#hes one of the more unpredictable ones on how this kind of conversation could go

[snootlestheangel]

Part One Part Two Part Three

"You have so many questions, don't you?" I ask, smiling warmly at him. He smiles sheepishly back, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath before sipping his tea. Quiet contemplation settles over him as he debates which question to ask first.

Please don't let it be that one.

"Is Aten right about him?"

That... is not the question I anticipated him to ask first.

It takes me by surprise, and I frown while leaning back into my seat. He takes a deep breath, a weak laugh echoing off the empty walls.

"You just answered it in a way, you know that, right?" He says, quiet and almost uncertain. Afraid of speaking the truth, of stirring the pot. So afraid of conflict yet always prepared for war.

"I won't remember this." He whispers, staring into the dark pool of tea. I swallow past the knot forming in my throat, and nod my head.

"You'll go back to following what you believe to be the path of righteousness."

He closes his eyes as he shakily exhales, pain forming behind his eyes. He lifts his head and straightens his posture, turning crimson eyes towards me. The cool look of a collected ruler, fixed on doing what is right for his people.

Acceptance of a fate doomed to end in bloodshed.

[missrosiesworld]

Gentleman's Heart

Here are some sweet headcanons for Von Lycaon when he has a crush:

Heightened Cleanliness: Von Lycaon’s already meticulous nature goes into overdrive. He ensures his surroundings are impeccably clean whenever his crush is around.

Von Lycaon: "Please, allow me to tidy up a bit before you come in."

Crush: "You really don’t have to go through all this trouble."

Von Lycaon: "It's no trouble at all. Your comfort is my priority."

Protective Instincts: His natural inclination to protect becomes even stronger. He subtly keeps a close watch over his crush, ensuring they are always safe and comfortable.

Von Lycaon, offering his arm to his crush: "Allow me to walk you home. The streets can be unpredictable at this hour."

Crush, smiling but hesitant: "Oh, that's very kind of you, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

Von Lycaon, gently taking their hand and placing it on his arm: "It's a privilege to ensure your well-being. I'd feel better knowing you arrived safely."

Crush, feeling his protective nature and warmth: "Thank you, Lycaon. That means a lot to me."

Von Lycaon, giving a reassuring smile as they start walking together: "Your safety is my top priority. I'll always be here to watch over you."

Subtle Courtship: Being a gentleman, Von Lycaon uses old-fashioned, subtle methods of courtship. He leaves small, thoughtful gifts and handwritten notes, often with poetic quotes or observations he knows will resonate with his crush.

Von Lycaon leaves a rose, carefully dethorned, along with a handwritten note on his crush's desk

Von Lycaon's note reads: "For the one who brightens my days, a small token of my appreciation."

Canine Instincts: His canine instincts become more pronounced around his crush. His ears might twitch or his tail might wag slightly when he’s particularly happy or excited in their presence.

Crush: "Is your tail wagging?"

Von Lycaon, flustered: "I… It seems I can't control it when I’m happy."

Crush, laughing and reaching out to touch his ear gently: "It’s cute. I like seeing you happy."

Loyalty and Devotion: Von Lycaon’s loyalty to his crush is unwavering. He goes out of his way to assist them, whether it’s helping with tasks or offering a listening ear.

Crush: "You've been helping me a lot lately. I hope I'm not burdening you."

Von Lycaon: "Nonsense. It's my pleasure to assist. Your happiness is reward enough."

Overthinking Interactions: Despite his outward composure, he internally overthinks every interaction. He analyzes every word and gesture, wondering if he came across the right way or if he said something that could be misinterpreted.

Rina, noticing his distraction: "You seem distracted, Lycaon."

Von Lycaon, his brow furrowing as he reflects: "Do you think I was too forward in our last conversation? I fear I may have made them uncomfortable."

Rina, giving him a reassuring smile: "From what you've told me, they seemed quite happy. Stop overthinking."

Gentle Touches: Physical contact is gentle and deliberate. He might place a reassuring hand on their shoulder or offer a gentlemanly kiss on the hand, each touch conveying his deep affection and respect.

Von Lycaon gently takes his crush's hand and, with a gentleman's grace, kisses it

Crush, smiling warmly: "You're quite the gentleman, aren't you?"

Von Lycaon, with a soft, affectionate smile: "For you, it's only natural."

Confiding in Trusted Friends: He confides in Rina about his feelings, seeking advice on how to express them appropriately without compromising his gentlemanly demeanor.

Von Lycaon: "Rina, may I seek your counsel on a personal matter?"

Rina: "Of course, Lycaon. What’s on your mind?"

Von Lycaon: "I’ve developed feelings for someone, and I wish to convey them without losing my composure or propriety."

Tail Wagging: When he’s particularly happy or flustered around his crush, his tail betrays him by wagging despite his best efforts to stay composed. He’s slightly embarrassed by this but it’s also endearing.

Crush: "You seem unusually happy today."

Von Lycaon, tail wagging, trying to suppress it: "Do I? Perhaps it’s the company."

Increased Poeticism: He becomes more poetic in his speech, often quoting literature or composing his romantic lines when speaking to or about his crush. His words are carefully chosen to reflect his deep feelings.

Von Lycaon, with a gentle, sincere tone: "The stars pale in comparison to your radiance."

Crush, blushing slightly, feeling touched: "You always know how to say the most beautiful things."

Von Lycaon, smiling softly, his eyes full of affection: "It's simply the truth, and I find myself captivated by it every day."

[tokoyamisstuff]

Delicate

Homelander x F! Reader

Summary: You and Homelander have been official for a while now, but you have yet to understand why things never went beyond a certain line.

Warnings: slight angst, slight manhandling, somnophilia, masturbation, explicit smut, praise kink, dirty talk, oral sex

A/N: not proofread as always bc I cringe at my own writing. take it or leave it

Homelander had never learned how to be gentle.

Of course he knew how to touch someone without breaking them if necessary, but there's limits to his self-restraint. Especially when it came to the intimate kind of encounter.

This sadistic side of his was an expression of his desperate need for control, an inability to truly let himself fall and be vulnerable with another person.

For decades his mantra was that normal humans only exist for supes' - and mostly his - entertainment. Your weakness was his thrill, the sheer difference in power so ridiculously high that you might as well be filthy bugs - and Homelander was like a cruel child with a magnifying glass.

Usually his mates were supes themselves and even they could barely handle his violent urges, but you are a mere human. So fragile and precious that it terrified him at times.

What if he loses control in the heat of the moment? What if he breaks you? Or even worse: What if you see him for the monster he really is and run away like everyone eventually does?

A while ago Homelander heard the story about Ice Princess' fling, some Vought employee nobody. She accidentally froze his penis off during climax. Hilarious, honestly. The first time he heard this story he had a very good laugh, and he still can't look that guy in the eye without cackling when he passes him in the hallways.

But now, being romantically involved with one of those weaklings himself, the possibility of something similar happening to you made his stomach turn...

...but of course, as Homelander always does, he chose to ignore the problem at hand instead of addressing it.

Why bother with an unpleasant conversation if he can just prolong this innocent, chaste bond for as long as possible? He'd rather have you like this than unnecessarily putting you into harm's way.

You on the other hand slowly but steadily grew impatient with your boyfriend.

At first you thought he was merely being chivalrous, but it's been three months and still nothing. He's famous, so you had involuntarily learned about his past affairs - and he's definetly not old-fashioned.

Then why is he hesitating so much?

Most of the time you don't dare talking about what's bothering you, simply because any issue of yours seemed so insignificant compared to the horrible things John's been through.

Admittedly, he once literally lasered a guy's head into mush just for throwing a can to his son's head. So while his reactions can be a bit unpredictable, John cares so deeply about the few people he loves that you want to spare him any more trouble.

Unhealthy way of handling things, admittedly.

Last week you had planned it all out: What you could only describe as the perfect date was supposed to continue in his apartment, and you could literally see all blood flow from his brain to nether regions as you entered the bedroom in finest lingerie.

Anyways, you had initiated several times up until now, and initially he'd always go along with it. However as soon as your make-out-sessions turn more heated, he'd abruptly end them and practically storm off.

Everything went so well at first, with you straddling his waist and tentatively grinding against his lap. His hands moved against his will as his resolve crumbled, finding the curves of your body and relishing in the feeling of your exposed skin under his gloves. His jaw clenched as he fought the urge to go all out, fearing dangerous consequences.

A proper dosage of pain can function as aphrodisiac, at least in your opinion. So you didn't tell him to stop, in fact your senses were too clouded by desire to even notice the way his fingers dug into the cushion of your hips.

Yet there was just the tiniest microexpression, just the fraction of a second where your heart sped up and your face contorted in pain...

...and Homelander, shocked with himself, threw you so frantically off of his lap, you landed face firsr on the floor instead of the bed.

Against all reasoning, you laughed hysterically at his not-so-subtle rejection, and god knows you'll tease him about it until forever. But also, understandably, on the inside you were as hurt and confused as never before.

Doesn't make it any better that your boyfriend had been avoiding you like you were the goddamn pest ever since.

Just like today, when Homelander comes home to you way past midnight, double checking with his x-ray-vision whether you were already fast asleep.

John was aware that this topic has been tormenting you for a while now, and while he never intended to hurt you - quite the opposite, really - he also clung to this pleasant illusion he had created with you.

Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, or so they say.

The course of his life had convinced him that all remotely good things happening to him will be taken away again. A farce prepared by destiny itself just to mock him, maybe evening out the scales since he had been blessed with too much power.

On days as shitty as this one however, nothing compares to having someone to come home to - even when he made sure that you weren't awake to confront him. He tosses his boots aside, grateful for you to be a sound sleeper as they fell to the floor with a loud thump.

Your boyfriend's heart sinks as he pulls up the blanket, being greeted by a handprint-shaped bruise on the side of your hip. Seems like it still hurts too much to sleep on that side. His fingertips run over the dark purple-ish mark, a pained groan escaping your throat when he gives in to the temptation to squeeze your ass.

He really is the worst.

Homelander freezes until he's certain you continue sleeping undisturbed, the sound of his own heart hammering against his chest drowning out all other noise. His palm is still lingering on your body, running up and down your sides and earning relieved sighs in return.

Before you'd feel his excitement too much, he manages to tear his body away from you, his erection twitching painfully as he rolled onto his back.

John really had pure intentions when he embraced you from behind, simply wanting to distract himself and fall asleep while cradling you in his arms - yet instead his already hard cock buries itself neatly between your thighs, the friction making him utter vile things.

Damn it Y/N, why the fuck do you always sleep in underwear only?! Is it to taunt him or to test his limits? Because it's working.

A breathy moan escapes his lips as he spread his legs wide, cock already leaking precum when he ran his thumb across the slid. He grabs it fiercely, pumping hard to make quick work of it, while roaming every inch of your skin he can get his other free hand on.

"Need some help with that?"

Shit.

ShitshitshitshitSHIT!

Seems like he was a little too busy with getting off - so much that even his heightened senses didn't catch you waking up to this scene. Your boyfriend had a habit of sleeping naked, so right now there was none of what he did left to the imagination.

"Heyyy sweetheart..." John tried to put on his trusty showman attitude, an awkward grin stretched across his face while trying to cover himself with the next best pillow. "Sorry babe, didn't wanna wake you up. Just go back to slee-"

"And miss out on the show?" you chuckle half-sleepily and he wants to die. He's done worse things in his life, way worse to be precize - so why is he fucking shy nowy just because you caught him? "Aww, you're blushing." He contemplates lasering your lips together to make you shut up.

"C'mon, John, I know you're holding back for some reason, but we don't have to go all out." Shuffling closer to your boyfriend, you give him those damn doe-eyes he can never say no to. "And I'd love to lend you a hand, if you know what I mean."

John instinctively closes his eyes as your face moves closer, lips eagerly awaiting yours...

...but just when you were about to touch him, he takes a hold of your wrist. "Y/N, I-" he shakes his head, trying to regain his composure. "Just- just let me go to the bathroom, okay?"

You frown. Worse, the humiliation makes tears dwell in your eyes. Pushing your partner is wrong, but without context you really start doubting yourself here.

Suddenly the stench of fear was lingering in the air, and your heart starts racing like a hummingbird. Trying to calm yourself was a fruitless attempt in front of a man that could perceive almost anything, even your pathetic strangled sobs.

So he was right: You're afraid and maybe even disgusted by his behavior, and just offered yourself to placate him.

Maybe he should just snap your neck to escape the inevitable heartbreak.

"A-Are you cheating on me?"

"Huh?" That question caught him off guard. He was prepared to hear anything, seriously all kinds of insults or accusations, but that? "Are you dense? Why the fuck would I cheat on you?"

And that's when it dawns on him: You are scared - but not of him.

To your defense, he did have a reputation of not being able to keep it in his pants. Maeve had remarked that fact more than once so you wouldn't forget. And him constantly being swarmed by the prettiest celebrities didn't do any good to your self-esteem either.

You're scared of him leaving you.

"Then what is it?" you sniveled, shrinking into yourself as you hugged your own legs. Seeing you like this and knowing he's responsible was somehow even worse than his earlier apprehensions. "You always react as if you got burned whenever we touch. Did I do something wrong, or- or am I not attractive enough?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" John scoffs in an almost irritated tone, unable to refrain from rolling his eyes. Comforting people didn't really come easy to him, even if he hated himself for not being able to let the shielding facade drop just this once. "You're gorgeous and you know that! C'mon, you women are always causing arguments out of thin air. Stop making this about yourself, would y-"

Seeing your glossy eyes turn into a glare at his ramblings made him shut up immediately, but the damage has already been done. "You know what, I'll-" For a while, you sit on the edge of the bed thinking and with every passing second of silence, Homelander's anxiety skyrockets. "I think it's better if I sleep at my own place for a while."

That's exactly what he's talking about, damn it! The line between control and insanity is a thin thread, and he is not willing to take any chances - when it comes to you at least.

"No!" he almost screams at you, jumping up from the bed and pointing a warning finger at you. "You're not going fucking anywhere!" When he sees your wary expression John's eyes soften, instantly regretting his outburst.

Why does he always fuck up? Why can he never seem to keep what makes him happy? Why can't he be what you need?

Homelander buries his face in his hands, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself just like you taught him. "Look, I-" He reluctantly put his hands on each of your shoulders and when you don't flinch away, he starts rubbing circles on your back. You always do it for him when he's upset, so he figures maybe it can help you too. "Please...I'll tell you the truth, okay? Just...don't leave."

You turn around to face him, nodding mutely as he wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Seeing you cry was gutwrenching, moreso when he was the reason. "I..." he helplessly gestures around, wishing there was a script to this like he was usually provided. "I tend to become...rough."

"So?" The initial hurt now turned into confusion, suspicion even about whether he was telling the truth. You defendingly cross your arms, like a barrier so you wouldn't falter before you got answers.

"I'm not made out of glass." Compared to his strenght, you might as well be. "And I can talk. If you become too wild I'll let you know."

Stubborn as always. But he loved that about you, too. "It's not that easy, Y/N." His head falls in defeat and exasperation. John's about to cry himself, and he hates you seeing him anything less than perfect. "I'll hurt you, and then you'll hate me. Or worse..."

Consciously ignoring the worse part, you cup both sides of his face, making him look up to meet your eyes. "John..."

You straddle his waist again, feeling relief now that you finally understood. Peppering kisses across his face and neck you whisper "I was so, so worried you had grown tired of me..."

"Never." Homelander wasn't someone to apologize often, let alone sincerely. The times he did ever since leaving the lab he can count on one hand.

But despite him being...well, him, John knows best what it's like to be plaqued by insecurities. He hugs you tight enough to make you feel the sincerity of his words. "I only wanted to protect you. I never wanted to make you feel this way."

"Next time talk to me from the start, okay?" You smile softly as he aggrees, and he doubts to be deserving of all your sympathy.

Your hands never leave his body, featherlight touch reassuringly calming his nerves. And yet together with the fact that the only thing currently separating your bodies was your thin panty, it was no wonder that his body reacted the way it did.

A moan disrups your conversation when his cock stiffens again, and you can't help but buck your hips against him in response. Your panties were already soaking anyway, due to the friction and his dirty little deed earlier.

The scent of your lust wipe all negative emotions from your boyfriend's mind, replacing them with something else.

"I want you, John" you breathe against his ear and he whines. "We could just take it slowly..."

"I don't know how" he admits, and you smile at his reluctant aggreement. Gently being shoved down on his back again, it feels like he melts beneathe your fingertips. "Then I'll teach you."

Goosebumps rise on his skin as your fingertips ghost over his body, and you lean over for a longdue kiss, so tender and affectionate John thinks he will fall apart.

Homelander's groan gets swallowed by your lips as you pull your panties aside, slick folds now grinding against his cock. Your name falls from his lips in meek whimpers and you refuse to believe this wonderful man could ever harm you.

"Let me take care of you." Shit, how do you always know exactly what to say?

Raking your hands through your hair as you sit up, air gets stuck in Homelander's throat at the sight, making him choke.

You look fucking magnificent.

Hell, he'd pay an artist to paint you like this so he could look at it forever. If only it didn't require another person seeing you naked...

"You know, I thought it was just my imagination..." A mischievous smile plays on your lips now that you think of it. "But my panties have been disappearing a lot lately."

Your boyfriend didn't respond anything else but a whimmer, shame washing over him at being caught. Not that he was really subtle to begin with.

"Speak up" you tease, giving his shaft a soft squeeze and he instinctively thrusts into your hand like a dog in heat. "Did you use them to get yourself off to your fantasies, huh? Naughty boy." His cock twitches in your palm at the words. "From now on, I want you to come to me for release. Always."

"I trust you" you add as doubt is clearly written on his face, voice firm and as unwavering as your loving eyes, driving tears into his own. You lower yourself on his cock, savouring the feeling of being filled out like this. "Mhh...you feel so good inside of me. Will you behave, John?"

"Y-Yes..." was all he managed to wring out, since it takes every ounce of strenght inside of him to not cum to your sweet affirmations right away. John clutches the bedframe so hard that it crumbles under his grip, but to his surprise you don't wince at the sound - quite the opposite, it shot a wave of heat right through your core.

"John...look at me." You guide his hands away from his eyes to cup your breasts instead, looking at him like he's the best fucking thing in the world. The intensity of your gaze causes him to shiver, makes him wanna hide.

Yes, this is too good to be true.

Whatever you see in him right now he will taint with his own hands given time.

And yet he can't stop anymore, now that he's aware of the depht your love helds for him.

You read him like a damn book, noticing his internal struggle so you silence the voices in his head with a passionate kiss. "So good for me, John" you cheer him on, moving your hips at a low pace.

Tension finally leaves his body and he dives his tongue into your mouth, groaning deeply as he moves his body alongside yours. His touch was careful yet bruising, sending pleasant tingles down your spine.

"I love you, John" you cry out as your foreheads touch, eyes never leaving his. "I love you so damn much!"

That declaration was enough to drive him over the edge.

Homelander pulls you as close as close as humanly possible when he stills momentarily, jackknive-like thrusts chasing after his high. The sounds he made as you got filled up bordered on obscene, as did the amount of cum spilling out of you.

"Shit" he speaks breathlessly against your skin, covering a bitemark he had just caused with kisses. "M'sorry..."

And yet he wasn't willing to let go off of you just yet, this amazing orgasm unable to ward off the embarassment of his poor performance.

"Never apologize for having a good time, silly" you chuckle, brushing your nose against his. "I'm flattered, if anything."

John never knew that sex could be so...satisfying, more than just physically. Filled with carefree laughter instead of expectations.

After all, he was conditioned to never wanna disappoint.

"Nah-a-ah." You yelped as he spun you around effortlessly, now him being the one howering over you, bearing his canines like a starved predator. "I refuse to let my goddess go unworshipped."

"John...I'm okay, really. Sex between lovers is not just about that..." And yet when he opens your legs, you don't resist.

He bets you taste just as fucking good as you smell, feisty little thing. Driving him crazy all those weeks. Do you have any idea how hard it was to endure this sweet torture for your sake?!

A shiver runs down your spine when he licks his lips at the sight of your leaking entrance, taking a deep inhale. There's a hunger in his eyes that no sane person could ever comprehend - but you indulged in it, craved in his twisted kind of love.

Heh, you were a goddamn freak just like him all along, isn't that right?

Homelander takes his time kissing a path down to your navel, admiring the marks he left on your body he was now able to see as the lovebites they are. He briefly looks up to assure himself of your consent, an answering smile all he needs to continue.

"Myyyy tuuuurn" he chants so cheerful, you almost thought he had put on his formal persona.

A relieving finger finally has mercy and slides into your already overstimulated sex, making you arch your back when he curls it inside. Pleads and curses falling from your lips as he enters a second one and then another, and you desperately try to move yourself deeper onto him.

"Attagirl!" Seems like his confidence has returned, at least judging by that damn smug smile his tone indicated. The frustrated pout you wore right now was so adorable, he decided to end your misery and bury his head between your legs as well.

You were still fucking yourself on his fingers while he relished the taste of himself on your pussy, before enveloping your clit with his tongue. "That's my fucking girl right there" he mouths as he ate you out, pumping his fingers keenly on your weak spot he so easily found. "Come on, I want to hear you."

When you came it felt like you were ascending to the afterlife, screaming his name at the top of your lungs before collapsing into the sheets.

Your legs had long since gave out but John put them over his shoulders, humping the mattress while his tongue still ran over your nerve endings, shooting jolts of overwhelming pleasure through your system.

"Oopsie" he coos, a predatory glint in his eyes as he crawled on top of you again, his kiss giving you a taste of your own spent. "Made me hard again."

You eyes flutter open after the last bit of your climax had ebbed out, exhausted yet invitingly batting your lashes as your limbs entangled once again.

"Seems like I found the Homelander's weakness."

[solxamber]

Can I get baker boy Trey realizing that his S/O is a super secret spy for another country. Yet, when confronted, said S/O admits that they faked their death to be with him.

Cocoa Conspiracy - Trey Clover x reader

He knew you as his partner, the love of his life, but he didn't realize your real identity: a spy vying for pastry destruction

Trey Clover wasn’t ready for this. He thought he was just dating you—the quirky, adorable, slightly unpredictable person who occasionally knew way too much about the inner workings of a high-tech security system. Sure, sometimes you went missing for a week without warning, but he figured you were probably just... really into nature hikes? Who was he to judge?

But now here he was, standing in the middle of his beloved kitchen, staring at a government-issued spy dossier that read like something out of a James Bond fever dream. The worst part? Your face was plastered all over it, right next to the words “Top Secret Agent: Wafflia.”

Wafflia.

He had to read it three times before it clicked. “Dear...” he began, holding up the papers like they were a particularly burnt batch of cookies. “Why does it say you’re an undercover agent sent by the nation of Wafflia to... sabotage the pastry industry? What is this?”

You, who had just casually walked in, munching on a muffin like it was a normal Wednesday, paused mid-chew. “Oh. Right. That.” You glanced at the folder in his hands like it was an old grocery receipt. “I, uh... meant to tell you about that.”

Trey blinked. “Tell me? You meant to tell me?”

You shrugged, your voice a little too nonchalant for someone who’d just been outed as a literal international spy. “Look, babe, I can explain—”

“Explain? You’ve been sent to ruin all pastries in Twisted Wonderland!” Trey threw up his hands, a little more animated than usual, which was saying something. “Pastries! My life revolves around pastries! Why didn’t you tell me you were some kind of... dessert assassin?!”

You chewed thoughtfully for a moment, as if considering the best way to let him down easy. “Well, first of all, ‘dessert assassin’ makes it sound way cooler than it actually is. I mean, it’s mostly paperwork. And second of all... I didn’t really take the mission seriously. I was distracted.”

“Distracted? By what, the buttercream frosting?” Trey snapped, incredulous.

“No, by you.” You rolled your eyes like it was obvious, casually finishing the muffin. “You know, because we’re dating. Thought that was kind of important.” You flicked a crumb off your shirt, as if this entire conversation wasn’t wildly absurd. “I couldn’t exactly go around destroying pastries when you bake this good. Do you even know how hard it is to sabotage a cake when it tastes like it was baked by an angel? It’s basically sabotage-proof.”

Trey blinked. “Wait. So, you’re telling me the only reason you haven’t followed through with your evil pastry-destroying mission is because... my desserts are too good?”

“Yup!” You gave him two enthusiastic thumbs up. “Honestly, if Wafflia tasted your cupcakes, they’d probably call the whole thing off.”

Trey’s eye twitched. “...Wafflia?”

“Tiny nation. Mostly waffles. A little maple syrup industry on the side. Really not a big deal.”

“You are literally a government agent from a country that declared war on bakeries!”

You sighed dramatically, as if he was the one overreacting here. “Yeah, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is that I faked my death to be with you.”

Trey stared at you like you had just slapped him with a pie. “You what.”

“I faked my death. Big explosion. Very cool. It was like something out of a Michael Bay movie, except with fewer explosions and way more sparkles. It’s kind of the Wafflian signature. Anyway, I’m legally dead now.” You leaned back against the counter, looking incredibly proud of yourself. “Did it all for you.”

Trey was about three seconds away from emotionally combusting. “You... faked... your death... so you could—”

“Ditch the life of a spy and bake tarts with you, obviously.” You grinned like this was all completely reasonable. “It’s called love, Trey.”

Trey had to sit down. He dragged a chair across the kitchen floor, the sound screeching in the sudden silence. He sat down heavily, trying to process the information bomb you had just dropped in his very innocent, pastry-filled kitchen. “So, let me get this straight. You were a secret spy for a country that wants to destroy desserts—the thing I care about most in the world—and you faked your death to... retire?”

“With you,” you corrected, grabbing a tart from the tray and taking a huge bite. “I mean, why else would I fake my death? Have you seen how good you look when you’re rolling out dough? I’m not giving that up.”

Trey blinked at you, his brain malfunctioning at the speed of light. “You—what—I just—how are you—”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Look, babe, relax. All I’m saying is, Wafflia thinks I’m dead, I think you’re hot, and your strawberry tarts are so good that I’ve basically retired from espionage to live out the dream with you. Problem solved.”

Trey opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, resembling a fish out of water. “...I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified.”

“Why not both?” You waggled your eyebrows, licking the last of the tart crumbs off your fingers. “I’m flexible.”

Trey buried his face in his hands, groaning. “I just wanted to bake some bread. I didn’t sign up for all this—secret spy, faked your death, sabotage the pastry world—what even is this.”

You patted him on the back, still munching. “Hey, look on the bright side. At least I’m not sabotaging your desserts.”

Trey peeked at you from between his fingers. “And... what about other people’s desserts?”

You smirked. “Well... no promises. But I’ll probably keep it to a minimum. For you.”

He groaned louder.

I didn't know if you wanted it serious or silly, but i made it silly. let me know if you wanted it more serious!

Masterlist

[defectivevillain]

until it doesn't hurt

pairing: Bruce Banner/Reader

reader’s pronouns: they/them

the reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors are used.

summary: “I could’ve caused you irreversible harm,” Bruce says. It’s almost a practiced recitation at this point, and you have to wonder if he truly believes that—or if he’s just been conditioned by everyone around him to believe he is only capable of inflicting pain. “You didn’t,” you maintain, for what feels like the thousandth time. Bruce is so caught up in the hypotheticals that he refuses to see the success right in front of him: the fact that he didn’t so much as lay a finger on you.

word count: 2.9k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical violence

Being an Avenger means you have to be ready for anything at all times. That spontaneity is difficult to adjust to at first, but as time passes, you grow used to it. You grow used to sleeping lightly; to stashing weapons just about anywhere you can keep them; to having few restful days and many restless ones. The moment your powers manifested, you knew you would be a hero: not because you wanted to be one, but because it would be your responsibility to protect those who needed protecting. 

You weren’t always an Avenger. At first, you were just a rogue—kind of a vigilante. But then the attack on New York happened—Loki happened—and everything flew out the window. Suddenly, you were out on the street in broad daylight, trying your best to keep the civilians safe. That was how you crashed into Iron Man of all people. You exchanged banter and insults, but when it came down to it, you protected him, and he protected you. And Tony is extremely persistent—it didn’t take long for him to sink his claws into you and drag you back to the Avengers Tower. 

From there, you gradually get to know the other Avengers. Steve and Clint are relatively friendly right off the bat. Natasha is a bit more difficult—you have to earn her trust before she starts to open up to you. But eventually, somehow, you manage to bond with all of the other occupants of the Tower. At least, all of them except Bruce Banner. 

Bruce is an interesting case. He almost immediately dismissed you when Tony first introduced you, instead deigning to focus on his experiments. You hadn’t taken offense to Bruce’s reclusive behavior, nor had you taken the hint that he didn’t want to get to know you. Instead, you had all but forced him to acknowledge you. This manifested in a multitude of ways: from going out of your way to talk to him to offering to help with his research. Bruce is extremely protective of his laboratory, but somehow he deemed you capable enough to serve as his laboratory assistant. You were more than content to hand him capsules and adjust minor things, while he did the brunt of the work. You took the gifted opportunities to attempt to get to know him better. At first, it was like speaking to a brick wall. But somewhere along the way, his cold and uncaring façade began to crack. You slowly worked your way up to meaningless small talk—and, later, casual conversation.

Truthfully, you really enjoy spending time with Bruce. But he’s rather unpredictable—sometimes he’ll push you away, and other times he’ll play along. You know that he has a lot of baggage—what with his childhood and his alter-ego. You’ve been trying to convince him that you care about him—that you’re not going to abandon him or villainize him—but he doesn’t ever seem to believe you. He always conducts himself with some semblance of suspicion and doubt; it almost seems like he’s waiting for you to wake up to reality and run away screaming.

Still, progress is progress—no matter how slow. You’re happy with how you’ve slowly bonded with him, and you can only hope that there’s more on the horizon for the both of you. 

…You never consider the possibility that something could happen to make things worse—to destroy your progress and send you right back to the start. 

“We need you for something.”

You’re brutally torn from your reverie, forced to slowly come back to yourself. You’re sitting in the living room, staring ahead at the blank wall. How long have you been sitting here? All you know is that it’s no longer light outside, and that Natasha is standing in front of you with a firm expression. 

“I- what?” You stammer, still processing what’s happening. “Nat-”

“It’s important,” she says. You get to your feet before she can continue speaking. “Trust me.” You do trust her. Natasha isn’t one for over-exaggeration or dramatics; when she says something is important, she means it. And the grave expression on her face is only worrying you more. You follow after her as she walks down the hall and towards the elevators. The two of you step into the space and she presses a button, before the elevator slowly rises. 

In hindsight, perhaps you should’ve been a bit more suspicious. Why would she be taking you to another floor in the Tower? Typically, when there’s a new development or an imminent threat, you’ll be directed to another location—either to combat the threat or to strategize. Furthermore, there’s a strained silence in the air between Natasha and you. Nat’s shoulders are drawn tight and she’s staring ahead pointedly, as if avoiding your eyes. 

The elevator dings and you breathe an internal sigh of relief, hoping to get rid of this needless tension. But before you can begin to take a step, you’re being roughly shoved out of the elevator and into the hallway. It takes you several moments to get your bearings—at which point you recognize the telltale sounds of the doors behind you closing, and the elevator dropping back down to where you came. You stare at the closed doors in disbelief, before turning to look back down the hall. One of the recreational rooms is straight ahead, and you hear yelling. 

Once you’re standing in the doorway, you’re able to place the inexplicable noises you were hearing. Bruce is in his Hulk form, green and raging as he throws anything within his grasp at the walls around him. You’re willing to bet Natasha brought you here to do something about this. Why she thinks you’re the best person to calm Bruce down, you’re not sure. 

“Bruce,” you say slowly. Bruce promptly freezes, an exercise machine lifted over his head. He stares down at you; you stare up at him. He’s momentarily distracted by you. “It’s okay.” He’s silent. You hold your hands out at your sides in mock surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you,” you continue. “You’re safe.”

Silence. You take a slow breath. The machine he’s holding over his head drops a fraction of an inch. 

“It’s okay, Bruce.” You repeat, pushing as much conviction into your voice as you can. Your effort seems to work, as his eyebrows furrow. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence as the two of you stare at each other. Then, his visage shifts and you’re suddenly looking at Bruce Banner—disheveled and exhausted.

“Are you alright-?” You’re compelled to ask. The scientist is back in human form, wearing nothing but a tattered pair of pants; bruises and scratches litter his skin; and there’s a distant expression on his face. He seems to snap out of his trance when he hears your voice.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bruce then spits. You immediately flinch at the unexpected anger. “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?” His gaze is flitting about the room quickly, before settling on you with fevered intensity. You’ve never seen Bruce look so irate before. He’s a remarkably composed man (although you suspect he bottles up anger and rage and lets it out in bursts as the Hulk). Indeed, this kind of fury is typical for the Hulk, but exceedingly rare for Bruce. 

“I didn’t-” You choke out helplessly, glancing back at the hall and, by extension, the elevator. “They-” It’s inexplicably difficult for you to get the words out. 

“That was our doing.” A voice confesses from behind you. You turn around to find Nat and Tony standing behind you. The two of them approach and come to a stop at your side. 

Bruce’s gaze locks on them with fiery focus. He brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His glasses are nowhere to be seen—he must’ve dropped them somewhere as he transformed. “I expected better from both of you.”

“Bruce-” Tony tries to say, an apologetic expression on his face. 

“What on earth made you think that throwing them out as bait was a good idea?” Bruce interjects furiously, motioning towards you. “You could’ve gotten them seriously injured!” He exclaims. Tony has the good grace to look embarrassed; Nat is staring ahead with a flat expression and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Bruce, I’m fine-” You try to say, quickly growing uncomfortable with the tension settling in the air. 

“I could’ve harmed you,” Bruce is quick to assert. “Easily.” His voice is cold. 

“But you didn’t,” you maintain. He’s not giving himself enough credit. More troubling is the idea that he has faith in his own cruelty—that he only sees himself as capable of harming someone. You don’t know what else to say, don’t know what could possibly be said to repair the evident years of damage done to this man’s psyche. The entire world has treated him as a weapon at best and an uncontrollable, irredeemable monster at worst.

“That doesn’t matter,” Bruce says with unshakeable certainty. He retreats from the room, leaving you to stare after him in confusion and shock. You turn to face Natasha and Tony, who are both staring at the doorway with complex looks. 

You want to tell them off, but the words that leave your lips are far different than you intend them to be. “Should I go after him?” You ask instead. Bruce is the primary concern right now—you can chew Tony and Nat out later. You’ve known him for a bit now, and have grown to interpret his expressions fairly easily. You’ve seen Bruce express a lot of emotions… but the look on his face just now is completely foreign to you. 

“Probably,” Tony admits. 

“I don’t think we should,” Natasha says, motioning towards Tony and herself. “He’s mad at us. And… rightfully so.” She exchanges a glance with Tony, whose lips are pressed in a thin line. It’s clear they didn’t give enough thought to their whole plan. 

“You’ll be fine, though,” Tony says with unfounded conviction. Nat places a hand on your shoulder and grips it reassuringly. You take a deep breath and come to a decision, walking down the hall and towards the elevator doors. 

Moments later, you’re walking out of the lift and down the dim hallway leading to Bruce’s bedroom. He’s entirely alone on this floor of the tower. You pause in front of his door for a few seconds, wondering if you should walk away. But you can’t. Instead, you knock on the door four times. “Bruce?” You ask. Despite the clear sturdiness of the door, he’s able to hear you. 

“Go away.” Bruce responds. His voice is a little muffled, and you have to strain to hear him. 

You’re hurt for the briefest of moments. Then you shelve the feeling and resolve yourself to tackling it later. “I’m coming in,” you announce, placing your hand against the scanner at the edge of the doorway. The scanner flashes green and the door slides open, revealing Bruce’s bedroom. You’ve never been here before. It’s modestly decorated, with mostly monotone shades. Nothing particularly strikes you, save for the giant desk in the corner of the room. Papers litter the entire surface of the desk, and a few are covered by Bruce’s arms. 

The man doesn’t look up as you approach. “I don’t want to see you,” Bruce says. His back is turned and you’re unable to see his expression. 

“I don’t care,” you respond, taking a few steps into the space until you’re a short (yet seemingly insurmountable) distance from Bruce. He’s sitting at his desk, rubbing his hands over his eyes roughly. It doesn’t take long for you to remember your guilt. “Bruce, I don’t want you to torture yourself over this.” Maybe you shouldn’t have interfered in the first place. 

“I could’ve caused you irreversible harm,” Bruce says. It’s almost a practiced recitation at this point, and you have to wonder if he truly believes that—or if he’s just been conditioned by everyone around him to believe he is only capable of inflicting pain. 

“You didn’t,” you maintain, for what feels like the thousandth time. Bruce is so caught up in the hypotheticals that he refuses to see the success right in front of him: the fact that he didn’t so much as lay a finger on you. 

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Bruce says with a shake of his head. He pushes himself out of his chair and gets to his feet, turning around to face you. Your eyes widen as you notice the torn expression on his face, the dark circles under his eyes, and the determination written in every line of his form. “My eyes locked onto you and, for a split second, I envisioned harming you. Deliberately.” The confession clings to the air like a vice. 

“But you didn’t act on that impulse,” you assert. “You suppressed it.” 

“So?” Bruce argues. “I still had the urge. You should be disgusted, afraid-” 

“I’m not afraid of you, Bruce,” you interrupt. The statement lingers heavily in the air between the two of you. For a long moment, there’s nothing but the faint hum you’ve grown to associate with the Tower itself.  

“You should be,” Bruce then mutters. And suddenly he’s standing in front of you, staring at you with a dark gaze. His fists are clenched at his sides and you see his skin flicker with shades of green, before it returns to normal. The man maneuvers you to the side and shoves you, until you’re hitting the wall behind you. Bruce’s hands move up to your shirt collar and he clenches at it, his fingers almost spasming as he tightens his grip. You just stare at him. “I could ruin you.” He murmurs, so quietly that you have to strain to hear it. 

You want to argue with him so badly, but that strategy hasn’t been working so far. For some reason, Bruce has convinced himself that he not only has the capacity to hurt you, but that he wants to. You know that can’t be true, but how can you convince him? If he thinks he can ruin you… “Then do it,” you challenge him. He meets your eyes once more and you stare back unflinchingly, trying to convey how much you trust him. 

If you thought the tension was suffocating before, it’s practically ripping the breath from your lungs now. Everything around you seems to fade into obscurity. All you can see is Bruce; all you can feel is Bruce. His fingers twitch and his grip falls from your collar. For an awful moment, you think he’s going to walk away—turn his back on you as he has done so many times before. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans closer. If he’s trying to get you to back down, then it isn’t working. 

At first, you want to think that Bruce is testing you. But the way he’s regarding you right now—with glittering desire in his eyes—makes you think otherwise. His hands move from the wall to your shoulders, back to the nape of your neck, until he gently tugs you forward. It’s hardly a strong pull, and you understand the choice he’s giving you. 

But, you think fondly, there was never much of a choice. From the moment you locked eyes with him, you knew he would dominate your thoughts. And indeed, he has. You think about the hard-won look of approval in his eyes when you make an astute observation; the way he almost frantically looks across the battlefield, his posture instantly relaxing once he sees you; the contradictions written all over his skin; the rare smiles you feel privileged to see. 

You lean forward and press your lips to his. Bruce is quick to reciprocate, his hands lingering at the nape of your neck before slipping down to your waist. You lock your arms around his shoulders, practically trapping him in your embrace. But from the strength of his grip, you can ascertain that the gesture is more than welcome. 

Later, when you break apart, Bruce has a disbelieving expression on his face. He looks slightly dazed, as if suspicious of the reality he now finds himself in. You grasp his wrist gently. 

“You can’t get rid of me, Bruce,” You murmur insistently, “...no matter how hard you try.”

He stares at you for another long moment. “And I have tried,” Bruce admits through a dry huff. You want to be offended by the comment, but you know it’s true. Bruce is stupidly self-sacrificing—he purposefully keeps his distance from people to protect them. But the reality of the situation is that people will come to harm regardless of his presence. “But you’re too stubborn.” That statement is spoken with a significant amount of fondness, and his hand comes up to cradle your cheek. You bring your hand up to rest on top of his. 

“I’ll always be here, even when you don’t want me to be.” You promise. And maybe that promise isn’t yours to make, because one can never truly predict what will come next. But somehow, deep down, you know it to be true. 

Bruce brings you close once more, an uncharacteristic note of boldness in the fluid movement. When you step back moments later, you find that he has a hint of a smile on his face. “I know,” Bruce says, the traces of apprehension on his face breaking and cracking to reveal a rare sight: unrestrained affection.

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[korpuskat]

Cadence [Michael Myers/Reader]

[Ao3 Mirror] Summary: It's been a long time since Michael found his way into your life, beaten and bloody. With Michael's possessiveness and unpredictability, you haven't been able to reach out to you family in a while. A wedding invitation from a distant aunt has presented you with a unique problem- the only way you're attending is if he comes with you. On the bright side, you get to see him in a suit. Rating: Explicit (citrus, implied violence) WC: 18K. Warnings: dubcon, choking, violence, unhealthy relationship, it's Michael Myers come on, y'all know This is a sequel to Rest for the Wicked. It's readable without context, but better with.

==

You bite at your thumb and look between the fancy, pressed and textured paper and the masked shape who sits on your couch. “You don’t have to go, but I do.” Hidden behind the mask, you feel it more than see it: his gaze darkens, grows heavy.

Normally you would wilt, let Michael’s boundaries- restrictive and possessive though they were- guide your activities. Easier for everyone, really. Defying him usually ended with blood loss for someone, sometimes you. Sometimes not. But you haven’t seen your family since you met him, have been avoiding speaking with them about... everything that happened. You avoid speaking with them on principle, but it was nothing short of a miracle they had all somehow missed the cascade of murders (and your role in them) last fall.

If you didn’t show up to a wedding- granted you barely remember the bride, a distant aunt, you suspect you’re invited only because of her want of a large crowd- would only raise their suspicions more. How could you ever explain your way out of a wedding? What possible explanation could you give?

You bite your lip, look askance. “If you came with me you’d have some free time.” The mask’s expression does not change. He’s unreadable and distant. You don’t... love what he does to other people. But you know what he is, know what happens when he disappears on the nights he can’t sleep.

It’s greedy. Not the trade of someone’s life for your ability to attend a wedding (he’d kill no matter how much you could distract and entertain him), but wanting him to come. That occasionally lingering desire for some kind of normalcy, for those rare, genuine moments of intimacy. You wonder if he knows why you try to engineer them, if it even occurs to him. Without in-depth conversation, you’re still usually left out of the machinations of his steel trap mind.

You hesitate to continue. “Nobody would be looking for you out there.” If he did walk out in the night at least you wouldn’t have to worry so much. You thumb at the edge of the postcard, feel the thick, embossed paper resist your touch. “Just... nobody at the wedding.” The hair over the mask slides sideways and he tips his head slowly. You wonder how well he can actually read other people’s emotions when his own range is so stunted. Does he know all that you’d offer him? “Like I said, you don’t have to go with me…. But you might like it.”

He doesn’t acknowledge you more than that. Turns away and resumes watching midday television. You bite your cheek and leave the invitation on the kitchen counter. You have to go.

Two weeks later Michael stumbles into the house covered in blood that is not entirely someone else’s.

A slash cuts deep in his arm and has soaked through the sleeve, pouring blood over your floor. He collapses in the laundry room, red spilling across the white tiles. You hold back tears as you wrap white gauze over his arm, too familiar with the shape of a knife wound. You peel off the latex and find Michael’s face pale, his icy eyes half-lidded and slightly glazed.

Someone had fought back.

You rub his hands, squeeze the fingertips. Stroke your thumb over his prickly beard. His head lolls uncontrolled and he blinks slowly. You whisper to him, voice low and soft and will him to return to consciousness. You press a kiss to the scar over his right cheek, the one you’d sealed with skin glue so long ago. He stirs, bloodied right hand- not his own blood, you’re sure, it’s cool and tacky to the touch- grabs weakly at you.

You curl his left hand between you, raised to minimize the bleeding, and press into his lap. Despite the bloodloss he’s still warm. You press your face into his neck and say over and over, “You’re okay. It’s okay. I love you, you’ll be okay.”

When sunlight peaks through your back windows Michael stirs and pushes you off his lap. You stare at him, watch as he disappears into the hallway. You’re barely up to your feet before Michael reappears. The cream-colored paper is stained under his fingers, but he holds out the invitation.

The plastic cover crinkles as you hang Michael’s suit in the backseat of your car. You had to guess at his size in the end- every time you tried to measure him he’d step away, snatch the tape measure from your hands. Even when you tried plying him with sweets and sex. The latter had nearly worked, managing to get the breadth of his shoulders while he had floated in post-orgasmic bliss. Until he’d knocked your hands away and pinched your clit until he was hard again and could properly punish your wrongdoing.

You don’t ask again. Though you’re moderately sure you’re safe from Michael’s knife, the cold glint in his icy eyes was warning enough to drop it.

You don’t even know if he’s going to the ceremony. You honestly don’t expect him to, he’s never given you a nod when you ask. Perhaps it’s only a hunting trip for him, which you can’t even be upset about when you yourself had pointed out the advantages. And you’d both be doing something fun in your own ways- enjoying a wedding and slitting someone open was the same thing, right?

You bite your lip and straighten out the fabric, only a little disappointed you won’t see actually him in a suit. Way more than a little relieved that you won’t have to explain his existence entirely on your own. Yeah this is my vaguely defined life partner, Michael Myers, serial killer.

Imagine the headlines. You’d definitely show up the bride with that.

The door squeaks, old stairs creaking under Michael’s boots. He wears a black shirt that was a size too large and loose gray sweatpants. His coveralls (freshly laundered) are stuffed into a dark duffel bag along with his mask, the bag hanging lifelessly in his hand. You made sure it also held two changes of clothes and not a single one of your knives. You’d politely suggested some ideas to minimize police attention and with a miracle Michael agreed.

He drops his bag in the trunk and waits, stares at you with empty eyes. It’s strange seeing him unmasked and out in the daylight; sunshine makes his graying hair look positively silver, reflects handsomely in the cornflower blue of his iris. He doesn’t have a clue, stares at you passively- probably only interested in getting on the road as soon as possible. You know what will happen if you kiss him; Michael’s concept of physical affection will only lead to biting and bruising and fucking you here against your car, so you withold the desire. He must see something in your eyes, written on your face because he tips his head slowly- you smile and shake your head, dismiss his unspoken question.

With your suitcase already in the car, Michael’s bag and suit ready, all you had left was the twelve hour drive. You tried not to feel too giddy that Michael had all but jumped at the chance to take the wheel.

You slide into the front seat, Michael wastes no time in adjusting the passenger seat to slide as far back as it can for his long legs. You’ll never get used to seeing him in such a casual setting, stretched out in your little car, wearing such pedestrian clothes. Even if he does stare at you with those same mismatched blue and white eyes that send chills cascading down your spine- even after all this time, his power over you has not faded. You struggle to look away, ignore the Pavlovian tingling between your legs and turn the key.

The car sputters to life, rumbling loudly, the radio clicking on to the last station you had playing- now spitting stuttery soft rock. It’s preferable to the road sounds outside your car so you leave it be- and watch as you back down your driveway, your peaceful cabin shrinking as you reverse to the road. There’s a patch of grass next to the old country highway that’s yellowed and dying where your guests had been parked for weeks, but now fresh, tiny sprouts of green have emerged in the promise of spring rebirth.

You take the back way, opting to follow the highway east out of town instead of cutting straight through; It’s been some time since his face and mask have been plastered on every street corner, sent on alert to every phone registered to the county, but you can’t shake the paranoia. It would only take one alert citizen, one good Samaritan. And with Michael’s refusal to lie down in the back seat and wait for you to hit the city limits, it’s a small sacrifice for the illusion of safety.

Besides, it feels good to look to your side and see him. Michael stares out the windows now, watching cars and passengers as they pass. As much as it spikes the anxiety deep inside, you enjoy being able to see him maskless- even in your house he prefers the anonymity of the white latex. From this side you find only his unseeing eye, the deep, curved scar across his face, the slight droop of his eyelid from decades of muscular atrophy- and you see the masculine, strong shape of his nose, the gray of his recently trimmed beard that you know is more prickly than soft, but still feels nice when you stroke your thumb over it. Michael turns his head ever so slightly, not even enough to compensate for his blind eye, but you know you’ve been noticed.

You still find it in you to blush; Michael’s intensity has not changed and for as many times as you find yourself staring at him, the dark current of your subconscious always speaks up. Cruel and unwanted and flooding you with shame: murderer.

It’s easier to push that little voice down when Michael silences it with his mouth and hands, when he consumes all other intelligent thought through lust or intimidation, which are not mutually exclusive. But your hands are at ten and two, white striped lines blinking past you on the highway. Though you imagine Michael would have no problem distracting you now if you so much as squirmed in the driver’s seat, you’d rather not test your concentration.

Instead you make it nearly an hour outside of town before you feel the pointed, prickling on your skin of someone’s eyes on you. You pull over at the next rest stop- you do not think of of a black truck with peeling paint or the guilt you carry. You stretch as you step out of the car, revelling in the last time you’d get to really extend your legs for at least a few hours. Michael circles the car and you step out of his way so he won’t push you aside. Again he has to adjust the seat to accommodate his height, but the extra room he’s made on the passenger side works well for you.

Michael’s long months without driving make the start a bit bumpy, but he regains control with only mild frustration. You watch him as you’re nearly turned sideways in your chair, find something interesting in the shapes of his knuckles curled around the steering wheel. You want to be able to hold his hand, to touch his face without sparking something primal in him. So rarely are you graced with the softness behind his eyes, but you chase it anyway.

“I’m probably going to fall asleep fast.” You warn him and settle into your seat. You selected your driving attire nigh exclusively on sleepability, with Michael’s stunning conversation skills you’d opted for unconsciousness over trying to read in the car. “Is that okay?”

The highway changes, the car jumping slightly over the new terrain. One blue eye slides to you, his head bobbing, though you can’t be entirely sure if it was the car or him. You shrug, accept that he’d wake you if he wanted you. You lower your seat back and fuss with trying to get comfortable.

You face towards him, settling on using your arms as pillows, and watch how he drives, his little glances to the mirrors- having to turn slightly towards the driver’s side mirror. Every so often his good eye flicks down to you, aware that you’re watching him. You smile and snuggle into your arms. “Wake me if you need anything.”

You wake from a very nice dream to hands pulling at you, sleep dissipating fast- awareness surging forward as you’re nearly dragged over the center console. You land awkward in Michael’s lap- his seat already pushed as far back and down as it can. You blink and your eyes itch, your mouth is dry and Michael’s hands are pushing your pants down your legs until they tangle at your ankles. He doesn’t even bother with your underwear, merely pushing it aside.

“Wait,” You mumble, before you can piece together what’s going on. Michael’s cock pushes at you and, oh- you’re already wet. He slides in and in and you’re so full again, the familiar stretch makes you moan. He hardly waits at all before his hands bite fresh bruises onto your hips and he grinds you down against him. The tip of his cock presses hard against your cervix, makes you gasp and see stars. Even with you on top, Michael dominates; you don’t even get the chance to ride him. He lifts you by your hips until you’re just high enough for Michael to meet you with brutal snaps of his hips, fucking up into you hard enough to make your breath stutter on each impact.

You lean forward, press your cheek against his chest. He’s harsh, even compared to his usual pace and as your thighs begin to quiver, Michael’s brows just starting to draw in, you know he’s not going to be so generous today. You whimper, shift so you can slip one of your hands between yourself and him, seeking out your clit.

Each thrust draws a fresh whimper from your lips as he knocks the air out of your lungs. He reacts as he always does to your little pleading noises: Michael’s grip tightens and he thrusts harder, determined to chase that sound, to force you to cry out everything he makes you feel. With his brutal pace set, your fingers work deftly over your clit- and between the angle and the soft pants that dare to escape Michael’s iron control, you’re tumbling over the edge and clenching hard around him.

Michael growls low in his throat and takes to shoving you down in cruel counterpoint to his hips- all semblance of pace lost as he chases his own ends. Each movement sends another shock of residual pleasure through your body- starting as pleasurable, dragging out your orgasm, and turning sour, painful, every nerve electrified as you dig your nails into Michael’s shirt. You dare peek at him and find his mouth just barely open, a pink flush over his cheeks, sweat dotting over his forehead. He stares, transfixed at where your body meets his, watching as his cock spears into you again and again.

Your broken moans turn to sharp whines, each motion burning inside you until your thighs ache and you plead, “Please, Michael,” Icy blue lifts, pierces straight through your soul. “Cum inside me, please, I-”

It’s all he needs, his eyes snapping closed, head tipping back- and you watch him. He always looks so angry as it begins- his brow pulled down low, his jaw clenched so tight to keep from making any noise. And you feel his cock twitch inside you, the first wave of heat spilling deep inside. The muscles of his face relax- eyelids lifting just enough for you to see the mismatched colors of his irises, barely visible around the wide expanse of his black, empty pupil.

You lean forward again and take advantage- you shove your nose up under his chin and into the scruff of his beard. He pants, breathes hard through his mouth and you already feel the chill of sweat cooling on your back. You listen to the rhythm of his breathing, close your eyes and lose yourself in the warmth between your bodies- until Michael’s tolerance wears thin. His hands tighten around your waist and just as you had been hoisted onto him, he lifts you. You wince, moan softly as his cock slips free, his mess dripping back onto him in thick strands. He drops you unceremoniously into the passenger seat again. Only then do you look around.

It’s a rest stop that is thankfully very empty, at least Michael seems to agree with you on the benefits of privacy. You shimmy your pants back up, at least enough so you can make it out to the trunk to get a change of underwear--

The car stutters and the engine turns over. Michael’s hand is on the keys, his pants already pulled back up. You whine, “Michael, no. I need to change, I can’t just…” You cringe, feel the wetness between your legs.

But Michael has already made up his mind and the cool slide of his gaze onto you-- something just a little too keen in his eyes-- is all it takes for you to sigh and wilt. You’ve put up with worse and in truth the reminder of Michael’s lust for you is not entirely disgusting, but rather brings a fresh warmth to your cheeks.

He manages to get through the rest of the drive without fucking you again. You’d prepared for at least two stops just for that purpose, but the need to get there, the anticipation of murder must’ve kept the appeal of short-term satisfaction at bay. His patience has won out today.

You swap back into the driver’s seat about half an hour out. It crosses your mind to change your underwear while you have the chance, but stripping down on the side of an old country highway with a serial killer in the passenger seat does not seem wise. So you grimace as you sit and navigate out to the venue. You pass the first sign for it, carved wood with lacy lettering, Stone Mountain Manor. There’s nothing visible out here; acres and acres of tall oaks casting shade over the road, only flickers of light scattering over the car.

It isn’t until you crest a hill that you actually see Stone Mountain Manor. Holy shit. It’s stupidly massive, split into two buildings, all covered in a gray stone facade, lined with carefully manicured hedges and bushes and ivy creeping up the sides. The road gives way to a fancy roundabout at the front of the first building- one low and long- with sides leading off to behind the building and one to the other building.

You pull around back just to be safe- and immediately deflate at the dozen or so cars in the parking lot. It’s a long trek back to civilization and there are a lot of people right here. Witnesses. If even one recognized your companion your little idyllic life would be destroyed, all that time spent in quiet isolation, in the comfort of your cabin…

Your hands shake on the wheel as you pull into the spot furthest from the doors. You could go home. Create some excuse, send her money to make up for it. Hell, maybe you could just move. No nosy family members to come harass you, just disappear out into a different county, your dangerous shadow in tow. Would be easy enough to give a believable reason to the cops. He attacked me in that house. That would sell, you think, enough to not have them crawling all over you for weeks and then-

The car door opens. You blink, turn, and watch as Michael steps out of your car, closing the door behind him.

“Michael!” You hiss, scrambling out of your side. “You should stay inside; what if someone sees you?”

Nothing. Michael is already looking far out in the distance. One blue eye scanning the trees, following an ornamental wood fence that peaks between dark trunks. The muscles of his jaw flex, making the scar on his cheek strain. He’s already made up his mind. He’s already hunting, waiting for something.

Shit.

“Stay here.” You say weakly, already preparing for him to vanish before you return. “I’ll go check in…”

Michael makes no noise, either in confirmation or refusal. With complete confidence that he’d make his refusals obvious, you head back towards the building. You pass by at least a half-dozen double doors with little sitting areas outside each, curtains drawn carefully over the glass. It’s so unbearably upscale there’s even little statues along each doorway, cement wolves and foxes watching as you walk by.

You enter the main door, decorated with white draped fabric and little red fake flowers. Inside there’s another decorate sign, a pale gray wood with more cursive text burned into it, Our happily ever after, Janice & Bill. Of course. Someone’s happy day and you bring a murderer. Past the sign is a huge, winding staircase, leaning up to a balcony overlooking the lobby, a little sign labeled Bridal Suite hangs off the railing. She’s probably already up there freaking out.

“Oh, can I help you?” You jump half out of your skin, spinning around to a little counter- where a middle-aged woman blinks back at you. She raises an eyebrow, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…?”

“It’s okay,” You laugh, approaching the counter. “I’m here for the wedding, my aunt- ah- Janice said my family had a suite reserved.”

“Can I have your information?” She asks, turning towards an ancient-looking computer.

You lean on the counter to tell her- and immediately flinch back as your underwear clings tackily to your ass. This time, she doesn’t notice, too busy looking up the reservations. “Ah, yes you’ll be down at the end, left side. The doors are operational if you want to bring your bags in, I know it’s a bit of a walk.”

“Thanks.” She hands you an electronic door key, the kind with a magnetic strip. You start to step away, to go down the hallway and find your room when a thought occurs to you. “Do you know if the rest of my family has arrived yet? Same last name.”

She blinks then looks back to her screen. “Ah, no, I don’t think so.”

Weird.

“Okay, well, thank you.” You turn the card in your hand. The front has a green-gray decal of the main building, underneath is your room number labeled in a thin, slanted font #19. You suppress a snort, because of course the universe would give you nineteen. What a different place, a fancy hotel for a wedding venue in low Appalachia that you don’t even want to guess the price for, and a run-down hourly motel in the middle of fuck nowhere Illinois that cost you a grand total of sixty dollars.

The door opens on the first try and you have to hold your breath. It’s huge. Half your house could fit into the room, sparsely populated with two queen beds, nightstands, a dresser, wall-mounted TV, and standing closet. Painted all in that same gray-green, it’s… nothing at all like home. One wall has a door to the bathroom, the cheapest looking part of the room- but inside is anything but. The shower alone has room for four people with a fucking rainfall shower head, and a completely separate tub with water jets.

What the actual fuck. Janice doesn’t have money money, how the hell is she paying for all this?

Whatever, you’re not really here to speculate on your distant aunt’s finances. You head over to the double doors and find much to your relief that room nineteen faces the parking lot, not the street and main building. The simple deadbolt lock turns and the doors sweep open, letting that chilled early spring air into the room. From the little porch you can still see him, standing between the cars, the evening sun cutting through the trees. He turns as soon as you find him, meeting your gaze from twenty yards. Your heart races; he looks so normal. Just a regular man at his car- he could almost pull it off if it weren’t for that magnetic presence, that feeling of suffocation that just edges into your throat. A shiver and you’re off towards your car, walking as quickly as you can.

“Hey,” You huff, half out of breath. “The ceremony isn’t until tomorrow night and then we’ll head out the morning after. I’m still set to share a room with my parents, so I can leave the car unlocked if you want to stay there. Otherwise, just try to be back.”

Michael doesn’t respond, just stares down at you with those mismatched eyes. Fine enough, he can usually handle himself.

You unload your bag from the car. Michael’s suit hangs from the coat hanger, mocking you with its pristine plastic covering. He probably won’t stay, no reason for him to actually come to the wedding- he’s here for selfish reasons. For blood. Be honest. He’s here so you won’t have to worry so much while he hunts. So he can have his bloodletting far from home and maybe you’ll find some peace in your cabin for a while. You leave the suit in the car, but as promised leave the car unlocked and head back to the room.

With a second set of bootfalls following behind. You turn and watch as he shadows you, blank gaze betraying nothing. Usually his following meant he wanted something, but Having him follow you into the hotel does not feel like a good idea. “What’s wrong?” Michael does not answer, not even with a nod or intentional look at something- which only makes your fears heighten. With no other good options to usher him into the room.

Like you, he looks around, takes in the very strange scenery. Had he seen anything like this before? You leave the suitcase at the foot of one bed and close the doors behind you, just so no one can immediately see him standing in your room. “What’s up?” You try again. “Just curious about the wedding?”

A wedding.

He’s probably never been to one. He looks at you, expressionless and blank. Maybe when he was a little kid, or perhaps the occasional jailhouse insane asylum marriage… but nothing like this. Fanciful and expensive, a dream wedding. A peculiar feeling settles in your gut- you glance to his left hand.

No place to put a ring even-

knock knock You jump, stare wide-eyed at Michael. He steps back, away from the door, stands over by the armoire, out of sight from the door. You touch the knob with one hand, feel the tremors all the way up your arm. it’s not the cops, you tell yourself. There’s no way, you would’ve seen them, were so cautious to avoid them. You turn the knob.

“Aaah, you made it!!!” Janice’s excited squealing takes you by surprise. She halfway barrels into the room, her half pinned-up hair swaying around her as you meet her at the door frame, guiding her back out into the hallway. “I’m so glad you’re here, it really means a lot to me.”

You grimace through a smile and hug her back. You hardly remember her, had never really been close to begin with, but she must have seen it differently. “I’m glad to be here. Do you know when my parents will get here?”

Janice pulls back and blinks owlishly. “They didn’t text you?”

“No? What’s going on?”

“They managed to get lost and get into an accident- they’re okay!” She’s quick to interject. “But they’re still stuck dealing with insurance and doctors and maybe renting a car. They said they probably won’t be able to make it in time.” Oh. That changes things. “I’m sorry, were you hoping to see them?”

That has you pausing, struggling to find the right answer. It feels rude to say no, I desperately wanted to avoid them. But if you lied about wanting to see them, she might be more inclined to tell them. “Kind of, but it’s alright.” You settle for a vague answer. “I’m sorry they won’t be here, I know it’s only a little important.”

“Only a little,” She grins, then breaks into another squeal, hugging you again. “Oh, I can’t believe I’m getting married, I’m so excited and Bill has just been so wonderful.”

“I’m really happy for you.” And for once, it’s completely honest. Janice is ecstatic, and you’ve no complaints about her mate. Unlike the ones she’d have for yours.

“Okay, okay, I know you just got here so I’ll let you unpack and settle in. Love you, sleep well!” She backs off after one more hug, waving and trotting back down the empty hallway, turning towards that huge staircase.

You step back into the room- and curse. Michael has taken the opportunity to get closer to the door, listening in on your conversation. “I guess that changes things. You could sleep here if you want, I guess. And if you left while it was dark out, I don’t think many people would notice.”

That earns you a head tip. Which makes your brow furrow in turn- the few cues Michael gives you have become crucial to your limited communication. Head tilts are second only to nods, a clear sign of his interest. But there wasn’t much to be intrigued by- would he sleep here or be out the full time? Or was there something else he’s trying to find, staring at you with that electric gaze. Your stomach flips, clenches as he raises his hand, the knife-calloused pads of his fingers settling over your throat. His thumb rests against your pulse point, your heartbeat throbbing under his touch.

Any pleas for him not to leave bruises would only incite more, so you melt into his touch, wait quiet and compliant as he wordlessly searches for something. There’s no sign either way- without even the slightest bit of choking, Michael’s hand falls away. It’s still as gentle as he can be, demanding touches that don’t quite bring blooms of purple with them. It’s not much, but it’s at least practically helpful, no need for extensive makeup or scarves- so you express that affection as carefully as you can. One hand touching his bicep, light and gentle, a single stroke.

You want to touch more. Want to stroke his arms in real appreciation, to touch his face without it being some kind of challenge.

It’s not fair.

You avert your eyes, pointedly look to the floor and make your way back to your suitcase. From it you extract a pair of pajamas. No point in being dressed anymore, you just want to shower and clean that stuck-in-a-car feeling off your skin.

You don’t bother closing the door behind you. In the bathroom, white, fluffy towels are rolled up into logs, stacked in a pyramid on a shelf over the toilet. You drop your sleep clothes onto the lid and begin to turn the shower’s knobs. Overhead, water begins to pour out, a first shock of cold then warming as you fidget the handles into a good temperature.

In the corner of your eye, Michael stands in the doorway. Impassive, unmoved as you peel off your shirt. With a wince you pull your pants and well-stained underwear off. The remnants of Michael’s outburst clings to the fabric and your legs in an unpleasant mess. You hold them under the spray first, rinsing the worst of it off, then hang them over the top of the shower to dry off.

Then, you step in and close the shower’s glass door behind you.

It seems Michael has decided against taking advantage of your nakedness- which is fine, considering the light ache that still lingers between your legs. For now you have the gentle reprieve of only having him spy on you, lurking as though unseen. You still haven’t figured out what he prefers: for you to acknowledge that he’s there or to pretend you don’t know.

Fuck, the water even smells good. Did they put something in the water tank? It’s soft, almost floral. You lean in under the spray, let the warm water soak into your hair, wash over your face. It’s soothing, maybe lavender. You pick up the little squares of soap and inhale- and there’s the culprit. Another inhale- and up close it’s maybe too strong, the smell of soap leaving a tingle in your nose. Hopefully it’s not too strong. Michael has never seemed particularly sensitive to smells, but still… It’s hard not to care about his comfort. Even if he doesn’t tell you, even if he doesn’t know himself.

You lather up your hands, rub the bar across your chest. Does he know? It’s a question that plagues you; how much does Michael Myers know and feel, how much is what the newspapers paint him as- the completely shallow, emotionless murderer. You want to believe- want so badly, desperately, blindly- that the truth is somewhere in between. You move on to your legs, absentmindedly scrubbing his his cum from your thighs, rinsing whatever else remains from between your legs-

A rush of cool air. You halfway turn- “Michael?”

His palm finds the back of your head, smashes your cheek into the ceramic tiles. Pain shoots out from your face, radiating across your nose, down your neck. Even under the pouring water, his breaths come hard and even, interrupted only by your soft whimpering. Michael wastes no time, not in the mood to drag out your terror this time. His free hand drags your hips back- and he’s so damn tall he grinds more on your low back than ass.

Still clothed.

Face pressed to the wall, you strain to look from the corner of your eye to confirm it. Water soaks into the fabric, black shirt clinging to his chest. A boot kicks your legs apart as the hand on the back of your neck retreats- just enough to feel wet cotton rolling down to your thighs. You don’t fight- just squeeze your arms between you and the hard tiles, desperate for any reprieve for your throbbing cheekbone.

The hand at your hip wraps around- circles all the way around you, locking into the dip between your stomach and hips and lifts. One-handed, he pulls you off the ground, legs dangling, hands scrabbling over wet ceramic to keep your balance- and his free hand finds your throat. His cock finds your still sore entrance, prodding there, just the barest hint of pressure. Waiting.

Held up as you are, there’s nothing you can do but whimper. Any twist of your hips is near useless, only teasing your entrance more with the head of his cock, the pleasure all his. The best you can do is gain any stability- hooking your legs backwards, catching the tops of your feet on the back of his clothed knees. Even this earns retaliation; Michael surges forward again, traps your whole body between his now soaked chest and the freezing wall, only your hands keeping your cheek from being bruised even more. The water beats down from overhead and now your hips are truly pinned, caught between his iron forearm and the hard bones of his hips.

The hand at your throat squeezes, just a little pressure to make you whine, to make your pulse race under his palm. He could kill you so easily. He could crush your windpipe, smash your head into the wall- if it was anyone else in his arms he would. For you his fingers twitch, his nostrils flare with each breath, a careful balance of self control.

It’s all you can do to repay him, “Michael…” It comes out hoarse, rough through the hand choking you. It’s all he’s waiting for.

He lowers you down, agonizingly slow. The muscles of his shoulders jump with the effort. He splits you open again, the ring of muscle crying out, already rubbed raw from his earlier assault. Now that’s left is for you to grit your teeth and scrape your nails along the grout.

He doesn’t wait this time. It hurts, stings as he thrusts, taking that too-sharp pace he’s fond of. He knows- you hiss and he chokes you for it, pressure closing in around your throat, stars popping in your eyes- he knows it’s too rough, but the angle is perfect. He drives into you, strokes over that spot that makes your legs wobble, your clit ache with jealousy- and though it burns with soreness, your body quickly catches up to Michael’s pace.

With each thrust you grow slicker, the resistance lessening until pleasure begins to win out over the pain. Darkness edges into your vision, makes your head loll against his grip, but finally your body begins to sing for him. He knows you too well not to, has had enough practice, your body only becoming another tool in his arsenal of self-amusement. Another stroke and he’s deep inside, grinding against something that makes your eyes water in amazement- and in perfect tandem his hand lets go of your throat. Where you would moan out, you’re left gasping in air- and you can’t take it anymore.

One hand leaves its brace position, sliding down the wall and wiggling in between Michael’s arm and the ceramic. You get one mind-numbing circle around your clit- and all Michael’s weight comes down on you. Pain lances up your arm, wrist caught between his forearm and the wall. He leans his entire body against you, squeezes your chest until your ribs creak, and through it all only fucks you harder. You whimper, open your mouth to acquiesce, to submit- he’s in control, he owns you- but his hand is already closing around your throat again. Tight, then tighter still- primal fear floods your veins, the kind that makes your blood run cold. It would only take a moment’s lapse of concentration, a half-second loss of control-- he won’t. There’s no doubt; you’ve done this dance too many times. Heat gathers in your face as blood pools, pounds against the unbreakable seal of his thumb over your carotid. Your unpinned hand grabs at his wrist, weakly squeezing; your mind fuzzes, struggles to keep sight, provides a useless be careful of the scar.

Michael huffs, breath hot over the back of your neck, teeth finding your shoulder as he bites. Hypoxia keeps the pain dulled- until his incisors sink in, a noise muffled into your shoulder. His hips stutter, then slow- and finally he lets go. You suck in huge gulps of air, coughing against his still-lingering hand.

He lowers you to your numb feet. His hand lingers at your throat, fingers tracing down to the dip in your collar bone, prodding at the sore skin- and then he steps back. Without his support you sink down to your knees, then to the floor of the shower, still wheezing. Water cascades over you, the sound even and predictable and ever so slowly the rushing of blood in your ears dies down, the heat between your legs idling out as the water just begins to run cold.

The hinge of the shower door squeaks and another gust of cold air passes over you, cools you even further. There’s nothing in you, no energy left to look behind you, to meet his gaze as he stares down at his handiwork. So you take deep breaths, rub one hand over your aching neck, feel the warmth of forthcoming bruises, and listen to the wet splat of Michael peeling off his now soaked clothes.

He’s long gone when you finally manage to re-rinse yourself, wet footprints on the tiles leading out into the room. You’re more contentious, drying off in the bathroom before changing into the clothes you’d picked out. The watery prints lead right up to the further dresser, where… Michael has set down his duffel bag. You look at it, blink. When had he gotten that? Did he… walk to the car naked? He’s already changed into the coveralls, freshly laundered and free of as many incriminating stains as you could reasonably remove.

You swallow, bite your tongue. That was the purpose of the trip, afterall. Would make sense for him to go tonight, pick out a few people he likes. Or hates. You still haven’t figured out how that works for him, if the people matter at all.

likes, an unhelpful little part of you whispers, he wants to kill you. You smother it down with the simple reminder: he hasn’t killed you yet. He lets you touch him, lets you be near him at all. And when you feel close to him, when you tell him that- there’s something about him that changes. The subtlest tip of his head, like he doesn’t understand.

He probably doesn’t.

Michael sits on the nearest bed and- and Michael’s face is no longer his own. it desperately needs to be washed, grime sunken into the crevices, making it look older than he is. Black eye holes stay trained on you as you take him in. Was it because he felt safe enough to not be seen? Or was he preparing for a fight? Could always ask. Maybe you’ll get a response.

He’s always nicer after he finishes, not immune to the pleasant buzz of oxytocin and dopamine… but as your still-warm neck reminds you, his earlier display was particularly violent. The anniversary is close and that ever-present need of his is rising under the surface, threatening to boil over. You want to sit with him, to find the soothing warmth beneath those coveralls. At best- or perhaps worst- he could still entertain himself with you until his body catches up again- or does he need space now? There’s no good answer. He’s already pursued his usual alternative: fucking you until that itching in his skin eases.

“Anything I can do?” You offer, already aware of the answer- a heavy breath that whistles through the mask’s holes. Not even a tip of the head or nod to guide you. Maybe space would be better, at least until he disappears into the shade of night. Hesitantly, you sit on the bed closer to the double doors. When he doesn’t move, you begin to lay down, reaching over to the nightstand to turn off the light. That, however, must be the wrong move.

You’re too aware of him, of his little mannerism. His fists tighten in the duvet- and he stands. Your stomach drops, immediately beginning to sit up- but Michael is faster. His long legs cross the small space between the beds before you can even form the words to ask what’s wrong. His arms force their way under you and you barely have the presence of mind to half lift your legs, to ease the burden on his damaged left hand.

Michael scoops you off the bed, turns around, drags the blankets of his bed down, and sits onto the sheet. Oh. You don’t even get an opportunity to help; he’s under the blankets before you can do anything. He’s particularly stiff, every joint locked in place, held stiff even flat on the bed. You glance at the mask in question, hoping to find answers- if this is just the building tension of the year- or if it’s something else. The hand anchored to the small of your back makes it awkward to adjust the blankets, but you manage to wiggle into your usual position, straddling one of his thighs, your ear pressed to his chest.

Warmth radiates out, soaks into your skin, chases off the autumn chill. Weakly you rub at his sides, thumbs stroking over his ribcage, smoothing down the thick material of his coveralls. There’s not much you can do, but at least you have this, a tiny offering to give: the even, unhurried brush of your fingers. At least until the furnace of his body lulls you to sleep.

It’s cold when you wake. Early October is not shy, leaves you curling harder into the blankets, burying your face into a pillow. A pillow. You reach across the bed blindly- and find only more disrupted sheets, chilled and empty. You blink awake, squinting into the room; the double doors are still cracked open, curtains fluttering.

You extricate yourself from the mess of blankets, rubbing your arms to fight off the chill. From the pile of brown leaves that have collected along the border to your room, he must’ve left some time ago. Your stomach clenches- you peer out from the door, scan the line of the parking lot and the trees beyond. No white mask waits for you.

It’s as unsettling as it is relieving. He’s out there killing (and you’re alone, no shadow to stalk you through the halls, careful, watchful eyes on you every time you so much as look at a stranger)... but he’s not here, waiting to be found out by the first doesn’t he look familiar…?

Not that he hasn’t proven himself capable of slipping through your town unnoticed.

Until he wants to be, of course.

But he’s gone now, off into the chill of early morning fall. You scrape most of the leaves out and close the door, but leave it unlocked. Instead, you go to the mirror- and wince at what you find. A perfect imprint of Michael’s teeth rings your right shoulder, still red and inflamed, warm to the touch. Of course. Must’ve known you were hoping not to have to cover any marks.

You look to your suitcase, consider your formalwear. The collar should be high enough… maybe you wouldn’t have to use any makeup. A little spark of heat settles in your stomach. Even while he’s out hunting, you’ll still have his mark. Nobody will know you’re the one who has tempered the Boogeyman’s urges. A thrill runs down your spine, makes your shoulders raise and clench. No makeup it is.

A glance at your phone gives you time to plan your pre-ceremony time. It’s only just after nine o’clock, the ceremony doesn’t start until two on paper- probably more like three with a healthy dose of skepticism. Plenty of time for breakfast.

You throw on a more-concealing shirt and skimper down the hall to the hotel’s breakfast station. Two people you don’t recognize sit at a little window table and talk, smiling at you as you pass. Probably someone from Bill’s family, if you had to guess. Maybe one of Janice’s work friends…? They return to their conversation and you are already forgotten. The food has been well picked-over by other guests, two metal trays shining and empty.

But there’s still eggs and hashbrowns and tiny pancakes, which is more than enough. You take a plate, lift one serving spoon- and wonder if Michael’s eaten yet. You don’t really know what he eats when he’s out. Probably nothing as nice as this, if MIchael even pays attention to that kind of thing.

Probably not; he certainly doesn’t complain when you get distracted and your cooking gets a little crispy.

You balance your doled out plate and get a cup of coffee as well, ready to wake up, be nice and alert for what will definitely be the most expensive wedding you’ll ever see. The people pay you no mind as you hand back to your room, thankfully no one’s around to watch you struggle to hold your plate and cup and unlock the door at the same time.

With a bit of alone time you crawl back into bed, find your own warmth still half-preserved under the hotel’s fancy blankets. You click the remote at the TV, novel at the fancy screen- and can’t help but smile at the early morning children’s programming that pops on. It’s comforting, reminiscent of home, and makes a warmth settle in your chest. But you have no personal interest in Sesame Street, so you scroll through the guide looking for something more interesting.

Like the news.

Like if he’s killed already.

You bite your tongue and select it, then take a fortifying sip of coffee (it’s too bitter, should’ve added more sugar). A man in a suit motions at a greenscreen map of the area, mimics a cold front coming in from the west. “No rain!” He declares cheerily, “Just windy and cool this week, and that should hold out until Halloween.”

That’s nice. It cuts back to the main anchors. “Governor Wallace’s new Green Energy Initiative plan will go into effect…” You tune it out, go back to the guide. There must not have been a kill yet, or at least not found. You think of the blood stain on your front porch, of the wet, heaving breaths. Your stomach flips and suddenly breakfast no longer smells good.

You power through it anyway. Maybe he was unlucky, maybe he couldn’t find anyone to satisfy his particular interests. No need to worry too much about… you shiver, shovel down a bite of eggs. Either he did or didn’t, and if he did then he’s safer out here. If he didn’t, that’s a later problem.

Without preamble you switch the channel; a ghostly horror movie plays, an early celebration for the holiday. It’s easy to go on autopilot from there, eating and drinking and staring blankly at the screen as a white-skinned phantasm rips open a man’s chest. Perfect to set that wedding atmosphere.

You end up watching the whole thing. The blood’s all wrong, runs too thin, too scarlet, but it’s a Hollywood mistake you can forgive. Afterall, it does show up on screen better and serves as a nice mental buffer, a pleasant mindless thing to observe, no real thoughts to concern yourself with.

bzzt. You blink and open your phone- a notification from a game. The mascot informs you of a new event, the Halloween Haunt finally starting- they’ve been plagued with technical issues, it’s a little shocking they even managed to get this update out and holy shit how is it already one o’clock?

The ghost pops up on screen just in time for you to escape the bed’s warm blankets. Your clothes flung off as you rush through dressing yourself, almost tripping as you pull on pants and hastily button your shirt. A good ten minutes burn just fighting the buttons on the cuffs which have somehow come undone. You check yourself in the mirror, feel the heat gather in your cheeks again. With the top button undone, a tinge of red is still visible on your shoulder, but as you hook the plastic through the eyelet, the silvery gray of your shirt covers it entirely. No one will know, no one will find out.

With shaking hands, you tie your tie, only having to consult your phone and start over once. Even if it’s a little lopsided, it still cuts a fine shape. You fix your hair last, keep it simple and easy to keep the attention off you. It’s not a bad look, all in all. Not many chances for you to get dressed up and formal- you almost wish Michael was here. He probably wouldn’t have much of a reaction to it, appearances and clothes not meaning much to him, but you do want to show off.

It’s a nice fantasy, being able to get that rare rise out of him just because you look different.

But there’s not much time to spare, so you stuff the room key and your phone into your pants pocket and shuffle out the door.

The main room of the hotel is empty, but as soon as you emerge out into the daylight, there’s buzzing activity. You’re not the last person to head over to the actual ceremony hall; dozens of people you don’t recognize chatter in the parking lot and on the lawn, pleasant voices and laughing echoing across the open field. A man that looks familiar but you can’t place smiles at you, gives a little wave so you awkwardly reciprocate and try to remember him. Probably someone from your extended family, maybe a cousin you haven’t seen since he was little.

In waves, everyone walks to the main building, taller than the hotel and surrounded by rustically manicured hedges. Huge (and probably meticulously placed) boulders dot the vibrantly green grass, leading you towards the main walkway. White garlands wind around the front door, wave lightly in the wind. The double door itself is stupidly massive, easily ten feet tall, propped open by two more of those little animal statues. Here, they’ve managed to find two graceful looking swans to match the wedding.

You step inside; the entryway is mostly empty, a few people idling on a set of stairs to your left. Bridesmaids in dreamy blue dresses, fretting over their hair and if Janice will be ready soon. One holds her shoes, dangling over the garland-wrapped banister, looking terribly bored.

You move into the main room, still staring at all their decorations. The back, southern wall is nothing but wide windows, showing off a balcony, all covered with sheer white curtains. A stone fireplace on the north wall is done up with white and blue flowers and satiny ribbons. In rows in front are little wooden folding chairs, lanterns and tiny pots with ivy cap each row. In the sea of faces, you don’t recognize anyone. It’s for the best, you decide. Just in case.

So you take a seat and wait.

An organ plays over hidden speakers. The entire crowd stands in one motion as Janice enters from the outside balcony. Her dress is beautiful. White and shimmering with soft glitter, huge and round like something from a fairytale. She’s stunning, grinning and blushing, switching between scanning the crowd and looking down to the floor, carefully avoiding knocking over any of the decor with her layered white dress.

Halfway down the aisle her gaze lifts, centers on Bill. Something in your chest clenches; he’s about to cry. Completely glossed over, his eyes crinkle in the corners with how hard he’s smiling- and trying desperately not to. Janice herself covers her mouth with one hand- and when she makes it up to the front she’s desperately trying to preserve her make-up, dabbing at her eyes before the tears can roll.

Love, that genuine bubbling feeling takes the room as Bill stifles an awkward little laugh of shock, his lips curling into a weird and genuine shape, trying so hard to reign himself in. Which, in turns, gets a little laugh from the guests. The officiant starts his monologue and your stomach hurts, a hollowness settles down in your gut. Tears well in your eyes as he goes on, voice sweet and thick, going on about compassion and commitment.

It’s so… normal. They can barely stop from shaking- in joy, in excitement- and as soon as they stumble through their I dos he’s laughing again. She wraps her arms around his neck and the tears do fall this time as she pulls him down for the kiss. His hands cup her cheeks, holding her lips to his as they continue on. It’s long and sweet and when they break apart there’s a long, tortuous moment where all they do is stare at each other, grinning.

A tap to your shoulder makes you turn- an older woman offers you a tissue. She smiles sweetly and whispers, “Weddings always make me cry too.”

“Here, you look like you need this.” A man says, offering you a fluted glass. You take it, offering a tight-lipped smile in return. It’s hard not to take offense, but you probably do look a little miserable. Despite your best efforts, the tears continued on as they moved all the guests into a little side room, rearranging the main room for the reception. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom to clean yourself up and minimize the blotchiness of your crying.

Still, it feels too rude to just leave. So from your secluded little corner you school your face into something more neutral- it’s her wedding, don’t cause a scene- and sip the drink you’d been given. It’s a pink champagne and isn’t awful, just strong enough to take the edge off.

Alright. You take a deep breath, press the cool glass to your cheek, listen to the bubbles pop to the surface. You don’t have to stay long, can make up some excuse about having to leave early in the morning. Just enough to not seem like a complete ass, then you can hide. That’s it- maybe a pleasant little conversation here and-

“Hey!”:

You startle so hard champagne spills over your hand. Janice, now in a much simpler white dress, steps back, stares wide-eyed. “Sorry, are you okay…?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine!” It’s rushed and probably doesn’t sound very honest. You deflect by dabbing at your hand with napkins. “Weddings just- just always make me cry.”

“Aww. I’m the same way,” She smiles, lays a well-moisturized hand on your arm. “Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time to find someone.”

It’s from your lips before you have time to think. “I already have.”

Shit. Joy takes over her face as fear lances your heart. “Really? You should’ve invited him! I gave you a plus one just for that.” You’re so fucked.

“I- I know. He just works a lot and I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make it.” The napkin thins and tears, leaves strands of cheap paper along the back of your hand. It’s not… entirely a lie.

“Do your parents know about him yet?” She leans in, eyebrows high on her face, as though you’ve already divulging your secrets. “Is it serious?”

“Um. Yeah, I think so. I don’t…” Heat returns to your cheeks. A weight slides from your shoulders and your next smile is entirely genuine. Like an exhale on a breath you didn’t know you were holding, it comes out in a rush. “I don’t really see myself without him.”

“Aww,” Janice coos, touches your forearm. “I hope he’s good to you.”

Just as quickly, the relief turns to dread. The socially correct response is he is, not I’m lucky his only bite mark is hidden by a collar. Not he’s pressed a knife to my ribs and fought to desire to drive it in. Not he kills people who look like me.

All the words you should say are gone, left with a tight-lipped smile- a quiet “Thank you,” and- and- your brain misfires. You’re hallucinating. The champagne was spiked, had to have been because- “Michael?” because standing in the doorway is Michael Myers in his suit.

Janice blinks and turns and sees exactly the same thing. It’s… it’s like one of those bad photoshops of celebrity nudes. His face on someone else’s body. He’s not wearing the tie, but it’s no less absurd, no less of a fever dream. The only measurement you got was his shoulders, and it has thoroughly paid off; the suit jacket sits perfectly at his collar, narrowing at his waist, all of it leading down into well-shined, unscuffed dress shoes. Like he hasn’t been out at all. Your eyes scan back up; the buttons on his sleeves are undone, leaving them a little loose around his wrists, in turn they slightly hide his missing fingers, the other various scars along his hands from broken knives and desperate victims. Over his chest the white shirt is a little rumpled, but is buttoned neatly, save for the top two. And his face-

His gaze is... quiet. Simple. Not the predatory beast that threatens to pull you in with his hypnotic stare. He’s… observing, returned to his passive state; he glances around the room, taking in the massive displays of romantic opulence with significantly less wonder and longing than you. He looks at Janice’s reception dress, still white and layered and swaying with glittery specks, completely impassive. His gaze shifts to you- and anyone else would’ve missed it. His face darkens, pupils expandings a hair’s width, eyes dragging obscenely down your form before meeting your gaze.

Heat settles between your legs, makes the bite wound throb at your shoulder-

“Oh! Is this him?” She’s so chipper, so truly excited to meet the beau you had only just confessed to having. Leaning over, her voice drops to a whisper, “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he…?”

What can you say? “Yeah, this is Michael…!” You cross the room quickly, as though proximity alone will defuse whatever is about to happen. He follows you with his eyes, paying no mind as Janice also comes closer. You hand slides along his back, squeezes at his side. Please, please, let your presence stop whatever it is he’s doing.

“It’s very nice to meet you, we were just talking about you.” There’s just an edge of suspicion in her voice, but it has nothing to do what she should be worried about.

She waits- and after a moment her face quirks and. Oh. Right. Most people don’t know. “Michael doesn’t talk. He ah,” You look up to his face, dare to hope to find any kind of support in his eyes. There’s none, of course. He watches on indifferently, just curious as to what your plan is. “He was in a- an accident a long time ago... motorcycle skidded out.” You motion vaguely towards your own left eye, as though being polite and subtle. Michael, however, tips his head at the display, completely missing Janice’s little oh reaction, quieting immediately. Her clamming up presents an opportunity that you don’t pass up. “I need to run to the bathroom before dinner, though. I’ll catch up with you at dinner, okay?”

“Sure!” Something like relief passes over her eyes- and drains back out. “Oh, gosh, I should go make sure the kitchen is all ready…”

She turns back towards the main room while you drag Michael off towards the hallway where you first came in. This part of the building is nearly empty, most everyone concerned with food and the good smell emanating from the kitchen. Up near the doors, it’s quiet, all noise reduced to a low rumble that echoes through the heavy stone walls.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper, his only response is a miniscule cant of his head. Real fear twists at your belly, the possibility settles in harder than ever as you rephrase: “what if someone recognizes you?”

His face does not soften, does not betray a single thought behind those mismatched eyes.

This is what you wanted.

Some semblance of normalcy, a date to a wedding. Michael Myers in a suit, escorting you. And he does look good- sleek black jacket cutting such a nice shape on his shoulders, even if the cuffs aren’t done up right. Even his beard looks as though it’s been trimmed, which has to be impossible- but the impossibility of it does nothing to stop your hand from sliding up his chest to stroke at the stiff, white little hairs along his jaw.

“You won’t leave, will you? Even if I asked you to?” The hairs are too even, too clean. He must’ve broken into someone else’s room just to use their clippers. He says nothing, only moves with each breath as you waver under the weight of this. Your voice comes out small, almost inaudible. “I don’t want you to get caught.”

That gets a reaction. Michael’s huge hands settle at your hips, keeping you close as you fight to read his eyes. They’re too opaque- but the answer is simple. He’s here because he wants to be. Like one of his scenes left behind, it’s his own entertainment he’s engaging with- even got all dressed up for the part.

“Be careful.” You murmur, with one final stroke to his beard. “Please.”

His hands squeeze at your hips, the pressure familiarly asymmetrical. Glancing back towards the main room, the smell of hot food has only gotten stronger. With a final sniffle you lean away from him, rubbing your eyes with your sleeve and then downing the rest of your champagne. “It’ll be weird if we’re gone for too long.” That earns another head tip. It crosses your mind to explain She’ll think we’re off fucking somewhere, but that will definitely make it happen.

If anyone notices, if there’s even a hint of fear and not well-intentioned suspicion, you’re out. Not that it will matter. No matter how attentive you are, Michael will sense it first. He’ll hone in on it like a hunter- it matters more if his response will be fight or flight. He could slip out unnoticed, you’re absolutely sure, he’s escaped much tighter situations than a wedding in the middle of fucking nowhere… but you won’t swear by his ability to do so without bloodshed.

Your stomach clenches. If he wants to stay he’ll be here, all you can do is keep him to the corners, away from people, minimize conversations. So… you lead him back towards the main room. The previous archway and aisle and rows of chairs are all gone, replaced with long tables with baby blue table cloths. The little pots of ivy and lanterns have been relocated to decorate the tables. Most people are sitting, chatting away as the staff bustle around to bring out plates and glasses and more gold-leafed bottles of champagne.

Nobody notices your entrance. The rational part of your brain is screaming of course. In a real suit, maskless, not a single soul in attendance knows who he really is. He’s just an older man, here to celebrate a wedding. Your plus-one. Nobody knows, you tell yourself as you navigate towards the back wall. Nobody knows. It doesn’t settle your nerves at all, no matter how many times you repeat it.

Other people smile at you as you pass; you hope your face is at least close enough to a smile to not cause alarm. The table closest to the wall of doors is open, so you hastily sit there. Michael stands a moment before taking a chair to your right, his good eye closer to you. While you fidget with the tablecloth and sweat bullets, Michael is entirely still. He looks around the room, the only display of his interest at all. You do the same, albeit with much more fear.

“You missed her dress,” You say quietly, just as something to do. Anything to take your mind off the sea of faces. “It was huge. A big ballroom-style one. Little ribbons trailing off her veil.” He doesn’t care. You know, of course, but still his head turns towards you, a miniscule display of interest. “It was beautiful, but I can’t even imagine how much it cost.”

It’s so mundane, hell, it should be exciting little gossip, murmuring about their finances and how they could afford something so expensive, so beautiful. With Michael Myers next to you, it’s boring, mind-numbing. They could all be in danger, he could be in danger-- you don’t dwell on which of the two you’d prefer-- and nobody has the slightest fucking clue.

A young server in a vest apologizes about the wait, it’ll only be a minute more, and sets down two glasses of pink, bubbling alcohol. He smiles at Michael, who definitely does not return the look, but the server is already off, delivering more glasses to waiting people, not a care at all about the weird older man who didn’t smile back.

No clue.

They don’t know.

You blink and look around. As though a fog clearing, they don’t know. Everyone’s preoccupied with the event, with catching up with relatives, with the sweet gossip at Janice and Bill’s expense. With their hunger and excitement and chit-chat and nobody remembers what Michael Myers’s face looks like, they only ever remember the mask.

You lean back in your chair, feel the weight slide down your spine, out onto the floor. “How do they not know?” It’s more to yourself, but it earns another glance from Michael. You meet his gaze, but find no electricity there this time. He’s still lightly guarded, but it’s so faint you can barely find the tightness around his good eye. No, it’s mostly curiosity now. Like a birdwatcher observing the chittering, the songs and rituals, completely unnoticed in the trees.

You drink the champagne, let your eyes slide over the crowd, settle onto the table up front. Janice and Bill are chatting with someone in a crisp blue suit, maybe their coordinator. They’re somewhere between exhaustion and frustration- held aloft by the occasional glances at one another as their reception slowly takes form around them. You finish the glass, then take the one in front of Michael-- an inebriated Boogeyman is not what their wedding needs.

“Sorry for the wait!” The same server announces, returning a tray of plates. He sets down two plates, not even waiting for you to explain we didn’t order yet. It’s too much of a madhouse to correct him, he’s already skittering off to another table, setting down plates and bowls and sprinting back to the kitchen. Pasta with a light sauce sits before you- and honestly, you’re hungry and tired enough it wouldn’t have mattered what he’d given you.

Michael picks up his fork- and stiffens. A glance to his direction, and he’s scanning the room. A slow exhale- and he begins to eat. Quick as always, not a care at all for table manners, it’s for the best you’re in a far corner. Your own stomach flips unpleasantly, so you take it slow, watch as the dinner comes into being around you.

Eventually Bill stands, dinging his glass obnoxiously long before continuing into his speech. A long, winding monologue comes after, that you can’t quite follow- especially after someone delivers another two glasses of champagne. Michael snatches his before you can stop him- only to purse his lips at the taste and set the flute back down in front of you. Bill’s speech concludes with Janice looking teary-eyed and guests cheering. Someone toasts to the newly weds and you obligingly raise your glass. Michael’s eyes track your raised arm, linger over the crowd- but if he’s actually processing the words, the confessions of love and devotion, none of it reflects on his face.

He says nothing, shows nothing, merely eats and looks and occasionally tips his head at a phrase, at an emotional, happy sob. Things he doesn’t understand. You pick at your food, applauding when others do so, but you end up looking elsewhere. It’s a rare opportunity to see him process the whole scene. Now you are the birdwatcher, taking in each flick of his eyes, the subtle tightening of his lips, how his gaze narrows when Janice stands and shuffles over to a makeshift DJ station. She talks with someone there for a while, presents her phone, then goes back to her table with Bill. Someone at another table breaks out into laughter, Michael’s head turning, compensating for his blind eye, to look towards them. He reacts to each new stimulus with the same near disinterested look, no matter how novel it must be. Not a single hint as to what he’s thinking. Is it murder related, contemplating how he could escape unnoticed? Is it on the strangeness of human emotion? Just plain not understanding what’s happening?

You want to ask, want to know what it is he thinks about.

Any questions will be met with a head tilt, that little glint in his eyes that he knows something you don’t. The tiniest power he holds over you still elicits the same response.

He jerks towards you so violently you jump- first in fear, thoughts racing by- did someone know? But he doesn’t leave, doesn’t make any motion of aggression- and instead you’re left with the tiniest one-sided lift of his lip. They may not have a clue you’re dining with a serial killer, but he just caught you watching him. Your cheeks heat as you turn away, forcefully take a bite of pasta, ignore the weight of Michael’s eyes on the side of your face. Once, your watching of him would’ve warranted his own head tilt, curious on what it was you saw. It’s been long enough that he knows- that same affection that makes you touch him gently and seek his touch in return. Now, it’s just another way for him to make you shyly turn away.

“Can we move these tables back?” Someone asks from the front of the room- the best man, you think. All at once the people at the middle tables are up to their feet, extracting chairs and pushing everything out towards the walls.

Oh. That’ll probably include you. You’re up, joining the crowd and motion for Michael to stand. Thankfully, he’s compliant. Causing a scene now would be… motifying, first, and likely deadly, second. He does not, however, assist with dragging the table even closer to the walls. You manage to only stumble a little, laughing at yourself as your fingers slip off the plastic. It does earn you his attention once more, his hint-of-cockiness turning to air-of-inquisitiveness.

When you sit again, now only a foot from the stone-covered wall, the world continues right on spinning. It’s not awful; bad enough to have you pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes, but nothing unmanageable. Just… just a little tipsy. A few too many flutes too fast on a near-empty stomach. Michael stands for a long moment, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. He must be burning up in that suit- too inside himself, too curious to voice any displeasure.

Music starts up again- this time it’s slow and melodic, soft piano- and you finally look up from your hands. Janice’s simpler white dress swirls around her as she sways, hand in hand with Bill. Speakers pulse with the lyrics, but the room is otherwise silent, everyone held quiet with each of the couple’s steps. She lays her head on Bill’s chest, tucks her face into his neck, but when she pulls back to look at him, her makeup has just begun to run. This time, Bill doesn’t stop his own tears, joining her in ecstatic sobbing.

A series of awws pour from the room- but your voice is caught in your throat, swollen shut by the same unexpected emotion as during the ceremony. You can say nothing, make no noise at all as they finish their first dance and motion for everyone else to come to the floor. A new song starts, synthy with a quick-beat. Young couples stand quickly, giddily rushing to the center of the room. In the new rush of movement, Michael stands, hard enough for his chair to scoot back and knock into the wall. Not to dance, please, not to dance- but Michael only moves along the wall, pushes the white curtains, and slips out the doors onto the balcony.

With everyone preoccupied with dancing and drinking, you slip off to the bathroom, the pulse of music covering each sniffle.

You don’t really mean to go back to the main room. After several minutes spent blotting your eyes with a damp paper towel, all you want in the world is to go home. Return to your own bed, curl up with your pillow as you do on those nights he’s out. Going back to the hotel room would be good enough- getting lost on the way out of the bathroom took you to the kitchens, first, then spat you back out to the gallery.

In the time you’ve been gone your plates have been cleaned up, replaced by someone else’s half-drunk glasses. The owners must be up dancing, because nobody else is in your little corner of the room. People fill the dance floor, the crowd waving, undulating with the rhythm of the music- now moved on to pop music, half the room singing along. You turn to leave-

A flash of silver and white and black- you raise your hands-

“Oh! Sorry!” The same server backs up, holds up his tray. Without pause, he grabs a plate and pushes it into your hands. “Cake’s here! Does your dad want some?” He looks around, eyebrows furrowing down.

Dad? The gears turn, leaves you puzzling as the server shrugs and continues on with a “There’s a lot more, just tell him to wave at me, okay?” He turns way, leaves you with a handful of sweet-smelling white cake and- oh for fuck’s sake, do they really think Michael is- ugh, nevermind. Another turn and you’re facing the table again. You can just leave the plate there, maybe someone else will eat it- all fancy and probably stupid expensive.

Would be a shame not to try some.

The design is simple, a chic white base with a tight grid of glittery white icing. Tiny silver balls decorate some of the intersections. Probably vanilla from the smell; classic, timeless, worth more money than your phone. You cut a bite off with your fork, turn the sponge in front of you-

Michael would enjoy this.

The thought comes unbidden, utterly intrusive and unhelpful. He’s already left, cut out at the worst possible time- as he always does. That’s a good thing, you angrily remind yourself. He leaves because he needs to kill, if he didn’t it’d be you or… or anyone else here. That’s the trade.

It doesn’t change the fact that now you’re thinking of Michael’s sweet tooth, his unending appetite for anything remotely sugary, devouring down all chocolate and candies and pastries, no matter how well you think you hide them. He’d love this. It’s another… another experience you want to share with him, another little shot at normalcy that comes so close, circling the rim before falling off into disappointing nothingness. You don’t even realize you’re moving until your hand is on the cold knob, turning-

A gust of cold early October air makes you pinch your face, the air cutting right through your nice clothes, not a hint of warmth remaining. It’s a stupid idea- but it feels good to be out here. Not in a physical way; no, you’re immediately freezing, shiveringly miserable, but in some way that makes your chest feel tight. You’re out here- and Michael, too, is out here somewhere. Probably long gone by now.

You walk on, out to the edge of the balcony, gazing out onto rolling waves and lumps of tree tops. The moon has half-risen, casting silvery light from one side, warm yellow leaking out from the main hall’s incandescents. Completely invisible from inside the building, there’s a little set of stairs down on the right side, following along the side of the building, down the hill towards the carefully manicured trees and bushes below. It’ll keep you away from everyone else’s prying eyes, from any other half-drunk wedding goers. Maybe the path winds around, leads back towards the hotel. You can get some sleep,

The wood whines pitifully as you descend, so you keep one hand on the railing, your eyes on your feet and when you lift them-

He’s already turned towards you, nearly fully facing you to compensate for his blind eye. He’s even more ethereal in the moonlight, silvery beams bleaching out his dark suit, casting shadow over half his face, obscuring the scarred half. There’s no sign of shock, but surely he must be. There’s no way for him to think you’d follow him, no way for you to know he was still here. No sign of shock, but there is something else. An extra layer of flatness to his expression, neutrality edging onto… you’re not sure. His presence alone extends outwards, a pressure in the air that surrounds him like a storm.

At the back of your neck your hairs stand on end.

And- and you’re not sure how you feel. You… you feel like you’ve overstepped something. It should be fear, cold and immutable, the very chilling realization that he’s been itching to feel blood all day, only for you to wander back into his sightline. No, no it’s… it’s something else that swirls in your chest, too tipsy to focus on the real terror lurking.

“I’m sorry,” You say quietly, half-slurred. “I thought you left.”

He only stares at you in return. You’ve already surpassed your worst expectation. He stares- and his eyes drop down to your hands.

“Oh, it’s the wedding cake.” You extend your hands before you even ask, “Do you want some?”

There’s a long moment- Michael does not move except for the minute, rhythmic rise of his shoulders on each inhale. The coveralls hid most of the movement, now exposed with much better-fitting clothes. Still, he does not move, eyes locked onto the layers of pale sponge and icing. Fear had only just begun to curl its hands around your heart- when MIchael’s arms finally lift, forcibly unfolding his fingers to take the offered plate.

He holds it, continues staring- he must be contemplating something, weighing the pros and cons of some unspoken decision. By all means, taking the plate alone should’ve answered the question: would he like some? But with that murderous itch under his skin, maybe nothing was that straightforward for him now. Sooner or later he does land on a decision. He takes the little plastic fork- so tiny in his big hands- and takes a bite.

One eyebrow twitches.

He sets the plate onto the wide wood railing and that sugar-chasing sweet tooth takes over whatever urge he’s fighting. Michael has managed to avoid killing you so far, so you’ll push your luck just a little: you edge in closer to him. His eyes slide over towards you, but he does not stop his hurried pace of cake eating. More importantly, he doesn’t move away. So you inch in even closer, close enough your arm bumps his- and he’s such a radiator.

Through at least three layers of clothes, Michael’s heat burns through to your skin, a safe refuge from the brisk wind. You can’t stop yourself now, leaning in ever more until your head rests on his shoulder. The suit is crisp, smells of detergent, the tiniest hint of sweat beneath. Lifting your head up towards his and you find that same floral soap as the shower; he must’ve cleaned up here- was it an empty room or yours?

He stops as he gets to the outer edge of the cake, the white icing like a rind to an orange wedge. He takes no more bites, but instead holds the fork in what must be another silent decision making battle. Much shorter this time around, he lays the fork down- leaving the handle pointed towards you.

You glance to his face- but he’s not looking at you. He’s staring down at the cake itself. It has to be intentional- so you carefully take the fork for yourself, waiting for him to stop you. He doesn’t. There’s no hand to your throat- so you cut a piece with that thick outer layer of icing.

It’s not vanilla. The taste is a shock, so different, so much sweeter than what you’re expecting you almost gag- no, the icing is white chocolate. But once that initial shock wears off… it’s soft, moist; the sponge itself must be some faint vanilla, but how it mixes with the white chocolate it becomes something else entirely, sweet and decadent and not at all the simple cake you’d expected. You take another bite- and Michael’s hand closes over your own.

You surrender the fork, lean up against him, resume leeching his warmth in retribution. “I was going to give it back.”

Blue sparks at the corner of his eye- and even half inebriated, your breath catches. A warning, silent as it is, that his patience is just on the edge of snapping. Words flee from you, wither on your tongue. Proximity has brought his ire yet, so you stay close, bask in his radiating heat as he finishes his (your) cake.

A soft melody filters down- down from the main hall’s speakers. A slow dance starting above you, couples taking to the floor with blushing cheeks and averted eyes, sweating palms as they sway to the music. At the center of it all must be Bill and Janice, her cheek laid on his shoulder- and the pain in your chest crescendos.

And in a heartbeat, none of it matters. Michael’s tenuous control of his urges, the bite at your shoulder, the scars from when he’d lost the reins- none of it. You lay your hand on his shoulder and when you guide him to turn, he does. His face is blank, impassive, utterly unreactive as your lead him. Your hands shake a little as you take his, big and warm, and murmur a halfhearted, “Come here,” a desperate lick to your lips, “Wanna try something.” You plant his right hand on your hips- a light press to tell him to hold there, and take the other in your hand, turning until you’re palm to palm.

You can’t lace your fingers. His thumb overlaps yours, your first finger between two of his but the rest- the rest curl over gnarled scar tissue, warped and rippled and tougher than the surrounding skin. Pressure builds behind your eyes, but that’s okay. He’s missing a few parts, but that doesn’t matter either. No, when you lay your head on his chest and his heat washes over you, lulls you into closing your eyes, you hear the steady, slow beat of his heart- that’s what’s important. The smell of the suit’s detergent, of his pilfered, floral soap against the crisp autumn air-

You sway- and truth be told, the first time, you’re not entirely sure if it was intentional, matching the flow of the love ballad above or the champagne’s continued vengeance. The second sway, weight shifting carefully to the other side, however, is entirely on purpose.

This time, Michael does not move.

A shred of stolen intimacy, a wisp of a wish that fades as quickly as it happened. The music plays on, a man’s voice lost in the distance, through the glass and wood and stone facade- but the tremor of his voice is the same. Longing and love and joy and against Michael’s chest you sniffle, disengage your hand to wipe at your eyes.

“Sorry,” It doesn’t matter; apologies mean nothing to him. “I know you’re not…”

Pain spreads through your lip as you bite it. Shame and fear and regret all bubble up at once and you need to get away, need space from his suddenly unbearable heat. A push at his chest- and Michael’s hands clamp down at your hips. Terror floods in, blocks out all other emotion until your blood is ice, heart frozen, unable to even look up at him. You know exactly what you’ll find- sharp, cold eyes like daggers, focused on the only living prey he can see.

He lifts- and you squeal, unable to stop yourself- and dig your fingers into his suit jacket, cling desperately to him as he swings you around- shoes not even skimming the wooden boards below. He’ll throw you, or drop you over the side, or slam you into the stonework and that’ll be the end, the epilogue to your romance- and wood scrapes at your legs. The balcony’s railing drags at your pants, pulls them low on your hips, dipped between Micheal’s iron palms- and you can’t not look.

Seated on the aged wood, you’re still not as tall as him. Each breath comes quick and shallow, fingers still locked to his suit, white knuckled and aching and when you look at him… It’s everything you feared and so much worse. His left hand closes around your throat, thumb and middle finger meeting neatly, closing the collar around you, the lightest pressure making your head spin. Then, he squeezes.

You’d cry if you could, but not even a whimper can make it past the solid block of his hand- you grasp at his wrist, squeeze gently. No attempt to pry him off, no futile struggle for your life. If he’s tired of you, of your tenderhearted bullshit, that’s all there is. All you can do is watch, even as your pulse echoes in your ears, as black edges into your vision- his face comes in close, fills your vision.

And then- the pressure releases. You inhale- and lips cover your own. You brace, expect the tide of teeth and rough, grabbing hands- all you get is softness. His lips are dry, lightly chapped, but the kiss is… Your heart aches in your chest, tears finally springing free because your lips slide against his, unhurried and gentle. Fingers at your neck flex and stiffly release, his other hand still digging three bruising points into your flesh, but he’s soft, only his beard prickling as your cheeks and chin. You break off to breathe, broken into a sob- and Michael surges forward again.

His tongue, hot and wet, slides against your lips and you can’t deny him. White chocolate and vanilla coat his tongue, brings the gift of sweetness with each lick over your teeth. EVen restrained as he is, you’re melting under him, tipping your head back into his unflinching palm. He’s warm and sweet and you need more. Fingers scrabble up his chest, curling around to the back of his neck, just to keep him close-

And salt slides into your mouth. Salt? You gasp, take in as much air as you can- and Michael surges forward. No longer kind, he devours you, delves his tongue between teeth and cheek then as far down your throat as he can before sinking his teeth into your lower lip. Tears. It was your own tears you had tasted, tracks drying cool and irritated over your cheeks and now- now copper covers your tongue.

His fingers close again, tight and cruel as he sucks at the wound, draws ever more blood up to the surface until it’s spilling over your chin, dripping onto your chest and lap. It’s not enough, it’s never enough; his teeth sink in again, incisor catching the first bite and dragging along, splitting your lip further. Tears come again and you’re whimpering, arching into him-

Cold air makes your lungs burn. He walks backwards, crosses the little platform in two steps, taking his warmth with him. The wind rustles the trees below, covering music and your weak gasps. In the moonlight, his hands open and close repeatedly, curling into fists so tight he must be cutting his palms with his nails. Every muscle is held stiff, his good pupil is blown wide, lips pink and gently parted as he licks the red that stains his mouth and chin. It’s smeared across the lower half of his face, masking his silvery beard with quickly oxidizing brown.

It’s not far off from when he returns from a kill, stinking of blood and so wound up and on the edge of snapping.

He wants to kill you. Every instinct you have is screaming run; it’s all you can do to sink your nails into the wood railing and hang on. He stepped away from you, you repeat that in your head, he’s backed off. He knows- from the incessant flexing of his hands, over and over, he knows he’s too close to the edge. There’s no point in running; no matter how far you get, all that matters is what’s happening in Michael’s mind.

And finally, the scales tip. He turns, and without any noise at all, he stalks off, following the balcony around the side of the building.

The wind blows, bites cold needles into your skin, and you wait. Numb and freezing and… and you’re in no state to consider your emotions now. Your lip throbs, still leaking blood lazily. You press the sleeve of your shirt to it, already ruined from the dripping streaks.

Should’ve known one way or another you’d end up bloodstained. You sniffle, use the other sleeve to wipe at your cheeks, leave them hot and fuzzy-feeling. You wait; music above you changes, shifts through a playlist, moving back on to high-energy dance songs which only serve to grate on your already frayed nerves, makes your skin prickle more than the icy wind.

Where was he now? Out in the woods, navigating his way to someone else’s cabin, or perhaps he’ll take a car, find a nice neighborhood to terrorize. He’ll have a satisfying night out while you- you-

Your hands shake with more than just the cold. You breathe hot air into them anyway, rub them as though that will solve the same problem that has your stomach twisting.

The music dies down, leaves distant, muted noises- people talking, shoes scraping the floor. They’ll be leaving soon. You should be gone first. It probably can’t be passed off as a simple nosebleed, and the caring cooing of half-drunk wedding goers would not help. So- you leave. Exactly the same way he did. This time, however, you watch ahead of you, stare into the lowlight of late evening for the faintest sign of Michael or his mask.

Another encounter might not leave you so lucky.

But as you round the corner, he’s not there. You can’t even feel his eyes on you, and for once you feel utterly alone. The walkway does wrap around, leads out to the side of the main hall, near a staff entrance. Thankfully, there’s nobody around this door- but at the front, a huge rectangle of yellow floods the night, stretches out into the darkness- and good-natured cheering pierces the air. The twisting in your stomach turns to stone, solid and sickly and only making your legs move faster, to get further away from the crowd. They’ll be kept busy for a while, setting up a nice walk out, getting their cameraman ready.

The walk back seems longer, emptier in the darkness.

You opt for the backdoor, given the circumstances. It’s cracked open, warmth from the air conditioning system leaks out as you approach- but Michael is long gone. His suit is a mess of black and white fabric, puddled on the floor. It’s the best possible outcome, honestly. You don’t even realize you’re picking up each peace and flattening them out, placing them reverently on the other bed. Your clothes, however, do not get the same treatment.

In fact, they get hardly any treatment at all. You truly did plan on stripping down and getting into the shower, washing away the blood that’s streaked on you face- but as you sit on the edge of your bed to toe off your shoes, all you can think about is absolute bone-weary exhaustion. Without shoes, you slump backwards onto the duvet- the last conscious thought spared to glance at the double door, the make sure it was still left unlocked for Michael’s return.

Cold. That’s the first thing you notice. Cold- and droning like white noise. Warmth still clings to your chest, but a chill creeps over-- Your eyes snap open, arms shooting out, searching the dark because fingers touched your side. What you find, of course, is broad shoulders and wobbly latex. Michael. But what you find is also wet.

You recoil first- hands disengaging as he continues what he’s doing: flipping the blankets over, which you must’ve crawled under in your sleep, and pulling harshly at your pants. A seam pops- and you mumble in frustration, undoing the buttons with half-asleep hands. As soon as it’s open, he rips them down your legs. You hiss, the fabric stinging like carpet burn down your thighs. He’s keyed up, too excited from a fresh kill to even care- your underwear is shredded before you can even lift your hips to pull it off.

Fuck, it’s going to be one of those nights.

One massive hand keeps you still, holds you hips in place while the other unzips his coveralls with a zzzzt. Electricity sparks in your belly; he’s going to fuck you. The thought of his cock alone makes your thighs press together, the sweet promise of release so tempting after the last two days. His knees press into the mattress, your whole body shifting as it dips under his weight- and he doesn’t even wait for you to get resettled. The hot head of his cock rubs blindly between your legs; you don’t bother concealing your gasp as he brushes your clit.

In the darkness, it’s only you and him. Time and space fall away, nothing left in existence but his body moving against yours, the raw physical sensation of heat and pressure and each of his exhales echoing in the mask. Your fingers grab at his shoulders, just for an anchor, twist into the coveralls- and it’s wet. You shudder, imagine how he must look, coated head to toe in viscera, tracked blood straight to your suite and-

You don’t smell iron.

His clothes are wet, but they are also cold. The mask is just visible with the low moonlight that sneaks in through the curtains- and it’s clean. Cleaner than you remember ever seeing it, almost starkly white. One flop of synthetic hair hangs darkly, solidly, over his latex forehead. You trace your fingers up over the slightly melted edge, over rubbery ears.

Michael forces himself inside you with one stroke; your cunt burns with the stretch, all limbs closing around him in desperation to keep him still. Tears spring to your eyes once more, teeth scraping open your bitten lip- and all you can do is tell yourself to breathe, to focus on the coming pleasure, because it will, it always does, no matter how cruel Michael chooses to be.

So your snap your thighs closed around his waist, locking him deep inside while you clench and shiver in pain and shock and the first trembling whispers of good because fuck, he’s so big. Your walls flutter around him, body struggling to stretch to accommodate him. Warmth replaces the cool, radiates out from between your legs and- and something isn’t right.

Michael should be drawing back, forcing your legs apart and pounding away until the fuel of his bloodlust has burned off, more animal than man- but he’s not. Rain water drips onto your chest, runs off the shape of his false face, the heavy noise of his breathing masked by the soft rumble of rain and thunder. Bent over you, he’s not quite on you like he normally is- no, he’s leaned away, enough for you to stare into the pitch black holes where his eyes should be. There’s no light to see the gray or white beneath, but they must be fixated on you.

“Michael?” You murmur, too sleepy to mask the concern there. He doesn’t even tip his head. It’s not panic, not yet- if he thought he was in danger he wouldn’t be still like this, if it was some new type of sadism, there’d still be an air of it on him. This is… something new, something you haven’t yet been able to pick up the little signs of.

Your hands unwind from his soaked coveralls, the joints creaking from the effort. The fabric is rough and even more abrasive still soaked with water, but you stroke his arms as best you can and seek out his face in the darkness. Without any reaction you skate higher, one hand dancing up his chest, just past the drooping collar, to the thin strip of skin visible between the rough cotton and smooth latex.

“Michael…?” His name hangs on your lips- and he answers with his hips.

The animal drive has disappeared entirely. It’s a smooth roll, shallow- cautious. Where you had expected force and pain is softness; you gasp, part shock and part pleasure- and Michael must take it as a good sign. He keeps this strange pace and you dig your fingers into the shoulders of his suit, squeezing more rainwater out with each thrust. Your body isn’t sure what to do- so used to producing quick, efficient lubrication, you’re nearly gushing for him now. This sort of kindness from Michael is foreign, saved for when he’s injured or sick or- or particularly cruel. But this isn’t that- it’s new.

You can’t even begin to understand his motives- why he needs this- but you can still give it to him. When you wrap your arms behind his neck and pull him closer, he only resists for a moment. Closer- closer until you can hear his soft pants from behind the mask, feel the heat of his breath with each puff through the nose holes.

When he shifts his weight, he slides deeper- stroking so gently along places that have only known his brutal paces. You gasp, pull his hips closer with your legs- and the tilt of his head towards your mouth is not at all lost on you. Without prompting, he expands upon the motion: sliding nearly all the way back out until you’re whimpering, aching for his return- and pushing in so slow, finding his way so deep within you until tears gather at your eyes.

”Michael,” It’s a prayer, an acknowledgement, a thank you-

His breath catches; if your hands were not on him you wouldn’t have even felt it. He keeps pace, betrays no other hints of his reaction- fucks you deep and slow, rolls his hips with each thrust, grinds against your clit so sweetly- but you felt it, that sharp little inhale.

With his head tipped towards you, it’s hardly a stretch to reach the latex. Cool and as clean as you’ve ever known- you kiss blindly in the dark. It’s too smooth to be the lips, slightly puckered with melting- must be his cheek. It isn’t for long, because Michael turns, meets you halfway. The rubber lips taste like rain water, not at all like the cruel mouth that lies just beyond- the taste of blood on his tongue as sweet as vanilla frosting. You kiss him and all the while tension settles between his shoulders, radiates down his arms.

”Michael,” You repeat, this time with purpose, you scrape your nails against the harsh cotton of his coveralls to emphasize it. This time, it’s his hips- a thrust just too harsh to be completely controlled. It’s a spark to kindling; the kind of treatment your body’s been waiting for- and the “Yes!” that follows is not intentional at all.

And still- in the darkness you feel his resolve, the decision he’s made- whatever game he’s playing. He doesn’t give in, as much as his fingers are threatening to tear the sheets, he slows- keeps his pace even.

There is one thing, however, you’re sure he can’t resist. Delicately- as much as you can be while being fucked- you wrap one hand around his left wrist. He doesn’t react at all, hardly seems to notice- except with you tug at it, urge it away from its death grip on the sheets. This he tips his head at. “Michael,” You whine, tug again for emphasis. The mask tips the other way, his pace slowing with curiosity. He gives in, shifts his weight to his other arm, lets you move his hand-

The seams pop to the left of your head, his grasp shearing through them as you guide his three-fingered hand to your throat. The weight of it alone has your pussy tingling, every nerve woken, waiting for him to deliver. You think, perhaps, you might be crazy to taunt him like this, to get this wet at the thought of him choking you.

It’s not a thought for long.

The muscles in his palm twitch once before he adjusts the grip. His hand rises up, forces you head backwards and squeezes. Not a single moan escapes his grasp, but he must know- because the mask tips again, the empty back eyeholes boring straight into you, watching every reaction. And like that, his interest in being soft has evaporated.

He fucks you- the same fervor you’d expected after a hunt finally manifesting with each thrust, his cock ricocheting inside you, gives no room for hesitation. It doesn’t matter- darkness is buzzing at the corners of your vision, eyes growing heavy and tired, barely able to keep awake if it weren’t for the force of Michael’s hips. You’re fading, head lolling with each impact-

Michael’s grip loosens. Air floods your burning lungs- and you’d been so oxygen deprived you didn’t know how close you were. He doesn’t even let you moan; his hand closes around you again before any noise slips out. Your throat vibrates under his palm and you wonder if he knows you’re screaming his name as you tip over. With no air every feeling is amplified, your adrenaline-fried brain bringing every stimulus up and up until it’s unbearable.

Clamping down on him as hard as you can doesn’t deter him at all; he fucks you without pause even as your mind frays. Heat pulses out from your pussy, radiates down your legs, up into your chest- and you arch your back up, press more of your skin to the cold cloth of his suit. Your nails rip at the sheets, at his back, at anything you can reach- you don’t even realize you’d been digging your knees into his sides until he grabs one and forces your legs apart, all his weight held on your femur.

He grunts- hardly more than a thought of a noise in his chest, a hot puff of air through the mask and his hips stutter. He plunges deep, buries himself inside you as he spills.

“Yes, yes…” you murmur, stroke along his arms as he stills, the softest of tremors shaking his shoulders.

And all at once he collapses over you. Heat and solid muscle and damp cloth compress you into the mattress. It should be a cage, should be the inescapable anchor of your life- but his breath slows in your ear, fades from heavy pants to the slow, even noise that whistles through latex. The weight of him is real, a solid mass that anchors you to the world when everything else makes it feel like you should be flung from this spinning rock. Because you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be wrapping your arms around him to draw him ever closer, shouldn’t be hiding your face into his neck, pressing one cheek to skin and the other to rubber. It’s easy- so, wickedly easy to float here, to bask in his heat, in how he still fills you, even as he softens.

He’s still, motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest.

“I love you,” You whisper, feeling your lips brush cracking latex.

He doesn’t understand the word, you’re sure. You’ve always known. You say it anyway for your own sake, lest the feeling eat through your chest like acid. Because there is relief in saying it, in acknowledging that for all of the shouldn’ts you think of, the fact contradicts them.

He shifts, moves his weight to one arm while the other hand settles over your ribs.

His thumb strokes your skin.

[aesthetically-dying101]

Law of Attraction (part 5)

A/N: happy then miserable again cause... um yeah

Other Parts: 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4 ; 6

Don't copy my works thank u!

:)

The rest of the project went... oddly well.

Who would've thought? Not you, that's for sure. 

After that ridiculous night with the snowstorm and all the awkwardness, it seemed like you and Nanami were in some kind of... strange rhythm.

A truce.

 You still didn't get how it worked, but it did. You'd meet up, revise, make stupid jokes, and surprisingly, the work actually got done—and it got done well. Who would've thought you'd be collaborating with a guy who had actual organizational skills?

But then again, he was Nanami Kento, the walking, talking example of calm precision. He was a damn machine.

You didn't know how you'd ended up so... comfortable with him. Sure, you two didn't have much in common—he was neat, composed, way too put-together, and you were... well, you. Messy hair, band tees, barely enough structure to keep your life from falling apart. But somehow? It worked.

He was polite, obviously, but now there was this weird... familiarity between you two. The first time you'd exchanged half-hearted memes, you'd nearly choked on your coffee. He'd actually gotten the joke. And the second time, when you passed him a random metal band playlist, he just looked at it like, "I'm willing to give it a try."

That was huge.

You tried not to overthink it. Friends? Yeah. Friends. That's what you were.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

The more you met up with Nanami to work on the project, the more... normal it felt. You'd joke around in-between going over the research, you'd both roll your eyes at the ridiculousness of certain topics, and sometimes, you'd even talk about stuff that wasn't the project.

Was that normal?

But every time you said something dumb or sarcastic, he'd shoot you that look—the one where you could tell he was trying to hide the hint of a smile. It wasn't just "professional" anymore. It was like you'd developed this weird little inside joke that nobody else got.

And still, you convinced yourself it was fine. Friends.

Totally fine.

*-*

It wasn't until a few days later that Nanami started to really feel it—the weird, uncomfortable shift in his chest. He was sitting at lunch with his friends, trying to focus on the upcoming exam, but it was like his brain kept getting stuck on one particular thing.

 Namely, you.

The conversation turned to the project, as it often did, and one of his friends casually threw out a question.

"Wait, you were working with her?" he said, pointing at Nanami with wide eyes. "The girl with all the band shirts and piercings? That's was your project partner?"

Suddenly, Nanami's stomach felt weird. What was that? Why did hearing your name like that make him feel... protective?

No, no, that couldn't be it. He didn't feel that way about you. Just... chaos with a heart of gold—or whatever.

"Wait, wait," his friend leaned in, a smirk spreading across his face. "You've been spending way too much time with her. What's going on? Are you gonna ask her out or what?"

The words hit Nanami like a punch to the gut. He blinked. "What?" he stammered, completely caught off guard.

"Are you into her or not?" his friend continued, practically bouncing in his seat, loving the drama.

"I... I'm not into her," Nanami said quickly, a little too quickly. He barely recognized his own voice, defensive and nervous all at once. But then his friends were all looking at him, their eyes full of that same annoying expectation. You're into her, right?

Nanami froze, his mind blank. What was going on with him? Why did this feel so weird? It was just you, right? Just his chaotic, unpredictable, but oddly comforting partner.

But the more he thought about it, the more the pieces clicked. The way his mind kept drifting back to you—your sarcastic comments, your half-assed jokes that somehow made him smile, the way you made him feel. You threw him off balance, but not in a bad way.

His chest tightened, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.

He was into you.

He wasn't just your project partner. He wasn't just "working with you." He was thinking about you when he shouldn't have been. He was noticing little things about you—the way you laughed, the way you'd throw out a random, awkward comment and somehow make it sound charming. The fact that he was genuinely excited to see you again, and not just because of the project.

Great. Just fucking great.

He blinked again, feeling that flutter in his chest. Oh, crap.

Was this a crush? Did he even know how to have a crush? He didn't have time for this. His life was supposed to be about efficiency, order, control.

And you?

You were... well, chaos. Beautiful, unpredictable chaos.

It was a crush.

On you.

*-*

The moment you stepped into the building and saw the list of grades posted on the wall, your heart skipped a beat. this stupid course had a double grade, one for the project (that would be posted in two business weeks), one for the written exam (the one you had taken last week).

You pushed your way through the small crowd of students, eyes scanning quickly over the names until—

There it was.

98.9.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Holy shit.

Holy shit!!!!!

As you burst through the door, your eyes immediately locked on him. He was standing with his friends, talking about... something. Probably something smart. You didn't care. You saw the familiar, perfect tie, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his hair always looked like it came out of a damn shampoo commercial.

Without a second thought, you ran toward him, the excitement bubbling up so much that you couldn't help but throw yourself at him.

"Nanami!" You practically yelled, launching yourself into his chest before he could react. You barely heard the confused, slightly shocked mutterings of his friends, but honestly?

You didn't care.

Nanami froze for a second as you clung to him, but then, thankfully, he wrapped his arms around you, steadying you. You felt his hand on your back, warm and comforting.

"I got it! I got a 98.9!" You gasped, pulling back enough to look at him with wild eyes. You were practically vibrating with excitement. "I got the highest grade, Nanami! Thanks to you!"

Before he could even process, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss on his cheek, catching him off guard.

His expression morphed into pure surprise, his eyes wide, as he wiped his cheek with his hand. The dark lipstick mark you left there was smeared across his face, and you swore you could hear his friends snickering from behind.

"Wha—Hey!" he stammered, looking flustered and almost a little... flattered?

"Thanks!" You quickly added, still grinning like a fool. "And drinks are on me! We'll celebrate! Hang out or something. See ya!"

You didn't wait for him to reply. You dashed off before you could second-guess your impulsive actions, ignoring his confused stares and the awkward chuckles of his friends.

As you skipped down the hallway, your heart was doing somersaults. You couldn't believe you'd just kissed him. Your cheeks burned at the thought, and you felt like you might combust.

What the hell am I doing?

But you couldn't help it. He'd been there for you, and this was the best way you knew how to say thank you. Even if it was a little... dramatic.

*-*

It had been a few days since that weird, whirlwind encounter in the hallway, and Nanami had hardly been able to shake the feeling of it. The kiss. Your excitement. The way his heart had raced. It was all a bit... much. But he couldn’t deny it. A small part of him wanted to see you again, wanted to feel that spark again.

So, when you texted him, inviting him out to grab drinks with you and your friends to celebrate your project grades, Nanami knew he couldn’t say no.

But then came the problem: What the hell was he supposed to wear?

He stared blankly at his closet, and for the first time in forever, he felt completely out of his depth. He didn’t care about clothes. He liked neat, simple, clean-cut things. Shirts, trousers, maybe a tie if he had to. But... this wasn’t about looking neat. This was different. He needed to look good. 

For you.

That thought made his stomach twist. Why the hell was he suddenly so obsessed with how he looked for you?

In a rare moment of weakness, he texted his female friends for advice. They were always the ones who seemed to know what to wear, what made someone “pop,” what gave off the right impression. Maybe they’d help him figure this out. He could go for some practical advice—nothing fancy.

Their replies came flooding in almost immediately.

One of his friends sent a text with a string of emojis, "Roll up your sleeves. It’s like a male version of a V-neck. Gives the impression you're casual but still have a little style."

Another friend added, “Tight shirt. TIGHT SHIRT!!!!! Tight shirts are always a good idea. If you’ve got the body for it, it shows you’re confident. Not too tight, but just enough."

Another fiends texted back to the others: "Whore behaviour."

Nanami stared at the messages, rubbing his temple. “Tight shirts?” he muttered to himself. “Really?”

“Fine,” he sighed. He threw his hands up in mock defeat. If I have to look like a dumbass to impress her, so be it.

After grabbing a shirt that wasn’t too tight but fit just enough to make him look a little more... “attractive,” Nanami stood in front of his mirror, arms crossed, staring at his reflection. He’d rolled up his sleeves—just like his friends advised—and his shirt was... well, snug. He looked okay. Maybe a little too ready for some kind of date, but whatever. He wasn’t used to this.

What the hell was he even doing?

But then he thought about you again. The way you laughed, the way you got excited about something as simple as the project grade. You were so... vibrant. So alive. So real. Nanami felt like he was standing on the edge of something, but he had no idea what it was. All he knew was that he wanted to know more about you. Wanted to feel more of that energy.

He sighed again and checked the time. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late.

Okay, this is fine, he told himself. I’m doing this. For her. Not for me.

At least, he hoped it wasn’t for him.

*-*

Nanami stepped into the bar, the buzz of laughter and clinking glasses instantly washing over him. His eyes scanned the room, finding it packed, but there you were—leaning against the counter, laughing with your friends, a drink in your hand- he recognised the legendary Aiko.

His eyes locked onto you, and the rest of the world seemed to blur out of focus.

There you were, wearing your usual alternative attire—black band tee, ripped jeans, the usual mix of dark and daring. But tonight, there was something different about you. Your shirt was low-cut, just enough to catch his attention, and cropped in a way that had him accidentally staring at your exposed belly, where a shiny belly button piercing caught the dim bar lights.

His breath hitched. God, I’m so fucked.

You were so... stunning.

You were more than just your messy, disheveled vibe that he liked so much. You were a literal goddess, and it hit him all at once.

And you—completely oblivious.

You were laughing at something one of your friends had said, completely lost in the moment. Nanami was watching you like a dumbstruck idiot, trying and failing to act casual.

His eyes wandered from the curve of your neck, to your cheek, and then back to your lips, which were pulling into that mischievous smile that always made his heart skip a beat.

Focus, Kento. Focus.

He took a deep breath and walked over, trying to control the ridiculous flutter in his chest.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “You look... good. Good to see you.”

You turned around, eyes lighting up when you saw him. “Nanami! You actually came! Thought you were gonna bail.”

“Not a chance,” he said, doing his best to mask the growing heat in his cheeks. He slid into the booth next to you, and you immediately handed him a drink.

“Drink?” you asked, a little too cheerfully. You’d clearly been enjoying yourself already, and the way your words slurred just slightly made Nanami chuckle.

“Thanks,” he replied, trying not to smile too much at the way you looked so carefree. He took a sip of the drink you handed him and tried to act like he wasn’t completely melting under the pressure of being around you. “So... how’s it going?”

You shrugged, taking a sip of your own drink. “You know, same old. Just needed to celebrate. I mean, I kicked ass on the project, right? And... well, you were part of it. So I’m grateful.”

Nanami felt his chest tighten at your words. “You did do well. You deserve it.” His words came out without thinking, and he caught himself staring at you again, the way your lips curled when you spoke, how you animated every word with your hands. You were so... alive.

You smirked, noticing his gaze. “What’s up with you?” you teased. “You look like you’re about to say something dramatic.”

He chuckled awkwardly, shaking his head.

“No, just..." he cleared his throat. "... enjoying the..vibes."

"Vibes huh?" You lifted your brow. Before Nanami could answer, Aiko pulled your attention.

*-*

You both drank, a couple rounds of beer, and he tried to focus on the conversation, but all he could think about was how damn beautiful you looked. It was ridiculous. The way you casually tossed your hair, the way your lips curled when you spoke. It made him ache in ways he didn’t know how to process.

The night went by in a blur of laughter and bad jokes, and soon enough, you were... a little tipsy. Just enough to make him worry, but not enough for him to stop enjoying being with you.

When the drinks stopped, he stood with you outside, trying to gauge how much you’d had. You were laughing at something stupid he said, but then your expression changed, your face a little softer than usual.

"Hey, um... Nanami?" You leaned on him for support as you both walked back to your dorm, and it made his heart skip.

“What is it?” he asked, keeping a careful arm around you.

“I just want to thank you,” you said, voice slightly slurred. “For everything. You’re like... actually really nice.”

He chuckled nervously, unsure of how to respond, but then you took him by surprise.

“You’re pretty,” you said, blinking up at him with those big eyes of yours. “Like, really pretty.”

Nanami froze, completely blindsided. His face burned, but before he could process anything, you continued.

“Thanks again,” you said, giving him a slightly wobbly smile. “See you later.”

You... hobbled? Stumbled? Walked?- anyways, you simply crossed the street, your dorm was like.. a minute away. Nanami watched you go with his eyes, never leaving your form.

*-*

You had kept in touch with him, especially since the two of you got a solid 97 on the joint project. So even after parting ways in class, you remained friends, often working together.

You’d caught yourself staring at him more often—watching how his eyes would focus so intently on his work, how he’d adjust his glasses, how his lips would press into a thin line when he was deep in thought.

It was all so... so Nanami.

But then your heart would twist a little, because you couldn’t help but think: He deserves better.

Better than the chaos of your life. Better than the mess you felt like you were. You couldn’t bring yourself to confess the things swirling inside you, the things you didn’t know how to articulate.

What would he even see in me?

So, you withdrew.

You didn't want to rub more salt in your wound, so you'd just wait until your dumb little crush would die, and then you could be BFF with Nanami. Easy right?

Unfortunately, that fucker noticed you were withdrawing again- much like during the time you had worked together.

Damn him and his stupid observant brain.

Finally, he decided to just ask.

“Hey,” he said, his voice tentative, “are you okay?”

You didn’t look up right away. You simply hummed, as if lost in thought. He waited, not pushing, just letting the silence settle between you two. And when you did look up, your expression was unreadable—like you were trying to hold everything back.

“Yeah,” you replied, but the answer felt off.

Nanami raised an eyebrow, setting his pen down. “I don’t know... you don’t seem like yourself lately.”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine. Just... busy with work and stuff. You know how it is.”

He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press you either. He had a way of knowing when you weren’t ready to talk, but this silence between you was something new.

"I miss hanging out," Nanami admitted after a beat, his voice softer than usual. "We used to just... chill. I know we're both busy, but I miss how easy it used to be."

Oh using your slang now? Since when did the mighty Nanami Kento use the word "chill"?

You didn’t want to pull away. You didn’t want to lose him. But at the same time, you couldn’t help but feel like you were too much. Too messy. Too unpredictable.

"I... I’m just not good at... balancing things," you muttered, staring down at the notebook in front of you. "I’ve got too much on my plate. You’ve got everything under control, and I—" You stopped yourself, shaking your head as if to clear the thoughts swirling in it.

Nanami tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in that way he always did when he was trying to understand you. "What do you mean?"

You didn't know how to verbalise it.

Wouldn't it just be easier to somehow plug your brain in a computer to show him how you felt??

Instead, you faked a smile. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Nanami studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

He knew something was off.

*-*

It came to ahead a week or so later.

It was 5 am.

Five. Fucking. Am.

Horrendous.

It had been a long fucking night. No, scratch that—long was an understatement. It had been a marathon of setting up for the gig, dealing with random band drama, helping out with last-minute requests, and trying to pretend like you weren’t internally screaming. You had worked through the night, practically dead on your feet, and now you were finally walking home, the first rays of dawn creeping into the sky.

You’d been so close to just crashing on the couch in the green room, but you couldn’t. Your dorm was just down the street. It’d be better to sleep in your own bed, the one you’d sacrificed sleep for these last two days.

You walked down the street, barely keeping yourself upright as the exhaustion weighed on you. The past 36 hours had been an absolute blur— all you could think about was your bed.

And maybe, just maybe, Nanami.

Yeah, okay, definitely Nanami.

You weren’t sure if it was the sleep deprivation or the alcohol from earlier, but the thought of him had been on a loop in your mind all night. The way he’d laugh softly at your sarcastic comments, the way his eyes looked at you when you thought he wasn’t paying attention—there was something about it that had your stomach doing backflips. But, like always, you didn’t know how to handle that. You didn’t know what you were doing, didn’t know what any of it meant.

What you did know was that you were tired. You wanted to curl up in your bed and forget about the world for a while.

Maybe with Nanami by your side, but that was definitely not happening.

No way.

You rounded the corner toward your dorm, rubbing your eyes. And then you bumped into someone. Hard.

“Shit, sorry!” You muttered, stumbling back. You blinked up to see... Nanami. Of course.

“Well, this is... a surprise,” you grumbled, though you couldn’t quite hide the tiny smile that pulled at the corner of your lips.

His gaze softened when he saw you, the ever-present calm in his demeanor barely slipping. “Are you alright? You look...” he paused, scanning you up and down. “Tired.”

“Tired? Dude, I’m about to collapse,” you said, slurring slightly. You rubbed your face again, then smirked. “So, I woke up at 5 a.m. yesterday, and now I'm going to bed at 5 a.m. today. Like... how did my life come to this?"

"Do.. do you want me to bring you coffee later on today?" He asked shyly??? What? No. You were just tired.

"Huh? Oh.. yeah sure? Cool. Uh."

Wow great syntax there, really gonna impress the law student. Mhm. Tots. You thought.

He nodded curtly. "Perfect. I'll be in the common room of your dorm at two thirty?"

Knowing him he'd be there at two twenty five.

*-*

As soon as you trudged into the dorms, up the stairs, not going into your dorm, first stopping by your best friends place, Aiko, looked up.

"Ah so you're back-"

"I wanna fuck him. I desire him carnally." You deadpanned, not even trying to hide the frustration and confusion in your voice.

Aiko paused, looking up from her makeup mirror, the harsh white lines of her gyaruu makeup interrupted.

“Wait. Who? Law guy?” she asked, her voice edged with both confusion and curiosity.

"Yes, law guy," you muttered, flopping down onto her bed.

Aiko dropped the makeup brush and leaned back on her vanity chair, eyes wide with disbelief. "Wait, Nanami? Our uptight, too-good-for-the-world Nanami?-the guy I met like last term?"

You winced, like she’d slapped you in the face. "Don’t remind me." You sank down onto the edge of her bed, staring at the floor. "I don't even know why. He’s perfect. He’s everything I’m not. And... I just... I don’t think I’m good enough for him."

Your voice broke at the end, and you hated how it sounded, weak and pathetic. But you couldn’t stop it. You hadn’t even realized the tears were coming until they were already there, hot and embarrassing, spilling down your face like you had no control over them.

Aiko sighed and got up, making her way over to you with a practiced calmness. She sat next to you on the bed, one hand resting on your shoulder. “Listen, I’m not saying this to be a dick, but he’s into you, okay? I can see it. Hell, everyone can. The way he looks at you—he’s got it bad.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “He’s probably just trying to be nice. I’m just... I’m too much. Too loud. Too messy. I stand out, yeah, but for all the wrong reasons. He’s so normal, Aiko. He’s got everything together. And I don’t. I can’t even figure out how to be... me around him anymore.”

Aiko raised an eyebrow, her expression softening. "So you think because you’re different, you’re not worthy of him? That’s bullshit, babe. Seriously. That’s some deep insecurity talking. He likes you because you’re you. He likes that you’re loud and messy and a little crazy. That’s part of the charm."

You shook your head, hands trembling as you wiped more tears away, frustration boiling up in your chest. "I don’t feel charming, Aiko. I feel like I’m ruining everything. Like if he knew the real me—if he knew how fucked up I am—he’d run. I’m just... too much."

Aiko was quiet for a moment, letting the silence settle between you two before she spoke again, her voice gentler than you expected. “Hey... you’re not too much. You’re just the right amount of you, even if you can’t see it right now. And Nanami? He’s probably thinking about how much of a mess you are and still wants to be with you. If that’s not validation, I don’t know what is.”

You let out a shaky breath, not sure what to believe anymore. But one thing was clear—Aiko was right in one sense: You did need Nanami’s attention, his validation. You craved it more than you cared to admit, but you were too scared to even ask for it.

Aiko seemed to sense your hesitation. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that felt warm and comforting.

"Hey," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I’m not saying this is easy. But you’re worthy of love and affection, even if you can’t see it yet. And, honestly? You’ve got a guy out there who’s falling for you. Don’t push him away just because you don’t think you’re good enough."

You sniffled, your chest tight, but this time you didn’t pull away. "What do I do, Kiko?"

(Yes your best friends nickname was after the brand- yes it was because she had the equivalent of a small Kiko in her makeup bag)

"Just be you. And if you’re worried about being ‘too much,’ just remember: You’re the one that sets the bar. If Nanami doesn’t want that, then it’s his loss, not yours."

The weight of her words settled in your mind, but you couldn’t bring yourself to fully believe them—not yet.

Aiko helped you to your dorm room, then out of your clothes and into bed, tucking you in like you were some little kid who needed comforting. She even set an alarm on your phone for you, because you’d still be getting coffee from Nanami later. You couldn't fathom how you'd be able to face him, especially after everything you just unloaded.

But Aiko was insistent. She looked down at you, like some weird, half ready gyaruu angel.

“You’re gonna feel better, I promise. And hey—don’t worry about anything else. Nanami’s bringing you coffee at 2:30. You’ll get through this. Just rest. I’ll let you sleep, and we’ll figure it out later.”

“Thanks,” you whispered, pulling the blanket up to your chin as she shut off the light. “I really needed that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Aiko muttered with a grin. “Now sleep. And don’t be dumb. Nanami’s into you. You just have to stop doubting it.”

A/N: yeah so this was funny, i love writting her cause she can be both weirdly confident and also a sad kicked puppy. anyways i hope this was good

:)

[sarasade]

It's been pretty interesting to follow the

"Why Didn't Viren Get Redeemed vs Viren Got What Was Coming To Him"

discussion after The Dragon Prince's 6th season got released.

Hot Take

I think Viren got redeemed.

Because to me Viren humbling himself and acknowledging the hurt he has caused was redeeming. His conversation with Soren was the main event. His rather heroic death was only the cherry on top of the character development cake that has been baking since s4.

I think Viren dying wasn't as significant as what he did before that and how he tried to provide Soren with some kind of comfort and closure, you know, as a parent should, before going. Viren's redemption wasn't just him dying for Katolis but acknowledging his wrongdoings and trying to salvage what he could.

That was pretty redeeming for me at least. Viren did the right thing even when he knew there wouldn't be any reward for it. Even if he couldn't stop Aaravos from destroying Katolis or manipulating Claudia even after his death. Like, man, I kinda feel for the guy.

I think it has always pretty easy to feel sympathy for Viren. Viren wants to matter and wants to be important. However, his grandiosity, as psychologists would call it, keeps him from creating genuine connections with others. His friends, wife and children are only there to prop up his ego or get rejected if they fail to live up to his expectations. It's also pretty damn tragic that Viren opens up about his deep insecurities to Aaravos of all people. Someone who was the most likely person in the world to exploit these insecurities for his own gain.

Viren had to taste his own medicide but I don't think TDP says that's an objectively good thing per se or that we should enjoy this sort of revenge fantasy uncritically. Viren is still portrayed rather sympathetically and of course there is the part about his actions affecting others and the world in unpredictable ways. It's still a tragedy because Viren's actions and personal problems have caused so much collateral damage. The Why behind Aaravos exploiting Viren and Claudia is part of that tragedy, too. There are no winners here. In a way Viren is a victim of his own narcissistic tendencies, too.

This isn't just about the final episodes of Viren's arc. To me it's essential to ask What was Viren's biggest sin he should be redeemed or punished for? Depending on your answer you may have a relatively different reading of s6 story development compared to mine.

To me it's not a specific action he took but his whole worldview. Viren is a fictional character (duh!) so his story isn't exactly literal but metaphorical, a representation of certain values and morals real people and society holds. In s3 TDP draws a pretty straightforward, though brief, comparison between Viren and reactionary right-wing ideologues. It's not exactly subtle.

It's just one way TDP goes to show how toxic and abusive Viren's core values are. that gets reflected both in Viren's personal life aka how he treated Lissa, Soren and even Harrow and Claudia (last two more indirectly). Since he also had a ton of political power as a high mage and briefly as a king we see what he did with that power. It's a pretty clear take on people who dehumanise others, fetishise power and see all living things as something to exploit. TDP explores that both philosophically and psychologically through Viren. Dark magic encapsulates this philosophy well since using magical creatures like tools or objects is essential for it to work.

Also also- I don't really get why people see redemption or atonement as something black and white. It's not bad or anything but Redeeming Yourself For Your Sins is a very Christian concept and Christianity isn't the only way to understand villain story arcs. Like I wish there could be more discussion about WHY redemption is the main analytical framework we impose on villains when villainous characters have a ton of variety anyway.

I don't really have anything to complain about Viren's death itself and I'm not surprised that he ended up dying (for real this time). Aaravos seemed like someone who'd turn against Viren the moment he stopped being useful to him so Viren's life has been hanging by a thread since s4. Viren was the best part of TDP and every scene he's been in had been a delight, well expect the s5 dream sequence because it was too long-winded and obvious, anyway, I'm sorry to see him go and I look forward writing AU fix-it fics where he and Aaravos are married and run a hot brown morning potion shop with all their four totally not dead children. RIP Viren. You lived like a messy bitch and died like a messy bitch. Iconic.

[clean-bands-dirty-stories]

Habit ~ E.O.

A/n: This felt the way eating something for the first time in a longen time when you are it a lot as a kid? Does that make sense? Idk I just love it

Request: “...Enoch O’Connor x Male I beg of thee” by anon

Word count: 2200+

MASTERLIST

Jake was the most annoying person Y/n had ever met.

The problem with a boy shaking the very core of the way Miss Peregrine's Home worked, is that there was a set routine. Not just the same day, every day. Not just the same clothes. Not just the same activities and expectations, but also the same people. The same dynamics. Everything was clear and simple and predictable - as it was supposed to be. It was Enoch and Horace and Olive and Fiona and Claire and Emma and Millard and Bronwyn and Hugh and the twins and Y/n. They all had their chores, their meals, and their rooms. Wake up, do the exact same thing, reset the day, go to bed.

In some ways, Jake changing everything was nice. Emma was happier with him, and they were safer now. They'd always be safe now. Miss Peregrine didn't have to deal with her imperfect day, and they had lots of new friends.

Change was hard though, and unpredictable. Emma and Jake, and then Fiona and Hugh. And then suddenly everyone was a lot less okay with Enoch and Y/n pining for each other but never doing anything about it.

Enoch and Y/n had always been like this. They avoided each other despite everything, somehow having pulled it off for decades straight now. Anytime they did talk, the room seemed to go still. They were insatiable, starving for each other. Every look was too long, and yet too short. Every conversation saturated with so much emotion neither boy could handle it.

Being a teenager was hard.

But for decades, everyone had left it alone. At some point the distance and awkwardness and desperate yearning had become a part of the routine. Wake up, do what you did everyday, glance over the way Y/n's breath caught, a smile tugging to his face when Enoch brought something to life, ignore the way Enoch's eyes lingered when Y/n began to chat with a bird or squirrel or worm.

Even Fiona was good at it, and she was Y/n's sister. They had always been far more concerned with their own relationship as siblings. Two halves of one whole - a plant gift and an animal gift. Flora and fauna.

But now she was busy with her own crush, and without her there to fill Y/n's time, it was more and more obvious how ridiculously in love he was. Olive had met a girl in the other loop they'd joined who had wings, and the two had been having a ball flying around together - which meant Enoch was more available than normal as well.

Of course they ended up in the same space more often than they usually did.

The new kids weren't used to the pining. It wasn't routine, they hadn't learned to ignore it. And the more they pointed out that the way Enoch and Y/n acted wasn't a just-friends-and-family feelings kind of situation, the more the other kids acknowledged it too. Suddenly everyone was looking at the boys expectantly, and with all those eyes on them... it was hard to ignore their own situation even more.

This was especially hard on Y/n. He had always known he wasn't going to end up with some epic love like in the books. Even before the loop, everyone had marked him as insane and weird. His little sister could make flowers grow in the palm of her hand, and her older brother knew all the town secrets because the pets could talk to him. But after the loop? The options were so limited and he was gay - it wasn't going to happen. No way in hell that with one person he could even possibly end up with, who he liked, liked him back. That sort of thing was difficult to find even with several options. But one?

Not to mentioned he hadn't really come to terms with the fact that he wasn't straight. Everyone knew he was into Enoch, but outside of that they had no idea what was going on with his sexuality. He'd never opened up about it, and flat out denied anytime someone had asked. Even Fiona had nothing to offer in terms of information - he hadn't told her anything either. Which was weird, because they knew a lot about each other. She was his confidante.

He'd never even admitted it to himself.

That wasn't good enough for Leroy and Sofie though. They were two of the kids from the other loop, and they were determined to play match maker between the two boys. It was how a harmless game night had gone so terribly wrong. They had convinced Jake to talk about all the silly, immature party games he had heard of and to "experience the culture they were missing out on" all the kids from both loops had been dragged into several different rounds of truth and dare and spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven. Nothing happened for most of the people, who only fist bumped or took the opportunity to info dump in a space where the other person had no option to listen.

And then Enoch and Y/n got picked.

For the first ten minutes, both boys were completely composed. But Enoch had a very good understanding of time and as more than seven minutes passed, he grew agitated. "It's been long enough, let us out," he called.

When all that came back from the other side was giggling, Y/n got irritated too. Being this close to Enoch was bad enough without there being a foreseeable end in sight. "Guys. Guys!"

"Talk about your feelings!" Sofie called back, and a dozen pairs of feet could be heard on the stairs, leaving Enoch and Y/n. In a closet. Locked for who knows how long. Alone in an entire room, in the basement.

Miss Peregrine would put it together and come and get them before dinner, but... even that was a long way away.

It was quiet a long time, but eventually even Enoch couldn't handle it. He broke first.

"Are we just going to wait for Miss Peregrine?"

Y/n shrugged. "They all left, so... It's not like even if I did anything here they'd let us out."

"Did anything?" Enoch scoffed. "Did what exactly."

"I don't know," Y/n snapped. Both boys were rather hot headed and tended to interact with each other through biting remarks and snarky banter. These snippy words were familiar to them.

Enoch rolled his eyes. "I'm not just going to sit here that whole time. At least tell me what they think we need to share feelings about?"

Y/n shrugged. "Beats me."

Another king quiet and then Enoch seemed to soften. He had changed a lot since Jake too. He had been so defensive of Emma before, but now he saw the flaw in that. Emma and Jake were happy, and more than anything he... envied them. He wanted that. And he had wasted enough time keeping himself from it. If Emma could open her heart to getting broke to risk love and succeed... maybe he could too. "Y/n."

"What?" He was gorgeous. That withering look and unwavering attitude. Enoch loved that he could always keep up, matching any sass off or sarcastic comment. Often beating Enoch at what he had always considered as his own private game. A game he never lost at... until Y/n. Y/n who found his homunculus fascinating instead of disturbing and never scared at even the worst of Enoch's attempts. Y/n who was so awkward and brash with people, but so gentle and calm and caring toward animals. Y/n, who was his best self out in the woods with no shoes on and a smile on his face as he closed his eyes and listened to the wind through the trees, the birds singing, the bugs buzzing...

"Do you want to play Twenty Questions?" It was another of Jake's silly games. They had planned to play it after Seven Minutes in Heaven but, well, now they were locked in a closet.

Y/n shot him a withering look, cocking an eyebrow. "No."

Enoch's lips almost twitched into a smile. "Come on. Since when are you more of a buzz kill than I am?"

Y/n sighed. "Fine. Whatever." He looked at Enoch again and couldn't help but soften. They were both like this. Hard to touch, impossible to get close to. Rough and snappy. Except for those select few. For Enoch, it was the girls. Fiona and Claire had it the easiest; Olive had to work for it; Emma had gotten under his skin after Abe. For Y/n, there was no one who had worked their way into his good graces as well as Enoch had. He of course had softness for the kids, always taking to children who needed someone to have their back - even if they wouldn't admit it - but Enoch was still special. He always was.

Enoch swallowed a smile, matching Y/n's casual energy. They both leaned against the wall, Y/n crossing his arms over his chest and Enoch slipping his hands in his pocket. "You go first," Enoch encouraged. There was something playing in his eyes, so bright it shone even in the low lighting.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, unsure. "Okay... what's your favorite color?" It was a dumb question - he already knew - which meant that if Y/n wasn't going to try neither was Enoch.

"Triangle." He smirked, then leaned forward. "Do you like men?"

There was a long silence in the closet. It felt... horribly fitting. Suffocatingly on point. "Why do you ask?"

"That's not an answer," he shot back.

Y/n's face burned. "That's a dumb question! You've never cared once in our decades of friendship and now you do? Why?"

"Because of Jake." Y/n almost began going off about how annoying Jake was, but Enoch cut him off. "I thought everything was set in stone. He were the group we'd always been. Abe proved it to me. We can get smaller, but never bigger. But then Jake came along and left behind everything for Emma. And I realized, maybe that's what love is. Maybe it's giving up what was for what could be. Because it's worth it. And if I made a leap like that, I won't even have to give anything up. All I have to do is take the first step."

His voice was so soothing, but his words were like shots of ice through Y/n's veins. It was a startling contrast. "Enoch..." He frowned, pursing his lips. He couldn't look at the other boy. "What would you do if I asked you that? You can't expect me to-"

"I do. I like men."

Y/n's jaw dropped. He snapped it closed after a beat, eyes trained on Enoch. The other boy seemed... excited. Genuinely. "And you're telling me this... for a reason. I assume?" Enoch just nodded. He wasn't just excited; he was nervous too. To be fair, so was Y/n. "Because you like me?" He asked, even more softly.

Enoch hesitated. Then nodded. "I... have. For a long time."

Y/n sighed, head falling back against the wall. A part of him wanted to argue, wanted to fight it. Wanted to stick his head in the sand.

But a much larger part of him knew that this had been coming for a long time.

“I thought when I told you I was into men it would be scarier.” Enoch laughed at Y/n’s confession, and it was only a split second before Y/n joined him. It was completely bizarre and borderline ridiculous. They’d been denying their feelings so long it had become habit. First out of hesitation. You never know exactly how someone would react to something. And then it was friendship. They were so close, and they’d gotten into a pattern of thought. They were only friends - nothing else was possible. But as everything around them changed, pattern had no room in their life anymore. So habit had taken over.

And now…

Y/n rested his head on Enoch’s shoulder, hesitantly taking his hand. Enoch sighed, squeezing back. Reassuring him.

“I like you specifically,” Y/n piped up.

Enoch’s smile was small as he tried to fight it, but the blush across his cheeks gave him away. “I like you too.” Y/n chuckled again, and Enoch echoed him. Like their energy was bouncing off of each other, growing. Becoming simply by the existence of the other.

“I don’t want our first kiss to be in here,” Enoch sighed. The closet was too much a metaphor, but even more-

“I don’t like that everyone’s forced so much onto us,” Y/n agreed. “Thank god they did, but-“

Enoch huffed with amusement. “But I don’t want them to have everything. Some things are just for you and me?” Y/n nodded and Enoch smiled, leaning close and pressing his lips to Y/n’s forehead. Y/n sighed, content. They stayed like that until the close door was opened, several pairs of curious eyes staring in at them.

“Are you together now?”

Y/n and Enoch exchanged looks and then scrambled to their feet, both shouldering the door open and slipping out. Everyone was laughing - even the ones who tried desperately to lock the pair back in the room.

And so the boys were out of the closet.

They took each others’ hand again when they settled onto the couch together, an everyone had to agree: that could be enough.

[drconstellation]

First-Order Archangels

Part 1: Maybe You'll Spot An Archangel

GABRIEL: I told you you could ask. However, I am the only First-Order archangel in the room, or, you know, the Universe, so I'm not gonna answer so much. But you feel free to knock yourself out with all the asking.

While I was writing my meta series The Passion Of Jimbriel it became fairly obvious to me there was something more going on between Crowley and Gabriel in S2 than just the numerous pointers to Crowley's pre-fall angel status. They are acting as both parallels and foils to each other, and in places you can swap their characters and get the same story at a different time – and that just opens up a whole new window of context and insight into things. For pre-reading, see this meta from @vidavalor that nicely lists some obvious parallels. It doesn’t mention everything though, so I’m going to discuss parts in more detail.

A foil is a character who contrasts with the protagonist, to highlight or differentiate certain qualities between the characters. Crowley and Gabriel do this because they have come from essentially the same place, and share some story elements, but they still end up in different places.

There is a lengthy original discussion about Crowley's pre-fall angel status here, for pre-reading. It points out the obvious and some not so obvious points that ops have noticed in S2 telling us about Crowley's pre-fall status. Rather than just go through them all again, I'd like to look at some other scenes in S2 that also tell us something about both the similarities and the differences between these two high-powered entities as I go along. In addition, I’ve done a series of posts looking at Gabriel as a shoulder angel (links at the end of post,) because quite often he’s on the demonic left-hand side – which makes sense when you realize he’s a Crowley parallel.

Take the arrival of Gabriel to Whickber St and the bookshop. I’ve already mentioned this parallel story line a couple of times now, but lets look at it again in more detail. It mirrors the opening of S1E1 where the serpent climbs the wall of the Garden of Eden, morphs into a demon and starts to converse with the angel standing on the wall.

Back in the present day, we have a Gabriel, who also tends to present on the sinister-side, walking up to the gate of the present day Garden (the bookshop), which is still guarded by the same angel as it was 6000 years ago, and basically tells Aziraphale he has “fallen.”

How to we know this? It is a reference to the Fall of Man, when Adam and Eve ate the apple the serpent offered them, they suddenly became aware of their nakedness, and hid from God. Gabriel has already upset the love-apple tomato cart on his way to the door of the bookshop, its a sign of the chaos to come.

The fallen angel is not sure of his name, so he prompts with a question…

And asks for shelter under the (reluctant) angel’s wing..

But there is one thing he does know, the one thing that drew him to Aziraphale in the first place:

AZIRAPHALE: Then why did you come to my shop? GABRIEL: I don't know. I just thought I should. You know what it's like when you- when you don't know anything at all, and yet you're totally certain that everything would be better if you were just near one particular person?

Later, Aziraphale realizes that he must give Gabriel a new name to hide him – because fallen angels take on a new name, don’t they? Just like Crowley did.

Then we get a confession:

Which is what Crowley loves about Aziraphale as well - that bit of unpredictability, because you know how humour kind of works? It throws the unexpected at you.

Early on in S2 we find out they are both in trouble: first His Royal Smugness, then Our Hero himself. Our view is turned upside down, with the angel made the bad guy and the demon the good guy who needs to win. But both of them are being hunted by Shax.

Then we get one of the early clues pointing to Crowley's high status as an angel:

SHAX: A miracle of enormous power happened last night. The kind of miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could've performed. CROWLEY: Mm? SHAX: Somewhere very close to your friend's bookshop. Are you telling me you don't know what caused it? CROWLEY: How'd you know I didn't do it?

Shax stalks and threatens both of them, sometimes at the same time:

Another parallel Gabriel and Crowley shared in S2 were associating their identity - no, lets rephrase that - "essence" was one description I've seen - with boxes.

Gabriel arrives with a box that strategically covers his front, and quickly tosses it aside once Aziraphale opens the door to the bookshop. It lies forgotten until Gabriel mentions it a while later. Inside it is the fly from Beelzebub - an object from Hell - so it really needs to be 'invited' across the threshold of the bookshop by Aziraphale to be able to enter. The box initially appears to be empty, Once inside, the fly is free to roam. It has a message written on one side of it.

The same goes for the matchbox. Message included.

ah, wot? you say. Yep.

The matchbox represents Crowley, probably in more ways than one, but I'll just go through the stuff relevant to this meta here.

I notice I'm not the only op to connect the line from the Book of Job on the side of the matchbox with Crowley. The line is from Verse 41, which talks about Leviathan. Among the various shapes it is described to take is a great sea serpent. This deserves its own meta for further discussion, which I plan to do after this one, because yes, Crowley is Leviathan in disguise, but there is much more to it than that. But for now, just know that the matchbox is Crowley.

Once you know this, it makes sense that Muriel finds it - a discarded cardboard box by the front door to Heaven - and deals with a material object that shouldn't by rights exist in Heaven. Then a certain demon finds Muriel lurking outside during the siege on the bookshop at the end of S2E5, and talks them into letting the certain demon be escorted up into Heaven where he doesn't belong, where he's free to roam around - only he needs a guide because he's not sure where to go. Ah Muriel, you poke the Serpent, he's going to poke you back. Good thing he likes you, and it just was a gentle nudge.

Two empty boxes, two cases of memory-loss. That is what S2 seems to suggest to us at first glance.

Gabriel's seems to be the most straight forward in hindsight - find the fly and restore Gabriel to his original "Gabriel-ness." But its more complicated than that. When pushed to remember, his lilac eyes return and another voice can be heard speaking through him of the past. This happens twice, with the second one being part-prophecy. What is really triggering these episodes of channeling? Is it God or someone else speaking through him? We really aren't sure at this point in time.

Then there are questions around Crowley's memory. Did he have his memory wiped when he fell? Was it wiped repeatedly? Was it not wiped at all, and he just pretends he doesn't remember? Neil has even said he is an unreliable narrator about his own Fall, so who are we to trust at this point? Crowley does seem to understand in the end some of the problems Gabriel is having with his absent memories and that brings them to a temporary truce.

Both Aziraphale and Michael inspect their respective "empty" boxes, and neither notices anything obviously amiss. Gabriel's box just seems empty to Aziraphale, he takes no notice of the fly container in there, and archangel Michael tentatively inspects the matchbox brought to them by Muriel but nothing seems out of place there either.

Crowley's change in costume in Heaven during his little infiltration caper with Muriel is also another clue to his past status as an archangel. He has a silvery-gray suit, similar in style to Saraqael's to reinforce the link with them, but at the same time he is also mocking the other archangels and their elite status. We've assumed for a while now that the appearance of the tactical turtleneck signals that Crowley is up to something sneaky or spy related, but I'm starting to think it also relates to a bit of a power play (and Crowley certainly laid the power on for Mr Brown in the pub!) Looking back at S1, Gabriel's not adverse to wearing one either when he needs to be at his worst (or best. Your choice.)

The way one dresses is a way of expressing and reinforcing authority, and its something both Gabriel and Crowley do without much thought. They have been used to being in a position of power and/or independent authority for much of their existence, and I would say that even if Crowley is a few steps down now from where he started, and he's more cautious around those higher ranking than him than he used to be, he still retains that knowledge of what its like to be at the top.

Crowley's usual near all-black costume is a form of power dressing in itself. Whether is was in the past, when black was an expensive color to buy and maintain in clothing, or in the present day, we are still respectful of those in a stylish cut of black.

Gabriel's impeccable tailoring as Supreme Archangel also commands respect. So it's no wonder that one of Gabriel's first requests on regaining his memories was to ask for new clothes! He wasn't just being the vain archangel we believe him to be (although, I think there is still some of that) you also need to consider the elements of the reference characters that went into his shop assistant character: Granville, the belittled shop assistant nephew from the sitcom Open All Hours, who got stuck with all the shop duties from his uncle and felt like life was passing him by, and the silly Monty Python gumbies, that complained of hurting brains - lovable and much loved characters, but not ones you'd really want to be forever. We all want to be loved, but we want to be respected as well.

For all his fierce posturing around Gabriel, there is a brief moment in S2E3 where Crowley backs down and treats Gabriel as an equal - and that is reflected in a change of dress as well. His outside jacket off and sleeve-garters on, Crowley sports a look we haven't seen since S1 when he was home alone in his Mayfair flat. He patiently explains gravity to a curious Gabriel and then describes his "Operation Lovebirds" plan to his puzzled companion. He admits he hasn't "done weather in ages." It's just a quiet, charming moment, watching two ex-archangels get along together.

You're smiling, aren't you?

This meta continues in Part 2: Foils of War, where the differences between Gabriel and Crowley get explored in more detail, and how Aziraphale and Beelzebub act as mirrors to each other a few times as well.

This meta is part of a series on Gabriel: Gabriel as a Shoulder Angel: S1 Study S2 Study Part 1: Ep.1 The Arrival and Ep. 2 The Clue S2 Study Part 2: Ep.3 I Know Where I'm Going and Ep. 5 The Ball S2 Study Part 3: Ep.6 Every Day

First-Order Archangels Part 2: Foils of War

First-Order Archangels Part 3: Seeing Eye to Eye

[astrumark]

── AND IT'S JUST AS GOOD AS I KNEW IT WOULD BE ★.

PAIRING: jacaerys velaryon x female reader.

SUMMARY: after a harsh argument, you ask jace for a kiss in order to forgive him, not expecting the prince to aim for your lips, or to feel so heated in such a short time.

WARNINGS: slightly angsty at the beginning, friends to lovers, curse words, pet name, smut with plot, loss of virginity, hand-job, fingering, p in v, playing with cum a little bit.

WC: 8.5K

NOTES: jace needs more appreciation.

The breeze feels warm but fresh on your skin, and the sun is just about to set as you stroll happily around the castle, the skirts of your dress bouncing. It has been a good day so far. With Jace's name day approaching, a few lords and their families were already arriving at the island for the festivity taking place in just a couple of days, including your parents and siblings. The lessons were fun and interesting, especially with the different takes of the other ladies that are visiting. Later, Rhaenyra had a dress fitting session, in which she insisted that you and the silver-haired sisters choose something for yourselves as well. The afternoon went by quickly once surrounded by fabrics, jewelry, and laughter. 

You were about nine years old when you became Princess Rhaenyra's ward. Being one of the youngest in a huge family, your father sent you to Dragonstone as a symbol of his loyalty to the black princess, who treats you with the utmost kindness and respect. You were quick to adapt and feel far from unsatisfied with the life you have been building for yourself in the crownlands. 

But something is missing throughout the day, creating a small void within your chest. You have not been able to see Jace, and you crave his company. The reason as to why you are descending to the beach in long strides, where you were informed the young men were still training since late morning.

The friendship between the two of you was immediate and intense as soon as you arrived, and though you grew to care for all of the family, the older prince seemed to steal most of your affection effortlessly. 

Clashing steel and loud manly voices fill your ears as you arrive at the beach. Lucerys is currently sparring with a boy around his age who you recognize to be from House Blackwood, while Jacaerys seems to be deep in conversation with a few lords. A smile creeps into your face as you rush your steps. 

"Jace!" You shout as you stop in front of him. "I miss you." You raise your hand to fix his hair as you are used to, but your hand is slapped away.

Confusion washes over your face due to his unusual behavior. There are a few snickers from the young lords around him and Jace flushes.

"My Prince is fine, or have you forgotten your manners?" His tone is cold and sharp, lacking the tenderness often reserved for you, and your eyebrows raise in surprise.

"What?" You scoff in annoyance, shooting a glance at the other boys, Were they the reason he was being so unpleasant? Was he ashamed of you? A great indignation sweeps over you at the thought. "Jace—" You purposely emphasize his name again, ready to load your irritation on him when you're cut off.

Followed by wolf whistles there was a firm hand around your upper arm, the prince's expression hardened. You could feel your stomach dropping at that, never had he looked at you that way. Rarely did you two fight, even as children, your friendship was always a sweet and courteous one. 

"Can we speak in private, my lady?" It's more of an order than an actual request as he drags you across the beach and behind one of the multiple rocks, hidden from curious eyes and ears.

He's furious, you could sense it as he let go of your arm. And it's the same sentiment as standing close to a dragon: dangerous and unpredictable. Your heart drums against your ribcage. Oh, how foolish one has to be to doubt that Jacaerys is the blood of the dragon for even a second. All you can see in front of you right now is an enraged beast. 

"You will apologize to me." He demands.

"Apologize for what?" You are incredulous, and the fact you have never seen him act this way should be enough reason to not push him, but at this moment, you are feeling just as prideful as he is.

"For disrespecting me! What else?" 

"Disrespect? I called you by your name!" 

"Jace is what my family calls me, you are not. Please, know your position." He says sternly. 

You gasp, mouth wide open as your heart sinks. "You do not mean!"

Jace sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a second to keep his control. "I cannot have you approaching me as a common bastard with little to no regard for social customs in front of men I am supposed to lead one day. If a lady like yourself does not deem it worthy to address me in the correct style, how will they? Do you genuinely do not see the issue?"

There's much you want to say, much you want to discuss and disagree, curse him even, but it's that damned word that rings the most to you, bastard. You know how delicate the topic is to Jace, how in front of everyone he pretends it doesn't bother him, but in truth, the stares and whispers and uneasiness of the future always stressed him to a fault. Usually, it was not a problem at home, but this week the island is full of visitors from all over the Seven Kingdoms, most of them not necessarily favoring greens or blacks as some houses have, at least not publicly yet. Meaning a lot more whispers, more stares, and more insults masked as plain light-hearted jests.

It's the first time you realize how so many people might be a little too much to deal with, especially for someone so eager to prove themselves at all times like Jacaerys. Nonetheless, his actions sting, and so badly. You are not deserving of his wrath and therefore would not accept it. 

"But must you be so mean to me?" 

"Mean?!" His voice gets louder, clearly losing the small amount of patience he was still holding onto. "I am simply trying to teach you the proper way to address your future ruler." 

It's enough for you, you cannot bear it, as if you are talking to a stranger and not your greatest friend. The rage and arrogance are so unlike him, that it is just odd and infuriating to see. You hate it. "I do not need you to teach me manners! And we are far beyond such customs, Jacaerys. You know it."

"You will apologize to me." He repeats himself once more, growing agitated. 

"I will not!" 

"You will or you might as well face punishment for such insolence, do you truly want to embarrass your family like that in front of all these people?"

It takes a while for his words to sink in, but when it does, your breathing is erratic, and eyes burning with unshed tears, hurt and angry. You refuse to cry, but why is it so hard?

It is ridiculous the power Jacaerys has over you and for such a long time now. How a different glance, a shrug, or a specific tone of voice could make you recoil to yourself, unknowingly ruining your mood as you wondered if perhaps you could've done something to upset him. Those moments are forgotten the moment he smiles brightly at you again or ruffles your hair teasingly, back at his usual self. But then it would happen again and you would be reminded of how much you blindly seek his approval, even if you try your hardest not to. 

Jace's face softens at your teary eyes, regret and shock swallowing him, suddenly and immediately. His mind is fuzzy. As if a bucket of iced cold water had been thrown over him, or if his eyes were seeing clearly for the first time after walking through a mist. Oh. He cursed himself countless times in just a few seconds. He despised seeing you cry, he despised even more to be the reason for it. "Forgive me, I did not mean—"

It is too late. You turn on your heels, clutching your skirts, and running away from him as fast as you could, your flat shoes burying on the soft sand. Your vision is completely blurred by the tears as you intend to make your way back to the castle. There's more laughter from the lords as you pass by them. You couldn't care less, your stomach churning.

Jace paid them no mind as well, forgetting all about the reputation he wanted to create among them. He races after you almost desperately as he shouts your name, which only makes you sprint faster through the craggy pavement. Suffocated by his frustrations, he unloaded them on the last person he would wish to, and he would be doomed if he didn't repair the damage he just made. He couldn't remember a time he felt as guilty and ashamed as right now. Absolute moron.

A couple of minutes later, you're growing tired from the run, which gives Jace the perfect opportunity to grab your upper arm again, but this time much gentler. He makes you turn around to face him, warm brown eyes pleading. You despised how pretty those eyes got when the sun reflected in them, how gorgeous he looked bathed by sunlight. "Please." He utters, his breath heavy.

You struggle your arm out of his grip, a scowl on your face, now wet from tears. "Let me be." 

"Please, please, please," He moves his body to halt in front of you. "Let me speak." 

"I do not wish to speak with you." You try to dodge him and walk again, but he swiftly blocks you, your name falling from his lips almost like a prayer. That makes you hesitantly look at him, a silent agreement for him to continue.

"I am tremendously sorry. I swear it. I was unfair, I know," He says in a rush, brows pinching together as he reaches for your hands. You didn't bother to retrieve it. "I… There's no excuse. I was harsh and a fool because I couldn't handle my stress. I am so sorry, I feel so terrible right now. Just please, forgive me." He rambles.

You shook your head repeatedly, a new pool of tears making your eyes shimmer. Jace could swear he felt as if he was being ripped apart, queasiness brutally hitting him.

"No, please don't cry." The prince brings your body forward as he hugs you almost instinctively, itching to comfort you in despair. 

You didn't hug him back, but you didn't move either, his embrace was annoyingly a solace, even if he was the reason for your sadness. He strokes the side of your neck with one hand, and your back with the other in a soothing motion. 

"No…" Is all that you can mutter in a whine before burying your face further in his chest, you shouldn't like his presence so much, you shouldn't like him so much, you shouldn't give someone so much importance and control.

"I am so sorry." He hugs you tighter, repeating the apology over and over in the shell of your ear, regret and shame filling his voice. 

"You cannot hurt me like this." You say, feeling the weight of his words and actions.

Jace slowly pulls away, surprising you to see him looking so troubled. He softly cleans your tears with his thumbs. "I know. I was cruel for no reason, and you do not deserve it. I understand your anger and disappointment. Right now I am sharing the same sentiments about myself." He shook his head. "I do not know what to do except to apologize, I didn't mean to act so entitled. It was too much. I handled my problems in the worst of ways and didn't realize until I upset you."

"You hold my heart in your hands, Jace," You admit quietly as you sniff. "You cannot be so careless with it." 

Jace held his breath, his heart beating impossibly faster at your words. You were always tender with one another, and such admissions, especially coming from you, were not rare. He could never tell if your affection was one of friendship or if it held more meaning, but it always made him warm inside. This one though, came as a dagger to his guts. With all his being, Jacaerys wished to undo all that had happened from the moment you stepped into the beach, running towards him with a beaming smile.

"I couldn't be more regretful than I am for my stupid actions," His voice is quiet and sad. "If we can sort this out between us now, I would be most grateful. Just tell me what I have to do. But if you truly desire to not speak to me, I will leave and not bother you again." He looks at you expectantly, fearful even.

You bite your lips, not quite able to give him an answer you didn't have. You were still displeased, and you would rather have the prince vanishing in thin air right now, or maybe slap his handsome face for acting so surly in an unjustified way. At the same time, you didn't want to leave it unresolved, to extend the issue for longer. You would have to talk at some point, either to forget about it or end your friendship at once. The last thought sends a wave of discomfort through your body, enough of an answer. You swallow hard.

"What are you so stressed about?" You have a good guess, you know him, but you want to hear it from his mouth directly. 

With a sigh, anyone could hear the sheer honesty and exasperation in Jace's tone. "It is my responsibility, my duty," He looks down at his boots. "As the future heir to the throne, I need to be tough and make myself heard. There are certain expectations which I have to be prepared for." With a pause, he continues. "I have been on edge since the lords started arriving, and I snapped at you unfairly. There are so many stares and passive but accusatory comments, I just… can't let them see me as weak or undeserving in any way. I need to be perfect all the time, and I am not fucking perfect, at all." He chuckles wryly. 

You exhale softly, it is not pity you feel, just comprehension with a bit of sadness. You couldn't fathom how much pressure the brunette was under, especially with the rumors and the tension between the family, his grandsire the only bridge holding it together, for now. He was right, there was no excuse regarding how he treated you, but his frustrations and fears were not meaningless. But it pains you to see him doubting himself like that. You've known Jacaerys for years, and you could not name a better person to be the future heir to the throne. Perhaps you are a little biased, but he was the representation of all good things to you, one of the reasons you believe genuine people still exist in such a malign world. He is not perfect, indeed, a flawed person like everyone else, but at least he always tries to be better, and that's more than most people you know could say.

"You will be prepared for it, Jace." Your voice is like a caress, strangely silky and firm at the same time. "I have no doubts. You are the most responsible person I know, intelligent, empathic, and fierce. You are trustworthy and honorable. You are respectful and you truly give your duty the importance it is due. You have all the attributes a good ruler should have, and you are so young. Those who do not see your value are blind and naive." 

Jace bites his lips, almost drowning in gratitude. He looks deep into your eyes, trying to see any hint of deceit, of void words from a pitiful friend who doesn't believe in themselves entirely, but he does not see it. All the prince sees is an unnerving obstinacy. 

"You mean it." He whispers, surprised. 

You nod your head vehemently. "I do." 

He could cry with such determined and honest praise after being plagued by the worst thoughts for days in a row, but he only smiles at you, shyly and fleeting, but sincere. "Thank you." 

It is quiet after that, the birds squawking and waves crashing, the air filled with salt. It's a regular sound and smell, but the most comforting nonetheless, and what you relate to home. Not the rustling of the trees, the smell of the meadow, or the sound of the running stream back at your family's castle in the Riverlands, but this. You look out to the sea, the sky now turning purple and pink. After a few minutes of contemplation, Jacaerys speaks again, his legs quaking.

"I must know, will you be able to forgive me or will my sudden stupidity strain our relationship?" Jace fidgeted as he got closer to you, eyes wide, and you could feel the anxiety radiating off him. He is distressed.

You took your time answering him. "I am still upset." Not as much, but you wouldn't let him know that just yet.

"You have every right to be." He purses his lips as he looks away hopelessly. You do not feel sympathy, but a dark satisfaction at his despair after acting that way, and you try not to smile at it. "But I will not be able to sleep if I do not know if you will be able to forgive me or not, I cannot bear the thought of sleeping while we are on these ambiguous terms and you are angry at me, I—" He breathes in. "I cannot bear losing your friendship."

Seven. His insistence and desperation were certainly growing on you and melting the ice wall you have created not long ago. In truth, your anger and hurt were dissolving by the minute. Much stronger at the beach, but almost fading now. He takes your silence as a bad sign, and his hands find your waist, clinging to you for dear life.

"Please, I will do anything, just forgive me," He pleads once more. "I need you, I always need you. Terribly. You are my greatest friend and you are not allowed to leave me." His eyes are full of sorrow and longing. 

You smirk. "Not allowed to leave? Is that an order?" 

There's a shift in his eyes, a reluctant hope. "No, it is not, but it could be." There's teasing in his tone as well. "Please…"

Again, you look away to sort your thoughts. There is no use lying to yourself, no way of holding a grudge against him. In just a matter of minutes, the burning rage has become a faint flame, no way the resentment would survive till the end of the night. Seven hells, you were in deep, so supple to his wills and charms. You could pretend, give it more time, but the truth was as clear as a summer sky, so what is the point of dwelling on it, anyway?  

"I will do anything." He mutters, squeezing your waist. 

You decide then, a sly smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Anything?" 

Relief and incredulously crosses his face, a smile mirroring your own. "Is that a yes?"

"Not quite…" Your eyes are mischievous. 

"Just tell me what I have to do to make up for you." He urges. 

It's a great opportunity to strike a good bargain with a prince, but you dismiss the thought. You were forgiving him because you believe he deserves it, that he was sincere in his apology, and because he is your most treasured friend. You could count on one hand the times he'd upset you in years when you saw each other almost every day, so there was some reliability in him. So instead, you jest, feeling quite cheeky. "Give me a kiss." 

It's purposely plain phrased, devoid of a specific intention, because you simply do not care where the kiss is going to be placed. Though you certainly do not expect much, a forehead kiss, perhaps. It's completely up to him.

Jace's brows shoot up to his hairline as he watches you with curiosity, head tilted to the side as his body tingles. "A kiss?" 

You smile again. "My price." 

He chuckles, shifting closer to you, his hands still on your waist. One of them moves, cradling your face in a feathery touch. He's aware you probably meant a friendly kiss, on your cheek or nose, a small gesture that would make you both giggle, because you are not as nervous as he is. Jace, who has a slightly different idea. Your face is relaxed in a small smile, eyes twinkling with humor. A particularly high wind makes the sight of you almost ethereal under the twilight. His pounding heart is loud in his ears, a thousand butterflies flying around his stomach. The pain he felt at the risk of losing your fondness was excruciating, threatening to whisk away his breath and all that was joyful. He truly could not bear it, ever. He loves you, and far from a platonic way, it's obvious now. In an adrenaline rush, he finally locks your lips together in a long and loving peck.

You gasp into his mouth, completely taken aback, but soon you press your lips against his as well. It's so soft and warm that a shiver runs down your spine. Lovely. When you part, your mind has not exactly caught up with what just happened yet, and your breath is labored. Jace watches you, content to not see any negative emotion, although you seem pretty startled, eyes as wide as a deer.

"I am truly sorry for being so rude and mean pup," He apologizes once again, kissing the corner of your lips this time, so delicately you barely felt it. "So sorry."

You can barely remember what he is apologizing for, the events of the beach are now a distant memory with the feel of his lips so fresh in your mind. Your eyes are drawn to his pinkish lips, excitement running through your veins as your heart palpitates almost painfully.

You struggle to find words, your head spinning as you process it all, and when you do, your voice is weak. "It is alright…"

He smiles sheepishly at you, caressing the side of your face. "How do you feel about it? The kiss?"

You hum as you bite your lips to prevent a smile, a sudden shyness taking over you. "I enjoyed it." 

"So did I." 

Your gaze flickers down once again. You want more, you crave more, so profoundly and insistently, as if you needed to feed off him to survive. Felt too good. "Can this be an occurrence?" You wonder, voice faltering, but that didn't stop your fingers from caressing his plump lips.

Heat rises to Jace's face and neck, he barely contains the grin plastered on his face. "I wouldn't mind. Would you like it to be an occurrence?" 

You nod your head eagerly, hands now around his neck. "I am afraid your lips are the best thing I have ever tasted." 

Jace laughs to mask his embarrassment. "Ever the charmer. Maybe you should stop listening to the bards as much."  

"Shush it, will you? This was my first kiss, actually," You confess. "Now I understand why people enjoy it so fervently." 

He smiles fondly and scratches his head nervously before he speaks again, arms wrapped around your waist once more. "It was my first as well." 

You blink twice, amazed by that piece of information. "Truthfully?"

"Yes," He chuckles. "Why would I lie about that?" 

"It's surprising, that's all," You tilt your head. "Most young men like you are often engaged in depravity."

He rolls his eyes. "I am no prude, that I can assure." 

"Doesn't sound like it." You tease. 

"I was just waiting for a certain someone to indulge in these sinful desires." 

You gasp excessively at his crudeness before giggling. You know he is joking, partially, the curves of his mouth lifted and the joyful look in his eyes indicates it. "Do it again." 

He does, softly and slowly. You relish it, eyes fluttering shut as your blood runs hot.

"I might get addicted to this." You murmur, forehead resting on his.

"So will I." He says quickly before capturing your lips again.

This time your lips move together, growing more wet and provocative, and the second your tongues finally touch, the kiss deepening, your whole body jolts forward. A growing flame sets roots on your lower stomach. It's messy, a clash of teeth and instinctive tongues, but it's new and thrilling, and absurdly wonderful.

Jace holds you as if you are the most precious thing to exist and he is afraid you will vanish, or that he will wake up in his bed at any moment. His heart almost jumping off his chest reminds him this could not be a dream, though it certainly feels like one. It does not take long until you both establish a pace, and he swears this is the closest thing akin to flying. He feels remarkably light and excited, and he wouldn't be surprised if he was glowing inside out, the warmth spreading from head to toe inside him almost overwhelming. 

Everything disappears, the people, the animals, the waves, and the wind on your ears, making your dress float. It's just the two of you and your lips eagerly moving together in such harmony you could fool one as being experienced lovers. You grab the hair at the nape of his neck, and Jace shudders. His body always seems to be warmer than your cold hands, and he loves the feel of this difference. 

You are out of breath, struggling to keep pace, but you do not wish to stop, too greedy now that you finally got a taste of him. You could kiss him forever, you realize. However, you must. You are still in the open for anyone to see. Jace seems to have the same trail of thought as you as he parts, panting. You laugh out of pure happiness, lips swollen and eyes hooded. 

"Certainly a new vice." 

Jacaerys grins at you. "We should have done this sooner."

You can only agree. "Now we can make up for the lost time."

"And not get in trouble while we are at it." He steps back against his desire and looks around. Jace could only describe the lack of your body pressed to his as sickening. Still, when his eyes find yours again, he smirks.

"We will be careful." You rest your hands behind your back. "Do you wish to go to my chambers?"

Jace's throat bobs. He'd been at your chambers countless times, but he could not help but let his mind wander to dangerous scenarios after your shared kisses. He knew it was far from reasonable, but you probably meant no mischief, and he knows how to control himself and his urges, so he nods.

You two get to your destination with no trouble, both knowing the castle and its hidden passage and shortcuts like the palm of your hands. Once as children when your favorite play was to imagine yourselves exploring new lands, then a little bit older to sneak food and overhear the adult's conversations, and later when, more mature, it was considered inappropriate for the two of you to spend time alone. Inside your quarters, Jace's nerves calm down, your familiar scent lingering in the air is a source of comfort to him.

It is quite dark, with the sky now merging into a navy blue. No servants have passed into your room to light the candles yet, so you grab one candlestick, lighting it with one of the torches that were already lit in the hall. Then, you lock the door and light some others, your chambers gradually becoming visible. 

Jace's already sitting on your bed, and you plop beside him with a wicked smile. No words are necessary as your lips find themselves locked again, hungrily and demanding, or when your hands trail each other's bodies through the soft clothing. 

None of you could tell how much time has passed, too lost in the tangle of your passion. You are vaguely aware half of your body is on top of him, one of his arms circling your waist. Each kiss tastes better than the other as you both slowly grasp the craft behind kissing, growing more confident with it by the second.

But it's getting desperate and frustrating, the kisses not being quite enough to satiate your need. There is a known fire inside you, one that comes at night when you are alone, but so much stronger now, so stronger it makes thinking hard. It is primal and urging, devastating even. You want to whine, to get rid of that knot, but you cannot. It is so improper, more so than kissing a man in your private quarters, and you do not wish to scare Jace by being so forward. Seven, you were certainly scaring yourself with such heat. You don't even know what exactly you want, you just know you want badly enough to give anything that is asked of you to get it.

You shift your leg in a useless attempt to get rid of the uncomfortable dampness between your legs, but you accidentally brush your knee against Jace's crotch, and it is hard. The prince tenses beneath you, separating your lips in surprise. You pray that he cannot see how bashful you are, and you decide to occupy yourself instead, hiding your face.

Trailing little kisses along Jace's cheek, jaw, and neck. Jacaerys has to bite back a moan as you do so, his chest rising and falling way too rapidly. This feels like the seven heavens and hells at the same time. He smells mostly of sweat from the training, only a hint of his spearmint soap, but underneath it all there was just his scent, one you would custom a scented candle of if possible. You stick your tongue out, dragging it across the skin of his neck in wet kisses. Salty, delicious.

"Do you feel the same as me right now?" You ask curiously, voice muffled. "Such yearn."

Jace chuckles, his mouth drying out at the implication. His hand caresses your hair before kissing your cheek. "I feel exactly what you feel." He whispers, his voice hoarse, it does not soothe your discomfort, but the opposite. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat. "It 's tempting."

"Very." He agrees. However, he is not certain either of you should act on it, thinking it would be better to get up and go to his quarters before it becomes too unbearable. The consequences of being caught would be dire. "We cannot."

"We should not, but we can."

"Alright, smart-mouthed." He rubs his fingers on your cheek lovingly as you look at him through your lashes. "Do you believe it would be worth it? Won't you regret it?" 

"Hardly." 

He gulps. He wants you so much, the aching in his pants proves it. But he cannot help the dread that creeps into him as well, furiously battling with his desire, and the prince has no clue who would win. He was not worried about himself, but rather with you. He was aware if you got caught and word spread around, it could ruin your life as a high-born lady. That was a terrifying risk, to imagine you suffering outlash and having your reputation strained forever. Jace didn't even let his mind wander to the paralyzing possibility of impregnating you, for various reasons. He's thinking so hard to make the decision that it almost hurts.

You notice the hesitancy, so you peck his lips calmly. "My handsome Jace, do not fret. We do not have to go any further." 

"But I want to," He confesses. "More than anything." 

You can hear your blood in your ears. "However…?" 

"I'm nervous, about getting caught and you facing the harsher consequences, of disappointing you and making you miserable," He rambles. "Of you regretting it and hating me for eternity. I meant it, when I said I could not bear losing you. You are as important to me as the air that I breathe." 

You smile fondly at him, your fingers tracing his eyebrow. "Do not choose for me. Just for you. I've made my decision. And I am unable to hate you. I'm certain I was made to love you," You chuckle. "Rest assured of that." 

Jace blushes so hard it's impossible to hide it, and your amused smile only makes his cheeks grow hotter. He kisses you slowly and appreciatively. He feels at ease. The fear diminishes as he keeps savoring your mouth, the desire winning his inner battle. All Jacaerys could think about was being with you, inside you. He groans and turns your body completely in one motion, which makes you yelp in surprise. His body now hovers over yours, fitting so nicely in the middle of your legs. Your hands trail his arms to his neck as your kisses get messier. 

"Tell me you really want this," He kisses your neck, making you shiver. "If you don't, I will stop."

"If you stop—" You pause to catch your breath, eyes shut as he keeps his mouth on your neck. "If you stop I will stab you." 

He laughs, a sound so deep and boyish you can feel yourself clenching around nothing.

"Come here." He sits on his knees, helping you to get seated as well, your back to him. 

Jace undoes the buttons of your dress clumsily and painfully slowly, and you suspect his hands are shaking. You easily get rid of it after he finally unclasps the last one, the material falling to the ground and leaving you in your thin shift. You do not know what came to you as you take it off completely, becoming fully naked in front of him. 

There is no hint of shyness in him anymore, his jaw is clenched, making it even more prominent than normal, and he looks close to consuming you raw. You enjoy it.

"Fuck," He rasps, eyes unmoving from your form. "You are stunning."

You giggle a little before getting on the bed again, both of you standing on your knees. Jace wastes no time grabbing you, the feel of your bare skin intoxicating. His warm hands move along your waist to your lower back and then to the swell of your breasts. He pecks you. "Can I?" 

You nod, your fine hairs stirred up due to his touches. He grips your breasts softly, as if afraid to hurt you. He massages them making you exhale loudly, and he smirks a little. He then pinches one of your nipples, circling it curiously. "Is this uncomfortable?" 

"Not at all." He hums in acknowledgment.

 "Should I continue?" 

"Mhum." 

His hold becomes firmer and you gasp. "Good?" 

"Yes." You confirm before your lips find him again fiercely. 

In the middle of heated kisses, you help Jace get out of his tunic, undershirt, and trouser, tossing them around your chamber. Your hands explore the defined muscles of his abdomen, training for hours on end favored his physic. You part so you can admire him, the pool of desire inside you only growing larger. He is lean but strong. When your eyes lock on his hard member, you stare at it more than you should, but he does not seem to mind. You wet your lips, amazed by it. It's pretty, you realize. You did not know it could be pretty, once you have heard a few ladies talking about how ugly it commonly was, though it still felt good. But there are no other words you would describe Jace's cock.

It just seems right with the rest of his appearance, long but not scarily so, in honesty, it looks like the perfect size, and it's thick. A large vein runs through the side, and you fight back the urge to lick it. The tip, and the base around it, are a brownish pink, and his dark pubic hair is well trimmed. You want to reach out and touch it, so you ask if you can. 

"Please," Jace says airily.

Your hand wraps around it, your thumb caressing the visible vein, your eyes sparkling as you look down at the sight. Jacaerys hums, the noise coming from the deep of his throat, hips jerking slightly into your hand pleasantly and his belly's twitch doesn't go unnoticed by your gaze filled with lust. "Pup…"

Fuck. The old nickname, once so pure, back when people claimed you trailed behind him like a lost pup, into this filthy situation it's just as rapture. You run your hand around his length, stroking him. Jace cannot contain his moans, and it's delightful, his voice raspy, pleading, broken. You could hear it as music. It's the best form of encouragement, your pace quickens and you circle the slit of his head, which makes him sound particularly whiney. You gather the clear fluid leaking out of his tip, running it through his shaft, your hand sliding easily as the room is filled with lewd noises. You cannot avert your eyes off it, the skin of his cock stretching in your palm hypnotizing you.

"Ah, I-I'm close," He sounds pitiful. "Won't last, pup. I can't." 

"Don't hold back, my love," You kiss his neck, right below his pulse, your stroking getting even faster. "I want to see you undone."

A strain and long moan come out of him right before a warm and sticky liquid hits your hand, some of it falling to your hip and upper thigh. Jace's face falls into the crook of your neck, body slack, and breathing hard. You tsk. "Messy boy."

He doesn't answer you, trying to catch his breath, a high pitch takes over his ears, and his head is spinning even with his eyes closed, unrecognizable forms and colors appearing behind his lids. He feels so intensely he is afraid he might not recover.

Jace looks up at you, face red and sweaty. "Sorry." He notices the mess.

You dismiss it, wrapping your hands around his neck, not minding cleaning yourself. "I like it." You assure. "Was I good?"

"Perfect," He whispers. "Absolute perfect." 

You kiss him, and Jace pushes you back to the mattress, laying on your back again. The feel of your naked bodies pressed together is terrific and you never want to let go of it.

"Tell me what you enjoy and what you do not," Jace says against your mouth. "And tell me to stop if it is too much, promise me?" 

You nod. "I promise."

"I will try something now." He warns and you suck in a breath in anticipation.

Although inexperienced, Jacaerys is not ignorant regarding the pleasure of the flesh. He has heard his fair share of crude stories from acquaintances, men being much less reserved than women, and making a point of being detailed. His stepfather himself has talked about it with him and his brother a couple of times, not to mention all the books in the hidden corner of the library. Jace is a perfectionist, and he did not wish to lack as a lover either, unbothered about his lady's pleasure and only seeking his own.

His middle finger grazes your sex and you gasp, not expecting it. "Is this alright?"

"Yes, just unusual." 

He gently parts your folds, running it up and down, you bite your lips, it's not unpleasant, far from it. "It feels so good and inviting." He starts circling your cunt, gathering more juice. His fingers move easily due to your wetness and you squirm, searching for more friction. Jace's eyes never leave your face, studying. 

When he circles somewhere around the higher point of your cunt, an extended moan leaves your mouth on its own accord. His eyes light up, and he does it again. "Good?"

You can barely find your voice. "Yes, good."

"This swollen little bud right here?" He keeps his pace on it, finger not faltering. 

"Y-yes, Jace." You mewl, eyes shutting.

"What's so special about it?" He asks. "What if I lower my finger?" He moves it further down. "What do you feel here?" 

You sigh, trying to contain the sounds coming from you. "It's very agreeable, but…" You don't complete the phrase, your mind goes blank with pleasure.

"Feels better here?" He goes back to the bud, pressing another finger to your womanhood as well. You can only nod in the middle of whimpers. "Can you tell why, pup?" 

"It's more sensitive." Your breath stutters.

"Aw," He coos. "It's sensitive?"

"Yes, Jace, please don't stop." You beg, nails digging into his shoulders, hips raising to meet his pace. This is so far the best thing you have ever felt in your life.

"I do not plan on it, but there's more, agreed?" 

You peck his lips. "I trust you."

He drags his finger to your hole, calmly entering you, your cunt clenching so tightly with the intrusion the brunette stops advancing, giving you time to get used to it. He almost moans at the thought of his finger replaced by his cock. "It's okay, pup, just breathe. You're tense. How does it feel?" 

You furrow your brows, it's not either pleasant or unpleasant. "It's a tiny bit uncomfortable."

 "Do I continue or stop?"

"Continue." You decide, and he keeps going until it reaches his knuckle. 

"Tell me when to move." 

You inhale and exhale, trying to loosen up as Jace advised you to, and it does not take long until you are lifting your hips again, the slight sting now completely gone and replaced by enjoyment. Jacaerys starts pumping his finger, and you moan, your whole body tingling with the new sensation. When he curls it, hitting a specific spot that makes your back arch involuntary and your hands grip the sheets, you are convinced you are floating. Jacaerys laughs amusedly as if you are the most diverting thing he'd ever seen in his life. He pulls it out, dragging it back to your bud, then pumping it inside again, and continuously so. A delicious torture that makes you whine uncontrollably. The wet sounds make Jace's cock pulsate.

"You want another one?" He asks.

You shrug, lost in your bliss. He inserts another finger, audibly groaning due to the tight fit, he does not have as much space anymore and your velvety walls wrap his fingers marvelously. He looks at you, looking for any sign of discomfort, but he finds none, your expression one of sheer delight. He pumps his fingers, your moans the most alluring thing he ever heard. You spread your legs further, giving him a better angle. 

"Faster, please." You pant, your hand covering your mouth as you try to muffle your cries. 

He obeys, his fingers unrelenting. "Which one do you prefer?" Jace questions. "Here," He presses his fingers firmly into your bud. "Or here?" He slid them inside you again.

"B-both."

"Yes? What about this?" He brings the thumb of his other hand to your bud while his two fingers keep pumping inside you, stimulating you exorbitantly. "Does it feel great?"

An answer doesn't leave your lips, there is no need to. Your gasp mixed with a tremble and somehow a scream does it for you.

"Oh, mhum, that's it," His pace increases. "My good beautiful girl."  

You try to respond to him but you are just babbling and squirming, the corner of your eyes wet from tears. You press your lips together to get quieter, but the whimpers are far beyond your control. 

"So wet," Jace muses. "You are soaking my hand, you know that?"

"Sorry." 

He kisses you. "Never apologize for it." 

Your moans get louder once again, and one of Jace's hands leaves your cunt to cover your mouth. You bite into it. "Shh, I need you to be a little quieter, pup." 

You fear you cannot, you feel weightless, nothing crossing your mind but the feel of his fingers inside you and the chase for release. The palm of his hand brushing against your bud makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, and all of sudden the building pleasure crashes down, astoundingly powerful. You feel a shiver running from head to toe as your body spasms, your face twisted in satisfaction, and your heart racing. You whine as you keep grinding on his hand. Your breathing slows down, and your eyes struggle to remain fully open.

"Are you well?" You can hear the teasing in Jace's tone as he props each of his arms on one side of your head. 

You fight off your drowsiness. "I have never been better." 

He chuckles. "Want to come to an end?" 

You rub his cheeks, shaking your head. "I want all of it. What about you?" 

"Me too." He breathes in. "Are you ready?"

You nod and you kiss once again before he lines himself up to your entrance. "If you want to cease it, do not be afraid to tell me, I won't be mad. It's important to me that you are enjoying it too, yes?" 

"I swear I will." You reassure him.

He enters you slowly, and you pinch your eyebrows as you grimace. Jace is quick to intertwine your hands together, squeezing them to offer you some comfort. Unlike his fingers, his cock does hurt, the burning almost maddening, as if he is ripping you apart. You close your eyes and sigh deeply. The prince groans in elation, being inside you is better than his mind could ever have imagined. 

"Ah, fuck," Jace mutters, coming to a halt when his cock is halfway through. Your cunt swallows him almost cruelly and sweat covers his forehead, some damp locks of his hair sticking to it. His cheek grows reddish by the second. Jace looks pained but for a very different reason than you. "You are too tight, pup, it's agonizing." 

His face falls into your neck, his hands almost crushing yours as he tries to control himself, the fluttering of your cunt around his member might as well drive him insane. His breath tickles you and you caress his hand as he trails little kisses along your collarbone. 

His quietness is certainly a sign of how hard he is trying to keep his eagerness at bay, but he does not need to speak anymore. When Jace looks up at you, his brown eyes full of intimacy and admiration, you know he would wait as much as necessary, or just halt completely if you said the word.

"Keep going." You say.

He does, and his moan in the shell of your ear, as he enters you completely, thrills you, distracting you from a particularly sharp pain that steals your breath for a second. Jace doesn't move anymore, and you kiss his shoulder. "Just wait a little bit." You whisper, closing your eyes as you adjust to it.

"Take all the time you need, beautiful." 

Despite the discomfort, you enjoy the fullness in the middle of your legs, as if not an inch of you is empty. And of being as close as humanly possible to him, the skin against skin feels glorious and promising. You squeeze his hand and Jace kisses you, consumingly and magnificent, for you don't know how long. You come back to your senses when his thumb circles your bud, making you immediately whimper and perk up. Your walls seem to loosen up a bit and you start to writhe curiously, wetting your lips as you do so.

"Should I move?" Jacaerys asks.

"Yes, please."

His first thrusts are sedulous, and your soreness hasn't gone away completely, but it becomes vague. You can barely distinguish pain and pleasure now, the sensations blending. Sincerely, you did not care. 

You feel great and impatient, the stretch of his girth is marvelous. Jace starts picking up his pace, and you mewl, nails scratching his back. It's unlike anything you have ever felt, ravenous, delightful, exhilarating. Jace grunts, your spongy warmth welcoming him in the best way possible. He fucks you harder, quite desperately. It feels so good, and so right, as if you were made precisely for each other, the fit simply impeccable.

Bodies glisten with sweat, the room filled with lewd noises, and his balls smack against your ass repeatedly. It only arouses you more. Both your moans mingle together in unison, creating a filthy melody. Jace pants, his movements getting more ruthless as he gets lost in the moment. He knows he's close, his lower stomach tightening dangerously.

"Pup, I'm going–" He doesn't finish, being interrupted by his broken whines as you tense around him. "I need to pull out."

Perhaps it's an instinct or the memories of your bothersome nights where you would grind on your pillow until you were satisfied, but when Jace pulls his milked cock out, jerking it off, you motion for him to stop. 

You grab his manhood instead, and settle it in the middle of your folds, sliding up and down on his shaft, legs spread and raised. Jace's eyes are wild and lecherous, mesmerized by you. He curses, his moans wavering at the sight of you using his cock so deliciously. 

You are far too gone, the feeling so fabulous it makes you dumb. When his head presses to your bud it's the seven heavens itself. Jace's voice thickens as he reaches his peak, his seed smearing all over your stomach in hot loads. You giggle at the mess, helping him ride out of it, your hands wrapped around his length as you continue to slide on it.

Your movements, although resolute, get sloppier as you grow needier. You gather some of Jace's spent on your belly and bring it down to your cunt as you press your fingers to your bud firmly, mixing your juices and whimpering at it. Jacaerys could've come for a second time just looking at you. He pushes his cock back into you, stirring you up even more. You are drenched, supple, and throbbing. 

It's numbing, the first few seconds of your release. You would believe you have died in these brief moments of sheer excitement, feeling as light as a feather. Your body shudders on the mattress, but your mind is somewhere else, in a state of overwhelming bliss.

Jace's body falls to your side, finding it difficult to breathe. He didn't know a better sensation and he is afraid he could no longer live without it anymore. Jace smiles widely, eyes full of wonder and contentment. 

The world slowly comes back into focus again, noticing the details that were completely forgotten by both of you not long ago. The air is thick and smells indecent. You shift, laying your head on Jace's chest, his heart is hammering, and there's a dull ache in the middle of your legs.

Jace caresses your hair, kissing the crown of your head. "How was it?"

"Fantastic," You answer. "And for you?"

He chuckles, "Mind-blowing." 

You laugh, fingers caressing his abdomen as you look up at him. "Would you like to do it again?" 

Jacaerys raises his eyebrow, a smirk appearing on his gorgeous face. "Aren't you tired, pup?" 

"You invigorate me." 

Jace chuckles before kissing you ardently, the prospect of having you again sending jolts of enthusiasm through his body.  

"Yes, I absolutely would like to do it again."

[popponn]

the ins and outs. [itoshi rin x reader]

notes: for some reason, i really have a hard time with writting rin. but in the end, he feels like a sincere person. so i think it's hard for me not to get soft on him. i want to write more of him. think of this as an attempt to imagine how he will love. headcanon-ish, character study-ish. gn!reader.

Rin loves in a very complicated way.

He loves deeply, yet there is always a trace of childishness in it. He loves silently, yet sometimes his actions speak so loudly it might be noted as ‘too much’ by some people. He loves in a way that is hard to understand by many, perhaps even by himself.

Rin’s heart is a rough, rigid thing that is very hard to slip into. But the moment you get inside it, your name and everything will be etched into it forever. And perhaps it’s because of that too, Rin is not exactly the most knowledgeable whenever it comes to feelings, emotions, and such as. There are very few things and even fewer people that he let into his life, so it becomes unsurprising to see him struggles to process something as soft and unpredictable like love.

There is a chapter in his life where Rin was filled with anger that resembles obsession. In a way, that part of him would always have remains. When that chapter came to a close and his life moves on to a chapter that is filled with a gentler kind of emotion, where a simple smile from you makes Rin wishes he is kinder—he reacts to it with a grace of a fish on a dessert.

It’s hard to miss it when he is interested in you—Rin’s insults and harsh comments lacking the bite they usually carry whenever it’s you, Rin bothering to listen to you without interrupting, Rin almost actively seeking out your company—whether by purpose or not, he is good and clear when it comes to giving the signal. His team is not exactly helping with their teasing and indiscreet attempted advices either. It’s so obvious it almost feels like seeing a middle school boy having his first crush.

But, it definitely starts really awkward. Rin genuinely tries to be kinder to you, yet the fact that he is a seasoned egoist that is very hard to approach and to socialize with still stand. For one, he gets jealous a bit too easily sometimes, all while having a hard time communicating with you. Combined with his tendency to spit out words that are both scathing and hurting, the first few steps with him is, without a doubt, really hard.

Nevertheless, once those first steps are done, it get much easier. Rin is a quick learner when he wants to be, especially when it comes to something or someone he has his focus honed into. Perhaps even faster than how you learn his, Rin will learn the rhythm to keep going with you. While it will take extra efforts to talk and get through him, the moment he gets it, it took him almost a terrifyingly short amount of time to know the dos and don’ts. Though, acting on them might take a little bit of time. Practice makes perfect after all.

And on communication, there might even be signs, which many people could easily miss, that act almost like a secret language between you and him. Rin glancing at you repeatedly during a conversation? He is getting uncomfortable. Rin staring at you silently somewhere private? He wants to be spoiled. Rin not responding whenever you get touchy with him? That’s his green light, go hug or hold him however you want, he is all yours. ‘Words’ are not exactly Rin’s expertise—and it might take him a pretty long time to learn—but, eventually, this is a man who is ready to give many, many things including his best for you.

Starting out with Rin is hard, but when he decides he is for you—he will do everything in his power to make sure it will be the best choice for both of you.

[tulitulii]

Word count: 3.5k

(I wrote this as soon as I got done with chapter one, ughhh this is so fun to do. I love writing ab my man!)

Sharing Tension

………………………………………………………………………………

Chapter 2.

For a moment, silence hung in the flower shop, thick with the weight of unspoken emotions. Nanami lingered near the counter, his hand still brushing the petals of the tulip, while you stood a few steps away, clutching the edge of the table as if it could steady you.

“Couldn’t stay away?” you repeated softly, your heart fluttering at his words.

He exhaled, his lips twitching as though he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. “It’s peaceful here,” he said finally, avoiding your gaze. “The kind of quiet I don’t get in my day-to-day.”

Your chest tightened, both at his admission and at how carefully he seemed to choose his words. You could tell he wasn’t used to opening up like this, and it made his presence feel even more significant.

“Well,” you said after a beat, forcing a smile, “you’re always welcome here, Nanami. You know that.”

He looked at you then, his gaze steady and warm, and something unspoken passed between you. “Thank you,” he said simply.

That night set a pattern neither of you had planned.

The next day, around lunchtime, Nanami texted you—a short, practical message that felt so distinctly him it made you smile.

Nanami: Are you free for lunch?

You: Depends.. Is this a formal invitation? ;)

Nanami: I suppose it is.

By the time you’d locked up the shop and walked down to the small café near your street, he was already waiting at a table, sipping a coffee and looking out the window. His posture was relaxed but alert, his tie slightly loosened in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

The first “lunch date” was… normal, almost painfully so. You talked about work, shared small anecdotes, and laughed lightly at each other’s stories. But there was an ease between you that hadn’t been there before, a subtle shift in the way his eyes softened when he looked at you or the way your shoulders relaxed when he spoke.

From then on, lunch became a regular thing.

Over the next few weeks, your conversations grew deeper, your interactions more personal. Nanami, ever the composed and reserved man, began to open up in ways that surprised even him.

One afternoon, as you picked at your salad and he carefully ate his sandwich, you leaned forward with a curious smile. “So, Nanami, tell me something surprising about you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Surprising?”

“Yes,” you said, grinning. “Something I wouldn’t expect.”

He thought for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I bake.”

You blinked. “You bake?”

“Yes,” he said, deadpan. “Bread, mostly. It’s a precise process, which I appreciate. But I’ve also tried pastries.”

“Nanami Kento, the bread maker,” you teased, laughing softly. “Now that is surprising.”

His lips quirked in what might’ve been the faintest smile. “Your turn,” he said, setting down his coffee.

“Me?”

“Yes. Tell me something surprising about you.”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm… Oh! I’ve always wanted to learn how to scuba dive. But I’m terrified of open water, so that’s probably not going to happen.”

His brow furrowed slightly, and you swore there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “That’s… an interesting contradiction.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, laughing again.

Moments like this became more frequent. Slowly, you found yourselves sharing pieces of your lives, your pasts, and your dreams. He told you about his years in salaryman purgatory, about the decision to leave and pursue a career that actually meant something. You told him about how you’d stumbled into the flower shop business and fallen in love with it, despite the long hours and unpredictable customers.

Despite the growing closeness, there was something neither of you dared to address.

The way his hand would linger just a moment too long when he handed you a coffee. The way your laughter seemed to draw his gaze, as if he couldn’t help but watch you. The way you found yourself checking your reflection in the mirror before meeting him for lunch, or how he would smooth his tie and clear his throat nervously when you arrived.

Neither of you acknowledged it, though. Instead, you continued your routine—coffee, sandwiches, laughter, and conversation that stretched far longer than either of you planned.

One afternoon, as you sat together on a park bench near the café, the topic of relationships came up—entirely by accident.

“So,” you asked, trying to sound casual, “have you ever… been in love?”

Nanami’s expression shifted, his gaze distant for a moment before he answered. “I thought I was,” he said quietly. “But looking back, I don’t think it was real. It was… convenient.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone. “That must’ve been hard.”

“It was,” he admitted. “But I’ve come to terms with it.”

“What about now?” you asked softly. “Do you think you’ll ever… you know, try again?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours for a brief moment before looking away. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe. If the right person came along.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you quickly masked your reaction with a smile. “Well, whoever they are, they’d be lucky to have you.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, the air between you shifted again. But before either of you could say anything, his phone buzzed, breaking the moment.

As the weeks went on, you settled into a rhythm that felt both familiar and new. You spent your lunches together, your evenings sometimes punctuated by a text from him asking how your day had gone.

One evening, he surprised you by stopping by the shop again, this time with a small bag of fresh pastries.

“For you,” he said, setting them on the counter.

You raised an eyebrow, peeking inside. “Nanami… did you bake these?”

He cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed. “I thought you might like them.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thank you. That’s… really sweet.”

Moments like these made it harder to ignore the feelings growing between you. But you both seemed content to exist in this undefined space—a friendship that felt like more but wasn’t.

It was a nice balance, one neither of you seemed ready to tip.

But as the days turned into weeks, one thing became clear: whatever this was, it was something neither of you wanted to let go of.

Lunches and occasional late-evening visits to the flower shop had become a comfortable part of your routine, a rhythm neither of you acknowledged out loud but both had grown to expect. For you, these moments with Nanami were a brief escape from the chaos of the shop and the dullness of your evenings alone. For him, they were… something else. Something he didn’t want to name just yet.

But despite the growing familiarity between you, there was a tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

Another Unexpected Visit..

It was late one Friday evening, and you were just finishing up with a particularly busy day. The shop had been bustling with last-minute orders for anniversary bouquets and early spring weddings, and now the quiet hum of the place felt like a reward for your hard work.

You were arranging a leftover bundle of roses and peonies when the bell above the door chimed.

“Sorry, we’re clo—” You stopped mid-sentence when you saw Nanami standing there, his usual beige trench coat folded neatly over his arm, his tie slightly loosened as though he’d just finished a long day.

He gave you a faint smile, one that seemed almost shy. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said again, and this time, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You really need to find a better excuse,” you teased, wiping your hands on your apron.

He shrugged, stepping further inside. “I thought you might still be here.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” you said, gesturing toward the half-finished arrangement on the counter. “It’s been a busy day.”

“Valentine’s season spillover?” he guessed, his eyes briefly scanning the room.

“Something like that.” You leaned against the counter, watching as he moved closer. “What about you? Long day at work?”

“As always,” he said, his tone wry.

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, the quiet of the shop wrapping around you both. There was something about having him there, in the soft light of the shop, that felt… safe.

“Can I help?” he asked suddenly, nodding toward the flowers.

You blinked. “Help? You?”

“I’ve been told I have a steady hand,” he said, his lips quirking in what might’ve been the faintest hint of a smile.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’m not sure the world is ready for Nanami Kento, the florist.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. But he didn’t leave, instead taking a seat on one of the stools near the counter.

“Stay, then,” you said, your tone light. “Keep me company while I finish up.”

As you worked, the conversation flowed easily, as it always did with him. He asked about your day, your customers, and the wedding bouquets you were preparing for next week. You asked about his work, careful to keep the questions light, knowing how heavy his days could be.

At one point, as you were trimming the stems of the roses, he leaned forward slightly. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“The shop. Flowers. All of this.”

You paused, considering his question. “Not really,” you said after a moment. “It’s exhausting sometimes, sure, but it’s also… comforting. Flowers make people happy. Even on their worst days, they can look at a bouquet and feel a little better. That’s worth the effort.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “That’s a good way to look at it.”

“What about you?” you asked, setting down the scissors. “Do you ever get tired of your work?”

He hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly on the counter. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s necessary.”

“That doesn’t mean it has to be your whole life,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

He didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes said more than words could.

After that night, things began to change.

Nanami started showing up more often—not just for lunches or late-night visits, but during the quiet moments of your day. He’d stop by with coffee or pastries, sometimes lingering for a few minutes, other times staying longer, helping you restock shelves or rearrange displays.

“Do you ever take a day off?” you teased one afternoon as he set down two cups of coffee on the counter.

“Do you?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“Fair point,” you said with a laugh, taking a sip of your drink.

Your conversations grew more personal, your moments together more intimate in their simplicity. He told you about his childhood, his years as a salaryman, and the quiet mornings he spent reading before the rest of the world woke up. You told him about your family, your dreams of traveling someday, and the nights you spent sketching floral arrangements in your notebook.

Despite the growing closeness, you both maintained the unspoken boundary of friendship. Neither of you wanted to risk shattering the fragile balance you’d built, and yet…

There were moments when the line blurred.

Like the time he showed up unannounced with dinner, insisting you needed to eat something more substantial than the crackers you’d been munching on all day. Or the time you caught him lingering a little too long near the tulips, his expression soft in a way that made your heart ache.

And then there was the time he accidentally brushed your hand while reaching for a vase, his fingers lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, pulling his hand back.

“It’s fine,” you said, your voice a little too breathless.

Moments like that left you wondering if he felt it too—the subtle pull, the quiet yearning that seemed to fill the space between you.

One evening, as you were closing up the shop, you found Nanami waiting outside, his hands in his pockets and a faintly nervous expression on his face.

“Everything okay?” you asked, unlocking the door to let him in.

“Yes,” he said, though his tone was unusually hesitant. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead glancing around the shop as though searching for the right words. “I’ve been thinking,” he said finally, his voice low. “About this. About us.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Us?”

He met your gaze, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in his usually steady eyes. “I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “But it’s… important to me.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening at his words. “It’s important to me too,” you said softly.

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he said finally. “Whatever it is.”

“You won’t,” you said, stepping closer. “But you have to stop overthinking it, Kento. Sometimes, it’s okay to just… feel.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze searching, and then he nodded slowly. “I’ll try,” he said.

It wasn’t a declaration or a promise, but it was enough for now.

In the days that followed, your moments together took on a new kind of warmth. You still weren’t sure what you were to each other—friends, something more, something less—but for now, it didn’t matter.

You shared lunches, laughter, and quiet evenings in the shop. And though neither of you said it out loud, the feelings lingering beneath the surface grew stronger with each passing day.

For now, it was enough to simply be together, to exist in this space you’d carved out for yourselves. And maybe, just maybe, that was the start of something neither of you could ignore much longer.

The moon shines in the sky and the wind blows, the sound soothing and calm.

It was a quiet evening. After a long day at the shop, you’d slipped into a pair of comfortable lounge pants and a worn sweater, intending to wind down with a book and a glass of wine. The soft hum of the city outside your apartment was a familiar backdrop, and the solitude felt soothing.

Then came the knock on your door.

You frowned, glancing at the clock. It was nearly 10 PM. You weren’t expecting anyone, and late-night visitors weren’t exactly common. Setting your book aside, you padded toward the door, brushing stray strands of hair out of your face.

When you opened it, your breath caught slightly.

“Kento,” you said, surprised. He stood there in his usual button-up, though his tie was undone, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. In one hand, he carried a plastic bag with the unmistakable aroma of Chinese takeout.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes gave away something deeper. “Thought you might not have eaten yet.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “And you just happened to have takeout with you?”

He shrugged, a faint smile of his own appearing. “I had extra.”

You stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. “Well, it’s hard to say no to free food.”

The two of you settled on the floor around your coffee table, the cartons of fried rice, dumplings, and noodles spread between you like a late-night feast.

“You eat like this often?” you teased, watching as he neatly unpacked chopsticks and napkins.

“Not as often as I should,” he replied. “Work keeps me busy.”

“Doesn’t it always?” you said with a knowing smile.

“And you?” he asked, looking up from his carton of noodles. “Still running yourself ragged at the shop?”

“Only on the days that end in ‘Y,’” you quipped.

His lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile. “Touché.”

The conversation flowed as easily as it always did with him, touching on everything from work to the absurd antics of some of your customers. The food was delicious, but the real highlight of the evening was the company.

At some point, you’d turned on a movie, a romantic comedy you’d seen a dozen times before. It was mostly background noise, a filler for the occasional lulls in conversation.

Nanami glanced at the screen, his expression mildly amused. “This is what you watch in your downtime?”

“Don’t judge,” you said, grinning. “Sometimes I need something lighthearted.”

“No plot twists, no heartbreak,” he said thoughtfully, as if trying to understand.

“Exactly,” you said. “It’s safe.”

“Safe,” he echoed, and there was something in his tone—a faint trace of doubt, maybe even longing—that made you pause.

You looked at him, studying his profile in the dim light. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who played it safe either,” you said lightly.

He gave you a sidelong glance, his lips curving faintly. “And yet, here I am, eating takeout and watching a romantic comedy.”

“Branching out,” you teased, laughing softly.

“Or just keeping you company,” he countered, his tone even.

Your laughter faded, the weight of his words settling between you.

The Wine Brings It Out…

As the movie played on, you poured two glasses of red wine, handing one to Nanami as you returned to the couch. The rich aroma mixed with the lingering scent of soy sauce and spices, creating a strangely intimate atmosphere.

“So,” you said, settling back with your glass, “if you weren’t working long hours and saving people, what would you do with your life?”

He considered your question, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his glass. “Travel, maybe. See places I’ve never had time to.”

“Where would you go first?”

“Somewhere quiet,” he said. “Maybe a small town in Europe. No deadlines, no responsibilities.”

“Sounds nice,” you murmured, your mind painting the image of him walking through cobblestone streets or sipping coffee at a quaint café.

“And you?” he asked, his gaze steady. “What would you do if you weren’t running the shop?”

You laughed softly. “Travel too, probably. But I think I’d want to go somewhere lively—festivals, markets, that sort of thing.”

“You like chaos,” he observed, his tone teasing.

“Maybe a little,” you admitted. “But it’s the good kind of chaos, you know? Full of life and color.”

“Opposite of me, then,” he said, his lips quirking.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “I wouldn’t say that.”

The Air Shifts..

As the wine disappeared and the movie played on, the conversation grew softer, the pauses between your words growing heavier.

“You’re different than I expected,” you said suddenly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He raised an eyebrow, his glass halfway to his lips. “How so?”

“I don’t know,” you said, your cheeks warming slightly. “You’re so serious at first glance, but then… you’re not. Not entirely.”

He chuckled softly, a low sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “I could say the same about you.”

“Oh?” you asked, leaning slightly toward him.

“You come across as carefree,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “But there’s a lot more to you than that.”

The way he said it made your heart skip a beat, the intensity of his gaze leaving you momentarily breathless.

You were close now, closer than you realized, and the air between you seemed to hum with something unspoken.

It happened almost without thought.

Nanami leaned in slightly, his eyes flickering to your lips for the briefest of moments before meeting your gaze again. You felt your breath hitch, your heart pounding in your chest as his face drew closer.

You didn’t move away.

The faint brush of his lips against yours was like an electric current, a fleeting, tentative touch that left you both frozen in place.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the movie, the wine, the takeout—all of it fading into the background.

But then he pulled back, his jaw tight and his expression conflicted.

“We shouldn’t,” he said quietly, his voice strained.

You nodded, though your heart ached at the loss of his warmth. “You’re right.”

The tension in the room was almost unbearable as he stood, smoothing the front of his shirt.

“I should go,” he said, not meeting your eyes.

“Okay,” you said softly, watching as he walked to the door.

He paused for a moment, his hand on the handle. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kento,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The Next Morning was torture.

The awkwardness was immediate and undeniable.

When Nanami texted you the next morning—a simple “Good morning” accompanied by a photo of his coffee—you felt a strange mix of relief and discomfort.

“Morning,” you replied, hesitating before adding, “Thanks for last night.”

His response was short but polite. “Anytime.”

You couldn’t tell if the tension from the night before lingered in his words or if you were imagining it. Either way, it left you feeling restless, the memory of his almost-kiss playing on a loop in your mind.

At the shop, you found yourself glancing at the door more often than usual, half-hoping and half-dreading that he might walk through it.

When he finally did, the air between you felt charged, the unspoken feelings and unresolved tension hanging over you like a storm cloud.

But despite the awkwardness, the connection between you remained, fragile but unbroken.

For now, that was enough.

[bigtreefest]

I dare you to write a piece using a character that you want to, but have never had a chance to write for before. With the sentence "Well that was a surprise."

Saint or Sinner?

College! Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Word Count: 1,331

A/N: Amber!!! Thank you for tickling my brain with this dare! I honestly wanted to do Andy so badly, but this quote was screaming Lloyd to me and I couldn’t resist. To be completely honest, I had no intention of writing him, but my fingers tip-tapped away and I lost all control. I might’ve been possessed.

I also always plan on writing a Drabble, and then it ends up being as long as one of my fic chapters, but anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Smut (oral, m receiving), use of pet names, sociopathic tendencies, mean Lloyd, a twist?

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Ever since you were old enough date, you’ve been happily independent. You grew up in a small town, surrounded by blue collar families, including most of the members of your own.

You’d always had a keen ability to fit in anywhere, which you attribute to your upbringing. Your mom worked a corporate job, while your dad spent all day in a mechanic shop.

You were well off, but not raised like it, and you’d never judge those who had less than you, even though that’s what a lot of people expected.

Once you graduated high school, you got into Harvard where you met Lloyd. Lloyd was someone who was good at keeping his distance. You noticed it at first when you invited him to join a study group you had started with some other members of your cohort.

You received a terse “No thanks, Pumpkin,” punctuated with a curt nod and a wink, before he went to hang out with his other friends and his team.

You had made multiple attempts to include him in group activities, or engage in conversation when you could nab a seat next to him in class, but after some time, you stopped seeing him altogether. You could tell he was avoiding you and the study group you had become closer with. You’d probably actually call them your friends, becoming just as close as you were to some people back home. They picked up on the same things too, seeing that you were humble, and carried yourself in such a proper manner, earning you the nickname “the Saint.”

When word of that got around to Lloyd, he rolled his eyes. You were the complete opposite of him. Kind, welcoming, calculated, while he was cold, unpredictable, sociopathic. He couldn’t stand how successful you were, too. Professors and students alike constantly praised you, more than willing to help you in any way through your academic journey and career beyond. Where he schmoozed, you gracefully existed and got just as far.

You were perfect in everyone’s eyes, including his own, which is what infuriated him. There had to be a weak spot, somewhere where your surface would crack, and he had initially tried to find it by turning you down all those times, but it was unsuccessful.

None of the manipulation tactics he had worked so hard on perfecting for so long made you budge, either. He’d pluck out a random friend from your group to join his. Nothing. He’d sabotage your flash drive for your presentation, you’d have a backup in your email, ready to go. After you’d gone, you wished him luck and no technical difficulties like you had, with a giggle! He was enraged.

After being at the top of your class, the two of you were selected to go to a conference in DC. It was hardly supervised by your professor who had booked two rooms for you next to each other, getting himself a suite a few floors above.

You knocked on Lloyd’s door in the late afternoon, the day before your presentation. He opened it just enough to peek his head through.

“What do you want?”

You sighed with your signature smile on your face. “Did you want to go over everything one more time before dinner?”

He looked you up and down, face as stern as it ever was when he was dealing with you. “Not really, Sunshine.” He slammed the door in your face.

What Lloyd didn’t know was that all his little tactics were really chipping away at you. All you wanted was to spend time with him, to get close. You couldn’t help it. You’d be lying if you said it was in your usual friendship way, too.

No, you wanted more. There was something about how aloof he was that drew you in. You were obsessed and not willing to give up until you got what you wanted, what you deserved.

His little tendencies weren’t upsetting because he was rude, they were upsetting because they were keeping you away from what your body and the deep, dark recesses of your mind were screaming for.

The door slamming in your face was the last straw. Lloyd wouldn’t get away with this any longer. You could see what he was trying to do, and if you had any say, you’d make sure it failed. You were going to be the winner of the little mind game he was playing.

To be honest, by this point, Lloyd had given up, thinking you’d never break. You were just too sweet, a true Saint. Treating you like this had just become habit, which is why he was almost confused when he heard muttering on the other side of his door.

You had taken the magnetic clip out of your hair and maneuvered it against the hotel key card reader until it unlocked. The door flew open and your eyes landed on Lloyd, stomping towards him and pinning him with his back against the nearest wall.

He looked down at you, face unreadable beside his eyes being slightly wider than usual.

“Why are you being like this!? What did I do!?” You gritted out, your tone threatening.

Lloyd didn’t say anything, only the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Tell. Me.” You slammed your hands against the wall, arms framing his head as you looked up into his eyes, your stomach pressed against his cock that was growing rock hard.

“Am I going to have to pull it out of you? Suck it out of you, myself?” Lloyd found himself at a loss for words for once. All he could do was part his lips slightly and give a small nod like he always did.

You began to unbuckle the belt of his ridiculously expensive pants, shoving them down just enough that you could see the hard-on pressing against his boxer briefs.

“Huh? Is that what you want? That what you need, Pumpkin?” You spat back at him, mocking his previous words.

His brain was finally beginning to catch up with the situation as he nodded down to you and you got on your knees.

“Yeah, do it. I know you want to. Suck me off.”

You didn’t need much more prompting, fueled by rage and control. You pulled down his underwear, his dick springing free.

You gave him no time to prepare, immediately licking from the base of his length to the tip before fully taking him into your mouth. Your mouth was stretching to accommodate his girth, but it was nothing for you in the lust of the moment. You set a vigorous pace, Lloyd’s head thrown back against the wall as he moaned loudly.

He pulled his head forward as his abs tensed, already close with the debauchery of the situation. He tangled his ringed fingers in your hair, helping to guide you along his length.

“That’s it. Keep going. Not such a Saint, are you?”

You hummed against his length in response, saliva dripping down your chin and his balls that you were lightly tugging in you hand. The other hand had its nails dug into his thigh, causing a slight sting that heightened the pleasure for Lloyd.

Before he knew it, he was coming down your throat. You pulled away as you swallowed his salty release, looking up at him and wiping off your face before standing up.

You caught his gaze again and Lloyd looked at you with bewilderment mixed with his post-orgasmic haze.

“Well that was a surprise.” He said between heavy breaths, pulling up his underwear and pants, buckling his belt again. Oh, he had no idea the tactics you had in store for him.

Your hands pressed against his abs in his knitted shirt. One stayed there as the other traced up his firm pec, past his collar and found purchase around his neck, lightly squeezing.

“So are you finally going to tell me what’s going on in the head behind that ridiculous mustache?”

Bonus A/N: Um… I don’t really know what happened. I think I blacked out.

[nagito-kissmaeda]

if it isn't real, why does the sun still burn?

Chapter masterlist

Summary : Like most people visiting this tag. You have always dreamed of meeting Nagito Komaeda for real, what you would do, what you would say? Things don’t go as planned.

AKA: Reader from our universe ends up in danganronpa and is just trying her best to keep everyone alive. and maybe to make komaeda kiss her.

Contains: she/her pronouns, explicit sexual content, voyeurism

Read on Ao3

“Basically, we have an update.” Naegi says through Monomi’s face. 

You had only just gotten home from the beach when the rabbit teleported herself into your room and Naegi started speaking to you in serious tones without even so much as a hello. You hadn't even had a chance to properly dry off, but things had turned so serious so quickly that you could hardly spare a thought for your slowly dampening carpet. 

You push some of your salty hair out of your eyes, trying to ignore your racing nerves, “What kind of update are we talking?”

The almost immediate jump between your gentle flirtations with Komaeda to this incredibly serious conversation with the survivors of the previous killing game has you more than a little discombobulated. In all honesty, you had been planning to get home and jerk off about the Komaeda situation, so that only adds to the concoction of very confusing emotions that you are currently saddled with.

In a move that does not help your already electrified nerves. Togami decides to take the wheel for the first time ever , and hearing his voice come out of that rabbit makes you want to combust, “We are currently unable to get the second island open.” He begins, “It appears that upon ascertaining your goals, Enoshima has rerouted a substantial amount of her power to ensure that the island stays closed for good.”

That feels good. For all her posturing, you are getting to Enoshima. She is scared of you, at least a little.

“Luckily, this rerouting means less effort is being put towards keeping the other islands sealed. We should be able to open one of them.” A beat, “Based on the work you have been doing, we’ve all agreed that you should be the one to choose which one, if any.��

“Jesus, um, this isn't really an easy choice.” You say. Worrying your lower lip and beginning to pace back and forth. This is both good and bad news, in a weird way. Monokuma is absolutely going to take advantage of whichever island you open, but progress is still progress, no matter how you look at it. 

You stop mid pace, suddenly remembering the quandary you had been puzzling over this morning, about how to handle despair disease should it actually be released. With a nervous smile, you turn to face Monomi where she still stands in your room, arms crossed over her chest in a Togami-like fashion. 

“Before I make a decision…” You begin, “If, theoretically, Enoshima was planning to release a terrible, deadly and highly contagious disease with unpredictable symptoms and horrific implications for survival on this little slice of paradise.” You laugh, for some reason, “Could you do anything about it?”

Togami only says, “What.”

“That’s the next motive.” You clarify, “Monokuma calls it despair disease, and unfortunately it’s not really something I can handle from my end.”

Togami thinks it over for a moment, and then Monomi shakes her head, “We can’t easily prevent something like that with nothing to go off. Unless you can tell me what that disease looks like as code, which I’m assuming you can’t, then we are shit out of luck as always.” You don’t appreciate Togami’s tone. There is little to appreciate about Togami when his legs are out of view, “Okay, then…could you reverse engineer it? Once the code activates, find a way to… un- activate it?”

Togami scoffs, “You have such a way with words.”

“Yeah, well.” You cross your arms, “I like Imposter Togami-san better.” Monomi raises a tiny fist in your direction, and her eyes look as angry as the plush can manage, “You take that back! You-” “Byakuya.'' Kirigiri chides from somewhere in the background and Monomi returns to her default pose. Togami clears his throat, “Theoretically, yes. If the code is active, we could then order Alter Ego to counter it with some code of their own rendering Enoshima’s manipulation obsolete. Though, as with anything in an OS as complex as the NWPs, it would take some time.”

You sit on the couch, not even thinking about how the salt water might ruin the fabric, “I could stall for time, that’s the only thing I’m good at really.” you chew on your lower lip for a moment, “Could you make certain people immune to the disease, maybe?” Monomi shakes her head, and Togami says, “That would be more fine tuning than ending the code at the root, a waste of time.”

“Okay.” You say, more to yourself than to Togami, “In that case, I think we should open the third island. There’s a hospital there, and I’m certain that with a bit of foresight I can encourage Tsumiki-san to be more preemptively vigilant. Luckily I have foresight in spades, it’s kinda the only thing I have going for me.” 

“It will take us a few hours to get the island open, we can try and have it done by breakfast tomorrow morning. Usami will let you and the others know when it’s done.” 

You nod and then let your head hang loose. You’re tired, and there is going to be so much work for you to do tomorrow. It feels strange to thank the coronavirus for anything, but it is the reason you know anything at all about preventing the spread of infection. That, and a recent obsession with everyone’s favourite plague simulator: Pathologic. Regardless, you presume that the first three infected will always get the disease no matter what, even with all the protection in the world, so there is little you can do on that front. You can, however, make sure Tsumiki doesn’t catch it, and that will be the most important thing. 

“Um, excuse me?” It’s Naegi’s voice coming from Monomi again. You lift your head to look at the rabbit, “I think we’ve been very patient with you until now, and I don't want to be pushy, but we’d all like some answers, you know?” You swallow thickly, “Answers…about what?”

Monomi nervously rubs her cheek with a paw, “Well, about how you know everything. We’re far beyond expecting any sort of betrayal from you at this point, I mean, we’ve been watching you almost all the time and we can tell you don’t want anyone inside the simulation getting hurt, but we’re still curious.”

You feel sick. It must show on your face, because Monomi takes a few steps closer and Naegi says, “You don’t have to tell us right now” then, from somewhere in the background Togami corrects, “Yes she does , Makoto.” 

That makes you laugh, which is nice. You dismiss Naegi’s concern with a wave of your hand and take a deep breath to try and eliminate the nausea, “No no, it’s okay. I should tell you, I just don’t really know how to explain it myself and uh, I’m kind of not even sure you’ll believe me.”

“We are quite used to believing impossible things.” Kirigiri says, “I’m sure it will be fine.” You inhale a breath through your nose, and clasp your hands together to stop them shaking, “Alright…well, a lot of this is going to be speculative, I honestly don’t know all that much about how I got here but I’ll try my best. I um, I think that I am from an alternate universe, or something similar.”

Monomi nods slowly, even though she doesn’t speak, you get the sense that Kirigiri is still at the helm. 

“In my universe, Ultimates as you have them, aren't really a thing? There are certainly people who are talented, and scouted to specific schools for that talent, but there isn’t like, one big school where all the talented people go, and these people aren’t really designated titles or anything.” You take a breath, wondering how much you actually need to explain, “Also the tragedy didn't happen, that’s a big thing. How I got from there to here is the part I’m a bit lost on, as far as I remember I just fell asleep and then woke up in the program.” “Alright, then.” Kirigiri replies, “Obviously there is no real way for you to prove any of this, so I suppose we will have to take your information at face value for now.” Monomi cocks her head to the side, “Though you still haven’t actually answered the question Mokoto originally asked you, how do you know so much about the future?”

“Hah, um. Well, I just wanted to explain the other stuff first, so this part wouldn’t seem as certifiably insane.” you laugh again, it’s a bad nervous habit you have only recently developed, “Where I’m from, this , meaning you guys and the NWP and Enoshima and the tragedy and literally everything ever. Is from a video game.” you stare at Monomi for a moment. You can hear some sort of ruckus in the background, but Kirigiri’s voice remains surprisingly even when she says. “Go on. How much do you know, tell me.”

“The first entry covers your killing game, from start to finish. You play as Naegi-san, so I only really know about how things went from his perspective”

“WHAT?” You hear Naegi exclaim, and then some shuffling as he takes over control of Monomi, “Can you prove it? Say something about me that the others won’t know.”

“You wet the bed until 5th grade.” you say without even thinking.

Naegi lets out a very loud yelp, and from somewhere in the background you can hear Togami chuckling to himself.

You wince, “Sorry Naegi-san, it was just the first thing that came to mind.” “No it’s fine, I understand.” He squeaks, “I guess that proves you aren’t completely lying or anything, please, tell us what-” “Hey wait! ” a new voice calls from the background, “Let me have a turn!”

Your brow creases, “Oh my god. You guys have Hagakure-san in there with you? Why do you have Hagakure-san with you?”

“Whoa! You totally knew it was me right away!” He is much closer to the mic now, but you can tell that Naegi has not allowed Hagakure to get his hands on the controls, “Tell me something about me!”

“I know you spent a few really gross days with Kuwata-san’s really gross cousin.” 

You hear the sound of Hagakure getting shoved quite hard, and Naegi being told to shoo out of the way before Togami finally returns to the mic, “We don’t have time for any more parlour tricks. Explain everything you know up until this point, quickly, skip the unnecessary details.”

“Alright…” You say, and begin.

It still takes some time, even with you trimming the fat as much as possible. Togami asks a question every now and again, and he occasionally lets Kirigiri ask one as well, but otherwise, you just talk and talk and talk. It comes to you quite easily, part way through it stops feeling like you are talking to fictional characters and instead like you are just infodumping to one of your friends. You’re very good at that, so most of the words string together without you even thinking.

When you finally finish, Togami hums aloud, “This seems stupid and impossible, but you know far more than you should otherwise, and importantly, you also seem to know more than Enoshima does.” he huffs, “At the very least you can’t be working with her, or else you would have told her all of this before you told us. So that’s a comfort.”

“I really am trying to help.” You promise, “I know that it’s weird to hear, but from my perspective I’ve known you for years and years. I care about all of you, and everyone in the Neo World Program very deeply, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, I swear it.”

“Sorry, can I ask one more question?” Naegi says, “Scoot over, Byakuya.”

There’s a bit of shuffling, and then Monomi is back under Naegi’s control, “This is going to sound dumb, but it’s going to kill me if I don't ask.”

You shrug a shoulder, “Go ahead, I guess.”

Monomi wrings her paws together and then Naegi asks, “Do you think we’re…real?”

Togami scoffs in the background, “Of course we’re real, Mokoto.”

Naegi makes a panicked whining noise, “But if what she’s saying is true, then we’re just videogame characters, which means we aren’t really real , right?”

“I mean, I don’t even 100% get the semantics of this situation myself but I think you must be at least somewhat real?” You cringe, “Sorry that probably wasn't very comforting, what I mean is that while I know the way things play out, there is still stuff that isn't exactly how it was in the game. A lot of the remnants act more like real people than caricatures and things are able to change in ways the game would never allow. I guess that’s why I suggested that alternate universe theory. In my world this is a video game, but here it’s real. That’s the only conclusion I’ve been able to come to.”

“Then, I guess that’s all we have to go on for now.” Kirigiri adds, “You must be tired, get some rest. We’ll attempt to get the second island open tomorrow, Monomi will update you and the rest of the Remnants if we succeed.” You sigh, “Thanks everyone, I was worried you would think I’m losing it.” “Oh, we do.” Togami replies, and you hear what sounds like him taking an elbow to the gut.

“Don’t worry about it!” Naegi chimes in, “If we find time, we’ll see if we can figure out how you got here, there must be something for us to find in the code. We can ask Alter Ego to look too.” You reach out and pat Monomi on the head, she’s very soft, “Thanks guys, but don’t stress too much about it. Just focus on helping the remnants, I’ll be okay.”

“We’ll do what we can.” Kirigiri says, “You’re just as important as they are.”

You laugh quietly to yourself, “I’m not important, I’m just…unlucky.

---

You try to take Kirigiri’s suggestion to heart and get some rest. It doesn't come easy, after a very long shower where you spent the majority of the time with your forehead pressed against the cold glass, you dried off your hair and collapsed onto your bed to sleep. You had only been intending to take a short nap, but as it often goes, when you woke up again the sun had already set and checking the time you realise that you have also well and truly missed dinner.

You huff and swing your legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at your temples. You have a headache, which is just neat and you really can’t be bothered walking all the way to the market for painkillers, so you’ll just have to live with it. At the very least, you should get something to eat. Standing from the bed, you shove your feet into a pair of sandals and head out the door, not bothering to change out of your pyjamas. It’s been a weird day, emotionally, mostly. You had an uncharacteristically good time at the beach, but now you were saddled with the stress of an upcoming motive, one that will potentially get multiple people killed if you screw it up. 

It’s still warm outside even though the sun has well disappeared beyond the horizon. You’re starting to yearn for winter, for cold, for anything other than the endless heat of Jabberwock island. There’s a warm breeze in the air, and apart from that and the waves crashing on the sand out behind the hotel, the only sound you can hear is your own feet hitting the boardwalk, it is nice outside at night, quieter. 

Just before you turn off the boardwalk and start heading towards the restaurant, a light on in one of the cottages across the way gives you pause. It’s well past Monokuma’s announcement by now, and there’s little reason for anyone to be awake. You only need to walk a few steps closer before you realise that it’s Komaeda’s cottage, the light isn’t all too bright, likely just his lamp, but you’re always too curious for your own good and start heading in that direction anyway. 

You freeze a good few feet away when you hear a sound . For a moment you think that you’re imagining it, but then you hear it again . 

Is he…

You have to get a better look (well you don’t have to, but you do want to) so you scoot over closer to the cottage and drop down into a crouch under his windowsill. His blinds are still about halfway open and the window is cracked just enough that sound is escaping. For a moment you consider closing the window for him and leaving, just to make sure no one else overhears anything, but out of an inadvisable curiosity, you peek up just over the windowsill and affirm that yes , Komaeda is jerking off.

You cover your mouth to hide a yelp, spinning around and pressing your back against the wall of his cottage, trying to calm your breathing. What did you think you would see if you looked? You knew what was happening in there. God why is he so loud ? You cover your ears and squeeze your eyes shut.

It’s only when your legs start to ache that you realise you have been crouching below the windowsill for far too long, frozen in a mixture of shame, fear and something you are too embarrassed to put a name to right now. Readjusting yourself a little, you turn to face the wall and grip the edge of the windowsill, debating pulling yourself up for another peek. Why did he leave his window open anyway? He isn’t stupid. 

Edging yourself upward just enough that you can see the top of his head, and then his eyes squeezed shut, his open mouth- 

Is this lucky or unlucky? 

The question enters your mind unbidden and you cannot stop thinking about it. If Komaeda turned his head and saw you creeping outside his window would that be good luck or terrible luck? This thing you are doing is terrible, but how Komaeda might feel about it is another matter entirely, and you have been confused about it to say the least, especially after he went down on you that one time. 

You still don’t understand why he did that. He clearly doesn’t have any feelings for you apart from a passing interest, and you know that is only because he thinks you possess the ability of foresight.

He did seem to enjoy himself, but maybe he was just horny and you were there or-

He gasps aloud, ripping you from your internal monologue and back to the very real sight in front of you. Komaeda’s hand moves up and down in lethargic strokes, slow and deliberate. His free hand is tangled in his hair, loose strands of it clinging to his sweaty forehead. On one particularly firm stroke his hips jump up to meet his hand and a squeaky moan breaks loose from his lips. 

Breathing hard, he removes his hand for just as long as it takes for him to spit in his palm, and then it’s back on the length of his cock, moving faster than before. You can feel yourself growing warm just watching him, practically glued to the glass despite knowing that you should not be here. His chest heaves with each breath, shirt pulled up high enough that you can see the way his stomach clenches when he rubs the pad of his thumb over the sensitive tip of his cock. Komaeda is very pretty, you’ve always known this. But here, now, with the thin line of moonlight reaching in through his open curtains casting a bright light across all his sharp, jutting angles, he looks like an artist has carved him from marble. 

His mouth hangs open on a shuddering moan, lips moving to form the shape of a word that he ultimately decides shouldn’t be uttered, biting his lower lip hard to keep himself quiet. There is something balancing on the tip of his tongue, and he is afraid to say it aloud, to solidify it, to make it real. 

You wait, for some reason, crouched below the windowsill, hoping to finally catch a glimpse of just what is on his mind. To understand him, to understand why he treated you the way he did despite it not being in his best interest. He keeps his mouth shut though, not a word escapes, nothing more than moans that grow louder and louder. You finally regain your senses and wrench your eyes from the scene. What Komaeda thinks about when he jerks off is none of your business. No matter how much you wish it was. You at least have the decency to push his window closed the rest of the way, so no one else walking by will hear him and try to put the memory of what you saw behind you.

Food is the last thing on your mind now, so you instead return to the lonely comfort of your cottage, knowing a restless night awaits you.

[turvi]

Sweeter than Sweets

Image Source:- Pinterest

Sirius Black x Fem!Reader

Your friendship with the Marauders was unexpected but very welcoming. You were introduced to the group by Remus. Remus shared a few classes with you and got acquainted with you. One day he saw you eating lunch by yourself in the Great Hall and invited you over ignoring Sirius' glares.

Remus warned you before he introduced you to everyone "Sirius can be very cold and hostile, but he can be kind too, just try not to let the rudeness of his first words to you cut you too deeply."

It seemed like Remus was true because while everyone gave her a warm welcome Sirius gave you a cold shoulder every time you tried talking to him. You gradually got closer to the Marauder and Sirius didn't like it. But you liked Sirius a lot. You would overhear his conversations and the soft voice he would use on other girls and wish he talked to you like that. You loved his smile the most. It felt so innocent so opposite to his flirtatious nature.

Sirius was annoyed at how you were always bright, you made bad jokes but your laughs made others laugh sometimes even him but he won't admit it. He hated how everyone quickly opened up to you and even Remus Lupin who has a hard time talking to someone new just confessed to you that he is a werewolf and the rest of the Marauders were Animagus.

Now Sirius was furious and as a result, he was having an argument with Remus right now. "Have you lost it Moony? Why did you have to tell her all that? If you are in such a mood to reveal your secrets let us announce to the students in Great Hall that we are a bunch of feral animals"

Remus chuckled "Oh Padfoot you say you don't like her but you two are so similar. You know mate I won't just tell anyone. I trust her that is why I told her."

Sirius was about to berate Remus when he interrupted "give her one chance Padfoot then you can ignore her as much as you want. Why do you even hate her so much?"

"I don't hate her Moony. She just is so bright and happy all the time. She has overused her motto about how life is too short to take it seriously while absurdly winking at me."

"Just talk to her once will you?." With that Remus started to leave his room.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, Y/n is making a cake for us. Too bad you don't like her you would love her cake."

Sirius hated the smug look on his best friend and decided to talk to you because it looked like you were going to stick with the group.

You were sitting in front of the fireplace reading your book. Sirius started to feel nervous to talk to her. This is not his first time talking to a girl but normally he would be able to predict how the girls will react to his words, either they will hate it or love it. You are so far best described as unpredictable.

He slowly approached her. "Hey Y/n". You cautiously looked at him "hey Sirius". He felt a slight pain in his chest as he saw how you didn't give him the bright smile you give his friends. He pointed towards the empty space beside her "can I sit here?" You patted the empty seat but were still cautious.

Remus told her how Sirius can be loving once you will get to know him but before that, he can be very cold and rude. You were cautious not to upset him more. Of course, Sirius never blatantly told you but she could see he didn't like her as much as his friends did.

"So you like baking?" Sirius started awkwardly. You stared at him blankly then remembered that two days ago you made a chocolate cake for the three boys. "Uh I do, I don't know if I am great at it but Remus ends up finishing the deserts I make, he has quite a sweet tooth."

Sirius chuckled at her words "he does, chocolate is his favorite flavor." You turned to him immediately "tell me about it, that boy finished up three chocolate mug cakes while James and Peter were busy talking to me. I had to make more for the poor lads."

Sirius started laughing as he imagined Remus eating mug cakes in one corner. "What is a mug cake?" You gasped at that "come with me I have to make you a mug cake right now." You grabbed his wrist softly and tugged him towards the kitchen. For some reason, Sirius found your smile very soft today. The whole night as you made mug cakes for him, Sirius opened up to her more and found Remus was right about her. "She is as sweet as her desserts". He enjoyed the dessert you gave him but after spending time with you he wanted to consume a different dessert. You.

It was a warm day outside and the marauders took the opportunity to take a dip in black lake. Sirius decided to stay out of the water as he couldn't keep his mind off of you who he opened up to last night.

It felt like a fever dream to him, how he started to enjoy your bad jokes and how he shivered under your accidental touches. The smell of your citrus perfume lingered in his senses. He was confused as to why he felt like this. He never felt his opinion about someone change so quickly. All he could think about was if your kisses will taste sweet or not.

"Hey guys" your voice interrupted his thoughts about you. He groaned not because of frustration but because he realized that now he is falling for you. Sirius finally comes up with what he thinks is a brilliant idea.

"Hey, you know what Prongs I think I will join you guys in the water. You are joining us Y/n?"

Everyone looks at Sirius as he gently asks. You shyly decline and he nods and jumps into the water. You notice how beautiful he looks, you have always noticed that but he also seemed more intimidating than others. You noticed that he immediately got out of the water, his white shirt stuck to his body revealing the black ink that decorated his body. He had.... tattoos? You immediately looked away when you realized that you were staring at him.

You didn't know Sirius had tattoos. And you didn't know you had a thing for tattoos. Sirius noticed you looking away, your face flushed. He smirked and quickly ran towards you. "Doll could you pass me the towel?" You wordlessly nodded and handed him the towel without looking at him. Sirius enjoyed how easily you got flustered by him.

"Do you mind if I open my shirt?" Your mind started short-circuiting when he asked that. It's ok he is just opening his shirt. No big deal and oh dear you feel like you might faint when you glanced at him and he winked at you as he opened his shirt. He sits beside you still keeping a respectable distance from you.

"Is the grass more interesting than me love?" You should have brought your book with you so didn't have to stare at the grass while a very shirtless Sirius Black sat beside you.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" concern was very evident in his voice. He made it hard not to fall for him. "No Sirius it is alright I don't want to make you uncomfortable"

Sirius chuckled "it is ok I don't mind, I only take off my shirt for girls who share their dessert with me." You chuckled at that.

He continued "I am sorry for being so harsh with you, I have trust issues."

"I understand, then why did you give me a chance?"

"Well it looks like you are here with us to say and those three idiots kept saying how sweet you are I had to see for myself."

"And what is your judgment? Am I sweet?"

"Darling you are sweeter than your sweets" Sirius scooted closer to you when he saw you smile.

"There is a question plaguing my mind."

"What?"

"if you taste sweet too." he got closer to you "Can I have a taste?"

"Yes." He kissed you like he had no other purpose. He held you so gently but his kiss was fiery. When you separated to regain your breath you asked him "so? what do you think?"

"They can have your sweets I am having you."

A/N: This is long. THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID. sorry. REBLOGS AND FEEDBACKS if you like this.