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foreverisntenough · 1 month ago

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‘Movie Night’

Summary: If only life was like the movies. For years, you’d flirted with the idea of something more with Trent, your brother��s best friend. You'd always danced around the edges of something more with him, sharing flirty moments that felt like scenes straight from the cinema. You had been silently desperate for the main character of your life’s film to finally get the boy but you knew moments like that were saved for Hollywood. The lines were clear; you were always going to be his mate’s little sister. So what happens when you go off script? In a whirlwind of passion, secrets, and stolen moments, you're left wondering: will you and your brother's best friend get the happy ending you've been waiting for, or was it never meant to be more than a fantasy?

Index:

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of dv, loss of a parent, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 6 - Your Brother | ‘Movie Night'

word count - 11.3k

Even though things were ‘good’ you couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about what you and Trent were doing. He was in and out of town so often for football it was hard to know what was happening. So, in the midst of flickering doubts, you had decided you would try to create some self-imposed distance to keep your heart safe. You’d gotten to a place where yes… you were sending nudes, videos of you in bed which in itself maybe wasn’t the smartest but it was happening, you were enjoying it in fact. But enjoyment couldn’t mask apprehension. Still, you were keeping everything just on the phone. Keeping everything hush, not even Layla knew how deep things were getting. And while this digital relationship was blossoming, you were keeping the public one that existed in front of everyone’s eyes at an arm's length. And it hurt to be living what felt like a double life. You two clearly had no self control and that was evident in the text exchanges so keeping your distance felt smart. With all of that in mind, you hadn’t expected to see Trent at your door this afternoon, let alone embracing you in a cuddle so warm it felt like he hadn’t seen you in ages when it’d been mere days. You stiffened at first, taken by surprise, but quickly melted into him. As much as you tried to pretend you shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t do this with him, you yearned for this very thing; the physical connection you were trying so hard to keep at bay. You tried to believe that space was the best thing to do to keep yourself safe but the second his arms wrapped around you… the world melted along with you. Memories of him flooding you. It was like he had your heart before you couldn’t even try to stop him from grabbing it. You were powerless and you loved being weak for him.

“You’re back home.” Your voice was muffled against his skin in the embrace of the hug. He hummed, squeezing you that much tighter. Just as you began to pull back, his grin widened cheekily.

“Can you wait here f’me? I got something for you.” Before you could respond, He smiled as he darted back out to his car, leaving you standing there, curiosity building, warmth flooding you. When he returned, he was holding a stunning bouquet, petals in shades of blush and deep red.

“I don’t play footie in the park anymore so I thought you deserve more than a daisy.” He smiled earnestly with a glint in his eyes that almost looked scared. Trent was still grappling with how to show you just how much he cared. He was worried about Jack, sure, but keeping things hush didn’t feel so bad at the minute as long as he showed you he cared. He was looking for that sweet spot of past and present. And so began another attempt. You couldn’t help the way your cheeks flushed as you took the flowers, turning them in your hands, admiring every detail. But Trent wasn’t done. “Pretty girl…” He cooed gently to grab you attention off the floral arrangement and back to him. He smirked holding two more bags. You raised your brow with a smile you couldn’t contain anymore. He handed you a sleek Dior shopping bag, his words tumbling out in a rush. “You know like… I was in just France for the game and… well, I saw this, and I just thought of you.” He stumbled through words with a smile. You turned and placed the flowers and the bag on a console in the foyer of the house unboxing it all. Inside was a mini red Dior lady dior, classic, chic, and unmistakably something you loved on sight. Yes, this was very much so a perk of present day Trent.

“Trent, I—” You looked up at him, stunned, your heart racing. But before you could finish, he interrupted with a cheeky smirk.

“One more thing… because well, in my opinion it matches and…” As you took the next bag he was pushing towards you and began to open the other, you smirked with a furrowed brow. It wasn't any more designer, instead something priceless. You pulled out a familiar red top you had just seen Trent wearing on the telly during his match days ago. You smiled seeing a Liverpool Alexander-Arnold jersey. One of his own. “If you ever want to wear one,” he said, his eyes softening. “I’d prefer it if it was mine. Because you know… you’re kind of mine.” The words hung between you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. You ran your fingers over the bold name and number on the back, biting back a giddy smile.

“This is… wow, are you sure, baby, It’s a pretty big statement.” you teased, glancing up at him. He stepped closer, his eyes serious, and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I mean it. You’re… You’re so important to me, Y/N.” That moment felt like a declaration all on its own, leaving you feeling lighter and less uncertain, ready to see where this might possibly go. That maybe it wasn’t all just for behind closed doors. The gift in your hands felt weighty, more than just fabric or leather—it felt like a quiet promise. “I always liked when you were at the park watching me play growing up, and I really like it when you’re at Anfield now watching me.” His words stuck you deep. Maybe he wasn’t just making it all up about having a crush on your growing up in the park. The way Trent looked at you, the softness in his eyes and the little, lingering smile on his lips, spoke volumes. You glanced down at the jersey again, fingertips tracing over the double barreled last name. This wasn’t just a shirt; it was a claim, a gesture that felt almost absurdly personal. He watched you closely, gauging every shift in your expression. His usual confident demeanor softened, almost vulnerable, as he waited for you to say something more. But words felt clumsy in that moment, so you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around him, holding him tightly. Trent hugged you back, his hands gentle against your back, pulling you in like he was afraid to let go.

“I… I don’t even know what to say,” you finally whispered into his shoulder, feeling both overwhelmed and elated. You pulled back, just enough to look up at him. “This is… it’s really thoughtful, T, baby.” He gave a little shrug, downplaying the significance.

“Think about you a lot. I wish I could show you better. This is one way I guess. And I just thought you’d look better in one mine, yeah?” His tone was casual, but his eyes betrayed him. You could see the warmth, the intent behind this small collection of gifts. Grinning, you took the jersey holding it up between you.

“So… I’m supposed to just wear this and be yours, huh?” You said with a smirk. His grin turned into a smirk.

“That’s the idea,” he said, stepping in close, his hands finding your waist. “But only if you’re up for it.” You felt your cheeks heat up, but you didn’t break his gaze. His fingers began to play with the hem of the shirt you currently had on. You didn’t expect your heart to stutter the way it did seeing him today. You looked down, biting your lip, feeling almost shy under his gaze.

“And you’re sure?” you murmured, looking back up at him. He reached up, cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheek, letting his fingers linger just a little longer against your skin.

“I’ve known you too long not to be.” His voice was low, and there was a sincerity there that felt like a balm to every worry you’d been carrying. Without another word, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, soft but intentional, letting yourself believe him. Trent’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, like he was anchoring himself to you. The kiss deepened, and you both sank into it, unhurried, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. You finally pulled back from the kiss to really look at the jersey still in your hands. It wasn’t from a store it was very clearly one of his. He even had drawn a little heart, in only a way a boy would, but nevertheless cute, on the bottom of the white embossed #66. The whole thing was incredibly sweet.

“Guess I know what I’m wearing to the next match I go to. Someone just has to invite me.” You said with a teasing smile.

“You’re always invited but yeah, you better be wearing that,” he chuckled, his eyes shining. “I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna look perfect on you as well.” And with that, you felt some of your doubts fade, replaced by the excitement of whatever was waiting ahead and right now what was waiting was thick sexual tension creeping in. As you held the soft fabric of the jersey, Trent's eyes sparkled with mischief. He stepped back into you once more, his muscular body radiating heat, planting a soft kiss on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. His warm breath fanning your sensitive skin as he gently nibbled, leaving a trail of tingling sensations. Swiftly a moment that was meant to be sentimental, suddenly began to steam up.

"Do you want me to try it on for you, baby?" you suggested, your voice a little hoarse with desire. Trent hummed in response, his lips still brushing against your skin as his fingers idley returned to play with the hem of your shirt. With a swift motion, he lifted the shirt you were already wearing over your head entirely exposing your bare torso, no bra. Your breath caught at the sudden rush of cool air on your heated skin. Trent's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of your full tits, your nipples already hardening in anticipation.

"You look so fucking gorgeous all the fucking time, baby" he growled, his voice thick with want. His hands glided over your shoulders, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and then slid down to cup your tits. He thumbed your nipples, rolling and pinching gently, making you gasp and arch into his touch.

"I need you, T… now," you murmured before his lips found yours in a searing kiss. The kiss was hungry, demanding, and filled with passion. Different than before. Trent's tongue danced with yours, exploring and claiming, while his hands roamed freely over your body, mapping every curve and valley. He kneaded your boobs, squeezing and lifting them, making you moan into his mouth. You clung to him, running your fingers over his curls, pulling him closer as if you could merge your bodies into one. His erection pressing against your lower belly, a hard ridge that promised pleasure and satisfaction you’d come to know well but couldn’t get enough of. His hands moved to slide around you down to your ass, over it and then under. Breaking the kiss, Trent lifted you effortlessly into his arms, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried you upstairs, making sure to grab both of your tops in his hand, sparing any damning evidence. His strong arms never faltering as you giggled breathlessly nibbling on his ear lobe whispering the naughtiest things in his ear despite feeling like an innocent princess in his hold. And then like a shot gun signaling a start, your bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

Trent laid you down on your soft sheets, his eyes never leaving yours. In a blur of passion, you found yourself on your bed, both of your clothes completely vanished now, your legs wrapped around Trent's strong waist again. He hovered above you, his body a delicious weight pressing you into the mattress. You could feel his cock, hard and insistent, pressing against you. His eyes, dark and intense, holding yours captive, and you knew in that moment it truly felt like you were his. The dominant glint in his eyes sent a thrill through your body, making you ache to surrender completely.

“Tell me what you want.” He cooed almost tauntingly. Trent's voice was a low rumble, filled with desire and possession as he whispered above you leaning in to begin leaving kisses from behind your ear down your jaw. You didn’t answer you just nodded eagerly, giving him permission, your eyes pleading for him to take control. And he did. He pressed his lips to yours as his fingers trailed down your body, tracing your curves, before slipping between your thighs and through your pussy’s wet folds. “Such a messy girl. You're so always so fucking wet for me, baby," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. You were already soaked, your arousal glistening on your sensitive folds. Trent's touch was like a lightning bolt, igniting a fire within you. “Tell me what you want.” He demanded again and it started a fire in you, igniting something carnal. You whined and when he teased his fingers around your clit.

"You, T, fuck… I want you," you whimpered as he stroked your clit, his touch feather-light but intensely pleasurable. His fingers dipped lower, finding your entrance and pushing inside, filling you with a delicious stretch. You gasped as you felt him slip two fingers all the way inside of you with a curl. He smirked watching your face scrunch up from the intrusion. You arched off your bed, seeking more, your hips moving in rhythm with his fingers. "Please, baby" you begged, your voice breathy and desperate. "I need you inside me. I want your cock, T." He grinned down at you, his eyes alight with possessiveness. “I want you to be rough, T.” You whined desperate for him to just use you.

"You want me to be rough with you? You like that don't you, baby?" He mocked in the hottest way. You reached out towards him, dragging your hand down his abs before wrapping your hand around his hard shaft. You pumped his cock with your spit mixed with his leaking precum,l. He pulled his fingers out of you swiftly. His one hand laced his fingers with yours pinning your hands above your head, the other tapping his cock against your clit, dragging it through your fold’s teasingly. Neither of you had the patience for more foreplay. You needed him inside of you now and he was giving you just that. His big brown eyes met yours, your breathing getting heavier and heavier. “You’re gonna be a good girl f’me, hmm?” His words send a thrill through you, a heady combination of desire and submission. You nod eagerly, your eyes locked on his.

"Yeah" you whispered. He positioned himself between your thighs, his hands moving to grip your hip firmly. You felt the broad head of his cock nudging at your entrance before he thrusted forward, filling you in one smooth stroke."Oh, God!" you cried out, your body welcoming him with a delicious tightness. Your hands broke out of his and grabbed to hold him. Your nails digging into his back muscles as he slid inside of you. Your back arched off the bed with a gasp. He rocked into you. Trent’s cock stretched you deliciously hitting the spot only he knew immediately.

“Doing so good f’me, baby. Take my cock so well. You okay?” He asked gently as he flicked his eyes to yours. You nodded with a shy smile as he pulled back out just barely, leaving just the tip in. With a growl, he thrusted into you again, filling you so completely that you gasped once over. His cock, hard and throbbing, stretching you to the limit, and you loved every second of it. The sensation of being so full, so possessed, sent sparks of pleasure through your body. He set a relentless pace, his hips snapping forward, driving into you with deep, powerful strokes. Your bodies creating a sensual rhythm, the squelching sound of your skin slapping against each other filling the room. Trent's jaw clenched, his eyes hooded as he watched his cock disappear into your slick heat.

"You feel so fucking good," you moaned, your breath coming in short gasps. "Feel so deep. Oh my god." You whined. You inhaled a sharp breath feeling a lightheadedness come over as you took him. He kept his beautiful brown eyes fixed on you. The pupils in his dark eyes dilated as he felt his cock pulse inside you. Every movement was slow, deep, and intentional. His lips curled into a smug smile hearing you whine. You were completely his and he reveled in it. You dragged your ankle down his back muscles. He was so gentle yet harsh at the same time. Trent’s hand slid up your body and wrapped around your neck gently but assertively causing the knot in your core to tighten as you moaned more.

"Whose pussy is this?" he demanded, his voice hoarse with need.

"Yours, Trent," you whispered, your voice breathless. "Only yours." He quickened his pace, his hips snapping forward with each thrust, driving into you relentlessly. Your tits, full and heavy, bounced with each movement, the sensitive peaks grazing his chest, sending shocks of pleasure through your body. He let go of your neck and leaned back a little. Trent's hands moving to grip your thighs, holding your legs wide open, exposing you completely to his gaze and touch.

"God, fuck. You're so fucking wet, baby," he growled, his eyes fixed on the junction where his cock disappeared into your body. "So good f’me." He praised you as you moaned, the explicit words and the sight of him pounding into your body pushing you closer to the edge. Your hands moved off him to clutch at the sheets, your knuckles turning white as you tried to anchor yourself against the force of his thrusts. The room continued to be filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, your desperate moans, and Trent's dirty words. Trent could feel your pussy clenching tighter, he knew you were close.

"Tell me, baby, whose cock are you gonna cum on right now?" Trent's voice was rough but smug, his face a mask of pure desire and self satisfaction.

"Yours, T," you panted, your voice thick with pleasure. “I want to cum on your cock." Your eyes rolling back as you felt the climax building. "I'll only ever cum on your cock, T." Your words seemed to unleash something primal within him. His eyes lit with possession. His hips pistoned faster, his cock pounding into your sensitive flesh. You could feel his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust, his cock feeling harder inside of you, and the knowledge that he was close to his own release sent you spiraling towards your climax. The words you’d just said had tumbled out. And to be honest, you kind of hoped your commitment was true. You only ever wanted his dick… it was that good. You wrapped your legs stayed around his waist, drawing him even deeper, your hands moving to clutch at his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks on his tanned skin. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue invading, possessing. His hips never stoping their relentless motion, driving you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

"That's right, you're my good girl. Only cum f’me. Only gonna ever wear my jersey too, yeah?" he grunted the question, his eyes never leaving yours. You nodded as the coil in your stomach tightened. Orgasmic bliss barrelling towards you."Cum for me, baby. Show me how much you love my cock." His words were like a match to the kindling of your desire. His words pushed you over the precipice. Your body tensed every nerve ending singing as you soared into your climax. Trent's fingers dug into your hips, holding you firmly in place as he fucked you into your climax, his own release building. And then in a split second just when the outside world couldn’t have seemed further away you heard the tracks of the garage door begin to open.

"T!" you cried out, your voice high and desperate. The distant rumble of Jack returning home made your heart stop but you couldn’t stop your body’s orgasmic convulsions though. Your climax exploded through your body, rippling waves of pleasure that caused your back to arch and your pussy to clamp down on Trent’s cock. You cried out, your voice a mix of pleasure and surprise and panic, as your release washed over you, the waves of pleasure so intense they left you trembling. Trent's name was a mantra on your lips you were trying to bite back as you rode the waves of ecstasy but it was all mixed with genuine fear. “T… T.. fuck!” You yelped, your hands moving to press against his chest to push him off. He didn’t hear the garage, he was locked in. You knew he was about to cum. “Trent!” You yelped just as his body tensed above you. His eyes squeezed shut, and he let out a guttural grunt, his hips making one final, powerful thrust as he filled you with his release. “Jack! Trent!” You told him. Trent had never had a more conflicting climax in his life. Panic, euphoria, and disgust hearing his mates name while he finished all at once. Trent's eyes widened, and he froze, his cock still buried deep within you. His release leaking inside you. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, a frantic rhythm that matched your own. The sensation of his hot cum inside you sent you over the edge again, a second orgasm washing over you, leaving you boneless and sated, Trent fighting back a groan as you tightened around him once more. Panting, your bodies glistening with sweat, you clung to each other, hearts racing but you needed to move. Now. The sudden realization that you were both naked and exposed snapped you back to the present. Anxiety flared in your chest as you scrambled to get Trent off you and find your clothes, your heart pounding. This was it. Jack was going to find out.

"Shit," Trent cursed, quickly reaching for his boxers. "Your brother... we need to get downstairs." He instructed you. The urgency in his voice mirrored your own racing thoughts. You frantically searched for your clothes, scattered across the room. In a mad dash, you pulled on your panties and scrambled to find everything, while Trent hastily pulled on his trousers. The heat of the moment had turned into a frantic race against time. The sound of Jack’s arrival sent you both into a scramble, grabbing at clothes, fumbling with buttons, zipper, shirts pulled over heads, doing whatever you could to look convincingly casual.

“Fuck, fuck!” you yelled in a whisper, heart pounding as you clutched the sides of your shirt, tugging it over your head, trying to compose yourself. You shot Trent a panicked look. Tears forming on your lash line.

“Baby… Baby… we’ll be okay. You’re okay. C’mon.” He kissed your forehead before helping adjust your top. The slam of the door into the house had sent you and Trent into an even more panicked frenzy as you scrambled to not look like you just fucked.

“My car,” Trent hissed almost to himself, eyes wide, realizing that leaving his car in the driveway was like leaving a neon sign that he was there.

“He’s going to see it…” You glanced at him, panicked. There was no hiding now. With your pulse racing, you tried to look as normal as possible, grabbing the closest thing you could find to play off a casual visit—a charger tangled near your bed. The two of you locked eyes, a silent agreement that this was your cover story. You nodded back before you ran down the stairs just as Jack came through the other side of the house. Thank god the staircase up to your room was at the opposite end. You could hear Jack’s footsteps making his way towards you two as you made it downstairs. When he saw you and Trent his eyebrows raised, but he was relaxed enough.

“Aye, mate, what’s up?” he asked, looking from Trent to you and back again. Jack looked at Trent with a faintly furrowed brow. Trent plastered on a relaxed smile, putting on his most casual tone.

“Yeah, good bro. Sorry, ah…left my phone charger here last time,” he replied smoothly, nodding toward the one you were now holding out like a lifeline. You forced a smile, trying to seem casual. Jack’s gaze lingered on you for a second, his expression skeptical.

“So…” Jack’s tone held a playful curiosity. “You knew I wasn’t home?” Trent shrugged.

“Yeah, bro, only a charger so I didn’t want to nag you about it,” he said, as you casually waving the charger like it was some grand prize he’d finally retrieve. “Y/N was just letting me grab it real quick.” You handed Trent the charger, feeling Jack’s gaze on both of you. Trent took it with a casual ‘Thanks,’ stuffing it into his pocket as if it had been his all along. You were mildly annoyed you were losing a charger but that was the least of your worries “Just thought I’d pop in, grab it, and head out.” Jack stared for a moment longer, lips curving into a smirk as he finally dropped his gaze.

“Right… sound.” he chuckled. Trent laughed, playing along, and you couldn’t help but join in, trying to mask your own nerves. Jack looked between you both, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite read but it was more confusion at the energy in the room than a hint of suspicion. But he just laughed, shrugging it off as Trent left. Trent still managed to give you a tiny, playful wink before slipping out, leaving your mind reeling.

“He’s so weird.” Jack teased you, still watching Trent get in his car. “Man makes millions and he’s pressed about a charger.” You let out a small, nervous laugh, hoping to play it cool. You felt Jack’s arm wrap around your shoulder in a lighthearted squeeze, and he shot you a teasing grin.

“Nah, he’s just… Trent… mindful, maybe?” you managed, trying to fill the silence and maybe convince both Jack and yourself. Jack smirked, shaking his head. Your heart was still racing but at least Trent had remained calm.

“Yeah, well, you were probably just gassed you got his attention alone for five minutes.” He laughed, punching at your arm as he passed you. You forced yourself to chuckle, hoping the nervous energy vibrating through you wasn’t as obvious as it felt. Jack’s teasing had hit closer to home than he knew, and as you watched Trent’s car pull away from the driveway, you felt a mix of thrill and relief. The cover story might’ve worked, but the spark between you two? That was only getting harder to hide.

“Oh, please,” you replied, rolling your eyes, trying to sound nonchalant as you looked down, tugging at the hem of your shirt. You laughed, a little too loudly, hoping it came off as amused and not as a frantic release of tension. Jack gave a little shrug, seemingly satisfied.

“Just saying, you love Trenty.” He laughed teasingly but you didn’t. Not this time. “Y/N… I’m kidding. I know he’s your mate too. Relax. He came for a charger, innit. I’m joking. Sorry.” He looked at you apologetically, mildly confused why a tease about you have a crush on Trent hit so differently than before. He always poked fun but your vibe felt weird. He opted to just let it roll off his back, moving on and turned, remaining oblivious as he headed to the kitchen. Meanwhile you were left with a stomach full of butterflies, lined with guilt and a heart still pounding from the close call. Watching Trent drive away, you felt an undeniable thrill mixed with something deeper, something that had you feeling torn between excitement and culpability. The cover story had worked for now, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that keeping this secret would only get harder with time.

Sneaking around with Trent had quickly transformed into something more, something you felt deep in your bones. The thrill was undeniable, yet the way you kept finding yourself drawn back to him made it feel like it wasn't just about the thrill anymore. After Jack almost catching you, it just felt like you both actually thought what you were doing might’ve been worth it. Tonight felt like a step closer to something real, though the secrecy only intensified it. You'd told Jack you'd be staying over at Layla's, a lie that sat heavy, but the promise of a night with Trent made it worth it. When you arrived at his place, Trent's smile greeted you at the door, warm and familiar, and immediately, you felt all that tension melt away. He led you out to the back garden, where he had set up a cozy space just for the two of you. Blankets were draped over the outdoor couch on the patio, and the fire pit cast a gentle, golden glow. Jazz murmured softly from a speaker, blending perfectly with the low hum of the night, creating a sense of comfort that felt more intimate than you'd expected. The whole setup seemed to say: I wanted this to feel special. You nestled into the couch beside him, sharing the same blanket as the fire flickered, warming your faces. Trent leaned back, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, the other hand resting on your knee, and you felt yourself relaxing against him as if this was exactly where you belonged.

Although, it wasn't long though before he suggested a game of cards, his competitive spirit sparking in his eyes. You moved to sit cross-legged on the couch, turning to face him as you dealt the cards. Trent sat back, legs spread, confidence written across his face. But as the game went on and the tide turned in your favor, his expression shifted. He huffed when you won a hand, mumbling something about beginner's luck, but you could tell he was getting flustered. When you won again, his pout turned into a grin full of mischief.

"Nah, not having this. C'mon, there's no way you're this lucky," he teased, snatching the cards from your hand before pulling you into his lap, his hands snaking around your waist.

"Maybe I'm just better at it than you," you quipped, knowing it would get under his skin. He narrowed his eyes, pretending to look insulted but deep down you knew he hated hearing it, joke or not.

"Oh, so that's how it is, huh?" he murmured before leaning in, his teeth grazing your neck in a playful nibble, a cross between a kiss and bite as his hands gripped you tighter. You squirmed, laughing, trying to wriggle free, but he was stronger than you and wouldn't let you go.

"Just admit I won," you teased, breathless from laughing, glancing up at him with a triumphant smile.

"Not a chance," he whispered, voice low as his face hovered inches from yours, his eyes full of that look that made your pulse race. "The game's postponed. We'll settle it later." He said deciding he just wanted to be with you for the moment, no games. He let his hold on you loosen, and you rolled your eyes with a grin.

"Whatever you want, baby." You murmured, your voice warm and teasing. He stilled, his gaze softening as he took you in, as if hearing you calling him ‘baby’ for the first time. Colloquially. The look in his eyes made your stomach flip, a moment of quiet that felt far more intimate than any kiss or touch. With a hum of satisfaction, he pulled you in closer, one hand tracing down your back.

"I like the sound of that." His fingers gently pressed into your skin, grounding you in that moment, and his other hand reached up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You stayed wrapped up together, letting the night carry you in the warmth of each other's presence. Hours passed without notice, the jazz lulling softly in the background as you nestled closer, feeling his hand rest securely around you. His touch was soft, comforting, as if to say he wasn't in any rush to let go. The stars were bright overhead, and the crackling flames cast shadows over his face. Trent looked at you with a rare openness, a softness that made your chest ache in the best way. He pressed a kiss to your hair, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on you. You rested your head against his shoulder, your legs curled over his lap, feeling the strength of his arms wrapped around you, holding you close. Every so often, he'd lean down, brushing his lips against your temple or whispering something sweet that made your heart stutter. It felt like you were existing in your own little world, a pocket of warmth and comfort that was just for the two of you. The night stretched on, but neither of you felt any rush to move or break the spell. This wasn't just a thrill, or a secret-you could feel the weight of something genuine growing between you, something you were both beginning to understand couldn't be hidden forever.

Settling into Trent’s bed that night felt surreal—soft sheets, plush pillows, and the faint scent of him in the air made it feel luxurious, almost like a dream. Yet, there was that small tug of something missing, a sense of feeling a bit out of place amidst the perfection. You liked your routine, your things, that’s all. This was well, it was his bed, his room, his world. You didn’t quite realize how it showed until Trent, lying beside you with a gentle smile, noticed it.

“I can tell you’re uncomfortable. What’s up?” he asked, his gaze soft but curious. You shook your head with a half-hearted laugh, trying to dismiss it.

“I’m not uncomfortable… I just…” you trailed off, unable to find the words. But he shook his head, unconvinced.

“Nah, baby, c’mon,” he coaxed, “alright. Tell me what you usually do before bed.” He rolled over and looked at you with a smile. At that, you couldn’t help but grin.

“Okay, so,” you started, tucking your hair behind your ear as you settled into explaining shuffling in the sheets.. “First thing’s first: I have to take off all my makeup. But that means using an oil cleanser first because it breaks everything down— mascara, everything. Then I use a second cleanser to really clean my skin. It’s called double cleansing.” You giggled as Trent nodded with a raised eyebrow, trying not to smile.

“Double cleansing?” he echoed. “More than once seems like….” You widened your eyes silently asking to finish and continued on.

“Trust me, it makes a difference because some of us don’t just wake up moisturize and go.” You teased and he rolled his eyes swiping his thumb over his cheekbone as if to show off his perfect skin. “But then I have to pat my face dry with specific towels or like disposable ones, you know? Like I can’t just be rubbing whatever to dry.” He leaned back, clearly amused but listening intently. You were pretty sure he had no idea what he’d gotten himself into.

“Okay, what’s next?” he asked, a playful grin on his face.

“Then it’s skincare time,” you declared. “I use a toner first.” Trent nodded but you knew he probably didn’t know what that meant. “After that, I have a few serums. Then… ” You cooed but Trent interjected.

“A few!?” Trent’s eyes widened slightly. It was becoming evidently more and more clear he did not have a sister. A part of you laughed that you never realized how deep that fact ran and then a part of you felt a bit relieved this was the first time he seemed to be hearing this. The idea that any girl that had come before you had yet to explain this to him.

“Yeah then we move to like eye creams, moisturizers next,” you explained and continued to rattle on with more. He looked impressed and bewildered at the same time.

“That’s… a lot,” he said, but there was a note of affection in his voice that made you smile.

“And we’re not even done!” you pointed out. “After the skincare, I do my hair care. Apply some products for hydration. Oh and silk pillowcases are a must for both skin and hair. They’re gentler and prevent breakage.” Trent’s eyes sparkled with humor, but he nodded as if taking mental notes.

“Alright, so we’ve got skin and hair. Anything else?” He smirked almost assuming you were done.

“Obviously,” you said, feigning indignation. “Then I have to set up my room. I spray a lavender sleep mist onto my bed to help me relax, and I take my nighttime supplements—magnesium, a sleep aid if I need it, maybe some collagen.” You explained.

“Supplements too?” he repeated, clearly finding all of this fascinating. He had routines but it was more for optimizing performance and in a way you were doing just the same.

“Yep. And then I need like wattterrrs,” you explained dragging out the word, feeling more animated as you talked. “And sometimes, if I’m feeling really stressed, I’ll do a short guided meditation before bed. Just five to ten minutes to clear my mind.” Trent was leaning forward now, his chin resting in his hands grinning ear to ear. Trent started laughing, eyes wide with disbelief.

“That’s like 15 steps, baby!” he exclaimed, shaking his head as if you’d told him the most extravagant bedtime routine on earth and maybe you had in his mind. You laughed along, shrugging.

“Hey, you asked! Besides, don’t pretend you’re not just as high maintenance with all your Byredo lotions over there.” You smirked, nodding toward the sleek row of bottles lined on the counter in the ensuite. He rolled his eyes, giving a mock scoff.

“Alright, alright… but that’s… that’s quite the process,” he said, his voice laced with teasing affection. “You really do all that every night?” You crossed your arms, pretending to be offended.

“I mean I try to every single night! It’s called self-care, T. There’s more out there than just what the club tells you to do. You should try my routine sometime.” You giggled teasing him. You knew he took really good care of himself but when it came to beauty he was more relaxed. He laughed, the sound filling the room.

“I don’t think I could handle all of that.” He smirked. You couldn’t help but smile, warmth blooming in your chest at the compliment. He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Even if he didn’t fully understand each step, he was there, listening and appreciating the lengths you went to for your own well-being. And that made you feel seen in a way that was hard to explain. Still smiling, he grabbed his phone, opening his notes app. “Okay, baby… give me the names and brands. Everything you need for sleeping here.” Your heart fluttered at the gesture, so thoughtful and unexpected. You began listing each product, and he typed them with an almost serious focus, nodding as if he were taking notes on a game plan; Slip pillow cases, Tata Harper cleansers, Maison Francis mists, a 14th Night Hair Elixir.

“You don’t actually have to do all this,” you murmured, feeling almost shy. But his hand found yours, and he squeezed it gently.

“I want you to feel comfortable here,” he said softly, looking at you with that easy, open sincerity. “Besides, if it’s gonna make you sleep better, then it’s worth it. Keeps you in my bed.” He cheekily cooed. The thoughtfulness left you feeling a mix of warmth and gratitude, a sense of belonging that surprised you. And as much as you adored the idea of your favorite products sitting in his bathroom, what you loved even more was this—him, making space for you in his world, in his home. It also felt nice to know it’d be like a warning should any other girl be over. This was your marking your territory.

“Thank you,” you whispered, shifting closer to him, a smile playing on your lips. “Honestly, though… all I really need to feel at home is you.” He smiled, pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around you.

“You’ve always felt like home to me.” He whispered back to you. Both of your admissions honest. The room was calm, the dim light casting soft shadows, and Trent’s fingers lazily traced patterns along your arm as you both settled into the cozy rhythm of conversation. The hum of street lights outside mixed with the soft rustling of sheets, making the entire moment feel even more intimate. Even after Trent finished noting down your list, he looked over with a smirk, still visibly amused by the whole process. “So, am I missing anything? Or do we need to add a couple more things for this routine?”

“Oh, don’t even start,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge. “You wouldn’t understand—it’s just habitual; it’s so I can look pretty.” You batted your eyes at him. He laughed, tipping his head back, the sound warm and rich.

“Well… you always look beautiful. Don’t think you need all this but, consider me converted if it makes you happy,” he said, miming a solemn vow. “But seriously, I’ll get it, alright? It’s not just about making you feel at home—it’s about you being at home here, whenever you want.” The sincerity in his words made your cheeks warm. For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like for this to be your regular night: no need to pack an overnight bag, no sneaking in and out, just… this, every night. You snuggled deeper into his embrace, the weight of his arm draped protectively around you making everything feel somehow complete. He noticed the pensive look on your face and tilted his head, studying you. “What’re you thinking about?”

“It’s just… weird, you know? I didn’t expect it to feel this comfortable here.” You hesitated, then smiled softly. “I thought it would feel… wrong.” He ran his hand gently up and down your back, pulling you even closer. It was wrong. It was wrong what you were doing to Jack, but this? This felt very right.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. But I also knew it’d be good. You and I have always been good. I want it to feel easy. Want you to feel like you don’t have to hide anything when we’re here or feel out of place here.” His voice was low, soothing, and he spoke as if he were letting you in on some quiet, long-held secret. He reached over, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face, fingers lingering as he looked into your eyes with that calm, unwavering gaze of his. “I know we’re figuring things out, and it might be complicated but it doesn’t have to be here. We’re good here,” he said softly, his hand resting gently on your cheek. You leaned into his touch, heart beating a little faster.

“You really mean that?” you whispered, almost afraid of his answer.

“Yeah, I do,” he replied, his voice steady. “I think we’re pretty damn good together.” He smirked. For a moment, the silence between you was filled with unspoken words, a warmth passing between you that felt equal parts thrilling and comforting. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and smiled, nestling closer to him.

“Okay,” you murmured, settling fully into the pillow beside him, letting his steady breathing and the soft glow of his gaze ground you. The weight of his arm around you felt like an anchor, keeping you steady even as your mind whirled with thoughts of what this meant, of what you meant to him. He pulled you even closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“So… really, pretty girl, any final steps in this ritual of yours? Any last ones?” he teased, breaking the quiet moment with a playful glint in his eyes. You rolled your eyes, laughing.

“Alright, alright, since you’re so curious… And I’m generous, I guess I could share the one I never even leave home without.” You reached over, awkwardly leaning to grab your lip balm you’d already moved to the nightstand earlier to have on hand. It was a lip balm you brought with you everywhere, so tonight was no different. It was a rich Hermes lip balm. Nothing made your lips feel more well-hydrated, supple or better than this. You applied a layer to your own lips before leaning in, catching him with a soft kiss that tasted faintly of beeswax.

“There, now you’re officially a part of my routine,” you said, grinning. He shook his head, still chuckling, his fingers tracing along your jaw as he pulled you in for another kiss.

“If this is how the routine ends, I’m in.” And in that moment, with the warmth of his arms around you, the soft glow of the lights outside, and the quiet thrill of realizing just how natural this all felt, you let yourself settle fully into the moment. Trent leaned over you and grabbed the sleek tube again. “You think the lads would take the mick if I rolled around using Hermes lip balm? Because this actually feels so good.” He asked you earnestly. You smirked knowing the answer would likely be yes but you just hummed.

“Does it? Or was it my kiss?” You teased. “Nah, you could use it though. If you’d want you can take this one. I’ll get another one.” You cooed, pressing your lips to his again. Trent nodded agreeing. And he did. You let him take it the next day. But that night you fell to sleep happy, lips moisturized, and all the worries and doubts fading into the background, leaving just you and him, here together, finding home in each other.

As you bounded down the stairs, practically buzzing with excitement, you were already mentally at Trent’s, imagining the quiet moments you’d get to have again, just the two of you for another night. You’d been doing this a lot. Hiding it all from everyone but reveling in the time tucked together. Your heart raced as you went through the plan in your head—another night wrapped up in his arms, laughing, teasing, letting everything else fall away. But Jack’s voice cut through your daydreams, grounding you in an instant.

“Hey, you headed out? Who’s the lucky lad now?” he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes studying you closely. Your heart skipped, a blend of panic and guilt washing over you. You were sure he’d started to suspect something, especially with all the time you’d been spending away. Swallowing hard, you tried for a casual response. You didn’t think he’d even be considering Trent, but it was clear you were spending a lot of time ‘out’ with someone. No matter, lying to Jack… Jack, your big brother, your best friend; though you’d never tell Layla that, it all felt so wrong.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to jinx it, you know? Not yet,” you said with a soft smile, hoping he’d leave it at that. But Jack wasn’t one to let things slide easily. He just hummed, giving you a long, knowing look. Then, with a gentleness that caught you off guard, he spoke again.

“Hey…” he started, and you could hear the tenderness in his voice. “I’ve never seen you like this before.” He sympathetically smiled.

“What do you mean?” You looked up at him, surprised

“I mean, there’s a light in you that I haven’t seen in a while. It’s good to see it again.” His eyes softened, a mix of pride and love filling his gaze. “I don’t know what this lad’s doing, but whatever it is, it’s bringing out the best in you. Look happier. Healthier.” A rush of emotion swelled in your chest, catching you off guard. The tears pricked at the corners of your eyes before you could stop them, and you looked away, trying to compose yourself. Jack noticed, stepping forward and wrapping you in one of those big, protective hugs he was so good at. You felt the familiar strength of his arms around you, his hand gently rubbing your back as he held you close. “I just want you happy,” he murmured into your hair, and the raw honesty in his voice almost broke you. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I told Mum and Dad I’d look out for you, you know?” His voice was low, laced with the memories and promises you both had carried for years. You felt horrible. You were lying. Why were you lying? “I know I can be a pain sometimes, but… I don’t want you being with anyone that treats you like…” Jack tried to say it but he couldn’t. Jack was protective, loving but as communicative and close as you two were he just couldn’t stomach the idea of men treating you poorly so he couldn’t get the words out. “You deserve to be loved, to feel safe, that’s all.” Jack was the only place you felt safe since your mum passed. Your dad closed off and Jack stepped up. You shut your eyes, feeling the warmth of his embrace seep into you. There were times when a hug from Jack felt like it held everything you missed, everything you longed for—comfort, security, family. It was a rare, grounding feeling, and one that made you ache with a strange blend of gratitude and sadness. Pulling back just enough to look at you, Jack brushed his hand over your cheek, a soft smile on his lips. “Maybe we go to Sefton Park sometime soon?” he suggested. “Just us, like old times. Feels like we’re missing each other lately. Never see you.” He smiled softly and it made your heart ache. The weight of his words settled in your chest, and you managed a nod, blinking back the tears that had filled your eyes. You felt his arm tighten around you for a second, and he chuckled softly. “And… maybe one day you can introduce me to this fella. He seems alright, if he’s making you this happy.” His words hit harder than you expected, the guilt flaring up in your chest as you forced a smile.

“Yeah… maybe.” You sheepishly told him feeling nauseous at the idea that Jack knew this ‘fella’ better than he probably ever wanted to. Jack gave you a gentle squeeze, reaching to teasingly pull on the ends of your hair like he used to when you were kids.

“Alright, go on then. Don’t keep him waiting. Don’t fuck it up now.” He winked, letting you go, but the warmth in his eyes stayed with you. As you walked to the door, your heart hurt, the weight of your secret feeling heavier with each step. The excitement of seeing Trent was still there, humming in the back of your mind, but Jack’s words lingered. You felt torn, a part of you wanting to spill everything to your brother, to let him see the whole truth. But as you got outside, you forced yourself to push it all away. For now, you just wanted to hold onto the happiness Jack had seen in you. You wanted to be with Trent, to laugh, to feel that lightness and warmth without the shadow of guilt hanging over you. And even if it was only for a night, you let yourself believe that was enough.

When morning rolled in, you were tucked into the sheets, the soft weight of the comforter keeping you warm as you dozed off, half-conscious of Trent beside you. The light filtered in through the blinds, illuminating the room in a golden haze, and you felt a deep contentment, drifting in that hazy, relaxed state between sleep and wakefulness. But then you felt the bed shift as Trent sat up more. You looked around Trent’s room, feeling oddly out of place though, despite how many times you had now woken up tangled in his sheets, wrapped up in the ease and warmth he offered. Today, though, it felt different. Your lies seeping in the warmth. The room, with its familiar scent of him, his things strewn about casually, almost felt like a stage where you were playing a part you couldn’t reveal. It was strange, bittersweet, this cozy little world of yours that felt so real here but that would eventually dissolve the moment you stepped back into your life with Jack.

“Hi, baby,” you murmured, blinking up at him, a sleepy smile spreading across your face trying to be present and not get lost in your thoughts. You scooted closer, wrapping an arm around his waist and nestling into him. He gave a soft chuckle, running his fingers through your hair.

“Hi, pretty girl.” He leaned down, kissing the top of your head. “Hey, I need you to stay in bed for me for a bit, yeah?” he said, his tone gentle but somehow cautious. You raised an eyebrow, pulling back to look at him more closely, half-expecting it to be some cheeky invitation.

“Stay in bed?” you teased, smiling as you placed a playful kiss on his chest. But then he spoke again, and you caught the slight edge in his voice.

“Yeah, erm… Jack’s popping over,” he said, watching you carefully. It was like a cold wave washed over you, jolting you fully awake. You immediately pushed yourself up, heart racing.

“Wait—what?” You scrambled, trying to pull yourself together, suddenly very aware that you were in Trent’s bed, in his house, wearing only his shirt. Trent had forgotten Jack was swinging by today until he got the text moments ago reminding him. He had promised he’d donate a pair of signed boots or something for Jack’s company to auction off for charity and today… he was coming to pick them up.

“I forgot. Honest. It’ll be alright though.” He tried to tell you. This could not keep happening. You couldn’t tell which situation was worse. Jack finding out the other day - Trent was fucking you at your house, but it wasn’t uncommon for him to be there… Or Jack finding out now - You weren’t having sex as he came over but there was zero reason for you to be at Trent’s this early. There would be no excuse. You couldn’t keep lying to Jack this was eating you up. One mildly redeeming thought popped into your head – thankfully, your car was in Trent’s garage out of sight. It was tucked away though because Trent told you, you needed to take better care of it and can’t just leave it out all the time but still your anxiety was spiking.

“T, then I have to leave!” you hissed, frantically looking around for how you could possibly grab all your things in time. You could already feel the guilt bubbling up inside, imagining Jack’s reaction if he walked in and found you here. But Trent just reached out, gently tugging you back, his arms wrapping around you, grounding you.

“Hey, hey. Relax, yeah? Just stay here. He’s not coming up into my bed,” he murmured, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. “It’ll be five minutes. He’s just coming by to pick something up. Quick, in and out. We’ll be okay.” You looked up at him, worried, still tense.

“Trent…” you began, but he only gave you a soft, reassuring smile, his eyes full of that easy confidence he always seemed to carry.

“Please. Just stay here. It’ll be okay,” he murmured, giving you those puppy-dog eyes that you could never say no to. You sighed, settling back into his embrace, heart still hammering as you heard Jack’s car pull up outside. To be fair, it made more sense for you to hide but it felt even more shameful to do. Part of you wanted to pull the covers over your head, to hide and pretend this wasn’t happening. Instead, you sat tensely in bed, listening as Trent slipped downstairs, his voice echoing faintly as he greeted Jack. You could hear their friendly banter, and it twisted your stomach with guilt. You knew it was wrong to keep this from Jack, but the thought of losing these moments with Trent was just as hard.

You sat there, still, hands nervously fidgeting as you heard their voices drifting up from downstairs. Jack’s laughter mixed with Trent’s lighter chuckle, and it churned something inside you—a pang of guilt mixed with a longing for this to be simpler, to be something you could share without worry. But for now, the thrill of sneaking around was overshadowed by the weight of keeping this secret from Jack, from the one person who’d seen you through everything, helped you through everything. But still, hearing Jack’s voice below reminded you of the stakes, of how much you valued him, his trust, and how deeply you felt the need to protect this secret with Trent—even if it meant bending the truth. You picked at the hem of Trent’s shirt, which felt soft and familiar against your skin. There was something comforting in wearing a part of him, yet it also made everything feel painfully real. This wasn’t just some fling. You knew it every time you looked into Trent’s eyes, every time he pulled you into his arms like he didn’t want to let go. And then you heard the front door close, there was silence for a little while until footsteps came up the stairs breaking it. You held your breath, half-wishing you could vanish into the walls. When Trent finally walked back in, you met his gaze, searching his face for some reassurance that you weren’t just imagining this, that he understood the complicated feelings swirling inside you. When Trent came back into the room, you’d moved to sit at the edge of the bed, his shirt still draped over you, your hands fidgeting nervously, his face softening as he noticed the tension in your posture. He gave you a soft smile, walking over and tilting your chin up so you’d meet his eyes.

“Hey. All good, yeah?” he murmured, his voice gentle. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, and you let yourself breathe again, slowly, finding comfort in his touch. You nodded, exhaling as you managed a small smile, letting yourself relax into him.

“I just… I hate lying to him, Trent. It feels so messed up.” You let out a shaky breath, relief mingling with guilt. Trent knelt down in front of you, his hands finding yours.

“I know, and I get it,” he said softly, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your skin. “But it’s just us right now. And whatever this is,” he squeezed your hands, “I want it to be ours before it’s anyone else’s. Jack will understand that.” His words settled over you like a warm blanket, grounding you in the certainty you felt with him. The guilt didn’t completely vanish, but his reassurance made it bearable, made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could navigate this without losing what mattered. “You okay?” he asked, his gaze unwavering, full of that soft patience he always seemed to have for you. He came and sat on the bed with you. Keeping a cautious distance not wanting to overwhelm you but a gentle open hand close ready to hold yours if you wanted it. You sat across from Trent, fingers nervously fidgeting in your lap, your gaze low as you struggled to put words to the feeling that had been building up inside.

“I just… I feel so guilty, lying to Jack all the time. T, it’s fucked,” you whispered repeating it once over, barely able to meet Trent’s eyes. Trent’s expression softened, and he took your hands in his, his touch grounding.

“I know,” he murmured, squeezing your hands gently. “I feel it too. But it’s like… I can’t let this go. I can’t let you go. It’s… “ He paused momentarily, grappling with this almost as much as you. “It’s hard to feel like we can have both.” He cooed. You looked up at him, eyes searching his for something, maybe an answer, but all you found was a mirrored sense of conflict.

“I want this,” you admitted, your voice a little choked. “I want you. But I don’t know how to make it work. I feel like I’m walking a tightrope, terrified of falling in either direction.” You sniffled, trying to keep your emotions in check. He let out a quiet sigh, his gaze intense, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he lifted one of your hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“I know,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hide us either, but I also don’t want to put you in the middle.” The two of you sat there, wrapped in a silence that felt heavy, a quiet admission of the fears you shared but couldn’t quite voice. You could feel the ache in your chest intensify, a lump rising in your throat as the weight of it pressed on you. You blinked, feeling a tear slip free despite your attempts to keep it together. Trent’s gaze softened immediately. “Hey, baby” he murmured, reaching out to gently brush the tear from your cheek. “Are you alright?” he asked, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your skin. “Talk to me. I know this is a lot.” You tried to smile, to reassure him, but it faltered, and instead, more tears followed, spilling over as you let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling raw, exposed. “It’s just… Jack’s all I have. And I’m terrified that by being with you, by hiding this from him, I’m going to somehow lose both of you.” Your voice broke, and you quickly wiped at your cheeks, embarrassed by your own vulnerability. Trent’s expression shifted, a deep sympathy filling his eyes as he moved closer, pulling you into his arms. He wrapped you up tightly, holding you like he could somehow protect you from all the things that felt like they were slipping away.

“You could never lose me,” he whispered, his voice steady, almost as if he was willing it to be true, willing it to ease the fear in your heart. You leaned into him, feeling his arms around you, his steady presence a balm to the ache that had been building. But the silence that followed his words weighed heavily, filled with all the things neither of you could find a way to say. You let out a shaky breath, burying your face in his shoulder, feeling both comforted and conflicted in his embrace. After a moment, Trent pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “You’re all I think about,” he said softly, a tenderness in his gaze that made your heart ache in a different way. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose, and I don’t want you to feel alone in this.” You nodded, but the weight of the situation lingered. A part of you wanted so badly to believe that his reassurance was enough, that you wouldn’t have to choose, that you could keep this connection with Trent without losing your relationship with Jack. But doubt gnawed at you, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were balancing on a thin line, one misstep away from losing it all. As if sensing your inner turmoil, Trent tilted your chin up, his gaze steady as he looked at you. “You’ll never lose me, no matter what happens” he repeated softly, his words a gentle promise. But something about the quiet that followed felt almost uncertain, as if he, too, knew how fragile everything was. Neither of you knew what would come next, and as he held you, the silence stretched, filled with both comfort and unspoken fears.In that moment, you held on tighter, hoping it would be enough to keep things from unraveling.

“Okay.” You nodded, managing a small smile as you squeezed his hands back. He smiled, his eyes brightening as he pulled you to your feet and into his arms.

“Always, always, always” he murmured against your hair, between kisses, holding you close as you melted into him. You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in his arms, finding strength in his steady heartbeat, letting yourself believe that somehow, everything would work out. While your brain was spiraling, Trent’s heart hurt just the same. He felt like a scumbag for lying to Jack, for being with you. But he also felt like for the first time he was properly falling for you, getting to know you in a way he’d always longed for. He couldn’t just throw it all away now, now that he had a taste. He was putting up a good front though holding you, telling you it was fine. It was hard, but fine, but he wasn’t sure if he wasn’t saying that to himself even more. He wasn’t sure he could stomach a fall out with you or Jack.

One afternoon after things stayed as they were, Trent casually reached into his pocket, pulling out the sleek little tube of lip balm, twisting it open with the practiced ease of someone who’d clearly used it more than a few times. He applied a quick swipe to his lips, completely unaware of the attention it was drawing. Noah noticed first, his brows raising in surprise before he nudged Jack, nodding subtly toward Trent. Jack caught sight of the lip balm and immediately burst into laughter.

“Bro…” he said, still chuckling, “pretty sure my sister uses that shit.”

“Yeah? What about it?” Trent glanced over, unbothered. Noah shook his head, grinning.

“Mate, good thing you’ve got that contract lined up. What’re you doing spending pounds on… what is that? Lipstick? ‘Cause it isn’t Nivia innit?” he teased, exaggerating. Trent rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.

“First off, it’s a balm. Second, it’s moisturizing, and it’s not shiny or anything, so you lot can calm down.” Noah and Jack exchanged a look, both stifling laughs.

“Alright, alright, Pretty Boy,” Jack teased, holding up his hands in surrender.

“Just saying, Y/N buying Hermes chapstick is one thing… You? That’s mad.” Noah laughed. Unphased, Trent shrugged, narrowing his gaze on him.

“You ever see Y/N’s lips looking dry?” He held up the balm, grinning. Noah shook his head.

“Yeah, but I’m not exactly looking, am I?” Noah chuckled, clearly having fun with it. Trent just shrugged again, refusing to give them the satisfaction of riling him up.

“Just saying,” he replied smoothly. “You can keep laughing, but I’m the one not walking around with dry lips. Yours could use a little help, mate,” he joked, nodding toward Noah, who chuckled. Jack shook his head, still laughing.

“Alright, fair play,” Noah shot back, grinning. “But careful, next thing you’ll be raiding her entire collection.” Jack just laughed, shaking his head.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’re actually using the same shit as my sister.” Jack said. Trent smirked, tucking the balm back into his pocket with a satisfied look.

“Gotta keep up, don’t I?” he replied, unbothered. “She knows what she’s doing.” Noah and Jack looked at each other knowingly queuing up a joke. Trent rolled his eyes, already sensing the teasing wouldn’t let up anytime soon. But he leaned back on the couch with a smirk thinking of you and your lips.

•

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter or of what's to come!

Next part - Chapter 7 - Girl of The Season xx

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #Movie Night Fic

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ghostiesnightmare · 5 months ago

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Tricks and Treats

Stalker!Ghostface x Reader

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Warnings: Implied non-con, stalking, harassment, nudity, brief descriptions of gore, NSFW

Word count: 2.8K

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The world is a dangerous place. More specifically, Woodsboro is a dangerous place. The almost idyllic scenery that the California town had to offer was a perfect getaway from the bustle of the dense city, but only if you knew where to find it. The small-town charm of the porch-wrapped houses and corner stores had to offer seemed to give off the pleasantries of any other normal town. Yellow school buses shuttled teens to and from school, crowds gathered at the cinema or the occasional concert in town, and life moved at an almost melodramatic pace.

That is, until Casey Becker and her boyfriend were found gutted at the Becker household, their bodies bloated and distorted in a mess of blood, tissue, and bones. The town’s normalcy shattered as gossip swarmed the streets. Tensions rose, and suspicion grew at even the slightest of actions. There was a killer on the loose, and until caught, there was no way to know who or what was coming next.

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The phone rang.

Your eyes shoot open with the sudden intrusion into your dreams. Groaning, you stretched, shoulders popping at the pressure as you glanced at the clock, wishing away the constant blare of the ringtone. The digital clock on the TV mantle almost glared at you in the dim lighting of the living room, 3:43, the witching hour. Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you rose from the couch, pulling the blanket closer to your form as you hobbled into the kitchen. Cursing under your breath as you banged into the countertop, you blindly fumbled for the landline. Ripping the phone from its receiver, you brought the object to your ear as you glanced out the window, staring at the abyss of darkness surrounding the kitchen counter.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Quirking a brow, you listened closely, trying to discern if you had imagined the ringing in the first place or if you were really awake. You try again.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

A beat. Silence glares back at you. Slightly irritated, you move the phone to your other ear, leaning into the counter further as you awaited an answer.

“Look, it’s late, so whoever you are, call back at a reasonable time next time, okay-” Before you can finish your sentence, you hear it.

A low, dark chuckle cuts through the silence on the other end of the line like a knife. The hairs on the back of your neck raise and a chill shudders down your spine. The almost inhumane noise stiffens your legs and you freeze, jolted out of your sleepy state.

“You’re cute when you’re sleeping.” The voice purrs.

Click!

You almost jump out of your skin as the dial tone screeches into your ear, causing you to drop the phone onto the ceramic tiling of the kitchen counter. The phone clatters loudly as the wiring is pulled from the phone, plastic shattering across the kitchen floor, plunging the house into eerie silence once more. You tried to reason with yourself as you shakily picked up the shards of plastic strewn around the kitchen; it had to have been a prank due to the season, horror fanatics terrorizing unsuspecting callers in the middle of the night as Halloween approached. Your eyes flicked to the television, propped up across the house next to your resting place. Recalling the recent events on the news, fear settles into your stomach. Phone calls, Halloween, murder. Shuffling back to the couch, you hid beneath the layers of your blankets, the red of the clock still piercing the darkness.

Suddenly you feel much less convinced.

————

After your terrifying night time encounter with a “prank caller”, you assumed they would lose interest and the calls would die out as the days went on. You replaced the family receiver, started sleeping in your room, and moved on with your life. Except the calls wouldn’t stop. All well within the night, all when your parents were away, all with new terrifying details that plagued your dreams as you tried to brush them off. What started off with heavy breathing turned into creepy comments about your routine, personalized attacks, and depraved fantasies of gutting you like a fish. You began taking sleeping pills and drinking coffee to try and take back the hour that the anonymous bully had carved out of your nightly schedule. School started to feel like a crime scene, with you scrutinizing every classmate that looked at you through dark eyebags. You even considered going to the police to have a sense of peace when sleeping. Yet every night, you knew that he would be waiting for you as you drifted off, with even more sickening calls to startle you awake.

You began to wonder if he, you assumed it to be a he due to his rough language and sickening fantasies borderlining a psychopath regarding your looks and sleeping habits, got off to it. The thought of terrorizing a high school student while they slept might be his way to invoke some sick pleasure onto himself. You tried not to think about what he was doing when he rasped things about what your insides felt like or how you would sound while he was killing you. In a sense, he was killing you; your sense of security and privacy in your own home was shattered and you lived your life in a state of petrified terror, not trusting anything or anyone. Things started to go missing around your room; a pair of socks went missing from your dresser. Then a bra, then panties, then your toothbrush, each coming with their own methodical taut in the later hours.

“No wonder you shiver in your sleep, you never wear any socks; poor girl.”

“Looking for something, doll?”

“Lace panties? You dirty slut. I knew you were a filthy whore.”

It was a never ending nightmare.You began distancing yourself from your friends, scared that you might inject them with the perverse state you were constantly engulfed in. Grades started to slip as you dozed off in class, relishing in the few moments you had to sleep in peace. And yet, it only continued to get darker as time went on. Students dropping like flies, investigators and reporters swarming the streets, a mandatory curfew. As the clock ticked closer to All Hallows Eve, you prayed that everything would die down and you would finally return to your normal life. The one thing you had to look for was the lack of trick or treaters expected on Halloween due to the curfew, meaning a night truly to yourself. You could only hope that your eerie stalker had better things to do than to plague your night once more.

————

“Your wife has such a beautiful neck…”

Rolling your eyes at the television screen, you continued to watch the black and white movie while eating popcorn, basking in the solace that that night has so far offered you. The phone, although perched menacingly on the kitchen countertop, remained silent as you binged old horror movies and munched on snacks. You felt relaxed for the first time in weeks, soaking up the silence which was only interrupted by the occasional scream and tense music emitting from the television. You were right, you had endured the pranks and taunts until Halloween, but tonight was about you. You were free from the incessant calls and late night scares, and were finally at peace with the quiet of your home.

Yawning, you stretched, reaching into the popcorn bucket and finding it empty. Groaning, You rose from the couch and padded over to the kitchen, placing the tupperware into the sink before reaching into the counter to grab a glass. Turning on the faucet, you filled up your glass and placed it beside you, items in the sink clattering around as you washed the tupperware before drying your hands. Turning back to the living room, you paled.

The television was off.

Not off, per say, but a blank wall of static stared back at you, the fuzzy outline almost burning into your eyes as you stood frozen in the kitchen, clammy hands grasping your glass. Eyeing the television warily, you blindly fumbled around behind you, pulling a kitchen knife from the block. Creeping forward, you set the glass down and held the knife within both of your hands, jutting it out in front of you as you entered the living room. Feet hitting the rug, you stumbled slightly, gasping as you tripped clumsily, eyes never leaving the television. Reaching the couch, you grabbed the remote and flicked the television off. Silence fell upon the room once more, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

Ding!

You audibly screeched, head whirling towards the front door as you blindly whipped the knife in a sweeping notion, almost spinning out due to the force. A chorus of children’s laughter was heard as you barely made out tiny silhouettes fleeing the scene. Even during a mandatory curfew, kids will always find a way to cause trouble on Halloween. Trying to calm your rapid breathing, you let the knife drop to your side. It’s just paranoia, these past few weeks have taken a toll and you were jumping at anything that could give you a scare. There’s no one out there, it’s just the Halloween spirits scaring you.

Walking to the front door, you made sure it was locked before peering through the window. Vacant nighttime streets greeted your vision, with the faint glow of jack-o-lanterns adorning the steps of every other house. Through the door, you could hear a faint breeze wafting through the neighborhood, the only sound besides rustling leaves. You were definitely alone, no boogeyman waiting around the corner to snatch you, no faceless caller to disturb your sleep and terrorize your dreams. Sighing in relief, you went to the living room and kitchen, turning the lights off as you headed upstairs. You were in desperate need of a shower, wanting to feel your nerves melt away under the hot water and finally rest assuredly under the covers of your bed. Giving one last look at the lower level of the house, you crept up the stairs to your room, leaving your water glass on the counter without a second thought.

The glass sat on the ceramic tile of the counter next to the phone, half empty.

————

Rummaging through your dresser, you searched for comfortable yet festive sleepwear for the evening, and settled for a pair of black shorts and a baggy t-shirt, the smiling face of a ghost in a pumpkin patch winking back at you. Clutching the items to your chest, you scurried into the connected bathroom, setting your clothes on the closed toilet seat before whisking the shower curtain open. Turning the crank of the shower, you stripped out of your movie-night clothes, which were flaked with popcorn salt and the occasional butter drop. You quickly threw the clothes outside of the bathroom door, which unceremoniously landed in a clump on the floor of your bedroom. Feeling the water with your hand, you stepped into the shower and whisked the shower curtain closed, sighing as you felt enveloped by the scalding water.

You needed this, a calm, relaxing shower and a good night's rest after the hellish week that you could now proudly say was behind you. Grabbing your soap bar, you lathered away at your skin, envisioning scrubbing the stress away and watching the suds rinse down the drain. You shampooed your hair, humming the tune of the most recent horror film you watched as you let the water cascade down your hair. You thought about your evening, silently scolding the damsel in distress and replaying scenes in your head. You however, were free from any monsters that night. Smiling, you rubbed the conditioner in your head, continuously humming. A split second creak made you pause, and you listened for any noise. When not hearing anything else, you resumed your actions, finishing your routine before turning the water off. Steam pooled out of the shower and hung heavy in the air as you stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your form. Padding over to the mirror, you brushed your hair, squeezing any remaining water out of it before washing your face and brushing your teeth. Ready to change, you turned towards the toilet to grab your clothes, confused when you spotted nothing there. Peeking your head outside the bathroom door, you spotted your clothes folded neatly on your bedspread.

Rolling your eyes at your forgetfulness, you pushed open the bathroom door the rest of the way and reached for your clothes. Black shorts, black panties, and a t-shirt… did you grab panties? Shuffling around, you dropped your towel, holding the panties up, slipping them up your legs. You were clearly in need of a good night's sleep, and tugged on your shirt and shorts. Stretching, you turned to close your bedroom door, doing the same to the bathroom door. As you turned back to the bed, you noticed your forgotten clothes scattered on the floor. Bending to pick them up, you looked at the alarm clock on your nightstand. The clock seemed to taunt you, giving a slight warning with the digital numbers 3:25 staring back at you. Scooping up your clothes, you headed towards the closet, opening one of the doors to throw your clothes in the hamper.

A hand grabbed your wrist.

A scream ripped out of your throat, and you tried to wrench your way out of its grasp, but it held your wrist like a vice. The black glove dug into your skin, and tears immediately spilled down your cheeks as you wrestled with the figure in the closet. An arm emerged, then a torso, and finally the black eyes of a mask met yours. You paled, frozen at the spot while gaping at the soulless eyes that stared back at you. The frozen look of terror on the mask echoed your own, and you felt a sob bubble from your chest. That mask, the same they found at the crime scene of Principle Hembry. The one that had the entire town bubbling with fear and suspicion.

Ghostface.

He cocks his head at you, pulling you forward by your wrist, wrapping his other around your throat. Tears spill from your cheeks onto his glove, and he removes his hold on your wrist to pull your hair back, forcing your gaze to meet his once more.

“What’s wrong, (y/n)? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. It’s just another nightmare.

“Cat got your tongue?” He purrs, shoving you back by the throat, causing you to stumble backwards, tripping over your bed and landing unceremoniously in a heap on the sheets. You scramble upwards, screaming in terror, sobs racking your body.

“P-please don’t hurt me, oh my god plea-” He grabbed your ankle, pulling you towards him as he scrambled on top of you, wrestling you back down on the bed.

“Shut the fuck up, unless you want me to slit that pretty throat of yours then be quiet.” He seethed, pinning your hands above your head. Reaching into his robe, your eyes are met with the very long, very sharp blade of a knife. You feel like you could pass out from the fear consuming you. Terrified, your eyes flick to his own, silently begging him not to kill you. He chuckles at the look on your face, that same laugh seared into your nightmares and causing a tremor of fear to tickle down your spine.

“Don’t worry… I won’t kill you…” He cocks his head at you again, pressing his weight onto you almost painfully. You wheeze at the pressure.

“Not yet anyways. Now, let’s see how much of a good girl you really are.” He croons, and the realization of the situation dawns on you. All those calls, all those threats and taunts, yet here he is in your room, ready to make your worst fears become a reality. Writhing beneath him, you squirm desperately to try and free yourself. Growing tired of your relentless fighting, he pushes into your caught wrists, hard. You wince, crying out at the pressure.

“Now, now, this is only fair. You got the trick this Halloween…” He muses, trailing the knife up your t-shirt, effectively cutting away at the fabric. You wince as the blade knicks you, opening little cuts along your skin as he cuts your protective layer away. Dropping the knife at your side, he rips away the rest of the fabric. You can feel his eyes roam your skin hungrily, and you squeeze your eyes shut, praying this is all another nightmare. His hand finds your chin, forcing you to stare into the void of his eyes. Leaning forward your forehead touches the cool plastic of the mask, and for the first time you hear his voice for what it really is.

“...that means I get this nice, little treat.”

————

A/N: this is my first fic on tumblr, so let me know your thoughts or if you have any comments or requests! DM me and I’d me happy to chat

#smut #ghostface #ghostface imagine #ghostface x you #slasher smut #stalker #ghostface x reader #horror #slasher x reader #ghostface smut #slashers #horror smut

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dianadeadwing · 7 months ago

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It’s that meme but Make it Zekina for Day 1 of Zekina week. @tacosandtouchtanks

The prompt is cinema so she can be a movie star and singer too. Their outfits are from ep 6.14 The Hormone-iums. Just Some Zeke typical good natured yearning while being totally happy with Tina living her best life even if it’s away from him.

[ID:

Digital fanart of Tina and Zeke from Bob’s Burgers in their outfits from Hormone-iums episode in season six. Zeke is standing mostly in shadow facing a large red sign with a large picture of Tina’s smiling face on it. The sign reads „Tina Belcher“ and „The Hormone-iums“.

/end ID]

#zekinaweek24 #zekina #bob's burgers #tina belcher x zeke #tina belcher #zeke bobs burgers #draw your otp #bobs burgers #fanart #artists on tumblr #digital art #my art tag #procreate

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kirin-aurora · 6 days ago

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With Sonic 3 about to hit cinemas, I'd thought I'd show off my Sonic OC. This is Ari the Red panda.

I am still teaching myself the art style, so the art may not be 100% accurate, but as a digital artist, it's all learning. I'm hoping to add her to the list of OCs I want to draw more of.

Also, I should have another Sonic post in the next few days related to the Year of Shadow.

#digital art #digital illustration #doodle #illustration #doodles #digital painting #original character #character art #oc #art #drawing #my art #artwork #character illustration #character sheet #oc art #sonic the hedgehog #sonic oc

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transhuman-priestess · 8 months ago

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Legit i love how digital video still has different looks depending on when it was taken.

A MiniDV camcorder from 1997 will have a different look than a Canon XL2 in 2005 which will have a different look from a Panavision Genesis in 2006 which will look different from a RED Epic in 2015 which will look different from a Blackmagic Pocket Cinema in 2023.

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the-far-bright-center · 2 months ago

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"The film’s deeply visual emphasis also plays out in linear and direct relation to the previous prequels: The Phantom Menace is characterized mostly by the warm tones of Tatooine and Naboo, with the majority of scenes occurring in bright sunlight; Attack of the Clones balances evening and late daytime scenes, its palette dominated by the steely grays and blues of Coruscant and Kamino to underline the moral relativity of its central character; finally, Revenge of the Sith plays out predominantly at dusk and at nighttime, frequently situating its characters in political chambers designed according to the film’s “evil” tones of black and red. So too does the style of composition and movement bolster the film’s tonality: even in the midst of their narrative complexities, Menace and Clones are punctuated frequently with rousing set pieces, lending the films an exciting forward momentum. Contrarily, Revenge of the Sith submerges itself in the discomforting particulars of faltering political systems and fatal misunderstandings. The aforementioned opening provides the film’s only sequence of pure “escape,” and even that sequence takes a moment to fester in Anakin’s decaying sense of morality. Much of the film devotes itself to conversations with impossibly high stakes, dialogue delivered in a kind of blunt efficiency that recalls silent cinema; the words are functional, serving only to supplant the audiovisual power on display. When characters speak, they speak broadly and dramatically, leaving no room for confusion: “You’re breaking my heart”; “from my point of view, the Jedi are evil.” The performances also frequently hearken back to older styles: when Palpatine transforms into the treacherous Emperor we remember from Jedi, actor Ian McDiarmid exudes the expressive excess of kabuki theatre, a style lent famous cinematic context by Akira Kurosawa in Throne of Blood (1958) and Ran (1985).

Given the newly expansive potential afforded by digital technology, Lucas is no longer limited to simple filmic references. In Revenge of the Sith, he boldly visualizes his interests in classical mythology and literature; to be sure, the prequels recall the tragedies of Shakespeare, perhaps most evidently in Palpatine’s similarities to Othello’s Iago. However, Lucas digs deeper and further into the past when he depicts Anakin and Obi-Wan Kenobi duelling across the volcanic vistas of Mustafar. When discussing this scene, it is crucial to acknowledge Camille Paglia’s wonderful and laudatory piece in Glittering Images. Indeed, it is in this scene that the film’s awe-striking and unprecedented anachronism totally takes over: painting his images digitally, Lucas taps into our knowledge of Dante, of the legend of Faust, the Christian Hell and the Greek Hades, of the metaphoric burning of Icarus’s wings in the form of Anakin’s smoldering body. Appropriately, John Williams’s score moves further from Korngold-echoing whimsy with each successive prequel, and in Sith it acquires operatic overtones. Never one to divide “high” art from “low,” Lucas draws from every available well of visual representation to craft this uniquely digital genre entertainment, a film that is broadly drawn in its emotional strokes but rigorous in its cinematic grammar. The starkly outlined divisions established by the five preceding films break down in the Mustafar sequence, emphasized by the combatants’ matching lightsabers. It is almost as if we are watching the mythic Star Wars world burning down, an epic downfall of elemental gestures. We can no longer perceive this man, Anakin Skywalker, as an enigmatic monster in a robotic suit; not now that we have seen him weeping with rage at the network of choices and obstacles that led him to hell. If only every myth were graced with such far-ranging moral gradients; Anakin chooses evil, because it seems to him like the only right choice at the time. Now that is tragedy."

#revenge of the sith #george lucas #the prequels #star wars prequels #prequel trilogy #rots #prequels appreciation #lucas' saga #the skywalker saga #the real skywalker saga #pro lucas saga #anakin skywalker #there's nothing better than actual thoughtful academic critique of the prequels *as* FILMS #films that are SAYING something visually in CINEMATIC LANGUAGE #also that last line..... Mike Thorn YOU GET IT!!!!

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respectthepetty · 10 months ago

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I've been wondering for a while- how did you start getting into all the colour stuff?? I would love an origin story <3 what got you into your passion for deciphering colors and how did you figure out what they mean??

sorry ik it's a lot but ever since I started following you I see colors everywhere and I'm curious of where you started noticing them ((: it's so fun and intriguing to me! I'm usually more of a "foaming at the mouth for the lighting" girlie but it's been a heap of fun figuring out colors with the lights ^^

thanks for everything you do to show us your eye for color btw ♡♡ your blog is so fascinating and I love reading all your theories and notes

@overrgrown, never apologize for asking questions, but I've actually been asked this before by bengiyo. You can find my write up HERE, but the short version of that post is I've always seen colors; therefore, I've always attached meaning to them, even if the meaning was not valid.

TLWR: Appreciate the artists who work on these shows, not me.

In bengiyo's ask, I stated that when I was younger, I thought the colors were showing me what was good and what was bad. That's it. In my defense, I was a kid, so everything really was good or bad in my book with no in-between.

Even though I've always seen colors, and it comes very naturally to me, the meaning I attached to them when I was younger was very much based on who I was rather than what was being shown to me. Five-year old me thought if someone was dressed all in red that they were the devil. Adult me now knows that isn't always the case. Adult me also knows that red in American (United States) culture means something different than other cultures.

Not a flex, just a fact, but I have several degrees in languages, linguistics, and rhetoric. What they are in is not super important, but, in general, a formal education has greatly helped me infer meaning from what I'm visually seeing in the media I consume. My degrees are not in film or communications, yet I've taken undergrad and grad-level courses like Visual Media, Multimedia and Visual Communication, Language of Film, Digital Narratives, Cinematography and Lighting, Film Theory & Criticism, Queer Cinema History, Spanish Film & Feminism, and many more all because under this great big academic umbrella of rhetoric and composition lies storytelling.

And that's what this is really about - How do we tell a story? Regardless if that story is a simple flyer for a school bake sale, a 30-second commercial advertising cleaning wipes, or a 12-episode BL series, how do we get the message across? We can't just rely on ONE thing! We have to use as many things as possible! So when I'm watching a BL series, I'm just not paying attention to the words being spoken or the acting alone. No, I'm paying to the background noise. What do the clothes tell me about the character? What does his apartment tell me about him? And what do the colors mean?! All of it is important!

I've mentioned this before but I serve on a screening committee for a queer film festival. I actually got involved with the film festival as an undergrad because of one of the film courses. This has allowed me the opportunity to speak to several filmmakers about their process, and all of them have confirmed that the colors were intentional. People who deal with props and costume design have spoken to me about trying to find very specific items that reinforce the story being told. Oh, and theater is a whole different level. Because of the nature of the stage versus film, if it is on the stage, it must have a reason for being there.

Basically, people who work in visual media work really fucking hard, which you probably know since you love lighting. Most times, 12-hour days are the average, if not longer. This video does a good job of briefly covering the work that goes into costume design, and I timestamped it to begin at the part that covers colors.

youtube

I love seeing colors. I love deciphering them. I love the story they tell.

But they wouldn't be there if the hardworking people behind them didn't do their job, and those are the people who I appreciate.

So, as always, I'm thankful that you let me know I'm helping you see the beauty is in the details, but I'm really just here to admire the beauty with you.

#the colors mean things #colors are universal #so the fact that everybody color codes is a magical humanistic connection #even if we don't all recognize them #they still exist #and people work hard for us to see them #I'm just here to admire them with you

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fatalism-and-villainy · 1 year ago

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I would love to hear more of your opinions on Francis Dolarhyde

Anon, I am so sorry this took me two weeks to answer. I had the whole thing formulated, but it took awhile to track down the scenes/quotes that supported this argument, so here we are.

My initial response to this was “I don’t have many thoughts on him,” but that’s not actually true. I don’t have many thoughts on him as a character - I’m pretty okay with what he’s doing in the story and how he slots into Will and Hannibal’s dynamic, but he’s not one of the cast members who compels me the most.

But what I do find compelling about him is how his character is stylistically handled.

One of the most striking things about him, to me, is what Bryan Fuller said on one of the DVD commentaries for season 3, about the sequences at Dolarhyde’s house demonstrating the horror of cinema. And it’s really true - the horror of the scenes at his house, when he rehearses and relives his murders, is communicated visually through the close-ups on his film projector. For example, in episode 11, when Reba is at his house and he watches - unbeknown to her - footage of Molly and Walter, there are close-ups of the film spinning in its reel:

And this kind of visual focus on the projector and film is pretty frequent in the scenes at his house. It’s all about the film! Hannibal frequently features this kind of close-up object focus in its cinematography, but it’s telling that with Dolarhyde, the main other kind of technology we see it with is the tattoo needle shown upon his introduction.

The film, and the voyeurism it represents, is part of the technology of his becoming, just as his Red Dragon tattoos are. And his long introductory sequence also features the artsy sequence wherein he seemingly gets bound by the film and transforms into the projector.

His bestial nature is linked to his voyeurism and its monstrous appetites.

I also think about Dolarhyde in the context what Elizabeth Sandifer has to say about him, in her episode-by-episode commentary on Hannibal: that NBC!Dolarhyde “exists in constant tension with modernity.” Commenting on the effect of Dolarhyde retaining the job at the film processing plant that he has in the original Red Dragon novel, she says:

Inasmuch as it’s an object worthy of scrutiny, it speaks to Harris’s consistent fascination with turning modernity into monstrosity. But in 2015, nearly thirty-five years later, his connection to film is dated—a connection less to modernity than to early 20th century modernism. (Hannibal himself, of course, presents similar issues.) He is a technological monster, yes, but he is rooted in the hauntological qualities of technology as opposed to any futuristic ones.

And I just love that. Like, it’s fascinating to me that even though the film processing plant is no longer the means through which Dolarhyde is discovered, as in the novel, there’s something about it that just felt intrinsic to his character to Fuller&co. As an adaptational move, it turns the mundanity of his profession into a sort of retro technophilia, kind of reminiscent of that quote that goes around sometimes about how out-of-date technology acquires a new aesthetic resonance when it’s removed from its zeitgeist.

Hannibal is very deliberately out-of-time. Hannibal the character is surrounded by the signifiers of 19th century aestheticism, and Dolarhyde, in turn, becomes representative of the aestheticization of the late ‘70s. And that shift in temporality reflects the narrative turn in the utility of film in this arc - his videos are no longer a plot element, but rather a way of aesthetically and psychologically rendering his character. Rather appropriate to the fact that Will’s 3B arc, in turn, constitutes him shifting focus from the question of how Dolarhyde is choosing his victims to the question of the degree to which he himself shares Dolarhyde’s appetite.

I think the strange, out-of-time quality of Dolarhyde’s use of film - rather than modern digital technology - can also be taken to reflect the level of artistic distance through which we ourselves see the show. Violence on Hannibal is very stylized, very refracted through an aestheticized lens. It’s made beautiful to us. The datedness of this form of technology, the way it renders the projector and film themselves as aesthetic objects, keeps us at a remove from the violence itself. Instead, it reorients us towards point of view, and interpretation. Towards how things are seen, rather than simply the fact of their occurrence.

Geoff Klock, in the oft-cited book If Oscar Wilde Ate People, notes the significance of “seeing” in the show (113). The question “see?”, as Klock notes, bookends the first and last episodes of the show, posed first by Garett Jacob Hobbs and then, on the cliff, by Hannibal. And of course, Dolarhyde himself poses this question, when confronting Chilton with pictures of his crimes: “Do you see?”

Being able to see the aesthetic and artistic qualities in murder, and to see beyond its immorality, is thematically central to the show, in Klock’s argument. And to me, Dolarhyde embodies that concept perhaps more so than any of the show’s other villains (save, perhaps, Hannibal himself). As noted in the film Manhunter, sight is the main sense through which Dolarhyde perceives the world. The two pieces of iconography associated with him on the show are the broken mirror in his house (and of course, his habit of arranging the mirror shards on his victims’ eyes) and the film projector - demonstrating his fractured view of himself, and the consequential control he asserts over the images of his victims, and the way he uses them to transform his view of himself.

Essentially, the show links the potential for violence to a sort of interpretive capacity that is metaphorically associated with sight, and Dolarhyde is a character very associated with sight. And the cinematic and stylistic framing of his psyche has a lot of fascinating implications as to the show’s aesthetic rendering of violence.

#hannibal meta #francis dolarhyde #hannibal season 3 #hannibal #my meta #hannibal talk #i am always here to talk about style style STYLE #not to mention temporality #queue

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am--f · 6 months ago

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TikTok, Seriality, and the Algorithmic Gaze

Princeton-Weimar Summer School for Media Studies, 2024 Princeton University

If digital moving image platforms like TikTok differ in meaningful ways from cinema and television, certainly one of the most important differences is the mode by which the viewing experience is composed. We are dealing not only with fixed media nor with live broadcast media, but with an AI recommender system, a serial format that mixes both, generated on the fly and addressed to each individual user. Out of this series emerges something like a subject, or at least an image of one, which is then stored and constantly re-addressed.

TikTok has introduced a potentially dominant design for the delivery of moving images—and, potentially, a default delivery system for information in general. Already, Instagram has adopted this design with its Reels feature, and Twitter, too, has shifted towards a similar emphasis. YouTube has been providing video recommendations since 2008. More than other comparable services, TikTok places its proprietary recommender system at the core of the apparatus. The “For You” page, as TikTok calls it, presents a dynamically generated, infinitely scrollable series of video loops. The For You page is the primary interface and homepage for users. Content is curated and served on the For You page not only according to explicit user interactions (such as liking or following) or social graphs (although these do play some role in the curation). Instead, content is selected on the basis of a wider range of user behavior that seems to be particularly weighted towards viewing time—the time spent watching each video loop. This is automatic montage, personalized montages produced in real time for billions of daily users. To use another transmedial analogy—one perhaps justified by TikTok’s approximation of color convergence errors in its luminous cyan and red branding—this montage has the uncanny rhythm of TV channel surfing. But the “channels” you pass through are not determined by the fixed linear series of numbered broadcast channels. Instead, each “channel” you encounter has been preselected for you; you are shown “channels” that are like the ones you have tended to linger on.

The experience of spectatorship on TikTok, therefore, is also an experience of the responsive modeling of one’s spectatorship—it involves the awareness of such modeling. This is a cybernetic loop, in effect, within which future action is performed on the basis of the past behavior of the recommender system as it operates. Spectatorship is fully integrated into the circuit. Here is how it works: the system starts by recommending a sequence of more or less arbitrary videos. It notes my view time on each, and cross-references the descriptive metadata that underwrites each video. (This involves, to some degree, internal, invisible tags, not just user-generated tags.) The more I view something, the more likely I am to be shown something like it in the future. A series of likenesses unfolds, passing between two addresses: my behavior and the database of videos. It’s a serial process of individuation. As TikTok puts it in a 2020 blog post: these likenesses or recommendations increasingly become “polished,” “tailored,” “refined,” “improved,” and “corrected” apparently as a function of consistent use over time.

Like many recommender systems—and such systems are to be found everywhere nowadays—the For You algorithm is a black box. It has not been released to the public, although there seem to have been, at some point, promises to do this. In lieu of this, a “TikTok Transparency Center” run by TikTok in Los Angeles (delayed, apparently, by the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic) opened in 2023. TikTok has published informal descriptions of the algorithm, and by all accounts it appears to be rather straightforward. At the same time, the algorithm has engendered all kinds of folk sciences, superstitions, paranoid theories, and magical practices. What is this algorithm that shows me such interesting, bizarre, entertaining, unexpected things? What does it think I want? Why does it think I want this? How does this algorithm sometimes seem to know me so well, to know what I want to see? What is it watching me watch? (From the side of content creators, of course, there is also always the question: what kind of content do I need to produce in order to be recognized and distributed by the algorithm? How can I go viral and how can I maximize engagement? What kinds of things will the algorithm want to see? Why is the algorithm not seeing me?)

These seem to be questions involving an algorithmic gaze. That is to say: there is something or someone watching prior to the actual instance of watching, something or someone which is beyond empirical, human viewers, “watching” them watch. There is something watching me, whether or not I actually make an optical image of myself. I am looked at by the algorithm. There is a structuring gaze. But what is this gaze? How does it address us? Is this the gaze of a cinematic apparatus? Is it the gaze we know from filmtheory, a gaze of mastery with which we are supposed to identify, a gaze which hails or interpellates us, which masters us? Is it a Foucauldian, panoptic gaze, one that disciplines us?

Any one of us who uses the major platforms is familiar with how the gaze of the system feels. It a gaze that looks back—looks at our looking—and inscribes our attention onto a balance sheet. It counts and accounts for our attention. This account appears to be a personalized account, a personalized perspective. People use the phrase “my TikTok algorithm,” referring to the personalized model which they have generated through use. Strictly speaking, of course, it’s not the algorithm that’s individualized or that individuates, but the model that is its product. The model that is generated by the algorithm as I use it and as it learns from my activity is my profile. The profile is “mine” because I am constantly “training” it with my attention as its input, and feel a sense of ownership since it’s associated with my account, but the profile is also “of me” and “for me” because it is constantly subjecting me to my picture, a picture of my history of attention. Incidentally, I think this is precisely something that Jacques Lacan, in his 1973 lecture on the gaze in Seminar XI, refers to as a “bipolar reflexive relation,” the ambiguity of the phrase “my image.” “As soon as I perceive, my representations belong to me.” But, at the same time, something looks back; something pictures me looking. “The picture, certainly, is in my eye. But I am in the picture.”

On TikTok, the picture often seems sort of wrong, malformed. Perhaps more often than not. Things drift around and get stuck in loops. The screen fills with garbage. As spectators, we are constantly being shown things we don’t want any more of, or things we would never admit we want, or things we hate (but cannot avoid watching: this is the pleasurable phenomenon of “cringe”). But we are compelled to watch them all. The apparatus seems to endlessly produce desire. Where does this desire come from? Is it from the addictive charge of the occasional good guess, the moment of brief recognition (the lucky find, the Surrealist trouvaille: “this is for me”)? Is it the promise that further training will yield better results? Is it possible that our desire is constituted and propelled in the failures of the machine, in moments of misrecognition and misidentification in the line of sight of a gaze that evidently cannot really see us?

In the early 1970s, in the British journal Screen, scholars such as Laura Mulvey, Colin MacCabe, and Stephen Heath developed a film-theoretical concept of the gaze. This concept was used to explain how desire is determined, specified, and produced by visual media. In some ways, the theory echoes Lacan’s phenomenological interest in “the pre-existence to the seen of a given-to-be-seen” (Seminar XI, 74). The gaze is what the cinematic apparatus produces as part of its configuration of the given-to-be-seen.

In Screen theory, as it came to be known, the screen becomes a mirror. On it, all representations seem to belong to me, the individual spectator. This is an illusion of mastery, an imaginary relation to real conditions of existence in the terms of the Althusserian formula. It corresponds to the jubilant identification that occurs in a moment in Lacan’s famous 1949 paper “The Mirror Stage as Formative of the I Function as Revealed in Psychoanalytic Experience,” in which the motor-challenged infant, its body fragmented (en morceaux) in reality, discovers the illusion of its wholeness in the mirror. The subject is brought perfectly in line with this ideal-I, with this spectacle, such that what it sees is simply identical to its desire. There is convergence. To slightly oversimplify: for Screen theory, this moment in mirror stage is the essence of cinema and ideology, or cinema as ideology.

Joan Copjec, in her essay “The Orthopsychic Subject,” notes that Screen theory considered a certain relationship of property to be one of its primary discoveries. The “screen as mirror”: the ideological-cinematic apparatus produces representations which are “accepted by the subject as its own.” This is what Lacan calls the “belong to me aspect so reminiscent of property.” “It is this aspect,” says Copjec, speaking for Screen theory, “that allows the subject to see in any representation not only a reflection of itself but a reflection of itself as master of all it surveys. The imaginary relation produces the subject as master of the image. . . . The subject is satisfied that it has been adequately reflected on the screen. The ‘reality effect’ and the ‘subject effect’ both name the same constructed impression: that the image makes the subject fully visible to itself” (21–22).

According to Copjec, “the gaze always remains within film theory the sense of being that point at which sense and being coincide. The subject comes into being by identifying with the image’s signified. Sense founds the subject—that is the ultimate point of the film-theoretical and Foucauldian concepts of the gaze” (22).

But this is not Lacan’s gaze. The gaze that Lacan introduces in Seminar XI is something much less complete, much less satisfying. The gaze concept is not exhausted by the imaginary relation of identification described in Screen theory, where the subject simply appropriates the gaze, assumes the position created for it by the image “without the hint of failure,” as Copjec puts it. In its emphasis on the imaginary, Screen theory neglects the symbolic relation as well as the issue of the real.

In Seminar XI, Lacan explicates the gaze in the midst of a discussion on Sartre and Merleau-Ponty. Again, Lacan’s gaze is something that pre-exists the seeing subject and is encountered as pre-existing it: “we are beings who are looked at, in the spectacle of the world” (75). But—and this is the crucial difference in emphasis—it is impossible to look at ourselves from the position of this all-seeing spectacle. The gaze, as objet a in the field of the visible, is something that in fact cannot be appropriated or inhabited. It is nevertheless the object of the drive, a cause of desire. The gaze “may come to symbolize” the "central lack expressed in the phenomenon of castration” (77). Lacan even says, later in the seminar, that the gaze is “the most characteristic term for apprehending the proper function of the objet a” (270). As objet a, as the object-cause of desire, the gaze is said to be separable and separated off from the subject and has only ever existed as lack. The gaze is just all of those points from which I myself will never see, the views I will never possess or master. I may occasionally imagine that I have the object, that I occupy the gaze, but I am also constantly reminded of the fact that I don’t, by images that show me my partiality, my separation. This is the separation—between eye and gaze—that manifests as the drive in the scopic field.

The gaze is a position that cannot be assumed. It indicates an impossible real. Beyond everything that is shown to the subject, beyond the series of images to which the subject is subjected, the question is asked: “What is being concealed from me? What in this graphic space does not show, does not stop not writing itself?” This missing point is the point of the gaze. “At the moment the gaze is discerned, the image, the entire visual field, takes on a terrifying alterity,” says Copjec. “It loses its ‘belong-to-me aspect’ and suddenly assumes the function of a screen” (35). We get the sense of being cut off from the gaze completely. We get the sense of a blind gaze, a gaze that “is not clear or penetrating, not filled with knowledge or recognition; it is clouded over and turned back on itself, absorbed in its own enjoyment” (36). As Copjec concludes: “the gaze does not see you” (36).

So the holes and stains in the model continuously produced by the TikTok algorithm—those moments in which what we are shown seems to indicate a misreading, a wrong guess—are those moments wherein the gaze can be discerned. The experience is this: I am watching a modeling process and engaging with the serial missed encounters or misrecognitions (meconnaissance—not only misrecognition but mistaken knowledge—mis-knowing) that the modeling process performs. The Lacanian point would simply be the following: the situation is not that the algorithm knows me too well or that it gives me the illusion of mastery that would be provided by such knowledge. The situation is that the algorithm may not know or recognize me at all, even though it seems to respond to my behavior in some limited way, and offers the promise of knowing or recognizing me. And this is perhaps the stain or tuche, the point at which we make contact with the real, where the network of signifiers, the automaton, or the symbolic order starts to break down. It is only available through the series, through the repeated presentation of likenesses.

As Friedrich Kittler memorably put it, “the discourse of the other is the discourse of the circuit.” It is not the discourse of cinema or television or literature. Computational recommender systems operating as series of moving image loops seem to correspond strangely closely to the Lacanian models, to the gaze that is responsive yet absent, perceptive yet blind, desired yet impossible, perhaps even to the analytic scene. Lacan and psychoanalysis constantly seemed to suggest that humans carry out the same operations as machines, that the psyche is a camera-like apparatus capable of complicated performance, and that the analyst might be replaced with an optical device. Might we substitute recommender media for either psyche or analyst? In any case, it’s clear that the imaginary register of identification does not provide a sufficient model for subjectivity as it is addressed by computational media. That model, as Kittler points out, is to be found in Lacan’s symbolic register: “the world of the machine.”

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