your top pulled against your shoulder. Tattoos, huh? He didn't peg you as the type to get them.

Seeing that it was his chance, he reached over to adjust the fabric, his fingertips lingering just a moment too long. He felt it, the electric as he felt your cool skin against his own. You were soft and smooth, like a nice spread of butter against crispy toast.

"Oh, my bad, I just saw your shirt falling off a little there."

Your laugh dwindled. You touched where he touched, your chest rising and lowering at a slower beat.

Lukas found himself feeling expectant.

"Ah, well, thank you", you said, your voice more relaxed now. That was a good sign.

The waiters came back with the orders and left just as hurriedly.

"I have a question", Lukas mused, somehow anxious to lose your attention when you reached for your utensils.

"Pray tell."

"What's the best food place that you've ever been in Tokyo?"

He winced internally. Corny and immature, that was what he was being. What a 17-year-old first date question that was.

"I'd say the unlabelled streetfood carts at the open-air markets", you said, your finger resting on your chin for a moment, "I like to go there if I ever have to stay late at work."

"You gotta show me sometimes, then. I love streetfood!"

He felt stupid clawing at any ways he could to compel your interest. You were right there, laughing at his jokes, asking about his family, paying attention to him. Yet somehow he still felt like you were distant, somewhere in an invisible fish bowl, and what he had said to you were muffled through the water and glass.

"Of course, I'd be happy to. But let me know if you are allergic to anything, or if you are scared of seafood."

"Not at all", he confidently shook his head, "I went to Italy last summer, and the seafood was amazing!"

"Trip across Europe?"

"Trip across Europe", he nodded, "I'd say, Italy for best seafood, France for best wine, Germany for best beer, and Netherlands for the best, well, you know..."

You playfully rolled your eyes.

"I see you like to travel."

"Oh, it changes my whole perspective. I really found myself, you know. It's like... I come back a whole different person. I think everyone should travel."

You gave him a strange look. Not a scowl nor a frown. A gentle squint of the eyes. It could be anything. He couldn't decide if he was being too boastful, or if he had said something wrong. Did you not like that? Maybe you hadn't been as well-travelled as he was, and what he said had come across as unrelatable.

"But of course, you know, if your money allows it. It doesn't cost as much as you think if you know how to budget."

The playful twinkle in your eyes told him that you were responding to him, and likely not negatively. Still, he felt more stupid adding on to what he said. He didn't know why, but he felt as though you were looking down on him.

Why would you look down on him?

Lukas may not realize it, but this was one of the rare occasions when he let the "why" bother him.

"Of course, travelling can be great. I haven't travelled much, but I imagine that when I have enough money, I would travel. I have a few places in mind."

"Where to?"

"For starter, Norway."

Weird answer.

"What's in Norway?"

"The aurora borealis."

He furrowed his brows.

"You want to see the northern light?"

"More than anything."

"It doesn't cost that much though."

"Yeah, but solo travelling costs more, I imagine."

"I can go with you."

He felt decidedly stupid and overconfident.

"Wouldn't that be something...", you commented, your eyes casting aside, "well, that's my top destination for sure."

You were growing cold again. Lukas couldn't for the life of him figure out where he was going wrong. Maybe you just weren't attracted to him, but that was unlikely. He knew how good he looked. He may have heard "sorry I have a boyfriend" and "I'm looking for something serious", but he couldn't think of a time when someone had admitted to him not being their type. Not even behind his back.

"Also, you seem to like to drink. Two out of the four places you mentioned was about alcohol."

He didn't expect you to pick up on the conversation. Maybe he simply had gotten into his head.

"Oh, I guess. I did drink a lot in college, but that's just what it was all about, you know?"

"About troubles, I know."

He felt his face growing hot.

"Right... well, I'd love to know what other Japanese drinks are like, too. I've tasted sake, but it was mild. I'm more of a beer and shots guy."

"Wine, too, right? In France."

You had not once lost your composure. He felt like he was squirming in his seat. He wanted to sleep with you, that was clear. He needed to know what it was like to get with someone older than him, even if it was a mere three years. What would you be like in bed? What did you learn from all the men from your past? The unphased facade, the tattoo, the way you maintained your calm upon his touch and his banter... you knew something he didn't. You had experienced things he hadn't.

"Right, that. Do you drink at all? Here, in Japan, I mean."

"Sometimes."

"Hey, it's a Friday night. Do you maybe want to grab a drink at a pub somewhere after this?"

You raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous. He knew he was being brash and bold, but he couldn't help it. You were something he wanted to add to his collection.

Letting you mull over it, he watched your calm face.

"Sure...", you softly agreed, "but only for a little while."

"Something coming up tomorrow?"

Someone to see tomorrow?

Your blank eyes glimmered under the flourescent light for a second. He almost wanted to hold his breath.

"Just some personal affair in the afternoon."

There you go being elusive again. He thought he would have had you in his palm by now, but not yet. Maybe he didn't know your type.

[catfern]

lap dog.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: ellie williams x afab!reader x abby anderson

music: master of none - beach house

word count: 2k

summary: abby and ellie are best friends, never more. when you come into the picture, competition bleeds into something else entirely.

warnings: porn, ellabs, sub-ish!abby, sub-top!ellie, dom-ish!reader, marijuana use, got high and watched challengers this is what happened

fern says ⎯ this one goes out to @heavenbloom & @atyourmerci the only two pookies keeping me going at this point! rawr!

it was innocent, at first. you suppose.

a pit sinking in your stomach at the all-too-looming feeling of a foreign school, the kind smile offered was an olive branch. white teeth, skin blemished only with the soft indents of a splattering of freckles and moles, it put you at ease. this definitively friendly tour guide.

“hey, m’abby.” the squeeze of her hand was gentle, but firm. practiced. her eyes on you felt like a studied gaze, a flicker over your body that made your ears burn, your name on her tongue a syrupy temptation. “i’m s’posed to show you around, so…”

you clung to abby, in your first few weeks. you would’ve felt bad, this dependence on your only friend growing, if she hadn’t returned the sentiment almost tenfold. 

hey

want coffee before class?

- abby

the blaring screen of your phone dunking on you like ice water, bleary eyes and a dopey smile typing a response in the early morning manufactured darkness of your dorm room. 

she’d show, fifteen minutes later, in all the gloried aftermath of her morning run, shoving the iced latte at you with easy conversation. she’d wait on your bed while you dressed, poorly pretending to be wildly interested in her instagram explore page.

ellie happened later.

“she hot?”

“i don’t wanna answer that.”

the ball hits the roof, before bouncing with a mean thwack into the tangle of abby’s hair. ellie pulls herself up on the bed, teetering on her tired forearms with a servile smile. “come on,”  the rasp in her voice gives her a malignant edge, “objectively, is she hot?”

abby looks at her, swallowed in her gaze even from across the room. she rolls her eyes before returning to roughly running a brush through her hair, “she’s nice.”

“fucking prude!” the palm of ellie’s hand comes down like a rough punishment, a sting on the sculpt of abby’s shoulder that rings a small wince. her laugh is complimentary, “what? she a secret or something?”

abby shakes her roommate’s sliding hands off her, fighting her languid, teasing embrace, “no, no, she’s just- i dunno.”

a light hum fills the quick silence in the air, ellie pulls away.

“i wanna meet her.”

“what? ellie —“ abby whips around quick, something akin to a firm, stubborn fear tracing her face, “no. no.”

you shift on the floor, the scratchy carpet under your ass stinging with a strange itch. the joint is hanging weakly between ellie’s lips as she holds the lighter to it, off-handed smoke swirling and ebbing in the close air of the room. abby is sequestered on her bed, trying her hardest not collapse in on herself.

you’re taking the joint from ellie, ellie. her iced gaze flickers between the both of you, something unrecognisable sitting, gnawing at her very soul.

“so,” smoke spills from your mouth, dripping from your lips like it never wanted to leave you. you hold the blunt, firm between two fingers as you trace your thoughts with your hand, “what is this?”

ellie laughs faintly, her eyes meeting the terror of abby’s briefly, before falling over the way you’re sat, cross legged, the thin fabric of pyjama shorts riding up your thigh. her laugh is dopey, saccharine laced with a bite, “what d’ya mean?”

you’re pinned, like a dead butterfly behind glass, inspected. abby leans forward, a pique of interest crawling up her spine, her elbows digging nasty red welts into her knees. they both, as if practiced, stare, like careful animals on the other side of a zoo exhibit fence. they know they cannot touch you, but they deign still to think they can try.

 you laugh, something elevated, untouchable, bringing the joint back to your mouth, “you two — you seem, close.”

a shared look of panic and something deeper sets between them, ellie stretching her legs to knock yours as she plucks the joint from you, shooting abby a teasing glance. she pats the battered carpet next to her, “come on abs.”

the nickname is a taunt, an echo of some wild, buried intimacy that ellie wanted — needed  you to know. she’s answering your question, in a way.

abby slides off the bed, scooting over at her roommate’s beck and call. she takes the blunt tenderly, leaning back and letting ellie hold the lighter to her, the movement eased, familiar. she shakes her head, “we’re friends.”

you smile, lopsided, a low-flying buzz hanging in the air. your body loose, uncaring, as you canvas the look ellie has on her face. pensive.

“right.”

“what?”

“nothing, i just - i don’t believe you.” 

“it’s true!” the laugh shared between them is something too close for comfort to be true, but abby persists, “we grew up together, we play tennis together, we’re friends.”

“well…” the soft abrade of ellie’s voice was a testament, a challenge. for you, it was a tantalising peak behind a curtain so well guarded, a piece of themselves so rarely shared. for abby, it was an unnecessary torment. she looks at ellie, she sees the competition in her eyes. abby knows the sting of shared desire, of the punishing hand of her best friend. the brunette pouts, studying her roommate’s look of resigned pleading, “come on! i think it’s a — it’s a cute story. abby had a little, teensy crush on me when we were kids.”

“oh fuck off!” the edge in the swell of abby’s voice demanded attention, commanded respect in the abhorrent violence of something unexpected. the closeness of the two sat thick, heady in the face of the thin layer of smoke in the air. ellie’s hand slips from her thigh.

a silence befalls the three of you, foreign and raw in the space of casualty. the air of times past is not lost on you, as you watch the humiliation creep through abby’s skin in red flushes. ellie’s advantage.

“i think it’s cute,” you muse with a misaligned shrug.

— a beat.

“really?” that changes everything, in a pathetic sort of way. abby has the eyes of a puppy, a tortured lap dog as she looks at you, wide and wild, tamed on your word. a certain honey of victory sits in her stomach.

“yeah, i mean -“ you laugh, such an ardent reminder of their own pursuits of you, fresh and recognisable. of who stands on their feet, and who kneels before them. “i just don’t intend to be a homewrecker.”

“we’re not together.” they choir together in rehearsed concordance, in defence of themselves. strange, how their voices melt together in a harmony so well matched.

you hum, as if to challenge them quietly, before standing. the stretch of your legs provides a curious path, their gazes dripping upwards of you like forlorn magnets, drawn to your body. you look down on them with a quirk of your brow, pulling your pj shorts to rest higher on your hips, before perching yourself on the edge of ellie’s bed.

they look at you as if they had just lost you, something childishly snoopy glinting, matched, in their eyes. your hands run along the scratch of ellie’s bedsheets, exploring, before you pat either side of you, gently.

in a scramble, they pull themselves to your side, infringing on your summoning. ellie pressed to your left, abby to your right, inescapable, the both of them.

you meet abby’s gaze, swallowed nearly in the startling kindness of the blue of her iris. she looks so meagre, so shrunken and teetering on the edge of your existence, a planet in orbit of a raging star.

gently, with the softness you label so deserving of her, your hands wander, pulling her in, letting the chasteness of her lips fall away into a fevered triumph, the taste of the salt of her lips and the bitterness of the weed a chaser to her touch.

ellie, sat so humbly, waits in a quiet, angry defeat, her fingers ghosting the edge of your bare thigh. oh, to be the only child, so unused to sharing. impatient and derivative, she almost whines, a soft call for your attention. you answer, to the surprise of both, abby’s taste still on your lips, something so familiar.

she’s more callous than the girl she so aptly loves and despises, her movements quick and domineering as she seeks to own you. abby, tasting you and wanton for nothing, slips down to the stretch of your neck, pressing her kindness into your skin with the pliant pull of her teeth.

ellie’s hands are needy creatures, pulling over you like the ebb and flow of a vicious tide, snaking up your shirt for just a taste.

“..fuck.” your heavy breath fills the room like smoke, a complying pass for her to tease the stretch of her fingers under the waistband of your shorts. control was just a fleeting delusion, your hand grabbing at the bone of her wrist, “come on, let her go first.”

ellie, once again left waiting; abby, so all consumed with the pulse of your neck, is despondent, desperate, her breath shaky in your ear as her hand slips beneath the fabric, a soft groan dripping from her lips at the velvet of your walls enveloping her.

she’s slow, languid and unpracticed with her indigent circles around your clit. a sweet intoxication hanging heavy in the air, you laugh, coy and soft and somewhat mean. you had thought abby bigger, more unobtainable than she really was.

here, she is human. here, she bares her unspoken inexperience.

you pull a desperate, evil ellie from the swirl of your tit, so keen to pull your attention away. your thumb mindlessly swipes along the hang of her bottom lip, her breath warm and savouring in your sunlight.

“y’know what to do?” ellie nods into the palm of your hand, eager to show off, to please. “teach her.”

leaning up on the back of your elbows, you watch through a half-lidded honeyed gaze as ellie slinks down, conflicted. a certain affection in her touch, deeper than that of anything else, she finds abby’s fingers in the heat of your legs, leading them along the strings of your impulse.

a shaky moan leaves abby’s lips, the callous of ellie’s fingers along her own a dream unfounded. she can feel the press of her chest against her back, her breath in her ear, her chin on her shoulder. this was not unlike of them, not a foreign feeling, but new, still. the need in ellie’s throat is rotted, estranged to her touch.

they assess you on the bed, like an experiment. the arch of your back is artwork along the ripple of the sheets.

“go slow, you see that?” ellie’s voice is low in abby’s ear, tracing the breathy moans you drip beneath them. “just like that — good, abs. good girl.”

ellie’s hand slips from abby’s, running your slick along her arm, your thigh, a trail up your stomach as she comes to palm your tits, her mouth finding your neck, biting down on your wicked pulse in such difference to the other.

abby is lost, chasing feelings that no longer belong to her. she watches you writhe under her touch, under ellie’s touch. something wanting sits in her throat, unknown to her.

ellie is her best friend. but this — mean competition abandoned, this is something else. something buried, aged, ready to rear its head.

the blonde brings her lips to the dip of your stomach, pressing a soft trail up the curve of your hips. unsure of what she wants, what she’s looking for on the crest of your body, she presses the crook of her nose into your naval, her fingers burning, picking up their speed.

ellie comes to her, drawn to her like to her a flame. pressing a kiss to the curve of your breast, she finds the cotton of her friend’s lips so easily, as if fated. messily, they meet along the plume of your ribcage, you, an instrument for their own aches. esoteric, their tongues swirl on your skin, on their lips, tracing each other as if they had never known the other at all.

like dogs tugging at meat with the bare of their teeth.

homewrecker, indeed.

⎯ kofi

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

[jakesangel]

jake as your boyfriend headcanons <3

loser boyfriend

⁃ jake's loves for physics is something you have always been fond for but u certainly wasn't ready w the amount of content he watches and MAKES you watche as well. he is a cutie n will make you a playlist to catch up on him or to watch together. he will be shy about it at first, but once he will feel secure enough or that ull give him enough reassurance, he will share it w u n hopes ull talk to him about it.

"omg y/n!! did you know that einstein has been proven wrong ?? apparently the speed of light isn't the fastest in the universe ??" he told you, buzzing of excitement. he is so excited you could see an imaginary tail waving n his puffy ears perking up. "omg what is it then ?", u ask smiling. "it's the quantum entanglement !!" he then went on and on about what quantum entanglement as if you could understand anything. but your boyfie is a cutie so you kiss him n let him be.

⁃ second thing jakes loves. legos. and it's his favorite kind of dates w you. either in his bedroom or in urs or even during ur picnics, u guys will alwasy make legos together. when he is on tour in the usa, he will go to the manufacturer and replicate the both of you in legos, your future ideal house and even add your pets :( you'll be making it together once he is back to your arms.

clingy boyfriend

⁃ he needs to see his pretty baby EVERYDAY, if not he will be calling u wayyy more or he will send u lots of voice messages n selfies.

⁃ he also needs his kisses n his hugs :( daily does of you or he can NOT fonction

⁃ when you guys are together his hands are alwasy on your waist or in the back jeans in the pocket because he is romantic like this ᵎ when u both are sitting, his hands can be on your lower back or your thigh. either way, he will be strocking the area lovingly

⁃ cuddles are also a must ! in the morning when you wake up together or at night before sleeping. but also when watching movies or eating. anytime n anywhere. even in front of the members. he loves u n he isn't shy to show off his pretty girl.

"let's eat on the couch baby, i want ur legs on you my lap ", he said taking his and your plates on his way to the living room. settles on couch, he takes ur legs to out them on his lap, kisses your temple and finally out his plate on ur leg so he can eat. "there we go, were lunch better like, no baby ?ᩚ "

⁃ he loves laying on ur chest, your hands in his hair or subbing his back. he would often fall asleep like this. he also likes laying his head on ur lap for the exact same reasons.

⁃ he would add kisses on u guys routine. like when brush ur teeth together he would kiss ur nose. or when u make breakfast ,he would come behind u and kiss ur shoulder and ur neck. kissing ur hand when eating together. kissing the top of your hair when u guys hugs, etc.

- talking about kisses, kisses w him are always different, you never know what to expect. they can be very passionate or full of love or teasing or filled w giggles.

scorpio boyfriend

⁃ as munch as he loves u wearing mini skirt, he can not let u go outside wearing this if he is not here. even his meme we ar won't allowed to this his heaven like gf. he can fight tho so he will let u go outside like that but by urself no.

- he isn't a controlling boyfriend but he won't like you going out w one guy, nor talking too much w them. he trust you but not men.

- because of that he can get a bit jealous, so if you both are in public and someone hits on you, trust me he will be making out right in front of the man.

down bad boyfriend

⁃ jake will be ur supporter #1, if he can he would be going out w ur face on his t-shirt. he also would want to participate in every event u have. your graduation, ur first day at work literally ANYTHING, he wants to be there for his baby.

⁃ evertime u would send a pic he would go feral, on text or irl, his friends are worried about you.

⁃ he will buy u everything u want n would go bankrupt for u. your eyes would linger on something for not even one second, it WILL be in ur hand few minutes later.

how to love jake VS how jake loves you hc

notes : it's my first time doing headcanons, please lemme kno what you think about and what other kind of boyfriend jake is ><

@imaluckygirl @luvj4key @heeseungswifefr @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @jaeyunpinkyring

[piscespetals]

summary: you & sevika work in an office, and developing a silly schoolgirl crush is the last thing you expected to happen at this point in your career...

word count: i stopped counting 3/4 of the way through once I reached 16k so this is pretty hefty!

content: pinning (of course), fluff, gay disaster, the tiniest sliver of smut

thanks for reading!

Kinda in my feelings about what it would be like to work in the same office as Sevika...

╰➤ I feel like you see her in passing a lot, since her office is only a few doors down from yours.

╰➤ The both of you often strike up casual conversations in the break room, filling the silence while awkwardly waiting for your food to heat up in the microwave.

╰➤ You always notice when she walks into the same room as you because she's constantly dressed to the nines—slacks hugging her thick thighs just right; form fitting and sleek. They shape the curved muscles of her calves as if the manufacturers make the material just for her.

╰➤ You also notice that she has a knack for neutral colors, especially with her dress shirts. She likes the top buttons to be undone, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and collar perfectly crisp. The air that swarms her is usually woodsy with a hint of spice.

╰➤ She's magical.

╰➤ And because of that, you aren't surprised at the buzz about her in the workplace. She's one of the new hires so it's natural for her to stir up curiosity. But beyond that, there's no doubt that she's quite the enigma. You've even heard a few colleagues gossip about how much they want her.

╰➤ The first time you interact with her is when you're waiting for the microwave to finish warming up your lasagna.

╰➤ Her dress shoes click softly against the tile floor as she enters the break room, causing you to glance over your shoulder. Your eyes widen when her gaze flickers from the microwave to you.

╰➤ "Hi," You mumble pathetically. Your stomach churns and your toes curl and all of a sudden, it's like you're a shy prepubescent person all over again.

╰➤ She smells good.

╰➤ "Hey," Her voice is deep and warm. It rings straight through you before settling at the pit of your stomach.

╰➤ "Uh," You swallow, shifting your weight. "I'm almost done. Then you can use it."

╰➤ She doesn't say anything else.

╰➤ Her lack of silence sparks a wave of nerves. Next thing you know, you're gesturing towards the microwave wordlessly.

╰➤ She follows the motion, eyebrows quirking up with interest.

╰➤ "I'm having lasagna for lunch," You announce. "This is my third time having to warm it up. I forgot how stubborn pasta can be in a microwave." Then you're patting the top of the rectangular miniature oven.

╰➤ You almost allow yourself to think that her expression has morphed into amusement. But before you get carried away with your thoughts, a loud ding! sounds.

╰➤ Quickly, you open the microwave door, carefully reaching for your steaming tupperware container so that you don't burn yourself.

╰➤ "Well, it's all yours!" You don't have the courage to meet her gaze anymore, finding more interest in the carpet as you leave the room and make a beeline straight to your office.

╰➤ Interactions after that are somewhat similar. Sometimes, she asks, "How've you been?" If the wait to use the microwave is longer than usual.

╰➤ The conversations are more surface level than anything—a routine song and dance to fill up silence for the sake of politeness.

╰➤ They're strings of, "The weathers been nice lately" and, "What are you eating today?" and, "How's the workload been for you?"

╰➤ Then you both are scurrying off to your own little sanctuaries, not planning to see each other until the next business day.

╰➤ There's another time when you're late to going on break. You usually like to be one of the first ones to clock out and heat up your food. There's only one working microwave because your boss is too cheap to replace the second one (that has been broken for several months now), which causes a long line to form for those wanting to warm up their home lunches.

╰➤ Unfortunately, today is the day where you have to join the majority and step in line. Due to a phone call that lasted longer than you expected, you don't end up going to lunch until 15 minutes later than you usually do.

╰➤ You're softly rocking on your heels when Sevika comes into view. She rounds the corner of the office, stalking towards the line with taut muscles and a grinding jaw. An air of annoyance lingers around her, eyes unfocused and seemingly far away, hands—

╰➤ "Are you gonna step forward?" Shane, a co-coworker, asks. He appears disgruntled, pointing at the gap of space in front of you.

╰➤ That seems to gain Sevika's attention. She peers at Shane shortly before dragging her piercing stare towards you.

╰➤ Shane huffs at your silence.

╰➤ "Oh, right!" You breathe, breaking away from Sevika's regard. "Uh, sorry."

╰➤ Taking a few steps forward, you close the distance, doing your best to ignore Shane's rant about "dillydallying workers."

╰➤ A few moments pass before that familiar image of Sevika's grey eyes resurface in your brain. Glancing back towards her, you find her scuffing the heel of her dress boots against the carpet, attention set on no particular thing. She jumps between the carpet, to the gossiping co-workers nearby, to the flickering ceiling lights.

╰➤ Just when you're about to turn back around, she glances towards you. Your gut pulls, ears rushing with adrenaline and veins buzzing.

╰➤ Then, she mouths, "Hi," and you almost combust right then. Gone is the frustrated expression that was adorning her features moments before. Instead, a ghost of a smile plays on her lips.

╰➤ You blink a few times; stunned.

╰➤ You think you wave back at her, but you can't seem to be entirely in touch with whatever your body is doing.

╰➤ "Um, hey." You reply, clearing your throat.

╰➤ It's loud enough for her to hear. But it also may have been too loud. A few other people surrounding you look over in confusion.

╰➤ "Were you talking to me?" Brian, a colleague who's standing right in front of Sevika, asks.

╰➤ You bite the inside of your cheek. "Oh—uh, no. Sorry."

╰➤ Brian looks around, not so subtly, probably trying to find out who the hell your greeting was directed to.

╰➤ Sevika laughs at the interaction. It's the kind of laugh where she presses her lips together, shoulders shaking and eyes dancing with humor. She's trying to be polite—trying to contain her laughter—but she's not doing a very good job.

╰➤ The sight causes you to shuffle your feet in embarrassment, blowing a raspberry.

╰➤ "Look, I've only got twenty minutes of my lunch break left so if you aren't gonna pay attention..." Shane admonishes, voice thin. He's gesturing to the growing gap in front of you again, clearly fed up with your lack of wherewithal.

╰➤ You bite the inside of your cheek, choosing to ignore the way that Sevika seems to be laughing harder now. Fighting off a giggle of your own becomes difficult.

╰➤ "Okay." You reply. Then you face forward, catching up with the rest of the line. "Sorry."

╰➤ The next time you see Sevika, it's when you run into her before a staff meeting.

╰➤ Literally.

╰➤ You aren't paying attention, too busy with shuffling through your purse for a granola bar, eyes downcast and head hung low, when you walk straight into her.

╰➤ Her body is firm, your forehead knocking against the rounded muscle of her shoulder. Your breath catches, eyes widening as you try to glance up, struggling to regain your bearings.

╰➤ Strong hands grab onto your upper arms. The feeling of thumbs pressing into your skin jolts you awake from the daze you've been experiencing all day. And like a moth drawn to a flame, you feel yourself hovering closer—drunk off of the delicious air that surrounds you.

╰➤ Sevika's air.

╰➤ "Oh," You huff, blinking up at her with wide eyes. In the back of your brain, you register the feeling of her large hands encircling your biceps. It's a feeling you welcome. But it becomes faint when you realize the reality of the situation. "I'm so sorry," You spit out, remorse crashing into you. "Fuck—I mean...frick." A startled laugh escapes you. "Frick because fuck is totally not work appropriate...obviously."

╰➤ You swallow thickly. Your legs tremble, an undeniable pressure sprouting in your gut under the feeling of Sevika's pressing gaze. Her stormy grey eyes examine you with interest. It leaves your mind clouded over with impure thoughts—unprofessional thoughts.

╰➤ "I wasn't looking." You add.

╰➤ "Clearly." Sevika's sporting a shit eating grin. Her hands squeeze your biceps. "You good?"

╰➤ "I'm good. Just—" You clear your throat. "Well, I was actually looking for a granola bar. I forgot to take a lunch break because I'm drowning in paperwork. And then Cam announced the meeting at the last minute so I thought I could get a quick bite on the way. Except I'm pretty sure I've somehow lost my granola bar which is just my luck. And-"

╰➤ Sevika's eyebrows are raised so high that they almost meet her hairline. "I see," She mutters, sounding impassive.

╰➤ Fuck.

╰➤ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

╰➤ Maybe you're talking a bit too much—a habit you've been trying to break lately—but it's only because Sevika makes you nervous.

╰➤ It goes beyond her demeanor that screams, "I don't like people so respectfully, leave me the fuck alone."

╰➤ Sevika is your work crush. She's gorgeous and good at meeting the weekly stats, and smells good.

╰➤ Despite the office rumors of her unapproachability and death glares, she's not entirely awful in your presence. She's pretty cordial with you in fact. Which means, she doesn't dislike you as much as she probably does the others.

╰➤ After all, she always lets you use the microwave before her. And she doesn't make you feel completely useless when you tell her a cringey joke, or make an embarrassing attempt to strike up conversation.

╰➤ But now, you've opened your mouth.

╰➤ You've opened your fucking mouth and have probably turned her off before she could even get a chance to truly know you.

╰➤ You've fumbled.

╰➤ The realization embarrasses you.

╰➤ "Yeah," You respond. The both of you fall silent and you imagine a static screen being displayed on a person's TV somewhere in the world. That's the perfect personification of this moment, you think.

╰➤ Sevika hums, letting her hands fall back to her sides. Then she's stepping back, slightly faltering and looking down at the space between you both. You follow her gaze, eyes widening at the sight of fingers gripping the hem of her shirt. Your fingers.

╰➤ "Oh! Sorry," You repeat. You tug your hands away, breath catching in your throat. "This is—" Your lips pinch together.

╰➤ God, this is embarrassing.

╰➤ Clearly scandalized, you tread a few paces backward.

╰➤ "Um, actually, I should go pee! I haven't had a chance yet, w-with the workflow and all. Especially now that the staff meeting starts soon," Your thumb juts in a general direction of the restroom behind you. "Gotta hate those bladder infections, am I right?" Pathetically, you force out a laugh.

╰➤ Humor trickles onto Sevika's features. Her lip twitches. "Right..."

╰➤ "Not that I have a bladder infection right now! I'm preventing one by going to the bathroom. My bladder is perfectly fine." One of the straps of your purse falls off your shoulder. You readjust it. "...Not that you care, or like, anything."

╰➤ A pause bleeds into the atmosphere. Slight chatter travels from a few offices down. People emerge from their desk, hastily making their way to the conference room behind Sevika. You struggle to ignore the sound of tapping keyboards and squeaking chairs. The lull is excruciating.

╰➤ "Okay, well–" You force a cough. "I'll go now. Catch you later, Sevika." You almost allow yourself to believe that her eyes widen when you say her name.

╰➤ But then you're turning on your heels and scurrying away, discarding the ridiculous notion.

╰➤ It's the next day when you run into her again. There you are, standing in front of the microwave, when you hear chuckling. It's easy for you to know it's hers. You find yourself savoring the sound every time it leaves her lips.

╰➤ A smile stretches across your face, and you peer over your shoulder, eyes landing on her for the first time that day. Sevika's wearing a white long-sleeve undershirt, partially covered with a black sweater vest and beige slacks. She has her hair styled in a half-up, half down. She's fiddling with a gold plated watch on her wrist, expression smug and eyes regarding the person beside her.

╰➤ The microwave beeps; a sign that it's time for you to retrieve your lunch and head back to your office. But your eyes can't help but linger on the stranger beside Sevika.

╰➤ Well, they're not really a stranger. Their name is Kai. You don't know Kai personally. You just know of them. They work in the warehouse, so you only see them during the times that all departments are required to attend the staff meetings.

╰➤ Occasionally, you may see Kai if they visit one of their friends that work on the same floor as you. They have chestnut brown eyes and a badass sleeve that covers their entire right arm. But besides that, they’re a complete stranger.

╰➤ "Smells good," Kai announces, turning to you. There's a glint in their eyes as they gaze at you, and that makes you feel exposed for some reason. You can't understand why or even how.

╰➤ Then, your attention diverts to the way that Kai’s fingers dance along the cuff of Sevika's sleeve. They trail up the material, alongside Sevika's forearm, before pulling away. It's the smallest gesture—something a general onlooker wouldn't notice without staring incredibly hard—but you noticed. You wish you hadn't.

╰➤ "Thanks," You mumble.

╰➤ You turn around, swallow, blink, and open the microwave door. You ignore the burning of the tupperware container against your skin, trying to shut out the pounding of your heart.

╰➤ "Hey," Sevika greets, the quietest she ever has.

╰➤ It's harder for you to meet her eyes in that moment. You're distracted by Kai’s swaying, and how it's perfectly on beat with the music that echoes through the office speakers; how they’re majestically relaxed in a way that you never can be.

╰➤ You don't understand why such strong feelings surge through you; feelings of envy and doom and a hint of jealousy. It doesn't make sense. It isn't logical. But it's there. It's annoyingly there.

╰➤ "You're the one who just got promoted to be Cam's assistant, right?" Kai asks. You stop in your tracks, halfway between the microwave and them. A wave of shock washes over you. You never thought they ever noticed you.

╰➤ "Um, yeah. It's not really a promotion, though..."

╰➤ "No?" Kai glances at Sevika out of the corner of their eye. "Vika said so. She's mentioned it a few times, actually."

╰➤ That's when you find the courage to glance over to Sevika. Her cloudy grey eyes observe the floor, jaw grinding and hands shoved into her pockets. Sevika knows your job title?

╰➤ It feels ridiculous to be excited over such a revelation. After all, you and Sevika work in the same fucking building. How can she not know what you do?

╰➤ But there are countless coworkers in surrounding cubicles who never catch your attention; people you've never talked to. People who would never know that your office resided within walking distance from them. And the notion is the same for you when you find yourself surrounded by unfamiliar faces on days you stray too far from your office.

╰➤ But Sevika knows. She pays attention. Whether that's a good or bad thing, you allow your heart to savor the thought.

╰➤ "Oh," You mumble, swallowing thickly. Suddenly, the thought of Kai’s close proximity to Sevika doesn't seem so bad.

╰➤ "Well, anyways, there's a clerk position opening up and I may have interest in it. Kinda wanna be a corporate person now, you know?" Kai grins, laughing lightly. You smile in return. "If I land the job, maybe you can help me get adjusted to office life? Show me the ropes a little. Vika says you're the best one on the sales team."

╰➤ Vika says you're the best one on the sales team.

╰➤ Vika says you're the best.

╰➤ Sevika's head lifts, rolling her eyes as she nudges Kai with her elbow. Kai yelps then coughs seconds after. 

╰➤ "I just do what's in my job description." You bashfully admit.

╰➤ Kai’s grin widens. “Right…” Their words are slow and heavy with an unspoken implication.

╰➤ Their gaze shifts to Sevika, then you, then Sevika, and back to you again. The hairs on the back of your neck stand and you find yourself feeling self conscious; it feels like they know something about you that you don't want them to.

╰➤ “I’m just gonna squeeze by really quick,” Kai announces.

╰➤ You side step, allowing them to head towards the vending machines. You make the mistake of not being spatially aware, moving over a bit too far and knocking into the table positioned to your right. 

╰➤ "You okay?"

╰➤ Your eyebrows furrow at Sevika's question—at her concern. The way her gaze flickers between you and the table has your stomach tugging. Your fingers tighten around your tupperware container.

╰➤ "Just clumsy," You explain, nodding at her. "Which you probably already, uh, know."

╰➤ Your memory travels back to the day before, and how you ran right into her.

╰➤ You're not sure you'll ever be able to forget something so embarrassing.

╰➤ Sevika smiles and you realize that it's the most genuine thing you've seen all day. "Oh," She says knowingly. "I do."

╰➤ She's teasing you but you don't mind it. You couldn't even if you tried because you're too caught up in how breathtakingly handsome she is. The intricate details of Sevika's smile always has a powerful effect on you.

╰➤ She has the tiniest dimples in her chin, puffy dark lips gorgeously contrasting to the whites of her teeth. And her gap—goodness, that gap has you wanting to curl up into a ball and melt away. It's placed right between her two front teeth.

╰➤ You hold your tupperware container tighter against the lower pouch of your belly, feet rocking forwards and backwards, head swimming from Sevika's presence. She has you completely gone for her. A proper crush—and surely, due to the current circumstances of being coworkers—a rather inappropriate crush too.

╰➤ "You know," You find yourself saying. "I just realized...I've never actually introduced myself to you."

╰➤ Sevika straightens, eyes flashing with that familiar light of humor. "You're right. You haven't," She clicks her tongue. "How rude."

╰➤ Your skin prickles, "I'm the rude one?"

╰➤ "Are you insinuating otherwise?"

╰➤ "Yes." You nod, trying to erase your smile. Your cheeks are starting to ache. "Did it not take you two months to say more than just Hi to me?"

╰➤ "Not true." She clears her throat. "Sometimes, I would say hey instead."

╰➤ Your jaw drops and silence fills the room.

╰➤ And then you're laughing. It's the type of giggle that bubbles over with an emotion similar to returning home. Your cheeks ache and so does your stomach; your vision momentarily blurs from the action of squinting. Sevika joins you with her own laughter but hers is more beautiful. It's like the soft breeze of the wind on a spring morning. You'd try to make her laugh forever if you really could.

╰➤ Soon you're exhaling softly, features relaxing as you glance towards her. "I'm sure you already know who I am, and what I do here. But, for formality reasons..." You begin. It feels weird to introduce yourself to her, especially after seeing her nearly everyday for the last four months. After all, it seems like she knows enough to have already talked about you to Kai. But it makes you feel better to do it this way. You give her your name personally and shake her hand.

╰➤ A proper introduction.

╰➤ Sevika repeats your name under her breath, trying it out for herself. The sound of it causes your toes to curl inside of your shoes. When she shakes your hand, you take note of how large her fingers are compared to yours. One of her hands could engulf the both of yours without any effort. And her skin is warm and calloused. Despite the rough exterior, she touches you with such fragility that you have to glance down for a second. It's almost as if she's afraid of breaking you.

╰➤ But then the moment is over. Kai returns, this time with two bags of Doritos in their hands. They throw one at Sevika, and thanks to Sevika’s fast reflexes, it’s caught without a single flinch. 

╰➤ “This should hold us over until Leah clocks out.” Kai sighs. “She wants to go to Famous Dave’s again and I’m kinda in the mood for like, anything other than that. Like I can only eat a certain amount of that stuff before I start suffering from a serious case of heartburn.”

╰➤ Sevika scrunches her nose, popping a chip into her mouth. “Then tell her that.”

╰➤ “I can't,” The whine of Kai’s voice becomes oddly endearing. “You know how she gets.”

╰➤ “Then don’t tell her.”

╰➤ “Or maybe you can tell her. She listens to you.”

╰➤ Sevika rolls her eyes. “No.”

╰➤ “Why not…”

╰➤”Kai, just talk to her. It’s literally not that hard.”

╰➤ “...That’s what she said.”

╰➤ You marvel at the way that Sevika stops mid-chew, gaze still downturned at the red bag in her hand before muttering, “Hilarious.”

╰➤ You try to wipe the growing grin off of your face as you bite the inside of your cheek. Kai glances at you once more, eyes sparkling a gorgeous brown. “Do you want to join us? We’re catching dinner at Famous Dave’s.”

╰➤ Your jaw falls slack, shock hitting you like a ton of bricks. “Oh.” You respond. A breathless laugh leaves you. “Um…”

╰➤ “It’ll just be me, Leah and Vika. Do you know Leah? She’s in accounting. Kinda tall, lanky…socially awkward with bright purple hair?”

 ╰➤ The description doesn't ring any bells for you. “Uh, no. I don't think I’ve seen her around yet.”

╰➤ “Understandable. She works all the way up on the 8th floor.” Kai tilts their head, regarding you with a warmth you aren't used to receiving from anyone in this building besides Sevika and your boss. “Anyways, the offer still stands?”

╰➤ That’s when Sevika glances up at you through her lashes. She doesn’t necessarily crack a smile, but a corner of her lip has curved into something subtle. 

╰➤ “I wish. But I’m working overtime to help Cam with our pitch tomorrow.” You attempt to ignore the way your heart deflates as you say this. 

╰➤”Aw, man.” Kai tosses their empty Dorito bag into a nearby trash can. 

╰➤ "But we should definitely plan something soon.” Before you do anything stupid, like flaking on Cam last minute just to meet up with coworkers for dinner, you urge yourself to bid them goodbye. “I'll catch you guys another time, alright?" 

╰➤ "Nice meeting you!” Kai calls. A short hiss escapes the bottle in their hand as they twist off the cap and tilt their head back. It's a diet coke.

╰➤ "You too!”

╰➤ It's awkward when you slip past them both, proximity dangerously close to Sevika. You find the courage to whisper, “Later Vika,” to her at the last second.

╰➤ Her body stiffens and it almost sounds like she chokes while swallowing another mouthful of her chips. It’s probably the least collected display of behavior you’ve ever witnessed from her. 

╰➤ You stifle a laugh, brushing past her and towards the direction of your office. 

╰➤ You feel really fucking sad today.

╰➤ Days like today are days that you dread. It isn't a result of anything particular. Of course, you want to be able to blame an event or cause. But the truth of the matter is that you're just having a really bad mental health day.

╰➤ It first starts off with you waking up late. You never wake up late. Your mornings are pretty routine. Some may call them mundane, but routine helps you get through the day easier. So when your alarm doesn't sound and you wake after a bad dream, realizing that it's 30 minutes past the time that your alarm usually rings, your heart sinks.

╰➤ You don't have time for a full breakfast. You have to settle for toast and orange juice instead, slipping on the cleanest pair of jeans and shirt that you can find. When you make it to work, you're just on time. But everything is off.

╰➤ Because instead of your usual business casual attire, you're sporting faded jeans, a blank t shirt and beat up sneakers. Your muscles are still sluggish and your eyelids are heavy. So far, the morning isn't great.

╰➤ As time passes, you realize that you're quite ahead in your work. Cam is off for the day, which means you don't have any extra errands or tasks to do for him. There is truly not much left to accomplish.

╰➤ You settle on the mission of clearing out your voicemail box. But that's soon completed. Your latest emails are nothing of importance and you don't have any upcoming meetings to attend. A cloud of doom hovers over you. By 11 AM, it doubles in size. Once noon hits, it's time for your lunch break and a sorrowful cloud clings onto you like a leech.

╰➤ It's hard to gain a semblance of what to do next. Your heart's true desire calls for your bed and a long restful sleep. Your chest seizes with dull aches and your mind swarms with everything yet nothing at all. This is a familiar feeling that you always hate. It's hard to prevent days like this. It always creeps up on you before you can find the strength to prevent it.

╰➤ You're nearly 30 minutes late to taking your lunch today. You've packed a deli sandwich with grapes, pretzels and a bag of potato chips. But none of it is appealing. And for the first time in months, it's a cold lunch—which you don't usually prefer.

╰➤ Your legs take you to the break room. It's almost empty, with only the buzz of a few coworkers trailing in and out. You sit at one of the tables in the corner, sighing softly and staring down at your lunch.

╰➤ You aren't hungry. Whenever the rare days like today hit you—days when your appetite for life fades—a dwindling appetite for food soon follows. But if you don't eat, then you'll later find yourself crouched in your bed with aching temples, fighting off the pains of a skipped meal. So you open the tupperware container that has a handful of green grapes and take a few bites.

╰➤ There's something about working in an office environment that you enjoy. It's mostly independent-driven, which you prefer. You don't mind the quiet solace that comes along with being in your own office, surrounded by towers of paperwork and due dates. The system of doing the same tasks throughout the day—of working through the same checklists—always leaves you feeling at ease.

╰➤ Even the soft rings of telephones and fingers typing against keys provides you the same comfort that brown noise does for other individuals. Everything about your job is monotonous and ordinary, and therefore absolutely perfect.

╰➤ Your shoulders soon relax as you eavesdrop on a conversation between two coworkers huddled together on the other side of the break room. It's silly workplace gossip about other folks that you don't know, but for the sake of people watching, you allow yourself to become preoccupied with the way they interact with one another.

╰➤ Both of the girls are dressed in fashionable attire, with sleek knee high boots and pencils skirts. Their faces are painted with spotless makeup, nails freshly manicured and eyebrows perfectly arched. Your gaze travels back to your faded old jeans and dirty white New Balance sneakers.

╰➤ Sighing, you tug on the soft hem of your crew neck sweater, which you've thrown on due to the chilly air of the building. That's when a chair beside you squeaks. The legs are dragging against the tile floor due to someone pulling it out and sitting on it.

╰➤ You're met with the familiar features of Sevika. Her hair is pulled back into a perfectly sleek low-bun. There's a slight hint of mascara and eyeliner, barely noticeable if you hadn't already seen her on the days where she's bare faced. She smells of everything good; the walking embodiment of heaven.

╰➤ And she looks just as nice as she smells, with her beige button up and black slacks and matching black dress boots. She looks expensive. She always does.

╰➤ You blink, not only taken aback by her beauty, but also by her sudden presence. Isn't her lunch break supposed to be over by now?

╰➤ "Hi." She greets, which is nothing more than a murmur.

╰➤ Sevika has a very distinct way of communicating. Her lips move so fast that sometimes, you aren't sure if she's truly speaking or if it's all just your overactive imagination. She doesn't talk much, but when she does, it's intentional. You know that every word she does say is meant to be said. And you appreciate that trait about her.

╰➤ She's not the type to raise her voice. Out of all the encounters you've had with her, there's never been a time when she's even gotten remotely close to losing her composure. But a part of you is not sure if composure is the right word. Sevika just seems to be naturally indifferent; mellow. Constantly unbothered. That's what draws you to her. And that's why you feel a dose of comfort shoot through you at that moment. Her presence will probably always be welcomed, no matter what mood you're in.

╰➤ You give her a small smile in return before popping another grape into your mouth.

╰➤ She hovers for a bit. You're not sure what to say, or even if you should say something. 

╰➤ "Not using the microwave today?" She adds.

╰➤ You force out a small chuckle. "No."

╰➤ Silence resumes.

╰➤ Her lashes are quite long.

╰➤ She really is beautiful.

╰➤ You glance away from her, absentmindedly playing with the tattered ends of your sleeves. Your left leg is crossed over your right, rocking back and forth out of habit. There's a moment when it lifts a bit too high, knocking into Sevika's shin.

╰➤ You grimace, "I'm sorry."

╰➤ Out of the corner of your eyes, you pick up on the movement of her broad shoulders shrugging. "It's all good."

╰➤ Your rocking resumes. You make sure to angle your body away from her after that; ensuring that you won't accidentally kick her again.

╰➤ Slowly, you nudge your container of grapes towards her, "Would you like some?"

╰➤ She hesitates, "No." Another pause, then, "It doesn't seem like you've eaten much of your lunch today."

╰➤ "I'm not as hungry as I usually am. It's been a rough day."

╰➤ She positions herself to where her elbows lean against the tabletop. It appears that she's inches closer and the smell of her practically overpowers you because of it. "Is it worth talking about?"

╰➤ You peer up at her, eyes widening when you see the dilation of her pupils. Her hands are clasped together, chin resting on her knuckles and grey eyes regarding you with interest. The squaring of her shoulders causes her muscular biceps to bulge through her beige dress-shirt. It's a gorgeous sight.

╰➤ Your heart stutters.

╰➤ "Um," You blink, trying to concentrate despite the ongoing brain fog. "I'm just sad today, Sevika." You swallow thickly, finding yourself inching a little closer with your chin resting on your own hand. "But there's not a particular reason why. It's ridiculous, to be honest. Simply one of those days, you know?"

╰➤ She shifts towards you.

╰➤ Your foot brushes against her calf.

╰➤ A solemn ease envelopes around the both of you as an expression of understanding trickles onto her features. She nods quietly.

╰➤ There's not much to say, or rather, not much that you want her to say. You're grateful that she doesn't make a huge deal of your admission. Sadness lives in every human throughout their life. Just sitting with her is enough to ease the tide waves of grief that has been rolling through you. At that moment, sitting in the break room with Sevika, your sadness somehow finds a way to transform into still water; a sea of tranquility solely from Sevika's presence.

╰➤ She hooks her foot around the leg of your chair, dragging you closer towards her. Your stomach does somersaults and if you weren't so flustered, you'd probably be brave enough to ask her why she's doing this. But instead, you're left trying to stabilize your heart and trembling fingers. You allow yourself to bask in her closeness.

╰➤ "Your sadness isn't ridiculous," Sevika begins, wetting her dark full lips. Her breath smells of peppermint. Your foot grazes against her calf again, this time for a few seconds longer. "I don't know who or what's made you believe that, but it never will be."

╰➤ The shift in her is abrupt; something powerful enough to cause you to gawk at her. With each passing second, all of your worries slowly begin to unspool and relax, because her words ring with unrelenting truth. You know that she 100% believes everything that she's just said. That's enough for you.

╰➤ "And I don't blame you." Sevika adds. "I mean, this job alone is enough to send anyone into a fucking spiral."

╰➤ You laugh for the first time today. Your palms rest against your cheek and your eyes crinkle shut momentarily. Somehow, she makes laughter on even the most difficult days easy. "Oh, I don't know." You respond, after finally calming down. "This place isn't so bad."

╰➤ "Are you sure?" Her eyebrows raise. "I find that very hard to believe."

╰➤ "Well, there are perks. Like the wattage for the microwave here...It's—what—1500? That's way better than the one in my apartment."

╰➤ She rolls her eyes, but you don't miss the way that they flash with amusement. "Sweetheart, no wonder you're depressed. You've turned to microwave usage as a source of entertainment."

╰➤ A giggle escapes you and you squirm in your seat from her teasing.

╰➤ Sweetheart.

╰➤ The pet name echoes in your ears.

╰➤ "There's not much else to be entertained by. The wallpapers here are quite dreadful."

╰➤ She grins, glancing at the wall behind you. "Oddly obsessed with microwaves and picky about interior design. Noted."

╰➤ Your nose scrunches as you fight off another smile, sighing melodramatically.

╰➤ Sevika looks as if she's going to speak again. But then her phone vibrates against the tabletop quietly. She grabs it, peering at the screen before exhaling. "That's my cue." She says with a reticent expression. "My lunch break is up."

╰➤ You feel yourself deflating but you do your best to cover it up, nodding instead. "I should be getting back too."

╰➤ You both stand up, the lingering tension in the atmosphere snapping like an elastic band. Sevika spares you one more look, pocketing her phone and stretching her arms. Her smile is small but the effects of it leaves you feeling disembodied.

╰➤ "See you around, sweetheart." 

╰➤ Then she leaves.

╰➤ You stare at the door in front of you, trying to gain the courage to knock on it.

╰➤ This is ridiculous, really.

╰➤ You're ridiculous.

╰➤ Your palms are sweaty and your heart is beating entirely too fast. You want to turn around and walk back to your own office. You want to forget about ever doing this, or being delusional enough to think that this was a good idea.

╰➤ But you've already gone through the trouble and effort of preparing everything...

╰➤ Plus, numerous coworkers have witnessed you standing in front of this door for quite some time now. Turning around and walking away without even knocking would not only be embarrassing, but also probably attract some negative attention.

╰➤ Sucking in a breath, you raise your free hand, knock three times, then exhale.

╰➤ One second passes and you instantly regret it.

╰➤ You shouldn't have done this.

╰➤ You're sure numerous minutes pass before the door finally swings open—at least it feels that way. Round brown eyes greet you and your heart skips a few beats.

╰➤ You definitely should have thought this through a little more.

╰➤ "Oh, Kai." You breathe. "Hi."

╰➤ “Hey!” Surprise filters onto their features. "What are you doing here? Have you been standing out here for long? Sev—uh, you have…” They disappear behind the door, whispering something indiscreetly. 

╰➤ "I was just stopping by." You shift your weight, growing uneasy. You try to glance past them but it's hard to see considering you're several inches shorter than them. "F-For um, well... I was hoping to speak to Sevika."

╰➤ Kai appears in front of you again, smirking impishly. “...Any minute now, Vika. It’s not like you have someone waiting out here for you or anything.”

╰➤ You swallow. Inconspicuously, you glance around you, hoping that no one is eavesdropping from their cubicles. "I was wanting to give her something. I'm sorry that I interrupted." You rub your palm against your forehead, not knowing where to go from here. "Honestly, it can wait. It's not urgent or anything. It's just a gift. I know we don't usually stop by each other's offices like this so I'm sorry for showing up unexpectedly. I just thought...I don't know. I can come back? Yeah, I'll just come back another time-"

╰➤ "That's not necessary." Sevika appears over the shoulder of Kai. Your chin tilts up in order to meet her gaze, and you take a few steps backwards, clasping your hands behind you. "You weren't interrupting anything." The handsome woman muses, brows raised. You marvel at the way that her eyes glaze over you, up and down, before settling on your face again.

╰➤ Nodding, you allow your attention to flicker to Kai, who is now standing in between the both of you with raised eyebrows. The awkwardness of it all makes you clear your throat, shuffling your feet and wishing you had thought of a better way to do this. Maybe you should haves waited until you saw Sevika again in the break room.

╰➤ "I’ll catch you guys later, okay?” Kai chirps, barely glancing at Sevika as they pocket their phone. They’re practically beaming at the both of you when they step past the door threshold. Then, they disappear behind the rows of cubicles.

╰➤ Your mind reels at everything that's just happened. You struggle to fully understand why the temperature of the central AC suddenly feels like a searing heat wave. 

╰➤ When you peek over at Sevika, you find that she's already observing you. Her two front teeth sink into the plump flesh of her lower lip, eyes a darker shade of grey and swarming with undeniable heed. You can't help but admire her lips and how they appear to be perfectly crafted. They look softer than a billow of feathers, and you desperately want to touch them—want to feel them—and want to allow them to sweep you up into another world.

╰➤ That hunger inside of you grows, a specific feeling that she's only been able to bring out lately, and you know that no one can ever satiate such a desire but her.

╰➤ God.

╰➤ You've got it bad.

╰➤ She releases her lip and you become enamored with the way her throat jostles as she swallows. Painfully aware of your obvious staring, you force your attention back to her eyes.

╰➤ "I've got something for you," You say. Your voice is unfamiliar to your ears—huskier.

╰➤ Silently, she gestures for you to come in. You step forward and close the door behind you.

╰➤ Sevika's office is similar to yours. The desk and chair are quite the same, along with the filing cabinets and additional chairs for guests. But she also has a dark purple rug, with numerous framed pictures and a mini fridge shoved in the corner.

╰➤ A pair of dark purple curtains are drawn, allowing the sunlight to creep in, and more picture frames line the windowsill.

╰➤ Before you allow yourself to get too swept up with your surroundings, you turn to her and pull your left hand out from behind you, which holds a card. It's a simple blank one that you bought at the store and it has the words thank you written with one of your favorite sparkly ink pens, along with your signed name and lip print stained by your favorite lipstick shade. Above the personalized message are a few pairs of pressed tulips.

╰➤ "I just wanted to express my gratitude." You explain. She takes the card, staring down at it silently. "I was feeling a bit down the other day and you helped me by keeping me company. It may sound silly because it was just a simple conversation but," You shrug. "Conversation goes a long way sometimes. Especially for those that need it."

╰➤ Her thumb traces over one of the petals, lips parting and eyes widening. It's hard to know exactly what she's thinking and a part of you believes that maybe you've overstepped—that you've crossed an unspoken boundary. Her ongoing silence causes an unexpected panic to stir within you.

╰➤ Desperate to clean up a situation that you fear will go haywire, you open your mouth to say, "These are from a small garden that I’ve been trying to grow." Your forefinger hovers above her thumb, gesturing towards the flowers. "I pressed them myself, so that they won't die on you." You lick your lips, mouth feeling dry all of a sudden. Oh god. Why does she look like that? Why isn't she saying anything? This can't be good. "And I...well, now that I'm thinking about this, I'm realizing that this may be coming off as weird. I'm sorry. If I've made you like...uncomfy or anything, I totally understand and I'm sorry. My intention wasn't to make things weird."

╰➤ Her head raises at that, expression completely unguarded. It's rare when you're able to see unfiltered emotions flitting across her features. Sevika isn't the type to walk around with her heart on her sleeve. But with the way that she's looking at you, you realize that there's something unbelievably tender about her gaze.

╰➤ "And you'll probably tease me for this," You continue. You curse yourself for sounding breathless. Tearing your eyes away from her, you point at the card again. "But I used my microwave to press the flowers. Only because the other methods would have taken too long."

╰➤ That's when she laughs.

╰➤ You exhale softly from her hearty chuckles, relief immediately enveloping you.

╰➤ Laughter is a good sign.

╰➤ "I should have maybe waited to give you the card. I just didn't want to anticipate your reaction until noon, if I'm being honest." You wring out your hands, not able to shake the nervous jitters running through you. "I hope you like it."

╰➤ She runs her thumb over the material once more, lips rolling inwards before she rubs them together, deep in thought. You impatiently wait for a sign, any sign, that indicates her feelings towards your gesture.

╰➤ Her eyes, set deep above the plane of her cheekbones, slant as they peer downward towards the cardboard in her hand. She inhales through her nose, relaxes her lips, then exhales.

╰➤ "You didn't have to do this," She finally replies. "But of course I like it." She doesn't smile. However, you do notice a new light in her expression when she refocuses her attention on you. "Also, you apologize a lot." She pauses before adding, "...More than you need to. You haven't done anything weird at all."

╰➤ You want to bury your face in a pillow and squeal. But you settle for a smile instead. "Oh."

╰➤ Her lips crack into a knowing grin before she turns on her heel and walks over to her desk. She delicately positions the card so that it's standing upright next to a picture of her and a skinny brunette man. "The card is beautiful." She observes. Despite the natural raspiness of her voice, it has a warmer lilt to it now. "Thank you."

╰➤ You determine that Sevika thanking you is a new favorite. You want to shower her with endless gestures if it means that she'll continue to show fondness towards you.

╰➤ She leans against her desk, halfway sitting on the top surface, before shoving her hands in her pockets. Through the material of her slacks, you notice that they seem to be balled into fists.

╰➤You shift your weight as a strong sense of pride swells in your chest, opting to rest your shoulder against the door frame.

╰➤Only—you remember too late that nothing is actually beside you, and that the door frame is several paces behind you. Instead, you stumble when you realize that there's nothing close enough to catch your weight.

╰➤ Your arms sprout out in an attempt to catch your balance.

╰➤ "Um," You mumble dumbly, flustered by the mess that you've become. "...Thought there was a wall beside me." You clear your throat, attempting to right yourself again. 

╰➤ Sevika stares at you, eyes dancing with merriment, as she struggles to swallow her chuckles. She forces out a few coughs, trying to cover up her mirth, but it's clear that she finds your lack of coordination entertaining.

╰➤ You rest your hands on your hips in an attempt to find a comfortable standing position. You want to cringe. You want to crawl under a rock and never be perceived again.

╰➤ You puff out your cheeks before blowing out a heavy exhale. The room feels really hot and your heart is doing backflips in your chest. You can't tell if it's because of your stupid schoolgirl crush or the embarrassment of nearly eating shit in front of Sevika.

╰➤ Probably a combination of both...

╰➤ "Gravity really hates me." You jest.

╰➤ Her grin widens. "I can tell."

╰➤ You let out an exasperated chuckle, palm reaching up to rub against your forehead. She has to be aware of her effect on you.

╰➤ Like it's just painfully obvious at this point.

╰➤ Right?

╰➤ Your lips part and your hands pool with more sweat and you feel like the biggest lovesick loser to ever exist. There she is, with her perfect face and perfect laugh and perfect everything. You've barely talked to this woman outside of lunch breaks yet here you are, giving her pressed fucking flowers and worshiping the ground she walks on just because she sat with you for a few minutes. There can't be any other way that you can become more obvious.

╰➤ Your hands are flailing ridiculously around you, towards her plush purple carpet and curtains and picture frames before you're saying, "Nice office by the way."

╰➤ And she's looking at you with that knowing expression that's borderline condescending, which you really love despite how much you want to hate it, when she replies, "Thanks, darling."

╰➤ You blink rapidly and try not to combust right then.

╰➤ Your feet carry you to a nearby bookshelf before you can think otherwise. A shitload of CD’s are neatly stacked on them with names of artists you didn't know anyone still listened to. You preoccupy yourself with shifting through them, trying your best to ignore the zoo erupting in your stomach. There’s collections of Nina Simone and Freddie Hubbard and Bill Withers. Your eyebrows raise at the eclectic catalogue, not bothering to swallow the surprise that sprouts within you. It should be known at this point that Sevika will never fail to surprise you.

╰➤ Your hands tremble as they hold an ABBA CD. They cling tighter to the plastic case, attempting to make the shaking less noticeable. Something warm brushes against your shoulder, before taking the CD from you. You peer at Sevika, observing the way that she wordlessly takes out the disc and moves to a CD player that is situated farther to your left. 

╰➤ Despite her being concentrated on getting the speaker system to work, you’re totally enraptured by her. Her smell surrounds you like a cloud of ecstasy. Her hair is down today, a feathery cut that stops just below her jaw. Loose ends are tucked behind her ear, highlighting the rarest features of her face that you probably have overlooked before. Her lips purse together while she deeply concentrates, puffing out in a way that makes them look unbelievably inviting. Your breath catches, a prominent ache building between your thighs as the room fills with the beginning chords of The Winner Takes It All.

╰➤ She hums underneath her breath as the first verse begins, neatly placing the CD on top of the player. Slowly, her eyes drag back to you, unfocused and clearly lost in the music that fills the room. But then she freezes, seemingly not expecting you to already be observing her. The harmonies of the song contrast to the moment of stillness then; a corded tension falling between the two of you. 

╰➤ The feelings you have in that moment are visceral. Your head is spinning and your heart is racing. No matter how hard you swallow, your throat remains dry and your skin yearns for her—for her touch and her warmth and her firmness. 

╰➤ Your eyes burn and you have to blink rapidly in order to clear your vision. You can't understand why these feelings have hit you so suddenly, and why they're so intense for a woman that's only your coworker. But you try not to scold yourself too much, rubbing your palms against the material of your skirt instead.

╰➤ “What’s wrong?” She whispers, scanning your face.

╰➤ And that's when you realize how close you're standing to her. Maybe you were the one to step forward—or was it her?—and shorten the distance, but you can't know for sure. You should pull away. You should bid her a good day and return to your office (you'll have to be on the clock soon anyways) but you can't.

╰➤ You can't because it's too late. She’s already roped you in with her aloofness and cheshire grin and warm sultry voice. The window to escape has already passed. You're simply in too deep now.

╰➤ “You're just really fucking beautiful.” You blurt out. 

╰➤ When Sevika registers what you've said, it seems like she stiffens in shock. Her lips part, a sharp breath being sucked in while her stare intensifies. 

╰➤ You don't have enough wits to properly downplay your words or try to retract what you've said. The most you try to do is blink away the tears in your welling eyes and say, “I’m sorry.”

╰➤ You take a step back, then two. The reality of the situation hits you like a brick wall. You let out a heavy exhale, trying to calm the storm beginning to brew in your mind.

╰➤ Holy fuck.

╰➤ What if you’ve made her uncomfortable? You've clearly crossed a line. You're at work. In fifteen minutes, you’ll both be on the clock and trying to get your day started. This is inappropriate. 

╰➤ You feel like employees from the Human Resources department will barge right in at any moment, confronting you about your intentions and hauling you off to be questioned. Guilt rumbles in you like an unrelenting river breaking through a dam.  

╰➤ Sevika is shaking her head, eyes searching yours with growing alarm. “Sorry? Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry fo-”

╰➤ “...with the flowers and the card and calling you beautiful. I shouldn't be doing those things and saying stuff like that. I mean, not because I don't think you're beautiful. You're so beautiful. It's just... Oh lord—I’m doing it again. Fuck. Frick. Uh,” You gulp, taking a few more steps backwards. “I just don't want to make you uncomfortable. I'm totally aware that we’re coworkers. And I don't wanna be that one creep in the office who-”

╰➤ “No, it's okay.” She shakes her head again, a small smile appearing on her face. “You haven't weirded me out at all.”

╰➤ You stop mid rant, mouth hanging open and eyes trailing back to her. “Are you sure?”

╰➤ “Completely sure.” 

╰➤ Your attention hooks onto the details of her laugh lines. They become more prevalent as her smile widens. You want to brush your lips against hers and feel the curve of her laugh lines against your skin. 

╰➤ You fight the urge, responding with, “Okay,” instead. 

╰➤ She hums quietly underneath her breath, arms folding against her chest. 

╰➤ “Okay,” She echoes. Her weight rocks backwards, a slight sway that causes her hair to brush lightly against her jawline. You're captivated by the sharp edge of her jaw—and how it seems to become even sharper with each passing second—as she momentarily clenches it. 

╰➤ She’s opening her mouth to say something else when there's a knock on the door. “Sevika?” The silhouette of a woman, probably a coworker, shines through the frosted-glass door. Reality slams into you like a semi truck.

╰➤ Your heart jumps at the interruption. For some reason, you take a few more steps away from Sevika and your muscles tense.

╰➤ There's a hesitation that looms in the air. 

╰➤ Sevika's eyes hold something undefinable. Her gaze is level and full of intent. And you can't understand why everything feels so convoluted right now.

╰➤ After a few agonizing seconds of silence, she sighs, shoulders falling as she shifts her attention to the ground. “Come in.” 

╰➤ The door opens and a pretty brunette with glossy lips and mascara-coated eyes walks in. You've seen her numerous times throughout the day. She's one of the receptionists. 

╰➤ She smiles at you and you're surprised when she greets you. You’ve never realized she knows your name. 

╰➤ “Tara,” Sevika addresses. “What's up?”

╰➤ The receptionist turns to her, “I was trying to call you but it was going to voicemail. I wasn't sure if you’ve turned on your phone for the day? I’m really sorry for interrupting. But you have a gentleman waiting for you in the lobby, he says he has an 8 o’clock with you? I just wanted to confirm.” She clears her throat, shifting her weight awkwardly. Then she’s eying you again with a small smile. “I’m sorry—”

╰➤ “No, no. You're totally fine.” Sevika’s features morph into an expression that's more genial. “Did you catch his name? I do think I have an 8 o’clock, I just lost track of time.” She’s making her way over to the CD player, swiftly cutting it off. The music stops and the air stills.

╰➤ Hair stands on your skin as she walks to her desk, fiddling with a few buttons on her landline. 

╰➤ “Yes,” Tara replies, glancing down at a yellow sticky note. “He’s from the branch in Chicago. He goes by…”

╰➤ “I’ll catch you later, Sevika.”Your voice is rushed and barely above a whisper. The feeling of overstaying your welcome floods you.

╰➤ Sevika glances up under her lashes, hands faltering from the paperwork she's rummaging through. You don't give her a chance to reply, simply shooting her a smile and wave before slipping out of her office. 

╰➤  You sigh at the sign in front of you, bold words reading, BROKEN! PLEASE USE ANOTHER ONE on a piece of paper attached to the microwave. A low groan burns in the back of your throat. You’re starving. In fact, it’s been forever since you’ve let yourself grow this hungry.

╰➤ You didn't eat breakfast this morning. You were too preoccupied with thinking about Sevika’s gift, and how the hell were you going to give her a card with pressed flowers in a non-creepy way. But the task has been done, and for the most part, Sevika didn’t appear turned off by your gesture. So now, you are hungry. 

╰➤  Your stomach growls and your mouth pools with saliva. Spinning on your heels, you march out of the break room, trying to think of any other parts of the building that has microwaves. Your floor definitely doesn’t, which means you would have to take the elevator. And you don’t want to do that, especially if it means having to walk through another department. 

╰➤  Your mind is swarming with what ifs and maybe’s as you travel through rows of cubicles. The possibility of finding an unoccupied microwave is slim to none. If the one on your floor has been broken all morning, then there’s surely a growing line at the other ones. Dread gnaws at you and you huff with distaste. 

╰➤  There’s a part of you that considers eating your food cold. But your nose wrinkles at the idea and it’s quickly disregarded. 

╰➤  When you reach the elevator, you're met with the sight of Sevika leaning against the adjacent wall. She is lazily scrolling on her phone, her other hand occupying her pocket, and her cross body bag hanging off of one of her shoulders. Similar to the sudden dip of a rollercoaster ride—visceral and unexpected—a warmth spreads within you. Your head feels light–weightless even–and you can feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

╰➤ Your arm lifts and presses the button that summons the elevator. It’s a silly action, since you’re sure Sevika has already pressed it if she’s waiting for it to arrive. But you need something to do with your body; something that can expel some of the excess energy and calm your belly acrobatics. 

╰➤ Your movement seems to catch Sevika’s attention, causing her scrolling to momentarily freeze as she glances up.

╰➤  Your gazes lock and your breath hitches and you’re pretty sure you begin to hear fireworks sounding in the distance. She smiles and you return the gesture. Or was it you that smiled first? 

╰➤  “Hi,” You say.

╰➤  Her attention trails to the lower half of your face, lingering there for a few moments before climbing back up to your eyes. In a millisecond, she’s pushing off of the wall, body upright and phone slipping into her pocket. “Hey, you.” Her grin curves even more.  

╰➤ You don’t know what’s making you feel so lovesick: the inviting cadence of her voice or the fact that she’s practically glowing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen any blemish on her face besides a few faded scars. Seriously–what kind of skin care routine did the robust woman have? You made a mental note to ask her. 

╰➤ “The weather’s been nice today.” She adds.

╰➤ You fight off a chuckle, nodding in response. The conversation is elementary and completely like all the other ones that you’ve had with her countless times before. But you enjoy how mundane your chats are with Sevika. It isn’t really the topics that interest you rather than the calming consistency of her presence. The both of you could be counting the wall tiles to pass time for all you care. 

╰➤ Sevika cards her fingers through her hair as she rolls her eyes at a corny dad joke you’ve just told. “Clever.” She quietly muses, husky voice thick with sarcasm. Her lips are fighting off a smirk though, so you know she isn’t as annoyed as she’s trying to seem. 

╰➤ “Thanks.” 

╰➤ When Sevika centers her weight, she peers at the carpet, causing a singular strand of hair to fall in front of her forehead. A small part of you wants to reach out and run your fingers through it, but you softly shake your head to refocus. You listen to the faint rings of telephones in the distance instead.

╰➤“Well,” You drag out, growing uncomfortable by the silence. “Did you have a good weekend?”

╰➤She lifts her head, nodding softly. “Yeah.” A slight pause. “I went to dinner with some friends on Saturday, and then we watched the superbowl on Sunday…Made a day out of it, really…” She clears her throat. “Yeah. It was nice… What about you?”

╰➤ You don’t register the swaying of your body until your shoulder brushes against her bicep. “It was okay, I guess. I finished a novel. Went grocery shopping…did some gardening.” You wrinkle your nose, embarrassment washing over you. “Probably not as fun or eventful as yours, I suppose.”

╰➤ “Ah,” She chuckles. Her bicep brushes against your shoulder again. You can’t decipher if it was her fault or yours this time. “I doubt that.”

╰➤ You offer a thoughtful hum, but keep quiet otherwise.

╰➤ The elevator sounds with a soft ding! All too soon, Sevika is encouraging you to step on board before her. 

╰➤ “Hi Shane,” You say, smiling at the coworker that is already inside of the service lift. He barely regards you, lips frowning and worry lines prevalent on his forehead. He takes off his baseball cap momentarily, revealing a receding hairline glistening with sweat, before wiping it off with the back of his hand and repositioning the cap.

╰➤ “Hi.” The middle aged man grumbles. He nearly throws a fit when Sevika takes her time walking through the elevator doors. His face is firetruck red, left foot tapping impatiently as his finger presses the button for the 8th floor. 

╰➤ Your eyebrows shoot up and you look at Sevika. She observes the entire situation with passive amusement. 

╰➤ “Stupid elevators.” Shane grumbles. 

╰➤ You press your lips together, trying your best to refrain from laughing while reaching around him to press the button for the 6th floor. Usually, there’s a few microwaves on that one. “Where to?” You angle your head towards Sevika.

╰➤ “6th floor as well.”

╰➤ The atmosphere fills with the trademark grinding of the elevator and Shane’s disgruntled mumbling. The minutes tick by agonizingly slow and you even feel bad for giggling quietly when Shane huffs again, looking up at the ceiling with a grinding jaw. 

╰➤ Your fingers press against your lips in an attempt to remain calm, and your eyes flit over to Sevika knowingly. 

╰➤ Shane’s always been pegged as overly anxious and impatient in the office. He seems to be perpetually unhappy with everyone and everything. He seems to just be unhappy in general.

╰➤ A few levels down, the doors open and relief fills you. Riding the elevator with a fretful Shane definitely wasn’t on the top of today’s To-Do list. But then you falter at the sight of a plain concrete wall in front of you. Your eyebrows furrow and you glance back at the row of buttons. The number 6 is no longer illuminated, but you certainly aren’t facing the cubicles on the 6th floor right now. 

╰➤ "Shit…" Sevika mumbles. “This isn’t good.” 

╰➤ “Oh, come on!” The elevator shakes slightly in response to Shane obnoxiously stomping his foot. 

╰➤ Your breath hitches and you feel your arms searching frantically, trying to grab onto something to ground you, but only finding empty air. 

╰➤  Sevika’s already scanning the surroundings, probably for an emergency call box. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure if you can. 

╰➤ Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

╰➤ “I can’t believe this!” Shane’s voice is several pitches higher now. “I’m going to miss my appointment. Dammit!” He stomps his foot again, snatching his cap off. It falls to the ground and his hands tightly grip his hair–or, what’s left of it.

╰➤Sevika’s head snaps in the general direction of his. “Let’s not do that.” Her voice is icy. It comes off as a command instead of a suggestion and even you find yourself trying to gain your bearings. 

╰➤ Shane sends her a glare but he makes sure to keep his foot planted and his mouth shut. 

╰➤ Your eyes are burning and you're beginning to find it hard to breathe. 

╰➤ You’re stuck.

╰➤ The elevator is fucking stuck. 

╰➤ No–you can’t freak out. That won’t help. 

╰➤ Your hands are bunching against the material of your clothing, feet working into nervous tapping. Oh God.

╰➤ Oh God.

╰➤ Sevika finally finds a button next to an icon with the emergency bell symbol, which doesn’t seem to be immediately obvious at first glance. The noise is loud and jarring when she presses it, before an automated voice begins to speak words that you can’t fully register. 

╰➤ And then she’s talking with an operator, that much you can process, but it’s all blurring together too much for your liking.

╰➤ Shane is breathing loud. Annoyingly loud in fact. 

╰➤ You want to tell him to shut the hell up, especially when he starts crying, but you can barely see through your blurred vision and it doesn’t seem like your body will listen to your brain even if you will it to.

╰➤ Then there’s warm hands pressing into your shoulders, squeezing them, before lowering to your elbows. 

╰➤ “It’s okay,” Sevika reassures. “I just talked to the operator. They’re going to try to reset the system.” 

╰➤ You shake your head and grip onto her shirt. “We're going to die.”

╰➤ “Hey,” Her breath fans against your cheeks as she ducks down to look at you levelly. Her touch retracks before you feel warmness on your face. Her thumbs are swiping your skin. “Sweetheart, it’s gonna be okay.” 

╰➤  That’s when you realize that you’re the one who’s breathing heavy, because you’re also the one who’s crying. Her thumbs are wiping away your tears.

╰➤ “Sev…” You respond, breath ragged. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared, I-”

╰➤ “It’s an honest human reaction.” Her lips brush against your left earlobe as she pulls you in for a hug. “...Better than stomping your foot and shaking the entire cabin, that’s for sure.” 

╰➤ You let out an ugly combination of a sob and laugh.

╰➤ “Not funny, you asshole.” Shane isn’t too happy with the jest.

╰➤ “Hey!” You find yourself objecting. You lift your head but know it’s no use. Sevika’s too tall for you to be able to see over her. “Be nice, you two.” 

╰➤ Shane grumbles a few other curse words, this time much quieter. Sevika tightens her hold around your waist, nose rubbing into your shoulder with an odd tenderness, but she doesn’t say anything else.

╰➤ You’re sniffling as you try to relax in her hold. You’ve given up the task of restarting your heart because you know that you’ll never be able to truly calm down until you’re safely out of this elevator. But for the meantime, you try to distract yourself with the smell of Sevika, and the feeling of her pressed against you. You cling onto her like a raft in the middle of a storm, praying that she can continue to keep your worries at bay.

╰➤ “Sev,” You say again, voice shaking. “I’m really scared.”

╰➤ “I know.” 

╰➤ The elevator slips down a considerable amount, causing the both of you to lose your footing and nearly fall. Your scream melts into a gurgle of cries as Sevika curses lowly.

╰➤ She lowers the both of you to the floor, hands attempting to steady you. The panic you feel is definitely taking over now. 

╰➤ “We’re going to die.” You hiccup, eyes widening. 

╰➤ “Darling,” Sevika pauses. You almost believe that she’s trying to gather more patience, and you can’t blame her if she is. But the pause is too brief for you to know for sure. “We aren’t going to die. Hey–”

╰➤ Her fingers are gingerly pinching your chin, urging you to meet her gaze. An air of passivity rolls off of her. “Can you breathe with me? You’re hyperventilating.” Her brows begin to furrow. “I can’t have you passing out on me, you know.”

╰➤ “We won't make it out of here.”

╰➤ Her lips fix into a thin line, “Do you trust me?”

╰➤ Your reply is immediate, “Yes.”

╰➤ “Can you trust that I will make sure you get out of here safely?” Her palms begin to press against the sides of your face, holding you close to her. She strokes the apples of your cheek with her thumbs, expression pensive. “I've got you. I…” She wets her lips, eyes flickering with an odd light. “I promise.”

╰➤ A few stray tears escape your eyes, rolling down your face and onto her palms. You inhale a long shuddering breath as you nod, mouth souring everytime you think of your current predicament.

╰➤ “Okay.” You rasp. 

╰➤ The both of you are a breath apart, huddled in one of the corners. That's when you realize that you're actually sitting in her lap. 

╰➤ “I just can't believe I’m stuck here simply because I was wanting to use the 6th floor microwave.” Your eyes flicker shut, another wave of doom hitting you. “I just wanted some lasagna!”

╰➤ Sevika laughs. “If only you took the stairs.”

╰➤ “I know, right? I don't usually because I'm lazy, but maybe-”

╰➤ “I get that this is an emotional moment right now,” Shane grunts. “But does anyone have a bottle or something? I really need to piss.”

╰➤ Your nose crinkles. Ew.

╰➤ Sevika grinds her jaw. “You will keep your pants on, or so help me God…”

╰➤ “Okay, okay. I got it.”

╰➤ You clear your throat, shifting in her lap and glancing at Shane. He has his left leg crossed over his right, legs tense and face seemingly straining with concentrated effort. A vein is bulging out of his neck and sweat is gathering around his forehead again.

╰➤ “Tell me another one of your lame jokes.” Sevika whispers, completely disregarding him and squeezing you closer to her.

╰➤ The shift in conversation feels like emotional whiplash. 

╰➤ Everything about today has been weird. You never thought a day would come where you're actually sitting in her lap, and being comforted in the most gentle way.

╰➤ But then again, you never anticipated getting stuck in an elevator with her so…

╰➤ “They are not lame.” You refute, feigning offense. “They're dad jokes.”

╰➤ “Okay, well...” Her attention zeroes in on your nose. One of her hands raises, brushing at it before inspecting a small fuzzy and flicking it away. “Tell me one of them.”

╰➤ Your blink in thought, scanning your brain for one that you haven't told her yet. It's starting to become hard to decipher which jokes you have and haven't shared with Sevika, especially as the months continue to carry on. You fear that you'll run out of them sooner than you’d like to (at least the funny ones) and then you won't know how else to entertain her. 

╰➤ “What do you call a fake noodle?”

╰➤ Her forehead scrunches as she ponders on a possible answer. 

╰➤ A slow smile curves at your lips while you mutter, “An impasta.”

╰➤ You can practically see the gears in her brain shifting before she registers the pun. Her lips are puffy from constantly being chewed on when they pull into a playful scowl. The tiniest wrinkles appear along the slope of her nose as she scrunches it, eyes peering at you through narrowed slits.

╰➤ “You're ridiculous.”

╰➤ That causes you to laugh, heart warming at the slight annoyance in her voice.  “Ridiculously funny and charming? Sure.”

╰➤ “...Oh my god.”

╰➤ “You love my jokes, just admit it.”

╰➤ “Sweetheart…They're not actually yours. I know you google them.”

╰➤ “ It's my delivery though. No one delivers jokes better than I do. It takes actual skill.”

╰➤ “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

╰➤ “...There's the timing you have to consider and the vocal inflection.” Your hands fall down her arms, resting in your lap as they tug on one another. “It involves real artistry.”

╰➤ “How dumb of me to think otherwi-”

╰➤ “Oh, thank you! God! Thank you!”

╰➤ You jump at Shane’s outburst, examining the way he stands to his feet, a grin breaking across his face. He’s pointing at the elevator doors, which are now closing. A low hum fills the air. Soon after, the sound of cogs becomes louder and the elevator begins moving.

╰➤ You and Sevika startle at the sudden shift, moment now broken. When you peer at her, she's smiling softly, grey irises drinking in every one of your features. 

╰➤”I told you we’d be okay.” She says.

╰➤You're too relieved to properly respond, allowing her to help you stand up instead. 

╰➤ The intercom beeps and a voice says, "Rescue team here. Please remind us how many people are there with you?"

╰➤ “If you feel any sort of stress from today, please don't hesitate to use this number.” Cam says as he shoves a business card into your hand.

╰➤ You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine. I swear.”

╰➤ “There's no shame in using the services, I promise. Just input your employee number and the company code on the website and it’ll—”

╰➤ “Cam,” Your left hand reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. You make sure to hold his gaze. “I’m totally fine now, I promise. I’ll admit that it shook me up a little, because it felt like we were going to be stuck in there forever. But everything's okay.”

╰➤ He scans your face, searching for any sign that you're being untruthful. When he doesn't find any, he nods smally. “Go home.” His stare becomes stern. “Take it easy for the next few days.”

╰➤ “Cam—”

╰➤ “I’m serious! If you go back to your office for the rest of the day, I’ll take a deduction from your wages.”

╰➤ You roll your eyes, “That doesn’t sound legal.”

╰➤ “I’m sorry, I can't hear you anymore.” He shrugs his shoulders, pacing a few steps backwards. “I have meetings to attend now.” He doesn't allow you to object, adding, “Have a good weekend, kid,” before turning around and leaving the room.

╰➤ It hasn't been long since you’ve been rescued from the elevator—maybe 30 minutes, at most. Cam made his way over to the three of you once he received notice of everything. You feel relatively fine. The medics accessed you first, since you seemed to be the most shaken up when they arrived. And ever since they finished, Cam has somehow convinced himself that you, Shane and Sevika should take the rest of the day off.

╰➤ He also seemed adamant about offering you the free therapy services that your company provides, hence the business card in your hand. But you feel like it might be a desperate gesture to cover his ass. Surely, this isn't the first time that someone's been stuck in the elevator while on the clock.

╰➤ The medic team seems to just be finishing their assessment with Sevika and Shane now. You stand off to the side, watching helplessly, as Sevika sits in a chair and chats casually with a buff paramedic woman. 

╰➤ The three of you were momentarily moved to a nearby conference room when rescued from the elevator. One of the office supervisors said it was to give you all a space to “wind down and decompress.” But you're pretty sure it's because the company is trying to gloss over the elevator incident. 

╰➤ The door to the conference room opens and you're met with the familiar face of Kai. Their eyes are wide—frantic—as they scan the area. 

╰➤ “Dude,”  They gasp, attention on Sevika. “You won't believe the stuff that's circulating the office right now…it's some crazy shit!”

╰➤ Then they’re grabbing one of the chairs closest to Sevika, plopping down in it. “Are you guys okay? Seriously, what the fuck happened?”

╰➤ “We were stuck in that stupid contraption.” Shane butts in. “We could have died and they only care about giving us PTO and a stupid link to telehealth.”

╰➤ It's the first time you've heard him talk since stepping off of the elevator. 

╰➤ “I missed my damn appointment and the fee I’ll get charged is ridiculous,” He slams his hand on the table, fingers spreading out against the surface and jaw grinding. “I’m gonna sue these motherfuckers.”

╰➤ Surrounding medics have been slowly packing up their equipment, but they momentarily freeze at the sound of Shane's threat. The one closest to Sevika lifts an eyebrow, expression bemused as she pockets her phone. 

╰➤ “I’m not sure if you can do that, Shane.” Kai quirks. Their eyes dance with humor as they swallow a chuckle.

╰➤ “I’m 62. I can do whatever the hell I want!”

╰➤ Kai nods, slightly taken aback. “Touché.”

╰➤ Shane grumbles under his breath, standing to his feet with the help of a nearby medic. He’s slightly hunched over, gripping the lower part of his back while he hobbles to the entrance door.

╰➤ “Bye Shane!” You call.

╰➤ He waves you off irritably, not bothering to turn around and give you a proper farewell.

╰➤ “And they said you fainted when the rescue team came,” Kai turns to you, expression morphing into something kinder. You think you see their eyes travel to Sevika for a split second, but you conclude that it’s just your overactive imagination. “How are you feeling now?”

╰➤ You laugh incredulously, “Do people just live to gossip here? That was barely an hour ago.”

 ╰➤ “It's not like there's much else to do around these parts,” Kai grins wickedly. “Besides the scandalous office romances that people chat about. But that's old news. This is the most exciting thing we’ve had since Christmas!”

╰➤ You laugh harder, hands coming up to rest against your cheeks as you work through your shock. “That's one way to put it.”

╰➤ The three of you are alone now since the last two medics managed to slip out of the room inconspicuously. And now it's harder to escape the overwhelming fatigue that looms in the air. Secretly, you thank Cam for giving you the rest of the day off.

╰➤ “I have to get back soon. I’m supposed to be meeting the Amazon delivery driver in t minus one minute.” 

╰➤ “Oh my god,” Sevika rumbles, shoving her friend out of their seat. “Go do your job.”

╰➤ “Yes ma’am.” Kai wipes their hands on their jeans, leaning down and kissing Sevika on the cheek before ruffling her hair. “I’m glad you didn't like, die or anything, loser.”

╰➤ Sevika merely grunts.

╰➤ Kai winks at you, “Bye lovebirds!”

╰➤ And then there were two. 

╰➤ You carefully pivot to face the herculean woman a few feet away from you. The crease between her brows, even though heavily prevalent when Kai was here many seconds ago, are now gone. She stares at you for a beat, lower lip caught between her teeth and hands drumming against the muscles of her thighs. 

╰➤ “Sorry about Kai. They're a bit childish sometimes.” Sevika mutters. But despite her words, you can tell she thinks fondly of Kai. 

╰➤ “I like them.” You find yourself admitting. “They’re funny.”

╰➤ “They’re annoying.”

╰➤ Her lips twitch into the smallest hint of a grin. Your own smile grows and subsequently, her eyelids flutter. In the midst of today's chaos and fading professionalism, the heart of something tender passes between the both of you. The air cracks and sparks fly. It's fleeting—but it's there.

╰➤ Her throat jostles as she swallows, “How are you feeling?” 

╰➤ There's an unmistakable burn within you that her question creates. “I’m better than before.” 

╰➤ Her eyes trail down your body, then back up to your face. You assume that it's a mistake. But then her gaze wanders again, and this time it's for longer. This time, it has more intent.  Your stomach flips.

╰➤ Her lips barely move when she responds, “Good.”

╰➤ You sense the moment slipping away, and a tiny part of your brain nudges you to leave the room and go home. God-forbid Cam stumbles back in and sees that you're still here. But for some reason, you hover.

╰➤ “Thanks for earlier, by the way,” Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and your hands are growing clammy. “For helping me and stuff.”

╰➤ And stuff.

╰➤ You're not sure if thanking her for the other stuff is appropriate, considering you were practically straddling her and holding onto her in ways that's crossed many, many lines. But that seems to be the ongoing trend between you and Sevika; you cross too many lines with her.

╰➤ “No need to be thanking me.” 

╰➤ You shrug, “...Was still kind of you.”

╰➤ Her lips rub together and that's when you realize how soft they look. A small hum escapes her and you watch inquisitively as she opens her mouth. 

╰➤ But then nothing comes out, leaving her with a slack jaw and gaping mouth. Your brows start to furrow, chest tightening while several more beats pass and Sevika remains dazed. 

╰➤ A whooshing sound fills the air due to the AC turning on. Dust particles begin to circulate around you, and your ankles are tickled by the new draft blowing from the vents.

╰➤ “Is everything okay?” You try to keep the worry out of your voice, but the shift in her is abrupt.

╰➤ Her eyes cloud over with something indescribable, a sense of apprehension rolling off of her in thick waves. 

╰➤ “Um,” Her words drag and her eyes dart away from you. They settle on an empty space between you and the nearby wall. Her body is completely rigid, as if the floor will give out at any moment. “Would you ever want to hang out?”

╰➤ Your heart crawls up the walls of your esophagus, beating with all of it’s might.

╰➤ You shift your feet, then tug at your fingers.

╰➤ “Like, outside of work?” She clarifies. She dodges your eyes, settling on the other details of you instead; like your restless feet and your fidgeting hands.

╰➤ “You’d want to do that?”

╰➤ “Well,” She gives you a sidelong glance. “I wouldn't be asking you if I didn't.”

╰➤ Your internal debate resolves and your smile stretches wide—so wide that you think your cheeks are becoming sore.

 ╰➤ “Oh,” Your voice is barely above a whisper, so you have to clear your throat. “Okay. Well, I want to also.”

╰➤ She mirrors you and breaks into a silly grin, gap visible and nose wrinkling. 

╰➤ “Just let me know when,” You add. “And I’ll be down.” 

╰➤ “How about Saturday?”

╰➤ “Um—wow. I didn't know you meant so soon. Will Kai be okay with you choosing the day on their behalf?”

╰➤ Her eyebrows shoot up. “Kai?” 

╰➤ “Yeah, have you even asked if…” Oh.

╰➤ Oh.

╰➤ Your gut ignites at the revelation.

╰➤ The greys in her irises darken an alluring shade. 

╰➤ “Okay,” You nod, understanding completely now. She doesn't need to say anything more for you to realize the full weight of her offer.

╰➤ God.

╰➤ Oh God.

╰➤ You've dreamt about this moment for months but you never thought it’d actually come true.

╰➤ “Okay,” She parrots. “It's a date, then?”

╰➤ Your toes curl inside your shoes. Nodding enthusiastically, you confirm, “Definitely.”

╰➤  You never are the type to enjoy the action of driving cars.

╰➤ It’s mostly to do with the fact that your life could very well be in someone else’s hands. The likelihood of surviving another day without being in a car accident feels like sheer luck sometimes. 

╰➤ But your road anxiety is heightened even more as you brave the heavy city traffic, trying not to pee your pants at the idea of being near Sevika in less than an hour.

╰➤ You exhale, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel restlessly. Why is this taking so long?

╰➤ After ages of waiting, you’re finally able to get to the other side of town. It’s quieter here and far less busy. Sevika texted you the suggestion this morning and you immediately agreed–the quieter, the better.

╰➤ But your heart stops when you find yourself parked in front of a towering brownstone building, with multi-story terraces and sleek black protective gates. The streets are nearly empty and the distant chirp of birds fill the air.

╰➤ Your lips are pulling into a frown when you look at your phone screen, reading, You have arrived at your destination for the nth time.

╰➤ Swiping away from the GPS app, you allow your thumbs to click on Sevika’s contact number. 

╰➤ Two rings sound before she answers, “Hello?”

╰➤ “Hi–” You crane your neck to look out of your window. “I think I‘m here? I’m not sure where your place exactly is though...”

╰➤ You hear shuffling on the other line along with the soft hum of music. Then you see movement from a window on the second floor. Curtains are pushed aside and a familiar figure comes into view. The sliding glass of the terrace door is pushed open, and she’s sticking her head out, scanning the row of cars lined up along the street. 

╰➤ “Oh,” You breathe, heart stuttering. “Nevermind. I see you.”

╰➤ You remain seated in your car, like an idiot, while her eyes lock with yours.

╰➤ Then she grins, which is a heartbreakingly beautiful thing to witness. 

╰➤ “Sorry for being late,” You rasp into the receiver, eyes never leaving hers. “I got stuck in traffic.”

╰➤ “You’re two minutes late, sweetheart.” Her voice is thick with amusement. “That’s hardly anything to fuss about.”

╰➤ The following stretch of nothing is almost too painful to bear. Something is holding you back from stepping out of the car. Whether it be fear or nerves, you can’t really tell. All you know is that this feels like uncharted territory. 

╰➤ “I’ll come down and get you,” She says. You nod. She disappears into her apartment and the line goes dead.

╰➤ The air of Sevika’s apartment smells overwhelmingly like her: woodsy with a hint of apple cinnamon. Your shoes click against the floorboard when she guides you through the doorway, knuckles brushing against your forearm and leaving a fire in its wake. 

╰➤ “This is me.” Her voice is soft around the lock of the deadbolt and chain guard. There’s a lowly dimmed lamp hanging from the ceiling, a coat rack placed in the corner and a sitting bench to your left.  She looks over slowly–hesitantly; as if she’s trying to gauge your reaction.

╰➤ You find yourself swallowing thickly as you’re smacked with another smell of her. 

╰➤ When you don’t respond, she toes out of her shoes, movements quiet and swift. Silently, you follow her lead. She gathers your boots with hers and positions them underneath the sitting bench. 

╰➤ “This way,” She mumbles. You allow her to side-step, walking down the hall and toward a connecting room, where you faintly see a burgundy living room set. The walk down the corridor almost feels too quick, since you keep getting distracted by the countless art and picture frames lined up on her wall. You realize that the walls appear to be so decorated that you don’t see much of the paint. 

╰➤ Her living room appears to be similar, littered with different pieces of art and photographs that you could stare at for hours if given the chance. The atmosphere is tranquil but the furniture and color scheme is deliberate and poised. The ceiling is much higher than yours and the windows are fairly large. Much of the interior is splashed with dark velvety hues of red and purple. 

╰➤ Two brimming bookshelves stretch to the ceiling, lined with countless collections of CDs and novels. The brick fireplace is already lit and emmenates a warm glow around the room. Sevika’s gaze is clear and level when you peer at her. And her eyebrows lift inquisitively. 

╰➤ “It’s…” Your voice cracks, causing you to clear your throat. “This is really nice.” 

╰➤ Her head is tilted, eyes squinting ever-so-slightly with a nature that is purely meditative; as if she’s trying to pick out any signs of dishonesty. The burning sensation of her dissection is potent. Your mouth pools with saliva as the seconds tick by.

╰➤ A low whistle escapes you as you try to compensate for the tension. “Why so quiet?” Your legs shuffle.

╰➤ She licks her lips and hums. “Just trying to make sure this is okay.”

╰➤ “What?” Your eyebrows are furrowing.

╰➤ She gestures at your surroundings, “This. My home—at least, that you’re comfortable being here. If you prefer to spend time in a more public place, then…”

╰➤ “Oh.” Your features relax. She’s trying to be polite. “No. This is fine, Sev. I’m always comfortable around you.” You wipe your sweaty palms against the material of your pants. 

╰➤ Her eyes follow the movement of your hands, before they linger on the lower half of your body for the tenth of a second while her jaw flexes. You gaze at her with growing anticipation due to the dead silence. She takes a long inhale through her nose, refocusing her attention back to your eyes with what seems like a great deal of concentration. 

╰➤ A shaky smile spreads across your lips. You travel over to one of the nearby bookshelves, which holds a CD player that’s currently playing a smooth jazz solo. You have to find something to do—anything—other than stand there and grow lustful under her pressing gaze. 

╰➤ “You have quite a collection,” You begin.

╰➤ Your back is turned to her as you look through the cases that are neatly stacked together. Despite being covered with clothing, the skin of your back grows hot, as if her gaze is seeping straight through the material of your shirt.

╰➤ “A lot of them were my parents. They loved collecting music.”

╰➤ You don't have the heart or gall to mention the past-tense reference of her parents. Instead, you nod. 

╰➤ You feel like you're hypervigilant to everything about her in that moment. The sound of her weight traveling across the carpet becomes heightened, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand when you see her shadow appearing out of the corner of your eye. When you look towards your left, you struggle to contain the zoo that rips through your stomach. She's close. Very close.

╰➤ Her shoulders brush against yours while she reaches across you to turn down the stereo. "You can pick something else if you want," Her voice dips into something low and syrupy. "I don't know what type of music you like." Then she's walking away. Your eyes follow her as she disappears into another room. "Are you thirsty?"

╰➤ "I'll listen to practically anything as long as it's not country." You shuffle through the CD's, stopping when a particular one catches your eye. A classic. "What do you have?"

╰➤ Once you've replaced the CD with one of your choice, you mosey into the other room to join her. It's a kitchen, fairly minimalist compared to the living room, and painted with nearly all black decor. The sight of Sevika standing there is unfamiliar. Her hair is tied up in a half up half down, small tendrils escaping and brushing against the sides of her face. Her nose is wrinkled, eyes squinted and lip rolled inwards.

╰➤ She leans most of her weight onto her hands, which are resting on the surface of the kitchen island. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and attention is focused acutely on a book that's sitting on the counter. Something savory wafts in the air and you spy a stove behind her that seems to be emanating an exceptional amount of warmth.

╰➤ "Um," you mumble. "Is everything okay?"

╰➤ Her eyes flicker up to meet yours, at first holding something distant, before they cloud over with an undeniable light. Her hands tighten into fists, pressing against the marble countertop before she relaxes them. Then she's standing upright, one arm falling to her side while the other rubs against her forehead. "I'm..." Her words trail off as she glances at the watch on her wrist. "Fuck."

╰➤ Then she's whipping around, opening the oven door. A small cloud of smoke appears.

╰➤ "What are you cooking?" You close the distance between the two of you, swiping through the smoke before peering into the oven.

╰➤ "Nothing anymore." She sighs. "It was supposed to be—"

╰➤ "Lasagna."

╰➤ You reach for the oven mitts sitting on the nearby countertop, slipping them on before grabbing the deep-dish pan.

╰➤ "I noticed you have it a lot." She continues. "I just thought—since you seem to like it..."

╰➤ You set it on the hot pads, inspecting the top layer of the pasta dish.

╰➤ "Actually, it doesn't look too bad." You say. "It'll have to go back in, and we'll need to turn the heat down to 375, so that it cooks all the way through the layers without scorchi—"

╰➤ That's when it hits you.

╰➤ "Wait," You abruptly right yourself, snapping your head towards her. She's already watching you, drinking in everything you were saying. Her eyebrows raise at your outburst. Hands still covered in mittens, you're stepping around her, doing a double take at the book that's still open on the kitchen island. "Is that a cookbook?"

╰➤ She doesn't immediately respond.

╰➤ When you crane you neck to get a better look, you're barely registering the words Classic Homemade Lasagna Recipe before her large hand abruptly lands on the book with a loud smack! Her fingers are outstretched, keeping you from being able to see majority of what's written. But it's too late, your assumption has already been proven right.

╰➤ The book is shut before you can say anything else. She opens an overhead cupboard, sliding it in there with one quick motion.

╰➤ "Oh my god," You fight off a wave of giggles, lips stretching into a wide grin. "That was definitely a cookbook."

╰➤ She brushes a few loose hairs out of her face and chooses to avoid your gaze.

╰➤ The stillness that follows is nearly unbearable. In the distance, you hear the current song from the CD player fading out. A car is honking from the street outside and the buzz of the AC comes on. You're still turned towards her, hands covered by her oven mitts and cheeks aching from the smile on your face. She continues to dodge you; resolute.

╰➤ You can't contain your laughter anymore. It's bellows out of you like a songbird breaking free from its cage. That seems to finally draw her attention, and wills her to glance at you. Upon locking eyes, slowly, she smiles an equally warm grin.

╰➤ And just like that, the elastic band of tension that existed all evening snaps.

╰➤ Her laughter quickly follows yours, deeper and soothing and just as beautiful as the last time you heard it. Her rigid stance melts away and her fingers relax.

╰➤ "Sev, why—" You wet your lips. "You didn't have to go out of your way to a get recipe and make this. I would have been fine with take-out."

╰➤ "Kai sent me the link to the cookbook yesterday and I figured why not. It was only $20," She rolls her eyes. "Plus it has better reviews than the lasagna recipes I was looking at online."

╰➤ The cookbook was only $20.

╰➤ Adrenaline courses through your veins from such an implication. Sevika bought a cookbook just to make one of your favorite foods. No one's ever done something like that for you before.

╰➤ No one's ever paid close enough attention to even notice your love for lasagna.

╰➤ The way Sevika always manages to nonchalantly flatter you will forever be something you struggle to fathom.

╰➤ You're biting the inside of your cheek, trying your best to contain your buzzing excitement as you place the pan back into the oven. Your back remains turned to her, stomach flipping and fingers nimble.

╰➤ "This is very kind of you to do," You find yourself muttering.

╰➤ "I mean," The sound of her body weight shifting is subtle. "It's our first date. It's the least I could do."

╰➤ "Still kind."

╰➤ You don't allow yourself to brush over one of her many kind gestures. You don't allow yourself to take any of this for granted. Sevika has been very good to you, especially in a world where people haven't been in the past. Often times, she's been more than just your friendly coworker.

╰➤ Whether she wants to admit it or not, she's the one who's actually a sweetheart.

╰➤ "Why don't you like to accept my compliments?" You inquire. You take off her oven mitts, setting them on a nearby counter-space before turning around. Droplets of perspiration trickle down your forehead and the back of your neck. You wipe them away with the palm of your hand, stepping away from the searing hot oven and towards her.

╰➤ Sevika is resting against the kitchen island, arms crossed over her chest and eyes solely fixed on you. You don't miss the way her jaw flexes as you come closer. But you choose to ignore it, positioning yourself to where your right hip is pressed against the island cupboards, just off of Sevika's left shoulder.

╰➤ "Because most of the time, I'm not doing anything extraordinary." She wrinkles her nose. "It's the bare minimum, actually."

╰➤ "Well," You almost come to a standstill as you rack your brain for an appropriate response. "I still appreciate it."

╰➤ That's when you send her a smile. Similar to an innate feeling, you expect her to return the gesture, since there's never really been a time that Sevika hasn't.

╰➤ But the seconds continue to stretch and her smile never appears.

╰➤ Her lips part and her throat bobs as she swallows thickly. You don't think you've seen her eyes look so lucid before.

╰➤ A part of you wants to be consumed by her. You want her to have you; in whatever way that would mean for her. You'd be happy with any scenario. But another part also wants you to remain present in this moment; to fully cling onto every moment that passes with you in her presence. It's a heartbreakingly beautiful conundrum to be in.

╰➤ "The bare minimum barely checks off the list. You know that, right?" Her voice is firm during this wake of silence. Assertive. Strong. But her words manage to undue something within you; something you didn't even know was tightly wound to begin with. "You deserve to receive so much more than the bare minimum from someone. And you deserve to not have to thank them for that."

╰➤ She says it with such conviction that you almost believe that she's been thinking about this for a while.

╰➤Hearing those words nearly break you.

╰➤ They're arguably obvious. But despite how much the general public likes to make instagram captions and TedTalks about it, you've never really been told this before. Not directly. Not with such certainty.

╰➤ "And," She wets her lips, eyes darting away from you for the first time. "Of course I don't want to be too full on this soon. I'd like to think cooking you one of your favorite foods would give me a good start. But there's—" She's shaking her head with creases forming in between her brows. "...a lot more that I want to offer to you other than shitty lasagna."

╰➤ You don't respond for a beat as you feel a new unspoken surge of energy igniting between you two. It's takes form as an invisible current, growing with each ticking second.

╰➤ Her attention doesn't waver, remaining clear and steady and safe. You find it hard to breathe with the careful way that she's studying you. Air pacts into your lungs at an alarming rate and your heart beats a mile a minute while your throat locks.

╰➤ Your lips part. Then, "What else are you wanting to offer?"

╰➤ You watch as she cards her fingers through her hair. There's a bounce to her silky locks that leads you to believe it's been very recently washed. If you step forward more, all you have to do is reach up to touch it. She's so close.

╰➤ Incredibly close.

╰➤ You don't know how it's happened but somewhere deep inside of you, where the abandoned and empty house of your life resided, a bright light has been ignited. Somehow, that house is no longer empty. It's no longer cold. Sevika has managed to cast an exceptional amount of life into you.

╰➤ Everything becomes watery at the revelation; her black marble countertops, her crème colored button-up, the swirling grey of her irises. It's all blurry. You struggle to blink away your welling tears.

╰➤ How typical of you to get emotional during a time like this...

╰➤ Sevika doesn't reply. She just peers at you with an expression that makes her look as if she's short circuiting. The air is warm, with the oven being heated to a scorching 375 degrees just a few feet away. It's warm and Sevika doesn't falter in managing to unravel you from her regard. It's warm, and your hands are reaching out. It's warm because it's her. She's the warmth.

╰➤ Your hands stop mid-reach, hovering in the air as she fleetingly glances at them. Your pulse thumps against the side of your neck; eyelids fluttering. "What else?" You press. A gentle nudge. A plead.

╰➤ You need to hear her say it; for the sake of confirming that everything is requited.

╰➤ She closes the rest of the distance by grabbing your hands with hers. They're larger and wrap around yours without any extra effort. The gesture is small. But it somehow still causes your legs to nearly give out. She tugs you, urging you closer. You stumble as you give into her magnetic pull. But you're too caught up in all that she is to truly feel embarrassed by it.

╰➤ "I want to offer you everything good." Sevika states it firmly; earnestly. "I don't feel that with people very often. But you," She squeezes your hands, puffing out a heavy exhale. Her breath brushes over your face, minty and enticing. "...I'd do anything to bring goodness into your life."

╰➤ "You already have." The lump in your throat explodes, almost blowing it out completely. Your voice is hoarse—thick with emotion.

╰➤ Her breathing becomes shaky and her mouth falls open. You watch as shock transforms itself onto her features.

╰➤ "Seeing you everyday in that stuffy break room...getting to know you and being able to talk to you," You continue, head bowing as you try to gather your thoughts in a way that won't overwhelm her. "Those days rest with me right here." You bring both your hands and hers to rest against your chest. "I already hold a deep tenderness for you. And it's something that's only for you. Do you know that?"

╰➤ She keenly follows your lips as you speak, leaning so closely now that her forehead grazes against yours. The movement is painstakingly subtle but it still makes your surroundings blacken. The feeling that takes over is close to a rebirth; like being pushed into the ocean by yourself and somehow resurfacing with Sevika fundamentally built into you.

╰➤ And when she kisses you, you know, down to the marrow of your bones, that this is something holy. Teeth clatter and hunger intensifies. Her hands have found solace by clinging onto the rolls of your hips, digging into you, hooking you to her. Ink becomes imprinted onto your heart, screaming—scrawling—Sevikasevikasevikasevika endlessly.

╰➤ She trembles slightly when you press against her; your hands resting against the firmness of her biceps. You reach for her further, never fully satiated, while your toes pull you upwards. Your neck cranes and your chest constricts from the way you desperately lean against her. You're chasing her—her mouth, her smell, her lips, her taste—and she welcomes you with just as much desperation.

╰➤ She's whispering, "...okay, okay," her voice a gentle echo. Her fingers curl into you, positively leaving marks. "I definitely know now."

╰➤ Sevika transforms from warmth to burning heat at that moment. You cherish the feeling.

╰➤ Somewhere, not too far away, a celestial body explodes.

╰➤ When she's lifting your shirt off of you, the burgundy color of her duvet being lit by a bright moon shining through her window, that same feeling of your world revitalizing returns.

╰➤ A mix of soft sighs and oh sweetheart and countless cresting follows. Your legs quiver and symphonies sound in your ears while she devours you as if you're her last meal.

╰➤ "Don't stop," you continuously plead, drunk off of the beautiful disaster that such a person could cause.

╰➤ She whispers into your skin, mouthing—kissing—and nipping, with a broken voice, "I won't. I promise."

╰➤ I promise.

╰➤ I promise.

╰➤ I promise.

╰➤ The headboard cracks. There's laughter, and snack breaks and savory kisses.

╰➤ And when you're lapping into her with unadulterated vehemence, giving her everything that she wants to take, you promise too.

╰➤ You'll promise everyday if she asks you to.

╰➤ You'll promise until your life expires—until the world ends. Until she decides that she doesn't want you anymore.

╰➤ Long gone are the moments of uncertainty; of hesitancy.

╰➤ After the both of you have recovered from chasing such a high, her arm remains draped over your waist, tugging you into her. She mumbles, "Stay," with a vulnerability that has you shaking your head before a beat of silence can pass.

╰➤ "Always."

╰➤ Another explosion emerges; this time larger. A supernova.

╰➤ Your lips press against her throat. She shivers. Her grip tightens. The moon shines brighter.

╰➤ Always.

[moondirti]

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton. 

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom. 

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause. 

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago. 

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing. 

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings. 

You wish he’d hang around more. 

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows. 

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke. 

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained. 

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in. 

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence. 

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.” 

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities. 

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows. 

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt? 

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative. 

A dead end. 

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends. 

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried. 

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas. 

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight. 

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still. 

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore. 

He’s jus’ taking the piss. 

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do. 

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command? 

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.” 

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it. 

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli. 

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh. 

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day. 

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling. 

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken. 

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?” 

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze. 

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room. 

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.” 

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor. 

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?” 

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.” 

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts. 

Then –

“You don' drink?” 

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested. 

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees. 

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.” 

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church. 

I’d murder for a whiskey. 

You mean scotch? 

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees. 

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout? 

Negative, sir. 

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did. 

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water. 

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. 

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?” 

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line. 

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one. 

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it. 

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less. 

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side. 

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from,  too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you. 

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.) 

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise. 

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it. 

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.  

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile. 

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.” 

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?” 

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning. 

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon. 

You spit the first thing that comes to mind. 

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.” 

And still with the revelation of what you just said. 

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance. 

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards. 

“Afraid she’s not my type.” 

And that’s all he gives you. 

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin? 

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead. 

Fuck. 

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb. 

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy. 

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.” 

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves.  You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo. 

read at 3:25 am 

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood. 

“Didn’ know what you liked.” 

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart. 

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient. 

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin. 

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes. 

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush. 

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red. 

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant. 

Anxiolytic. 

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache. 

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him. 

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now? 

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud. 

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks. 

Atta’ girl. 

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars. 

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes. 

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door. 

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp. 

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder. 

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long. 

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.” 

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart. 

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once. 

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.” 

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him. 

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin. 

“Alright?” 

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be. 

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal. 

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.” 

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums. 

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.” 

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask. 

“We’ll be ready for them.” 

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team. 

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls. 

It’ll be hard not to miss it. 

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun. 

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you. 

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes. 

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command. 

What did he mean by that? Bad timing? 

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths. 

He can’t know. Can he? 

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun. 

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag. 

I’m good. 

You’re not. Drink. 

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak. 

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors. 

He doesn’t miss a thing. 

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless. 

He draws a deep inhale. 

He knows. 

“Didn’t finish, pet?” 

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. 

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness. 

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into. 

“Turn around. Face the window.” 

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says.  Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour. 

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms. 

“Keep an eye out. Got it?” 

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine. 

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant. 

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves. 

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts. 

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone. 

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut. 

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?” 

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire. 

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–” 

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss. 

“We can be quick,” 

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.” 

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more. 

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world. 

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,” 

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”   

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper. 

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs. 

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust. 

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street. 

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.” 

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone. 

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.” 

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl. 

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat. 

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried? 

It was only a shadow. 

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it. 

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour. 

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss. 

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures. 

But your name is not for nothing. 

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green. 

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid. 

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you. 

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest. 

Sniper. 

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before. 

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you. 

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price. 

Never at you. 

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb. 

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed. 

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat. 

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back. 

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash. 

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns. 

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base. 

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else. 

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety. 

No, that’s not quite right. 

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate? 

You need a cigarette.  

Not embraced. 

Your eyes fly open. 

Simon. 

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers. 

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead. 

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.  

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine. 

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left. 

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf. 

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.” 

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will. 

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand. 

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.” 

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages. 

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards. 

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus. 

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here. 

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe. 

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like. 

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind. 

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out. 

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location] 

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill. 

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway. 

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach. 

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him. 

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema. 

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough. 

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down. 

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?” 

He takes a step forward. “Your head–” 

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound. 

“And Johnny?” 

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?” 

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated. 

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle. 

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel. 

“Sent on some other mission, then?” 

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde. 

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches. 

You think you know why. 

“It’s not your fault, Lt.” 

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you. 

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.” 

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness. 

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you. 

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that. 

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks. 

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon. 

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity. 

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.” 

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head. 

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.” 

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…” 

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless. 

“I still–” 

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls. 

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.” 

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.” 

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles. 

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-” 

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low. 

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava. 

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask. 

“You’re quivering.” 

“Huh?” 

His thumb swipes over your hole. 

“Oh–” 

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth. 

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit. 

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper. 

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper. 

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers. 

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall. 

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise. 

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him. 

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs. 

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia. 

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks. 

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex. 

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him. 

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.” 

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you. 

“Chocolate?” 

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon. 

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.” 

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

[lexo-is-pesto]

I'm so excited to finally post this.

My full Murder Drones reference! so hopefully I can keep up consistency

Obviously, this is full of my own head canons so close ups and explanations under the cut (it's a LOT) >;]

To be totally honest my focus was on the main characters, and I think that shows in the designs of the Manor Drones and Cabin Fever Squad. BUT I'll still do my best to explain my process here.

For the Disassemblers I decided to do very different builds for each but the same color pallet.

My idea here was that since each have a different designation letter, that was akin to their model type. That's also why "the company" was able to clone J so easily, they just had her model on file. (also like to imagine there are 26 different forms of the Disassemblers Imao).

I had all the colors remain the same to show their unity and of course the Absolute Solver-ification of the basic Worker Drone color scheme. Essentially, I just took the monochromatic WD colors and put the highlighter yellow over it that Cyn loves so much.

For J I did a more lean and strong build. I wanted her to exude that leader energy. I also made her Core a star shape for similar reasons and then I also noticed that N and V had caution stripes at the top of their legs but as far as I could see J didn't, so I decided to add those to the very top of her legs to finish the garter belt look she's got going on. For her hair, I actually really like the pigtails I just flattened them out a bit because the big cutesy poof they had didn't fit her style in my opinion. I brought it back for her worker form though.

With V I gave her a round yet sharp look. (My favorite added detail is the sharp shoulders) I did make her the shortest of the DD because everyone loves the small but vicious archetype. For her core I made it a sword or spear shape, because she's extra violent. And finally, I made her legs a little more pointed than J's to finish off the sharp look.

Last but CERTAINLY not least, N's design is meant to be soft and plushy but still has a little edge to it. His hair is fluffy but the tufts curl to be sharp, His core is meant to look like a heart but it's upside down so the point is still facing the top (which makes it look more like a club but whatever) I gave him a rounder torso than the other two and his elbow and kneecaps are softer too. His general construction is still menacing, though, so don't get too comfortable with all the fluff. I also spent a LONG time contemplating if I should make his thighs black to look like little biker shorts to contrast with J and V's sock looks but went against it because I love how the hazard stripes stand out against the white.

For N and V's worker forms I basically took out all the sharp edges and rounded them out. J's still a little sharp though not as much.

With the Workers I did the opposite of the DD. They have the EXACT same body types (minus Uzi because she's little) and instead I changed their color schemes to all be unique to their eye lights

Since Worker Drones were made to... well... WORK I think their initial manufacturing would be pretty uniform. A copy and paste if you will. It was only when they were left to their own devices that the WD started to customize themselves. Thus came the wigs and clothes.

I like to think the color started with those infected with the Solver, so Yeva and Nori gained color and then passed that on to their kids. Thats also why Alice has color, but Khan, The Manor Squad, and some other drones in the colony don't. Does not explain Lizzy and Thad though (maybe they have a distant relative that had the solver idk)

It was a lot harder to infer about what a base WD body would look like Maybe I was just looking in the wrong places, but I had to infer with things like the worker helmets, we see every WD except Uzi wear one but they seem more coordinated with their outfits so I decided to just continue my color head-canon that its naturally monochrome and you can customize it if you want to!

I added a light to the feet of the worker drones to match the hand lights. I don't think there's a canon reason for the lights but, on the workers at least. I think they're there to help them do grunt work in the dark! to light their ways in caves or tight spaces so they could do their job better. Now they're just another robot cosmetic

For the Parents, I gave them wrinkles because I thought it was unfair that Khan was the only one who got them. So, Nori gets crow's feet hurray! No but I probably had the most difficult time with these drones. It was hard to separate the canon from fanon since we know so little about them, but I fought off all the demons to keep their designs relatively grounded. Minus Khan's scar. And Alice's more natural horns. and-

I also gave some drones eyelashes. just cause. if I thought it fit, I added it and if it didn't, I didn't add it.

Now you may be wondering "Lexo what's up with all the cracks!?" the idea here is that it's the solver taking over. We see in Cabin Fever and Home that the solver virus fundamentally changes the body of a drone. The crack in the casing is basically this process. Depending on the stage of which your drone is at it changes the intensity. We see Cyn being the main host and essentially patient 0, so she has the most cracks. It starts at the core then spreads until it reshapes you entirely and you become a Disassembly Drone. Unless you stop it in time. Thats why J, V, and N have the pale lines on the bottom of their torso, they're more pretty and cleaner since they achieved the solvers "final form" so to speak. Nori and Yeva on the other hand, have repaired cracks but they're still messy since they were stopped mid-way. Alice, however, did not stop the spread with the solver cure since she was "abandoned" so instead she just cut out her core entirely. Yup. Shes functioning on pure insanity and spite at this point. And then of course with the new hosts, there is light spreading. TL: DR the cracks are a zombie bite.

But that's it for my Murder Drones head canons and designs! If you read all the way to the end, you're a champ and I love you. Have a cookie superstar <3🍪

[sethcertified]

hi i found you by the ‘scream for you’ series and lorrrrd i love your work!! my favorite part was during the phone call i was giggling tucking my hair behind my ear so i wanted to request more of that if the reader went along with the flirting yk? if not i understand!

「 CALL ME ! 」 . . . 📁

scream : ambiguous ghostface but wrote with billy in mind

wrd count : 1.5k

⊹˚.⋆ synopsis . . . [name] gets a call from an unknown caller who is quite the flirt

⊹˚.⋆ starring . . . ambiguous ghostface (billy intended but never stated) & male reader

My index finger delicately traced the cool edge of the countertop mindlessly as I burned holes into the the digitalized numbers on my microwave. An eye-catching, neon green number radiated off the timer’s screen, brandishing the time left until my popcorn was finished popping. The sounds of kernals popping, blossoming into delicious, fluffy popcorn made my mouth drool with anticipation.

With my popcorn finished, the start of my horror movie marathon could begin. The circumstances were right, and something in atmosphere just made this the perfect night for a few slasher flicks. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly that made this very night seem so perfect. Maybe it was the rare weather we were currently experiencing. Living in California, humid days tend to melt into even more humid nights with air so thick it seemed to stick to your skin. My nights were apt to consist of fighting the AC to remain just cool enough to save me from the humidity. This was enough to ruin any aspirations of a horror movie marathon.

But tonight was different. Tonight was unlike any night I had faced before in my 17 years old living in Woodsboro, California. An unfamiliar blue breeze had swept through as the sun ducked down behind buildings and night emerged from the suns departure; a tiny golden blaze of warmth and light on the horizon marking the rebirth of a perfect night from the sun’s ashes.

As I said, I wasn’t sure what really made the night so perfect, but that was my best guess. Nothing else else was out of the ordinary. It was just another day in Woodsboro.

The microwave beeped as the final symphony of pops echoed from the bag. Just a few more seconds before I got my hands on the delicious treat. I licked my lips at the thought. My hand clutched the handle to the microwave wave door as I pulled it open. The bag sizzled as I pinched the very edge of it. The heat from the bag warmed up my hand as I walked past the living room into my room. Just a quick flight of stairs and the marathon would begin!

“RI-I-ING!”

…

“RI-I-NG!”

The clattering of the phone echoed in the empty house, startling me. My mother usually picked up the phone before it even rang due to her insane motherly intuition, so to hear the rattling scared me more than I would have liked to admit. I shook of my nerves as I clutched the phone, bringing it up to my ear, “Hello?”

“Hello.”

My brows jumped up at the cadence the voiced possessed. It wasn’t by any means human, but strangely, attractive. The raspy, manufactured sound of it sent a chill down my spine. Who’s voice was this? “Hi.” I said back, eager to hear more of the mysterious voice.

“Who is this?” The voice asked.

“[Name]. You?” I answered nonchalantly. But this was just a facade. My foot tapped against the tiled floor, enthusiastic to get the name of the owner of this voice. “That’s a nice name.” The response was curt, leaving me dying for more. “You still haven’t answered my question, you know.”

“What question?”

I rolled my eyes at the remark. “The question I just asked you?”

I could hear the muffled sound of a chuckle from the other end of the line. This must be a prank call after all. I sat on the plush cushion of the couch as I settled the phone in between my ear and my shoulder, awaiting the caller’s response. “I can’t say.”

“You can’t say?” I quirked a brow in disbelief, “Why? Are you a top secret FBI agent or something? Will revealing your identify to me, end you up dead?” I teased.

“No,” the voice drawled out, “But you might.” My shoulders tensed against the soft feel of the couch. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” The voice replied as innocently as ever. I sighed in frustration. “Goodbye now.” The phone fell silent as I slammed it back onto the phone stand. My head leaned against the couch. So much for that. I pushed up against the couch, shaking off the encounter and grabbing my abandoned bag of popcorn. Before I could even set a step down to move away from the table, the phone began to ring. I bit my lip in frustration before snatching the phone in my hand. “Look, man, I don’t know who the fuck you are or why the fuck you’re calling, but if you pull some creepy shit like that again, I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t get your panties in such a twist. Just having some fun with you.”

I laughed sarcastically. “There are many other ways you can have fun with me without threatening murder.”

“Is that so?” The voice purred out. The sound of his voice so clearing twisting my words made me cringe. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

My brows furrowed. “You don’t believe me? Why?” I asked as I sat back down onto the couch. This guy obviously had no merit to what he was saying so I let myself relax back into the cushion waiting for him to answer me. My waiting; however, was prolonged as there was a long, excruciatingly suspenseful pause before the voice finally responded, “Because I know what you want, [Name].”

“Oh yeah,” I snarked, “And what do I want exactly?”

“Me.”

My face warmed up suddenly. This guy was bold. And a good flirter, no doubt. But I wasn’t one to cave in so easily even if I found his voice extremely attractive. That didn’t mean; however, that I wouldn’t enjoy the man’s attention on me. “You caught me red handed, but I’m afraid my heart belongs to someone else.”

“You got a boyfriend?” There was a brief pause. “Girlfriend?”

“Why should I tell you?” I teased.

“Why shouldn’t you?”

I hummed out, “Good point. But, nah, no boyfriend or girlfriend.”

“That’s surprising.” The man replied. My eyes squinted as my lips pursed. “Really? What makes the fact I’m single so surprising?”

Another long pause followed, and my body tensed with anticipation of what the man would say next. He had drawn me into his game. I was playing checkers while he was playing chess, and now I was simply a pawn in his grasp. The silence on the other end of the phone made my ears reach out for the slightest of sounds. Disappointingly, the only noises I could pick up on were a slight breeze and the sound of rustling against something.

“You still there?” I asked.

“I’m surprised such a pretty boy like yourself is still single.” The voice answered without the hint of stutter. My eyes shot open, wide as saucers as my face heated up to an almost unhealthy temperature. I could feel my mouth go dry as I fumbled for a response that didn’t make me look like a flustered idiot. “H-how d…o you know what… I look like?” I asked embarrassed.

The man snickered at my awkward pauses and stutter. “Do you want to play a game?”

I exhaled a breath at the topic change although it was slightly irritating that he was avoiding my questions yet again. “Sure, but it isn’t fair that I’ve answered all of your questions but you’ve never answered mine, you know.”

Ignoring me once more, the voice went on. “Guess what I’m doing.”

“Bothering me at…” I paused as I checked my watched, “around 12:30 in the morning.”

“Am I really bothering you?”

I chewed on my lip with the slight twinge of guilt overcoming me. “Nah. I didn’t mean that. I actually like talking to you, to be honest.”

“Good.”

“That’s all you gotta say?” I asked.

“Guess where I’m at.”

I blew out past my lips in frustration. What was this guy’s attitude problem? “I don’t know. I mean,” I thought back to the breeze and rustle I heard prior, “Outside, maybe?”

“Correct.”

“Do I get a cookie?” I asked with a large grin spreading across my face.

“I could give you something better than a cookie.”

“Another innuendo? You must be a teenager,” My voice trailed off, “Or a 40 year old bald, greasy perv.”

The voice chuckled. “Which would you prefer?”

“Good question,” I laughed awkwardly, “The teenager. Way less creepy.”

“You’re in luck.” Answered the voice and my knees went weak. Why did that have to be so hot. I felt almost dizzy with attraction. My voice trembled. “So I’m guessing you go to Woodsboro Highschool, right?”

“Why?” The voice asked, but I could practically hear the smirk that dawned his face. “You want to know who I am?”

“And what if I do?”

“I can show you.”

My lips spread out into a toothy grin. “Show me.”

“Say please.”

I felt humiliated but strangely enough, the word that followed left my mouth agape in utter allurement. “Please?”

“Find me.”

©️ sethcertified

[writingstoraes]

sparks 🎇

pairing: charles leclerc/fem!reader

type: written imagine (fluff)

word count: 1.7k, no warnings hehe

notes: once again this is a new idea even though i have a ton of drafts like my mind is a mess so i am not surprised ANYWAY . trying to get out of a writing slump so lmk what u guys think! ALSO apologies for any typos or grammatical errors this is not proofread at all 😆

about:  The few of the many times Charles’ heart skipped a beat because of you.

Movies have always portrayed “real” sparks so well. Sometimes it’s a scene where a guy sees the girl for the very first time during a first date and he freezes for a moment, the apparent electricity between two people when their hands almost touch and they panic for a little while, or the moment of suspense before a first kiss and the exhilaration after.

But Charles taught that was exactly what they were - movie scenes. He lingered on the thought that the moments where sparks flew and one’s heart skips a beat, those moments cannot be manufactured in real life. They stay in movies, books, in the arts; where they belong, somewhere where they were fiction.

Not until he experiences it first-hand, not until he meets you, the woman who held his heart in the palm of her hand.

He felt it the first time your hands ever touched. 

At first, he thought he was going crazy. There was no way he felt a current run through his skin the moment it came in contact with yours, but to this day, it’s a testament he swears on very seriously. 

You had been going out for a few weeks, several dates here and there. It was the exact point where you felt comfortable with each other, but only starting to be, hence why there were still evident boundaries present. The two of you were careful to not cross any, especially Charles. He’s cautious on establishing any physical touch, sure, he’s held your waist to guide you through bustling crowds and had slung his arm over your shoulder, but he hasn’t held your hand. At least, not yet. 

He had invited you to have dinner on his yacht, set at the perfect time where you can be of witness to the beautiful sunset over the sea. He says the food was nearly done, so he set up two comfortable chairs that gave you just the perfect view of the Monaco skies. The sun was setting and the golden sky formed a beautiful gradient with the blue hue that painted it beforehand. 

He turns his head to you, your arm resting on the chair’s handles, a tad bit preoccupied with the view in front of you. He keeps a smile to himself, enjoying the personalized view he had. For some reason, he feels the urge to hold your hand, or at least rest his on top of yours. He was hesitating and second-guessing, lifting his finger once in a while and then putting it back down when he decides not to push through. It didn’t help that there were minimal distance between your chair and his, and so he was fighting the urge to initiate contact and have you flee off. 

But his hesitant hand that kept on moving was something you grew to notice, and thanks to your knowledge of many, many romance movies, you assumed it meant he wanted to hold your hand but was too afraid to do it. You shove the thought of doing it first in the back of your head, overthinking that you might be wrong and he in fact did not want to hold your hand. 

Maybe it was something in the air, the quiet waves of the ocean, or just the fact that he really really liked you. 

He finally lifts his hand so he can reach yours, resting it softly on top of your hand. He lets out a relieved and contented sigh when he feels you ease into his touch. His heart raced faster, like it was screaming for help and begging to be let out of his chest.

As if that was not enough, he feels a current run through his arm and out of his fingertips the moment you grasp his hand and decide to interlock your fingers with his then setting it on top of the chair’s handle.  He swears he saw fireworks when he closed his eyes and his heart finally exploded out of his chest. He vows he can stand up and jump around out of joy, but he chooses to indulge in the moment and gives your hand a reassuring squeeze instead.

He had met you earlier in the season and he would be lying if he said he didn’t want you to see him in his element, doing what truly made him happy. That is, if his team does not proceed to ruin the entire weekend for him and his dedicated fans.

He invited you to watch a grand prix, in a track that he felt most comfortable. He was the perfect gentleman whe he extended the invite, letting you know you could always decline if you didn’t feel like going. You were together, in all terms to be considered, but he didn’t want to pressure you into finally making your appearance only because he knew how harsh it could get. He assures you that he will take care of everything and all you needed to do was come.

You were committed to attend the entire weekend, from free practice until the race itself. Even if Charles was quick to reassure you that you didn’t have to be there for everything, you only return a smile and tell him you wanted to be, which not surprisingly calmed his nerves. 

You knew people were going to stare, fans will take pictures, even the possibility of you making headlines. This was your first paddock appearance as his girlfriend, after all. It was inevitable, so you try to take your mind off of the pressure. Much to your nerves bothering you before you even got on the plane, you had been racking your brain on what to wear. You didn’t want to seem like you were trying too hard or too little. 

You finally settle on an outfit and your lips form a small smile as you looked in the mirror. It was nothing extravagant, only a black one-shoulder top and a black high-waisted pants that you paired with a red leather jacket. It’s not like you wanted what you wore to scream Ferrari, but you wanted to add a little touch, at least for Charles. 

“What do you think? I chose the red jacket for you,” you turn around to see Charles, seeing as you heard his footsteps earlier and knew he entered the room.

If he was being honest, he had seen you put on the outfit. He witnessed how you cocked your head to the side trying to see if it looks good. He sees the outfits laid on the bed, all with a touch of red, and he could feel butterflies swarm his stomach at the thought of you carefully planning out your outfits to include his team’s colors.

There it was again, the stupid sparks that he’s been getting ever since he met you. He curses himself for being a little non-functional when feels them, but he figures he has to get used to being blown away by everything you did. It feels magnetic, like he’s feeling actual static. You make him feel so much by just doing so little. 

He sees you twirling around in front of the mirror, smiling when you finally put on the red leather jacket, looking satisfied. 

He stops at his tracks, at least internally, and fails to respond for at least 10 seconds. 

“Do you not like it? I can always go change-”

“No,” he says, almost out of voice. “You look absolutely beautiful.” 

Where he was standing, he swears he sees fireworks erupt behind you.

Charles stands on the podium, feeling victorious and ecstatic he had clinched another win for his Formula 1 career. He looks fondly at the sea of crowd cheering for him, waving flags of his own country, Ferrari, and Italy. From where he stood he could see Fred’s big smile and the engineers celebrating, jumping up and down. 

The trophies had been awarded and the Monaco national anthem had finally played. He was wearing his Pirelli cap and completely drenched in champagne. He scans the crowd down the podium, hoping to get a glance of you. Earlier, he did tell you you didn’t have to witness the awarding personally should he win, because he didn’t want you to get in between many people and possibly get shoved or pushed. He assumes that you were in the garage, waiting for him, probably with a kiss and a hug. 

He leans over the makeshift railing of the stage, eyes still set on possibly sighting you. When he fails to find you, he finally comes down and there he sees you, just near the stairs going up to the podium with teary eyes and a wide smile. There you stood with hands clasped together, in awe of Charles who was standing in front of you. 

He feels his heart race yet again, having experienced the first time you ever greeted him after he claims P1 in a race. Even just by looking at you he feels his world shift, like its only goal was to pull him towards you, like the fireworks that took the skies earlier weren’t enough and he was having his own show. 

He jogs towards you, exhilirated and filled with adrenaline and pulls you into a tight embrace. His entire body twitches when you plant a soft kiss on his cheek, as if every fiber of his being had turned into putty at your touch. Everytime you engulf him in an embrace, kiss his cheek, or run your hands through his hair, he feels as if he’s inside his car going at least 320 kilometers per hour. He has no clue how you do it, how you possibly make him feel like he’s won a race every time he was with you;  as if you and his heart had a binding agreement. 

“Congratulations, mon champion du monde,” you say slowly and close to Charles so only he could hear, hoping you didn’t mess up the pronunciation, after having practiced it several times on the plane. 

Something tugs at his heartstrings, having been greeted by the knowledge that you sent out his well wishes in French, even though you didn’t speak the language and mentioned you were always scared you were going to say something wrong. But mostly because you called him your world champion, and that just sends him down a spiral.

“Thanks for being here, amour.” he replies, pulling you in again for another hug. 

------------

tagging: @slytherheign, @honethatty12, @siovhanroy

notes: thanks for reading everyone <3 will try to post a 1.4k special soon but firstly thank u so much for all the love hehehe hope u guys r having the nicest day!

[another-supernova-girl]

An Exercise in Control - Cooper Adams/Abbott x Fem OC

* Part 2 : The Line Begins to Blur *

Welcome to chapter 2 (of 5) of my Cooper Adams/Abbott fic. Thank you to everyone who gave the first chapter a chance, especially those who reblogged and/or commented. I know it wasn't super exciting, but some groundwork had to be laid. I promise things are about to get more interesting 💙As Always, gif is mine.

CHAPTER 1 CAN BE FOUND HERE

(( word count ~ 4,200 ))

🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪

“Hey there, Delilah,” rang out a voice that was not familiar, yet the source, unmistakable. She could have passed by without noticing them, or pretended she hadn't, but her earbuds had gone quiet between tracks, and the second of pause in her stride told them they had not gone unheard. When they shouted her name alone, louder, she paused completely, and swerved around in an annoyed one-eighty.

“What?!” her voice called back, raising her shoulders at a pair of fast fashion clothing store employees, hanging just outside the opening that served as the retailer's door. She didn't know all of their names, but almost all of them, throughout the mall, seemed to belong to the same hivemind of juvenile behavior. They are juveniles, Delilah silently reminded herself as they beckoned her over. They're teenagers. Their frontal lobes aren't fully developed-

“Is it true you're fucking the narc?” one of the girls demanded, and the few steps Delilah had taken came to a pause. “It is, right? You're fucking the Rent-A-Cop?” she reiterated, and Delilah's eyes simply slid closed, a sigh escaping her.

“Not that's it's remotely your business who I fuck, but no. Cooper and I are just friends,” she stated simply, hoping to end it there, but before she could turn, a sharp acrylic nail snagged the edge of her uniform top, threatening to pierce it.

“Oh, first-name basis? That's...yeah, that's convincing,” the other girl quipped.

Delilah wished the experience of this ridiculousness was a first time occurrence, but it had probably happened at least a half dozen times now, between employees speaking directly at her – never to her – or talking about it like she wasn't in clear earshot. It was like living in perpetual high school, over a decade post-graduation.

“Don't you have some sweatshop shirts to sell?” Delilah retorted, and they both rolled their eyes. “Or a junior year to repeat, Samantha?” The taller of the two suddenly went quite still.

“That's not true-”

“Really? That's not what Laura said” she replied, choosing a name out of dozens, no idea if it was the right one, nor did she care. This would go on forever if she didn't force a distraction.

“Laura from the Hollister?” she demanded, and Delilah nodded quickly. She'd have to remember to avoid passing by the Hollister for a while. With the two girls distracted by manufactured drama, Delilah made quick steps the direction she'd originally been traveling. She walked so fast she didn't notice the security guard on the other side of the wall she passed, tucked away in the shadow, listening intently.

🔪

A hand suddenly placed against the small of her back sent a full-body shudder through Delilah's body as she stood near the far end of the bookstore, the mall just closed within the last hour, granting her the time to finally take care of the stocking of shelves without the worry of booktok-addicted thieves popping in to snatch something and scamper off. One of her earbuds was plucked from her ear by a hand that wasn't her own, and she turned about to find Cooper standing even closer than usual. “You're never gonna stop doing that, are you?” she questioned, letting out a sigh and putting her palm against the black material of his uniform to create a bit more distance between them.

“I'll stop doing it when you stop giving me such cute reactions,” Cooper answered, and Delilah's cheeks flushed a few shades. It was true what she'd told the H&M girlies, that they were, in fact, not fucking. They hadn't even kissed. Nothing had happened beyond him occasionally placing his hands on her in ways that were just close enough to indifferent to not spark definite suspicions of some deeper intent. Or maybe the bookseller just didn't want to let her hopes and imagination get the best of her, and leave her with more melancholy. “Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn't I be alright?” Delilah asked, gathering up the new books that wouldn't fit on the shelves, and tucking them back into the inventory box.

“I don't know. I usually see you at least once before closing time. Thought I might have done something,” he shrugged, watching her flit around, out of his physical reach.

“Of course not,” she answered automatically, and before she could get past him, he spoke up again.

“I heard those girls,” Cooper stated simply, his mind having reflected on the conversation he'd listened in on a few hours previous. “Does that happen a lot?”

“It's...it's just stupid teen gossip,” Delilah quipped, avoiding direct eye contact as she shuffled around. She always seemed to be visibly more busied when she didn't like the direction of the conversation. “They think I get special treatment because we...” she paused, hearing the squeaking sound of worn vinyl as Cooper plopped down on a beanbag chair from the children's section, his body looking like that of a giant, atop the diminutive peace of 'furniture'. “Because you hang around a lot, I guess.”

Cooper was quiet for several seconds before he spoke up, Delilah's actions becoming more unfocused. Though she tried to make herself look busy, the security guard experienced no issue in seeing right through her performative nonchalance. “Does that bother you?” he asked suddenly, and Delilah's body stilled, shifting to finally look at him. He was pretty much all she thought about anymore, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to simply be around him when she wanted so much more than a casual workplace friendship.

“That they bring their bratty high school attitude to work and make it everyone else's problem?” she retorted.

“That I spend so much time around here,” he clarified. “I hope I'm not wearing out my welcome.”

“No, of course not, you aren't...not remotely,” she finally admitted, shaking her head slightly, her green eyes earnest as she stared into his umber gaze, almost blackened by the shadow cast from his brow.

“You're sure?” Cooper asked, his stare unceasing as she leaned against the edge of a sturdy bookcase.

“Of...Of course,” she mumbled, her vision falling away as his eyes became too dangerous to continue staring into. “You're...I mean, I'm sure you've noticed that I...I really don't have much in the way of...well, anyone,” she admitted, her thumb running along her other hand where she clasped them together in a self-soothing gesture.

“You've got friends outside w-”

“No, I really don't. I used to. But I don't know, it's like...it's so hard to make friends that you don't,” she paused and gestured to him as an example, punishing the beanbag chair with his muscle-fueled weight, “work in the vicinity of. I used to have friends, back when I worked at the office. Or I thought I did, but...between everyone else quitting or moving, or getting married, or pregnant, or both...all my friendships kind of dissolved before I ever left. It's like...if you don't fit inside this predetermined section of adulthood, you're not worth being around...Especially when you're the not-fun one who also doesn't want to go to happy hour, after.”

Cooper sat in silence, listening to her spill. It was true that he hadn't established any surface friendships that weren't extremely casual, and connected to the mall, but making friends and staying on people's positive purview had never been an issue for him. Though, the whole mentally unstable serial killer charm was probably tied to that. Or maybe it was just harder for women. “So, I'm not bothering you?” he finally asked. He wasn't really invested in the idea of helping her develop new friendships. He liked her exactly where she was, right below his metaphorical thumb.

“To be honest...you're pretty much the highlight of my day, most days,” she admitted, her gaze falling back to the floor at the admission. It felt uncomfortably close to an admission of her attraction, her affection for him, but it was true, and she couldn't keep living in the perpetual fear that her feelings weren't reflected in his own.

“Well,” Cooper finally spoke up, reaching his hand up for assistance off what was practically the floor. It took nearly all of her effort when she took his hand and pulled with all her strength to bring him up to his feet, stumbling a bit when he towered over her, not even a foot between them. A light chuckle not even Cooper expected slipped out of him, and his left hand was reaching for hers, his right tipping up her chin with the slightest contact. “I suppose I'll just have to work on making it 'everyday'.”

🔪

It was half past one when Delilah's shoes clacked against the peeling vinyl floor of an Italian restaurant conjoined with the mall, thankful she'd kept the key-code to the outside door, written down from when a former employee had shared it with her. A secret entrance for employees only that not even Cooper had noticed on his rounds, it had saved her more than once when she'd left the mall after work and realized she'd left something behind, long after the guards had locked up. It had been her laptop charger this time, and with her actually managing to snag a full day and night off, she couldn't afford to leave it until she worked next. She held an unlikely hope that she might run into Cooper one last time before her day off, with the comforting attention he'd paid her earlier that night, and the knowledge that she'd have to deal with her roommate soon. Walking a little too close to one of the lengthy walls down a main corridor, she nearly toppled to the ground when a door she had never seen utilized suddenly swung open, almost smacking against her.

“C-Cooper...That's two times in one night,” she managed, a little shaken from almost colliding face-first with the solid door.

“Where...How did you get in here? I made sure your car was gone before I locked everything up,” Cooper spoke, his voice sounding a bit off, his brows more animate than usual, and his bottom jaw shifting from side to side with tension.

“There's a key-code door to the Maggiano's employee entrance. I guess the code hasn't changed in a while,” she explained. “Speaking of doors...” she indicated the one Cooper had his hand firmly planted against. “I didn't even know anyone used that one. What were you doing in there?”

Cooper's little facial ticks pricked and tugged at his handsome features, actively thinking up a believable lie. Never once had he accessed the basement levels when the mall was open, while Delilah was on the premises. His acts...his violent, carved up acts...it wasn't exactly possible to keep his two lives separate as he had before, in his marriage. Perhaps it had not been as separate as he might admit to himself, given the jewelry he'd gifted his wife and daughter, literal trophies of some of his dismemberments. But this side of himself, he had no intentions to introduce her to. Their game was not about violence, as all his others had been. His urges were not the same as what he felt toward those people he believed saw themselves as whole. It hadn't been worth the risk of letting her even know the lower levels even existed, but her fingers were reaching for the handle of the door before he could register her movement.

“I can't let you-” Cooper began, his tone like a command, as if it were forbidden. That only made her want to venture on.

“Oh, come on, what's down there?” she asked, intrigued.

“It's...not much of anything,” he uttered, but she was slipping around him and reaching for the knob again, his arms shooting out to grasp her wrists before he realized what he was doing. Neither moved, both conscious of the new, even more powerful position he held over her. His eyes seemed so black in the poor lighting of the after hours hallway, no words exchanged between them as he carefully guided her hands to the cool metal of the door, her slender form practically engulfed in his shadow. “It's not for you,” he stated firmly, which only served to shift her curiosity into suspicion.

“What do you mean, it's not for me...Is it for someone else?” she asked. The last question had a twinge of self-doubt that she immediately regretted.

Cooper observed her in silence, his hands abandoning her wrists and drawing away from the door, his palms finding the sides of her waist, his grip light but not subtle. “Who else would there be?”

Delilah's hands finally broke contact with the metal surface, drifting down to insufficiently wrap over the hands at her waist, her gaze following, watching with nervous interest as his digits played at the untucked hem of her shirt, curling slightly to expose her midriff, his callous-roughened fingertips and blunt nails scraping her skin. Looking not to the man at her back, but past him to the camera she knew pointed in their vicinity from it's home on the ceiling, her fingers finally gripped his hands for fully, and she dragged them away from her torso. “I should really be-”

“Don't go,” Cooper murmured, his hand grasping hers before she could completely escape his presence. “If you really want to see...I'll show you what's down there,” his voice was low, calm, almost disconcertingly so, but it held her just as firmly as his physical grasp. “It can be our secret.”

🔪

Slipping through the heavy, metal door, Delilah's shoulders twitched at the sound of it slamming home behind herself and the security guard. From what she could see in the seconds before it had closed noisily behind them, they seemed to be standing in a long hallway that didn't have an apparent end. Surrounding the two of them was only darkness, the neon lights on the consumer side of the door not even creeping in through the bottom edge. There was only blackness and silence outside of her anxious breathing for several seconds before Cooper spoke up again, Delilah already beginning to spiral over how incredibly stupid of a decision she might have just made. What did she know about him, really? Sure, he paid her attention, like no one else had in longer than she wished to admit, but she knew virtually nothing about him outside of the building they both worked in.

“It's this way,” he finally spoke up, and in this pitch-dark space, his presence felt even more engulfing than usual. Even alone in the bookstore at night, the only two souls left in the building, his company had never felt this intense...almost threatening.

“Wh...what's this way?” she asked, her voice cracking, his hand cupping her shoulder as she walked ahead of him at a leisured pace.

“A staircase,” he stated simply, his free hand reaching into one of his many pocket compartments to draw out a high lumen flashlight, Delilah's shoulders going slack almost immediately at the sudden flood of light. “There's a whole basement floor that seems to have been abandoned,” he advised, mentally noting her quickly calming demeanor as she glanced along the walls, and Cooper pressed the flashlight into her hand to allow her to take lead. His current victim was chained and gagged at the far end of the basement level, after all, and way out of earshot from anywhere he'd permit her to explore. When they finally reached a wall, a single story flight of stairs came into view, a faint glow at the bottom.

“This is...how did you find out about this?” Delilah queried, clicking off the flashlight and passing it back to Cooper, her gaze flitting in all directions as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

Schematics and blueprints from the city archives, Cooper recalled, before speaking up. “I lucked out. I found a ring of keys in the security office behind the desk, and one of them fit.” He'd searched extensively for hidden spaces, forgotten by time, long before settling on this community, and his current position.

“Okay, but...why keep it a secret?” she continued, giving him a confused look, before glancing past his shoulder. The basement level was full of half-built walls that opened up to empty spaces, winding hallways, a few locked doors here and there.

“Purely selfish reasons,” Cooper admitted, and Delilah glanced back at him once more.

“Like?” She asked, and when the security guard hesitated, her features took on a look of despondence. “Oh, right. We don't talk about you. I almost forgot-”

“I have some hobbies that require a lot of space that my home can't accommodate,” the Butcher spoke up. “Plus...sometimes it's nice to have a little space to hide away. I know you can relate to that.”

“A little?” Delilah repeated his words, reaching a hand out and making a sweeping gesture with her arm at the enormous, seemingly endless liminal space they found themselves in. Cooper put on a casual smile and shrugged his shoulders, glancing around as well, making certain they weren't anywhere near his victim. Well, his other victim. “And those hobbies?” she hedged, but he shook his head faintly, and she nodded.

“Like I said...they aren't for you,” he reminded, and she cast her gaze away from him.

“So...I guess I don't understand why you wanted me to come down here, then?” she concluded, a frown forming on her lips.

Cooper was silent for a few moments before he spoke up. He wasn't certain, himself, why he'd gone against his better, secret-keeping judgment. “Maybe I...just wanted to get you to myself,” he finally offered.

Delilah let out a soft, unenthusiastic laugh. “You basically have me to yourself, all the time...it's not like anyone's exactly competing for my time, and...attention,” she paused when she registered that he was no longer at her side. When she turned around, it also dawned on her just how dark it had become, realizing they had managed to wander way past the functionality of the overhead lights. “Cooper?”

“I'm here,” he spoke up almost immediately, and she swiveled around in the direction of his voice.

“I...think we should go back,” she mumbled, glancing around in the dark when she heard his feet move against the concrete floor.

“Why?” he asked bluntly, and Delilah's brows knit together in confusion and unease.

“Because...you're kind of...making me uncomfortable,” she admitted, turning when she heard his shoes on the floor again.

“Do you want me to make you comfortable?” he inquired, which did nothing but put her more on edge.

“Cooper-”

“We could stay...I could keep you down here...all to myself...steal you away,” his voice had taken on a low, gravely tone that confused her even more, though not so much with him, but herself. Where was her self-preservation instinct? Did she not have a phone with a flashlight in her pocket? Could she not just- “I'm not hearing a no.”

“Of course it's a no,” she managed, reaching out in the direction she perceived his voice to be emanating from, and grasping a fistful of his jacket.

“You don't sound so sure,” Cooper spoke up, his hand gently grasping the smaller one that gripped his outer layer of clothing, carefully dragging it away, weaving his own fingers betwixt hers instead.

“Cooper, you're...you're kind of scaring me,” she admitted, and the Butcher finally paused.

“I know,” he finally answered, feeling her fingers attempting to tug away from his grasp. “It's not fair of me, but I...you know it's just a joke, right? You know I'd never hurt you.”

No, I definitely don't know that, Delilah thought, but kept her vocalizations more subdued. “Then...let's just get out of here,” she cautiously suggested.

More silence from the large, looming form in front of her, and his free hand was at her cheek, the subtlest flinch giving him a moment's pause. “Please...just a little longer. I know you have to go home, but...just stay a little longer. No more bad jokes,” he pleaded, his tone subdued.

When she returned no words in answer, he let out an audible breath, glancing back in the direction he knew led to the staircase. He'd pushed too far. It was too-

"I guess I...I just don't really understand what you see in me. I mean, you're so...and I'm just...I'm really not anything special,” she finally admitted, and if she'd been able to see anything, she'd have seen the surprise and disbelieve on his face.

"Who told you that lie?" he finally spoke, the hand that had morphed with hers departing to rise up and cup her cheek, her flushed skin warm and soft against his callous-roughened hand.

“It's more like years of experience,” she mumbled, and she felt him step in closer, her own feet traveling backwards on instinct. “You hang around me all the time, but you don't let me in, and I never know where I stand with you, and-” her words came to an end when she felt the pad of his finger press against her lips, her back colliding against one of the many walls she couldn't see. Expecting to feel his lips against hers, she was surprised to feel the firm surface of his forehead against hers instead, Cooper leaning over her, his hands at her jaw, her neck, over her shoulders where they remained.

“You're right...I'm out of practice, and that's no fault of yours,” he admitted, waiting for her shoulders to tense or not. They remained lax in his loose grip.

🔪

Much as he desired to stay in the hidden realm of the basement level, to test the limits of her trust, push her farther, perhaps across an empty table with her chest to the unvarnished wood, one hand on her back while the other dragged down his zipper to...well, perhaps some other time. So long as Cooper played his hand well, kept the worst of his proclivities at bay, his time and chances to turn her to putty in his hands were virtually limitless. Maybe a little private show under the watchful, constant gaze of the CCTV from the comfort of the security office-

The clanging of the metal barrier slapping against the recently mopped floors brought Cooper's thoughts back to the real world, and he pressed off the wall he'd leaned against, waiting for Delilah to retrieve her laptop charger. “Got it,” she declared, holding it up as if he required proof, before stuffing it into her purse. He nodded and reached out a hand when she stepped close enough, the two of them meeting in the middle of the corridor. When Cooper noticed her brief hesitance, he made the decision for her, and clasped his hand around hers, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Somehow, if felt different in the open, under the glowing neon of the store fronts they passed, even with no one else around to see them.

“I'm not gonna bite,” Cooper spoke up as he observed the way she focused her gaze on literally anything but himself, though she made no attempt to extract her hand from his. “Unless you want me to,” he added, and was pleased and a bit relieved to catch the smile that tugged at her lips.

She nearly apologized before she caught herself, concluding she didn't really have anything to apologize for. “In the basement, you...you really made me uncomfortable,” she explained, chancing a glance up to his eyes that watched her so ceaselessly.

“I know,” he confessed, abandoning her hand closest to him, only to reach around and grasp her other hand, lifting it to hold in his where his wrist balanced atop her shoulder. “I can't promise it won't happen again,” he admitted, giving the hand clutched in his larger one a slight squeeze when her brows furrowed at his words. “But, I'll try to be more...cognizant of your boundaries.”

We haven't even been on a date, and I feel like I need a safe word, Delilah thought, as the mall entrance closest to her car came into view. “Well, anyway...thanks for...whatever the hell tonight was,” she declared as Cooper finally let go of her hand, her brows quirked as she considered the strangeness of their evening. Cooper shrugged his shoulders, a calm smile across his lips as he set to work unlocking the door, and holding it open for her. “I guess I'll see you...in a couple nights,” she added, and he nodded simply, lifting a hand to wave before she could turn away to trudge toward her car.

She hadn't made it ten feet before his voice suddenly called out to her, and she swiveled around to face him. “Delilah, can I...can I take you out to dinner, sometime?”

The bookseller stared at him, her lips parting, and closing again without sound, running her tongue nervously over them, trying again. “Like, on a date? A real date?”

Cooper's smile became more broad as his gaze softened, leaning against the open door of the building entrance. “Yeah. A real one.”

🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪

CHAPTER 3 CAN BE FOUND HERE

tagging as requested : @one-of-thewalkingdead , @gissellec1 , @rainingrabbits89-blog , @pinkflowerwombat , @sashimeep , @strangererotica @the-butchers-baby @callsign-fangirl @hibiskooks

If I forgot anyone, I apologize, and please let me know if you want to be tagged in the next one

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS AND TAGS ARE DEEPLY APPRECIATED. I KNOW THIS IS A BIT DIFFERENT THAN MOST OF THE OTHER COOPER STORIES BEING WRITTEN, BUT I HOPE IT APPEALS TO SOMEONE BESIDES MYSELF 💙

[adelheidvonschicksal]

Sanguine

Summary:

The wedding ring was a sweet lie that Polendina desperately clung to in order to placate the painful beating of his mechanical heart. After all, no one has ever heard of a puppet loving a human. He knows this. However, he still decided to validate these illogical emotions through the young man and his lies.

Yet when Polendina sees his fellow puppet and the young miss together, he starts to think that the ring wasn't one of Pinocchio's sweet lies after all.

Pairing: Pinocchio x Fem!reader, implied!Polendina x Antonia

tags: light angst, 3rd POV, no y/n, fluff, 2500 words

•---------•

Carried by the quiet of the night, the gramophone highlights the foyer in a gentle tune. It’s a soft instrumental that keeps Polendina and the few survivors still awake at this hour company, drowning out the ticking of the clock above the check-in desk steadily traveling closer to midnight, the many occupied sounds of pen scripting against paper, and the tinkering of designs and weapons from the far corner of the room. The voiceless melody of the instruments is accompanied by rhythmic humming replacing the missing lyrics. The voice is peaceful, only loud enough that Polendina can barely parse the highs and lows of the pitch mimicking the song from his place behind the counter. It’s an angelic sound, at least if you ask Polendina, who turns an inquisitive eye to the record player.

In the empty space between the gramophone and decorative plants, Geppetto’s puppet and the young miss are resting on the floor. It’s a tight fit but neither seems to mind when their shoulders press together. The young miss sits partially on her right hip with her legs curved to the side towards the puppet while he draws his knees up, neatly positioning himself to allow one foot to sit just in front of her ankles and the other to taper off to the side. It doesn’t seem like the most comfortable position Polendina can imagine but it’s the one the two have taken up since they first started up the turntable.

It seems the young miss is starting to feel the effects because as soon as the thought crosses his mind she shuffles, and it’s an easy adjustment to switch the sides of her position and lean more into the boy instead. As Polendina watches her, he can’t help but notice how at ease she looks.

It’s been a habit to keep an eye on her since she first moved into the hotel as nothing more than a rambunctious orphan child taken under Lady Antonia’s wing and raised in her unbridled kindness, aging into someone somewhat recognizable as a proper lady. In her childhood, his watch would be careful and purposeful, mostly to make sure nothing in the hotel would be accidentally broken. Now, it’s mostly out of concern for Lady Antonia’s daughter. One that, by extension, he almost can call his own.

As much as him, the disease that has beset the proprietor of Hotel Krat has been a source of stress for the heiress. It’s been weeks since he’s seen a modicum of consternation disappear in her practiced expressions and taut speech, and it’s only when the boy angles his head to rest on top of hers that there’s a smile. It looks like Polendina’s watch is no longer required for the time being.

However, he doesn’t turn his sight. 

•---------•

Polendina has seen many things in this world. From the first time he opened his eyes as a newly manufactured puppet fresh off the lines of the Venigni Works' assembly plant, he was privy to the many emotions of humans. Polendina has witnessed pride. It showed in the wide grin of satisfaction, a twinkle in the eye of his creator when he’s stamped with the approved insignia of the company and imprinted with the Grand Covenant, a sign that he would never stray from his duties.

A new model. The latest and greatest assistant from the Venigni line of puppetry.

It’s only by chance that he’s assigned to be the assistant serving Lady Antonia, which meant he was to work at the haunted Hotel Krat until his bolts rusted, joints creaked, and he could no longer function as well as whatever new models were to follow after him. Because of this, many would assume he doesn’t know much about the world. But Polendina can see so many things from here.

Polendina has seen the love between newlyweds. The hotel serviced many a blushing bride and a lucky gentleman. It’s his first introduction to love, an emotion he never thought would ever be the energy that keeps his heart beating and gives meaning to his life.

Polendina has seen the beauty of ball gowns across a crystal floor. He’s heard more stories whispered in between dances and music than most have probably heard their entire lives. Thus, he has also heard the stories of heartbreak. He’s seen the sullen tears draining in black down the face of a discarded lover. Polendina pondered once if oil would seep down his face in the same manner should he be discarded (a fear that he had no need for after so many years by Antonia's side), and he listened to the wails and screams of betrayed souls.

This world was harsh, it seems. But he was lucky enough to have witnessed the true beauty of it in the image of a young woman with dark blonde hair braided in bands and falling over the ear. A beautiful long pearl necklace complementing an elegantly strong neck and pale shoulders. A dress falling over a sturdy yet feminine frame in lovely layers and adorned with white bows as a feathered hat sat atop her head. The elegant gown hid what was underneath, which was an intelligent and ferocious young woman, who could play the part of a perfect lady and a bold lioness all at once. Something the portait of her hanging in the library captured and portrayed better than any clothing.

Polendina never met that young woman but he did meet her as a strong and independent matriarch, and it made it easy to fill in the blanks when his mind would drift to how it would have been to seen her then. Would she have captured his heart as easily as she did now? He'd like to think so as his love for Antonia deepened every year he spent serving at her side.

Unfortunately, Polendina never expected time to happen so fast and so severely.

It’s not age that caused her beauty to wilt but illness. It took pieces of his heart with each second his mistress had to battle this blasphemous disease. It’s a losing battle, he can tell, even though he wished to deny it.

This sense of dread was a new emotion, different from the one that would grip him with every letter of marriage that would eventually wind up at the estate even though he was aware that Lady Antonia never entertained suitors, or perhaps never found one that interested her enough. This emotion was festering, picking at whatever “soul” he possessed and its pitibiable yearning for an affection that was never meant for him to give nor to have.

Because of all the things Polendina has seen, he’s never seen another puppet that loved a human. For what puppet could ever have the capacity for genuine love, and what human – aside from that eccentric who was so thoroughly mocked – would ever entertain a relationship with a puppet, who wasn’t supposed to have illogical emotions like love in the first place?

If Lady Antonia was the exception, he’d never find out. He’d never dare tell her in the first place. It isn’t a burden he wants to place on her fragile heart.

Still, his own mechanical heart burned to tell someone, to have this desperate feeling held close and nurtured tenderly, and to have himself forgiven for this adoration for his human mistress. So, in an act of desperation, he drafted the letter. He placed it at the front desk and signed for Geppetto’s puppet.

Then, he waited.

Polendina could sense his heart beating faster when he heard the heavy steps of his friend stop in front of him. Pinocchio watched him patiently, still holding out the letter. With fear in his heart, Polendina braved to explain his situation. He explained his love for his human master and his fear of her impending death. When all that needed to be said was said, Polendina dared to ask Pinocchio, with all his knowledge of things puppet and human, “Can a puppet and human fall in love? Have you ever met a puppet who loves a human?”

The other puppet tensed, leaving an impregnable silence, which Pinocchio hardly ever spoke out loud to anyone aside from his father, Sophia, and occasionally Gemini unless absolutely necessary. So, this expected silence shouldn’t bother Polendina. But, it does. When Pinocchio finally showed a little insight into his thoughts by tilting his head and averting his gaze to his feet, Polendina knew the truth the young man wanted to say – the truth Polendina knew all along.

Pinocchio has never seen a puppet who loves a human.

Then, Pinocchio’s arm twitched, not one of his sporadic twitchy tweaks, but a hesitant one before he reached into his pocket. The boy opened a tightly clenched hand, presenting a ring delicately crafted with precious metals and with the words “forever yours” scripted into the band.

Polendina has seen a great many wedding rings during the hotel’s heyday, all excitedly shown to Lady Antonia by the many love-soaked honeymooners that would stay at the hotel and the ones gifted to Lady Antonia herself to convince her to accept a stray proposal.

Pinocchio showing him this now must mean that he’s seen it. Somehow. Somewhere. He’s seen a puppet and a human in love, and this ring was the symbol of that love. Polendina would never tell Lady Antonia his adoration for her, but it’s comforting enough to know his emotions were real and another puppet somewhere in the world experienced them as well.

Or most likely, it’s one of the boy’s sweet white lies and these feelings were the daydreams of a fool.

In the end, it’s a lie Polendina chose to believe and savor every fateful day despite never seeing the proof himself.

•---------•

As the gramophone rips and begins to play another song, the smooth humming is replaced by beautiful singing from the record. It’s a cozy and homey song; best shared by the fireplace. Feel, if he remembers the lyrics correctly. It always seems to be a favorite of the boy.

As it plays, the two in the corner look lost in their own little world. For the better part of it, at this time of night, with most retiring to sleep and Polendina himself quiet, this might as well be a world only for them. It didn’t used to be this way. The young miss would usually be held up in her room this time of night, studying the many books on medical remedies, searching failingly for a cure, and the boy hovering at his father’s side as he slept like a faithful hound.

Polendina should have picked up on this change when Pinocchio started to follow her around more often, seeking her out during the hours in between his missions. Quietly studying her humanity, like the others. Polendina is also well aware the boy can speak. Through his time here, the list of those he shared words with has grown exponentially but none more so than with the young miss.

However, that does not stop his hand from resting on the soft junction opposite her elbow. He slowly drags it up her skin, scribbling soft writings into her wrist. Polendina is unaware of what he spells, but the motions are slow and delicate, opposite the aura Pinocchio would have when he’d arrive at the hotel after a mission, tracking black oil, red blood, and blue—whatever—through the entrance, much to everyone’s dismay.

The quiet laughter from her and the small blur of confusion in Pinocchio’s expression explain all Polendina needs to know. Whatever was said was unknowingly innocent, and she traces an affectionate reply back into his palm. The necessity of this line of communication between them melted long ago and instead became a secret language that is only meant for the two of them; a convenient excuse to touch. Soothing messages dance across one another’s hands, the warm smile of a woman in love and the careful touches of a boy who hasn’t yet realized what it means to be in love.

The music plays on late into the night, far beyond the time for the hotel to retire. Polendina goes about his nightly rounds. The guests are relatively clean but there are always one or two things out of place.

When he finishes, the only people remaining in the foyer are himself and the young mistress whose head rests against the shoulder of a puppet undoubtedly adored. Pinocchio’s eyes are shut, and he lies motionless next to her but he’s surely still awake – not needing sleep as a puppet. However, he hasn’t dared to move from the spot since she fell asleep (thirty minutes judging by how many times the same song replayed).

For some reason, Polendina feels guilty for disturbing the pair.

“Pardon me,” he begins. In an instant, Pinocchio opens his eyes, but he still refuses to move, not even to lift his head to look at Polendina, but the attendant can tell the young man is alert and listening. “I hate to interrupt but it would be best if the young miss retired to her room for the evening. I’m afraid Lady Antonia would not be lenient with either of us if she were to catch a cold on our watch.”

Understanding, Pinocchio nods.

Polendina expects him to wake you up to go to your room; but instead, Pinocchio carefully shifts and slides his humanoid arm behind your knees and the other across your back. He cradles your body in his arms, adjusting only to encourage your head to fall against his chest before he lifts you off the floor. He nods at Polendina again, this time as a bid good night. As Pinocchio walks towards the main staircase, Polendina can swear even his steps sound purposely lighter.

It's an act Polendina has not seen the boy perform before. It’s not a base function for him, Polendina believes, but he carries you up the first step anyway. Polendina can sense his heart squeezing, the ergo inside him humming with memories of a ball. Memories of a beautiful young lady in a white dress. Memories of a sweet smile and a rejected proposal:

“What need is there for me to marry at this age anyway? My dear Polendina has always been plenty.”

There’s a forgotten happiness drumming inside him. Happily, he submits without fight and allows this passionate fervor to blanket him wholeheartedly. This time there’s no regret or guilt as he watches Pinocchio turn up the stairs and disappear to the upper floor. At this moment, he thinks maybe Pinocchio didn’t tell a sweet lie after all.

For Polendina has seen many things.

He’s seen the joy of marriage and family.

He’s seen the tears of heartbreak and love lost.

He’s seen the beauty and harshness of this world.

And now, he too, has seen a puppet in love with a human.

[cherry-writes-yanderes]

Bloodstained

cw: MINORS DNI, dead dove do not eat, gender neutral reader, yandere, noncon/dubcon thigh riding, blood kink, mask kink, light knifeplay, fuck or die lite™️, soft dirty talk, blood, mentions of murder, the reader is brutally stabbed, backstabbing (lol you’ll get it), physical assault, death threats, threat of wound fucking, horny Ghostie

Remember to like & reblog if you enjoy my work~ <3

word count: 1,939

The mist seemed a lot thicker than you remembered.

A constant reminder that you were indeed in the dark, as well as in danger. Especially after some asshole decided to make an offering to thicken it. You’d kill that bastard yourself if you could; but you can’t. You are a survivor, a mouse in the classic game. You couldn’t spill blood other than your own even if you wanted to.

Speaking of a cat and mouse game, you definitely felt like a mouse now. Especially when the cat was right across the dingy hallway, grasping another of your vermin brethren by the throat: Ace.

The man coughed as The Ghost Face held him high against the wall, holding his knife up against the man’s throat. The blade was as long as your forearm, glinting in the crude, broken down lighting of the old manufacturing building you were all thrust into for a trial.

A loud boom sounded through the building; a sacrifice had been completed. The hooks were cruel, and you unfortunately couldn’t get there in time to save your other friend.

You slowly peeked through the crack of the red wardrobe you were currently hiding in, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you heard Ace cough again, you supposed that it meant that Ghostface’s grip was now tighter on the poor man’s throat.

“Where. Are. They?” You heard the masked man’s muffled voice. His breathing was labored; chasing survivors around to murder them was obviously a tiring game. But you knew that the bastard enjoyed it. The last time you were against him he took a crude and bloody photo of you as a “keepsake”, according to him.

“W-Who?!” Ace croaked loudly, his legs kicking out in a weak attempt to try and fight off the black-clad killer.

“(Y/N), you stupid fuck!!” The Ghostface roars as he slams Ace against the wall, making the man nearly crack his skull on the dirty cement. Ace groans, choking and sputtering as he tries to get his bearings again after that attack that clearly made him dizzy. He knew that Ghostface was obsessed with you, stopping at nothing to get near you in every single trial you two were in together. The killer’s never been this angry though, and he was scared that he would get killed early from this crazy fucker. He knew that there was only one way to get out of this, and in the end, it was every man for himself.

You swallow hard has Ace slowly raises a bloody finger, pointing directly at the closet you’ve nestled yourself into. 

“No...” 

Your heart drops into your shoes, the killer slowly turning to face the closet as well. You hear him chuckle as he drops the squirming and injured man, letting him scramble up off of the floor and watch with wide eyes.

His boots sound heavy as they get closer to you, your eyes wide and your heart leaping out of your chest. You knew he was toying with you, there was no way that he ever wanted to go slow at anything. You were supposed to be scared.

The double doors swung open before you could even blink, and without thinking you tried to scamper away as if you even had a chance against him. You screamed as the killer grabbed at you, wrapping his arms around your waist and throwing you to the ground, knocking the wind out of you.

“Aw now, don’t run off now sweetpea, we’re just gettin’ started!!” Danny laughs as he sits on top of you to stop you from wiggling.

“NO!!!!” You scream out as you see Ace run off, tears streaming down your cheeks at the prospect of being alone with the lunatic that meant you harm. You wiggle harder, managing to break free from under Ghostface for but a fleeting moment before you feel something roughly pierce your shoulder blade... something sharp.

You scream as Ghostface’s knife pierces you, white-hot pain coursing through your body as you feel ribs crack and blood gush from the wound. You can hear him cooing loudly at you over your screaming, but you couldn’t fully understand what was being said. If you were being honest with yourself, you really didn’t care.

“Aww now, hush!!~ It’s gonna be fine! You’re gonna die anyways!” Danny laughs like it’s the funniest joke ever. He swiftly pulls the knife from your back, listening closely to your whimpering and crying.

He flips you over and you can hear him breathing heavily as he grabs your arms and blood gushes from your shoulder blade. “Y’know what, you sweet little thing? I wanna play just a little…” He chuckles, muffled by the mask as well as the blood rushing through your ears. “Ju-Just a little, I promise! That blood is... it’s fuckin’ hot...” He swallows, his mask getting closer to your face the more he speaks.

“Unluckily for you, though-” He grunts as he lays you flat and hovers over you, suddenly grabbing your neck and squeezing.  “You won’t be seeing my handsome face... This time around anyway~” He jokes as you cough and kick hard; a feeble attempt to escape again. You can feel your own sticky blood pooling on the floor from your open wound, and it made your heart beat even faster and your adrenaline flow, your body practically moving on its own.

As you struggle, you hear him softly grunt, as if he didn’t wanna mention what was wrong in that moment. You finally realize, and it’s horrid. In his efforts to cage you in and trap you under him, he had put his knee in between your legs, causing your sudden movements to rub against him. Was he... turned on by this?! What a fucking pervert... You stop in your attempts to move after that realization, opting to try moving your legs up to kick him in any way. That only made it worse, his breathing getting labored as he just watched you eerily with that goddamned mask.

“Hey!!!” He shouted suddenly, slamming your body onto the cold floor and bringing you back up again, holding you close to him. “Who fuckin’ said you could stop?” He asked deeply, his voice deep and smooth but sinister at the same time. The rubber of the mask touched your nose as he stared you down, your body shaking under such a dangerous gaze. He sighs, grabbing your hips as he sits you right on his thigh. You felt even more like a mouse, but now you were in the cat’s jaws.

“Move your hips, baby...” You hear him order, his breath heavy with anticipation. You don’t comply for a moment, staring him down in defiance. “Don’t make me fuck that bloody hole in your back instead, you little bitch.” Danny growls as he reaches around you to poke a finger in your gushing wound to make you squeal, which you do.

This time, you comply, knowing that him getting angrier would lead to a worse fate than this. You slowly move your hips over his toned thigh, your warmth rubbing against the fabric of his bloodstained pants as well as your clothing. Your cheeks were hot, and you had to admit that the friction felt good. But with someone who planned to kill you? Maybe he wouldn’t if you gave him what he wanted...

“That’s it, sweetness... Mm, you’re so warm...” He huffs desperately, his hands gripping your hips hard as he helps you along, pushing you down as he moves his leg for a better angle. “Yeah, that’s it... Good ‘lil baby...” He praises again and again as you ride him, a gentle whimper from the building pleasure escaping your throat without permission. You can feel your body reacting harshly to everything that has happened, truly obvious from the stain that has appeared on The Ghost’s pants. It all happened so fast, your brain was fuzzy. His hips started to hump against you, begging for some kind of attention in the place he needed you most.

You could hear generators being completed and the lights getting brighter. The other survivors were probably wondering where you were, and your heart stung from the thought that they might just leave without you.

Danny watched as you tried to quickly get yourself off, smiling under the mask at how funny this situation was to him. He never thought you would be this obedient... But he liked it. The killer knew that he should have done this sooner if you were going to be this good of a fucktoy!~ Leather gloves grabbed at your cheeks, squishing them and making your moans muffle just a bit as he forced you to grind on him faster. His index finger forces itself into your mouth, rubbing your tongue with vigor as he continues to move you. A twinge of blood from your wound coats your taste buds, and your warmth throbs from how good it tasted. “L-Look, sweetcheeks- mmh- I’m okay with not cumming this time... Just this once, y’hear?? But- shit, you gotta move just a teensy bit faster if you wanna get off by the time this is over!” Ghostface cackles hoarsely, gripping your hips harder still. You moan in response, panic flooding your being with a sense of primal urgency to not only cum, but to get out alive.

You suddenly hear the door alarm; the others had finished with the gens, but still no one was coming for you. You can hear them opening the giant door to escape. Your sense of panic grows, making your hips twitch with both desire and fear. “D’aww.. they’re leavin’ without you, honeybun... so sad!~” Danny croons playfully, groaning softly still as you continue to move on top of him. Your brain freezes over, the fear skyrocketing and making everything more... pleasurable? You weren’t sure how that could happen, but you let out a louder moan as you look down to see the Ghostface’s built thigh under you, rubbing on your precious parts with lust. You moan again, unable to contain the fact that your brain is beginning to melt into nothing with pleasure, your hips finally moving on their own.

Your moans get louder and louder, the indication that you were getting close spurring Ghostface on to grip you tighter, his leg moving in sync with your body to help you along. “That’s it! Cum for me, darling~” The killer calls. Your breaths get heavy, cheeks warm as the feeling building in your tummy finally snaps at his command. Your back arches as you cry out, your broken screams accompanied by the laughter of a psychopath.

“What a good baby!!~ You made me so proud!~” He coos, nuzzling his mask on your cheek as you come down from your high, your legs shaking and your hips twitching. He gushes over you, showing you the stain you left on his pants as well as yours, giving your cheeks a pinch with his leather gloves. You can barely feel anything as Ghostface picks you up, and you wonder if he’s just going to hang you on a hook and fuck you there until the Entity came to claim you. If you were being honest with yourself, you would rather that have happened.

Instead, he drops you right at the gate: wide open and welcoming you through to the other side. As a goodbye until your next trial, Ghostface jabs his finger into your wound, cruelly twisting as you writhe and scream on the ground. He cackles wildly, kicking you right in the gut to get you through the door.

“’Til next time~”

[doomhands-jr]

The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 2

Noah Sebastian X Reader

Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter charged with overseeing community service. Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Masterlist

Banner by @flowerynerds _______

“What’s up with you?” Madison asked, punctuating it with a nibble to Noah’s earlobe.

“Nothing,” said Noah.

Madison huffed and moved so she was straddling Noah’s lap. She took his hands in hers and placed them on her breasts. By now, Noah was well aware that she enhanced her size with a generous array of push-up bras, but even without them, she was chesty.

Usually, he liked when she took control, but he couldn’t seem to get his head in the game.

“Put your mouth on them,” she commanded, and he did as he was told, enveloping one of her nipples in between his lips and sucking. She let her head fall back, exposing her neck, and Noah, to his credit, went through the motions. He clutched the front of her neck, digging his nails in the way he knew she liked and she let out a moan that he could tell was played up for any eavesdroppers in the hallway.

“Smack my ass,” she whispered, and he did, letting out a groan when she replied to his actions by grinding her hips down on his. The groan was for show. He felt nothing, which she soon discovered once she unzipped his fly with her grabby hands.

“Are you not into this?” she asked with a tone of accusation. As if she somehow couldn’t fathom a man not being immediately turned on by anything she did.

Noah shrugged. “Not really.”

She scoffed and clambered off of him, searching the room for wherever she had flung the top half of her outfit in her coked-up frenzy.

“I’m gonna go find Folio.”

“Be my guest,” he said and gestured to the door, which she promptly stormed out of.

Noah sighed and leaned back on the couch. He checked his phone. It was 11 PM. The party had only been going on for a little over an hour and he was already over it.

Fetching his shirt from the floor, he threw it back on, zipped up his jeans, and made his way back out into the crowd of people now gathered around his friend Ruffilo, who was performing a keg stand.

He held out for longer than Noah anticipated, but when the guys holding him finally let him down, he lost his balance and stumbled drunkenly into the kitchen counter.

The crowd that had gathered around him applauded, and when he finally regained his balance, he threw up his fist in celebration.

Noah couldn’t help but feel affection for his friend in that moment. Ruffilo and Noah had both had a rough upbringing coming from the same small drug-ridden town. They’d grown up in the same trailer park and had banded together early on. Frankly, it was a miracle that they escaped without addictions, considering how the odds had been stacked against them.

Not that he had very much going for him at the moment. They booked a few shows here and there, but aside from that he spent most of his time running a steel lathe at the local precision manufacturing plant. When he wasn’t doing that, he was blowing off steam at Jolly’s parties.

“Did you see that?!” his friend slurred, throwing an arm around Noah’s shoulders and resting most of his body weight on him.

“I did. That must have been a record for you,” Noah replied.

“Had to be over a minute, at least.” Nick laughed through his words and Noah couldn’t help but share in his friend’s joy, trying to push away the sneaking suspicion that partying and drunken hookups were no longer enough to keep him satisfied.

“Where’s Madison?”

“Probably with Nick,” said Noah. He looked around the room, and surely enough, he had her on his lap, sharing a joint with her.

“What happened, man? I thought you locked that down.”

Noah shrugged. “Listen, I think I’m gonna head out.”

“That’s two weeks in a row you’ve bailed early. What’s up with you?”

“Just not feeling it,” Noah replied.

“You’ll make it home okay?” he asked, hazy eyes clearing for a moment in his earnestness. Noah softened and offered a reassuring smile.

“Promise. Go have fun. I have an early morning tomorrow, anyway.”

“Damn, I forgot you were doing that.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to be hungover for it, so I should head out.”

“Take it easy, man.” His friend clapped him on the shoulder affectionately before making his way back into the crowd.

Noah quickly left the party, lighting up a joint for his walk home. It was cold, but after the humid fog of smoke and sweat that had built up in the house, the fresh air was welcome.

He was listless, he realized, and probably understimulated. The factory didn’t pay well and he had no other career prospects. There was no way he could afford college and his high school GPA wasn’t enough to get him accepted to any even if he found financial aid. If things didn’t work out with his band, he was looking at a lifetime of mediocrity.

His thoughts drifted to you.

You were probably busy studying. Surely you attended the university and probably majored in something like literature or early childhood education. He wouldn’t put it past you to get all your homework done on Friday so that you could spend the weekend relaxing.

Your parents were probably still married. And you called them at least once a week to catch up. They likely made enough money that you could afford school without a scholarship, and he was willing to bet you already knew what you wanted to do with your life. You were self-assured and decisive. And though you were sheltered, you probably still had a better chance at success than he ever would.

He took another drag and flicked the half-spent joint into the nearby bushes before breaking out into a jog. He was stressed, and he needed an outlet, and the only thing available to him at the moment was to physically expend as much energy as possible or else he’d wind up punching a mailbox.

_________

“Head’s up. Nick’s in a mood today.”

“Oh,” you said, noting their time of arrival. 8:09, but you marked them both as on time. “Any idea why?”

“He’s hungover. And he struck out with the girl he was trying to get with last night so his pride is damaged.”

“Dang. What about you?” you asked. “Any luck with the ladies?”

“I don’t need luck,” he said. He held a stern expression, maintaining eye contact with you and you were caught off-guard, until he cracked a smile and you relaxed. He had you going for a second, thinking you’d somehow offended him by questioning his prowess.

“Any hangover?” you asked.

“I didn’t drink last night.”

“Oh?” you said, both impressed and surprised.

“Don’t get too excited,” he said, smile still softening his features. “I’m not turning from my sinful ways. I just don’t want community service to be more miserable than it has to be.”

“Sounds like a step in the right direction to me.”

Noah rolled his eyes and headed to the supply closet to get started on the long list of chores that needed completed. Nick had gone to the bathroom when they first arrived and hadn’t returned yet.

“Windows first?” Noah called out from the back of the room.

“Yeah!”

He walked back in holding the bottle of window cleaner and casually flung the rag over his shoulder.

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood,” you observed.

Noah began spraying the nearest window down and wiping it with the rag. You studied him as he worked, noticing just how much of his skin was covered in ink. He moved casually and with confidence, each of the muscles working in perfect harmony with each other. He carried no tension anywhere in his body.

“I like grunt work,” he admitted.

“I’ve never heard of anyone who liked grunt work.”

“Didn’t your Christ like grunt work?” he asked, amused. “I think I remember something about him wanting to be a humble servant.”

“Huh,” you said, taken aback, “come to think if it, yeah.”

“You seem surprised.”

You continued to watch him as he moved to the next window, finding interest in the movement of his shoulders.

“I didn’t expect you to be so Christ-like.”

He smiled to himself. You caught the reflection of it in the window he was working on.

“I don’t do it because some historical religious figure that may or may not have existed said to,” he said. “I do it because it feels good.”

“Still,” you said. “you’d make a better Christian than a lot of our congregation.”

He laughed. “I went to church until I was 14.”

So far, this was the most personal detail he’d revealed to you. While Nick was an open book, you’d always observed Noah to be guarded. He’d speak, but not about himself, and it was always hard to get a read on him. Perhaps that was on purpose, or perhaps it was just safest for him, but having this little bit of context felt like he was offering you a gift. A small bit of insight into who he was.

“Can I ask what happened?”

“You can ask,” he said, “but I probably won’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s private.”

“Anything terrible?” you pressed. It had to have been significant for him to have so much anger still.

“I’m not giving you anything else, so you may as well stop asking.”

“Fine,” you huffed. “But I still think you should give it another chance.” You followed him as he made his way over to the next set of windows.

“And why’s that?” he asked as he began spraying. Something about the way he stayed focused on his work and didn’t look at you made it easier for you to speak your mind.

“You like humble servitude.”

He chucked, low and soft. “People can be good people without being Christian.”

“But isn’t that like, the basis of Christianity?”

“I think you’re reading too deep into it. There are a lot of people who like humble work. It’s good for the body. It’s good for the mind. That’s reason enough to like it.”

You shrugged. “So, you’re saying it feels good to follow Christ’s teaching.”

Noah rolled his eyes. “That’s a stretch. Trust me. Your church doesn’t want me, and I don’t want them.”

“Windows again?” came Nick’s whiny voice from across the room. “God, can’t we do something more exciting?”

You and Noah locked eyes. “Told you,” he said under his breath.

“Like what?” you asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, plopping down in a pew. “What about raking leaves again? I liked that.”

“You can grab a rake if you want. I still think there are some leaves on the ground out there.”

“Pass,” he said, and you got the feeling he didn’t actually want solutions and just wanted to complain.

Across the room, the doors abruptly opened and a familiar white V-neck and beanie crossed the room, looking determined. He wore his usual relaxed jeans and Birkenstocks. The cut of his V-neck highlighted the cross necklace that dangled between his collar bones.

“Hey,” you said once he made a beeline over to you. “What brings you here?”

“I can’t find my pedal. Have you seen it?”

“No, but I can help you look.”

“That would be great, thanks,” he said and brushed past Nick and Noah without acknowledging them on his way to the stage. Which was a bit odd, in your opinion.

“Um,” you said, trying to diffuse the weirdness, “okay, so Noah, just keep doing what you’re doing, and Nick, try to find something productive to do if you can.” You could tell by their faces that they were both interested in who this standoffish newcomer was, but you decided that was best kept secret.

“It’s orange, right?” you asked Isaac, peering behind the keyboard and into the mess of wires connecting all the different instruments and auxiliary parts to the monitors.

“Yeah,” he said, scoping out the room. He didn’t seem to be searching all that hard. “So how’s community service going?”

“Good,” you said. “We’re making good progress.”

“They’re behaving for you?” he asked.

“Most of the time, yes.”

“The one looks like trouble,” he said, nodding over towards Noah. You knew what was going through his head. At first, Noah’s tattoos and cold disposition intimidated you, too. But for some reason, that same judgement bothered you more coming from Isaac.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Noah watching.

“You should be careful around them.” Isaac wasn’t bothering to monitor his volume, and you were sure both Noah and Nick could hear him. “They’re bad influences.”

“That seems pretty judgmental,” you said, crossing your arms, the search for his pedal all but forgotten.

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Come on, they’re criminals. You saw what they did to the worship center.”

“How’s it going over here?” Noah’s voice broke through the conversation. You hadn’t noticed his approach and it caught you by surprise.

“Good,” you said.

“Awesome. I’m Noah,” he said, extending his hand toward Isaac, who took note of all the ink covering it. Your throat tightened, already knowing the interaction was about to go poorly.

“Isaac,” he said, grabbing Noah’s hand and giving him a once-over. Noah had at least a good four inches of height over him and Isaac seemed to take his existence as a threat.

“Nice to meet you, Isaac.”

Noah’s face didn’t betray him, but you knew in your gut that he was putting two-and-two together based on the story you’d told him last week.

“Who is this?” said Nick, striding up to join the conversation. You bit the inside of your cheek. Your mediation skills were good, but you weren’t sure if you could fend off any potential conflict given how strong the three personalities before you were.

You bit the bullet and introduced them.

“Nick,” you said, forcing a polite smile, “this is Isaac. He plays guitar for the praise and worship band.”

You saw the slow realization dawn on him like a wave crossing over his features. His eyebrows lifted up towards his forehead, eyes widened, and mouth dropped open in that order before he composed himself.

“Isaac,” he said, grabbing the man’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Congrats, man. Wow, playing guitar for the worship band. That’s a great position. Really prestigious.” You could tell he was absolutely tickled by the opportunity to scope out the man he’d called a coward a week ago.

“Thanks,” said Isaac flatly, catching on to the fact that Nick was not actually impressed.

“Noah,” you said. “Why don’t you take Nick and get him started on raking? Once you’ve finished, you can dust.” Noah, to his credit, nodded and did his best to direct his friend towards the back of the facility.

“Anything for you, Mary,” Nick said softly, sly grin playing on the corner of his mouth.

“Mary?” asked Isaac.

“I’ll tell you later,” you said walking down the steps of the small stage. “Hey, I actually need to get back to overseeing this. I’ll catch up with you later? Hope you find your pedal.” You knew your words were coming out anxious and rushed, but you were desperate for this interaction to end.

“See you at church tomorrow?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“You know, I might join you guys,” called Nick as he was led away from the stage and into the hallway. “I’ve been thinking about giving my life to Christ!” he managed to spit out just before the door slammed shut.

You and Isaac fell into a tense silence. You focused on breathing in slowly through your nose, hoping to dispel some of the unease.

“So that’s who you’re spending your Saturdays with,” he said. It was an observation as well as a judgement, rather than a question.

“I know they’re not exactly the best company to keep,” you admitted. “But I think this is important for them.”

“I don’t like it,” he said, crossing his arms. “I’m gonna talk to your dad and see if he’ll let me take over.”

“No!” you said in a rush.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I just feel like you wouldn’t mesh well. They’d be too threatened by your,” you searched your brain to come up with a word that would suffice, “…masculinity.”

It felt gross coming out, but did the trick.

“Hm. Yeah, I could see how that might be a problem,” he said, immediately surrendering. It was a struggle not to roll your eyes.

“Listen, I think you better come back later for your pedal,” you said. “I know it doesn’t look good, but I have it under control. I need you to trust me.”

He looked at you warily. “You sure? You’re not going to be influenced?”

“Do you really think so little of me?”

“No,” he said. “I just…care about you is all.”

There was that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach again. Two weeks ago, hearing those words would have thrilled you. Why was it that they came as soon as your interest in him had begun to wane?

“Thank you,” you said. “But I’ve got this.”

He gave you one final nod of agreement before heading out the side door. Once he was gone, you sighed and sunk down to sit on the steps leading up to the stage. A moment later, Noah padded back into the room. He sat down next to you wordlessly and joined you in staring at the ground.

“So that’s Isaac,” you said eventually.

“Well, he seems great,” said Noah with mock enthusiasm. You glanced over at him and caught the cheeky grin he flashed. The tension diffused and you smiled back at him, soft laughter escaping.

“Sorry about Nick,” he said. “He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“Sorry about Isaac,” you replied. “He can be closed-minded.”

He huffed in agreement. “I’m familiar with his type.”

“Did you run into that at your old church?” you asked. He leaned back so he could rest his upper body on the stage platform, long legs stretched out over the steps, tucking his palms underneath his head. On their own accord, your eyes scanned over his chest and triceps. If he caught you, he didn’t say anything.

“You could say that.”

“Noah,” you asked, watching him watch the ceiling above him. “Why did you leave the church?”

“You really want to know?” he asked, taking a break from staring at the light fixtures to meet your eyes. You nodded. He smirked to himself and went back to looking at the lights.

“They told me I couldn’t masturbate.”

You felt your jaw drop in real time.

“What?!” you said.

Soft laughter escaped from him. “I’m kidding. I mean, it was definitely one of the reasons, but that was the final straw for me.”

You said nothing, still in shock from his admission.

“This is why I wasn’t going to tell you,” he said. “I knew you’d be scandalized.”

“Just give me a second,” you said. “This is new territory for me.”

“They don’t talk much about that in Sunday School, I’m guessing?”

You swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry. “Not really.”

He laughed again. “That doesn’t surprise me. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.” He turned to face you. “The church is full of shit, and they don’t know anything about what it means to live a good life. Especially when it comes to that kind of stuff.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

He sat up again. “I mean that they fuck a lot of people up without even realizing it. They talk about sex like it’s a bad thing that you should be ashamed of for wanting and try to make you feel awful about exploring you own body. Do you know what kinds of complexes that gives to a person? No wonder there’s so much sexual abuse happening in the church.”

“I think you lost me,” you said.

Noah sighed and collected himself. “Nobody should be made to feel ashamed of their own humanity. Or their body’s natural sexual response. When I was fourteen, my grandma caught me masturbating and sent me to confessional. I told the priest about it, and he called me a sinner and said I should never do it again. My grandma gave me all this shit about it being unclean and how I should be ashamed of myself for how little self-control I had.”

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I was just a kid. I was going through puberty,” he said, emotion creeping into his voice. “I was discovering my body—something that’s normal and healthy for a kid of that age—and was made to feel like I was some kind of sick pervert for it. And I believed them at first, until it got to be too much.”

“What happened?” you asked.

“I met my friend Ruffilo. He hadn’t been raised in a church, and didn’t have any shame over his sexuality. And then I got tired of hating myself. Figured it was better for me to just hate the church instead. I moved out of my grandparents’ and in with Nick.”

“That Nick?” you gestured out the door to where the man in question was supposed to be raking leaves.

He shook his head. “Different Nick. Nick Ruffilo. That’s Nick Folio. Met him later.”  

“Sounds confusing,” you said.

“It can be.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.

“I know it probably sounds silly to you, but it really fucked me up for a while.”

“It’s not silly.” You were unable to form a more sophisticated thought. Your brain was working on overdrive trying to process the information.

Unbeknownst to him, Noah’s story was eerily similar to your own, but you were still stuck in the guilt and shame, and it had never occurred to you that there might be something on the other side of that.

You’d masturbated before, but not much. And every time it had happened, you broke down in tears, asking God to forgive you because you were afraid you’d either be sent to hell, or God would punish you some other way for your lack of self-control, like not having a chance with Isaac.

The idea that you might not be a terrible and perverted person for having done it was new to you. And that it was something other people had trouble controlling as well. You just assumed you were uniquely bad.

“There was a lot more that went into me leaving the church, but that was the nail in the coffin. I’d been on my way out for a while before then.”

“I guess that explains some of your anger,” you said, wanting to ask him more about what happened, but not wanting to press him too much. He was still a private person, and you were lucky to have gotten that much out of him.

“What I can’t understand is how I seem to be the only one who’s angry.”

“I don’t think you’re the only one,” you said, suddenly noticing how you and Noah seemed to have grown closer in proximity.

“You’re not angry,” he observed.

“I,” you began, “I don’t know what I feel.”

“What’s your take on it?” he asked.

You swallowed heavy, a hard lump having formed in your throat. Your hands were clammier than they had been earlier.

“I don’t know,” you said, wishing the stage would open up and swallow you whole so you could escape the very intense look Noah gave you.

“If you want me to have these uncomfortable conversations about faith, I need you to meet me halfway.”

You groaned in protest, but he had you cornered and you both knew it.

Even still, it took you a few tense moments before you could finally speak.

“I have a lot of shame,” you eventually confessed. “And up until this conversation I assumed it was deserved. But now I’m starting to question it.”

“Have you ever—?”

You nodded before he could finish his question. “I have. But each time was difficult for me to accept.”

You paused to give him an opportunity to respond, but he stayed quietly attentive, waiting for you to continue.

“I…thought God would punish me.”

“Punish you how?”

“I don’t want to say,” you said, flushing.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m not going judge.”

“You will when I tell you,” you said. The energy around the both of you had at last shifted to playful again, which was a breath of fresh air after how charged the last few minutes had been.

“Is it really that bad?”

You nodded.

“Please?” he asked. “I told you my secret.”

“I already paid you back for that,” you said.

He groaned and threw his head back. “Come on!”

Something about seeing this heavily-tattooed grown man acting like an impatient little puppy had you softening, and though you knew he probably used this tactic often to get what he wanted, you couldn’t help but give in.

“Promise you won’t judge?”

He nodded, a tendril of hair slipping out from behind his ear to swoop over his face.

You sighed, locking eyes with him once more for confirmation that he was serious.

“I thought that if I was a good enough Christian, God would reward me by…directing a certain person towards me.”

His face lit up with slow realization.

“That dude?” he said.

You nodded.

He laughed a deep belly laugh.

“So you thought that if you didn’t masturbate, you’d be able to date Isaac?”

“You said you wouldn’t judge!” you whined.

“You were right, you definitely shouldn’t have told me.”

You hung your head, pressing your face into your palms to quell your embarrassment.

“I thought it was a good idea at the time,” you said, voice coming out muffled. “I guess it sounds kind of silly when I say it out loud.”

“Okay,” he prefaced, voice vibrating with the remnants of laughter. “Calm down. I’m not judging you for having thought that. It makes a lot of sense considering the messaging you received. But that guy? Really?”

You looked up finally to meet his eye. His mouth still held the hint of a smile, but there was more sincerity in his eyes than there had been before.

“In my defense, the pickings are slim in the church.”

“You can do better than him.”

Noah swished his hair out of his face and your eyes followed the motion, taking in his body language. He leaned casually forward, resting his elbows on his knees, body half-turned toward you. When the moment grew too heavy, he leaned back against the stage again and switched from looking at you to staring at the back of the room.

“You shouldn’t be so ruled by fear,” he said.

You released a large breath. “You’re probably right.”

“Do you want some advice?” he asked.

“I suppose.”

“Masturbate. Do it without the guilt. Do it as a gift to yourself for having tried so hard for so long to be perfect. Treat it like something you deserve. A way to show yourself love.”

You sighed and laid back on the steps, kicking your feet out in front of you. “I don’t know. It’s been so long I feel like I’ve lost touch with that part of myself.”

“So find it.”

You half-scoffed. “That sounds great and all, but I don’t think it’ll be that easy to undo years of guilt and shame. And I don’t even know if I trust what you’re saying. You could just be trying to corrupt me.”

“Oh, I’m definitely trying to corrupt you,” he said. “But not for any hidden agenda. Just because I feel like you could use a little corrupting.”

You looked up at Noah. He half leaned over you, long hair tied back into a low knot that spilled over his shoulder. From where you lay, you could smell essential oil and some sort of incense that you couldn’t quite place.

He held eye contact with you until your eyes traveled down his face to his lips, which pressed together as he swallowed and then parted softly.

“Ehem.”

The sound came from the back of the room, where Nick was leaning on his rake and watching with unconcealed judgement.

“I’m done with raking.”

You and Noah jerked apart, both sitting up and avoiding looking at each other. Noah ran his hands over his thighs, straightening the legs of his jeans. You stood up and walked down the steps towards the back.

“Okay. It looks like it’s almost noon anyway, so why don’t we call it quits for today? Good job, guys. I’ll see you next week.”

Noah hesitated for a moment, but then bid you goodbye and walked out with Nick, who clapped him on the shoulder and muttered something to him that you didn’t catch.

____________

“You motherfucker,” said Nick. It came out friendly, but Noah caught a hidden bite in the hard consonants. “You said you weren’t going to try with her.”

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” Noah said. “We were just talking.”

“About what?” said Nick.

“Church, if you must know.”

“Yeah, it looked like you were getting real deep into religion from where I was standing.” Nick crossed his arms and fixed Noah with a hard stare that Noah didn’t have the bravado to return.

“Dude. I called dibs. How can you not respect the sanctity of dibs?”

Noah rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t work for human beings.”

“It has in the past. Remember Steph?”

“You mean Stacy?” Noah said with a raised eyebrow.

“Sure. You called dibs on her and I respected it.”

Noah felt cornered. He didn’t want to be a hypocrite to his friend, because Nick was right. Noah had done that in the past, and it wasn’t even that long ago, but this felt different. It didn’t sit well with him to treat you like an object. His opinion had changed in a way his friends wouldn’t appreciate, and if he brought it up, they would just say he was only taking the moral high ground to get out of their deal.

“What will it take to get you to drop this?” Noah asked.

“Join in on the bet.”

“I’m not betting someone’s virginity.”

“I’m gonna try to get it regardless, so you can either join in, or you can respect the dibs.”

“Whatever man,” said Noah, having run out of legitimate responses or ways to end this conversation. He stalked off towards his room.  “I’m taking that as a yes,” Nick said to the back of Noah’s head.

“It’s not a yes!” called Noah, already halfway down the hallway.

“Sounds like a yes to me.”

“Let me know when you’ve got your head out of your ass,” Noah replied before slamming the door shut.

Once in the privacy of his room, Noah sank down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was becoming a regular pastime of his at this point. His thoughts drifted to you and how innocent and doe-eyed you looked staring up at him, regretting that he didn’t kiss you.

He understood the appeal Nick saw. There was no denying how badly you needed it, and how much he wanted to be the one to give it to you.

But you weren’t ready, and he knew it. If he tried anything now, you’d probably have a panic attack about going to hell and he’d have to walk you through it. He didn’t know if he had the emotional capacity to do that, and Nick sure as hell didn’t.

Besides, he had other ways of getting his needs met. There was no shortage of women hitting him up throughout the week, and he could have his pick of any of them if he wanted.

So why hadn’t he returned their texts?

He rolled over onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow, and thought about his old church for the first time in ages.

There was a time when he truly believed. He was an active part of the youth group. Went to Sunday school every week. Participated in vacation bible school and church summer camp. Sung his heart out during hymns hoping God would hear him and be pleased. He’d felt so sure of his beliefs.

Now it was so different. He didn’t know what he believed. Wasn’t sure if he even believed in anything at all, except for the fact that man was inherently evil at heart, and if there was a god, he was an asshole for allowing all that evil to take place.

No. He didn’t even believe that. Because there was no way you were inherently evil. You were driven by a deep desire to do good and help the people around you.

So what did he believe, then? He had no idea, but he wished he did. He knew he didn’t believe in the Christian god he’d been taught to follow. There was so much wrong with it. At times he found himself wishing he could believe, but what was once blind faith had long since been replaced with blind rage he couldn’t seem to let go of, no matter what he did.

Growing tired of his room, he huffed and hoisted himself up off his bed. There was only one place where he could truly work through these feelings—his studio.

___________

The studio was very much a makeshift thing. It was set up in an old storage shed in the back yard of Jolly’s house. Noah had spent hours soundproofing and insulating the place. A small space heater in the corner was the only source of warmth, but he didn’t care. When he was inside the studio, nothing could touch him.

He sat in front of his keyboard and allowed his fingers to gloss over the keys. When they found where they wanted to go, he pressed them into the instrument, fingers striking a familiar chord. He moved them over to the next chord. Then the next. And the next. A somber chord progression broke out without him directing it. Noah let his mind relax as his hands took over and he was no longer a person, just a vessel through which music played itself.

He liked you.

His right hand began playing a soft melody while the left kept up with the chord progression.

It’s been a long time since he had liked someone in any significant way. He was used to people disappointing him. 

The volume grew louder, soft notes giving way to an intense, heavy rhythm.

He wanted to protect you from Nick. From others who would see your goodness and try to bring you down to their level. Or use you for their own gain, but he knew it wasn’t his place to get involved. That you were your own person and could make decisions for yourself.

The tempo increased, melody full and moody, with an uncomfortable dissonance that longed to be resolved.

Throughout your life, other people had undoubtedly been making decisions for you. Telling you what to think. What to believe. Who you could spend your time with. The last thing he wanted was to join the ranks of people thinking they knew what was best for you.

His hands violently struck a suspended chord, allowing it to reverberate throughout the room for several beats, before his fingers went back to playing the somber melody from earlier. This time, slower paced and softer.

You were so vulnerable. Your willpower untested, and you had no experience to go on. It would have been so easy for him to take you, right then and there on the stage of the worship center. He could see it in your eyes how badly you wanted it.

His fingers slowed, allowing the melody to come to a close all on its own. He held out the final chord for as long as it would make sound, before switching off the power and leaning back into his chair.

Perhaps he wasn’t giving you enough credit. You had a good head on your shoulders, and seemed to know yourself. You weren’t afraid to question things when they didn’t feel right or genuine, and you saw through a lot of the bullshit that the church had tried to teach you (though your judgement was questionable when it came to taste in men and your own sexuality).

He heaved a sigh. Maybe he was being overprotective. There was nothing that he could say or do to stop Nick from pursuing you. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to encourage you to enforce boundaries and learn to recognize when people had ulterior motives. After that, he just had to trust you to make your own decisions.

He could live with that.

He switched the power on the keyboard back on, connecting it to his laptop and opened up the familiar program. He pressed the record button and began playing the chord progression again, hoping he could at least get a good song out of this.

Click here to be added to the taglist!