[ shiro’s set up in the upstairs bathroom somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen minutes ahead of the scheduled meet. there’s no clock and shiro didn’t bring his tablet, so he tries to keep time in his head. he gives up the count after a third round of sixty. so, he spends the rest of the time wondering how much time is left and if this mystery someone is actually worth all this fuss. every time he wanders down that road, he comes back with the solid answer of, yes, he’s worth the extra steps. shiro hasn’t been an uncooperative recluse; he’s dabbled in relations with other people here. dabbled, not excelled. for all his talk that the team should work on becoming comfortable with their sentence sheets in the worst case scenario of its completion being their only way home, shiro hasn’t been all that gung-ho about jumping into bed with anyone. everyone has been met with apprehension and a slow going acceptance. he’s gotten the checkmarks for his efforts, but boy has it been a battle to get there.
so he hopes mr. mysterious actually shows up, because while shiro can’t delude himself into believing this is for his sentence sheet, he can convince himself that it helps. he needs to clear his mind and clean the slate, so to speak, by getting this pent up fixation for what happened in his cube out of his system. anonymous man is his best bet for expending this energy, so…
five minutes left now? probably? sitting there on the counter beside the sink, shiro turns to the mirror. dusty and smudged, it isn’t in the greatest of shapes, but it reflects just fine as shiro tugs at his floof and ruffles life into it. time breezes by when he starts analyzing his face, gaze square on the scar tissue etched over the bridge of his nose. anonymous is good. anonymous is nice. shiro doesn’t have to field any questions related to what he’s seeing in his reflection. white hair, scar tissue,, metal arm… – he startles at the creaking of hinges and then turns to stare at the closed bathroom door as floorboards groan. the dragging of something takes a moment for him to place. oh, that chair in the hall, over by one of those big windows. he’s off the counter next, not actually walking toward the door, even as the knocks sound.
he’s not hard and that feels like an oversight on his part. perhaps he should have been working himself up in the meantime. easy to think that now, now that his mystery boy hasn’t stood him up. shiro will be getting there soon enough however; excitement has his belly fluttering and his heart beating harder, heat already pooling around his collar. he unzips his jacket, but doesn’t shed it just yet. he isn’t certain how much can be seen through that hole, but he thinks he should keep the metal arm covered, hand stuffed in his pocket. in his other hand is a pen and paper.
the downstairs note wasn’t the only one. walking to the door, shiro stands close and slips the two items through the hole. ]
Hi I owe you a blow Do you want me to blow you first? y/n
[ after the deal was struck, the frustration – for anonymous mouth, at least – ebbed and shiro started thinking about how it was only fair. it’s not purely out of generosity or guilt or whatever emotion there is to be found in owing reciprocation. shiro’s selfish too. it clearly matters to his mystery man that he have shiro’s mouth and it's in shiro's best interest to give it to him. shiro wants his own blow to be good, as good and filthy as before, and he suspects he might not get that same treatment if his acquaintance here thinks he’s going to be gypped again. ]
no subject
so he hopes mr. mysterious actually shows up, because while shiro can’t delude himself into believing this is for his sentence sheet, he can convince himself that it helps. he needs to clear his mind and clean the slate, so to speak, by getting this pent up fixation for what happened in his cube out of his system. anonymous man is his best bet for expending this energy, so…
five minutes left now? probably? sitting there on the counter beside the sink, shiro turns to the mirror. dusty and smudged, it isn’t in the greatest of shapes, but it reflects just fine as shiro tugs at his floof and ruffles life into it. time breezes by when he starts analyzing his face, gaze square on the scar tissue etched over the bridge of his nose. anonymous is good. anonymous is nice. shiro doesn’t have to field any questions related to what he’s seeing in his reflection. white hair, scar tissue,, metal arm… – he startles at the creaking of hinges and then turns to stare at the closed bathroom door as floorboards groan. the dragging of something takes a moment for him to place. oh, that chair in the hall, over by one of those big windows. he’s off the counter next, not actually walking toward the door, even as the knocks sound.
he’s not hard and that feels like an oversight on his part. perhaps he should have been working himself up in the meantime. easy to think that now, now that his mystery boy hasn’t stood him up. shiro will be getting there soon enough however; excitement has his belly fluttering and his heart beating harder, heat already pooling around his collar. he unzips his jacket, but doesn’t shed it just yet. he isn’t certain how much can be seen through that hole, but he thinks he should keep the metal arm covered, hand stuffed in his pocket. in his other hand is a pen and paper.
the downstairs note wasn’t the only one. walking to the door, shiro stands close and slips the two items through the hole. ]
Hi
I owe you a blow
Do you want me to blow you first? y/n
[ after the deal was struck, the frustration – for anonymous mouth, at least – ebbed and shiro started thinking about how it was only fair. it’s not purely out of generosity or guilt or whatever emotion there is to be found in owing reciprocation. shiro’s selfish too. it clearly matters to his mystery man that he have shiro’s mouth and it's in shiro's best interest to give it to him. shiro wants his own blow to be good, as good and filthy as before, and he suspects he might not get that same treatment if his acquaintance here thinks he’s going to be gypped again. ]