Iâm slowly going through Oscarâs movies without any hurry, consuming his characters as sweet delicacies⊠hmm anyway. Speaking of underrated characters. I have an idea that fits for Bud Cooper and for Nick Wasicsko too but I canât choose one, please help me đ€ reader is his new secretary, and his favorite way to spend a dinner break is eating reader out at his desk đ it would be nice to read something about it â„ïž please skip it if this is not for you! Iâve already over-abused your ask lmao. Love you
iâm so sorry, this is literally five months later but i hope youâre still around and enjoy this. also i forgot this was supposed to be a dinner break so instead itâs an afternoon snack
Nick exhales a slow breath as he looks around his office to check on things. Itâs a Friday afternoon and he is bored out of his mind. It turns out that being the mayor of Yonkers is not always exciting. Some days are hectic and stressful, others are slow and monotonous.
Friday afternoons are particularly tedious.
Through the glass partition he can see you hunched over your desk doing paperwork. You straighten up a little, roll your neck in an attempt to work out the kinks, then return to your paperwork. Nick reclines in his leather chair, feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the desk.
Now he remembers why he actually likes Friday afternoons; he gets to watch you work.
If the constituents knew that their mayor spends most of his Fridays sitting at his desk staring at his girlfriend, they would be picketing in front of the building with signs. But then heâs done worse things during working hours.
The clacking of the typewriter keys fills the otherwise silent office. You are not paying attention to Nick but he still hides his smile behind his hand when you discreetly stare daggers to your left at the other secretary. In your defense, Nick thinks, the sound is extremely irritating.
It sounds like a machine gun, constantly firing. You press your lips into a thin line and look away, fighting the urge to bash your own head against the desk. Your anger seems so disproportionate, so unreasonable, that a laugh bubbles up in Nickâs throat.
He observes you a little longer, an amused smile on his lips. He isnât proud of it but he loves riling you up, annoying you until he has to apologize with his mouth in more ways than one.
*
You are on the phone with councilman Longoâs secretary when Nick enters your side of the office. He looks bored, aimless. You envy him. You have been swamped with work all week, youâre exhausted and everything seems to set you off.
The phone keeps ringing, Cheryl is literally punching the keys of the typewriter with her fingers, and Nick is⊠well heâs definitely looking for trouble. Despite being an ex-police officer, heâs not very subtle. He paces in front of you, hands in his pockets. It tightens the fabric around his backside and it is usually a very welcoming distraction, but not today.
Today you are just too worked up to take the bait.
Nick looks over his shoulder at you, sees that you are not paying attention to him, and gives a little nod to himself. He tries one more time because Nick Wasicsko is nothing if not persistent.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him walk over to your co-worker. He perches his butt on the corner of her desk and she smiles up at him, her fingers still moving furiously over the keys. He makes pleasant conversation with her while you try to block out their voices.
You are surprised that she is still at her desk, Cheryl isnât known for her professionalism. Sheâs always ambling in the hallways or gossiping by the copy machine. The only reason you are working for Nick right now is because she is behind in her work. You could be on your porch repotting your azaleas right now.
You reach up to rub your temples in soothing circles. Youâre not sure itâs working but it feels kind of nice.
And then, silence.
You open your eyes and look around the room to find Cheryl putting on her coat. Confused, you glance at the clock. You still have over an hour of work until you can clock out. She thanks him, powerwalking to the door before he can change his mind.
Once the door closes behind her, Nick turns to you with a satisfied grin. He opens his arms and gives a little bow, âet voilĂ .â
âYou let her leave early?â
âIâm letting all of us leave early,â he counters, still perched on her desk.
You appreciate the gesture but you have too much work to do. You need to make sure everything is ready for the event next week, you have to update the calendar, and thereâs a pile of unopened mail on your desk from three weeks ago.
Your lack of enthusiasm makes Nick frown. He stands behind you, hands on your shoulders.
âI thought youâd be more excited,â he says, massaging your shoulders.
You canât see him but youâre almost certain that he is pouting. He is going to overthink this. Youâre just tired and grumpy, but heâs going to dissect this until he comes to the conclusion that you donât love him anymore.
And thatâs the last thing you want. You take one of his hands and bring it to your lips. âI am,â you reassure him, kissing away his doubt. âLetâs just finish this and then we can go home.â
He makes a sound, half whimper, half whine. âCanât it wait until Monday?â He digs his fingertips into your arms and tries to pull you closer. âCâmon,â he coos, âplease.â
âOkay, okay. Just do this one thing for me.â You straighten up in your chair. âSign these documents so I can send them before the end of the day.â
He makes a face at the thought of having to work, even if itâs just to write his name on a few sheets of paper. Once Nick has made his mind up about something, no one can stop him.
âItâs past four, these wonât be send until Monday anyway.â
âNick, please.â
He picks up the handset and leaves it on your desk, the high-pitched buzzing of the dial tone humming faintly from the receiver. You bat his hand away and press the button that will automatically transfer callers to voicemail.
âAll right,â he relents, walking into his office. âCome here.â
You gather your papers into a neat stack and bring it into Nickâs office. He looks like a petulant child behind his desk and you canât help but smile as you set the pile of documents down in front of him.
He looks up at you with his big, brown eyes. I want to go home. You cup the side of his face and stroke his cheekbone with your thumb. It wonât be long, promise.
Nick quickly skims through the stack of legal documents, scribbling his signature at the bottom of each page. You stand next to him, watching silently. After a moment, you stop paying attention and let your eyes travel around the office.
A startled gasp slips past your lips when you feel a pair of hands settle at your hips. Nick whirls you about, a shit eating grin on his face. You stumble over your own feet but steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders.
Once the room stops spinning, you see that Nick is still sitting in his desk chair but you are now trapped between him and the desk. He looks up at you with a satisfied grin, almost predatory, and you find yourself clenching your thighs together. His hands are still on your hips, and his quiet groan tells you that he definitely felt that.
The skirt you are wearing today is long, it reaches almost to your ankles, but it doesnât deter Nick whose hands are slowly travelling down your legs. He gathers two handfuls of your skirt and slowly exposes your underwear.
âW-What are you doing,â you ask with a breathless laugh.
âWhat does it look like Iâm doing?â he replies, feigning exasperation. âIâm working.â He leans forward and presses a kiss to your navel.
You stop him.
âNick, the door.â
âWhat about it?â
âItâs unlocked.â
He has to strain his neck to look at the door. Itâs on the other side of the room, behind his own door and your desk. He purses his lips into a mock thinking pout before he turns to you. âI donât care.â
You consider it too. God, you donât want him to move but what if someone walks into the room and finds the mayor with his face buried between his secretaryâs legs. Now come to think of it, thatâs an exciting thought.
âYeah,â you agree.
You donât have to tell him twice. Heâs all smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and your body begins to relax. When he yanks your underwear down your legs, you yelp in surprise and start chuckling. Nick shushes you, trying to contain his own laughter.
You lean back and support your weight on your forearms, trying to make yourself comfortable on the hard surface of the desk.
A beam of sunlight shines through the window onto Nickâs face, his lovely dark eyes light up, revealing flecks of amber and gold. The dial of his watch catches the sunlight, momentarily blinding you, though the movement makes you realize that he is rolling up his sleeves.
You are giddy with excitement, nudging him with the toe of your shoe. He slides off his chair to kneel in front of you and spreads your legs wide. He looks up at you, adoration shining in his eyes though there is something in his smile that makes a chill run up your spine.
You decide to focus on the sight of him on his knees. It always makes you feel so powerful to have the Mayor of Yonkers on his knees ready to please you with his talented mouth. And like the good politician he is, heâs always eager to please.
Putting all your weight on your forearm, you reach out to touch his face. He has one of your legs draped over his shoulder, his lips slowly tracing a path from your knee to your thigh, his teeth lightly playing with the sensitive skin of your thigh.
He does his best to keep your skirt above his head so he can look at you. You comb your fingers through his hair, biting your bottom lip in anticipation as he inches closer to your pussy. Your lips are parted, little whimpers and moans echoing around you.
His thumb drags through the folds of your pussy, wet with desire and ready to suck him in. Your fingers tighten in his silky hair, urging him closer. You can feel his smile against your skin, the hair above his lip so familiar.
Your moans are high-pitched little sighs, breathless and needy, as he finally lowers his mouth to your folds. He licks from your entrance to your clit, his free hand holding you firmly against him.
You are disoriented, your moans get louder and louder and you simply donât give a flying fuck. He pushes your skirt up, freeing his hand so he can spread your thighs wider. You are slouched on the desk, gasping and panting, one hand half-heartedly holding your skirt above Nickâs head, the other still in his hair.
He presses his tongue flat against your pussy, moaning into you, his half-lidded gaze meeting yours. You are completely shattered, crying out his name, rocking against him, pulling his hair. He can feel the way your pussy clenches, desperately needing something to grip onto but achingly empty.
He slides two thick fingers inside your slick hole and starts sucking your clit. Your climax soars through you, fists clenched, body convulsing, back arching off the desk. He helps you ride out your orgasm, filthy words of encouragement whispered against your skin.
Your soul is slowly returning to your body and you are keenly aware that his tongue is still lapping gently at your centre, gathering the evidence of your orgasm on his tongue.
You hum tiredly, running your fingers through his hair, when you feel the tip of his tongue trace a pattern; a line slanted downward, another upward. He repeats the motion again. It feels good, unusual but good.
Then you feel it again; a line slanted upward, a line slanted downward, and one across. Behind your closed eyes, you frown. The pattern is too complex, it has to be deliberate. You trace it in your mind.
âWhat are you-â the end of your sentence is cut off with a moan as his tongue traces a âSâ shape from your clit to your hole. And despite the post-orgasm fog, it hits you. Heâs been writing letters, a âWâ, an âAâ, and an âSâ. He is writing his fucking name. âYou have got to be joki-Â oh, Jesus Christ!â
He ends his âIâ by sucking on your clit and youâre a moaning mess again. It takes you another second to remember what you were about to say. The âCâ makes you buck against his mouth and by the time he hits you with the âSâ you are completely ruined.
You try to sit up, marvelling at the look on his face. He looks so proud of himself. This idiot. Your idiot. He finishes with a âKâ and a âOâ, and thatâs pretty much how you feel.
âYouâre impossible, Wasicsko.â
âHey, youâre the one who kept bugging me for my signature.â
âI wanted you to sign paperwork.â You slide limply to your knees, Nick laughing softly as he catches you in his arms. âGod, Nick, we have to stop doing this in your office.â
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. âDid you like it?â
You rest your forehead on his shoulder and try not to scream. Your legs are still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm and he damn well knows that. God, heâs such a sucker for praise. He definitely earned it though.
âYes, I loved it.â
You kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his lips, swallowing his little gasp. He cups the back of your head and slips his tongue into your mouth. His moustache tickles your upper lip, scratches your skin as he gets lost in the kiss. He squeezes his eyes shut, causing the space between his eyebrows to furrow.
Heâs holding on to you for dear life when you both come back for air.
âI love you,â he breathes out, gazing lovingly into your eyes. âYou know that, right?â
âI love you, too.â
Nick smiles, relieved, happy. Your heart soars for this man. He helps you to your feet, his erection obvious now that he is standing. âNow, câmon, you slacker,â he says, taking your hand and dragging you to the large conference table behind his desk. âWe havenât desecrated this part of the office yet.â
Summary: You were drawn to him like gravity. Like the only two bodies of mass on a lattice field, dipping in the center like marbles, stretching the fabric of time with the weight of yourselves and converging at the center into a singular point.
Length: 5.5k
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Romantic smut. Oral: f receiving. PiV.
Authorâs Note: I couldnât stop thinking about Peter making it to Rome and then confining himself to wait out his remaining days like an invisible stranger, careful not to disturb this timeline. I like to think his curiosity couldnât keep him away from a special event he never got to see firsthand. Enjoy!
The wedding of Callum Roiter to Rebecca Bradley took place at Creeksea Place in the Essex countryside on Saturday September 30th 2023. Is taking place, rather. Currently taking place. Peter Roiter arrives in a rented grey suit and gate crashes his own parentâs wedding, 13 months before his birth.
The camera flashes weakly against the midday light and at the same instant a bridesmaid looks in Peterâs direction and smiles.
Heâd cut his palm on that picture frameâthe shattered oneâthe bridal party laid in fragments in that parallel future time. He looks down at his hand and the thick scar is still there. He wonders if the Peter Roiter who will be born 13 months from tomorrow will get the same cut. If he will hit the cricket ball in the same exact angle, turning his head to the same exact call of his motherâs voice from the other room. âPeter!â Crash. A vortex.
Thatâs what had ruined the photo in the end. Not the shattered glass, but the blood. Will this timelineâs Peter Roiter grow up and do what heâs done? Do it exactly the same? Blood and shattered glass in the parlor. Blood and shattered glass in the terminal 4 bathroom.
Heâs never been to a wedding like this before. Never even heard of one with so many people, unrestrained smiles, photographs, laughter, dancing⊠nowhere outside of a movie, that is. His own wedding to Helen was private, as most weddings in 2050 were. Out of necessity. Sweet and civil. She held peonies and they danced to Marvin Berry in the backyard, underneath the stars and the patio lights. He has an insane urge to make a toast to the people of 2023 and tell them, âeat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.â
Theyâre so unaware. Unbothered. Itâs beautiful to see. Like the carefree cheers-ing that mustâve been happening on the Titanic cruiseliner 10 minutes before they collided with an iceberg.
He doesnât feel sorry for them. He is jealous. Theyâre feting in the last roaring moments of civilization, right before the interminable lockdowns will begin. He conservatively guesses that half of them will be dead within the next ten years.
He stays as invisible as he can, observing his parentâs tender happy moments from afar. Theyâre so young. Heâs nearly old enough to be their father.
During the ceremony he sees both sets of grandparents for the first time in his life in person. Maybe that should be his alibi instead of âcousin of the brideâ, heâs much more believable as âcolleague of the father of the groomâ. If only he could remember what Grandfather Roiter did for a living⊠insurance, maybe?
He wonât stick around long enough for anyone to ask just how he knows the lovely couple anyway. Heâll stay invisible for now, just another speck in this world that doesnât belong to him.
This timeline might be defunct anyway, he may very well be cautiously tip-toeing around what he only assumes is a sleeping beast, but may in fact be nothing more than a carcass. Peter errs on the side of caution anyway and sips champagne from the further-most table.
Callum Roiter, looking everything like the father of his childhood, stands from the center of the high table and clinks his crystal glass. His cheeks look hurt and shiny from smiling, he holds his new wifeâs hand and makes his toast, he thanks the guests for coming and makes a joke about how more guests mightâve showed up had they hosted the ceremony on the Boleyn Ground. Heâs so young. So untroubled. The trip to Essex was worth every potential risk to the balance to see the joy in his parentâs eyes in real time. He feels supremely lucky to be a product of such an astounding love.
And then Callum raises his glass higher, winks to Rebecca and announces, âand lastly, a great big thank you to American psychologist Doctor Eliza Knight,â There is a knowing laugh amongst the wedding party who are privy to the story of the bizarre phone call from a Dr. Knight. âWithout whom, I would have never met my beautiful bride. Wherever you are, love, cheers.â
âCheersâ the crowd responds. Peter downs the rest of his glass, âto Beatrix,â he mutters.
âYou know what thatâs about, donât you?â
Itâs the first time anyone has addressed him all day. He hadnât seen her approach. The young woman from the bridal party. The one who smiled at him as the flashbulb went off. Pink roses, purple gown, shards of glass, blood, and a cricket ball.
âWhatâs about?â His voice slips into the Essex dialect like itâs nothing. He wonders how much of that is the chip and how much of it is his real voiceâ the one his mother and father taught him to use. He looks down at his lap when the woman sits beside him.
âThe American doctor story.â
Oh he knows. Heâs heard the tale his whole life, moreover heâs overturned timelines and sold out the souls of billions for the American doctor in question. âNo,â he says to the pretty bridesmaid. âWould you let me in on it?â
*******
âCanât believe you havenât heard it before,â you smile, âwould have thought Cal and Bex told damn near everyone in England by now.â
âMust be a good one.â He says with almost no defensiveness. Almost.
Heâs cute. Older than you. A little scruffy, but in a very pleasing wayâslightly overgrown at the nape of his neck and shadowed in the roughness of his sharp jaw. His eyes are kind though. So hopeful, sweet, and terribly familiar.
âCome outside with me and Iâll tell you, itâs getting warm in here.â
He glances to the high table, thereâs a line forming of folks offering their congratulations along with envelopes of money to the young couple. He nods to you, leaving his grey rented coat on the back of the chair. He offers you his arm and you take it with a âthank youâ, leading him to the French doors and stepping out onto the grounds.
The air is late summer. Warm and green. A million twinkle lights glow along the pathway to the pond, the place where youâd first laid eyes on him this afternoon.
âWhatâs your name?â You ask, trodding slowly towards the gazebo, your arm still in his. His forearm is warm under the white cotton dress shirt.
âOliver.â
âHmm.â You smile.
âWhat?â Defensive.
âCould have sworn it was something else.â You goad.
You can feel his pulse pick up from your fingertips on the crook of his elbow.
âWhatâs your name?â He counters.
You ignore him. âI didnât bring you out here to tell you my name, I brought you out here to tell you a story, remember? Do you want to hear it or not?â
Peter breathes deep as if heâs winding up to tell you something but all he does with the breath is exhale and nod, âPlease.â
âLast year, November the 23rd, 2022, to be exact, both Callum and Rebecca got a mysterious phone call from a Doctor Eliza Knight, a psychoanalyst from America, telling them that she knew their son. That he was a 39 year old time traveler sent from the year 2062 named Peter Roiter and he claimed to be on a mission to save the world. What do you think of that, Oliver?â
His grin is tight, dismissive, âsounds like a nut job.â
âThe odd thing is, Callum and Rebecca had never met each other before. Doctor Knight gave each the otherâs information and told them it was crucial that they meet and fall in love and have this child. Peter.â
Peter says nothing.
âSo they do get together. Because of the absurdity. They go out for a drink, out of curiosity, to laugh about the madwoman who told them they were going to raise the messiah of the twenty first century.â
Peter leans against the railing of the gazebo and glances back to the house where the party is winding down. âAnd the rest is history.â He nods toward the red bricked abode.
âThatâs not all,â you smile conspiratorially.
âNo?â
âNo. See, I looked into it, just to check to see if there was a Doctor Eliza Knight, and there is⊠or there was.â
He remains silent and surreptitiously fingers the raised scar on the inside of his hand while you talk. Nervous habit.
âSee, the very next day after she made the phone calls, Doctor Knight walked into an airport bathroom in New York City and disappeared⊠disappeared! They checked all the security footage. She walks into the restroom and never walked out. They did find her clothes, and a shattered syringe full of blood that wasnât her own, a tape recorder in a trash can. But her? Nowhere to be found. Can you believe it? The very next day after calling Bex and Cal. Thatâs insane, right?â
He nods, lost in thought across the lake.
âItâs funny, most people get a real kick out of that anecdote. I was excited to tell you. Brought you out to the dim ambiance and everything.â
âItâs a great story. Really. Iâm just tired is all.â He folds his arms across his chest and looks at you with a believable amount of sleepiness.
âYouâve heard it before, havenât you?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âThat would be one explanation for your boredomâ you know the story by heart⊠How do you know the bride and groom, Oliver?â You nearly whisper, stepping closer to him.
âWho are you?â He backs away a step, bumping into the rim of the gazebo and catching himself on a polished beam.
âPeter, youâre about to upset a very fragile ecosystem that weâve been curating. I had to get you out of that party, I hope you understand.â
âWe?â
âPeter, if you care about the future, you need to kiss me right now, in the next five seconds, itâs our only chance.â
Peter doesnât hesitate. With a look of solid determination he takes two steps towards you, cradles your head in his hands and presses his lips to yours, kissing you with reserved lips that didnât match the committed blaze in his eyes. You break the kiss in near disbelief and regret.
âThat was mean, Iâm sorry.â
Peterâs face scrunches and he takes half a step back, letting you fall out of his grasp.
âWhat? Wait, tell me who you are, whatâs going on? Did the W.H.O send you? Do you have a message for me? Did the project work? Any word on Beatrix?â
You press your fingertips to your lips and your eyes widen.
âAre you fucking with me?â You accuse.
His face drops from hopeful to incredulous and the two of you stare at each other with mutual suspicion for a beat.
He licks his bottom lip. âWhy did I need to kiss you? Who are you?â
âIâm⊠Iâm a friend of Rebeccaâs. I⊠hang on, are youâ is your name really Peter? I just called you that because⊠because of what the doctor told BexâŠâ you can hear your heart hammering in your ears.
Peterâs eyes narrow, âyou were teasing me?â
âHoly shit. The⊠the doctor? The story? Peter Roiter?â
Peter remains stock still, his back rigid, gritting his teeth.
You clap your hand over your mouth and laugh. âOh my god! Bex is going to murder me if she finds out I snogged her son. This is so weird.â
âHow did you know?â
âI didnât! I mean, god, no one actually believes that story about the doctor, do they? itâs insane! something straight out of a movie! I figured they met each other on tinder and wanted a cuter âhowâd you meet?â Story and made this one up for clout or something, but⊠then we were taking photos today and you were lurking in the back of the setting up, lurking the back of the ceremony, sitting all by yourself in the back of the receptionâ not talking to anybody⊠which is exactly what someone who isnât trying to alter a timeline might do. What am I saying? And god you do really look like half Bex and half Cal⊠itâs uncanny.â
âYou canât tell anyone about this, you understand?â
âTell anyone? No one would believe me if I did! I donât even know if I believe me! Besides, Iâm not joking about the whole âBex would kill meâ thing, Iâm kind of skeeving myself out right now. I mean theyâre both fit and well obviously,â You gesture to Peter up and down before slapping your forehead, âoh my god, I needâI need to shut up.â
âWait, wait, wait, just calm down. Okay. I need toâlook, if this isnât a dead timeline, I canât have you treating Cal and Bexâs son any differently than you would had you not learned that.. that Iâm him. Soââ
âHang on, dead timeline? What the hell does that mean?â
âIs the name not obvious enough for you?â Peter begins to pace around the pergola, the valley between his brows growing deeper by the minute.
Your eyebrows shoot up, âwell excuse me for not understanding your sci-fi speak, Mr. Coherence.â
âDead timeline. It means the statistical likelihood of salvaging the future of this particular timeline is⊠astronomically low. If this is a dead timeline, then there is a near 100 chance humanity will be destroyed within the next 40 years.â
âOh god.â
âIt might not be. Thereâs no way of knowing right now.â
âThatâs reassuring.â
âIt could be a loop timeline, in which case, itâs important for you toââ
âNot treat the forthcoming baby Peter Roiter any differently.â
âExactly.â He breathes with relief.
âEven though he will apparently grow up to be a man who potentially puts me and everything and everyone I know and love into a dead future or whatever you called it.â
âThatâs notââ
âItâs fine, Peter, the less I know the better, right?â You shift in your heels and lean against the polished railing. âMight make it difficult to take him out for ice cream knowing that I snogged him at his mumâs wedding. Bleeding Christ, I really am sorry about that.â
âYouâre surprisingly easy to convince. And youâre taking this extremely well. Iâm not used to thatâ people believing me. And itâs fine, its my fault for being here, for following you outside. I promised I wouldnât interact with anyone and now weâre getting⊠inextricable.â
âI donât know why I believe you. I mean I know itâs crazy, itâs the least likely explanation for all of this, but I just feel like, I have to believe you. I just⊠have to. Now that sounds crazy.â
He shakes his head. âI really thought I was being stealthy coming here today. It was probably a mistake.â
âWell, if we are in a loop timeline, as you called it, I donât think there can be any mistakes. And if we are in a dead end, then the mistakes donât matter, right?â
âWho are you?â
You tell him your name. He shakes his head with that same worried valley between his brows.
âI donât remember you at all from my childhood. Or hearing about you from my mother. Iâm not even sure you were in the photo that I broke.â
âThe photo that you broke? What photo?â
Thereâs a sudden cacophony from the French doors where you exited the reception with Peter. A group of groomsmen stagger out, each with a champagne bottle in their hand, singing what you can only assume is a fight song from Calâs alma mater.
Peter runs his thumb and forefinger over the stubble surrounding his lips. Those lips that you made him kiss you with. God, what is happening?
âCâmon,â he mutters placing a hand at your lower back and guides you to the path by the pond, further away from the celebration. âJust being cautious.â
Thereâs a bench aglow with twinkle lights near the pond, out of view of the estate house. It feels good to sit and take some pressure off the silk heels you bought special for this evening. You slip them off and let your feet rest on the cool grass.
âWhat photo were you talking about?â You ask.
âThe bridesmaid photos with the bouquets on the bridge. I grew up with that photo in my house. But one day I was playing footballâ no, it was⊠it was cricket. I was playing cricket in the house and the photo shattered. I cut my hand trying to hide it from my mum, look.â
You take his hand, inspecting his palm and turning it over. He continues. âBut I donât recognize you. From the photo. I donât think you were there. You werenât looking at the camera. You were looking at me.â
âI donât see a scar.â
âWhat?â
Peter pulls back his hand.
âIt is kind of dark out, so that could be why.â
âWhaâŠâ Peter holds his hands up to the twinkle lights in the willow branches above the bench. He shakes his head. âThis doesnât make sense.â
âDeja vu.â You whisper.
Peterâs hands fall from inspection, he rubs his fingers together at his sides. âWhat did you say? Did you say Deja vu?â
âYeah. Iâveâ Iâve been here before. This has happened before. With you. Whatâs happening?â
Peter sits back down next to you on the bench, grabbing your upper arms with insistence. âAre you messing with me again? Are you screwing with my head?â Heâs breathing fast. He looks scared.
âNo! No, I swear Peter. This just⊠feels so familiar. Do you feel it? The smell in the air, the champagne bottles popping, you checking your hands in the light, the kiss in the gazebo⊠whatâs happening? What does it mean that Iâve felt this before?â
Peter lets go of your arms and runs his thumbs across the smooth insides of his knuckles. âIt means⊠it means itâs elastic. This timeline is still alive. Iâm not in a loop, Iâm not in a dead end. Something is happening⊠or something will happen. Either way, weâre all still breathingâŠâ Peter laughs quietly for a few moments before silencing himself with his own hand. âSomewhere, somehow, in the past 20 minutes or so, a vortex was formedâ a shift in the timeline.â
âWhat does that mean? Is that good or bad?â
Peter shakes his head. âI donât know. Weâus in the futureâdonât even fully understand it. Itâs a technology we discovered from elsewhere in the universe. Iâve been thinking lately that we donât have the receptive capacity to understand the dimensionality. Like trying to conceptualize a tesseract.â
âWhat are you doing here? Still trying to save the world?â
âNo. That window closed. Or at least, I thought it had.â
âSo your window is closed. You didnât succeed?â
He stares into your eyes for several beats. He thinks about December 31st in Rome. How he waited on platform 23 at the piazza di Spagna until the last train came it at near midnight. And how he walked around the Villa Borghese alone when security shooed him away from the station, he walked back to the red tiled hotel alone. A doomed mission. He mustâve passed at least a dozen kissing couples that night ringing in the new year.
âNo. I didnât. Iâm sorry.â His apology feels personal.
âItâs okay.â You say with a small voice, placing a hand on his knee. âSo, now what? Do you go back, to your original time, the future?â
âCanât go back. Canât go anywhere. Even if I could, thereâs no one to retrieve me.â
âSo you just live out the rest of your days here in 2023 onward?â
Peter bites his lip and looks out over the pond. âYeah.â
âWhat happens when baby Peter Roiter is born?â
âYouâre too quick, you know that?â Peter snorts and shakes his head.
âI watch a lot of sci-fi movies,â you smile, shouldering off your lavender shawl and pointing out your tattoo. âSee. Itâs aââ
âDeLorean.â He traces his finger over the small line drawing tattoo.
âA 1981 DeLorean DMC-12 to be exact.â You grin proudly.
Peter swallows and traces his finger down your bare arm, making your hairs raise.
âYou got it the day of your 18th birthday. You had a fight with your father and you got it on a whim. You were so angry at your father that you cried when you got it and when the tattoo artist asked if you needed a break from the pain you saidââ
âHow do you know this, Peter, youâre scaring me.â
âYou said, Iâve had worse.â
âPeterââ
âI know you. Weâve been here before. This bench. The lights, the way they glow on your skin.â He swipes the side of your face lightly with the back of his unblemished hand.â He gulps. âI kiss you on the gazebo by the pond, I kiss you under a willow tree far away from the house, Iââ he shifts closer, his forehead nearly touching your own. âI carry you like a bride up the stairs and I kiss you in a room with golden leaves on the ceiling.â
You shift closer to him, your noses touching.
âDonât you remember?â He asks, cupping your cheek. âNo matter where I go. There you are. Entanglement.â
âI remember.â You nod. âTell me, Peter. Tell me what happens when youâre born.â
Peter cradles your face in both of his hands and pulls back a fraction of an inch, eyes flickering between your own before he sighs and shuts them in a near grimace.
âI die.â He kisses you. And its so different from the kiss on the gazebo. Your little lie, your little trick in back there that got him to kiss you the first time. A lieâ or so you thought at the time. Something made you say it to him youâre sure of that now. The deception was compulsory. It wasnât why you led him out at the time. But now it its.
As sure as he knows the date of his own birth, he knows he will die. In almost exactly 13 months. Or sometime before; but never after. They didnât teach him every facet at The Project, mainly due to their own ignorance; and he wouldnât have to face his demise if he had only taken himself to the extraction point⊠but that had been out of the question. And what is he doing now? With you on this bench? 100 yards from his newlywed parents. This is a new dream he is fulfilling, the erasure of his scar, these new-old memories, the fulfillment of a loop.
Your silk shoes abandoned in the grass, he scoops up your knees onto his lap, he holds your face so tenderly and kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you beneath the willow tree.
He carries you like a bride to your bedroom at the top of the stairs. If any party stragglers notice you, you arenât aware. You cling to Peter with your face buried in his neck, holding to his broad shoulders, your bare toes make brushing contact with the walls of the stairwell as you ascend. You donât need to tell him which room is yours, heâs been here before hasnât he? You certainly have. In a dream. In another life.
He lays you gently on the bed, kissing up your ankles, sliding the satin of your sheath dress up your legs as he goes, crawling up and up and up you, his lips trailing over the rise of your knees with abject devotion. His strong hands splay and scoop under your dress, under your hips, to grab your lace panties. He looks into your eyes from where he kisses the crest of your thigh when he slides the material down your legs and tosses them to the floor.
âHow could I have forgotten you?â He whispers with a longing against your skin, pushing your dress up until it pools in a satin puddle at your middle. He kisses the tip of your hipbone before he settles between your thighs, his stubble scratches pleasantly at the sensitive flesh when he runs his nose along the junction of your hip and thigh.
Cradling your hips in his palms, he shrugs your legs over his shoulders. Heâs still fully dressed, the only disrobing he did of himself was the grey jacket abandoned on the the back of the far-table chair in the reception hall downstairs, and the blue tie he loosened and discarded somewhere near your panties. His disguise.
He crawls up further onto the bed to fully press his face into your sex. He latches onto your puffy cunt with his kiss-swollen lips and licks you open with messy, savoring swirls of his tongue. His mouth hot and slick, chin and nose pressing into you with a rocking hungry motion. You donât intend to cry out at the sensation but heâs making love to you with his mouth like it isnât the first time and you have no choice but to strangle your own keen of pleasure and fully and gracelessly recline on the bed, the prop of your elbows unable to hold you up through the slick furnace of pleasure that is Peter Roiterâs mouth.
You scrunch your eyes closed and bite your bottom lip when his tongue focuses in on your clit, hot mouth still sealed around your pussy, he lathes you with stern and steady lashings to your point of pleasure. Your hands fist in the pool, of silk at your belly. He sighs hotly into you and works his own fingers through yours, loosening your grasping hands from your dress. He laces all his fingers flush with yours, soothing the sides of your palms with his thumbs.
He never stops the hot assault of your spread sex with his tongue. Your grass stained heels rest lightly on the taut warm linen of his dress shirt. You can feel the way the muscles back there flex, your feet sliding every so slightly when his hips buck gently into the mattress. You donât open your eyes until youâre desperately close to cumming in his mouth and when you look up all you can see are flashes of gold.
Your hips lift off the mattress with the arch of your back and the contraction of your thighs. You let out a long low keen and his face tilts up to follow your clit, sucking you lovingly, his hands gripping more tightly to your own than ever before.
âPeter,â your lips tremble, you slowly open your clamped shut eyes.
There it is. The gold leaf ceiling glinting in warm yellow light. Just as he said. Just as your remember. You stare dazedly at it and you know in less than a moment Peter will crawl up your shaking sweating body and place a kiss on your lips. He does. You grab him by his thick curls and push and pull and twist him in a debauched kiss till heâs flat on his back and youâre on top. His mouth is hot and sticky and so, so giving.
He runs his hands lightly over the open back of your dress. You only unbuckle him enough, and shimmy his trousers midway down his thighs, to get him inside of you. When you sink down on him he holds your forehead against his and gasps in disbelief.
âIââ He chokes, catching his breath and fighting his eyes rolling back so he can get a good look at you when you take him all the way down.
âWhat?â You smile, stroking his cheek.
âIâ Iâve missed you. Ahh.â He grabs you hard then, sitting up slightly and clawing your dress strap down so he can bite and suck the softest parts of your chest.
You cradle his head there, grinding into his lap slowly, gasping softly at the feel of him inside you.
âYou wonât disappear, will you?â You whisper in a daze of pleasure.
No, he chants against your breast.
âNo, no, no. I canât lose you.â He holds you tight to him like he means it.
Peter has pulled the top of your dress down to your waist now and his hands roam freely over your back, plotting the elevated terrain of your shoulders, the valley between your breasts, and the maps of rivers at your wrists.
He lays fully back down and takes you with him. You smile against his kiss.
âGetting tired, old man?â
âMmm, Iâm younger than youâtechnicallyâ negative one years old next month.â He bites your ear. You laugh. He thrusts up into you. You moan and clutch him by his clothed shoulders.
Peter cups your cheek in his hand. The one with the missing scar. You turn your face to kiss his unblemished palm. You rock on him slowly, his mouth parts in bliss.
âDoes this mean anything can change at any time?â You ask, glancing at the inside of his hand.
âYes but thatâs always been a given.â Cheeky.
âNo, I donât mean just anything. Iâm not talking about normal changes, I concerned aboutââ
âDissolving out of a photograph? Ceasing to exist?â He teases, flicking your tattoo.
âOr Chuck Berry never writing Johnny B. Goode?â
âWho?â Peter delivers in convincing deadpan curiosity before breaking out into a beautiful grin.
You pinch his side. âRat.â You can feel the intensity of his jerking response to the pinch where heâs buried warmly inside you.
Peter nods, âI donât know. I hate saying that I donât know and I hate that worried little look on your face, but I promise that it doesnât change anything. We are here and like it or not the only thing certain is change.â
âThe mortal agreement.â
âThere is one thing I do know. No matter what I change, no matter where I go. I find you. Even when I send you away, you bounce back. Right back into my arms. A less scientifically minded man might think that love has itâs own special inter-dimensional set of physics. We just⊠keep extracting entropy from a closed system. No matter how hard I break the billiards they fly right back to the center of the table in formation. Not always in the same order, but⊠still⊠accounted for. I thought it was fragile, like butterfly wings, you know? But Iâm learning itâs durable. Itâs elastic, alive. And you always bounce back.â
âSounds less like time travel and more like pattern reconfiguration.â
Peter tucks your hair behind your ear and drinks in your face, nodding thoughtfully. âEverything you say. Everything youâve said. Itâs all like something thatâs on the tip of my tongue.â
You grin, bending over him, taking his pretty face in your hands, you kiss him and suck his tongue into your mouth, bobbing your mouth on the tip of it suggestively, âis it?â You smile. Heâs still hard in you. You hope he never stops. This is how you should have every conversation about everything from here on out. Joined together, the beast with two backs as Shakespeare would say.
âI donât want to cum.â He groans into your mouth, âwhen I cum Iâll have to stop being inside you, and I donât want that, I want to live inside you.â
Call it the contrarian in you, but the admission only makes you want to force it out of him against his will. To make him fall apart precisely because he said he was trying his best to keep it together.
You clench, ride him, and moan into his ear until heâs nearly tapping out from ecstasy and when he comes he calls your name.
âOh no.â You gasp, looking around worriedly.
âWhat? What is it?â Peter halfway sits up, adrenaline opening his eyes fully.
âDo you think your parents heard us?â You grin teasingly.
Peter sighs with relief and shakes his head, kissing your cheek and crushing you against his chest in a hug.
You donât worry about tonight, the shoes you left outside, the rented jacket in the reception hall, or what will transpire in the next 13 months. Everything will bounce back in the end.
=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Tagging everyone who interacted with the post asking who was interested in this Peter Roiter fic:
Any interest in a Peter Roiter fic about him attending his parents wedding in 2023â thirteen months before his own birthâwhere he meets someone (*ahem* YOU) and things get sci-fi sexy?
âi did this because i systematically learned to love you in all timelinesâ
and then vincent knocking on her door bc he canât stop thinking about her. he keeps dreaming of her. he feels like they already know each other, like they are meant to be together and he doesnât know why đ
