MISSION: THE AI AND THE COMMANDER

[ximilian]

● ● ● M I S S I O N   1 4 . 0

SOMEWHEN • PRESENT DAY • FYI

// SOMEWHEN  

The hum of the teleportation platform is familiar, filling your ears as the bright light dissipates enough to safely open your eyes. You feel something solid beneath your feet, and the lack of scent from the asphalt and dirt in Nuhiri and Deumia marks a departure from anything resembling a planet, the space around you giving you no reason to think anything of it. You're on the Ximilia once again — finally. Another mission successfully accomplished, for whatever other hardships you and the rest of the team have endured. Hot food and hot showers await, and Newt will surely be scurrying off to prepare for the team’s usual post-mission movie night.

You’re back and you can’t wait for Viveca to greet you, and for Degar to take the orb away, back to the North Wing to join the other ones.

Except … the station’s walls appear to be peeling, and some of the equipment looks a little older and unpolished. There’s even a layer of space-dust on one of the control boards. And most importantly: no one is here to greet you. As you turn and look to your fellow crewmates in confusion, even now some of you might start to wonder at the change of routine. Ivy, who had just been handling the orb, will be empty-handed, but surely there’s nothing to worry about. The station is peaceful and still. Nothing feels amiss … yet. And then:

// 0-L1V-14

Oh, hello. You are not the team I know. Yet you are here for the orb … Good.

The sound of 0-L1V-14 — or 'Olivia' as many have come to call her — voice springs to life around you. She almost seems to sound confused for a moment, clearly recalibrating her systems for this strange occurrence, before the gentle tenor of her voice regains its composure and she recalls her mission directive. The lights in the teleportation platform seem to glow just a little brighter, as though the arrival of the crew has buoyed the AI's spirits.

// 0-L1V-14

I've located one within the station, but it seems to have fractured. The air around them appears to have some sort of temporal disturbance that I can't quite pin down. Be cautious, but bring them to me before anything happens.

Well? You heard the AI. Best to start looking.

1.0   The first thing you might think to do is return to the sleeping quarters, either to clean up and change into another set of clothes; or to take a much-deserved nap; or maybe you just need a moment to yourself to collect your thoughts. The doors to the sleeping quarters seem to stick for a moment, which isn’t worrying in and of itself, but as the doors slide open you realize that you’re looking into a dark and empty carved out space that resembles a place for storage more than anything else. The walls and doors that used to make up your individual rooms are absent, and the floors are stripped bare, with rows of perforated grates allowing the cavernous space to remain relatively well-ventilated. It’s clear that no one has visited this room in quite some time, and perhaps there had once been plans for it, now abandoned to hold a stock of random items in its place.

There are boxes stacked against the wall, and a shelving unit that holds miscellaneous supplies: cans and boxes, batteries and wires, old bound notebooks made of paper. Rolls of rough tarp are haphazardly leaning against the wall to one corner, and thermal blankets are scattered amongst scraps of loose-leaf, a sketch of a cluster of spherical shapes in different colours, and other foreign knick-knacks that seem to have no place on a space station. If you decide to explore this space you’ll have to provide your own source of light as none of the lighting above seem to work though the row of fixtures that you’re used to seem, at least, to have been installed. They’re just not currently online.

Investigating the room a little deeper might draw you to a simple metal box sitting in the middle shelf next to what looks like a half-broken lute, its strings missing. There is no lock on this box, as though it wants to be opened, and lifting the lid will reveal a bright rosy-coloured light. Reaching out towards the small sliver of light in the shape of an elongated teardrop will recall a memory of your childhood so vivid, you’ll think you were back in that time, in that exact moment, to relive it again. Whether it's a good memory or a tragic one is left up to random chance. Only someone entering the room to talk you through your memory will remind you that you aren’t actually a child any longer.

2.0   Perhaps you decide to forgo the sleeping quarters entirely, and want to revisit one of your favourite simulations in the simulation room. Familiar oceans, the futuristic bar, or the room filled with adorable puppies might be your first choice — but every preset you’re used to scrolling through seems to be different now. There are the standard, familiar pre-mission training simulations, and even the Lodgen Mountain Mines mission appears to be here, but everything else has either been deleted … or it was never here to begin with.

You might decide to go ahead with one of the already existing simulations anyway, or you might want to start rewriting the one you’d come here for in the first place. It will depend on your luck, and it will depend on the success of your mission-training, but a small shard of bright, silvery coloured light may suddenly reveal itself to you. It appears like a thin tear-shape that hangs suspended in the air. The faintest whisper beckons you close; it’s familiar. Will you reach out to touch it? Doing so will colour the simulation room around you with a memory so real it might as well be — suddenly you might recall a happy moment in your life, or perhaps your greatest victory or adventure. This can be shared with whoever enters the simulation room with you or after you, and will fade when you manage to locate the right door and leave the room.

3.0   The sunlight room that you may have walked through on countless occasions is missing the familiar bridge, the river that runs beneath it, and trees that surround it. Instead, the vegetation around you appears to be far more deliberate and practical, thick foliage like bushes planted in rows, their large leaves covering most of the ground and soil. Several small metal boxes with wires and buttons can be found planted across the space, each with a thin rotating disc that whirs and spins quietly. Each of these boxes appears to give off readings, each screen displaying a continuous green wavy line scrolling across it and text that displays the quality of the air with a percentile grade, the amount of it being produced, and that particular box’s designation zone: Mess Hall, Storage, Living Quarters, and Teleportation Platform among others. This isn’t just a room that simulates nature, but if you were to approach any of the small bushes and saplings here, it’s clear that the plants here are real and they’re currently working to provide the rest of the station with oxygen.

Further to the back of the sunlight room, a bright sliver of colourful green light seems to glitter and glint between the leaves. It feels familiar in the way that it whispers faintly, and if you concentrate you can make out the sound of your name in a voice like that of someone from your past: a friend, perhaps, or a family member. Maybe a loved one or an enemy. Or perhaps it’s a voice you can’t actually recognize. It might compel you to reach out for the light, but will you listen? Or will you turn away?

If you embrace the light and call out in answer to the voice, you will re-experience the action, the conversation, or the thought that you attribute as being the reason you are who you are today with that most important person being the key piece in your memory.

4.0   Looking for your usual snacks? Feeling peckish for that bowl of instant spicy space-ramen you saved for post-mission? You might head into the kitchen expecting the familiar foodstuffs that you’re used to only to find that the room has been rearranged, with far fewer cupboards and appliances, and more of what looks like typical space-fare: freeze-fried items and nutrition-focused meals sealed into silver foiled bags. What ‘fresh’ ingredients exist are even less, and there are a stack of dirty plates and cutlery in the sink that don’t look like anything you or your crewmates might have used. You may already suspect that this whole station isn’t the one you’re used to, or you might still be in denial. Either way, you may find through your rummaging the call to a little sliver of coppery-coloured light located behind the freezer door.

If you decide to touch the fragment of light here, you’ll feel a ghostly burning as though the glint of the light has cut your skin, almost cold enough to feel sharp — but it’s just your imagination, isn’t it? What you remember now as it comes back to life around you (and the team member or members who may have joined you) is the best meal you’ve ever eaten, whether it is something you made for yourself, something made by your loved one, or the meal that leaves your heart feeling empty and aching.

5.0   You may have become so accustomed to seeing the North Wing doors sealed that it’s your curiosity that draws you forward to the wide expanse beyond the now open wing, your feet testing the threshold as if you’re expecting an invisible wall to keep you out. Nothing happens when you step into the North Wing, though you might immediately notice the large tank that holds all of the team’s successfully captured orbs is very clearly missing. And not only that but the space appears to be well lived in, a small cluster of worn chairs and a table set to one side, and data pads and drawings on white-boards in plain view. They don’t seem to be much more than a couple of crude strategy diagrams (and a couple of silly stick figures in one corner) and as you move towards the crew quarters, some of you might instantly recognize the familiar room with its rows of beds and a scattering of personal effects assigned to each bunk. Photos are pinned to walls of a twenty-person crew, pillows and blankets are left in disarray by unfinished knitting projects, a diary written in a language you can’t quite translate, and a stuffed elephant-shaped plush doll lies at the head of one of the beds in the middle of the room. By the door is a neatly made bed. An analogue paperback novel sits on the nightstand, a bookmark set in the middle to note its progress. On top of it is a well-kept watch stopped a little after the sixth hour and a medal of service in the now recognizable insignia of the Ndiera Complex’s Federation.

By the far wall of these sleeping quarters is a bright golden starlight that seems to illuminate that side of the room as though someone had turned on a torchlight to the highest setting; it’s almost blinding. Moving closer to it, you’ll find that it’s like all the other slivers of light scattered across the station — a broken shard, like a piece of a large puzzle. Touching it may pull you — and whoever might be in the room with you — into a memory from your time with the Ximilia crew, whether it happened over a year ago, or it happened only on the last mission. It might be a happy memory, or it might be something you regret, which is poignant considering your initial raison d’etre for being here at all. It’s a vision that appears from your perspective and while you relive it, you feel outside of yourself.

6.0   The rest of the station still appears to be intact, with the infirmary, the training room, and the armoury in the same locations that you remember. Those of you who have been here for quite some time, you’ll find your way around by muscle memory alone; but even if you’re a newer member of the crew you’ll have wandered the halls enough to know what feels familiar to you … and what doesn’t.

The infirmary looks to be a little out of date, though it looks as if it’s seen its fair share of use. And it’s smaller too, the more recent addition and surgical area missing from the cozy space. The training room and the armoury share similar qualities of seeming a little older, a little more lived in, and with well-used equipment and weapons to boot. The training room is still padded with firm padded flooring and benches for sitting. Some of the racks and hooks (all empty) that had been against the wall have fallen now, and similar to the teleportation room, you’ll find that some of the paneling in this room has since peeled away, revealing some of the bare structure behind them. In the armoury, you won’t find your favourite knife or preferred staff but there are still a few choices in weaponry to arm yourself with.

Wherever you decide to explore, you might once more happen upon a bright bluish light that seems to whisper and call to you in soft, hushed tones. No specific words can be picked out through the murmurs but the feeling is all the same — it draws you forward like a moth to flame, but whether you decide to reach a hand out to touch the sliver of light that hangs suspended in the air is entirely your choice. If you do, you might succumb to a vivid memory of a significant injury you or someone important to you had suffered once, reliving that moment with too sharp clarity. Those feelings of fear or threat or maybe even satisfaction seem to come to you again as though you were there again — only this time you may not be alone as you witness this memory, and someone else has entered the room with you.

● ● ●

Present Day.

The teleportation platform hums quietly in a clean, well-maintained room. No walls or floors appear to be even the least bit dented, and now the Commander of the Ximilia stands behind the control board, staring at the screen as though doing so will bring their crew back by some wild form of magic. Degar knows magic — he’d come from a world so full of it. This, however, is something different.

Beside him, Viveca scans through the data that had sent the crew into the Ndiera Complex, as it should have brought them back the same way, with the orb in tow.

// VIVECA

“I don’t know how it happened… they should have arrived here. Everything seemed normal! But I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.”

// DEGAR

“They could be anywhere, right? Except we can’t even help them if we don’t know where that might be.”

// VIVECA

“I know. The strange thing is that it seems that we’ve located another orb… only, it states that it’s here. On the station. So even if the platform sent them straight to it… why aren’t they here?”

The Commander and the AI both turn their gaze towards the still empty teleportation platform before exchanging worried glances with each other. Degar finally heaves an exhale but the frown in his features deepens.

// DEGAR

“Keep working at it. I’m going to see what I can figure out in the station’s systems. Maybe we can trace back to the team somewhere. Or somewhen.”

Viveca nods, her voice sounding complicated when she responds next.

// VIVECA

“Yeah. We’ll find them.”

TOP

F Y I

• The events in this log take place during the first two weeks of June.

• For this mission, we have decided to run the search request mechanic a little differently. Depending on whether your character decides to touch or grasp one or any of the slivers of coloured light that can be found throughout the station, you will have the opportunity to participate in a search request. More on this is explained HERE.

• If you have questions about any of the prompts or the mission in general, please direct them HERE.

• Any in-character questions to 0-L1V-14 can be asked HERE.

• And finally, your soundtrack for this log: ♪ ♪ ♪

TOP

▶ NAV

Comments

[peasant]

[ it's odd. the plant life smells as it should, woodsy and crisp — and not just a deceptive trick played on the senses. even as she sways smoothly into the pull of his embrace, one hand settling upon his forearm, alina can't resist skimming a fingertip over the prickly spine of a bush. ]

You always think you're clever.

[ you know, to be fair. and most of the time, he's obnoxiously correct about it. her eyes flash back to his, pointedly wry, as she adopts the expression of a long-suffering woman made to endure his wordplay. ]

I was only stroking your ego, in case it's feeling delicate today.

[ absolutely not the case. but his ego, as it stands, could use some teasing and ruffling. ]

[dispassioned]

[Okay, well, that is true. He does always think he’s clever, even if Alina herself has a unique talent for puzzling him. Intelligence is one thing he’s always felt comfortable taking pride in.

So he does nothing for refute it, instead focusing on her comment about ego stroking.]

Ah, is that it? Very kind of you.

[His tone is amused and warm as he leans down to kiss her jaw and neck, noting the way one of her hands reaches out to brush the leaves surrounding them.]

I thought you’d like the plants.

[He remembers the plants in her apartment on Naephus and their talk of him getting a cactus. She seems to enjoy nature.]

[peasant]

I know.

[ she injects her answering quip — and answering cheeky grin — with all of his modesty, which is to say ... absolutely zero humbleness. it's easy to invoke that air of pompousness as she peels her fingers back, cradling the back of his skull into the nook of her throat. a content sigh flutters up in the air, breezing quietly through the parted seam of her mouth. ]

It's too bad it can't always be like this.

[ filled with real, genuine life. but even as she thinks it, she worries her presence would only be a poison to it. gone is the nurturing her sunlight could give, inviting blooms to bend toward her as a source of life. now, she wonders if her touch wouldn't just bring death, to something so delicate.

she ignores the twitch in her fingers to reach back out, accordingly. threads them through his hair, instead, petting in languid strokes, to temper the urge. ]

Though it could do with some flowers, I think.

[dispassioned]

[He hums softly and pauses for a moment, suddenly curious. He lifts his head to look at her.]

What kind of flowers?

[They've talked about cherry blossoms before, and cactus. But he realizes he doesn't know what kinds of flowers she prefers herself.]

[peasant]

[ she startles into a fawnlike blink. there's something about becoming the sole focus of chishiya's curiosity that adds a spark of intensity, shocks her with a jolt when she finds herself at the center of his attention, like he's narrowed down his world to her. or, in this case, learning her — acting like these little details, insignificant as pollen in the wind to most people, are important enough to pocket. ]

All sorts.

[ it's hardly a sufficient answer. she winds her fingers around the ends of his hair, toying with them, looping and undoing its mass in the same breath. it'd be too easy to let the darkling ruin this for her, that association of blue petals always tied to him. she refuses to allow it. ]

But irises are my favorite. [ her smile carries just a sliver of bashfulness. ] The blue ones. They always stand out more in Ravka.

[ white irises are too easily lost in snow, too lacking in brightness. but perhaps it's safe to say she's always had a soft spot for anything — everything — that stands out in its environment. that grows hardy, despite its climate. ]

[dispassioned]

[He hums softly. That makes sense, actually. She had mentioned liking the color blue before, and irises are one of the few flowers to produce blue petals.

And they're a symbol of hope, the same way cherry blossoms are a symbol of transience. It suits her, really.

He kisses her mouth gently.]

I'll keep that in mind.

[He murmurs against her lips before deepening the kiss.]

[peasant]

[ it takes focus to keep the muscles in her mouth slack, turning her smile limp, to be able to return his kiss. the process of it isn't methodical, by any means — but there's a slowness to it, a languid melting like chocolate warming in a pan. syrupy. sweet. she swipes an indulgent tongue over his lower lip, licking into his mouth.

when she breaks from it, it's punctuated by the lightest nip — if the featherlight pressure of her lips could ever be called a separation. ]

You make it sound like you're planning something nefarious.

[ her nose nudges his, playful. in truth, she doesn't sound particularly worried. it's nice, for little facts about herself to fill his mind as though he's preserved them, written them down for memorization the way a studious academic would. ]

[dispassioned]

[He chuckles softly, nipping her lower lip lightly in response.]

Not nefarious.

[It's not even a plan so much as an idea. One that he won’t be able to implement until this temporal mess is sorted out and they’re back on the real Ximilia.

Though, that doesn’t mean he’s not still willing to be a little nefarious right now. He presses her back against the wall gently, turning his attention from her mouth to nibble at the soft skin of her neck, taking a moment to pull a mark to the surface.]

[peasant]

[ a murmur of a sound stirs in her throat. it's only the lingering edge of her awareness at the periphery of her thoughts that has her swallowing it down. minimizing it to a breathy sigh — a wisp of noise that could be mistaken for wind, if anyone were to skirt by.

the effect is her own restlessness, the gnawing at her bottom lip; she wiggles only slightly against the wall, settling for her nails along his scalp, a light and scoring pressure. ]

Aren't you always nefarious?

[ her endeared breathlessness only drives the point home. it's his proclivity for mischief that's brought them both here, to this secluded corner of the sunlight room. ]

[dispassioned]

[He hums, amused smiling against her neck before kissing the mark he just left there.]

Maybe a little wicked.

[And as though to highlight the point he slides a hand down her side to ruck up the hem of her hoodie.]

You know, this looks better on you than it did on me.

[Maybe that's why he doesn't object to her keeping it. Because he assumes she'll probably be keeping it.]

[peasant]

That's your favoritism speaking again.

[ but she won't shuck the compliment like it's an oyster empty of a pearl. time has allowed her to adjust to ravka's hard-won flattery, but she isn't numb to sincerity, stripped down as he presents it. a telling flush sparks on her collarbone, shiny and red as any ruby pendant.

she suppresses a giggle at the ticklishness crawling up her thighs to join his (her) hem, plucking at its other edge to help him along in its upward glide. ]

Suppose I'll have to keep it, if you like how it looks so much.

[ rip. he damned himself to this fate, with that easy justification for stashing away hoodies like a cat with hair ties. ]

[dispassioned]

Hm.

[He leans down to kiss the blush that blooms at her throat.]

Is there something wrong with that?

[Having favoritism and showing it. He won’t claim to be objective, but he sees no reason not to be utterly shameless in his bias if he wants to be.

Even if it means losing another hoodie, though honestly he had resigned himself to that when he chose to give it to her. He can’t say he’s regretting now, either.]

You won't hear me complaining.

nsfw (?????) cw sluts live here

[peasant]

[ it's posed as rhetorical, she's certain. but she's made note of chishiya's curious needling, in times like these, like he needs a measure of what's normal. what her boundaries will accept. one incident of toeing out of line with her will have that effect, alina supposes.

still. she's hardly a rubric for what's ordinary. if it's commonplace to them — right to them — isn't that enough? she tries to chance a peek down at him before she concedes her attempt, head falling back to pillow against the wall. the lean line of her throat exposes itself, slender and swan-like, as her skull lolls to one side. ]

No. I enjoy being the favorite.

[ it's dreadfully honest. terrifyingly so, even. at the very fabric of her is the same stupid girl that had been so easy to string along, to fool with reverence and adoration and acceptance, no matter how she's tried to rip those stitches out. tried to remake herself of stronger things than fluff and stuffing that can never truly plug the persistent, starved ache inside of her.

her fingertips tiptoe down his neck, ignoring the rabbit-hearted thump of her pulse. they slither past his collar, drawing patterns on what she can reach of his skin. ]

The role comes with certain perks.

[dispassioned]

[It had been rhetorical, but in a way, not expecting a serious answer makes her confirmation even better. It feels good to know she appreciates his attention as much as he likes giving it. He smiles slowly against her throat, releasing a low pleased hum in response.

He chuckles softly at her comment about perks as he presses his thigh between her legs.]

Like cheesecake.

[His voice is low and warm, teasing, as he unzips her hoodie by a few inches so he can plant warm kisses along her collarbone.]

[peasant]

[ the corners of her mouth petal upward. the bloom of her smile is a luminous thing, suddenly bright, as she breathlessly confirms — ]

Like cheesecake. And comfortable sweaters.

[ or the attentive press of his thigh between her legs. alina's own straddle it in a taut squeeze, rolling herself along the corded length of that muscle; shamelessness begets shamelessness, after all. the result is almost uncomfortably sticky, the answering dampness in her underwear pushed up against the seam of her, but it does what it's meant to. alleviates the beginning of an ache with the sweet sting of friction that rockets through her.

her shoulders shift to clutch at his shoulders. the dip of her head presses her face into silver-blonde, tickling strands of his hair — mussed by the little puffs of exertion she lets out between the ebb and flow of her hips, working herself up into a spell of breathlessness. ]

[dispassioned]

[He can hear the smile in her voice and he lifts his head to look at her, an answering smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.]

Happy to oblige.

[He murmurs, his voice husky, as he rests his forehead against hers. He generally doesn’t consider himself a needy person in general, but there’s always a hunger that comes in sharing these moments with her and it hasn’t lessened since their first night together. If anything, right now, with the stress of the last few days weighing on his shoulders, it feels stronger than ever. A much needed moment of escape and reassurance, as she clings to him, her body swaying against his as she seeks out friction to satisfy the ache between her legs. It leaves him breathless, his own arousal spiking in response as he presses closer to her.]

[peasant]

[ from any other mouth, she would assume it's all saccharine fluff, a teasing nicety. from his, she doesn't doubt it; he'd rushed to offer his hoodie as if fearing she would be struck by hypothermia with it. had led her into this private little alcove to prop her here to make good on a promise that had only ever been intended as a jest.

all signs point to the fact he is, actually, happy to oblige her in most aspects. her lips wobble into a knowing smile against his mouth, restlessly twisting the fabric of his collar between her fingers. ]

I know you are.

[ it's faint, wispy as a whisper between them — nearly adrift, between her humid exhales. her lips go lax against his, open-mouthed in distraction. exertion ripens her cheeks into a strawberry-pink flush, vining down her neck, the longer she ruts against his thigh. she tugs on the fabric bunched between her fingers, mumbling: ]

I thought this was a hands-on lesson?

[ there's a distinct lack of hands going on. teaching, for that matter, as well. but for all of that statement's needy brattiness, it carries a warm inflection. ]

[dispassioned]

[He chuckles, the smile on his lips morphing into a grin that dimples his cheeks.]

Hoh? [It's an amused, breathy sound against the corner of her jaw.] I thought you didn't care for that joke.

[He's teasing. She'd reacted to the pun in exactly the way people are supposed to react to such things. It's entirely possible he just enjoys pushing her to the limits of her patience and inspiring her to make needy, bratty statements.

But she has a point. He supposes the lack of real privacy makes teasing her for too long dangerous. He moves his leg back a quarter-step only to give his hand room to slide into her underwear so his fingers can seek out her swollen clit.]

Better?

[peasant]

[ she turns her head, serpent-quick, to sink fangs into his lower lip. there's no question about it — it's punitive, a bite of revenge for trying to rile her, even as his fingers slip smoothly past the band of her underwear.

maybe it's a reward, too, that she soothes over the sting she's left behind, once his hand gets to work where she wants it. her tongue flicks out, a cold balm against the indent her teeth have left, some little sigh of approval betraying her relief when she mumbles, ]

It's a start.

[ blatant lie. but he deserves her withholding praise, in turn for his teasing. her head thunks back against the wall behind her, lashes fluttering in a dark fan against her cheek — the very picture of pleasured contentment as she tries to spread her thighs wider, hips tilting toward him, seeking.

it's a useless endeavor in their position, cramped tight and pressed together as though shielding their privacy; alina has to grip onto his hips like reins to keep herself balanced. to be able to touch him without tipping over as her fingers slide beneath his hem, sinking her nails into the curve of the bone there. ]

[dispassioned]

[She's rewarded with a soft, startled sound issuing from his throat as she sinks her teeth into his lip. Too low to really be called a whimper, but it’s definitely needy, an obvious break in his smug composure from a moment ago. She’s very good at wrecking him when she wants to be.

He releases a stuttered breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she yanks on his hips, but his fingers never stop stroking her. He seems intent on coaxing as much pleasure out of her as he can while they have the chance.]

[peasant]

[ a twitch of her mouth gives away her withheld laugh. there's a certain deserved pride she takes in this: rendering him speechless, crumbling his composure. the need in his voice feels more honest, more true, than any arrogance — playful or otherwise. a ripple of human emotion, all the more pronounced for how often he carries himself with collected poise, like tremors across a smooth pond.

still, it's a triumph that's short-lived, and perhaps ill-placed. his fingertips work with a pinpoint precision she's come to expect, methodical and exacting — and unrelenting, as a result, offering little mercy in every slick rub. studious, she'd even dare to say, like he's read the textbook on how to efficiently undo her. she chases it, still, little urgent rocks of her hips that testify to alina's own awareness of how little privacy — and how little time — they have for this.

the satisfied flush in her face deepens, a cherry-wine color that looks as intoxicated as alina herself, right before she has the decency to bury her head in his throat. it muffles some of the sounds that slip past the gate of her teeth, a caress of sighs and bitten back moans that absorb into his skin. some attempt at restraint, more than anything, has her teeth latching onto his skin when she finally shudders against him — a fluttering twitch that has her curling more tightly into him, wracked by the shivering pulses of orgasm.

her fingertips curl safely in the back of his shirt, clutching. this time, it's an apology that has her mouth pressing slackly to the reddened mark she's worried into his skin, silent and soft. ]

[dispassioned]

[She’s irresistible like this, flushed and undone. She always is, in this moment. But he's realizing that, perhaps, he underestimated how hot this would be, to have her clinging to him, trying desperately to hold back the sounds his attention is pulling out of her. He slides his free arm around her to hold her as she trembles through her climax, unable to withhold his own ragged gasp as her teeth sink into his skin.]

Fuck, Alina…

[He chuckles helplessly, momentarily dizzy with his own arousal as he nuzzles her hair.]

[peasant]

[ her breath snares on a ragged gasp. it's uncomfortable — the soaked cling of her underwear, now. the bumps from the wall's grating grazing the notches of her spine. the jelly-legged shivering of her muscles. but it's worth the rush of her own pulse in her ears, and the beat of his own underneath her tongue. worth the warmth as she tucks herself into him. worth the risk of being caught, and the exhilarating rush of molten heat that seeps inside of her at the thought, adrenalized.

it's nearly enough to make her careless, halfway to feral. she lends him another nip, her only outlet for venting the needy sounds she can't give life to. neither does she have the presence of mind to lend him more than a syrupy hum, half-blissed out as she leads her fingertips — still shaky in the aftermath — to the front of his trousers, driving her palm down against the stiff length of his cock. a little, distracted detour before she slips down the zipper, with much greater care than he's afforded some of his pants. ]

[dispassioned]

[The pressure of her hand against his cock, and then the gentle teasing, friction as she works open the fly of his pants rips a groan out of him. Or…half a groan. He has the sense to bite his lip on it, muffling the sound before it gets too loud. He’s always a little surprised, how easily her attention can unravel his composure. A touch or a word, driving him to distraction.

In this case, a touch. She seems to be out of words herself, at the moment. He's forced to pull his hand from between her legs to quickly catch himself on the wall behind her, breathless as his hips twitch and rock against her hand, desperately seeking relief.]

[peasant]

[ a brief duck of her head allows her lips to find the perch of his shoulder. her kiss is a small scatter of affection, light and gauzy like a breeze through a curtain. something intended to temper his desperation as she tugs her hand away, only to lick the breadth of her palm, easing away any dryness once she returns it to his cock. one pump of her hand slicks him from root to tip, tipping her head back into the wall to watch the dainty wrap of her fingertips around him. another flick of her wrist brings her thumb to the head of his cock, smoothing pearls of pre-cum around him.

it's always a fascinating study to behold when his body language is so open to her. so honest in ways she doubts he often allows himself to be. the thought alone sends a series of hummingbird-flutters into her stomach, like a million wings beating against her ribcage, quick and disorienting. her eyes dart up to his face, watchful and rapt, like admiring the brushstrokes of a painting on display. ]

Shh.

[ it feels like an accomplishment that she has to hush him at all. out of the pair of him, she would have wagered he would have the superior self-control. and yet — a bolt of warmth zips through her, bright and electric, as she glides her thumb against his pillowy lower lip. presses it there like the suggestion of a barrier might keep him quiet, even if she knows better; even if she doesn't want to stifle anything out of his mouth. not when he always seems so much freer, like this. ]