(Please do not take, save, use for AI training or repost- Thank you! Reblogs are fine ♥ )
Joined in on another Sunday draw-along with @thehangedmancreatives and this picture started out very different. Then while I was looking through my screenshots for references I had an epiphany and this was born. Sort of an examination of "what if Solas won-- at what cost?" and "what if he became what he hated/fought against?" (and 'what if bringing down the veil only broke things more')
Stayed up late to finish it and upon waking up realized I forgot to tint the final layers around the throne (meant to have it match the wolves a bit better) but eh, still very happy with how it came out. I hope I never paint another mosaic again though. That throne was miserable to do lol. (also bonus eyebrow waggles to whoever can guess what I referenced from the game for the initial design of the throne arms. Actually I'm quite proud of the design in general.)
Sascha blinks at the ceiling of his hotel room, unsure what woke him.
He waits in the dark, already beginning to slip back into sleep, eyelids heavy, when the sound comes again: a knock at his door, so soft it hardly carries. He debates ignoring it, just closing his eyes and turning his face back into his pillow. If it’s important, they can wake him up better than that.
He lasts maybe a minute like that before he gives up and slides out of bed. He taps his phone screen, hooked up to its charger on his bedside table. Three AM. What the fuck?
He moves carefully for the door without turning any lights on, rubbing the heel of a hand into his eyes. If this is Cory fetching him for some bullshit scene at this ungodly hour, he’s flinging the mic pack back into her face, consequences and contracts be damned. His face cracks open with a massive yawn, and he scratches his side under his shirt as he leans to glance through the peephole.
It’s not Cory.
He’s sure his gasp is audible through the door because Griffin looks up, squinting like he can see through it to Sascha on the other side. He looks… like shit is about the kindest way Sascha can put it. His hair a mess, the collar of his shirt askew, dark circles prominent under his eyes. From the half-beat Sascha looks at him he thinks he’s swaying slightly. What the hell.
Sascha has a decision to make, and quickly. If anyone sees Griffin hanging around outside his hotel room—he can’t even consider it.
He decides, and unlocks and jerks his door open, hands shaking only slightly. “Griffin, what the fuck?” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low, darting his head out to look frantically up and down the hall. Where’s his entourage? The cameras?
Where is anyone? Griffin can’t possibly be here alone. They haven’t been alone since—
“…hi,” Griffin says.
Sascha’s gaze snaps to him. Griffin hasn’t moved away, still standing exactly where he was, so Sascha is leaning further into his space than he realized. He breathes in sharply to speak and nearly gets his nose hairs singed off: Griffin reeks of alcohol. And he’s looking down at Sascha like…
He doesn’t want to think what Griffin is looking at him like. Where anyone could see!
He’s moving before he even realizes it, hand lashing out to fist in the collar of Griffin’s shirt.
“Oop,” Griffin says. Never a sound Sascha thought to hear coming from Griffin Reign’s lips. Not one he even realized he could make. Maybe Griffin didn’t realize it either because he starts giggling, and keeps on giggling as Sascha drags him inside and shuts the door.
Shuts, not slams. No need to draw even more attention to whatever nightmare he’s living in currently.
Unfortunately he didn’t think to alter Griffin’s trajectory any, so he comes staggering straight into Sascha, who has to wrap an arm around him to keep him up. There’s no doubt about it that Griffin’s wasted; if the smell weren’t enough, he goes practically boneless, draping himself over Sascha with a contented hum. He’s heavy and hot, burning through his clothes. He nuzzles the side of Sascha’s head, arms winding loosely around him. Beneath the alcohol he catches a whiff of his cologne, cool and smoky, right where Sascha’s nose brushes his neck. It shoots awareness through his whole body, tingling all the way out to his fingers and toes.
“Hi,” Griffin says again. His sigh flutters Sascha’s hair, hot against his scalp. “Sorry.”
Annoyed and aroused, it’s a bad mix. The annoyance wins out as the less complicated of the two. “For what?” Sascha asks, trying to peel Griffin’s hands off his waist. He rolls his eyes at the resulting whine. “Showing up at my door in the middle of the night piss drunk?” he continues. “You should be. What were you thinking?”
Griffin lets his hands be pulled away, though he goes on leaning against him with his whole body, practically sagging. He might be too drunk to easily correct that. “I wasn’t,” he mumbles. His lips brush Sascha’s ear and he shivers. It’s so unfair he can still be sexy like this, when Sascha is trying to be mad at him. He doesn’t even think it’s intentional, which is the worst part. “I couldn’t…” Griffin’s struggling to put words together. Sascha puts a hand on his back and waits, unsure why he does. He’s not sure why he does anything when it comes to Griffin Reign.
“Couldn’t think of anywhere else,” Griffin says finally, so quietly he wouldn’t have heard if it weren’t directly into his ear.
It takes a moment for that to sink in, but when it does, Sascha nearly scoffs. Yeah, right. There are any number of places or people Griffin could have found his way to that wouldn’t have spelled immense fucking trouble for Sascha tonight, and he had to choose the one place that did. He’s Griffin Reign. He’d be welcome anywhere he wanted! People would roll out the red carpet just for him to cross the street! He can’t really expect him to believe that Sascha was the only—
Oh.
Guilt comes creeping in, dousing the annoyance like a bucket of water over an open flame. If Sascha was the only person Griffin could think to come to…
God, that’s fucking sad.
Griffin shifts in his arms, dropping his head listlessly onto Sascha’s shoulder. “Say something.”
He opens his mouth. What the fuck am I supposed to do? “Something,” he says.
Griffin doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t make any noise at all, not even a pity chuckle. For a moment he’s so still he doesn’t even seem to be breathing. Then he leans back, lifting his face off Sascha’s shoulder. He’s not looking at him. “I can go,” he says.
What? “Hold on.”
“Sorry.” Now it’s Griffin trying to disentangle himself and Sascha who isn’t letting him go, which would be funny if it were at all funny. There’s an odd, pinched expression on Griffin’s face, and he’s looking anywhere but in Sascha’s eyes. “Sorry,” he repeats, and keeps saying it. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t—I keep—Sascha, stop—”
“You’re here now,” he says firmly. “It’s fine.” Maybe if he says it with enough conviction it’ll be true.
“It’s not,” Griffin says, growing angry. Sascha doesn’t know what the fuck he has to be angry about—it’s not his career (and entire life) hanging by a thread here. “I keep fucking—fucking it up for you. I can’t keep doing that!”
“Griffin, I said it’s fine!”
“Will you let go?!”
“Shh!” Panicked, Sascha claps a hand over Griffin’s mouth. They both freeze, staring at each other. It feels like they’re waiting for the door to be kicked down—or at least for someone to knock, asking what all the yelling’s about.
He finds himself staring at the faint freckles speckled on Griffin’s nose. He never noticed them before, probably because he’s always in makeup for the cameras. They’re cute.
Griffin is still as a statue against him.
As a minute crawls by and nothing happens, Sascha exhales and lets his hand slip away. “Sorry,” it’s his turn to say. “Just—you’re already here. I don’t think anyone would believe you were just dropping in to borrow my charger, do you?” He smiles wryly.
Griffin clears his throat. “Is that a euphemism?” he croaks.
There he is. Sascha relaxes slightly, relieved to be back on familiar ground with him. “Ha, ha,” he says. Griffin flashes a weak grin that falls quickly away. He leans back and this time Sascha lets him slide out of his arms, coming to rest back against the wall next to the bathroom door. Griffin rubs his eyes.
“I do mean it.” Sascha tilts his head, questioning, and Griffin clarifies. “I don’t mean to keep fucking everything up for you. It just…” He makes a helpless gesture with his hands.
“…comes naturally?” Sascha finishes for him, quirking a brow. Griffin’s face falls and he looks away. Shit. “Look, it’s—it is what it is. And I am happy to see you.” He tacks on that last bit impulsively, because he is. It’s stupid, and such a bad idea, and Oriana would—he actually can’t think of what Oriana would do to him if she knew because it legitimately frightens him. But a selfish part of him is glad that Griffin came to him, and it’s not even a small part. He likes being around Griffin. More than he should.
I can tell by the way you look at him, Seven had said, and only then did Sascha realize that he might be in deeper than he thought. The fact it took Seven to make him notice it is its own brand of mortifying that he won’t examine right now. Possibly ever.
“You are?” Griffin asks.
He thinks he’s fishing—mostly because it’s what Sascha himself would do—and opens his mouth to mock him for it before he gets a closer look at Griffin’s face. It’s tilted slightly away from him, making Griffin glance sidelong at Sascha to look at him at all. The glances are darting, flickering all over his face as if searching for something. He looks uncertain. He looks hopeful.
Sascha wants to shake him. You’re Griffin fucking Reign! Don’t look at me like a starving dog begging for scraps beneath the table, you deserve more! You should be at the table! You built the table!
He dreams of being alone in a room with Viktor White and a hammer.
“Yeah,” Sascha says, because that’s all a bit much to get into in the present moment. “I am.”
And the way Griffin lights up at just that little thing makes him want to cry. Or throw things. Or force Griffin down onto the bed and cover him with his body and never move again.
“You thought I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” he probes, as gently as he can.
Griffin’s expression goes flat. He shrugs, little more than a halfhearted twitch of his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything.
Sascha tugs at the stud in his earlobe, feeling a rueful smile pulling at his lips. “So the last time we were alone and I had your dick halfway down my throat that was, what,” he says. “A handshake?” Griffin jolts like he’s just been electrocuted, eyes snapping wide, but Sascha doesn’t give him a second to respond. “I mean, maybe it was to you—”
“What the fuck does that—”
“—but I’m not that much of a whore,” Sascha lies. He’s fucked guys he wouldn’t even use as an ashtray. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to do right now—he just knows he didn’t like that look on Griffin’s face. “So don’t fucking insult me.” He folds his arms.
“Jesus,” Griffin says. His head falls back with a thump against the wall, and he looks at Sascha through his eyelashes. He wishes the visual weren’t as effective as it is. “You’re kind of a bitch.” The way he says it, it almost sounds like a compliment.
So Sascha takes it as one. “Thank you.” He smiles tersely. Griffin returns it after a moment, a small twitch of his lips. But it’s something.
He drags his gaze away and looks at his feet. “We haven’t…” His hands come up, tattooed fingers twisting his rings idly about. Sascha watches them for a moment, and glances back to his face. A strand of Griffin’s hair has fallen across it, black as ink, and he doesn’t fix it. He’s beautiful. Asshole. “We haven’t talked,” he says. “About it.”
When would we have talked? They’re never alone, and more importantly, they’re never not being filmed and recorded. It makes discussing your illicit extramarital affair slightly more difficult. They’ve only been able to communicate in charged, fleeting glances, and Sascha has even been avoiding those. He’s felt Griffin staring far more than Sascha has looked back.
“And we won’t,” Sascha says. Griffin looks up, startled. “Come on, Griffin. Why’d you really come here? Was it just to talk?”
As he speaks he steps forward—once, twice—until he’s crowding Griffin against the wall with his body. They’re close enough that he feels Griffin’s chest rise with the sudden, sharp breath he drags in through his nose, and just knowing he has that kind of effect on Griffin Reign will tide Sascha’s ego over for a long while. Not that it needs it—Iris once drily described Sascha’s high opinion of himself as self-sustaining. She wasn’t wrong.
He trails his fingers up his arm, tracing the sleeve of tattoos with his fingertips. Griffin presses his lips together, but his hazel eyes have gone dark and searching. He makes a minute, jerky motion with his chin, almost like he started to lean forward and stopped himself. Sascha sees it and smiles.
Griffin breathes out, and Sascha feels his hands slide over his hips and up beneath his shirt to touch the skin of his back. His stomach does an electric flip. He kind of wishes he wasn’t in his shitty oversized sleep shirt and pajama pants right now so the mental image could be a little more sexy, but he can make do. Griffin’s eyes drop to his mouth.
“I don’t know,” Griffin murmurs. His knuckles graze Sascha’s spine. He strokes them slowly up and down. “I just… I thought of you, and…” He cuts himself off with a self-conscious laugh. “I’m always thinking of you,” he admits.
That’s… more than he was banking on. It must show on his face in some way because Griffin blanches.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Forget I said that.”
Sascha forces a laugh, knowing it’s strained. “You apologize a lot, you know.”
Griffin makes a face. “No, I don’t.”
“Oh, okay, you don’t.” He raises his brows. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Griffin narrows his eyes at him playfully and Sascha laughs again, more naturally this time. His expression softens, and he makes that aborted chin-jerk motion again, larger, and sighs hard through his nose. “Can I kiss you?” he asks plainly, voice taut.
“Huh.” Sascha leans back into Griffin’s hands, tilting his head coyly up at him. “He’s a gentleman.”
He snorts. “Definitely not.”
“Why the courtesy? I didn’t ask you.”
Griffin’s gaze intensifies at the reminder. “Good point,” he murmurs.
A thread of nerves pulls taut in Sascha’s belly as Griffin leans down. It won’t be the same, he thinks, suddenly possessed by a panic he didn’t even know he had. The basement was an isolated incident, a fluke, and it won’t be that good again and we’ll both realize we risked all this for nothing, even more than we already were, and—
He shouldn’t have worried.
Their lips brush, tentative at first. Sascha catches his breath and Griffin draws back to look at him. His gaze is steady, intent. He dips in again, tugging Sascha into his chest, arms dragging the hem of his shirt up his back so the cool air of the hotel room chills his flushed skin. The second kiss heats up quickly. Sascha opens his mouth, a whimper he’d never admit to in the light of day leaving him, and Griffin hums. Sascha feels the flash of his teeth as he smiles.
He suspected it when they first made out that night in the basement, but this just confirms it: Sascha could kiss Griffin Reign for the rest of his life and not go wanting. Anything is worth this. He can’t believe he doubted that—and when he doubts it again, he’ll gladly take the reminder.
Sascha pulls back far enough to say “we should—” and is dragged back into a third kiss by the nape of his neck. He starts giggling, unable to help it, palms pressed to Griffin’s chest. “Hold on,” he whispers against his mouth, smiling. “Ho—hold on. Griffin.”
“You started it,” Griffin mumbles and goes for a fourth. Sascha makes a half-assed noise of protest and melts immediately into it anyway. He grabs fistfuls of Griffin’s shirt and stretches up onto his toes to get as close as possible, just trying to keep up, to not get shown up so completely, but it’s like trying to swim against the tide. It’s easier to just let yourself get swept away.
Sascha finally manages to drag his mouth away via a feat of, honestly, Herculean effort, turning his face to the side and trying to catch his breath. Griffin takes it in stride and goes for his throat. “Oh my god,” he says, and nearly goes up like a firecracker when he feels Griffin’s teeth against his skin. This is swiftly spiraling out of any hope of control, and Sascha hates how tempted he is to just let it go. Not smart! Not fucking smart! “Griffin,” he says, new urgency in his voice. He puts his hands on his shoulders. “Griffin, stop.”
That manages to get his attention. He snaps his head up, looking somehow even drunker than he had when he turned up at Sascha’s door. He sounds it, too, voice gone slow and thick as honey. It’s nearly enough to make Sascha ignore his own request and dive back in for him. “Huh?” Griffin runs his tongue along his bottom lip, then reaches up to thumb excess spit from the corner of his mouth. He somehow makes that hot, too. “What’s wrong?” He sways in, but doesn’t try for a kiss again; he only rests his forehead lightly against Sascha’s, eyes worried. “Did I do something?”
“What?” It takes him a moment to even follow the logic, he’s so distracted by the unexpected sweetness. “No. No, you’re…” He glances up into his eyes.
Perfect.
Dangerous word.
“You’re drunk,” he says, smiling softly. “I’m not gonna debauch you.”
“Ooh, he’s presumptuous,” Griffin says, grinning. “Who says I wasn’t gonna do you?”
That puts far too many images in Sascha’s head. Really good ones. Oriana, I pray to god you never learn about this, but you’d better be proud of me for my restraint anyway. “Still,” he says. “It’s…” His face twists, hating the words even as he says them. When did he get fucking boring? “Not smart.”
Griffin is quiet for a minute, but not still. His hands return to Sascha’s back, rubbing softly in circles as he thinks. It’s so relaxing that for a moment it’s difficult to keep his eyes open. “Okay,” Griffin says finally. A mischievous look flits over his face and he lifts his head away from Sascha’s. “But what if I reeeeally want you to?”
“I’m flattered,” Sascha says, deliberately smug, trying to deflect. “I was that good, huh?”
He expects Griffin to laugh it off, or take the chance to humble him a little. Sascha’s left himself wide open for it on purpose. What he doesn’t expect is for Griffin’s eyes to soften and a blush to rise in his cheeks. “You were amazing,” he says.
Sascha stares at him for a long moment, rendered speechless. “Well,” he says, reaching desperately for anything to use as a shield and landing, as usual, on hubris. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Griffin swirls a finger at his face, teasing. “You’re blushing.”
“I—” He touches his own cheek and quickly turns away to hide his smile. “No. Shut up.”
“Aww. Your ears get red too! That’s cute.”
Sascha covers them with both hands. “Stop looking at my ears.”
“Okay.” Griffin deliberately drags his eyes down his body and back up, leering. “Anywhere else you don’t want me looking? While we’re on the subject.”
“No, just those,” he says with exaggerated primness. Griffin snorts.
There’s a beat of silence, slightly awkward. Sascha rubs a knuckle over his lips to try to get the tingling out, trying to be subtle about it.
“I like the shirt, by the way.”
Sascha looks down, pinching the front of his shirt to pull it away from his body. It’s one of the oldest shirts he owns, not even fit for public use anymore. He stole it from his dad when he was twelve and just never gave it back. He can’t see what Griffin could possibly like about it.
Griffin arches a brow. “Superman, right? You like that stuff?”
He smooths a hand over the S decal on his chest. It’s been washed so many times that it’s fading away. “Everyone likes Superman,” he says defensively. “He’s the best one.”
Griffin laughs, something soft in his face Sascha doesn’t examine. “I wouldn’t know,” he says. “Never really had time for…” He trails off and flicks his fingers, like shaking droplets from his fingertips.
“Well, he is.” Sascha raises his chin. “And if anyone asks you that’s what you tell them.”
“Noted.” He watches Sascha for a moment more, smile shrinking. He breaks eye contact and rubs the back of his neck, exhaling. “I should probably…”
“Not be here?”
“Yeah.” Griffin frowns. “That.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moves. After a moment they recognize how ridiculous that is at the same time and start to smile.
Sascha folds his arms, careful to keep his distance now. It would be so easy to ignore it all and lean in for Griffin again, and he has the sneaking suspicion Griffin has no more self control than he does. Less, even. The fact they’re not jumping each other’s bones a second time might be a small intervention by god. “Does it help if I don’t want you to leave?”
He doesn’t know why he says it, and immediately regrets it because the look Griffin shoots him is heartbreaking. Longing. Sadness. Pain. All so plain on his face it’s startling. It aches at the base of Sascha’s throat. “No,” he says softly. He cards his fingers through his hair, pushing the loose strands out of his eyes. He tries to smile but it falls flat. “It actually makes it so much worse.”
He winces. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for that.” Even pained, Griffin looks at him warmly. “Please.” He hesitates and bites his lip. He fishes for something in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Okay. This is—okay.” He taps at the screen, gaze flickering up at Sascha and back down. It strikes Sascha as oddly shy, and the affection that swells in his chest threatens to choke off his ability to breathe. Griffin turns his phone around and Sascha sees a timer at 10:00. As he watches it ticks down to 9:59.
Sascha starts to laugh. He can’t help it. “Ten minutes?”
“Well.” He checks. “Nine minutes fifty-three seconds.” He drops his phone back into his pocket and spreads his arms. “I’m all yours.”
“How romantic,” he teases.
“Just being practical.” He lets his arms drop and hit his sides, smile small and slightly embarrassed. “Any longer and I don’t think I could make myself leave.”
“Any longer and I wouldn’t let you.” Griffin’s gaze darkens as Sascha closes the distance again, emboldened. His gaze trawls slowly from Griffin’s feet, up his legs, along his arms, to his face.
He doesn’t think he imagines that Griffin stands a little straighter.
“All mine?” Sascha asks.
He definitely doesn’t imagine the bob of Griffin’s throat. Cute. “Mmhm.”
“Hmm.” Sascha rocks back on his heels to examine his bounty. Slowly, he untucks the front of Griffin’s shirt from his pants with a hand. “I like that,” he says. “You can do a lot in ten minutes.”
Griffin sighs, satisfied with himself. “I’m a fucking genius.”
Sascha laughs and slips his hand beneath Griffin’s shirt, touching his stomach. Then he flips it, the backs of his fingers grazing Griffin’s skin as he pushes it upward, gathering the material of his shirt in his hand until his fingers come out the collar and he can clutch it all in his fist. He gives an experimental tug and Griffin lurches forward a step, eyebrows high on his forehead.
Sascha smiles. Without a word he walks back toward the bed, dragging Griffin after him. His chosen method of Reign-wrangling has the added benefit of baring Griffin’s midriff for his consideration, which is a duty Sascha takes very seriously. Griffin looks like he’s biting his lips in an effort not to smile, but his dimples betray him.
Once they’re close enough, Sascha turns them and pushes Griffin down onto the bed. He goes willingly, sitting at its foot, and makes an approving noise as Sascha wastes no time crawling into his lap.
“Hold on,” Sascha says, lifting his chin away as Griffin tries to kiss him. “This is my ten minutes.”
Griffin’s hands slide up the backs of his thighs, bunching the material of his flannel pajama pants. “Oh, is that how we’re playing this?” he asks, grinning.
“Isn’t that what you said?” He blinks innocently, steadying himself with his hands on Griffin’s shoulders and leaning in. “Anything I want…?”
He smiles indulgently up at Sascha, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. “When did—?” He cuts himself off and laughs in disbelief. “Your favor? You’re using that here?”
Sascha shrugs a shoulder. “Not cashing it in, just reminding you it exists.”
“Ohh, okay.” Griffin gives his ass a squeeze and Sascha squeaks, trying not to laugh. “It’s blackmail, then.”
“Blackmail is such a dirty word.”
“Yeah? I know a couple more. Wanna hear them?”
He snickers. “That’s bad.” He cups Griffin’s face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over the strong lines of his cheekbones. Then gentler, beneath his eyes, like he can swipe away the dark circles there. It’s surprising to realize he wants to. That he doesn’t just want to kiss Griffin or fuck him, but take care of him too. When did that start? With whose permission?
Suddenly he doesn’t want to tease him anymore.
Griffin is staring up at him with that softness that’s so hard for Sascha to look at. He can’t see it without thinking of all the things it might mean—for Griffin, for Sascha, for the uncertain new thing between them that has the potential to ruin them both.
Well, mostly Sascha.
“Fuck.” Sascha shuts his eyes.
“What?” Griffin’s voice is hushed. A little nervous, unless that’s Sascha’s imagination.
“I like you.” He huffs an annoyed laugh at himself. “I just realized.”
There’s a beat of silence that still manages to sound bewildered in nature. “You just—? Hang on.” Sascha yelps as he’s hoisted out of Griffin’s lap and tossed onto his back on the bed. He doesn’t even have a moment to consider how hot that was before Griffin is on him, pinning his arms to the bed above his head. “Didn’t you just throw a bitch fit about me thinking you didn’t like me,” he says, nosing at Sascha’s jaw, “like, five minutes ago?”
“Obviously I was lying, Griffin,” Sascha says, attempting to twist away and feeling a thrill shoot down his spine when Griffin simply doesn’t let him. How strong is he? Sascha wants to find out.
“‘So don’t fucking insult me,’ those were your words.”
“What can I say?” He tilts his head back to let Griffin at his neck, shivering as he takes the invitation gladly. “I am that much of a whore. Oh fuck. Honestly the thought of liking the guys I—shit—the guys I fuck is kind of a novelty to me. This is all new territory.”
“No kidding,” Griffin mutters against his pulse. “Can I…?”
Sascha pauses, trying to drag enough sensibility—and air—back in him to think, to figure out what he’s asking, and when he does he laughs. “Are you seriously asking if you can mark me up right now?”
“Just a little one,” he purrs.
“Not there.”
“Okay, then where?” Griffin touches his lips to a spot lower on his neck. “Here?”
“No.”
He tries his collarbone. “Here?”
He hums in the negative.
“Damn, you’re picky.” Griffin releases his wrists, hands trailing down his arms as he sits back on his heels to examine Sascha laid out for him. For once he decides to behave, mostly because he really likes the way Griffin’s eyes feel on him—that heated, evaluating look. He crosses his forearms over his head and puts a little arch in his spine, just for show. He knows he’s pretty. It’s nice to see the responding intensity in Griffin’s eyes anyway.
He slips his fingers beneath the hem of Sascha’s shirt and drags it up, exposing his stomach. His eyes catch on the piercing in his navel, glinting silver, and he breathes out. “You are…”
“Yeah?” Sascha goads him.
He flashes a grin at him, both sharp and amused. “Gonna fucking kill me.”
“But what a way to go.”
Griffin hums and bends over him, his breath ghosting over Sascha’s skin and making his lower stomach tighten a moment before he kisses the sensitive skin there. Sascha shudders, lowering his arms, not even sure what he wants to do with them before he’s gripping Griffin’s shoulder. “Here, I think,” Griffin says, and nips him.
“Fuck,” Sascha says in a tiny voice. “Okay.”
“Okaaay?” He draws it out teasingly.
Sascha’s skin heats. “Yes, okay, can you just—we’ve got like two minutes left.” His hand slides from Griffin’s shoulder into his hair.
Judging by the noise he makes, he likes that. He licks his chosen spot low on Sascha’s belly, slicking it with spit, then seals his mouth over it. Sascha’s hand tightens in his hair as he sucks a hickey into his skin, and Griffin hums his muffled approval. He bites, sucks, and bites again, and it’s all Sascha can do not to lift his hips off the bed. He muffles himself by biting his wrist, right over his rosebud tattoo.
Griffin releases him with a ridiculous pop that had to be on purpose, licking his lips as he surveys his work. “You bruise easy,” he says, thumbing the damp, reddened skin. The way he says it, Sascha knows it’s information he’s cataloguing for later.
“Convenient, huh?” He hears the breathiness in his voice but he can’t help it.
Griffin hears it too, his gaze snapping up to his face. Sascha grins at him, knowing it’s shaky, and watches the way Griffin’s eyes darken. He levers himself up, moving up Sascha’s body, never dropping his gaze—
The alarm goes off.
Sascha lifts his hand between them, stopping Griffin’s mouth scant inches from his, fingers on his lips. “And that’s time,” he says, smiling. Griffin’s hazel eyes widen, and then he rolls them.
He draws back far enough to say, “Five more minutes?”
Sascha cups his chin in his palm. “You’re cute. But rules are rules.”
“So we pick and choose which rules we follow now?”
He pouts at him playfully. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Griffin ignores that and tries to lean in again. “Just one more.”
Sascha laughs, leaning back and turning his head, trying to keep him away with a forearm braced across his chest. “Griffin.”
“Ugh, fiiiiine.” Griffin rolls off the bed, popping up onto his feet and making a show of dusting himself off and fixing his clothes. Sascha lounges back on his elbows, shirt still pushed up around his ribs, just watching. He grins, victorious, as Griffin has to adjust himself in his pants. He doesn’t know when the effect he has on him will stop feeling rewarding. Probably never.
“Okay,” Griffin exhales, running his hands through his hair to correct the mess Sascha made of it. “I’m definitely going.” He says it like he’s trying to talk himself into it. He glances at Sascha over his shoulder, does a double-take, and comically shields his eyes, flapping a hand at him. “Put that away.”
He snickers and tugs his shirt down with a careless flick of his wrist. “Shall I walk you to the door, sir?”
“If you think we’ll make it there,” Griffin mutters.
“Guess we’ll see!” Sascha shuffles off the foot of the bed, lingering close to Griffin long enough to look up at him through his lashes before flouncing for the door.
“Christ,” Griffin says. “You’re in a good mood.”
He spins and leans in the door to the bathroom, watching as Griffin ambles after him at a more casual pace. “Of course I am,” he says. “I just spent seven minutes in heaven with Griffin Reign. Give or take a few.” He gives an airy shrug. “I’m over the moon.”
He snorts. “Right.” As he nears where Sascha stands he slows, looking down at him with an oddly indecipherable expression on his face. Sascha tilts his head. Griffin exhales sharply and stops. “Look,” he says. “About—”
“Ah.” He holds up a hand. “You’ll ruin it.”
“Can I just say one thing?” he says, exasperated.
Sascha considers him for a moment. There’s a lingering flush in his cheeks, his dark hair tousled, and still a faint shine on his lips. He notices the freckles again, easier to spot now he knows they’re there. Slowly, he nods, and lets his hand drop.
“I—” Griffin chews on the corner of his lip for a moment, gaze conflicted. He shrugs, and there’s something helpless in the gesture. “I like you too.”
How very high school. And how devastating, even so.
Sascha wants to laugh. He wishes he felt like laughing. Instead he feels just as helpless as Griffin looks. What can he say? What can he do? They’re both trapped in webs that extend far outside themselves, with ramifications for every little move they make. And this—doing what they’re doing, whatever it is—is no little move. It has the power to tear Sascha’s career to shreds and his entire life with it.
Is Griffin worth it? Is anything?
Griffin clears his throat. Sascha has been quiet too long. “Okay,” he says, sounding so tired, and reaches for the door.
Sascha grabs his wrist. Before he can think about it, before he can stop himself, he steps into Griffin and stretches up, finding his mouth again.
Somehow it’s different. He’s kissed Griffin enough by now that he thought he knew how it felt, but the one they share now is nothing like the ones that came before. Griffin doesn’t reach for him. He barely moves at all, mouth soft but still, the hand not in Sascha’s grip limp at his side. He drops Griffin’s wrist to cradle his neck, then his face, trying to say—he doesn’t even know. Something that Griffin needs to hear. Something Sascha doesn’t know how to put into words. Please understand me.
Like something dead coming back to life, Griffin responds. He does it haltingly, as if—unsure? But that can’t be right. His touches are light, indecisive, first at Sascha’s waist, then his sides, then his fingertips brushing Sascha’s cheek.
That’s his cue to break away. “Um,” Sascha says, dropping his hands and backing up a step. “So. Yeah.” He twists the hem of his shirt, not meeting Griffin’s eyes. “Good night.”
Griffin stares, his dazed look resolving into something Sascha doesn’t know how to name, and he moves forward. “One more,” he says, and Sascha huffs, and then he can’t say anything at all.
He trembles. He never thought he was the trembling sort, but he does. He hasn’t been kissed like this before. Careful. Cupped in someone’s hands not to be felt but to be held. He doesn’t know what to do with it; where it should go, where he’s allowed to touch, how he should move. Maybe he’s just in free fall, hoping that anything will catch him at the end.
He does know one thing: for the first time in three years, Sascha feels understood.
It doesn’t last long. Griffin draws back to look at him, thumb stroking down his cheek. “Good night,” he says. Then he’s gone, slipping out the door before Sascha can even find his tongue again, let alone use it.
What a way to get the last word.
Sascha watches the door shut. He grins, then tries to frown, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth. It’s not good. It’s not. It would be stupid to pretend otherwise. Really, catastrophically stupid.
Still, the corners of his mouth won’t stay down.
I’m so fucking screwed, he thinks, and goes on smiling.
author’s note | well, they got me gal! breaking my 3 1/2 year writing hiatus for orion quinn because he's that special to me.. yes there are ch. 5 spoilers (delicious ones) so proceed with caution. is the emoji ooc? maybe. do i care? no i needed this! glad to be back :)
read on ao3
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On her way back from the vending machine, Triple invites Sofía to yet another party that she'll find a way out of.
"Ah, not tonight… I've got some work to catch up on. Sorry," she apologizes to Triple, who in turn shrugs and waves it off. It's a weak excuse that he somehow accepts without pushing.
"Don't worry about it. Just promise me you won't work yourself to death," he grins, winking, completely unphased by her rejection. She nods, shutting the door with a resounding click which echoes against the stillness of her room.
With a deep sigh, she walks back to the bed and plops back onto it, songbook cracked open to a half-written page.
There's a brick wall built around any inkling of creativity in her mind, an impenetrable force that drives her thoughts elsewhere.
Orion left this morning. Officially. For how long, she's not sure.
He was surprisingly… vague — a word she'd never used to describe her straightforward manager until the competition began. Nowadays, it seems to be the trait she's associating with him most.
She misses him. A lot more than she should, anyway.
He took advantage of the fact that she was the only one to see him off, the only one to wake up at the crack of dawn to pad down into the lobby in her pajamas, sleep still in her eyes.
He ran a finger across her cheek, a featherlight stroke that left her skin burning. "You just woke up?"
"What, is there something on my face? I didn't have time to check myself in the mirror, you know," she said, rubbing at the spot he'd just touched, which she later found covered in indents from the accessories on her wrist.
He smiles. "Never worry about that."
When he said goodbye, he hesitated. Knowing he needed to leave for the airport, he lingered.
Above it all, he hugged her — and kissed the top of her head.
At least, that's what she thinks happened. After he enveloped her, she couldn't process much past being buried in his chest, inhaling the faint scent of laundry detergent and his aftershave. A light weight pressed against her crown, so quick that she thinks it's a phantom touch.
He smoothed back her hair with one hand and let his palm rest near her face, a hairsbreadth away from cupping her cheek.
"Goodbye, Sofía. Thank you for seeing me off." His eyes were brighter than usual, liquid amber in the morning light.
"No thanks necessary," she beamed, readjusting her glasses. "I wanted to."
"You didn't have to."
"This is just what you do for —" a beat of hesitation "— friends."
"Ah. Yes," he nodded, his polite smile a shaky one. "Friends."
That sticks with her, like a syrupy film that's impossible to wash away from the skin.
Sofía closes the songbook, ogling the bottle of brandy in the corner. The ribbon and seal remain intact, untouched even on the most difficult of nights.
She tears into it and pops the cork, pouring two fingers for herself.
The first swallow burns a trail down her throat, pools warmth in her belly. Every sip afterward gets easier and easier until the first glass is gone and she's relaxed, settling onto the bed with another ready to go.
Social media has been a tender bruise the past few weeks, one she refuses to poke. Tonight, though, after a drink, she's curious enough to browse.
She's barely a minute into scrolling her feed to like her friends' posts before she gets a text from Orion.
Why are you online?
Her cheeks burn. How did he catch her so fast? Did she accidentally post something? Or worse, does he have her post notifications on?
You never disabled your active status. He sends immediately after, as if he's peering into her mind.
procrastinating writing. the usual.
Alcohol is Sofía's truth serum. She can't help but be honest when she's drinking.
I see. I'm sorry I can't be much help with that.
She rubs her lips together to hold back a smile.
that's okay :) how was your flight?
They're both pretty good about talking around things when they need to. A proper dosage of avoidance, in her opinion.
It was fine. Brief turbulence, but otherwise smooth.
good! she sends, then thinks twice through her buzz.
maybe not good. is turbulence bad?
Except she doesn't type turbulence, she misspells it so badly that she has to send two follow ups to get it right.
Are you drinking?
"Shit," she whispers to herself. She fucked up. He's going to lecture her and end the conversation just when it was getting started.
just a little
:)
It's a few minutes before he responds. She's on edge, taking shaky swigs from the glass to quell her nerves.
Are you in your hotel room?
She rolls onto her stomach, phone close to her face while she taps out a response.
yeah i don't like parties.. you know that
in bed before 9 pm and everything
His text is almost instantaneous.
Good. You need to drink water.
Worry about the song tomorrow when you're well rested.
Sofía pouts, head swirling. She actually listens to him and he still smacks the gavel. Even if he means well, it never feels good to be on the receiving end of his bossiness.
i reallyyyyyy want to write tonite since im free from the panopticon
She butchers the spelling of that, too.
Orion sends back a single laughing emoji.
She nearly rolls off of the bed and onto the floor in surprise. This has never happened before. An emoji? She wishes she could tell the world — or at least the band.
did i make you laugh
orion did u laugh
r u serious
tell me
She spams him, mind reeling. There's no way she made this up. She's not drunk enough to conjure up a text where Orion uses an emoji to describe his feelings. That's beyond her realm of imagination.
You did.
She flips over to her back, kicks her feet triumphantly.
Before she can text him back, he sends another.
Do you need inspiration for your song?
I have quite a few playlists I can link you.
It just keeps getting better and better. She's swimming in a foggy haze of liquor and the fumes of her own high from making Orion laugh.
Everything else is just a bonus.
please senddddd
She clicks the link and gets to listening, the melodic rock flooding through her laptop's speakers straight to her impervious mental barrier.
The music is great, as expected, but it doesn't get much out of Sofía but a half written line.
To buy some time, she talks more about the incomplete song.
this is the song i was trying to write on the bus
the one you asked to hear someday
The music keeps flowing, and she goes for a refill while she waits for a text back. Better to not tell Orion this is what she's using as stimulation instead of his playlists.
Is tonight the night?
Her stomach churns.
Sofía still gets nervous singing in front of an audience of strangers. It's something she thinks she'll never adapt to.
…But to sing an unfinished song in front of the guy you like? It's a whole different beast.
She tears her glasses off and goes to the bathroom sink, splashing water on her face to soothe the flushed skin.
Staring at her reflection, she tries to breathe in and out, focusing on anything but the question that awaits her.
Her phone buzzes again and she launches herself across the room to the bed to see what he says next.
?
Oh my god — he's impatient, she thinks, heart racing. What the fuck? I can't sing with hard liquor in my system! Maybe a couple of glasses of wine a good day, maybe, but not —
She flings her arms around while she thinks through a hypothetical conversation, only noticing the unlocked screen when he texts back.
yes
Sounds good. I'll call in 5.
She crumbles against the side of the mattress, sliding down to the cool floor where she lay until he calls.
Damn predictive text. Damn efficiency. Damn it all.
The dramatics are heightened but she can't help it. She's drunk, she's mortified, and she wants Orion in a way that she hasn't wanted anyone in years.
When he calls, she scrambles on the bed, trying as hard as she can to seem normal.
"Hellooooo," she grins, drawing out the vowel for way too long.
"Sofía, hi." He says, his delivery almost a sigh.
"Were you serious about hearing the song?" She asks, somewhere between a joke and a meek attempt at probing.
"Yes, of course I was serious," he starts, as if to scold her. "I… look forward to hearing anything you write."
"Oh." The surprise from that answer shuts her up.
The line is nothing but static for a while.
She doesn't know what to say next. They don't usually call each other unless there's a need. The song could classify as a necessity, yes, but he could hear it any time after he returns.
It's not dire, and still, he called.
"Have you drank any water yet? I would like to know."
"A few sips. I'll drink more now."
"A full cup," he warns.
"Eight ounces down the hatch. On it, boss," she salutes to nobody, and immediately feels her insides twist and cringe.
I don't even talk like that, she chides inwardly. I'm never drinking again.
She puts him on speaker and runs the tap water into a glass, emptying it down her throat almost as quickly as she fills it.
"Good job."
"Mmm." Sofía hums, plopping back onto the bed. "The song is very unfinished. I don't even know if I'd call it a song yet."
"That's fine."
"Okay…" She trails off. There's not much she can do besides flat out refuse, but she doesn't want to do that.
She doesn't want to let him down. From her point of view, she constantly lets him down at every available opportunity, from whatever is going on with Seven, and Griffin, and general public scrutiny —
"Just be gentle, okay? That's all I'm asking."
It falls out of her mouth faster than her mind can catch it, insecurity cracking on the floor like an egg, her insides nothing but a splattered yolky mess on white tile.
"Of course."
His voice is soft, as velvety smooth as it is comforting.
Goosebumps prickle her arms, and she rubs them away as she prepares to sing.
Her voice quivers with the first few words, but evens out into the whispery low delivery she uses when she's practicing intonation alone before the world is allowed to listen.
Cheeks burning, she presses herself to hold out notes and keep all the embellishments, no matter how uncomfortable she may be.
When she's done, the other side of the line is quiet.
In a contemplative way? She's not sure. All she can do is watch the seconds climb on her phone display as she tries not to fall apart.
"That's, uh, it, I'm afraid." She finally breaks the silence with a nervous laugh. "Sorry, not much to work with right now —"
"There's a lot to work with, Sofía. You need to stop doing that."
"Doing… that?"
"Doubting yourself," he starts. "Undermining your abilities."
"Oh, well, thank you—"
"Not the proper response," he chides.
"Should I apologize…?" She's confused.
"Still not it."
"Orion," she sighs. "Please, I'm drunk and I don't know what you're saying to me. My deduction skills are atrocious right now."
He laughs at that, as smooth as the alcohol she'd consumed. "You should've promised me that you'll try to refrain from that language in the future."
Tension that braided tightly through her muscles start to unwind at that.
"Okay. I promise I'll keep it in."
"Hey, that's not what I said," he warns.
"Alright," she flips over on her back, staring at the ceiling. "I'll try to curb my thinking to be more, um… certain."
The line goes quiet again apart from a shuffling noise from the other side.
"Are you… flipping through papers right now?"
"Just reviewing a few of the show's policies," he says, naturally. Just once, she'd like for him to say he's taking a night off — selfishly, to ease her own concerns.
"I'm really worried about how little you let yourself rest," she admits, blows out a stream of air, brushes her bangs to the side.
"You'd be delighted to know that I slept in today."
A laugh bursts from her, booze in complete control of her reactions. She couldn't stop even if she wanted to — her stomach aches from how hard she giggles.
"Oh my God, I needed that laugh —"
"I'm glad you find me amusing." He's teasing (something she's proud to say he does more now). "This is a much healthier way to release your tension than drinking."
"Be honest with me… are you really upset with me because I've been drinking? Because I wouldn't think any less of you if you let loose around me," she challenges, raising one of her legs in the air to roll a sock-covered foot around absentmindedly.
He sighs. "No, I don't think less of you." His tone is sincere, unassuming.
"And… good to know."
"Hmm?" She asks, still watching her ankle rotating against the fan blades that whirl against the ceiling. "What? Wait, what did I say?"
"Oh, Sofía…"
The way he says her name — playful, all but a taunt — shoots straight between her legs.
"How much did you have?"
"Too much for my tolerance level, I think." She croaks, still reeling.
"Maybe you should try to walk. Go drink more water. Tell me how you're feeling."
She garbles out something like an agreement and totes the phone along with her, clicking speakerphone to go handsfree. Each thought trudges through muddy terrain to make its way to her mouth, true articulation out of the question for now.
"So… I definitely drank too much."
"I see." Curt, but comprehensive.
Gearing up for a lecture — one usually reserved for the rest of the band — Sofía flinches in anticipation, only to be thunderstruck at his follow up suggestion.
"It seems I need to babysit you tonight."
"Nonononono —" She stutters out, a flush sweeping her skin. "I'm fine, it's okay, don't worry, I'll just sleep it off —"
"You wanted to work on the song, didn't you?"
She can practically hear his brow lifting in query. Thank God his beautiful dark brown eyes aren't scanning her face for the truth. It would be plainly written across her features.
I like you too much for my own good.
I want to know the pieces of you hidden away beneath a professional mask.
You're a perfect companion.
It's sobering enough to hear him say that he's going to dedicate his night to her, let alone his plan of how he intends to do it.
She realizes that she's been nodding, not verbally responding, when he calls her name.
"Sofía?"
"Yes, Orion, I did want to work on the song. I do."
"Well, then make yourself decent. I'll video call you. Do you still have your laptop?"
"Mhmm."
"I'll be calling shortly. Let me finish viewing these documents, then I'm all yours."
Her breath audibly hitches, just loud enough for him to hear.
"To monitor you. To make sure you sober up. So you can work on the song."
The words he says are clinical — practiced, almost.
Their parting is a blur. Before she knows it, she's nearly hyperventilating at her own reflection, burning under the white glare of the sterile bathroom lights.
Clarity washes over her as she scans her flushed cheeks, peppered with freckles, her dilated pupils, her chest, heaving from the effort of panting. She grips the side of the counter for balance and cups her hand under the faucet, wondering if she'd left it running this entire time or not.
She taps a hand to her neck and chest to cool herself down, in turn drenching the front of her sleep shirt.
"Fuck," she spits, the curse bouncing off the walls.
In a frenzy of moves, she sheds the wet oversized shirt to replace it with a tank top before Orion calls. The brief time wastes away in what feels like seconds, and then he's calling.
Something in her stirs at the first sight of him.
Hair messy and unstyled, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, white tee hugging the curves of his chest and arms — After Hours Orion tends to suck the air out of her lungs.
"Orion, hi," she smiles, pulling the computer into her lap to get a better look at him.
"Sofía." He nods, reclined in what appears to be the office chair of his hotel room. "Please tell me that you have a cup of water nearby."
"And a snack," she adds, waving a small bag of animal crackers.
His nose scrunches at the sight. "Not the worst you could've chosen."
"I'm sorry there's not a mixed vegetable option at the vending machine. I'll be sure to be a diva about it next time," she jokes, tearing the package open.
The laugh that comes from him is warm. "Yeah, you're right."
"You can't judge me over my food choices if I've been holding back from drinking all tour — wait, did you say I was right?" Sofía freezes, an elephant-shaped cracker nearly in her mouth.
"You waited until I was gone to do so, which speaks volumes." His thick brows are knitted, watching her closely as if he can pry the truth out of her through the screen.
"Well…" she trails off, squirming. "I wanted to unwind alone."
That's not entirely untrue. She's just leaving out the primary cause of her stress — the giant Orion-less gap that's plagued her entire day.
"I don't disagree with the relaxation part," he says, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he chooses his next words. "And you're in a safe location."
As she's biting down on the cracker, he says, "I take it back," and she clamps down hard on her tongue.
She groans, dropping the laptop, curling away to clutch her mouth.
"Are you okay? What happened? Uh —" Orion makes an unsure noise, and when she looks back, still covering her lips, she reaches new heights of embarrassment.
In changing her soaked oversized night shirt to a tank top, she failed to consider other important conditions… like her lack of pants.
Her backside takes up half the screen. Thankfully, Orion stares off screen, rolling his lips nervously. A flush tints the cheek and ear facing her.
"Oh my god — I'm so sorry, wait, I'm putting pants on now — don't look —"
"Wasn't planning on it," he says hoarsely.
She rolls off the bed towards her luggage, digging through it to find a pair of old green boxers — ones that she definitely stole from Seven and never gave back, but that's not even remotely on her growing list of concerns right now.
The walk back to her laptop is like a slow plod to the gallows. A fate defined, dread and acceptance all wrapped up into a tight knot in her chest.
Orion's eyes finally go back to the screen when he senses movement, face unreadable, the pink color for the most part faded from his skin.
"Can I just apologize and we move on, please? I'm so humiliated," she blurts out, lids squeezing shut, intending to keep the last part quiet but failing miserably to withhold her candidness.
"No need to apologize. You bit your tongue and we kept the conversation going after you recovered." It's a good attempt to assuage her shame.
"Well, I'm still really sorry." Sofía murmurs, eyes trained on the keyboard. She can't hold his gaze, not right now.
"Look at me."
She does.
Brown irises bore into her, dark and severe but oh so gentle.
"It's okay. We're okay."
There's a sincerity in his tone that makes her squirm.
"Thank you," she says with a small smile that he mirrors with one of his own.
With a flashing christening their call, she wonders how they could possibly get back on track.
Orion clicks around and types, the computer screen glaring off of his lenses, masking his eyes from her. His mouth is parted, just barely, and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip in concentration.
She glances away, popping an animal cracker into her mouth very carefully this time.
"Are you still working?"
"Nothing labor intensive," he hums, still typing.
"That's a bit of a contradiction, don't you think?" She muses.
His fingers pause and Orion tilts his head, looking at her over the rim of his glasses. "How so?"
"Do you really want me to go all hammer and sickle on your ass? Because I will."
That pulls a genuine laugh from him, teeth flashing as bright as the glare on his lenses.
"Okay, okay, you won." He's still chuckling, but he retreats from the keyboard to relax his elbows against the armrest of the chair.
"I'm going to try hard to remember you said that," she grins, eating another cracker.
"I won't remind you, so good luck," he teases.
A beat passes before either of them speak again.
"Would you consider this a hang out?"
"No." He says, matter-of-factly.
"Why not?"
"For one, we're not physically in the same space." He gestures his hand loosely.
"So, to you, a call is just a call, even if you don't talk about work?"
Sofía has always been convinced that Orion is Gen X trapped in a Millennial body, and this more than proves it.
"Yes."
"You are so strange," she says, and slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
He quirks a brow, unable to hide his amusement.
"It appears that your filter has gone awol."
"It's not my fault I have horrible foot-in-mouth syndrome, Orion," she says, crossing her arms above her head in exasperation. She definitely imagines him looking hungrily at the sliver of exposed skin on her stomach when she does so.
"If anything," she adds, "You should be proud of me for being sober for like 90% of this tour… or you'd get a variant of this every time."
"Maybe it's not appropriate to say, but…" He trails off, leaning forward onto his elbow, fist under his chin.
"…I think the honesty is endearing."
"I… that doesn't… Orion, you have to be explicit when you're messing with me because I cannot discern the difference," she blinks, takes a sip of the water from her nightstand.
"I wasn't messing with you!" He laughs. "But just for tonight, I'll tell you when I'm teasing you."
She tries to ignore the way that statement settles in her lower abdomen. There's a major difference in the connotation of "messing with" and "teasing" — and even more so with the choice of "when" over "if". The ambiguity makes her sweat.
"Well, I appreciate you spending time with me, all things considered."
Even though you don't view it as a hangout, when you told me you wanted to hang out with me, she thinks.
"I do want to hang out with you. Properly." His soft tone betrays the sternness of his features.
"I didn't mean to say that," she groans, lifting her glasses to palm her eyes. "I need to stop talking." Or level the playing field. It's not fair that she's been slipping on banana peels while Orion dodges them effortlessly.
"No, we just need to channel your… energy into something more productive."
"Like?" She's afraid to ask.
"Well… something we can both do, I suppose." He scratches his jaw lazily.
They settle into a comfortable silence as they deliberate over limited options.
Well, Orion probably does. Sofía's brain starts to wander, still hazy, going to places that shouldn't be explored while on call with her manager.
Roaming hands and a desperate kiss — the taste of nicotine and spiced rum, the smell of his skin much sweeter. Dark hair, like an inky veil, encompasses her senses, cloaks their sins. For a moment, the guilt melts away into pure indulgence as she lets Griffin kiss her. Consequence is nothing but a word, lust is the unkept secret of the universe. The sliver of space between their bodies is where his vulnerability tangles with her own — where she's more than just perceived, she's understood.
Coming clean to Orion isn't conceivable in her mind. She doesn't want to lose him. She'll just have to die knowing she lied, and selfishly so to preserve her options. Or maybe she'll explode from the pent up shame and her guts will spell out "I kissed Griffin Reign and I regretted it" next to her body.
Who is she kidding? It's a worse fate to carry the baggage of a lie that heavy when Orion has been her consistent stronghold.
"Hmmm…" his fingers move across the trackpad, then the keys. "Do you happen to have a deck of cards with you?"
"Uh, yeah," she mumbles, the ghost of Griffin's taste lingering. "I always keep one in my bag."
With no warning, their shows have been delayed, sometimes for hours, and the band has been left to entertain each other. Of course, that got old… fast.
"That's good to know. We might have to retire chess for a while," he smiles, then reaches off camera, his thick bicep taking up half of Sofía's computer screen.
On an average day, it takes quite a bit of her willpower to keep her gaze from straying, wandering down the planes of his body. Tonight, though, that resolve is paper-thin.
He's hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away and all she can think about is how it feels to be enclosed in his strong grasp, between those biceps, completely swallowed up by his embrace.
"Here we go." He leans back, shaking his plain deck of cards, strands of his hair falling in front of his glasses. With the other hand, he rakes it back.
"I'll grab mine."
"And you should finish off that glass of water while you're at it," he suggests, pointing towards her nightstand.
She rolls her eyes.
"I saw that."
She fights back a smile. "You'll live."
The deck of cards sits at the bottom of her bag, the box held together with silver duct tape. Rowan's handwriting decorates it, CARDS penned in black permanent marker across the front.
"I really need to get a new set — hello?"
She sucks in a breath, shocked at the sight of Orion tipping back a chilled bottle of beer, his throat bobbing with each hearty swallow.
He lets out a satisfied sigh, grinning when he sees her.
She gestures to the bottle silently, waiting for an explanation.
"I'm evening out the playing field." He says simply.
Huh. Maybe she did say that aloud earlier. Or maybe he's just that perceptive.
"Well, thank you. I feel less alone now, I guess," she laughs.
"Don't expect me to start revealing damning information about myself," he jokes, the neck of the bottle against his full bottom lip. "I'll need a few more drinks in me before that happens."
The last part comes out a murmur.
"Probably only one more since you're a lightweight."
His head tilts. "It's not a contest, Sofía."
"I know! I think it's… endearing." She wants to say cute, but thankfully the brain fog subsided just enough to pluck a word with a more neutral connotation. One that he'd used for her.
"Oh, sure," he chuckles, setting his beer down to scroll the trackpad.
Sofía slides the deck of cards out of the pack, holding the packaging up to the camera, a method of distraction that seemingly works when a genuine sound of confusion comes from Orion.
"Look at what Rowan did."
"Cards? We know that? It's very obvious?" His voice lilts incredulousy as he devolves into laughter.
"I know, I need a new deck but I can't part with it."
She presses a kiss to the duct tape and tosses it onto the bed.
"I'll pick you up a new pack before I come back," he says absentmindedly, back to reading his screen. "So you can keep that one safe. For memories."
Who knew Orion Quinn was so… sweet? Thoughtful? Kind?
Sofía definitely knew, but still, it's surprising to be on the receiving end. She wishes she could show him just a fraction of the thoughtfulness that he's shown her over the years.
"You're sentimental."
"I tend to be for certain people." He shrugs a shoulder.
"Yes, that includes the band," he adds, taking another swig of beer, nearly halfway done with it now.
"Good to know."
"So, I've scoured the rules for different card games I'm familiar with but there does not seem to be any that work with two separate deck of cards," he mutters, slight annoyance in his tone, the hair flopping in front of his eyes not helping in the slightest.
"Unfortunately, I'm rusty with most non-Go Fish games. Or Uno," she shudders. "You'd hate Uno, Orion."
Amusement flashes in his eyes. "You'd hate me playing Uno."
"Oh you're ruthless then?" She throws back, swooping her hair behind her shoulder.
His eyes dart to the motion and back to her face in an instant.
"Ruthlessly strict with the rules. No stacking." He shakes his head. "Absolutely none."
"Now that's where we can agree. Ruins the competitive spirit of Uno. It's a formative experience to have the color change right as you're about to play your last card." She pops the last animal cracker in her mouth and tosses the empty bag in the trash.
"I knew you'd see reason. You always do." His eyes soften despite the lightheartedness of the conversation.
She barely takes note of it as she's hit with an idea for what to do with their cards. It must show on her face, because he waits expectantly for her to speak.
"Oh, I don't think this idea is for you."
"Might as well tell me anyway."
"Well… We can shuffle our decks and draw a card. Whoever has the highest value wins, and can ask the other person a question," she shrugs, chewing her cheek. "It's just a thought."
"What if I don't want to answer?"
When she shrugs again, he adds, "I'm joking!"
"I think an ace would mean you have to answer. Don't you think so?"
A gentle prod, hoping that she can pull the answer she wants from him, even though they're in dangerous territory. One wrong move and she'll be spilling her guts about Griffin and he'll hate her forever. It's her one chance to disarm the bombs and learn more.
"I would have to agree." He doesn't seem entirely pleased by the rule.
"You'll tell me if it's something off limits, though, right?"
"Yes."
"So… we're doing this," she says, pulling the deck out to shuffle it. She barely manages with her shitty coordination, watching as Orion effortlessly shuffles his own.
"Yes. We are."
Wordlessly, they both pull their first cards and flash it to the screen.
Four of spades and… eight of diamonds. Sofía wins the first round.
"Rant about the state of live music and its inaccessibility," she tosses her card down smugly.
A long Orion rant means she's saved at least for a while.
"That's not even a question, but okay. We'll be here all night."
His expression darkening, he launches into a tirade over affordability and price gouging.
She actively listens, shaking her head and humming when he looks at her for confirmation.
It's kind of adorable to see him complain about something he has no control over.
"Live music is truly fucked if they keep letting corporations squeeze every last drop out of consumers. It's a soulless practice," he huffs, ending his rant with the remnants of his first beer.
"Wow. 'Anti-capitalist' Orion might be my favorite."
"I prefer 'Realistic Orion'. Or 'No Bullshit' Orion."
"You should be lobbying in DC. Why are you my manager again?" She laughs, grabbing another card.
"Because I like being your manager, Sofía. I've told you that plenty of times."
"Am I wrong for wanting to hear you say it again?" She teases.
"No, but you should know that unless I clarify otherwise, the point stands. Always."
Orion has a knack for saying things that split her open and leave her bare, casual in his candor. Surely he's like this because he's close to his parents — he's the model example of a well-adjusted adult wrapped up in a gorgeous package. All things (including Orion) completely out of her reach.
Except for the candor. She can do that just fine.
They take another card from their respective piles.
"Six of hearts and… five of diamonds. Seems I get to ask this time."
"I don't like the look in your eye, Orion," she laughs nervously.
He hesitates. "This might be off limits."
"Go on…"
"Did you enjoy the duet with…" He trails off, the unfinished sentence hanging heavily in the air.
"Seven," she finishes. She's quiet for a moment, contemplating.
Orion fidgets on the other side of the screen, regret plain on his features.
"It's not off limits. It's okay. I can answer it."
He blows air out of his mouth. "You don't have to. I shouldn't have asked."
"No, I'd rather talk about it with you than anyone else." She's earnest as she says it.
"Honestly, I really wanted to talk about it after it happened. Everyone else wanted to avoid it, so… I was sort of… forced to," she says, rubbing her arms absentmindedly.
"How did you feel?" He asks, less cautious now.
"That's two questions! I thought you were a rule enforcer."
"You can't take that title away from me, alright? I earned it." He defends himself with a mischeivous smile.
After the humor dies down, she continues.
"I don't know. In the moment, yes, I did enjoy it," she starts, trying to watch Orion while she speaks but unable to hold his unwavering eye contact.
"I felt like the old me again, back when I had someone to carry me through performances. I loved sharing the mic with someone else. I never wanted to be a lead vocalist," She tries to smile, but fails, the forlorn face winning out.
"Truthfully? I'm a lot worse off now. I tasted a morsel of what I missed and it brought up a lot of… feelings. I'm saying 'feel' a lot. It doesn't sound like a word anymore. I don't know. Ignore me —"
"Thank you for sharing that with me." He's gentle when he says it, like he's approaching a shaky stray that's ready to bolt.
"Like I said, you're the only one I'd want to tell."
There's a sadness in that truth that isn't lost on her.
"Another?" He says, picking up another card. She nods.
"Queen of hearts… and a — fuck, really, a two?" Sofía curses. "I don't like that I'm losing."
"How do you measure a win or a loss with this game?" He cocks his head to the side.
"I don't know. The amount of questions, I guess. But I feel like I'm losing, which is bad enough."
"Are you only a sore loser when you're drunk?" He laughs.
"Sportsmanship is a sober quality, Orion."
"I think you're right about that," he says low, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. "You're suprisingly more uptight compared to your bandmates —"
"Hey!" She slaps her computer screen with the card between her fingers.
"It's not a bad thing," Orion holds a palm up. "I personally don't view it as a bad thing. I'm uptight, too."
"You know, I don't like being high strung," she retorts. "I just am."
"I don't think anyone chooses to be this way." His face is stricken with something like regret, she thinks, but it's gone in an instant.
"So what was your question?"
"You already answered it."
She shrugs, trying to ignore how intently he's looking at her.
Tipping his chin at her, he pulls another card from the deck, and she follows.
"Finally!" Sofía claps when she sees the Jack of spades in her hand, and a seven of clubs in his.
He grimaces like he's about to be interrogated, bracing for impact.
"What's your favorite read of the year so far?"
His face relaxes into a blank expression. "Pardon?"
"I know you've been busy with work and all, but surely you've read at least one book you'd recommend to me," she shrugs. "I want to know."
His mouth curls into a smile that he can't hide. "I expected something much different than that."
He takes a deep drink of beer number two. "Well. I'm partial to nonfiction. Is that… something you like? I don't know if we've ever talked about our reading preferences before."
"Yeah, I like nonfiction," she nods. "I'm more privy to historical fiction, then following that up with nonfiction books on the same topic if I enjoyed it enough."
He nods. "That makes sense."
"I like a healthy dose of escapsim. And being thorough." She thinks she imagines his eyes glimmering when she says that.
She points an accusatory finger at him. "You're supposed to be answering this, not me. I don't know how you manage to trick me so easily."
"Not tricking you — you're just easy to goad."
Is he flirting with her? Has he been flirting and she didn't notice? Her hummingbird heartbeat thumps in her chest at the idea.
He runs a hand through his hair. "I read one earlier this year about the Dust Bowl and I enjoyed it… as much as I could, anyway. It was eye-opening."
"Oh? You'll have to text me the name. It'll give us something to talk about."
He squirms when he says, "I would like that."
Sofía wins again, the tides turning in her favor.
Orion tosses down his card, other hand still gripping his nearly empty beer as he waits for her inquiry.
"Do you miss us already?"
The question is cushioned with the inclusion of the band.
Despite previous reassurance, she doubts his words, especially now with the distance between them.
"Yes, of course I do, Sofía," he says, expression screwed up in disbelief. "I miss you when we're in the same hotel."
"Orion…" She takes note of the flush of his cheeks, the glazed look in his eye. "Are you tipsy?"
"Yes, but that doesn't change my answer." He waves her off.
"I miss you, too."
"I know you do." A smug, taunting smile spreads across his face.
"Bold and tipsy. I like you like this." She tugs the laptop onto her legs to get the camera closer.
"I tend to unwind when I drink," he agrees.
"You wanted to unwind in front of me? Consider me flattered."
He shrugs. "You did say you wouldn't judge me if I 'loosened up' around you."
"I guess I didn't think you'd take me up on that offer so soon… I'm not complaining though!" She clarifies. "You know that I'm the loudest advocate for your rest."
"And I appreciate it, even if I don't always agree with it," he affirms sincerely.
"You're a lot more, uh, relaxed than I thought you would be. After you left," she adds.
"Is that so?"
"Well, you've been on edge about leaving, so… I didn't think that you'd be in this state when you called," she says, brushes her bangs to the side. "I'm relieved, honestly."
"Don't worry about me," Orion says softly. "I'm sorting it out. It may be difficult, but it must be done."
Then, he tips back the last of his beer. The contours of his neck move with the effort, and she tries to focus her gaze elsewhere but it's impossible. He's so beautiful in the fuzzy, low quality grain of the webcam.
"It's impolite to stare."
He glances over at her with a teasing wink. He doesn't do that.
After Hours Orion is unabashedly flirting, stirring something inside of Sofía that's laid latent for years.
Sofía squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. "Sorry."
"I'm teasing."
She cracks a lid open and he's staring at her, hand on the deck of cards.
Orion draws an ace of spades, and Sofía's eyes widen.
He props his head on his fist, watching her thoughtfully. "Hmm."
"Please don't ask if I was staring."
"Oh, I wouldn't waste it on that. I know you were staring."
Sofía takes note of the bottle's label, hoping and praying she can purchase some for him. Whatever this brewery put in this beer is unlocking a side of Orion she's never seen before, and she's not willing to let it go so easily.
"Was that a tattoo I saw on your hip, Sofía?"
The question sounds like liquid velvet pouring from his perfect mouth.
Her thighs squeeze together underneath the laptop. Heat burns her cheeks.
"I didn't think you saw that."
"I saw enough to be curious." He quirks an eyebrow. "Curious enough to ask about it."
In the years she's known him, Sofía's observed that Orion is a bit like a tortoise — if you push too hard, he'll recede inward until he's ready to come out again. He's not sensitive, just… stubborn. Not as amenable as the average person.
And in a level-headed internal debate, she comes to the conclusion that if Orion is being bold, it's enough of reason for her to attempt to be as well.
"Well, it seems to me you already knew the answer. Why'd you ask, then?" She murmurs, sliding the laptop back to sit in front of her on the bed.
He watches the movement keenly.
"Because I could've imagined it. I tend to have a wild imagination this late at night," he all but purrs.
Her resolve is weakening, but she has to see this through, no matter how badly she wants to relieve the ache between her legs.
"I have a feeling you're trying to lead me to a conclusion…" she trails off, glancing around the room. "I wonder what it is."
She points to herself. "Horse."
Then the cup. "Water."
She's trying to bait him into asking her first — whether it's a beg, or a demand, she wants to hear Orion say it.
"Make me drink."
"Show me your tattoo, Sofía. Please."
She shivers at his tone. A demand punctuated with a beg.
She's aching, aroused, and seconds away from willingly flashing part of herself to him.
These secret feelings she has towards Orion remain a secret for much longer. There's no way he could possibly interpret it otherwise.
All she knows is that as soon as their call is over, she's making use of the vibrator tucked away with her menstrual products. Evidently, the song is a long forgotten motive, by both her and Orion.
In a drawn-out move, she unfurls her legs, rises to her knees, and pivots around, sitting back on her feet. She throws her hair over one shoulder, exposing more of her back, a sliver of skin above her shorts unveiled with the movement.
Time slows when she hooks her thumb into her bottoms and tugs down, revealing the red ink on her light brown skin. The tattoo sits on the top of her cheek, near the hip, settled on a bed of tiger stripe stretchmarks — ones that decorate her hips and thighs.
It's the only tattoo she has other than Seven's initials… and no one in the band knows of it. Until now.
"Can you see it?"
Orion hasn't spoken yet. The flush on his face is fierce, and somehow less severe than the fire in his eyes.
"'Lucky you'." His voice is gravelly.
"Mhmm." She lets the band snap back against her skin.
She lays on her side, propping her head up with a hand on her temple. Then, she finally gets a good look at him.
He's still flushed, mouth parted, eyes darting back and forth on the screen, like he's trying to refamiliarize himself with her in light of this new information. They land on her own, heavy like lead.
Though she wants to break first, she's determined to win their stare down. The lingering remnants of brandy in her system act as a boost of courage.
Gaze still trained on him, she retrieves a card from her pile, thankful that it's a king of diamonds.
He does the same, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. His is a measly two of clubs.
"What are you thinking right now?"
"I…" Orion trails off, blinks. Takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes with the crook of his hand, then rakes his fingers through his hair exasperatedly.
"That's… off limits."
"Oh?"
"I… this was not a good idea."
He takes a deep breath to compose himself, his chest straining against the fabric as he does.
"It's inappropriate. This situation, not my thoughts —" he clarifies quickly, shifting in his chair.
"No one in the band knows about it — isn't that wild?"
Provocation is a dance, a sequence of intricate steps, one that she's leading.
Surprise flashes across his features, then something that appears to be pride, both masked with a neutral expression in an instant.
"Yes."
"Can I tell you what I'm thinking?" Sofía asks, alcohol-fueled hubris fading away when the question leaves her lips.
"…Yes." He answers after a beat.
"I'm thinking that you're very handsome like this, with your hair ungelled, wearing your glasses. Uh, and your eyes are very pretty. And I think it's very cute when you blush," she rattles off the compliments shyly.
His face crumples. He seems torn as to how to react to that.
"I can accept some of those compliments."
She considers slamming the laptop shut and drinking the rest of the bottle to cope with the rejection when he mutters his appreciation with an unsure smile.
"…Thank you. You're very pretty tonight."
"I'm pocketing that for later," she says, tapping her temple playfully. Internally, she's infinitely less cool about it.
"Sofía, I —" he starts, but stops, choosing instead to rub a rough hand down his face with a groan. "I don't know what to say. This has gotten out of hand."
Her confidence threatens to deflate.
Maybe casual flirting is the furthest she'll get with Orion; maybe she's the greedy one for desiring more than he can give.
"We can keep playing," she suggests, finally, after the lull.
It's tough to know what Orion is thinking tonight — whether it's the distance, or the quality of the camera, or the nature of the conversation — he's eluding her in many ways. It's not something Sofía can adjust to. Normally, with a singular look, they understand each other.
It's as if their respective equilibriums are off, something akin to vertigo, a nauseating backdrop to wherever their night is headed.
"Sure. I'm fine with that." He doesn't appear to be, though.
Wordlessly, they pull another card.
A boring low value tie: three of hearts and three of diamonds.
"We didn't account for this."
He seems distracted, mind faraway.
"We can try again."
It's obvious that he's nearly inside of his shell again; there's maybe one final push she can manage before he hides away.
In a last ditch effort, she digs through the pile of remaining cards.
"Hey — you can't do that —"
Finding an ace, she musters up the remainder of her resolve to confront what's plagued her mind all day.
"Did you kiss me today?" She blurts out unsteadily. "I mean, when you hugged me, did you kiss the top of my head?"
He freezes for a few seconds, chest rising and falling with labored breaths.
"Yes. I did."
Her knee-jerk response is to inhale sharply, which Orion flinches at.
"Oh, good," she says through a relieved laugh, tossing down the card. "It's been on my mind all day. I thought I made it up."
He shifts his weight in the seat, leaning to one side. "I, uh, didn't want — it wasn't my intention to make you feel that way. I acted on impulse. I'm sorry."
He glances away as he says it.
"You don't have to apologize, Orion. I wanted it to be true."
Something stirs in the air, palpable despite the screen that separates them.
Orion opens his mouth, then shuts it — strangling his honesty so it dies on his tongue.
Instead, he follows her lead, but this time he pulls every card almost lazily, teasing her, until he finds another ace.
A fervent blaze at licks his features, face illuminated by nothing but the residual brightness from Sofía's room.
"Is there anything you're hiding from me?"
The question hits her like a semitruck, an instantaneously sobering moment.
There are multiple possibilities to what he's implying, and of course, her mind shoots to the worst one first.
Griffin. Kissing Griffin. Lying about kissing Griffin.
He could just think that she's lying about enjoying the head kiss from that morning.
Orion is smart — he's intentionally wording it vaguely to avoid nudging her towards a specific answer.
There's no conceivable way he could find out about the kiss… unless she tells him. Right here, right now.
Or, she could bite the bullet and admit that she's developed feelings for him that are far beyond surface level infatuation. They're separated by miles, connected by a grainy video call. Surely it'll be easier to give him the option to hang up and force distance than ever attempting to confess to his face. Neither option is painless.
As the words become solid in her throat, she scrambles for any way out of telling the truth.
Orion watches her as she rolls onto her back, stares at the ceiling.
"I didn't realize this was such a difficult question," he grumbles.
Sofía turns her head, catches the disappointment on his face before he smooths it away.
"Do you mean, like, in my luggage?" She plays it as obliviously as she can manage.
He shrugs, disengaged. "I don't know."
An idea hits her, well before she can muster up a reply, something that undoubtedly has a slim chance at working. She's hoping that the earlier version of Orion lingers, and is willing to entertain it.
She hops up from the bed and clambers over to her suitcase, digging through to the pouch nestled underneath folded clothes.
"Sofía? Where did you go? You don't have to answer that — I'm sorry, I shouldn't have — I regret asking you that — you don't need to feel pressured to tell me anything." Orion stumbles through an apology as she makes her way back.
Turning the laptop towards her, she stands next to the bed coyly, hands behind her back.
"Sofía," he sighs her name, seemingly rattled by her disappearance.
"I think this might classify as something I've been hiding," she murmurs. "Promise me you won't hang up? Please?"
He nods, brows furrowed earnestly.
Slowly, she pulls the burgundy colored vibrator from behind her back, clicks the button — the room is dead silent, the whirr of her electric toy the only sound.
Sofía expects one of two stereotypical reactions from Orion: embarrassment, or frustration. Pointed at himself, or her, she couldn't predict.
Instead, it's a third option — the one that a tiny part of her hoped would happen.
It's something akin to hunger — wanton carelessness. Desire.
Completely foreign on his face, but it fits harmoniously with his features.
He breaks first.
"You found time to…?" His voice fades, strangled in his throat.
"Oh, no. I haven't had the opportunity yet." She rolls her lips together, clicks it off.
Orion closes his eyes when he responds to that. "That's too bad."
"Now you know I have it."
"And that you haven't used it," he murmurs, running a rough hand through his hair, lids still shut.
There's a tautness to the atmosphere, like an elastic band that'll snap if pulled any tighter.
When he allows himself to look at her again, the desire lingers, but much less intense.
She walks closer to the laptop and leans over it, grabbing from the pile on the bed, picking a specific card: a two.
He sees it, and keeping eye contact with her, pulls from the top.
Orion is leaving it up to chance. The thought of that both scares and invigorates her. He's letting go of the reins for once, letting fate decide what's next.
A seven of hearts.
For a split second, she wonders if he's thinking of the same thing. Seven Lawless, the only person that had ever staked any sort of claim on her heart, embedded into her skin forever with black ink. Haunting every corner of her life.
"I win."
The gruffness to his voice gives her a full-bodied shiver.
"It's not ideal to be… pent up. Not optimal for the competition," he starts.
"Are you saying that as my manager? Or my friend?" Her heart is like a bass drum, rhythmic thumps that pound in her ears.
He humors her. "Neither."
"It's my turn to ask a question, Sofía." He's stern but suggestive.
"Did you have plans to use your vibrator after we hung up?"
"Yes." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Were you going to think about me?"
She takes a trembling breath before nodding.
"Do you want to use it now?"
She nods much harder.
"Can I watch?"
Whatever is happening is beyond her wildest wet dreams. For heaven's sake, since developing a crush on Orion, it's been hell avoiding viewing him in this way.
All of that hard work and progress, gone in an instant — and she couldn't be further from disappointment.
"I wanted you to," she admits coyly.
The restraint he's shown the entire time splinters in front of her, and he releases a low rumbling sigh in response.
"You don't know how badly I need this."
"This" being an extremely load bearing word.
Does he need to come? He could do that any time, completely of his own volition. He could've been doing it this entire tour and she wouldn't know.
Or… does he need to watch her in order to do it?
God, she hopes it's the latter.
Sofía slides onto the bed, cross legged in front of the laptop.
"Tell me what to do. Please."
His lips are parted. He swallows, throat bobbing. He could be contemplating something, or buying time. She's not sure.
"Before we go any further… I have to say this or I'll regret it.
"I know that I'm acting selfishly," he shakes his head. "I shouldn't want this."
He holds her gaze. "But… Sofía, I do. Do you think less of me now?"
She sees the hesitation, hears the desire rattling him to his core.
"You're allowed to be selfish every now and then, Orion. I want it, too. We can be selfish together." A soft smile blooms.
"We can't… be the same after this," he warns, timid.
"I'd argue that we haven't been the same since this tour started," she challenges.
"You noticed that?" He jokes weakly, a light smirk playing at his lips.
She mirrors his expression. "Let's circle back to earlier. What do you want me to do?"
In asking that, she stokes the embers, igniting a flame buried deep within Orion.
"I want you to lie down, first. Get comfortable."
She resituates, flat on her back, the laptop to her left.
"Don't show me your body. Only your face," he orders with conviction, resolute in the gossamer-thin boundary.
Understandable. They're already neck deep in a human resources nightmare — or is that part of Orion's job title?
Regardless, she gets it. Compartmentalizing is the only way he'll be able to justify getting off to her.
She pushes away the thought. Keeping her eyes trained on the screen, she slides her bottoms off, waving them in front of the screen with a knowing look. If he notices the wet spot on her underwear, he doesn't comment on it.
He nods, reclining farther back into the computer chair. Everything below the waist is shielded by the walnut-colored desk, but she can plainly see his arm flex as he starts to pump himself.
Bringing it to her mouth, she sucks on the end of the bullet shaped vibrator. The makeshift lubricant strings from her lip to the silicone, eliciting a groan from Orion.
"Sofía, turn it on. Press it against your clit. Show me how you fuck yourself."
The commands draw out a whine, not low enough to be hidden by the buzzing sound. He laughs breathily, stare unwavering in anticipation of first contact.
The first touch is an immediate alleviation of the night's buildup, the ache soothed with the pressure she applies. Her eyes flutter shut, lips parted as she works the toy against her clit.
Maybe she should feel at least a little shame in writhing on her hotel duvet in front of her band manager.
But right now, Orion isn't her manager, and Sofía's not his client. They're two desperately touch starved people who crave some kind of intimacy even from miles away.
"Orion," she calls his name with a whisper. "Talk to me. I need you."
He works his cock underneath the table, jet black strands of hair falling across his forehead like an inky waterfall.
"Think about how I'd touch you if I were there. My hands working you slow and steady, my mouth on your neck…"
Dark circles frame his restless eyes. His chest ripples with every pant, tightening the tee in a way that makes Sofía want to be reborn as a cotton plant in her next life.
"Would you taste me?" She pants, swiping the vibrator up and down her folds.
"God, yes, I'd — fuck, I'd be devouring you," he says through a moan, the sound of Orion's pleasure pushing her closer to the edge.
He's not holding back anymore… not curbing his appetite with flirtation. He's taking what he wants.
"I wanna taste you, too — and I wanna see you — all of you, please —" She uses her free hand to rake her bangs away from her forehead, already covered in a sheen of sweat.
"No, no, Sofía, imagine it — me stroking myself to you, picturing myself tasting you to get myself off —"
Focusing on his voice, picturing his pretty face between her legs, what she can't see underneath the desk — an orgasm jolts through her body, and she buries her face in the crook of her elbow as she bucks against the vibrator.
"Look at me." His voice is hoarse.
She turns her head back toward the laptop, knowing that the image of her, half-lidded, flushed, and whining is exactly what he needs to see.
His arm moves faster, moans brazenly loud.
"So beautiful… Shit — I wish I made you come."
"You did," she breathes, coming down from the aftershocks of her first round.
"It doesn't count — not my hands —"
"It counts to me."
His strokes slowing at the realization that she's staring attentively.
She wears a playful smile. "No, no, you keep going. I'm going to watch you for a bit."
An incredulous chuckle bursts from him. "I didn't think you'd leave the stage so soon."
"Oh, I'm still on stage. This is your solo, Orion, and you're stunning," she teases, watching as he reacts to the admiration.
"You like that?"
"I… do." He admits, color deepening across his already flushed cheeks.
"Well, it's true, you're incredible, so good at what you do — you take care of me, make sure I sober up so I can work. You're so thoughtful," she compliments.
He rakes his hand through his hair with his free hand, holding it at the top of his head for a moment while she watches him.
"You look so pretty like this, Orion."
She hums, brings the toy to her lips, slick with her arousal.
Hawk-like stare trained on her, he lets something akin to a whimper slip out.
"I know you wish I was on your fingers like this." She rolls her lips together to hold back her excitement at the noises he makes.
"Yes, I do." He doesn't look away once as she runs her tongue flat against the side of the rubber, tasting herself for him.
Wordlessly, he releases his cock from his vice grip, brings his palm to his mouth then licks a long stripe across it before working himself again at a vigorous pace.
"Oh my god," she blurts out at the sight of it. The pulse between her legs thuds steady alongside her heartbeat.
"I can tell you have another one in you. Do it for me, Sofía," Orion taunts, a sultry purr that rattles around her brain, embedding itself in the crevices reserved for important information.
She might forget a few lyrics, but it's worth it if she can remember what Orion sounds like when he's moaning her name.
"Shit," she hisses as she presses it against her sensitive clit once again.
Heels anchored against the bed, she pushes back to jut her hips against her hand. She fucks it in place of Orion, the thought of him above her enough to coax her towards another climax.
"Goddamn it —" Orion curses, eyes darting off screen, then back again.
Her body's shifted backward. The curve of her lower back, a sliver of her behind, a peek of the tattoo peers over the corner of her screen.
There's an internal battle happening on the planes of his face. Knitted brows, lustful gaze, lip curled in disgust at himself.
Though, it doesn't slow his pace in the slightest.
"Tell me what you want to do to me, please," she pleads through heavy breaths, the pressure building.
"I want to — fuck — taste you — every part of you — watch you come by my hand — kiss you when you —" He's cut off by her garbled moans that she tries to muffle with her free hand.
"Need to hear you," he manages, his jaw slack as he approaches his own peak.
The vibrator is slick against her. She squeezes her thighs around it to increase the pressure, hitting a sweet spot that makes her lids flutter.
A cacophony of sounds ricochet throughout her hotel room, a mix of hers and Orion's, twisting together into a duet, clandestine and blissful.
Driven by his confession, she praises him further.
"You're so fucking good for me, Orion — so pretty when you're saying my name —" She feels herself approaching the precipice of her own cliff. "I want you to come for me — come with me — I'm almost there —"
"Sofía, fuck —"
His lips are pouty and pink when he unravels, expression contorted in the most human one she's seen from him yet. Unbridled, vulnerable, striking.
Streaks decorate his white tee, all across his stomach and edge of his chest.
She climaxes soon after she watches him come, back arching against the bed, sweat dotting her exposed skin.
"God, Orion." She's breathless, blinking slowly as she basks in the afterglow. The alcohol-induced haze is replaced with a postcoital one.
He chews his cheek, looking down at the come that paints his chest and stomach. She can tell that he's censoring himself.
"I haven't even kissed you yet… but…" he trails off, glancing back up at her. "I know what you look like when you come."
It's matter-of-fact, but it churns Sofía's stomach in a way that would turn her on if she hadn't just gotten off.
"I shouldn't know that." He attempts to discreetly wipe his hand off on his shirt.
"But you do, and I don't mind." It's true. The thought of seeing Orion in a way that an elite few have is exhilarating.
"Good… because I don't think I'd want to forget it." The worry smooths away into a smirk.
"You can be such a flirt without even trying." She waves him off.
"Oh, trust me, I'm trying."
She laughs nervously, ignoring the way that the words shroud her like smoke.
She scans her surroundings, bedding askew, littered with cards and the abandoned songbook.
"I made a mess."
"So did I," he mumbles, tugging at his shirt. "I've invested too much money into finding the perfect cotton shirt to ruin one so quickly."
"It'll wash out! You might have to work quickly, though."
His laugh is abrupt — stunning, too — like the resounding chime of a church bell or a sudden crack of thunder.
"You can't watch me take my shirt off, Sofía." He shakes his head. "I know you want to, but you can't."
"Let me guess… you think it's inappropriate." She deflates — she has no energy to debate it.
He winces. "Well, it is."
"If you don't want things to change between us, then don't let it. It's okay," she shrugs, anxiety hugging her tight as she speaks. "I don't want to backpedal… and I can feel you hesitating."
"Can you just treat me like you did earlier? Can we go back to how things were when we were just hanging out? As friends?" She nearly squeaks the last word.
She pleads with him. Begs. It's pathetic, but she's terrified of him slipping away. Whatever happens now is a wound of her own making.
Orion's gaze softens, pity, remorse, and longing all wrapped up in the dark embers that stare back from the other side of the screen.
Wordlessly, he lifts his arms over his head, tugging his shirt off from between his shoulderblades, exposing the hardened planes of his torso. His glasses are askew until he readjusts them, along with smoothing down his messy strands.
Sofía knows she's blushing because he responds with a bashful smile. Probably the most reserved he's ever appeared to be.
He stands, the grainy camera capturing the lean lines of his body as he picks up his laptop, carrying her to the bathroom.
The lighting is much better there, a glow that brings warmth to his skin, highlights the lingering blush on his cheeks.
He's beautiful. Of course, Sofía's always believed this.
The professional rigidity is long gone, as well as the tension that forces his posture taut.
Is this what he's like at home? Or with his family? When he's most himself?
He turns the sink on, douses his stained shirt in it. He scrubs at it with soap as they settle into a comfortable silence. She takes the opportunity to slide her underwear and boxer shorts back into place.
Carefully wringing the shirt out in the sink, he finally speaks.
"It seems we're a bit more than that, now… and I don't know what that is."
"We don't have to know," Sofía says, folding her legs in front of the camera.
"Are you sure? Most people want transparency." He's somewhere else when he says it.
"I want whatever you want, Orion."
I don't want us to pretend like there's nothing happening.
He seems even more conflicted when she says that. Maybe he'd prefer if she defined it for him, but she won't.
She's afraid that if she told him how far she's imagined this going, he'd withdraw, maybe forever… and she can't have that, considering she couldn't see a future without him.
How romantic would he view that statement if at all? It's pathetically codependent, optimistic, and soul-bearingly true.
Burrowed in the deepest parts of her heart is her capability to love, bound in a promise to not give herself wholly to anyone again.
Despite that, she wants to experience it again. She wants to be held, to be adored, to be a priority. It's egocentric to project all of those needs onto Orion.
"I'll think about it." He says finally, a delivery as genuine as she's ever heard from him. "I'll really think about it. I mean it."
Turning his back to her, he hangs the shirt on the shower rod. His back muscles roll underneath his skin with the movement, marbled veins decorating his arms.
It'll be hard not to hold onto hope — the possibility of this being a regular sight plants itself in her mind and refuses to let go.
When he picks up the laptop again, he plods back to his room, the warmth of the lighting fading away.
He sits back at the desk, grabs the stack of papers again to get back to work.
Sofía watches him contentedly — settles onto her back with the laptop to her side, head propped on her pillow.
She has no clue when she falls asleep. All she knows is that when she wakes up a little while later, groggily scanning the room, Orion is still there on the other side of the screen.
The cast of BotB season four has touched down in a new state: Ohio! That's right—they're infiltrated G's backyard (and maybe someone else's?) Unfortunately, the rockstar isn't happy about this development considering the people who have decided to show their faces here. Meanwhile certain rumors are tainting the BOTB brand while the home lives of the ROs are starting to creep up on them. Will there even be a tour? Who knows?
As usual, MC remains in the center of it all. Their plans for their future comes into question when they're forced with new faces and possibilities. That is…if they even have a career by the end of this. For some MCs they should probably keep in mind to think with their head and not their…you know!
Hi! It's been a long time coming but I'm excited to share the Chapter 5 alpha demo! Thank you for your patience and enthusiasm :) Please read until the end. Without fail I get questions that are answered in this post almost immediately after publishing it aha
I'm calling it an alpha demo because, and not to get all sad and lame, after the death of my family member I did not feel like adding more to my plate (aka beta testers). Writing took up much of my time already and it just hasn't been the right time to include other people into the process. Of course, that must change, and I will be getting beta testers soon now that the alpha is out. As always, the chapters are subject to change and improve as time goes on.
So with that said if there are errors im all ears! I will try to be as timely as possible.
There is one particular ship dynamic that never fails to wreck me, and I’ll call it Soulmates, But Not Like That. Not in a “some higher power has decided that we are destined to be together” way, but something that is almost the opposite of that. It’s that character who has been alone for a long time, and has maybe convinced themselves that they will be alone forever, and who has a lot of barriers to intimacy with most of the people around them, for whatever the relevant narrative reasons are. And then they just happen to cross paths with this ONE FUCKING PERSON who works for them, through some very specific combination of personality and circumstance and life experience and mutually compatible damage. And there is always the shock of what are the fucking odds, and underneath everything the terror of what if this doesn’t last. what if there’s no one else. I would just go back to being alone. I don’t know if I could do that after knowing this. Because when you finally let down that wall of emotional self-sufficiency the thought of having to put it back up again is painful. And in real life I don’t at all believe that there is only One Designated Person for anyone, but in fiction I do tend to gravitate toward characters who believe themselves to be The Only One in some way, and I will always be emotionally compromised by that dawning sense of oh. You are like me.
wait so the neon byte author made a new tumblr, dropped a partial demo, then vanished again BEFORE I COULD READ IT?????? god is not real love is dead etc etc
Preorders for Faith, a Leliana Fanzine, close tonight, November 3rd! And to celebrate both Dragon Age: Origins and Leliana turning 16 today, all physical bundles will be 16% until our store closes at 12 AM Pacific. We are now only 3 whole orders away for reaching Stretch Goal #2 of our cover print and selling out of our early birds!
Don't delay and miss out on all of our Leliana goodies!
thank you @carriehobbs @loreofyore @thee-morrigan @mornynge @nevira-names @wayhavenots @lalizah for tagging me to make a meme/text based moodboard!
rules: make a moodboard to represent the vibe of your ship, but the pictures have to be text-based/memes/other things you wouldn't normally include if you were making a moodboard for them.
For Nate x Suri 🥰
Tagging (but no pressure! and sorry if double tagged) @serenpedac @gauntlings @faethomsbelow @endlessly-searching-for-you @silverdisable @delucadarling @crownleys @serially-wayhaven @thecryptidenthusiast @ellstersmash and YOU!!!
sometimes I think I'm putting too many sex scenes into something . and then I look at what's happening in the world and I'm like oh yeah there's a massive puritan shift and censorship wave happening. why on earth am I feeling guilty for writing self indulgent fanfic lmao. I think I will make the characters do it sloppy AGAIN !!!!!
#and I think because you are developing like 19 different skills simultaneously#but the ones that you're better at feel smooth and easy and therefore not noticeable#but the places where the pen drags metaphorically feel more significant#so it's like oof ouch the struggle (doesn't notice the 100 hundred things that would be very hard without practice & experience & skill)
[Text ID: I don't know who needs to hear this, but writing is hard because you care about it and you want it to be good, not because you're bad at it. /end ID]
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