#so maybe I can kind of have a pass and maybe I can have a friend sometimes?

[azzifuddslover]

UNRAVEL — chapter one

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

trope: best friends to lovers

tw: light swearing, think that’s all

themes: fluff

word count: 4.8k

a/n: my second series YAY! i absolutely adore reading best friends to lovers, it’s honestly my favorite trope, so i figured i’d make one of my own. i love this so far lowkey, they’re my literal babies 😭 also merry christmas to those who celebrate! please lemme know how u like it, and if i should continue. enjoy my pookies 𝜗𝜚

the gym echoes with the sound of squeaky sneakers and the rhythmic bounce of basketballs. it was the first day of USA basketball tryouts, and azzi felt a rush of excitement and anxiety as she stands silently in the corner, watching other girls around her age begin to fill in the open room. some began to practice shooting to pass time. at 14, she was nervous yet determined to make the team.

once all the young girls make their way into the gym, azzi scans the room, curious to know if she recognizes anyone. when she comes up with no familiar faces, she begins fiddling with her own fingers, her nerves becoming more evident. she absolutely hates doing new things alone, especially something as scary as this.

“let’s go ladies! time to get warmed up!” the coach announces his presence, a clipboard in his hands.

azzi, along with the other girls, form a line, starting to stretch out their limbs. her eyes dance over her future teammates, but when she makes swift eye contact a tall blonde unintentionally, she tears her eyes away, focusing on the ground instead.

warm ups quickly end; the girls break into teams of five, bustling with energy. azzi stands a little off to the side, watching everyone find their friends and form tight-knit circles. she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the familiar pang of anxiety in her stomach. she feels out of place, unsure if she really belongs here.

just as she contemplates stepping away, she notices the blonde she made eye contact with earlier lingering nearby, alone, like herself. the blue eyed blonde takes a steady, deep breath before wryly approaching the curly headed brunette.

her expression is friendly but obviously hesitant, maybe slightly shy as well. “hey, um.. do you have a group?”

azzi’s heart races in her chest, heat covering her cheeks as embarrassment sets in. “no, not yet. do you?”

the blonde’s face lights up just a tad, although her nerves are still apparent. “not yet. i was wondering if.. you wanna be in mine? not that i have one, but we can find one together..?”

azzi feels a rush of relief as any lingering nerves in her stomach instantly settle. “i’d love that.”

“great! i’m paige, by the way,” the blonde, paige, says, a wide smile appearing on her face.

“azzi,” the brunette replies, matching paige’s grin with one of her own.

as they walk together, navigating their way through the crowd of girls, paige steals glances at azzi’s frame, a mix admiration and awe in her eyes. she’s possibly one of the most beautiful girls she’s ever laid eyes on.

“i’m so nervous,” azzi whispers, a soft, stressed smile tugging at her lips.

paige chuckles lightly, “same here. it’s hard not to feel a bit overwhelmed with all of these girls who seem to know each other already.”

“right?” azzi replies, her gaze drifting to the formed teams, “i just wanna make a good impression.”

paige turns to azzi, “you totally will!” she reassures her, nudging her gently. “you just gotta remember we’re all trying to figure this out together. everyone’s nervous,” she wears a soft grin. “i’m sure you’ll be just fine— i saw your warm ups, you got some serious skills.”

a noticeable blush covers azzi’s cheeks at paige’s kind words. “thank you, that means a lot.”

paige’s lips tug into a wider smirk at azzi’s red face. shortly after, the pair finds a spot in a group with only three players, finally forming a group of five. the other girls greet paige and azzi warmly.

“alright, let’s get this started!” the head coach shouts, shutting down any side conversations the players were having. “we’ll start we 5v5s, then finish with a scrimmage.”

as each player in their small team break into their desired positions, paige throws yet another quick glance at the brunette she’s quickly growing fond of. she already feels a connection between them— like they’re meant to be friends.

only a couple minutes into the 5v5, azzi becomes highly aware of the kind of player paige is. a selfless passer, always willing to give up the ball to an open teammate in the corner, now including herself. but it’s not just her passing that sticks out to azzi— no, it’s the effortless shots she doesn’t hesitate to take that almost always goes in. it doesn’t matter where she’s positioned— whether it be the 3 point line, midrange, or a simple layup, it always swishes through the net.

as azzi digests paige’s skill set, paige takes in the curly headed brunette’s at the same time, in a similar state of awe. her 3 point shooting ability was undeniably impressive; she swears she never seems to miss. everytime she’d pass the ball to an open azzi in the corner, she had full confidence it’d go in, she didn’t even bother to look. she was that good.

the short 5v5 match comes to a close, leaving azzi feeling more herself, more comfortable and confident in her abilities. paige feels good about her performance, too, but more so in azzi’s.

“holy shit, you were so good out there!” paige exclaims once they’re allowed a short break for water.

azzi lets out an airy laugh, clearly out of breath from the previous 5v5. “thank you, so were you.”

paige shakes her head, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “i mean it, i’ve never seen anyone hit so many threes in a row. what was it, like six?”

azzi feels a sudden rush of pride at paige’s words. “more like five, but i get what you’re saying. thanks again.” azzi takes a swig from her water bottle, “it really helps when i have someone like you passing me the ball.”

the corners of paige’s lips quirk up as an unrecognizable feeling travels throughout her chest. “i guess we make a pretty good team.”

azzi tries to hide her smile, but ultimately fails. “i guess so.”

paige glances at the ground, fidgeting with the water bottle in her hands. “i was so nervous to come here, genuinely. i try to appear as confident as possible, but on the inside i’m an anxious wreck.”

azzi smiles in a reassuring manner as she suddenly reaches out, gently patting paige’s arm to somewhat comfort the girl in front of her. “i understand. i was nervous too, until you talked to me, that is.”

paige beams at azzi’s comment. “really?” when the brunette nods, she continues, “i’m glad i approached you then. it’s nice to know i’m not the only one feeling this way.”

azzi feels the connection between the two of them deepen as they share a vulnerable moment. “i think we all put on a brave, tough act, but it’s always nice to find someone who gets it.”

“exactly!” paige says, her excitement bubbling over. “i’m so glad we’re on the same team. you’ve made this whole experience way more enjoyable.”

azzi’s cheeks grow warm at the sincerity of the blonde’s choice of words. “me too. i don’t think i could’ve done this without you.”

now it was paige’s turn to blush— way more pigmented than azzi’s, that is. paige turns her gaze away from the curly brunette’s, desperately trying to hide her inflamed cheeks.

the two girls continue to chat, discussing their high school teams and other random interests outside of basketball. paige already knows, with time, azzi has the potential to become the best friend she’s never had.

paige and azzi’s conversation quickly fades away once the head coach orders them to break into two large groups, in preparation for the scrimmage. paige doesn’t hesitate to stay rooted besides azzi, keeping their distance close to indicate they’re on a team together.

the players surrounding them occasionally brush into the pair, separating them more and more. it isn’t until azzi rushes over to the older girl, gently gripping her forearm, mere inches away from her hand, that they get placed into a team together. paige feels instant sparks scramble within her chest at azzi’s touch— she’s brave enough to move her hand, grabbing azzi’s hand with her own, yet not interlacing their fingers— just letting her know she’s here.

the coach blows the whistle, signaling for everyone to get settled. as the two teams are finalized, paige and azzi find themselves on the same side, as expected but still, relief washing over the two girls.

the coach picks a starting five from the opposing team first, choosing the obvious top players with the highest skill sets out of everyone there. the coach then makes his way to paige and azzi’s team, scanning the girls one by one.

“aliyah, cameron, azzi, paige, caitlin,” he voices before turning around, casually walking to the side.

paige turns her head to look at azzi, who seems equally as shocked, but pleased with his picks. anxiety floods the brunette’s features— out of everyone on the team, he chooses her? she couldn’t believe it.

“we got this,” paige nods at azzi, reassuring the younger girl, “you got this.”

azzi hesitates, but shares the nod, trying to mask her nervousness with a quiet pride expression.

once the scrimmage starts up, the atmosphere shifts. the gym fills with the sound of sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor, and the shouts of encouragement from teammates. paige feels a rush of adrenaline, her confidence bolstered by azzi’s presence.

throughout the game, they fall into a rhythm, passing the basketball back and forth with ease. azzi’s sharp shooting is as impressive as ever, landing each 3 pointer with precision, while paige’s passes are spot on, giving azzi the chance to shine. they communicate seamlessly, each play reflecting their undeniable chemistry.

as the scrimmage progresses, the score tightens, and both of the two teams push harder. paige spots azzi’s competitive spirit ignite, only fueling her own drive. with every successful shot and assist, they exchange swift glances filled with passion and excitement.

eventually, the whistle blows, indicating the end of the scrimmage. both teams gather for a quick huddle, breathing heavily but exhilarated.

“nice work everyone!” the head coach praises, “you all showed fantastic teamwork out there.”

paige turns her body to azzi, her heart racing, not just from the game, but also from the connection they’ve built in such a short period of time. “damn, we really do work good together.”

“i know, right?” azzi smiles, exposing her dimples on each one of her cheeks.

the girls begin packing up their bags, stuffing their now empty water bottles in the pockets. paige’s gaze shifts to the brunette’s, then back at her bag, then once again, back to azzi.

azzi quickly notices paige’s wandering eyes, “everything okay?”

paige’s eyes widen, embarrassed of her previous actions. “yeah, sorry. i was wondering if i could get your number, though? just so we can keep in touch throughout the tryouts, y’know.”

azzi swears her heart skips a beat at the request, a gentle smile spreading across her face. “is this your way of asking me out on a date?”

paige is taken aback at azzi’s comment, her cheeks becoming noticeably red. “what— no, that’s not—“

azzi nudges her shoulder, letting out a laugh at her reaction. “i’m only kidding, paige. of course i’ll give it to you. i’d love that.”

paige shuts her eyes, embarrassment still lingering, yet she pulls out her phone. azzi masks the older girl’s movement, taking her own phone out as well.

azzi hands paige her phone, to which she punches in the brunette’s number, labeling her in her personal contact list. as she hands the phone back, their fingers brush, the moment growing electric.

the two throw their own bags over their shoulders, barely making any movements to leave quite yet. azzi feels a ding come from her phone— it’s a text message from her mother, katie, letting her know they might be a couple minutes late to pick her up.

azzi lets out a groan, loud enough for the blonde beside her to hear. paige glances at azzi, curious as to what’s got her frustrated.

“what? everything good?” paige asks.

azzi meets her gaze, “my parents are gonna be late. i have nothing to do besides sit here for like, 20 minutes.”

paige scrunches her eyebrows, feeling slightly bad for the brunette. an idea forms in paige’s head, not bothering to think about her own mother waiting outside to pick her up.

paige suddenly reaches for azzi’s hand, interlocking their fingers and tugging her towards the gym door.

“um, where are you taking me?”

a grin tugs at paige’s lips, excitement glistening in her bright blue eyes. “just trust me, will you?”

“not like i just met you,” azzi mutters, although its laced with sarcasm. surprisedly, azzi’s trust for paige grows every minute she’s with her.

walking out the door, into the chilly weather with a slight breeze, paige’s grip on azzi’s hand remains tight and secure. she spots her mother’s car, noticing a confused expression on her face— she holds up her finger, telling her one minute, although she has no intentions of leaving azzi alone until her parents arrive.

she leads the younger girl into a nearby smoothie shop, dropping into an open table, hinting for azzi to take the spot in front of her.

as the two girls settle in their chairs, directly facing each other, the hum of the smoothie shop surrounds them, blending with the chatter of other customers. azzi glances around, intrigued at the colorful menu board. “okay, i’m curious. why’d you take me here?”

paige leans back, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “i just discovered this place the other day, their smoothies are so good. and plus i figured i’d wait with you until your parents get here.”

a faint blush covers the brunette’s cheeks, which she quickly hides with her hands. “thanks, that’s really sweet of you.”

“anytime,” paige beams. “do you want anything? i know i do.”

“oh, i don’t have any money with me,” azzi shrugs.

paige’s lips form a line, “no worries, it’s on me. now, what do you want?”

azzi’s face breaks out into a huge grin, exposing her dimples once again. the blonde masks her expression, wearing a grin of her own at the sight of azzi’s cute dimples. as she scans the menu, paige takes the time to really look at azzi. god, she’s unreal. her soft, brown curls pulled into a bun, brown, wandering eyes paired with long lashes, deep dimples paige already adores. her heart races at her beauty.

“i’ll take the pineapple one,” azzi announces, “thank you, paige. really,” she adds, gratefully.

paige simply nods, then walks up to the counter to order their smoothies. only a minute later, she brings them back to the table, setting azzi’s pineapple one in front of her.

azzi takes a long sip, followed by another when she realizes she really enjoys the taste. paige does the same with her own strawberry banana, downing half the drink.

“you’re right, they are really good,” azzi agrees as she shallows.

“told you so,” paige says, taking another fast swig.

the girls silently sit there, making no effort to converse. “so, do you think you’ll make the team?” azzi questions the older girl, eventually breaking the comfort silence.

paige shrugs, “i mean, i think i have a good chance. you’ll definitely make it, though.”

azzi’s heart quickens in her chest, beating at an erratic pace. “you’ll make it. do you have any idea how good you are?”

paige bites back a grin, avoiding eye contact with the younger girl. “stop gettin’ soft on me.”

azzi rolls her eyes at the blondes comment, “i mean it, though. i’ve never seen anyone with the ability to pass as perfect as you.”

pink floods paige’s cheeks, warmth spreading throughout her body. “look in the mirror, azzi. your form is literally textbook perfect.”

azzi chuckles, a mix of embarrassment and pride flooding her. “thanks. that means a lot coming from you.”

paige nods before taking another sip of her fruity smoothie. “so, what do you do outside of basketball?”

the two girls fall into a flowing conversation, discussing anything but basketball— getting to know each other better. they share laughs and wide grins as the conversation develops.

paige feels weird— she cannot understand how quickly azzi and her have bonded over such a short period of time. she feels like she’s known her forever.

azzi’s phone vibrates mid laugh; it’s a text from her mom, saying she’s here.

“my moms here,” azzi says, gaze lingering on paige’s figure. a wave of sadness floods her features— she’s sort of wishing she could stay here longer, with paige.

“oh, alright,” paige nods, sharing a similar disappointment. she stands with azzi, pulls on her backpack, and moves for the door.

the wind has pickin’ up, causing goosebumps to form on both young girls arms.

“see you tomorrow?”

“duh,” azzi replies, an effortless smirk appearing on her face. she waves paige goodbye, before heading around the corner to where her mom is parked, waiting for her.

paige watches azzi leave, the lingering flash of sadness noticeable on her face. she begins walking over to her mom, her steps slow but steady.

she greets her mother with a quick smile, setting down her backpack.

“who was that?” her mom questions, her tone light.

“a girl i met at tryouts,” she doesn’t bother to hide her beam, “she’s so cool, i swear. she’s so good at basketball, too. i’ve never seen anyone hit so many threes.”

paige rants on and on about azzi, talking about her impressive basketball skills and about how they clicked so instantly.

paige eyes her mom’s knowing smile, to which she scrunches her eyebrows down. “what?”

“you really like her, don’t you?”

paige’s eyes widen at the comment, “i mean, yeah, she’s my friend. but if you mean like that, then no.”

paige’s mother, amy, pulls her lips into a line, clearly not believing her daughter, although she doesn’t push.

the entire car ride home, paige has yet to stop thinking about azzi. her excitement about seeing her tomorrow basically buzzes off her, it’s that strong. she contemplates texting the brunette, but shuts that thought down immediately, considering it’s only been ten minutes.

back at paige’s house, in her room, she lays silently on her comfortable bed, scrolling mindlessly on her phone. azzi continues to linger within her mind— she eventually decides to text her, in hopes to settle the obsessive thoughts.

hey azzi, she types and sends quickly, without the chance to overthink her words.

a minute passes with no response— paige bites at her nails, an anxious habit of hers. her phone buzzes with a text message from, of course, azzi.

hi paige!! azzi’s text reads. paige’s lips tug into a small smile.

what are u up to?

only seconds later, azzi responds. not much, u?

same. wanna ft? paige works up the courage to ask, looking away from her phone out of fear.

three minutes pass with no answer from the brunette. just as thoughts like what if i did something wrong develop in paige’s mind, an incoming facetime call from azzi covers her screen.

the first thing paige sees is azzi, messy curls framing her face, laying in bed, looking directly into the camera.

“hey,” azzi smiles into her phone at the blonde.

“hi,” paige answers, mimicking her expression.

the two girls settle into a steady conversation, each smiling shyly at one another throughout. paige can’t help but admire azzi’s nature beauty, the way her curls fall effortlessly around her face.

“it’s so weird, i feel like i’ve known you forever,” paige announces in the middle of a collective laugh.

azzi falls silence, but her grin stays put on her face. “me too— i’ve never met anyone like you.”

heat, yet again, covers paige’s face, her heart speeding up at azzi’s soft words. “really? i feel the same way.”

azzi’s eyes sparkle with warmth. “yes, really. i mean it, too. you’re just so… genuine. i love that about you.”

paige bites her lip, both flattered and a little shy. “thanks, azzi. i appreciate that.”

they exchange more laughter, sharing stories and favorite moments about the tryouts. as the conversation flows, paige feels a growing sense of comfort, like she can be completely, undeniably herself around azzi. she hasn’t felt that way in a long time— if ever.

paige and azzi’s facetime lasts for hours on end, filled with continuous chuckles and getting to know one another. katie, azzi’s mom, eventually barges into her dark room, suggesting she heads off to bed, considering another day of tryouts is approaching.

“talk to you tomorrow,” azzi says to paige through her phone.

“talk tomorrow!” paige squeals, her excitement for the next day peaking through. she shuts off her phone after ending the facetime, her room fills with darkness and complete silent at azzi’s absence.

she lets out a quiet sigh, already missing talking with azzi, although it was only moments prior. she cannot help but feel an extreme pull towards the curly brunette— like they’re meant to meet, meant to be best friends.

throughout the night, into the next morning, paige desperately tries to ignore the warm feelings that bubble up just thinking about azzi. she distracts herself with homework, scrolling on her phone, yet nothing seems to quiet said feelings.

as the sun rises, filling her room with soft light, paige can’t shake the thought swirling in her mind. do i have a crush on azzi? she remembers back to azzi’s dimply smile, the way her laughter lit up her phone screen, how easy it is to talk to her.

before she spends another minute questioning her feelings, she forces them out of her mind, trying to focus her attention on the next day of tryouts instead.

the day both paige and azzi dreaded was finally here. the championship— the game the USA basketball team worked so desperately hard to reach. regardless of their excitement to win, the two girls couldn’t fathom leaving one another for god knows how long.

paige and azzi, over the last couple of months, have grown inseparable. the pair would spend every minute their downtime together, barely leaving one another’s side. they share laughter and secrets, bonding over late night talks and all throughout practice. the chemistry between the girls was undeniable, yet neither of them had the courage to question if it was purely friendship, or something more.

as the game approaches, paige feels a swirl of anticipation and anxiety. the team has trained so hard for this moment, yet all she could think about was what it would mean to leave azzi. after the game ends, they would be separated by hundreds of miles— azzi being in virginia and paige living in minnesota.

in the locker room before the championship game, the atmosphere buzzes with enthusiasm and energy. azzi sits down next to paige, a smile plastered on her face. for a moment, the world already them seems to fade.

“you ready for this, p?” azzi asks, her voice steady but with an underlying hint of nerves.

paige takes a deep breath, glancing at the younger girl. “ready as i’ll ever be.” she tries her best at a smile, although her sadness is evident to azzi.

azzi scrunches her eyebrows in concern for paige, “everything okay?”

“yeah, i’m good. i’m just kinda sad to leave you, y’know?”

azzi meets her gaze, her expression softening. “don’t think about that right now. let’s focus on the game first, then deal with that later, okay?”

paige bites her lips, her nerves still swirling in her stomach. she tries her best to ignore those thoughts and nods in agreement.

as soon as the championship game starts, the crowd roars, both girls feeling the weight of their training and dedication bearing down on them. every little play is a testament of their hard work, and as the minutes tick by, they find themselves in sync, communicating effortlessly on the court.

throughout the game, azzi continues to drain threes, one after another, as paige racks up assists unlike anyone else on their team.

with just seconds left on the clock, paige and azzi exchange a quick, soft glance filled with determination but also a hint of admiration for the other. the USA team is up by 30, so paige, as the point guard, dribbles the ball with no effort to move, running the clock. the buzzer goes off as the crowd erupts into cheers.

players belonging to the team rush each other, pulling one another into quick hugs, filled with laughter and pride. as azzi pats the back of aliyah, one of their teammates, in a gentle hug, she catches her favorite blonde’s eye, knowing exactly where she’s headed off to next.

the two girls approach each other, a look of longing flooding their eyes with small smirks planted on their lips. to close their distance, paige reaches out, pulling azzi by her jersey into a fierce hug that encapsulates everything they’ve shared over the past few months. azzi chuckles softly, her arms wrapping tightly around the older girl’s frame as paige nuzzles her face into azzi’s neck, breathing in her scent.

against azzi’s exposed neck, paige murmurs, “you did so well, az.”

azzi doesn’t dare to hide her growing smile, gripping paige’s shirt to keep her close. “thanks, but you were the one who really made it happen,” the brunette replies, her voice warm. “you were amazing out there.”

paige pulls back just enough to meet azzi’s line of sight, her heart swelling with pride at her meaningful compliment. “we really do make a great team.”

“couldn’t of asked for a better teammate,” azzi agrees, her genuine grin brightening even more.

as the celebration around them continues, the reality of their impending separation begins to fully sink in. their teammates cheer and take photos, while dread lingers in the two young girls stomachs for what’s to come.

azzi hasn’t left paige’s side since the championship game ended, practically binded hip to hip. she didn’t want to miss any singular moment with her best friend before they would soon separate.

the two girls were eventually forced to pack their bags, ready to head off to the airport to catch different planes. a mix of sadness and disappointment clouds their minds, not wanting to leave one another. they’ve grow so unexplainably close throughout this entire experience, that the thought of separating was heart-wrenching.

arriving at the airport, paige’s brain is still buzzing with dread at the thought of leaving her best friend behind. as she approaches azzi, her expression in a similar state, she tries her best to keep her tears at bay.

“this feels surreal,” azzi breaks the silence suffocating them, “i don’t wanna leave you.”

paige carefully sits her bag down, rushing over to the brunette she’s grown very fond of. the affectionate, touchy person she is, paige wraps her arms tightly around azzi, holding her close. “i don’t want to leave you, either.”

azzi doesn’t hesitate to hug the older girl back, her attention never wavering from paige. she feels her eyes begin to water, so she drops her head, resting it on paige’s shoulder.

paige’s heart speeds at azzi’s doing, making her want to keep the young girl close forever. eventually, however, their tight embrace comes to an end, yet azzi’s hand lingers on paige’s arm.

“please promise me we’ll stay in touch. preferably, like, everyday,” paige whispers, only loud enough for azzi to hear.

“i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a slow smile creeps onto paige’s face, yet her melancholy is still apparent. “you’re my best friend, az.”

a lone tear spills out of the corner of azzi’s eye at paige’s words. “and you’re mine,” she tugs the blonde back in for a second hug, already missing her comforting warmth.

with azzi being so close, everything around paige seems to fade away— and before she has time to consider whether this is a good idea, she presses her lips just under azzi’s ear, a soft, fleeting gesture that conveys all the unspoken words spiraling between the two.

azzi’s breath hitches in her throat, although her expression remains light, a mix of surprise and understanding. they stand there, in the airport, for a heartbeat, the weight of their connection hanging in the air. but then the airport intercom crackles to life, calling for the minnesota flight boarding, pulling them back into reality.

“guess i should get going,” paige says, her voice breathless.

azzi nods, “please take care of yourself, paige.”

the older blonde gives azzi’s hand one last squeeze, before letting go, leaving azzi behind.

as they walk towards their respective gates, each step feels heavy with the knowledge that they won’t be seeing each other everyday now. they don’t even know the next time they’ll get a change to hangout. yet, both girls know their bond is strong enough to withstand the distance between them.

[jakesyluslly]

summary: you're going through a stressful time and you surrender yourself to sylus

𖹭𖹭𖹭

you were going through a stressful time. your mind was too full, you couldn't think clearly. your depressive mood was eating and draining you from the inside. maybe stress was normal, but you couldn't control it. at some point you couldn't even tolerate yourself. you wanted to do nothing, literally nothing.

you sat on the bed, wearing a thin nightgown that reached down to your knees. you pulled your legs up to your chest, put your chin between your knees and just stayed like that for a while. times like these came and went, yes, but it didn't make you feel good at that moment. besides, you didn't want to talk to anyone. yes, not even to him. you didn't want to overwhelm sylus with your problems, you didn't want him to have to deal with your problems when he already had enough of his own. you pretended that everything was fine, forgetting how well he knew you.

sylus opened the door slowly and walked in. he knew something was wrong, of course he did. he sighed when he saw you curled up in a ball on the bed. seeing you upset made him even more upset, you kind of set the mood for him. he approached you slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. ''sweetie…'' he gently brushed your hair out of your face, he wanted to look at you. he grabbed your chin and turned your face towards him, he could read everything in your eyes. ''i'm fine.'' you mumbled, but he didn't believe a word you said. ''don't expect me to believe you.''

he put his hand on your cheek, his thumb stroked under your eye. “if you don't want to tell me what happened, then don't.” he whispered. he took you in his arms and sat you on his lap, made you rest your head on his chest. “but let me keep you company. let me share your silence, your pain.“ his words brought tears to your eyes. all the emotions you had repressed were coming out. you were unable to speak, as if someone was squeezing your throat. ”sshh…” he stroked your hair, massaged your scalp. it was killing him to see you like that. he closed his eyes, lowered his head and inhaled the scent of her hair. ''you don't need to hold yourself back. let your emotions come out. you want to cry? cry.'' you felt his breath in your hair, his presence reassured you. you wrapped your arms tightly around him, you needed him, more than anything. you rubbed your nose against his neck and finally tears started to stream down your cheeks.

sylus held you tightly, rubbing soft circles on your back, stroking your hair. ''everything will pass. everything will be fine.'' he held you close to him, feeling your tears on his skin. you trembled like a wounded bird in his arms, and his heart trembled to see you like that. ''this won't last forever, my love. no pain is permanent.'' he continued to tell you what was in his heart. you were crying as you listened to him, but you felt yourself relaxing. it was as if tons of weight were slowly lifting off you. ''sometimes i feel so helpless.'' you murmured through your tears. ''i feel hopeless, a failure. i… i can't help myself.''

sylus listened to you carefully, pressing soft kisses into your hair. ''you're so strong.'' he whispered in your ear, you could feel his voice deep in your soul. ''you can't imagine what you've been through. you'll get through this, you'll overcome everything. but…'' he held your chin and lifted your head, looked into your eyes for a while. he stroked your lower lip with his thumb as he looked into your eyes, swollen and red from crying. ''…but you don't have to go through it alone. you're not alone. i'm here.''

he took your cheeks in his hands and wiped away your tears. ”i can't take your pain away from you, but i can make you share it with me. i don't want to see those beautiful eyes of yours crying with sadness anymore. haven't you cried enough already?”

you didn't understand his last sentence very well, you weren't sure what he meant, but you couldn't dwell on it. ''i will always hold your hand, no matter what.” he said, smiling softly. he took your hand and brought it to his lips, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand. you felt your heart soften as you looked at him, you were glad you had him.

“get some rest. sleep will do you good.” sylus was about to put you to bed when you stopped him, you had other plans. “sylus… can i sleep on your lap?”

sylus' curious expression was replaced by a smile, his eyes softened. ''of course, of course, my darling. come here.'' he took you in his arms, held you like a baby and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. ''I'll be here when you wake up, right next to you.'' he hummed a soothing melody to help you fall asleep easily, stroking your hair. you felt your eyelids feel heavy, your eyes were already hurting from crying. there was an indescribable pleasure in sleeping after crying. soon your body relaxed and you fell asleep in sylus' arms.

he kissed you from your cheek to your chin, his eyes never leaving you for a moment. “my most precious treasure. from now on i will be with you every moment, i promise.”

[ashonheavenscloud]

snowflake kisses || c. vernon

warnings: none, it’s all very fluffy and cute😞 || wc: 965

a/n: co-written with @lixiesfreckless over frantic fanfic. merry christmas everyone!! enjoy <3

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“Vernon! Vernon, look it's snowing!”

The man in question barely has a chance to look your direction from his place at the kitchen counter, in the middle of making tea for the two of you, before you've disappeared around the corner. He hears the scraping of the closet door opening and pauses, feeling a smile twitch at the corners of his lips at the same time he cocks an inquisitive brow.

“Babe, it's almost midnight, where are you-“

“Didn't you hear me? It's snowing! On Christmas Eve!” The sound of stomping boots alerts Vernon of your approach before you pop around the corner, tugging on a coat and hat.

“But I made us tea-” you’ve already dashed off before he can finish his sentence, and he shakes his head with a laugh as he sets down his kettle.

At least the two of you will be able to drink it to warm back up.

You hear the sound of the door opening and closing behind you as you stare up into the gray night sky, watching as the streetlights illuminate the thousands of snowflakes drifting towards the earth. The world has been blanketed by a thin sheet of white, and the sounds of the evening are already a little bit muffled in the peaceful wonderland of winter.

Your eyes stay trained upwards until you feel warmth beside you; Vernon slips your hand into his and tucks it carefully into his own coat pocket. You glance at him with a grin, and his heart nearly gives out on him at seeing your excitement.

“You're crazy.” He comments, and you just shake your head and look back at the snowfall.

“If I wasn't, you would have missed seeing this. We both would have.”

Vernon concedes with a hum, and after a moment of silence, he tilts his head to kiss your temple softly, thumb stroking your hand in his pocket. You lean your head against his shoulder and release a sigh along with all the tension of a long week from your body. Despite the frigid air that forms clouds from your breath and the goosebumps prickling any inch of exposed skin, you feel an undeniable warmth fill your whole being as you watch the snow and listen to nothing but silence and the gentle sound of your boyfriend's breathing.

It's all so incredibly peaceful, you kind of don't ever want to go inside.

“Have you ever had a snowflake kiss?” You whisper aloud, and Vernon looks down at you, unsure if he heard you right.

“A…what?”

“You know, a snowflake kiss,” you repeat, turning to look at him. “It’s when you kiss someone as it snows and a snowflake lands between your lips, like it’s kissing you too.”

“Did you just make that up?”

You slap his jacket with your free hand as he laughs, clouds of steam escaping his parted lips as you explain yourself. “No you dork, I read it in a book back in high school.”

“Ahhh, I see,” he nods, appearing deep in thought for a moment before turning to face you fully. “Okay. Let’s try it.”

Your face flushes with heat at his bluntness, and you laugh shyly, with an “alright” that is cut off by Vernon's soft lips finding yours and stealing away your breath. His mouth is cold, and gentle; his hand moves to cup your jaw and tilt your face up to him, and your own braces on his chest. Your other hand is still intertwined with his, and he holds you steady with it as he kisses you, letting time pass as your mind loses focus and your body melts into his.

A minute passes, or maybe more, you're not entirely sure because you're in a daze by the time his lips part from yours. His own brown eyes flicker open with some difficulty as he breathes into the cold, then turns his eyes to the sky. “Come on, just one snowflake. It really cannot be that hard.”

You giggle. “It's okay, it's only special if it takes time.”

“Wow, okay, Socrates.”

You playfully shove him again, but as fast as Vernon stumbles backwards, he steps forward and meets your lips again. “I guess I don't mind waiting like this…” he murmurs against them with a little, teasing smile that heats your cheeks and has your insides doing somersaults. Then his mouth sliding against yours is all you can feel, and suddenly you're praying for the snowflakes to dissipate around you, so you can keep kissing him again and again and again.

But it doesn't take long, this time, for a tiny crystal flake to twirl through the air and land right between your lips, and the sensation is exhilarating. A brief flash of cold that melts out between the heat of your lips, only present for a moment.

At the concept of your high school fantasy coming true, you can’t help but smile against his kiss, absolutely filled with glee.

“I’m guessing you felt it too?” He whispers against your lips, and you nod giddily, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him back in for more.

And almost like magic, another snowflake finds your lips, and another, and another, until your heart is so full of joy that you can’t stop smiling.

And when Vernon looks down at you, eyelashes dusted with snow and cheeks a warm shade of red, he finds that he can’t stop smiling either.

He checks his watch to make sure, and then looks back at you, brushing some snowflakes off of your skin.

“Merry Christmas Y/n,” he says quietly, and you tiptoe to press one last kiss to his lips before falling into his chest and wrapping your arms around him.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Vernon.”

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seventeen masterlist

navigation

[hjvi]

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𝘜𝘯𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘈𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘠𝘰𝘶

⚠︎  mdni, heavy smut, eating disorder (anorexia), overall mature subjects, and more

⤷ A gentle reminder: If my content ever feels overwhelming, please take care of yourself and step away. Anorexia is a key theme in this story, and as someone who understands its weight, this fic is deeply personal to me. I want to remind you that you're never alone in your journey.

Sending love and healing to all. 🩷

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𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 2: 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩

The sound of skates carving through ice echoed in the quiet rink, but it barely registered in my mind. I was too focused on the way Chris’s hand felt in mine. The warmth of his fingers, the way they gently squeezed as if trying to anchor me to this moment, to him. I wasn’t sure if it was the silence of the rink or the chaos inside my head, but there was something in the air—something thick with unspoken words.

Chris and I stood side by side, staring out at the empty ice, both lost in the gravity of everything that had been said. He had apologized, confessed his love to me, and promised to help me heal. His words hung in the air between us, fragile and uncertain. I had told him I was willing to give us a chance, to give him a chance. But I wasn’t sure if I believed I deserved any of this.

I glanced down at our hands, our fingers still intertwined. And that’s when I saw it.

His eyes dropped to my bruised hands. The skin was discolored, darkened from the impact of fists, marks left from someone who should have loved me. The edges of his expression tightened for a fraction of a second before he quickly glanced away, like he couldn’t stand looking at them anymore. His jaw clenched briefly before he let out a shaky breath.

“Hey, uh,” Chris started, his voice tight as if he were trying to sound normal. “Do you wanna come over to my house? I have something I want to show you.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t know if I was ready for more of his kindness, for more of his attention. But I nodded slowly, almost instinctively. What else could I do? I wasn’t sure how long I could stand there, the weight of his unspoken questions pulling me under.

We left the rink, and within minutes, Matt—his only triplet brother with a license—pulled up in their old, beat-up car. The ride was silent, the kind of silence that feels louder than anything. Chris, normally so animated, so full of energy, sat beside me, his eyes flicking to me every few seconds as if he were studying my every move, trying to make sense of the distance between us.

I could feel his eyes on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, pressing down on me with every passing second.

When we finally arrived at Chris’s house, I shuffled behind him up to his room, his footsteps quick and purposeful, as if he wanted to show me something important. My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I took in the walls of his room, decorated with rap posters, old vinyl records, and the familiar scent of his cologne and something else—comfort, maybe. It was all so him, yet I felt so out of place.

“You okay?” he asked, concern in his eyes as he glanced over at me. He had been looking at me like that all day—like I was something precious that he couldn’t bear to break.

I nodded stiffly, offering him a weak smile as I dropped my eyes to the sleeves of my hoodie. They were covered in dried tears, remnants of mascara streaking down my face from the few times I had wiped away my tears, trying to keep it together. I wasn’t even sure why I cared.

Chris noticed, and without hesitation, he moved to his closet, pulling out a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. “Here,” he said, holding them out to me. “You need something clean. You can change in the bathroom, if you want.”

I accepted the clothes reluctantly, feeling an odd wave of guilt rise in my chest. I didn’t want to take anything from him. But his kindness felt almost overwhelming. And when I inhaled the scent of his hoodie, it was like an old memory wrapped around me, one that made me ache for a time I hadn’t realized I had lost. The familiarity of it made me feel both comforted and strangely distant.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him gently.

I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The room was silent except for the hum of the fluorescent light above me. The mirror reflected a version of myself I didn’t recognize. I stood there for a long time, staring at myself. I unzipped my hoodie and slipped it off, throwing it on the floor, before pulling at the waistband of my low-rise jeans, stepping out of them with shaky hands. I was all too aware of the hollow feeling in my body, the emptiness that came from not eating, not caring.

As I reached for the hoodie Chris had given me, I slid my arms into the sleeves, feeling how much too big it was. The fabric hung off me like a curtain, too large for my frame. I felt the fabric stretch and tug, the empty space inside me made all too clear.

I lifted the hoodie, my fingers grazing the sharp outline of my ribs. I swallowed hard, fighting the rising wave of panic. I could feel the hollow hollowness inside of me, the bruises left by years of self-doubt and the echoes of my father’s words.

I stared at myself in the mirror, not realizing how much time had passed. Minutes slipped by like hours.

I couldn’t take it. I yanked the hoodie off, the fabric crumpling in my hands. My skin prickled with a familiar discomfort—the kind of vulnerability that I hated, the kind of vulnerability I had never been allowed to show.

There was a knock at the door.

“Are you okay in there?” Chris’s voice was muffled but full of concern.

I wanted to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Before I could say anything, the door creaked open just a fraction. And then Chris stepped inside, his eyes immediately catching on my bare skin, my sweatpants hanging off my frame, and the rawness of my vulnerability.

He froze. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” he stammered, his face flushing in embarrassment. But he didn’t turn away. Instead, he stepped back, his eyes not leaving me.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, I sank down onto the floor, my knees buckling beneath me as my body began to tremble. The sobs came in waves, uncontrollable, and I couldn’t stop them. I just sat there, breaking apart in front of him, unsure how to stop the flood of emotion that had been building for so long.

Chris, to his credit, didn’t try to rush over. He sat down next to me slowly, careful not to overwhelm me. He gave me space, but his presence was steady, like an anchor holding me together when I was slipping away. His hand hovered near me, unsure, but it was enough.

“You don’t like the hoodie color?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but I couldn’t even muster a smile.

“I feel so weak, Chris,” I cried. “I feel so skinny, like I’m fading away, and I can’t stop. I’m just… I’m so broken.”

His hand finally found its way to my back, gently rubbing circles over the fabric of his hoodie. “You’re not weak,” he said softly. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And you don’t need to feel insecure. I love you. I’ll help you through this. You don’t have to fight this alone anymore.”

His words—gentle, so full of love and compassion—were a balm to the raw wounds inside me. I buried my face in his chest, not caring about how vulnerable I was, how exposed. For the first time in a long time, I let myself cry freely, knowing that someone was here to help me piece myself back together.

When the tears finally started to subside, Chris pulled away gently, his fingers brushing my hair out of my face. “How about a bath?” he suggested quietly. “A vanilla bubble bath. I’ll set it up for you.”

I let out a shaky giggle, feeling a hint of something lighter for the first time that night. “That sounds nice.”

“I’ll get everything ready,” he said, his voice soothing as he helped me stand. “You just… take all the time you need.”

As he went to his brother Matt’s room to give me some privacy, I stood there for a moment, lost in the quiet of the bathroom. I reached up to wipe away the last of my tears, but the weight of everything still hung heavy on my shoulders.

When I walked back into Chris’s room later, towel in hand, I overheard him talking to Matt in hushed tones, the conversation I had been dreading.

“Do you think she’s too thin?” Matt asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“I don’t know,” Chris replied, a tone of sadness in his words. “She’s just… so fragile, Matt. I don’t know how to fix her. I just want to help her.”

The words crushed me. I turned on my heel and fled back to his room, sinking down onto the floor with my back against his bed. It wasn’t about fixing me. I wasn’t some broken thing to be fixed.

I wiped away my tears, quickly swallowing down the rising wave of self-doubt. When Chris entered the room, he froze when he saw me sitting on the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, kneeling down beside me.

“I don’t know, Chris,” I whispered, the weight of it all crashing back down on me. “I don’t know how to wash myself… I hate seeing my body.”

“Hey,” he said, lifting my chin gently, “it’s okay. You don’t have to do it alone.”

He reached under his bed and pulled out a small, weathered box. He opened it slowly, revealing photos of me, my hair ties, old bracelets, small trinkets I had long forgotten about. My breath caught in my throat.

“I kept everything because I can’t live my life without thinking about you,” Chris said softly, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite understand. “You are so beautiful. I hate seeing you do this to yourself. But I’ll be here. I’ll always be here, and I won’t leave you.”

I stared at the box, unable to speak for a moment. His words hit me harder than anything. He cared about me, but why did he talk about me like I was something broken, something that needed fixing?

I didn’t know, but I had to find out. And for the first time in so long, I was willing to try.

Chris sat beside me, the silence in his room hanging like a heavy blanket. He’d shown me the box, full of my old trinkets—little pieces of me that I hadn’t even realized mattered to him. But now, staring down at the photos, the bracelets, and the hair ties I had long forgotten about, something inside me was starting to crack.

“I—I didn’t even know you kept these,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I ran my fingers over a photo of me from years ago. It was from a school trip, one where I had laughed so hard my stomach ached, my eyes crinkling with joy. I couldn’t even remember that girl. She felt like a stranger now.

“I couldn’t let go of anything that had you in it,” Chris murmured, his voice low and serious, as if the weight of his words mattered more than anything else. “You’ve always been on my mind. Always. Even when I was… too stupid to realize it.”

I felt a swell of warmth in my chest at his words, but a sharp pang of guilt followed right after. He kept these things because he couldn’t forget me. But I had been so lost, so deep in the dark that I couldn’t remember who I was before all the pain.

“You always knew how to make me laugh,” I said, swallowing hard as I fought against the rush of emotions. “I used to laugh all the time. And now, it feels like I’ve forgotten how.”

Chris didn’t answer at first. His hand, gentle but firm, found mine. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling my gaze back to him. His eyes were so earnest, so full of concern, like he could see right through the walls I had built around myself.

“You haven’t forgotten, though,” he said softly. “You just haven’t had a reason to laugh in a while. But you will again, I promise.”

I looked away, tears gathering in my eyes, and Chris squeezed my hand, the contact grounding me, reminding me that I wasn’t alone in this.

“Chris… I—I’m scared,” I whispered, barely audible. “Scared of what’s happening inside me. I don’t know how to fix it.”

His face softened, and he slowly pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me. I rested my head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—the cologne, the faint smell of laundry detergent, and something uniquely Chris, something that felt like home. His embrace was warm, enveloping, and for a moment, the world outside his room, outside of everything I had been through, seemed so far away.

“You don’t have to fix anything,” he whispered into my hair. “I’ll help you, step by step. But you don’t have to fix it all on your own. You don’t have to carry this burden alone. Not anymore.”

I nodded, my breath catching as I allowed myself to lean into him, feeling something shift within me. The heaviness that had weighed on my chest for so long was starting to lighten, piece by piece.

There was a long pause, where all we did was hold each other, not saying anything more. And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Chris pulled back slightly, his hand moving to my cheek, lifting my face to meet his eyes.

“You want to take that bath?” he asked softly, his voice coaxing yet gentle.

I hesitated for a moment. I hadn’t planned on doing anything like that. The thought of getting clean, of scrubbing away the remnants of the past, made me feel exposed in ways I wasn’t ready to face. But something in his gaze softened the edges of my fear.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I think I do.”

“Good,” he said, his crooked smile tender as he brushed a lock of hair from my face. “I’ll get it ready for you.”

I stepped into the bathroom a few minutes later, the soft sound of Chris’s footsteps fading into the background as he prepared the bath. The room was bathed in warm light, the kind of soft glow that felt like it could cradle me in its embrace. He had already filled the tub with bubbles, the scent of vanilla wafting through the air.

“Here,” Chris said, handing me a fresh towel and a pair of his old slippers, the kind he wore around the house. “I’ll give you privacy to change. Just… take your time.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak. The thought of washing away the layers of pain that had accumulated over time felt almost foreign. But Chris was right—this was part of healing. I could start small. I could start with something simple, like the warmth of the water surrounding me.

As I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the bath, the water felt like a second skin. It was soothing and gentle, yet the bubbles seemed to bring everything to the surface. I leaned back, letting the warmth seep into my muscles, trying to breathe deeply, trying to calm the storm that raged inside my head.

But it was still there. The emptiness, the ache. The feeling of being too small, too fragile, too broken.

Chris knocked on the door softly a few minutes later, his voice muffled. “You okay in there?”

“I’m… I think so,” I called back, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pushed the door open a crack, just enough for his head to peek through. “Do you want me to come in?” he asked, his eyes soft with concern.

I hesitated. A thousand thoughts swirled in my head. But in that moment, I needed him. Not in the way I had needed someone before, but in the way that felt raw and real.

“Yeah,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please.”

Chris stepped into the bathroom, his presence so calming it was like I could finally breathe a little easier. He moved with quiet care, making sure not to intrude, not to overwhelm.

He sat on the edge of the tub, his hand brushing lightly against my hair, careful not to disturb the bubbles.

“Do you need help?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur.

I shook my head, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “I don’t know if I can… do this,” I whispered.

Chris took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was unwavering. “I’m here. I’ll help however I can, even if it’s just sitting here with you.”

And so, he did. He sat by the edge of the tub, his hand gently resting on my arm, a grounding presence.

I finally closed my eyes, letting the warmth of the water, the comfort of his touch, and the gentleness of his voice wash over me.

The warm water enveloped me like a second skin. The steam rose in gentle swirls, filling the bathroom with the soft scent of vanilla bubbles, calming me just enough to breathe deeper. But as I sank further into the tub, I couldn’t shake the heavy weight pressing down on my chest. The scars, the bruises, the emptiness inside—it was all still there, lingering like a storm inside me.

The soft clink of a bottle being opened echoed in the quiet, followed by the sound of Chris’s voice, calm and steady, like he was trying to anchor me.

“Is the water warm enough?” he asked, standing just outside the tub, his voice soft and considerate.

I nodded, though my eyes were shut, a futile attempt to block out everything. I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t expected him to stay close, to offer to help. It was overwhelming in a way I couldn’t explain. But still, I felt the faintest stir of relief in my heart. Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe this was how I could start to heal.

Chris, sensing my hesitance, didn’t rush. He waited, patient and gentle, until I nodded again, finally allowing him into the space I had, until now, kept so tightly guarded.

“I’m right here,” he said, kneeling beside the tub. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing softly against my shoulder as if to reassure me. He was so close, and yet he gave me space, the quiet comfort of his presence enough to settle my nerves. “Do you want me to help you wash?”

The words felt strange on my tongue, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. But part of me wanted him to stay close, to be the one to help me through this—this vulnerability that terrified me. So, I swallowed my pride and nodded, unsure of what else to do.

Chris’s voice was low and steady, a constant reassurance as he reached for the body wash, the soft scent of lavender and vanilla wafting through the air. He poured it into his hands, lathering it gently before turning his attention back to me.

“I’m just going to start with your arms, okay?” he asked, his eyes soft but filled with something more—something that felt like a promise.

I swallowed hard, afraid of what I might see if I let him in too much, but I couldn’t find the strength to pull away. There was something about his kindness, his unwavering patience, that made me feel a little less fragile.

His fingers gently cupped my wrist as he began to wash the skin of my arms, his touch tender, careful not to overwhelm me. The sensation of his hands gliding over my skin was almost too much to bear, yet it was strangely soothing, like he was washing away pieces of the hurt that had accumulated for so long.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Chris murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a tenderness in his tone that made my heart ache. His touch was light as he moved down, past my elbows, moving to my forearms, the lather turning into a soft foam as it slid across my skin. His touch was careful, as if he could sense the weight of my past, the scars, both seen and unseen, that I was trying to bury beneath the surface.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the feeling of his hands. Trying to let it soothe the growing discomfort in my chest. But with every gentle sweep of his fingers, the floodgates seemed to open, and my chest tightened. The moment felt too intimate, too raw, but still, I stayed.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered, his voice steady like a beacon in the storm. “I’m right here.”

His hands moved to my shoulders, the pads of his fingers tracing over the skin of my upper arms with gentle care. As he reached the back of my neck, his hands hesitated, and I could feel the heat of his gaze, though I refused to meet it. I could feel the weight of his concern pressing against me, like he wanted to do more, wanted to somehow fix what had been broken for so long.

But he didn’t push. He simply washed, quietly, steadily, as if he was trying to reassure me that nothing would change in this moment—he wouldn’t rush, he wouldn’t push me beyond what I could handle.

Slowly, I felt his hands move to the small of my back, washing down the length of my spine. His touch was so gentle, so unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world to make sure I felt cared for. His hands glided over the small curve of my back, and even though I felt exposed, raw, I felt something stir within me—a longing for comfort, for healing. I closed my eyes, biting back the tremors that threatened to overtake me.

“You’re okay,” Chris said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re safe.”

I felt the tears well up in my eyes again, threatening to spill over, but I held them back, clenching my fists in the water, willing them to stay.

His hands moved to my ribs then, slowly, as though he was afraid of hurting me. The touch was so tender that it made my heart ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for. His fingers brushed over the skin of my side, and I stiffened involuntarily, the memories of being touched without care, without kindness, rushing back to me.

Chris noticed instantly. His hands froze for a moment, as though he was waiting for me to pull away. But I didn’t. Instead, I leaned into his touch, trying to let it soothe me, trying to remind myself that I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice trembling with emotion. “I just… I just hate how I look. How I feel.”

Chris’s voice softened, filled with an emotion I couldn’t place. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply, the words steady, unwavering. “You’re beautiful just the way you are. Don’t ever forget that.”

I closed my eyes tighter, not sure I could believe him, but the warmth of his hands on my skin, the way his fingers moved carefully over me, told me he wasn’t lying. He saw me. The real me. Not the broken pieces I tried to hide.

His hands moved to my stomach, gently lathering the soap along the curve of my waist. I could feel myself wanting to shrink away, but I stayed, breathing in deeply, trying to let myself relax. I had to remind myself that this was Chris. The same Chris who had made me laugh in ways I had forgotten. The same Chris who had been my friend, my constant, long before everything had gone wrong. And now, he was still here.

“Almost done,” he said, his voice quiet, soothing. His hands moved slowly, methodically, as though trying to memorize the feel of me, as though he needed to make sure I was taken care of.

I nodded again, my throat tight with emotion, but the discomfort started to ease just a little. His hands felt like safety, like protection, and I let the warmth of the water, of him, wash over me.

When he finished, Chris gently pulled his hands away and grabbed the towel from the nearby rack. His fingers worked quickly, drying my skin with soft, deliberate motions. His touch, while gentle, was insistent, as if he was trying to remind me that I was still here, still whole, even if it didn’t feel like it.

“Come on,” he said, his voice soft, a smile tugging at his lips as he helped me out of the tub. “Let’s get you cozy.”

As he helped me into a pair of his old sweatpants and a loose hoodie, I couldn’t help but notice how his hands lingered over the soft fabric. It felt so… normal. The simple act of being cared for, of being seen, was something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a long time.

When he finished, he tucked me into his bed, the soft covers enveloping me like a cocoon. He sat on the edge, just watching me, his eyes full of something I didn’t know how to name.

“I’m here,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Whenever you’re ready to talk, or not talk, I’m here.”

I nodded, the exhaustion of everything that had happened weighing heavily on me. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t drowning in it all. Chris was here, and I wasn’t alone.

And for now, that was enough.

“Chris,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “I never meant for any of this to happen. I never meant to let myself get this far.”

“I know,” he replied softly, his fingers brushing through my hair. “But it’s not your fault. You’re not to blame for the things that have happened to you. You’ve been through more than anyone should have to go through.”

I sighed deeply, the weight of his words sinking into me. I closed my eyes, a tear slipping down my cheek despite my best efforts to hold it in. I could feel his hand on my cheek, wiping away the tear.

The room felt heavy, the silence between us thick with unspoken things. I had shared the worst parts of myself with Chris—the parts of me I had been hiding, the parts I hadn’t dared to look at in years. But as the words left my mouth, I realized how much more there was to say, how much I had buried beneath the surface. And now, with Chris here, his steady presence beside me, it felt like the dam inside me had broken open.

Chris didn’t speak immediately, but I could feel his anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. It was there in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his fingers gently squeezed mine, as if he were trying to hold me together while trying to contain the fury building inside him.

“You’re safe now, (Y/N),” he said softly, but there was a strain in his voice. “But I want to know more. I need to know what happened… all of it.”

I looked up at him, the room dim in the evening light, but his eyes were bright with the weight of his emotions. “I don’t know if I can…” My voice wavered, as if speaking the words out loud might make them more real, more permanent. “I don’t know how to tell you.”

He didn’t rush me. He just sat there, steady, waiting. “You don’t have to do it all at once, but I’m here, and I want to hear it. Whatever you’re ready to share.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat like a stone that wouldn’t budge. It was too much, too overwhelming. But his patience, the way he was just there—unwavering—made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could say it.

I inhaled deeply, trying to steady my shaky breath. “He’s… he’s still hitting me.” The words slipped out like daggers, sharp and jagged, and I couldn’t take them back.

Chris’s face twisted in disgust, his eyes blazing with something darker, something I couldn’t quite place. His grip on my hand tightened to the point of pain, but I didn’t want him to let go. “What do you mean, still?” he spat, his voice trembling with anger. “What the hell do you mean, still hitting you? After everything? After all these years?”

I flinched, the pain of his words stinging more than I expected, but not in a bad way. Chris was angry—for me, for the things I had endured—and I needed that anger. It was the first time someone had ever been angry for me.

“He doesn’t care. He never did. He doesn’t care that I’m his daughter.” I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes again, the tightness in my chest making it hard to breathe. “I don’t know what to do. He’ll always come back. He won’t stop.”

“God, I’m so fucking mad at him right now,” Chris growled, slamming his fist down on the bed between us. “How could anyone do that to you? I don’t care if he’s your dad—no one should ever lay a finger on you. No one.”

I could see the pain in his eyes, the rage that burned there, but it was mixed with something else too—something softer. Concern, protectiveness, the desire to shield me from all of it.

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips as the tears started to fall. “He just… he can’t stop, Chris. He gets drunk, and then it’s like he doesn’t even see me anymore. He just sees someone to hurt. And I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t know how to get out.”

I could feel the panic rising in me again, that familiar, overwhelming sense of suffocation creeping in like it always did when I thought about the fear of being stuck, of being trapped in that life. The life where I wasn’t safe, where I wasn’t even allowed to feel like I mattered.

Chris’s voice became softer, almost a whisper, but it was full of resolve. “You don’t have to go back to him, (Y/N). You don’t have to live like that. I won’t let you.” His hands gently cupped my face, as though he were trying to steady me, trying to pull me back from the edge I felt myself teetering on. “You deserve so much more than this, and I swear to you, I’m going to help you get out of this. We’ll figure it out together.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that things could be different, that I didn’t have to go back to the house that had been my prison for so long. But the doubt gnawed at me, a constant voice in the back of my head telling me that it was all just a dream, that things would never change.

“I don’t know how,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat again. The panic was slowly building inside me, and I couldn’t stop it. My hands began to shake violently, and I felt like I was drowning in the tightness in my chest. The room began to spin, and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

“Chris,” I gasped, clutching at his shirt, “I can’t breathe…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Chris said urgently, his hands moving to my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. “Just focus on me, okay? Focus on me. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

But the panic didn’t stop. My chest felt tight, my heartbeat erratic, and I couldn’t seem to calm down. Every breath I took felt shallow, as though the air wasn’t getting into my lungs. I could feel the walls closing in again, just like they did every time I let myself think about what my dad had done to me.

I began to tremble uncontrollably, my hands like ice against his warm skin. My head felt light, and I had to fight the overwhelming urge to collapse.

“Chris, I can’t…” I whispered between gasps, feeling the world slipping away from me. “I’m scared. I’m scared of what will happen if I can’t get away. I’m scared of him coming after me, of never being free.”

Chris’s eyes were frantic now, but he was still holding me steady, his voice unwavering. “You’re not alone in this, (Y/N). I won’t let you go through this alone, okay? You’re safe now. You’re with me. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He moved his hands down to my back, rubbing slow circles as he whispered over and over again, “Breathe. Just breathe. In… out… You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I won’t let him hurt you again. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

I tried to focus on his voice, to let the steady rhythm of his words ground me, but my body wouldn’t stop shaking. My breath was still shallow, and I felt like I was drowning in the memories, in the fear of my dad’s hands on me, of his voice shouting at me, of the pain I’d felt when he told me I wasn’t worth anything.

But then, slowly, my breath started to steady. The panic began to recede, and I was left trembling in Chris’s arms, my chest heaving, but the overwhelming tightness starting to fade.

“You’re okay,” Chris said softly, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “You’re here with me. You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.”

I closed my eyes, clinging to him like he was the only thing that could keep me from falling apart. But as much as I tried to believe it—tried to believe him—there was still a part of me that felt like I was trapped. Still a part of me that didn’t know how to escape the life I’d been born into.

But with Chris’s arms around me, his warmth seeping into me, I felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something different.

The room felt quieter now, the oppressive weight of my panic slowly lifting as Chris’s steady presence calmed the storm inside me. His arms, strong but gentle, still wrapped around me, and for the first time since I’d entered his house, I felt a sense of calm begin to settle deep in my chest. The world outside might still be chaotic, but here, in this space with him, I was allowed to be broken. I didn’t have to hide. And for once, that thought didn’t scare me—it comforted me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to freak out on you like that.”

Chris shook his head softly, pulling me a little closer. “You don’t ever have to apologize for that,” he said quietly, his voice calm but firm, as if wanting to erase the guilt I felt. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. I’m just glad you’re here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I leaned into him, feeling his warmth seep through the thin fabric of my hoodie. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear was grounding. It was like listening to the sound of something real and tangible, something that wasn’t connected to the chaos that always seemed to follow me. His love, his presence—everything about him was real, and it was one of the only things I felt I could rely on.

The minutes stretched on, and gradually, the shaking in my body slowed. My breath deepened, and though I still felt raw, the sharpness of the panic attack had dulled into a more manageable ache. It was as though, piece by piece, I was learning to breathe again.

“Are you feeling better?” Chris asked after a moment, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to disturb the delicate balance we had found. He pulled back slightly to look at me, his eyes searching mine for any sign of distress.

I nodded, but my voice still trembled. “Yeah… just a little… dizzy. But better. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Chris murmured, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m just glad I could help. You’re not alone, (Y/N). You never will be again.”

I swallowed hard, trying to suppress the lump in my throat. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been there for me, Chris. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“Stop saying that,” he said firmly, his tone soft but resolute. “You’ve always deserved it. You deserve every bit of love and care in the world, (Y/N). You deserve to feel safe. You deserve to heal.”

His words lingered in the air between us, and for a moment, I felt a wave of gratitude rush over me. It was hard for me to accept that kind of love, to believe I was worthy of it, but I didn’t want to push him away anymore. Not when he was trying so hard to give me something I’d never had before.

We sat there for a while, neither of us saying much, just being in each other’s presence. It felt like time had slowed down in the most comforting way possible. The panic that had felt suffocating now seemed like a distant memory, and I realized, with a twinge of bittersweetness, how much I had missed moments like this. Moments where I didn’t have to pretend to be something I wasn’t.

Chris cleared his throat after a while, breaking the silence. “You know, I’ve missed this,” he said quietly, his fingers gently tracing the back of my hand. “I’ve missed having you around. I missed having you sleep over.”

My heart skipped a beat at his words. The memories of spending nights at his house, hiding away from the world, were so much clearer now. There was comfort in those late-night talks, in the sound of his brothers’ laughter echoing through the house, in the feeling of being part of something that wasn’t broken. Something that made me forget the things I had to escape at home.

“I missed it too,” I replied, the words escaping before I could stop them. “It was the only time I felt like… like I had a family, you know? Like I was safe.”

Chris’s gaze softened, and for a moment, I could see the tenderness in his eyes. “You are family, (Y/N),” he said. “You always have been. You’re just as much a part of us as Matt, Nick, and me. Don’t ever doubt that.”

I felt a lump in my throat at his words. It was hard to accept that kind of care, but somehow, with him, it didn’t feel as impossible. It felt like it might actually be real. “You guys were always the closest thing to family I had,” I said, my voice quieter now. “When I stayed at your house, it was like everything else faded away. Like I could breathe for the first time in so long.”

“I know,” he said, his voice soft, yet tinged with an almost protective edge. “That’s why I want you to come over more. And stay as long as you want, okay?”

I nodded, the idea of having a constant refuge growing more and more appealing. “I really appreciate you, Chris. More than you know.”

He smiled then, a small, soft smile, but it was enough to make my heart flutter. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, reaching over and squeezing my hand gently. “You’re worth it. You’ve always been worth it.”

The words hung between us, and for a moment, I let myself believe them. I had spent so long thinking I wasn’t worthy of love, of care, but with Chris, it felt like I might just be wrong.

Chris then leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I was thinking… if you’re comfortable with it, you could sleep over tonight. We have a guest room, but if you want, you can sleep in my room too. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”

The thought of sleeping under the same roof as him, of being so close to him, made my heart race in ways I didn’t quite understand yet. But the idea of being in a space where I could truly rest—without the constant tension and fear of home—sounded like a dream.

“I… I’d like that,” I said softly, the words barely leaving my lips before Chris’s face broke into a smile.

“Good,” he said, his voice warmer now. “It’s settled, then. You’re staying.”

I smiled back at him, feeling a surge of appreciation flood through me. “Thank you. Really.”

Chris leaned in to kiss the top of my head, his breath warm against my hair. “You’re welcome. Now, go get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The night was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning, the occasional creak of the house settling, and the faint sounds of traffic from outside. The room was dimly lit, soft moonlight streaming through the curtains. I stood by Chris’s door, my fingers tracing the edge of the frame, unsure of what to do next.

Chris had already prepared the guest room for me. The bed was neatly made, the pillows fluffed. But as I stood there, I realized something—something I hadn’t admitted to myself until now: I didn’t want to sleep alone. Not tonight. Not after everything that had happened.

I glanced over at Chris, who was sitting on the edge of his bed. His eyes were soft, yet filled with that familiar protectiveness I had come to rely on. He’d given me the option of sleeping in the guest room, but he didn’t press it. He just watched me, waiting for me to make up my mind. And somehow, that quiet patience made everything feel a little easier.

“Are you sure?” he asked gently, his voice low. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

I nodded slowly, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I want to stay with you,” I whispered. The words felt vulnerable, like I was admitting something I’d been too afraid to admit even to myself. But as I looked at him, something in me softened. I didn’t have to be afraid here. Not with him.

Chris didn’t respond right away. He just smiled a little, that soft, comforting smile of his, the one that always made me feel like maybe everything wasn’t so broken after all. He patted the bed beside him, a simple invitation. “Come on then. Get comfortable.”

I hesitated, standing there in the middle of the room, still holding the hem of my oversized hoodie, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety. I had spent so many nights alone in my own bed, trying to sleep through the memories of my father’s anger, the shouts, the pounding fists, the feeling of being trapped in a house that never felt like home. But tonight, I wasn’t alone. Not really.

I crawled into the bed, my body feeling stiff, not quite sure what to do next. Chris kept his distance at first, settling in on his side of the bed, turning on his side to face away from me. His back was to me, but I could feel the space between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the closeness I longed for either. I needed something more than distance, more than just his presence across the room.

I reached out tentatively, my hand brushing the edge of his shirt, and in a soft whisper, I said, “Chris?”

His body tensed for a split second, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, his voice was low, a little rough. “Yeah?”

“I… I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I said, barely able to form the words. The truth was, I was scared. Scared of the nightmares that might come, scared of the darkness and what it might bring. But more than that, I was scared of being vulnerable, of needing someone and not knowing how to ask for it.

Chris’s response was immediate. He turned around slowly, facing me, his expression soft, understanding. He didn’t say anything right away, but instead, he reached out, gently guiding me toward him. “You’re not alone, (Y/N). Not anymore,” he whispered, his voice full of conviction.

It wasn’t like I was scared—no, that wasn’t it—but there was a strange sense of comfort in being this close to someone who truly cared. Still, the distance between us remained for a moment, and I couldn’t help but feel a little unsure of myself.

Chris didn’t press, though. He just stayed where he was, pulling the covers up around him. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but I found myself inching closer, seeking the warmth of his body, the connection I had been craving but too scared to ask for.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him moving toward the small dresser by the bed. He started to unbutton his shirt, unaware that I was watching.

The suddenness of it made my heart skip a beat. My gaze followed his every movement, captivated by the way his body moved as he shed his shirt. He wasn’t being flashy or deliberate; it was just natural for him, the way he carried himself with a quiet confidence that made my stomach twist in the best way. I could see the muscles in his back shift as he pulled the shirt over his head, his toned body now exposed to the dim light of the room.

I hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected the moment of stillness where I could appreciate him in his simplest form. He wasn’t trying to impress me, wasn’t posing or playing it up. It was just him.

And for the first time, I truly saw him. The sculpted shoulders, the defined muscles along his arms, the way his skin seemed to glow under the soft light, the gentle curve of his back. Everything about him was perfect. So perfectly human, so real, that it almost overwhelmed me.

Chris turned toward me then, his chest now bare, and I quickly looked away, my face flushing as I realized I had been staring. But before I could feel embarrassed, I caught him looking at me, that mischievous smile curling up at the corners of his lips.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice teasing but with an underlying softness. He knew exactly what I was thinking.

I swallowed, trying to find words. “I, uh… you look perfect,” I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He chuckled, not at all fazed by my awkwardness. “You’re the only one who thinks so.” He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down with ease and slipping into a fresh pair before sliding back into bed beside me.

But there was a softness in his movements now, a tenderness that came with his willingness to let me see him—let me in. He wasn’t just showing me his body, but his trust. And that meant more than anything.

As he settled back into bed, he turned toward me, the space between us finally closing as he reached out a hand. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his voice so gentle that it made my heart ache.

I nodded, this time more certain. “I’m okay. I just… I missed being close to someone. To you.”

And then, he opened his arms.

I didn’t hesitate this time. My heart pounded in my chest, and with a mix of relief and hesitance, I scooted closer, curling up against his chest. The warmth of his body was comforting, a quiet reassurance that I wasn’t in this fight alone. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me in, his embrace tight but not suffocating. I felt his breath on the top of my head, steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

For a moment, everything felt safe. The chaos of my mind, the pain of my past, all of it seemed to fade away as I listened to the sound of Chris’s heartbeat, the steady thrum of life that was so different from the anger and fear I’d been accustomed to. He was here, and for tonight, that was enough.

I let out a long, shaky breath, feeling my body relax in his arms. But I still couldn’t help the thoughts that crept into my mind—the way I felt so small in his arms, how much I had lost, and how little I had ever felt cared for. But then, as if sensing my discomfort, Chris moved slightly, adjusting his position so that we were closer, my head resting on his chest. His hand gently began to stroke my hair, his fingers threading through the strands in a slow, comforting rhythm.

His fingers continued to gently play with my hair, and I could feel the soft, steady rhythm of his hand. It was so soothing, the motion familiar in a way I couldn’t explain. It felt like home, like something I’d been searching for without even knowing it. His scent, that familiar cologne mixed with the clean scent of soap, enveloped me, and for the first time in so long, I felt like I could breathe.

His hand reached for mine then, his fingers lacing with mine in the quiet dark of the room. The simple connection was grounding, and as he pulled me closer, I felt something shift. I had been running from the past for so long, so afraid of what was behind me that I hadn’t realized how desperate I was for the present. For someone who cared.

“Your hair smells so good,” I said quietly, a small smile tugging at my lips. I had never noticed how comforting his scent was before. It was like a reassurance I hadn’t realized I needed.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine. “It’s just shampoo,” he teased, but I could tell he was pleased by my words. He continued to play with my hair, the action so tender that it almost made me feel like I was someone worth caring for.

“It’s not just shampoo,” I said softly, lifting my head a little to look at him. “It’s you. You’re… comforting, Chris. It’s like… I feel safe when I’m with you.”

I leaned my head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath me calming the frantic pulse of my own. His arm wrapped around me as I settled more fully against him. I could feel his breath on the top of my head as he shifted, pulling me just a little closer.

“You know, I could get used to this,” I said, the words slipping out before I could fully process them. “I missed sleeping over at your house… when I could just escape home for a bit.”

Chris stiffened for a moment, as if processing my words. Then, he ran his fingers through my hair gently, his touch so soft that it almost felt like he was tracing the contours of my soul.

“I know,” he said quietly. “You’re welcome here anytime, (Y/N). Don’t ever feel like you can’t come over. It was never about just ‘hanging out,’ you know? I care about you. I always have.”

My chest tightened at his words, the weight of them sinking deep inside me. I closed my eyes, trying to take in the comfort of his embrace, trying to let myself believe him. I could feel the warmth of his body against mine, the quiet strength that emanated from him, and it made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

The words settled in my heart like a balm, soothing the wounds that had never quite healed. I felt his fingers moving slowly through my hair again, and this time, there was no rush. Just us, wrapped in the quiet security of knowing that we didn’t have to face the world alone.

As the night stretched on, I felt myself relax more, his steady breath and gentle touch lulling me into a peaceful stillness. He kept playing with my hair, his hand brushing over my forehead, smoothing out any lingering tension. The rhythm of his movements was comforting, and I found myself drifting, my eyelids growing heavier as I rested against his chest.

“I don’t ever want to leave,” I murmured, my voice barely a whisper now, sleep creeping in.

“You don’t have to,” Chris replied softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Stay as long as you need.”

And with that, I let myself fall into the warmth of his embrace, the first true rest I’d had in what felt like a lifetime.

“I don’t deserve you,” I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips, but somehow, they felt true.

Chris pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt my chin up so I could see his face. “You deserve everything, (Y/N). More than you know. Don’t ever forget that.”

I felt a lump form in my throat, but instead of pushing it down, I let it rise. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at him, my heart aching with the need to express how much his words meant to me.

“You’re too good to me,” I said, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to repay you for all of this.”

He smiled softly, brushing a stray tear away from my cheek. “You don’t need to repay me. Just… let me be here for you. That’s all.”

His voice was so steady, so comforting, and as he pulled me back into his chest, I felt everything fall into place. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel so alone.

With Chris by my side, I had everything I needed.

A/N: Hey, loves! 💖 First off, thank you so much for making it this far. Your support honestly means the world to me, and I can't thank you enough. I know this chapter feels a little more low-key and maybe even rushed—life’s been a bit chaotic on my end—but I really wanted to take the time to dig deeper into the characters and their emotions. A special thanks to @bernardsbendystraws for being such an inspiration to this fic. You’ve truly helped shape the direction of this story!

This chapter touches on some really heavy topics, especially around eating disorders, and I hope it gets recognition! It's a difficult subject to navigate, but it's so important to shed light on it. I appreciate all of you who stick with me and support these moments in the story. You all keep me going!

If you or someone you care about is struggling with anorexia, please reach out to the helpline at [National Eating Disorders Association Helpline: 1-800-931-2237 or text "NEDA" to 741741]. You are not alone, and there is always support available when you need it.

taglist: @swagalicious260 @watercolorskyy @coquettechris @lovesturni0l0s @christmastreecake @ellbowmacaroni @blog-luvdance @sophand4n4 @meg4-matt44

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[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Paper Pirates (Conclusion)

MDNI

Shanks x f!reader

Summary: An unconventional member of an unconventional crew, you finally solve your captain's equation.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, piv, swearing, smoking, allusions to power imbalance

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays! - Ya filthy animals. Thanks for all the support! I have another Shanks piece brewing (a genuine one-shot, even!) that will hopefully see the light of day in the coming week. Til then: stay tuned, drink water, kiss someone you like, and survive the holidays!

Shanks is, as ever, a bonfire on a winter night. Blazing bright and beautiful. A human beacon with a smile so bright it made his hair dull by comparison. He should be ridiculous, maybe even an object of pity with his scarred face and missing arm, but he’s confidence given legs – legs in ridiculous printed trousers, even.

He holds court in the bar closest to the docks. He’d swaggered ahead with all your worldly possessions under his arm, chatting up passing locals. You’d followed, drowning in his wake. The storm inside you didn’t touch him.

You followed him here, met up with the crew after picking open you scabs so he could see how deep the infection ran, and now you’re once again ducking under too many waving hands and wondering how the hell these killers and thieves smile so readily. As he guzzles sake and laughs with Lucky Roux, he feels farther away than ever. Memories are easier to hold close. Now you can only calculate the gulf between your understanding and his plans.

The sea between your feelings and his easy charm.

This must be what a cuckoo chick feels when it realizes it has the wrong feathers.

Cheering voices shake the tavern walls, and you sit among the merry-makers, pretending to enjoy yourself. But you know your voice would come out wrong if you joined in. There’s a reason you never fit the atmosphere aboard the Red Force. Even when they were trying to be kind, your comrades must’ve sensed something strange had hatched in their midst. An intruder in the crow’s nest, so to speak.

You sit, stewing in your own self-pity, taking the barest sips from your glass. You can’t afford to be drunk. Not tonight. Not after your conversation with Shanks.

Maybe things have never been easy between you and the Red Hair Pirates, but everything spiraled after you revealed yourself on a tide of rum and fatigue. Drinking is a solitary activity now. No way in hell will you make things worse. You still hope, a little desperately, for an amicable separation.

You spill your drink twice, fetching refills to keep up appearances.

That game ends when Beck joins you. He lands across the table, filling the corner where you settled with the excuse of eating away from flying elbows and table dancing. The stew smelled so appetizing every other time you passed the place, but you’re struggling to do it justice. Doesn’t help that it gets colder with every bite.

Still makes a marvelous diversion from Beckman, though.

Until he opens his big, stupid mouth.

“Hongo seen the wound yet?”

Which wound? The time you shot yourself with your own big, stupid mouth in his company or the bullet you caught during your year or isolation?

“No wound.” You shovel a spoonful in your mouth, buying a moment of peace. “Just a scar. And he’s threatened me with a thorough exam tomorrow.”

“Shame. Earned your first major scar of on your own.”

He makes it sound like your fault somehow, and that grates. Your tolerance is growing thin, and you haven’t spent more than ten minutes in each other’s company tonight.

It isn’t your fault they left you behind. As always.

It wasn’t your fault the Marines fucked up a good thing. As always.

It sure as hell wasn’t your fault that you got shot in one of the most chaotic battles you’d ever seen.

The world turned and you clung on where you could.

You wonder if Beckman even remembers what it’s like to have no one at his back, no ship to rely on.

He taps out a fresh cigarette. “Would’ve been an opportunity to celebrate.”

You laugh as he lights up, almost genuinely. “Like you’ve ever needed one.”

If the crew celebrated every first scar acquired on the sea, they’d never stop drinking. But maybe they do. It would explain some things.

“Hn. It will be good to have you back on the ship. Never enough good crew.”

“Oh please, we both know I’m average at best.”

“Do we?” Beckman didn’t take his eyes off his match. “Captain talk to you about his plan yet?”

Your spoon circles the bowl’s rim. The vibration shakes into your fingers as metal drags over rough crockery, but the men are too loud for you to hear the chime.

“We talked about a plan. Wasn’t really his.”

One more bite. Just to soak up the drip of booze you’ve choked down. Nothing’s ever as good as you hope these days, and you’re starting to wonder if it’s your own fault.

You push the meal away, hoping no one asks why there’s so much left. The folks behind the counter work hard, and you’d hate to insult a family recipe.

Beckman shakes out his match, and his cool eyes fix on you. For all the bodies in the room, his attention carves out a private space. You might as well be back on deck, drinking in the dark after they party’s over.

You lean back. Cross your arms.

“I do sometimes look up from the books, you know.”

If the Captain agrees to your plan, it will impact Benn’s role most. And you’re comfortable with him. He doesn’t ask for much. So long as you meet his expectations, he doesn’t demand a sunny smile and a performance. You’re grumpy bastards both, the eyes in the back, assessing and measuring. You don’t know what answers he’s looking for at your table in the corner, but you can guess a few questions.

“Shanks only brings aboard people who’ve already… become what they’re gonna be, I guess.” Just saying his name pushes your gaze to find him across the room.

It’s no wonder you fell in love. Doesn’t make you any less of a fool. “It’s why he doesn’t take on apprentices, I think. He knows he’d protect them. They’d get hurt. They’d have to, at some point, or they’d never push themselves. So, he always turns the young ones down.”

Benn doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t twitch. He blinks, slowly, like a cat, and a ribbon of smoke fades into the rafters. You look him in the eye.

“That’s how I know. I am what I am. Good at numbers. Entirely average in every other respect.”

“Tsk.” He looks away. Uses his boot to grind out an old cigarette that’s been cold on the floor since before you arrived. “You see the numbers, but you’ve put ‘em in the wrong places. A transcription error. Get out of your own way.”

Your arms cinch tighter around your chest, and the eye contact slips up and away. The rafters offer an escape. You study graffiti carved by a thousand daggers over endless decades by happy drunkards. Maybe they’re a map to sanity. A star chart of curses, confessions, and promises.

Are you even having the same conversation? It feels like everyone is pushing you to the brink of madness.

Nothing adds up anymore.

“You’re smart,” Beckman says. “And you’re strong.”

He kicks you under the table to reclaim your attention from the ceiling, and you jump, yelping. You regard him with a hint of shock. It’s minor violence, yeah, but it’s friendly violence. It’s a new level of engagement. The routine mandates sitting and snarking over more booze than you want to drink. Beckman isn’t the touchy sort.

The cigarette dips as he grins.

“Let yourself believe in something, girl.”

“I – I don’t – what?” Your tongue is too big for your mouth, and your teeth keep getting in the way.

Beckman glances away, and you follow his line of sight through the shouting, and the drinking, and the rowdy delight to your captain.

Shanks.

He’s in the middle of a story, slapping the bar for emphasis. Part of you wishes you could sneak closer. Hear his tall tales and measure them against his usual bullshit. Bask in his presence. But your overwhelming common sense tells you it would burn to sit beside him. Bonfires can catch.

Seas. He really is beautiful.

You remember who you are sitting beside.

The first mate chuckles, and your face burns.

Flailing to your seat, less graceful than most of the drunks, you cough up an excuse.

“I’m going for some air.”

Cigarette smoke chases you out the door, and you march away from the windows, turning the corner into an alley where you can breathe.

Fuck’s sake.

You press cold palms to your cheeks, horrified by the heat. Did your feelings show? Beckman clearly spied something to amuse himself with in your expression. Who else? How many witnesses to your shame would cackle at your expense in the morning? Maybe they’d just assume you stepped out to throw up. Because you had good manners, unlike the rest of them.

Not a bad thought, actually. You feel like hurling.

Night has settled over the town, and the locals are giving the pirates their space. Normal people have normal work to do in the morning, and even Shanks can’t chat the stars still. A breeze carries whispers of the sea into your hideaway, and you ache for the clean smell of deep water far from shore.

Your resolve cracks like an egg.

Slumping against the brick wall at your back, you accept your truth. It doesn’t even take half a bottle of rum this time.

You love Shanks. You crave life aboard the Red Force. The captain shared a taste of his world and instead of thanking him for the experience, you’ve gotten addicted. Demanding. It will never be enough. Given the chance, you’d die happy at sea, listening to the ship groan creaking lullabies.

You might die if they agree to your proposal.

If Shanks leaves you forever.

Even though that would be safest. That would be reasonable.

That would be good for the crew. For him.

“There you are.”

Think of the devil.

Shanks, framed in moonlight, invades your sanctuary. “Thought you might be sneaking off.”

You freeze. Your mind goes blank with the fear of being caught and the contrary urge to impress. Something spews out of your mouth, but you have no control over it.

“Just breathing.”

What a fucking stupid answer. Might as well tell him there was no air in the tavern when you noticed how his eyes sparkle when he laughs.

“Well.” He picks a spot on the wall across from you, mimicking your position. “Can’t have you stopping that, can we?”

An obligatory smile. You’ll give him whatever he commands, but there’s no joy here.

Believe in something.

Sure. Just like that. Drop all your defenses as you waited for the executioners’ spears.

Shanks smiles at nothing and glances towards the sky.

“Your thoughts aren’t too far from mine,” he says. “The old system needs adjustments. Can’t have you catching any more bullets with just your skin.” His eyes flick back to you, fixing you in place. You aren’t sure whether it’s your nerves or his haki.

“But we have very different ideas about your future with the crew.” His captain’s voice rings between the broken crates and empty barrels surrounding you. He’s found something he doesn’t like and he’s working out a solution, gearing up to state orders and fix his will on the future.

It’s a challenge. You rise to it.

“And what’s your great idea, then?” If he thinks he’s solved the equation better than you can, let him prove it.

“No more layovers. You stay on the Red Force like every other crewmate. The Den Den Mushi aren’t a bad idea, and I agree we’ll need new eyes and ears on shore, but your place onboard is essential.”

If people keep telling you things like that, you’ll start to believe it. You shake your head, knocking the warm fuzzies away before they rot your perspective like mold.

“I kind of doubt that. No offense.”

His eyebrows rise. “You think I’d have brought you on if I didn’t think you could cut it?”

“I mean,” you gesture broadly at the crew that isn’t there, “anyone can do the numbers with a little time and training.”

“Sorry to ruin your rosy view of the world, but they really can’t.” That captain voice is gone. He’s all smiles again. Teasing almost. Like he knows a secret and is watching you walk into a trap. “Not like you. Mathematics are strategy in your hands, and we need more of that. You have no idea how many times Building Snake complains when you aren’t around, or how often Lucky Roux moans about larder management. Your work touches everything.”

He leans forward, eyes glinting in the distant streetlights, and props his arm against the wall just over your head. Heat radiates from him and that stupid unbuttoned shirt he always wears. Can he feel the warmth curling out in answer from your own skin?

“And I agree with Lucky, by the way,” he croons. “You’re very scary.”

Your breath physically stutters. It’s entirely involuntary, and you bite your tongue, eyes wide as you struggle to read him. He still wants you on the crew. Alright. But what else?

Logic strains under the pressure of his regard.

You force yourself to breathe. Hopefully that will help you think. Unlikely, though, with the way Shank’s scent fills your head. It’s dizzying.

“It would still be a problem.” This isn’t reasoning. This is pleading.

His smile flicks to life, and like the helpless little moth you are, you prepare for it to scorch you.

“I don’t have a problem with it.”

One of his feet slides forward, not quite invading your space, but close. His toes linger in the gap between your feet, suggesting a path of navigation you know will take you past whirlpools and monsters.

He doesn’t get it. A quick pity fuck won’t fix this.

“It’s easy to ignore feelings you don’t have, Captain, but it would be a problem for me.” There’s nowhere to look but his eyes or his pecs, so you swallow your jagged anxiety and focus on his face. A strong twitch would bring you together, you’re that close. He deserves a punch. But that might just be an excuse to touch him. And you’d rather do that softly. Fuck.

“If we’re going to talk about it, then let’s get to the point.” There isn’t much space to draw yourself up, but you try, and you don’t miss the way his lips twitch. You want it to make you angry, but the rage just won’t kindle. “I caught feelings. That’s my fault, and you’ve been more than gracious about it, but I meant what I said, and if the best thing for the crew – for you – is to peel off, that’s what I’m going to do.”

That’s it. You’ve said your piece. Now he can make his move as captain. Chide you. Dismiss you. Laugh. Your eyes shut, and you brace for words you don’t want to hear. If he’d just cooperated with your plan and let you distance yourself, maybe you could’ve –

Hair whispers over your face, and Shanks’ temple presses to yours.

Your eyes pop open. He’s right there. Right here. He wasn’t supposed to come closer.

He chuffs, and his breath rolls down your collar.

“So stupid.”

He kisses your forehead as you stand dumb and amazed.

The…fuck?

What?

His little chortle cracks into a hearty laugh, but it isn’t mockery or a mere diversion from your shame. He laughs all the time, for all kinds of reasons. But this one’s real. His shoulders shake with it.

“So smart. But so stupid.”

There must be a proper response to this. But it feels like your first meeting all over again. Your decisions have been upended, and it’s all his fault.

But it’s a good thing. Isn’t it? Wasn’t it even back then, when he arguably ruined your life and turned you into a pirate?

It isn’t bad.

But it can’t be real.

Even though he’s filling your senses, and you’d never dare hope for something like this, let alone imagine it.

But –

Cigarette smoke wafts down the alley with Beckman’s shadow as he turns the corner. “You both are. Makes you well suited.”

The glowing tip of his cigarette is shockingly grounding. The bright red is familiar. It isn’t the romantic, pale moonlight or the dim yellow streetlights that cast everything in chiaroscuro. That’s really Beckman. This is really happening.

Your soul and mind slam back into your body with the violence of a shipwreck. Your defenses splinter, and it feels like your whole chest cracks open to put your heart on display, leave it pulsing and naked for a careless pirate’s strike.

Oh, holy shit.

You have absolutely no idea what your expression is doing at the moment, but Shanks leans even further in, letting his cloak block you from his first mate’s view. His lips hover by your ear.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Do you trust me?”

Trust. Beyond his role as captain. Shanks the man. Shanks the man who said he doesn’t have a problem with your feelings. Shanks the man who doesn’t have a problem with your feelings and dropped a kiss on your head while crowding you against the wall in a dark alley.

Simple answer, really.

“I guess I do.”

He pulls back and grins like a gods damned shark.

“All I needed to hear.”

For the second time that night, he rips the ground from under your feet and flips your world on its head.

Fairly literally, this time.

Between one fluttering heartbeat and the next, he’s ducked, thrown you over his right shoulder and launched out of the alley. Straight into the air. Wind rips tears from your eyes, and your hair stings where it lashes against your skin.

Backman and the tavern shrink below, and gravity yanks on your stomach.

“Shanks!”

His laughter rumbles through his shoulder into your belly. He must’ve been expecting to sacrifice an eardrum to your shriek, and whatever he’s getting from this must be worth it. To him at least.

You’ve only seen him sky walk once or twice, one of many abilities he stores under good humor in case of bad weather. Since the Red Force practically demands fair weather by its very presence, you haven’t seen him break out the weatherproofing often.

Nails sinking into his cloak, your mind blanks on adrenaline. There are no equations in freefall.

Just as you begin to lose altitude, he steps again, and you howl, trying to sink into the man’s flesh. You’re like a cat frantically trying to cling to a human raft.

He touches down on the deck of his command ship, and you can’t unlock your knuckles from where they’ve knotted into his clothes. Just as well, because he doesn’t take his arm from around your knees. A few steps bring him to the captain’s quarters. A kick opens the door. A second kick closes it. And then – finally – he helps you slide down from his shoulder.

Your legs are boneless. You refuse to let go. Your dignity hangs by the thread count of his clothing.

“I thought you trusted me?”

Looking up, you meet his shit-eating grin, and you pant in lingering terror and growing rage. “Fuck you, Shanks.”

He’s practically glowing, he’s so happy. Cackling in glee, he falls back into a wide chair, pulling you to sit across his lap, your back supported by his remaining arm.

Shaking the hair from his eyes, he beams at you. Like you’re finally in on the joke.

“I think I need to keep you closer. Hard to take care of me from so far away, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He isn’t wrong. The distance between you swelled like an ulcer, a terrible little fear you couldn’t help worrying as you scanned the newspapers and bounty posters for an update. For proof he was alright. Safe. Well.

But as the ringing fades from your ears and you take stock of where you’re sitting, you’re afraid to add up the final sum.

“Captain – Shanks.” You catch yourself. His hand rests on your knee, and because you have no idea where to put yours, you clutch one fist to your chest and let the other settle over his wrist.

What is happening? A black and white answer is all you want. You can set a course if you can just find the difference between north and south.

“What is this?”

His nose traces your jaw, and you turn into the contact as eager butterflies cannibalize the anxious moths banging around in your gut.

“What do you think?” He’s lured you close enough, and he steals a kiss. A satin brush of desire that conjures a sigh from his chest. Warm eyes find yours as they blink open, like sunset at sea. “It was never your problem. It’s my fucking problem, too.”

Whether or not he’s lying, there’s only one good response to that.

You know what to do with your hands now.

Taking his jaw, you pull him into another kiss. A proper one that delivers on all the restrained promise of the first. His grip rises to your waist, pulling you into his chest as his lips tattoo his feelings over yours. You’re far from a blank page, but you doubt you’ll ever be able to read old notes under the bold script he prints.

He pulls back to breathe, and he smiles under the little pecks you pepper over his face. Skilled fingers explore everything he can reach, and you know you’ve gotten too close to the bonfire. You’re starting to melt.

“I didn’t mean to leave you for so long,” he murmurs.

When his hand wanders over your chest, firm enough to spark every nerve to life, your head falls back, and he takes advantage. He mouths along your neck, around your ear as he continues.

“At first, I wanted to prove to myself that I could be good, that I wouldn’t take advantage of you. Be a responsible captain.”

He squeezes a breast, and the jolt rushes down your spine, trapping itself between your legs. Red hair twists between your fingers as you desperately explore him in return. He’s too busy talking and tasting to kiss.

“Wanted to give you room to breathe. To come to your senses.”

The wandering hand drifts. Smoothing over your sternum and down your belly, spreading over your trousers’ fastening.  

“But then one thing led to another, and Beck handed me your bounty poster.”

It shouldn’t surprise you that Shanks has a motormouth, even as a lover. His words touch as skillfully as his hand, though, and you’re drunker than you’ve ever been on rum. He doesn’t have to be good. Whatever he wants, he can have. You’ve been a cold pile of kindling for an age. He’s set you blazing to match his heat.  

His touch lingers on the buttons, and you kiss whatever parts of him you can reach. The crown of his head. His temple. You map his shoulders with curious fingertips, pushing under the collar of his loose shirt. He listens to your cues.

The first button pops free.

“I have no doubt you could go out on your own.”

The second button.

He slips his hand under your knee, pulling your leg to straddle him, your back to his chest.

“Make a name for yourself as a pirate. Terrify the world with your numbers and your revolver. But I couldn’t bring myself to be happy for you if you did.”

Back up your thigh, over your hip. He lets you simmer, anticipating his next move. Even as he finally moves under your clothes, he pauses short of the goal, and you whimper. Your head rests against his shoulder, allowing him every piece of you he desires, and he nips your earlobe.

Drunk off him as you are, he wants you to hear every word that comes next.

“I want you to be my pirate.”

Calloused fingertips creep between your folds, and you immediately roll your hips, chasing him the way you’ve wanted to for so long.

He grazes your clit in passing, and your back arches. “I am. I’ve always been yours, you idiot. Please, Shanks!”

Boyish giggles trail over your flesh as he finally touches you, strokes you, finds the proof of your unquenchable infatuation. He hums, beyond happy with himself and the task in hand.

“Poor thing. Have you been aching for me like this all year?”

You gather enough breath to pant, “Longer.”

He croons and licks the first dew of sweat blooming along your throat.

“Poor little pirate.”

Quick circles over your most sensitive spot push you staggering towards the precipice in record time. You’ve never gotten yourself off so fast. No partner has ever managed it, that’s for fucking sure.

But it’s him.

And he’s holding you, and all but purring as you flutter and jerk against him, and you want to…

One finger pushes in, and you buck, crying out. You’re still riding the cliff’s edge, and you aren’t sure if this is better or if you’re going to give him another scar for abandoning your clit. You whine, and the finger pulls back. It returns with a friend at a fresh angle that grinds his palm exactly where it belongs.

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

He searches, stretching you as he goes. When he finds what he’s looking for, your eyes all but roll back into your head. The both of you groan as you clench. He shoves you over the border, and you lose yourself. The orgasm rips your mind away, and you float, convinced you’d drift to the ceiling if he wasn’t holding you. Wasn’t still knuckle-deep, drawing out the fall.

By the time you settle back into your own skin, your toes and the tips of your fingers are tingling. He removes his hand and it only makes you want to cry a little.

Until he brings it to his lips. Sucks his fingers clean. Winks as you stare.

“To the bed?” He isn’t even trying to hide how excited he is. You can feel him, long and hard under your thigh, but the roguish glee in his eyes reveals more.

Once you’re in that bed, he won’t be letting you up for the rest of the night.

“Just a minute.” You pet his face, almost slurring as you explain. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Mn. Take your time then.” He nuzzles into your neck, and without the distraction of his fingers curling inside you, it tickles. A lot. His stubbly little beard rubs into your flesh, and you realize he’s doing it on purpose when you flinch and the hand resting over your belly squeezes. He draws his cheek over the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“Hmm? Something wrong?”

“N-no.” Fuck that. You can win this game. Even though you’re already biting your lip to keep the giggles locked in.

His whiskers move down your neck as he aggressively cuddles into the tender skin, hunting for the spot that will break your resolve. He finds it in the gap between shoulder and neck. Laughter tears out of you, and the hand on your belly dances to your side, setting you writhing on Shanks’ lap.

“Alright! Alright!” You go to stand, but his arm keeps you pinned.

“Thought you needed to catch your breath?” He doesn’t move away from your neck as he speaks, using his lips and breath to continue your torment.

“I yield,” you gasp. Tears gather in your eyes as you wriggle, trying to push your way free. “Let me go.”

The tickling fingers smooth flat again, and he stops attacking your neck. Only to place a chaste kiss there. “Never.”

But he does, letting you rise, sliding his grip down to hold your hand. He looks up at you, his heart in his eyes, and everything inside goes still.

It’s like sailing through a Calm Belt after passing through a storm. It’s the same ocean, but everything looks different.

Right.

This is it.

Safely at anchor, the ship barely moves, but there’s always that subtle sway that keeps the light moving. Your sea legs find it a thousand times firmer than shore. A dance that lulls and leaps. Home and heart.

His thumb rolls over your fingers.

Here’s the solution to the equations that never quite fit.

The solution brings your knuckles to his lips for a kiss, holding your gaze until you blink back to yourself.

“Take off some of those layers for me.” He’s all suggestion, in every sense, and nodding, you step back, letting your fingertips slide free of his hold.

You have no idea how to perform a striptease without making yourself ridiculous, so you stay practical. His attention keeps you safe, and you don’t look away as you shed your jacket, pull off your boots, tug away your socks. When your hands drift to your trousers, still unbuttoned from Shanks’ good work, his eyes dip to follow. The fabric falls, and his tongue runs over his lower lip, almost like he’s caught in thought. But his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide when he meets your eyes again, and you doubt there’s anything left in his head besides visions of what he’s about to do to you.

You begin working on your shirt buttons, and he stands. His shirt pulls smoothly over his head, a feat he performs gracefully even with a single arm, and your fingers shake, stumbling in their task as you appreciate the view. Golden skin and a warrior’s build. It isn’t even the first time you’ve seen him shirtless. Damn.

He basks under your appraisal, shaking back his hair and leaning his hips forward so there’s no mistaking his interest as he unbuckles his belt.

It dawns on you, as you struggle with your buttons, eyes lingering over inappropriate places, that it has been a very long time since you got this far. Romantically. With a man who’s clearly well endowed.

Math can be a cruel mistress. Even if physics isn’t your specialty, you understand some things about pegs and holes. Laws of volume and stretch. That sort of thing.

“Stop calculating.” He’s caught you. As usual. And he’s laughing you both past any anxiety. Easy as a strong wind under blue skies. “I can feel those damn numbers stealing your attention from me, and I’m a greedy, greedy pirate. I need it all.”

Your own grin catches, spreads.

A greedy pirate you can trust. Do trust.

Equations be damned. Shanks has always found a way to get what he wants, and you know he wants your pleasure as much as you want his.

He kicks off his sandals as he swaggers up to you and pulls you tight, banishing your calculations and concerns with a kiss. When his tongue begs entrance, you oblige, hurrying to meet him, eager to feel and touch and play in thrilling new ways.

You find the bed together. Or it finds you. Maybe, like Beckman, it has some secret understanding with the captain. A conspiracy to place you somewhere soft and vulnerable. Regardless, you fall back, never leaving your lover’s embrace.

Shanks is more than happy to finish with your shirt, making a show of slipping each loop free with his one hand. Everything else comes off in a rush. The man’s an octopus, groping, squeezing, and surrounding you like he has twice as many limbs as most men.

He has you on your back, bare, one leg hoisted over his shoulder. As he takes his time coating himself in your slick, a moment of clarity breaks through the crush of sensation.

“I really do want to take care of you.”

There’s no pause. He lets your words soak in, rumbling in satisfaction as he slowly breaches your entrance. He falls forward to rest on his forearm, covering you as he rocks in and out, creeping deeper like an incoming tide.

“Oh, you are. You’re taking such good care of me.”

He seals any further complaints away with a kiss, moaning and lapping into your mouth. There’s too much to parse into individual feelings. You’re so full, and he’s so warm. Pleasure thrums through you, and everything tangles into the press of bodies, the unspeakable intimacy of the act.

Some unknown time later, when you sneak a breath and a thought, you gasp, “Not fair.”

Wicked laughter answers, and he pushes deep, grinding up against your clit to chase away any idea of the world beyond how good he feels.

 “I’m your captain. Nothing about this is fair.” He bites your lip and moves faster, gleefully driving you to the brink of insanity once again.

Your body delights in his, and it fights to keep him as resolutely as your mind tried to escape. Every time you flutter and clench around him, his eyelashes flutter over his cheeks. The muscles over his back roll under your grip.

It’s strange and wonderful. A day ago, you expected him to abandon you to your sensible plans. Now, well, it’s a whole new world, isn’t it?

Whispers of his name pick loose strings from his control.

When you crash through your orgasm, burying your scream in his shoulder, he pounds you through it. His mouth moves, full of words he’s beyond articulating, and a groan from the depths of his soul shakes through the both of you as finds his own release.

He falls beside you, hair damp with sweat, meeting your pleasure-numbed eyes with a lazy smile.

“C’mere.”

His arm loops around you, pulls you back to his chest, and the afterglow hums over you like music.

Distant voices remind you of the crew outside Shanks’ quarters.

“I hope you know,” he mumbles, “you don’t have to worry about finding a spare hammock below decks ever again.”

He snuggles into your neck, and you stroke the arm anchoring you.

This dickhead.

How many crewmates saw the captain’s little show? How many put the pieces together after you both disappeared? How many heard you chanting his name?

Gods. You’ll have to find some energy to worry about that tomorrow.

Might be a good reason to get drunk, actually.

[twijaxx]

Kaiser who already has a tattoo on his arm, so why not get some piercings as well? At first it was just his lobes, as soon as they healed he switched the jewelry for some nice black one cause he thought the silver didn’t quite suited him. Then he got double helix’s on right ear, he really liked how industrial looked so he got it pierced on his left ear, but now it was kind of symmetrical so he got his conch and rook done on right eat.

But as soon as his ears looked just how he liked, something started to feel off on his face, so he got his eyebrow pierced and then he asked Ness to do his nostril, but he didn’t like it so he took it off.

Some time passed and Kaiser meet you, you two started dating and then some random night you two where cuddling. You were watching tiktok but not some random videos on your fyp, nooo it was tongue piercing videos, and Kaiser wanted one for a really long time.

“Hey Micha you do have a lot of piercings, why don’t you get your tongue pierced?”

And that was his last straw-

“yk what? sure! i’m gonna make a appointment and get it pierced as soon as i can, anything for my Schatz after all”

“ahhh! i love you so muchhh!!” you said as you put your phone down, now watching what he was doing on his one.

The appointment was scheduled for next week, he was really excited but he needed to stay nonchalant and act unbothered so you won’t tease him.

Now it was almost two weeks after he got it pierced, he couldn’t eat solid food cause his tongue got very swollen and he talked funny because of it but most of all you missed kissing him (he missed it too but he missed his cig as well) so as soon as his tongue went back to normal and it didn’t hurt that much he had full make out session with…your cunt?

“hah.. the cold metal ball feels nice right?? i bet it does.. fuck- you taste so good i missed this pussy so much”

“mmm!! micha!~ i-i’m gonna!”

“shit- maybe you will get a tongue piercing too hmm?? so when you give me head i can feel as good as you do rn”

HAPPY BDAY KAISERRRR!!! HAPPY KAISER DAYY!!!!

[irndad]

Christmas Wrapping- a.h.

a/n: i'm back and this is sad (no, really, it's a sad christmas fic. merry crisis!! also writing this made me think of @hotchfiles lol- lari i hope u like it <3 summary: 2 years ago, hotch broke up with a lovely but eccentric woman, and is thinking about this while attending a christmas party.

It’s Christmas, and it’s New York, and Aaron doesn’t want to be here. 

He always feels guilty when he misses Christmases with Jack, and it’s painful to admit that it’s happened more than once. He’d been understanding, but Jack is almost ten now, and the resentment in his voice is subtle, but sometimes Aaron could swear he could hear Haley’s voice in it. 

This dinner wasn’t optional- a director that was above him mentioned that if he wanted his career to advance, he couldn’t afford not to attend events like tonight. Which as far as thiny veiled threats go, is one of the lease concealed ones he’s received in a good bit. 

New York always makes him think of her. Even though their relationship ended two years prior, she sticks in his mind like a song, the melody never quite getting to be grating. She’d loved being called his girlfriend, and Aaron had loved the way she loved it. She was younger than him, by a little over a half-decade. But still, she’d worn it better than he had. He still remembers the sight of her, meeting him at his office (never inside, lest the team tease him endlessly), in her green shoes and multicolored scarf, hair in a clip that had been lazily thrown up, and a smile that dazzled him. 

“Are you ready, Mr. Hotchner?” he remembers her saying, on the other side of a memory lit in warm, glowy lights. 

“I don’t think I can endorse whatever you have planned for me.” He’d replied back in jest at the time. 

The walk from his hotel to the host of the party’s home is cold. He think it might be colder in Quantico, but his memory feels colder and seeps into his bones. 

He might’ve married her, Aaron muses to himself. It all feels so silly to think about. But she was hard not to think about when she was his to ponder over, and she sticks in the back of his mind even after he had made he decision not to. 

She’d been generous with him, the entirety of it all. Gentle with him when he mentioned that he wasn’t ready to tell the team, even if she’d known that he hadn’t waited eight months with Beth. More than that, she was beautiful. not just in her appearance, which was lovely in and of itself, but in how she carried herself. Warm, and kind- Jack would’ve loved her. 

He thinks of her laugh, how she’d picked off all of the salmon roe on their fancy 5 month anniversary dinner, and eaten the meal without it- how she booked Amtraks to visit family, because it gave her more time to read on the way, and no one would make her drive once she got there. How she traced hearts into his wrist when  she could tell he was anxious, read him like a book he never gave anyone permission to see. Loving her was a pleasure, an indulgment. An expensive wine sipped with leisure. 

A honk of a cab shakes him out of his memories, but it doesn’t stick. She’d loved Brooklyn, loud cabs and overpriced brownstones all the same. Sometimes, when doing monotonous paperwork, he’d fantasize about buying her one, a new home in her dream city, Jack and maybe a sister. 

The way it had fallen apart was one of the least proud moments of his life. Because she was different- not polished, or withdrawn in how she carried herself. It was what made her a pleasure to know- she smiled with her whole face, hugged people like she knew they might need it, wore her favorite colors because she wanted to see them whenever she passed a mirror. And he was a behavior analyst. 

“Could I meet your friends?” he’d frozen, when he’d heard it. Her voice was soft, like she was nervous. “I know you were wanting to wait, but you know- you’ve met my graduate school friends. They were thoroughly impressed.”

He didn’t feel impressive to them, and he suspects she might be being kind in this moment. 

“I just think you wouldn’t like them, honey.” He feels rotten lying to her, but the idea of it- of the team knowing that she is the person he loves- it feels like a magnifying glass under the sun. 

“I find that hard to believe, Aaron. And either way, I’m telling you, it would mean the world to me to know them.” 

He’d been backed into a corner, he’ll tell himself, later. This will be a lie, and it’ll be a lie he knows, even as he tells himself it. 

“I just think we shouldn’t do that until we’re sure about eachother.”

The silence that had followed felt chasms wide. She’d been silent in front of him before- when he’d come to her apartment too tired to speak but still needing to be held, and she’d lit a candle and massaged his hands, easing the carpal tunnel from writing paperwork. Or when she held his hand waiting for Jack’s results, when he’d gotten a fever they hadn’t been able to shake. This silence was different. Long and dissapointed, and Aaron felt like he couldn’t breathe under the shame of it. He watched her wipe a single tear from her eye, and grab her novel that had been sitting on his coffee table for the last six months. 

“I can’t make you sure about me, Aaron. I don’t really want to try.” 

It had ended like that. Reminiscing on the whole affair had made the walk feel short, although he could feel a tear welling in his eyes. His body knew her absence, and still does. Even now, walking to this party he doesn’t want to go to, he imagines what it would be like to have the shape of her pressed into the side of it. 

Aaron thinks to himself, before buzzing into the building, that he wasn’t ashamed of her. He’d wondered since the end of the first relationship he’d felt held in, if he left it because he was ashamed. But he wasn’t. He was unwilling to submit to the plain, unmediated joy of her touch. 

He was almost done ruminating on this, until he knocked on the door, and there she was. 

Aaron- he almost wonders if he’s hallucinating, because there she is. And she’s fucking gorgeous. She always is, but she’s so lovely tonight. Maybe it’s the fact he hasn’t seen her in so long, or maybe it’s just that she is that lovely, but the warm light of the party and Christmas Wrapping playing in the background- she looks like vision plucked from a movie. 

She’d kissed him at midnight to this song, once. 

Now, she’s beaming at him, opening her door to welcome him as a stranger into a party. 

“Aaron! Is that you?” it’s a physiological response, the jump in his chest, when she says his name. “My god, it’s so good to see your face!” 

She hugs him, and she still wears the same perfume. Her arms are warm and her face is in his chest, and even though it’s less intimate than all the ways she’s held him before, it feels kind. 

“It’s so good to see you too- what are you doing here?”

It’s a blunt question, but she doesn’t seem to mind, as she ushers him into home. It’s a family apartment, old-school and clearly well-loved.

“My husband liasons with the FBI, actually! His boss said they needed a get-together space, and so we offered up our apartment. It’s cute, right?” she’d walked him right up to a man, wrapped her arms around his middle, before turning back to Hotch. “Peter, honey, this is my old friend, Aaron Hotchner! He works for the BAU.”

Husband. She has a husband. She is a beautiful woman, who he has had the honor to love, to run through the rain while laughing with, who is known and seen and loved by someone else. Hotch takes a look at her, really drinks in the sight. She’s got on a green sweater, new- he can tell by the shape of it. Earrings that seem like they’re gifts, and her hair’s pinned up lazily despite the occasion. 

She looks happy. 

“Oh hey! I’ve heard so much about you- I’m glad you were able to come!”

Peter has a wedding band on hsi left wrist, and Aaron can’t help but analyze him. He’s wearing an ill-fitting dress shirt and slacks, and Hotch thinks he might not have had too much choice in hosting. Owning real-estate is uncommon in New york, and your boss knowing you have a place to use might have been enough to strong arm him into using it. it’s a relative’s clothes, and it’s casual in a way that would suggest ease and friendless. An arm rests on the small of his wife’s waist. 

The whole rest of the night is a blur. Jealousy doesn’t feel like the right word for it- it feels uncanny, to see her so open and warm with a man who so unashamadly loves her. There’s engagement photos on the walls, and Aaron studies them like he’ll be tested. Maybe he’s testing himself. They’re not real photos, just a photobooth they’d gone too, her ring in the foreground of all of them. Peter is a wiry, thin, dark-haired brown-eyed man who is younger than Aaron, and a year older than her. 

He hears someone say they met in high school, and Hotch dimly wonders if he ever had a shot with her. He thinks this, while looking at a photo of the two of them at prom together (but not together). It’s self-comfort, he knows. Because she’d asked him, to take her seriously. 

She’s drinking grape juice, instead of champagne. Aaron thinks he knows why, from the way she runs a gentle hand over her stomach when she thinks no one’s looking, and how Peter’s eyes are always trained on her midsection.

He wishes he didn’t know how to be this observant. 

When the night ends, and Aaron comes back to Quantico, and people asks him how the party went, Aaron tells them it went well, and says that he saw an old friend who he’d missed a great deal out there. 

He figured it’s probably better to admit to loving her in some way, at some point. Even if it’s far, far too late. 

[witchywithwhiskey]

first christmas with trucker jake jensen

pairing: trucker!jake jensen x former sex worker!female reader

summary: jake makes your first christmas together special by surprising you with some christmas decorations and asking for your help decorating his tree, which brings the two of you closer in new ways.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, painful childhood memories, some angst/crying, fluff, jake jensen is a christmas menace

word count: 1.7k

a/n: based on this ask from @veltana: Are trucker Ari's and trucker Jake's readers gonna decorate the rigs for the holidays? i wasn't going to write a lot, but, uh, well i did so i hope y'all enjoy some christmas fluff/smut/angst with trucker Jake!! i really enjoyed digging into his and reader's backstories!

dirty filthy truckers universe masterlist

Ok so here’s the thing: trucker Jake Jensen LOVES Christmas. (Honestly, you’d be hard-pressed to convince me this isn’t true to canon Jake Jensen—he just seems like the kind of guy who’d love Christmas!) 

I imagine Jake didn’t have the best childhood. Maybe he had some really magical Christmases when he was very little, but then his parents became absent or they died when he was still pretty young, or a mixture of the two. His parents not being around is why he’s so close to his sister and niece, and why family is important to him.

But I digress. The point is, I think Jake had a lot of lackluster Christmases, and he realized that if he wanted Christmas cheer in his life, he was going to have to be the one to make it. And boy does he.

Now, I should also mention that I think Jake’s reader had a similar childhood experience. You grew up with cold, sparse Christmases—maybe your parent/parents would get a tree but it was fake and pre-lit and they’d only decorate it with generic decorations. 

All the homemade ornaments you brought home from school might’ve been hung up on the tree that year, but your parents would toss them when putting everything away and you’d have to dig them out of the trash. Eventually, you stopped giving them to your parents and kept them in a shoebox under your bed. You’ve kept the box, but never hung them up.

Unlike Jake, you stuck with what was comfortable because it was what you’d always known, so you weren’t very big on decorating for Christmas. Most years, you wouldn’t even get a tree. 

You’d always figure you’d get one when you got a day off from Diesel Dolls, but then you’d spend your days off relaxing and not wanting to go through the process of getting a tree, lugging it back to your apartment alone, and then decorating it. 

All this is to say, you’re not the type to even think about asking Jake if you can decorate the inside of his rig for the holidays. But that’s ok, because he’s way ahead of you.

Early in November—so early, you’re not even thinking about Christmas yet—Jake gets a motel room for the night. This isn’t out of the ordinary, he likes to get a room when the both of you are craving a shower and some sex in a real bed.

That night, Jake fucks you to sleep. Literally. He makes you come so much, you pass out and are snoring softly before he can even grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom to clean you up. 

Jake watches you sleep for a little while (it’s cute, not creepy, I swear), but when he tries to doze off himself, he can’t. He’s heard the stories about your austere childhood Christmases and he’s determined to bring you some Christmas magic.

So while you sleep, he pulls out the boxes and boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations he keeps in the storage of his rig. He spends all night stringing lights and hanging garlands and other decorations until the front seats and the bunk in the back are so stuffed, there’s barely room to sit, let alone move around.

It’s all worth it for the expression on your face when you see what he’s done, though. The way your eyes light up with surprise and delight and even a touch of wonder. It’s more Christmas than you’ve ever seen before crammed into the small space of his rig and you… love it. 

You love it more than you ever thought possible and you’re speechless as you climb up into the rig and flop into the driver’s seat, your eyes greedily looking around at all the decorations while your mouth hangs open in surprise. 

There’s even a little plastic Christmas tree fixed to the dashboard, tiny little lights twinkling. It’s all so perfect, so wonderful, that you don’t know what to say.

“Do you… like it?” Jake asks tentatively, his hands on either side of the open door, one foot on the step up into the rig, while he watches you taking it all in. He thought he’d read you right, that you’d enjoy some Christmas cheer, but he’s beginning to worry he’d been wrong.

Unable to find the words for how you feel, you turn back to Jake with tears in your eyes and you practically tackle him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you kiss him hard. He stumbles back a step into the parking lot of the motel, his arms bracing you against his chest while he kisses you back.

Jake turns to walk you backward into the motel room, but you make a sound of protest. Kissing his stupidly handsome face—including the goatee you love so much—and knocking his glasses a little askew, you drag him back into the rig, impatiently waiting while he closes and locks the door behind you. Then you haul him into the bunk in the back until he covers your body with his own.

Quickly, the two of you tear your clothes off, and when Jake slides inside you, filling you up perfectly the way that only he can, you feel like your heart grows two sizes. You’re so happy, tears slip from your eyes and slide down your temples into your hair while Jake coos at you and kisses the tears from your skin. 

“Don’t cry, kitten, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs in your ear, his hips working you open with his cock until you’re moaning more than you’re crying. You can’t even find the words to tell him they’re happy tears, you just cling to him and hold him tight in your arms.

Jake fucks you slow and sweet in his rig while you’re surrounded by a ridiculous amount of Christmas decorations—so much that when Jake hikes your thigh up around his hip, you accidentally kick some loose. But Jake doesn’t care enough to stop, filling you over and over again in a steady rhythm that drives you wild, pleasure coiling in your core.

He makes you come while a fallen garland tangles around your entwined legs, the snowflakes he’s hung from the ceiling swaying with the force of his thrusting. And then he tumbles over the edge after you, filling you up with his come and holding you close as you catch your breath together.

You laugh at the mess the two of you have made of his decorations and he chuckles right along with you, telling you he’ll fix them before you get back on the road. You snuggle into him and thank him for the early Christmas present.

But you have no idea what else Jake has in store for you because, like I said, he LOVES Christmas.

I imagine Jake has a house somewhere deep in the Rocky Mountains, high enough that there’s guaranteed to be snow at Christmas. It’s so remote, in fact, that there wouldn’t be any service or cable if not for the robust satellite setup he has. 

Your first Christmas together, he takes you to his house and pulls the same trick he did with the truck rig, where he decorates the house to the max while you’re asleep. (It isn’t uncommon for Jake to go a couple days without sleeping. He used to be in the military and it fucked with his ability to maintain a normal routine, which is why he enjoys the freedom that comes with being a trucker.) 

The only thing Jake leaves undecorated is the tree. It’s a fresh pine he had shipped to his house, and set up in the massive living room, the tall tree taking up an entire corner by itself.

Jake makes you some coffee while you look at the decorations he’s put up and then you sit on the couch sipping it while he strings the lights on the tree. He’s focused and methodical while he works, and you can’t help but get a little turned on by the cute, determined expression on his face and the way his biceps bulge and flex.

But when he’s done, the heat that had been simmering in your core is extinguished because Jake pulls out a shoebox that looks far too familiar, and it brings up far too many painful memories. 

Jake sits down beside you, his head hanging a little like a guilty puppy while he tells you he pilfered it from your apartment the last time he was there. He catches your eye and you see the earnestness in his gaze when he asks you to tell him about all the ornaments.

When you hesitate—because you’re not sure whether to be mad at Jake for going through your things or to love him even more for remembering that you’d kep the ornaments—he pulls you into his lap and kisses your forehead.

“I want to know all of you, kitten,” he says gently, tipping your face toward his so he can look into your eyes. “Even the bad parts—especially the bad parts. I want to hear about all your bad Christmas memories so I can replace them with good ones.”

By the time he’s done talking, your eyes are misty with tears and you nod, leaning in for a kiss before you take a deep, steadying breath. It helps that Jake’s arms are big and strong, his chest firm as you lean into him. Then, you open the box.

Jake listens patiently while you pull out each ornament and tell him what you remember about it, the Christmas memories you associate with it. It’s a long, difficult process, but when you’re done, you feel inexplicably lighter. 

When you look to Jake, to see his reaction, you find him with red-rimmed eyes, like he cried while you told him about your childhood Christmases. But before you can ask him about it, he captures your lips in the softest, sweetest kiss you’ve ever felt. Once he pulls away, he helps you up from the couch and, together, you hang the ornaments on the tree.

Then you spend the rest of the morning hanging up all of Jake’s tree ornaments—of which there are many—and he tells you stories about his sister and his niece. By the time you’re done, you feel filled up with Christmas cheer and you drag Jake back down onto the couch.

There, under the lights of the Christmas tree and all the decorations overflowing his mountain home, you kiss your trucker prince charming and show him how happy you are to be spending the holiday with him.

dirty filthy truckers universe masterlist

[shashapato]

Nevermore High School AU

For @cerealman ‘s 🤫🤫🤫🤫…secret santa present…😱🤫😬

(Merry Christmas!!!! Hoping this will make your day!!!)

HIGH SCHOOL AU

Lenore is a huge chemistry lover. She and Duke would be neutralising acids and bases at the back of the classroom then betting a ridiculous amount of money that the other won’t drink it. (Pluto has just given up stopping them and just began quietly handing Duke whatever he needs while half-listening to the lecture half-trying to make sure his friends don’t die.)

The misfits (COUGH COUGH Lenore COUGH) have probably set a fire by accident while teasing each other. 🥰 They all got in trouble.

Berenice wants to see blood under the microscope, but uhhhh, no one wants her cutting herself (or someone else).

Eulalie refuses to do dissections. FROGS ARE FRIENDS.

Prospero and Annabel make the BEST notes and Ada is begging for them at the end of class. (Annie gives it, of course.)

Will takes notes for Monty, and when desperate, Ada asks (DEMANDS) for them. (Will says no. 🥰)

No, but Prospero would wash his hands maybe ten times when in the lab, whether it’s touching chemicals or organs or anything. (Germaphobia, yes. 😭)

Montresor is OBSESSED with dissections. He finds it super fascinating and of course, loves feeling mushy organs and blood on his hands. (When Prospero is paired with him, he forces Monty to wash his hands.)

Dodgeball when it’s boys vs girls, Lenore is protecting all the shy unathletic girls from getting hit, becoming a sort of ‘saviour’. All of them fall heads over heels for her. 😔

Berenice and Lenore are the power duo.

Duke and Pluto WISHES they could be half as good bruh.

Eulalie looks like she’s unathletic, but she is FAST.

Annabel insists she shouldn’t play dodgeball because her nails will get in the way. (She tosses a ball at Monty’s head later for being misogynistic about that.)

Ada in PE is WILD. She and Will are the most competitive unathletic goblins ever. While Will uses his thin stature to sneak around opponents, Ada straight up tackles him, using the excuse “Oh, but we’re playing football, aren’t we?” “Not American football, god’s sake!!!”

I’m sorry, but Monty playing football (idc which football) AHHHHHH. He and Will joined the school team together of course. (William Wilson only joined to be in the changing room with Monty.)

Morella is Ada’s personal shield, because Ada has ZERO awareness of her surroundings when she’s focused. Morella has to run and block balls from hitting her.

Annabel in English class writing ramblings about how much she loves Lenore, but plays it off as only ‘fiction’. (I’ve done that once, IT WORKS!!!)

Lenore takes French so she could communicate with Duke in secret. Pluto attempted to, but backed out after a few failed exams.

Pluto now takes Japanese and Eulalie is his tutor. 😔

Monty is the kind to refuse to learn any language other than English, because it’s the ‘superior language’. (He takes German lol, I can see him speaking German...but like he knows only random words and shouts them to feel smart.)

Ada sucks at foreign languages, but thinks she is fluent. She’s the student that yells out answers with the strangest accent. 😭

Ada and Monty are the couple that’s ALWAYS kissing, but they broke up like ten times then got back together so everyone’s just confused.

Annabel and Lenore pass notes in class and when asked to read it out, Lenore EATS THE PAPER.

Poor Will tries to make friends and always fail.

Duke and Pluto are the gayest ‘straight guys’. (People assume they’re straight, but… 👀)

Eulalie is the weird kid that when you get to know becomes your best friend.

Merry and Mourn are kind of the weird teachers. 😭 They give you detention for no reason and can be strict.

Anygays, thank you! :DDD This has been fun!!!

[insomniadreamzz]

Request: So I have a naughty or nice thingy with Top sevika x brat reader where the reader is teasing her and sevika decides whether you are naughty or nice. maybe a little prey predator kink chase and if readers caught shes fucked ... 10/10 if G!p.

———

Naughty or Nice?

Mentions of G!P, spanking, brat fem!Reader getting punished

G!P Sevika x Fem!Reader

Of course you and Sevika were spending Christmas eve at the Last Drop. You couldn’t say no to her idea even though you preferred a more cozy evening with your girlfriend together. But well…Sevika just loved hanging out there and spending time with her is always beautiful no matter where.

So like every evening Sevika was gambling and drinking and you sat beside her, not into that kind of game she played but you watched and drinked your own drink.

A few hours passed and you began to feel really bored. And this boredom will make you be in trouble later.

Your hand moved to her thigh under the table, gently caressing her as you rest your head against Sevika‘s shoulder, you can feel her side eyeing you but that didn’t stop you. You continued, your hand slowly reaching to her inner thighs near her crotch and you can feel her shift a little, a grumble leaving her lips. „Baby…stop that.“ She said after exhaling her smoke, focused on her cards. „But I am not doing anything…focus on your game before the guys you playin with will notice.“ You said, hand brushing over her crotch and then going back to her thigh again, making Sevika get clearly nervous. „Ugh…I told you to stop.“

„What’s going on? Is your girlfriend distracting you?“ One of the guys playing with her mocked her with a disgusting grin, making Sevika roll her eyes. „At least I have a girlfriend.“ She mocked him back, making him look down at his cards again with a grunt. You already knew your teasing will have consequences but you didn’t care.

Later at home you walked happily in your living room, seeing Sevika sitting on the couch as she looked at you with a raised eyebrow. „So? What was that before?“ She asked you and you played innocent, straddling her lap. „I don’t know what you mean. Everything was fine, you won.“ You chuckled, leaning down to her, your lips almost touched but you didn’t kiss her, you wanted to let her chase for what she wanted. „And by the way…its a beautiful day today. Tomorrow is Christmas!“ You cheered, leaning back as you placed a christmas hat on Sevika, chuckling at the sight of her looking at you confused. She definitely expected a kiss and not that. Her strong hand grabbing your hip as her patience got thinner, a grin on her face. „So?? I guess Santa has to decide now if you have been naughty or nice.“ She said with a more lustful low voice, making you shiver but you didn’t give in that fast.

Well…you jumped off her lap, with a wide grin, it happened so sudden she didn’t have time to process it and keep you right where you were. „Then you need to get me first.“ You stuck out your tongue before running away, making her follow you. You expected her to stay there in confusion but she was close behind you as you stood in the bedroom, chuckling to yourself. Your breath hitched as you felt hers on your neck before she whispered into your ear. „A prey should never run from a predator…it makes it only more exciting to catch you.“

You turn around in shock, not expecting that at all but you didn’t show her that you were surprised. „Is that so?“ You kept with your teasing before Sevika pushed you, making you fall on the bed, your back hitting the mattress as you whined softly, more with excitement. „Hnn…I guess you catched me here…poor me.“

You watched as she unbuckled her pants, exposing her hard member in front of you which drove you already crazy, making it only better when she hovers over you, both her hands, human and mechanic one resting beside your head. „You have been very very naughty…I think you need a lesson.“ She purred out, clearly not being able anymore to hold back as she closed the gap between you two, kissing you deeply meanwhile her hands move down to take off your pants and panties, revealing your excitement towards her as she pulled back, looking at your lustful expression, she knew she had you and you only wondered how she could look this cute and hot at the same time, not sure if she still knows about the Christmas hat but you didn’t mention it, finally wanting her to punish you for being so naughty.

„You think you will just get what you want so badly after being this bad? Come on, don’t be silly. Turn around.“ She commanded, knowing you loved looking at her during sex but that she won’t give you today. „What if I don’t want to?“ You got back to your previous behavior, making her sigh before she made you turn, Sevika was so much stronger you had no chance. In seconds you were on all fours, ass up for her. „I gave you a chance, you won’t get a second chance.“

You felt her hand squeezing your ass before spanking it, making you whine in response and grab the bed sheets under you. „Fuck!…“ You didn’t think she would really punish you but Sevika made sure you will remember this night very well. After a few more spanks, your legs were already shaking from the good pain, your ass cheeks being all red. „That’s a good girl…now you deserve a little more.“ She cooed, moving her arm around you to reach your dripping pussy, running her fingers gently along your wet folds and plays a little bit with your clit, making you squirm. „F-Fuck me already…“ You mumbled with a little whine, removing her fingers as she shoved them into your mouth, letting you suck her fingers and taste yourself on them, making you moan. „What was that?“ She asked, removing her finger from your mouth before giving your ass another slap, gaining another whine from you. „F-fuck me already! Please…“ You couldn’t take it anymore so you obeyed and that made Sevika smirk, having you right there where she wanted you.

Finally she moved her cock inside if you, beginning to thrust into you as she held your hips, keeping you in place. Both of you ending up being a moaning mess, the way she went so deep into you making you feel every inch of her, it was just driving you almost over the edge, you secretly wanted this all evening and finally you got it.

Her movements became harder and faster, making you reach your orgasm with her deep thrusts, your legs shaking as you lift up your feet, her cumming right after you as she felt you clench around her cock, of course not pulling out, she wanted to fill you up with everything she had, her grip getting tighter on you as she came, probably leaving marks there. „Ughh! Fuck! Good girl…“ She moaned out and that was everything you wanted to hear.

After you ride out your orgasm, she pulled out, watching a little of her cum dripping out of you before you collapsed in the bed, panting heavily.

Sevika made sure to keep you close in her arms until you fully calmed down, placing a kiss on your lips. „Good girl…you were so nice for me…“

[simonbrain]

re: cannibalism

have you seen raw (2016) because in my head i’m imagining the reader as the cannibal and simon letting her feed on him because he loves her

i watched it the other night solely bc of this ask and i can't lie, i enjoyed it LMAO (spoiler in tags just in case)

like maybe during sex simon can see how antsy you're getting, riding him with a kind of ferocity that he's never seen you exhibit before, but it all becomes clear that you're trying to satiate your hunger by mindlessly nibbling on your own arm. the harder you bite, the rougher your pace becomes, and he can't have his girl hurting herself like this, so he gently guides your mouth to his neck, mumbling quiet encouragement.

"there you go, pet, tha's it, so fuckin' sweet for me."

he grunts when your teeth sink into his skin, your soft growls and efforts to tear a piece off making his eyes squeeze shut and hands paw at your hips, trying to push down the urge to fuck up into you. he's so fucking hard it hurts, and he knows he could possibly pass out again, but for now he clings to you, letting you take as much as you can. he's never been one to give, but if offering his body as a source of energy and pleasure is how he can show his raw love for you, then he'll gladly accept each painful bite you take.

[vivilunacornio]

With the success that Arcane has had, it's kind of obvious that a large portion of caitvi's fans now have no idea what they're like in the game's lore and aren't aware of the content we had there.

So I feel compelled to show you, poor starving caitvi fans, what we were given to survive on before the series canonized them.

Here I bring you the interactions that always make me laugh when I find them again on the internet:

First of all, it was a shock when I saw this. Vi was explicitly talking about going on a date with a girl. There was no indication that they wanted to confirm them as a couple, but people just saw this and assumed "What girl would be upset about being late? Exactly! Caitlyn!"

well, it seems that only Vi can use this pet name, right?

what scares me is that this is not the first time she has shared her erotic dreams

they look like an old married couple to me

Sheriff Cupcake has her favorites. By the way, it's funny that Vi gets a free pass with Caitlyn. Like, they weren't even canon yet, but apparently Vi always got complaints about conduct violations and property destruction, but the most she got from Cait was "let's keep the chaos to a minimum"?

Again, everyone treats Caitlyn with respect because of the work hierarchy, but Vi doesn't mind using Cait's pet name in front of other enforces and I doubt anyone would dare use it with her

Vi is faithful to her wife, women will flirt with her and her response will be to laugh and say "girl, I'm married"

Caitlyn has a soft spot for bad girls confirmed

There's a lot more to these two in the lore, but that's all I could think of for now. Maybe I'll do more posts about them in the near future.

[disgustingtwitches]

A Rose in Harlem

Simon Riley is an enigma—a brooding, complex man with a shadowed past that he can’t escape. You’re just an ordinary person until he claws his way into your life and you can't help but give in to him. The only problem is that you try to keep things casual, while Simon's never been one to settle for that.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete, when no one else ever cared.

Masterlist

PART 4

The Sweetest Taboo

So, you're sleeping with your neighbor. This is fine. Totally fine. You're two consenting adults; no one needs to know. Except Simon seems to disagree.

You wouldn’t peg him as the "kiss and tell" type, but much to your duress, Simon is unapologetically the "kiss and show" type.

At the grocery store, he casually shows up at the same time, grabbing your bags like it’s second nature and walking you home. The stares from the neighbors make your face burn.

Morning run-ins in the foyer have evolved into something dangerously inappropriate. He refuses to let you leave without a kiss. Sometimes it’s just a fleeting brush of lips; other times, it’s deeper, lingering, and edging into the territory of lewd, making you shove his face away.

Then there’s the hoodie. One of his oversized ones, soft and smelling faintly of him. He bullied you into wearing it. You caved, of course, but it stays hidden in the back of your drawer when Ishta comes around—there’s no way you’re dealing with opening that can of worms.

It’s not just the overt gestures, though. It’s the way he lingers too long at your door after you’ve kissed him goodnight. Watches you through the fire escape, like he has every right to. Sitting there with his legs sprawled, a cigarette lazily dangling between his fingers, he makes no attempt to hide it.

You tried to put an end to that one. Bought curtains on a whim, feeling smug about the newfound privacy they’d grant you. But they mysteriously disappeared the day after you installed them—conveniently after you’d gone to work.

Simon played dumb when you confronted him, leaning casually against his doorframe.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, angel. Someone breaking in while you’re away? Maybe I should stick around your place and keep watch.”

His grin was infuriatingly smug, as it usually is.

It’s all becoming a little too real, a little too… loud. And yet, when you’re pressed up against him in the quiet of your apartment, his hands framing your face like you’re the only thing worth holding onto, you almost forget about his wrongdoings.

***

“Brought out the good shit tonight.”

Ishta grins, popping open a bottle of prosecco—the cheap, overly sweet kind she adores. You hold back the urge to grimace as she pours, passing you a glass.

“What's the occasion?”

“Me and Mr.Scottsman are official!”

She squeals lifting her glass high. You mimic the gesture, the clink of glass on glass ringing lightly through the room.

“Wow, it's so official you still won't tell me his name.”

You quip, rolling your eyes as you take a cautious sip. The sweetness of the wine hits immediately, and you fight the reflex to wince.

“John. Johnny.”

She sighs dreamily, hearts in her eyes.

“I call him Johnny because John is way too serious for my liking.”

You raise a brow at her,

"Sounds like you’ve got it bad, Ishta.”

She doesn’t deny it, swirling the prosecco in her glass like it’s some romantic prop, her grin widening.

"Oh, you have no idea. He’s got this laugh—it’s ridiculous—and he can’t make tea to save his life. But, ugh, he’s perfect."

You shake your head, taking another begrudging sip of the prosecco, already bracing yourself for what’s sure to be a night of gushing anecdotes about Johnny.

“Perfect,”

You echo with a laugh, setting your glass down.

“You’ve been together for how long now? A month?”

“Three weeks,”

Ishta corrects.

“But when you know, you know.”

You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, sure. You’re gonna marry this man, huh?”

“Don’t tempt me,”

She says, her grin widening.

“He’s already invited to meet his family. Can you believe it? His family, and I’m just over here trying to not come off as a complete lunatic.”

“Well, you’re failing spectacularly.”

You tease.

She throws a pillow at you, laughing.

“Says the one who’s been mysteriously glowing these past few weeks. Care to spill why?”

You freeze for half a second, a sip of prosecco poised at your lips.

“Glowing? What are you even talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,”

Ishta says, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re hiding something. Someone.”

You feign indifference, shrugging.

“Maybe I’ve just been using better skincare.”

“Bullshit. Spill. Who is it?”

She leans forward, her gaze piercing.

There’s no way you’re telling her. Not about Simon. Not about the fire escape. Not about the way his hands feel against your skin or the things he whispers in the dark.

“No one,”

You say firmly, hoping she buys it.

“And stop projecting your ridiculous love life onto me.”

Ishta squints at you, unconvinced.

“Uh-huh. Sure. For now, you’re off the hook. But mark my words,”

She wags a finger at you.

“I’ll figure it out.”

You laugh nervously, downing the rest of your drink.

You’re grateful for how easily distracted Ishta can be, her attention now fully locked onto the trashy dating show the two of you watch every Thursday. It’s a routine you’d both adopted more for the chance to mock strangers' poor life choices than for any genuine investment in the drama.

Occasionally, she’ll pipe up, her voice dreamy as she recounts the latest romantic gesture from Johnny, her “Mr. Scotsman." She compares him to the guys on TV, and each time, she insists that Johnny does it better. You can almost hear the wistful sigh in her voice as she talks about how much she adores him.

You smile at her, teasing lightly,

“Gonna end up as one of those military wives?”

Ishta laughs, a genuine, carefree sound that rings out in the space between you. She shrugs with mock indifference, but there’s a spark in her eyes.

"Maybe. I mean, he’s a loverboy under all that wildness, but yeah… I’d say I’ve got it bad.”

You smirk at her, shaking your head.

"You’re hopeless."

"And you’re one to talk,”

She fires back, leveling you with a knowing look.

“Sexy British neighbor still got you tied up in knots?”

You scoff, taking a sip of your drink to stall. The wine’s still too sweet, sticking to your tongue, but you focus on the tang that lingers at the edges.

“I’m not ‘tied up’ in anything. Haven't even spoken to him since the noise complaint situation.”

“Riiight.”

She side-eyes you, unconvinced.

“Something tells me that's not entirely true. You get this weird look on your face every time I bring him up.”

You try to keep a straight face.

“Maybe you’re reading too much into things.”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans back, crossing her arms.

“One of these days, I'll catch you slipping.”

You roll your eyes, desperate to redirect her attention.

“I think you’ve had too much wine.”

“Or not enough,”

She shoots back, taking another sip with a knowing smirk. She hums, like she just remembered something important.

“I forgot to tell you, Johnny invited you to come with me to meet his family.”

You make a face of confusion.

“Me? Why?”

“I talk about you a lot, believe it or not you are one of the most important people in my life.”

The statement takes you back a bit, makes you feel a twinge of guilt lying to her.

“But his family?”

“Well…”

She tilts her head, searching for the right words.

“They’re not exactly blood relatives. They’re his squad, I think that’s the term he uses. He trusts them with his life, so he sees them as family—or the closest thing to it. Something like that.”

It’s her turn to hesitate, her fingers absently trailing the stem of her wine glass.

“Anyway, he thought you might want to come along. Besides,” She adds with a grin, peeking up again.

“It'll be fun. Think about it! Drinks, charming military men, and me as your entertainment. What more could you want?”

With Simon in your life, you think to yourself, you find yourself wanting for nothing lately—except maybe a little less suffocating attention.

“Yeah, what more could I want.”

You say aloud, masking the weight of your thoughts with a light laugh.

Ishta beams at your answer,

“That’s the spirit! You’ll see—it’ll be good for you. And hey, if nothing else, you can help me judge Johnny’s friends. Who knows, maybe one of them is a secret disaster like the guys on this show.”

The conversation shifts back to the TV, her playful commentary dragging you out of your head. But even as you nod along, your mind is already working on an escape plan.

You’re just gonna text her some excuse when the day comes. She’ll understand. Probably.

***

“How can you breathe in these?”

You groan, tugging at the waistband of Ishta’s skin-tight leather pants as she twists and wiggles, trying to pull them up.

“Breathing isn’t a priority here.”

She huffs, planting her hands on her hips and giving a final shimmy.

“Looking good is. Besides,”

She admires herself in the mirror.

“Johnny will love it.”

“Yeah, he probably cares more about how easy they’ll be to take off, Ishta.”

She grins, running her hands down the smooth fabric.

“Yeah. My man, the most efficient guy I know.”

You laugh, shaking your head as she strikes a dramatic pose.

“Efficiency—truly the cornerstone of romance.”

“Don’t knock it,”

She quips, spinning around to face you.

“He’s got it down to an art. Makes him a great lover.”

“Ishta.”

“I mean seriously, when I'm running late he knows exactly what to-”

“Ishta!”

“What? Someone has to get laid here, and it sure isn't you!”

You groan in protest, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at her. She ducks, her laughter ringing out as she returns to inspecting her reflection in the mirror, twisting to check out the back of her pants.

“I think my butt’s getting bigger.”

She declares, completely unfazed.

“Aren’t we running late?”

You ask, exasperated.

“We’re fine. He’s getting us an Uber.”

She replies, adjusting the waistband of her pants with a smug little smile.

“To Brooklyn? Ouuu, big money.”

You tease, rolling your eyes as you grab your bag.

She grins, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“I just got him trained right. I'll show you how to do it when you get your own man. Or woman. Or anyone.”

Before you get to have your say her phone dings, and she grabs her keys.

"C’mon, Uber’s here."

You give her one last look before following her out the door, ready for whatever insanity lies ahead.

***

The bar you stand outside of is dingy and small, a stark contrast to the sleek black SUV Johnny arranged for Ishta and you. You raise an eyebrow, already feeling out of place.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

You ask, rocking side to side in your heels, feet already hurting.

“Too good for it?”

Ishta teases.

“No, just… aren’t we a little overdressed?”

You reply, glancing down at your outfit. Her red-bottoms are going to get ruined by the sticky floors, and your top is way too low-cut for a place like this.

Ishta smirks, giving you a look.

“You’ll be fine. Besides, if anyone stares for too long, the guys will probably scare them off— if they are anything like Johnny describes.”

And so, you step hesitantly into the grungy spot, thinking of what shitty liquor you need to get you through the night.

The bar is dim, louder than you expected, the scent of stale beer and fried food heavy in the air. Ishta leads the way with her usual confidence, weaving through the mismatched tables and chairs. You follow, heels catching on the sticky floor, your stomach tightening as she heads toward a table in the back.

That’s when you see it: the large black hoodie. The person wearing it is turned away, broad shoulders hunched slightly. Something about the way they hold themselves makes your chest tighten. You tell yourself it can’t possibly be him. The odds are ridiculous, almost laughable.

And yet, your feet falter.

Johnny spots Ishta first, lighting up with a grin so wide it makes his eyes crease at the corners, laughter lines deepening across his face. There’s a boyish enthusiasm in the way he waves her over, unrestrained and unabashed, like a pet spotting its owner after a long day apart.

You remember her mentioning once, in passing, that he was born the year of the dog. It’s funny how fitting that feels now. Loyal, eager, a little too earnest. He all but bounces out of his seat, the movement causing a ripple of attention to shift across the table.

The ridiculously pretty man seated next to him glances up first, his expression brightening with easy charm. Across from him, an older man with a beard you could only describe as unnecessarily dramatic turns and nods politely.

Then, the hoodie moves. Your stomach plummets.

Simon.

His expression is unreadable, but the sight of him freezes you in place, and before you realize it, you’re standing there looking like a deer caught in headlights. The rest of the table follows his gaze, looking at you with various degrees of curiosity.

Ishta grabs your arm.

“Oh my God. Girl, is that your man? What’s wrong? You can’t back away now!”

She says in a low voice, dragging you forward before you can recover.

“That is not my man,”

You hiss back, but it does nothing to stop her relentless pull.

Johnny grins as you both approach, his voice warm and thick with his accent.

“Almost scared her off, Ghost.”

Ghost?

Your eyes flick to Simon. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word.

Johnny, takes over the introductions.

“This is Simon. Don’t mind him, wasn’t properly socialized as a bairn.”

There’s some shifting around as the group makes room. To your dismay, Simon stays tucked into one side of the booth, leaving Kyle and Price to scoot out. They pull over chairs from a nearby empty table, and you find yourself awkwardly squeezed beside Simon while Ishta takes the seat across from you.

“Finally nice to put a name to the face.”

Ishta beams at Simon, and you can see the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes, though he doesn’t respond. She laughs when Johnny makes a confused face, giving a brief rundown to the table.

“She says you haven't seen each other since that incident.”

Ishta waves her glass in Simon's direction.

Simon leans back in his seat, mask still up.

“Avoids me like the plague, she does. Must’ve left quite the impression.”

Kyle snorts, leaning forward with an amused grin.

“That’s just his thing. Simon’s got a talent for being a nuisance, don’t you, mate? Knows exactly how to make people’s lives hell.”

“Only when they deserve it.”

Simon replies smoothly.

The table chuckles, but you stay quiet. His knee bumps yours under the table and you shoot him a sharp glance. He doesn’t even look your way, focused instead on swirling his drink he hasn't touched. You drink more than you probably should, hoping it’ll dull the awkwardness.

Thankfully, the rest of the table carries on without issue, their conversation flowing easily.

“Military, huh?”

You ask eventually, your voice quieter than intended.

Simon doesn’t look at you, but Johnny leans in with a grin.

“Yeah, we're stationed here for a while, so get used to seeing my handsome face around.”

The ease in his tone does little to settle the tension twisting in your chest. Simon doesn’t so much as flinch, remaining a stoic, unreadable presence. His silence feels deliberate, heavy, but Johnny’s brightness seems determined to lighten the mood.

“Maybe you’ll even get used to this one,”

Johnny adds playfully.

“Though I wouldn’t hold your breath. He’s got the personality of wet cement.”

That makes you laugh a little, along with the rest of the table. Younod toward Simon.

“So… Ghost. That’s a call sign?”

Simon hums, noncommittal, leaving Johnny to fill the silence.

“Wish I got something cool like that,”

Johnny says, shooting Simon a look that’s both teasing and fond.

“Guess he earned it, scary bastard.”

You glance at Simon again. His face gives nothing away.

Ishta leans over and whispers something into Johnny’s ear, her lips brushing against his ear with a playful familiarity. Whatever she says prompts a crooked grin to spread across his face, his blue eyes lighting up with mischief.

The two of them fall into their own little world, lovebirds whispering and laughing softly, entirely lost to anyone else at the table. Their giddy exchange contrasts sharply with the tension simmering between you and Simon.

You shift in your seat, feeling the press of his knee against yours again. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but the contact makes your pulse quicken. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if it’s intentional. If he notices your reaction, he doesn’t show it.

Across the table, Price and Kyle keep the conversation flowing, their camaraderie effortless. You envy the ease they seem to find in this dynamic, the sense of belonging that eludes you in this moment.

Eventually, you decide to call it a night.

“Think I’ll head out, guys.”

You say, grabbing your bag. You glance toward Ishta, but she’s too busy twirling a strand of Johnny’s hair between her fingers, practically sitting in his lap.

Kyle stands, reaching for his jacket.

“Want me to walk you home, love?”

Before you can answer, Price butts in.

“Think Simon’s closer. Said you're neighbors, right?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.”

“He'll take you home. Don't need Kyle chasing up your dress.”

Simon finally looks at you, dark eyes unreadable. Without another word, he gets up.

***

The train ride back is painfully silent, tension coiling thick between you. Simon doesn’t make small talk, doesn’t fill the awkward space with meaningless words, and you can’t decide if you’re grateful or annoyed.

When you finally reach your apartment, you stop at the door, fumbling with your keys. You unlock it and step inside, turning to offer a polite, “Goodnight.”

Before you can close the door, Simon’s boot wedges into the frame.

“No kiss goodnight?”

He murmurs, pulling down his mask, voice low.

“Do you always have to be like this?”

You mumble, leaning forward and tilting your head up.

“You like it.”

He replies, pressing his scarred lips against your glossed ones.

The kiss lingers in your mind longer than it lasts, the warmth still spreading through your limbs. He pulls away, slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. You stand with the door still open,

“Ok, well, goodnigh-”

“Not gonna invite me in for a drink?”

The way he says it—like he’s giving you the option, but he knows exactly how this game goes—brings a rush of heat to your cheeks.You hesitate for a moment, the weight of the night pressing down on you, but it hits you then—you’ve been waiting for him to make this move. Simon knows exactly how to push just enough, always teetering on the line between being too much and just enough.

You tilt your head, playing the game, your voice teasing.

“I don’t believe in letting strangers into my place, Ghost.”

His jaw tightens at the name, a flash of something flickering behind his eyes, but he recovers quickly, scanning your face with a quiet intensity.

“Hit your head, angel? The name’s Simon, remember?”

“Hmm,”

You cock your head, a playful smirk curling on your lips as you tease,

“Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”

Simon’s expression shifts, eyes narrowing just a fraction as his lips curl into a grin.

“No? Thought you’d remember it with how many times you say it when I’ve got you bent over that couch.”

“Simon!”

You gasp with a smile.

“Glad to see your memories back, love. Had me worried there for a moment.”

His voice drips with smug satisfaction, fingers creeping around your waist as you step backward into your apartment. His movements mirror yours, closing the distance, the same familiar rhythm between you two. Except this time, the dance ends in your bed, bathed in silvery moonlight that filters through the windows, casting shadows and soft glimmers over the room.

What he says to you in that space, the things he says are as depraved as they are tender, sinful words laced with something softer, gentler. And in that moment, you realize they’re the sweetest things Simon is capable of offering.

Lying on his chest, you let your thoughts drift, his sparse chest hair tickling the side of your face. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat drums against your ear as your fingers trace lazy circles on his skin. His hand mirrors yours, gently skimming the small of your back in slow, soothing motions.

You enjoy these moments just aas much as the more heated ones—maybe more. They feel almost domestic, like peeking through the keyhole of something you tell yourself you can’t have. But for now, it’s enough. It fills that quiet loneliness you feel some days.

Simon presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering there for a beat longer than you expect. It feels like him savoring the closeness he so rarely allows himself.

“Mind if I sleep here tonight?”

His voice low and casual.

Your body goes stiff before you can stop it, and his hand on your back stills.

“Oh,”

You say, forcing a laugh that cracks at the edges.

“Didn’t think you’d grown tired of your bachelor setup. What happened? Mattress on the floor finally giving up on you?”

Simon hums, unbothered, his fingers resuming their lazy path.

“Figured I’d upgrade. You offering?”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you sit up quickly, putting a small but deliberate distance between you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He doesn’t move, watching you with hooded eyes, his expression calm, unreadable.

“Why not? Thought we were comfortable now.”

His tone is deceptively light, but you can hear the challenge beneath it.

“I don’t sleep well with someone else in the bed,” You say, crossing your arms, covering your bare chest.

“It’s just a thing—I’m used to having my space.”

“Space, huh?”

He sits up and leans back against the wall, hands clasped behind his head, looking entirely too at ease.

“Didn’t seem to need space a few minutes ago, angel.”

You frown, heat rising to your face.

“That’s different. Sleeping is… it’s personal.”

He smirks, tilting his head slightly.

“And what we just did isn’t?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your irritation in check.

“You know what I mean, Simon.”

“Not sure I do,”

His tone is playful, but there’s a stubborn edge to it now.

“Seems to me like you’re just makin’ excuses.”

“I’m not.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. You sigh, running a hand through his short hair, an apology of sorts.

“It’s just… I’m not ready for that.”

“A lil sleepover?”

He tilts his head. Before you can respond, he grabs your face with one hand, his fingers pressing against your cheeks to make your lips pout.

You yank your head away, sucking your teeth in frustration.

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, leaning back against the wall like he’s won something.

“Am I? Or are you just makin’ this harder than it needs to be?”

“Simon,”

You snap,

“It’s not about being hard or easy. It’s about boundaries. Respecting them.”

“Boundaries?”

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk slipping just slightly.

“Since when have we had those?”

Never, you think to yourself. It's a little distressing if you think about it too long, letting a man have such sway on you.

He pulls you closer, his thick arms wrapping around you with an ease that feels as natural as it is intrusive. You don’t resist, though. Instead, your fingers trace the inked lines on his forearm, a distraction, an excuse not to look him in the eye.

“Think you got one more in you?”

His voice is low, dipping into something softer, coaxing.

“I’ll be out your hair after that.”

You can’t help the faint smile that tugs at your lips, even though you hate yourself for giving in so easily. It’s always like this with him—pushing, pulling, finding that sliver of space where you’re weak enough to let him in.

“Yeah,”

You murmur, leaning just slightly into his touch,

“Think I do.”

His lips curve into a grin, satisfied, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he pulls you into his lap. And just like always, he gets exactly what he wants.

Prev | Next

[legalmente-loca]

OKAY COULD YOU DO #1 WITH SOLDIER BOY BUT WITH LIKE A LOT SMUT..?? ALSO CONGRATS ON 100 FOLLOWERSSSSS

Christmas At Vought

Prompts: You dressing like a cowgirl

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You and Ben have a relationship in the shadows, even if he doesn't agree with it. Will he be able to resist you in disguise at Christmas?

Word Count: 1,623

A/N: Oh, darling, I couldn't just make a drabble of this

Tags/Warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, cowgirl inverted, dirty talk, language

You and Ben had a complicated relationship. In fact, according to everyone else, you didn't have any kind of relationship other than professional. You hid your relationship knowing that Vought wouldn't approve. After all, he was with Crimson Countess for popularity reasons. But you didn't have powers. You worked at Vought as the director's secretary and interacted with superheroes, but what would the fans of the first hero think when they saw that he were dating someone inferior to him?

So the two of you had a discreet relationship, in the shadows. Whenever you could (and even when you couldn't) you would sneak out to mess up your hair and clothes.

But it wasn't enough for Ben. Ben wanted to show ownership over you, to place his hand on your ass so that others knew you belonged to him and kiss you whenever he wanted, without worrying about who was watching.

But that was how things had to be.

It was normal for Vought to have parties every month, each with a different theme. This time, for Christmas, Vought had decided to have them dress up as a bygone era, so you didn’t think twice.

You had dressed up as a cowgirl, a checkered shirt with ripped jean shorts and a belt that held a fake gun. You also wore a cowboy hat.

“Well, look who came as a sexy cowgirl.”

You recognized the voice and turned to look at him. Obviously the great Soldier Boy would come as he wanted without respecting the theme. He simply came in his hero uniform, helmet included.

“Soldier Boy-”

“You know you can call me Ben, gorgeous.” He smiled charmingly and walked over to you, looking you up and down openly.

You sighed and glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.

“Ben, you know they can’t see us in public.”

“And you think I care about that?” He moved closer to you and pretended to look around as he whispered in your ear. “I could touch your entire body dressed in that tight outfit and I still wouldn’t fuckin’ care.”

You cleared your throat and turned to look at him.

“You need to control yourself, don’t make a scene.” You murmured.

“But you know I love to make them.”

He ran a finger down your arm, his body radiating heat and burning your skin.

“Ben…”

“Honey…”

You sighed and glanced around. It was a difficult task to resist Ben.

“Listen, later we’ll do whatever you want, but for now, let’s stay away from each other.”

He growled and placed his hand on your lower back possessively.

“I want you now.”

“Well you won’t have me.”

“Who fucking says?”

“Me.”

You pushed him away and started walking, knowing Ben was watching your every step.

An hour passed. Conversations surrounded you and the sound of Christmas carols was low. The whole place was well decorated, well, you had been a part of decorating. And Ben had often come to “help” you.

You had passed him a few times, but he didn’t even look at you. Maybe that was your punishment or maybe he had decided to listen to you for the first time (it was probably the first one).

You were chatting with some other people when he came in, drink in hand.

“Hey, folks.” He said as he patted your coworker on the shoulder, almost knocking his arm out of place.

“S-soldier Boy.”

It was very common for people to turn to look at him whenever he walked into a room. The attention was only on him and everyone wanted to get close to him if he was in a good mood. If he wasn’t, no one wanted to be around.

“Having a good time?” He asked with a smile.

“Very good, sir.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

The conversation continued, your coworkers clearly pleased to be talking to America’s great hero. But at one point, Ben stepped forward and tripped, the contents of his drink falling on your shirt. You gasped and looked at him in annoyance.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, doll.” He grabbed your own cup and quickly passed it to one of your companions before grabbing your arm, not giving you two seconds to think that he was already pulling you away. “Come, I’ll help you get all cleaned up.”

He led you to the bathrooms and immediately pinned you against the door as he took off his helmet and threw it across the room.

“Ben!”

“I can’t stand seeing you like this anymore, talking to other people like you don’t want me to fuck you right there.”

His movements were quick and unexpected (in part). He grabbed your breasts through your clothes and squeezed them, making you moan and arch your back.

But he didn’t even have time to look at you naked. He needed you right now.

He grabbed your arm again and dragged you to the bathroom sinks, sitting on the counter and placing you on his lap with your back to him.

“Since you’re dressed like a cowgirl whore, act like one.” He undid your belt and pulled down your shorts along with your panties and pressed his mouth against the side of your neck. “All this time, watching you like this, imagining you riding me until your thighs ached.”

He grabbed your legs and had your feet placed on top of his knees. He moved his hand to your pussy and began to caress your folds.

“God, Ben...”

He kept moving his fingers, teasing your hole before slipping one in.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, cowgirl. But it’s not time to take pleasure, it’s time to fucking give it.” He pulled off the bottom of his suit, his cock springing out, big and wet at the tip. “Now, ride me like it’s your fuckin’ job.”

He helped you up slightly, placing his hands on your ass, helping you down afterwards. Your eyes rolled as you felt his cock enter your pussy, your toes curling in pleasure.

“You like this big cock, cowgirl?” He murmured against your ear before nibbling on your earlobe. “C’mon, get started.” He growled, slapping your clit.

Your hips rocked and you felt more fluid between your legs. The position you were in only caused your insides to stretch further.

You began to move up and down, your hands resting on him to help you.

“Feel so good, Ben.” You let out a sigh.

“I know.” You rolled your eyes at his arrogance, but continued with your movements. “Are you a good cowgirl, babe? Can you ride a good, big horse like me?”

His gaze was locked on the globes of your ass, one hand squeezing your flesh. Your juices were running down his cock and you began to feel your orgasm approaching, leading you to move faster on him.

You heard a countdown in the distance.

“Fuck, it’s almost Christmas and I’ve got a cowgirl on me.” He slapped your ass and you gasped.

“Y-you’re so filthy... I’d rather you kept your mouth shut.”

“Oh, yeah?” He held your jaw, turning your face to look at him. “You love it when I talk dirty to you. And the fact that you’re moving like a sex addict fucking proves it.”

The countdown was at five and you kept your gaze on him. You didn’t even move your gaze or close your eyes when his fingers began to play with your clit roughly. Your legs threatened to close, but due to the position you were in that wasn’t possible. And it was there, the moment the countdown hit zero, that you came. Your insides tightened around him as a wave of pleasure flooded your body and your juices wet Ben’s cock even more. For his part, he brought his mouth to yours and kissed you fiercely as his cum shot out inside you.

“Merry fucking Christmas.” He snorted after a few seconds.

“Same here.” Your breathing was ragged and slowly returning to normal as you rested your head on his shoulder.

“You know what? If I knew this was my Christmas present, I would have wrapped you up and put a fucking bow over your pussy and a cowgirl hat on your head.”

“Oh, God…” You rolled your eyes and lifted your head. “Gross.”

“What? You know you’d love it if I tied you up in Christmas lights like a fucking Christmas tree and spread my cum all over your face.”

“Enough of this dirty talk.” You said as you stood up as best you could and climbed off of him, your legs shaking as soon as your feet hit the ground.

He snorted and stood up, putting his suit back in place as he gave you a look up and down.

“What?” You asked as you noticed his gaze.

“Oh, nothing, I just would love to see you even more in that costume, even with the stain.”

“Well, maybe I will do it for New Years. But only if you’re a good boy.” You pointed at him.

He frowned and slapped your hand, moving closer to you.

“I’ll be a bad man who will give a pretty cowgirl a good beating if she doesn’t do what he says.” He muttered close to your face.

You bit your bottom lip and tilted your head.

“Alright…”

He smirked and slapped your ass before bending down to pull your shorts back into place. You felt Ben’s cum spread across your shorts and you shifted uncomfortably. He stood up straight and patted your cheek.

“Good girl.”

He left a kiss on your cheek which he smacked before exiting the bathroom.

“This costume won't last.” You muttered before rearranging your mind and clothes and exiting the bathroom as well.

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[dexteri0us]

no, i don't want nothing crazy; just wanna get you alone; and all of this snow is falling; i can make you fall too

pairing: best friend's dad!dexter morgan x f!reader

warnings: fluff, domesticity, harrison (listen, i'm not a fan of his, but he serves a purpose), age gap (both reader and harrison are in college), best friend's dad!dexter, smut - shower sex, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, dom!dexter

summary: requested: "shower sex with dexter? please and thank you 🙏🏻"

w/c: 6.9k

a/n: i honestly love new blood and i will always consider it a christmas tv. merry christmas!🎄

Spending Christmas in Iron Lake wasn’t your initial plan, but now that you thought about it, it was for the better. You were supposed to spend Christmas with your dad this year. It also included him picking you up in Iron Lake and driving you to New York, but he backed out at the last minute. You weren’t even surprised at this point; he always went out of his way to let you down. Or maybe it was just your perception. After all, he said the same thing about you.

Going to your mom’s wasn’t an option either, not with her boyfriend in the picture. He was a carbon copy of your dad, not just in appearance in attitude too. Arrogant, dismissive, and always acting like spending time with you was beneath him, especially when you were a teenager. He’d never really made an effort to connect. So, you were pretty happy to get into college and move into the dorms. But that didn’t necessarily mean you wanted to spend Christmas alone.

You couldn’t ask Harrison to take you either because he had plans with Audrey.  

“Fuck.” You muttered, reading the text from your dad.  

“What’s wrong?” Harrison asked, glancing up from across the table. A smudge of clung to the corner of his mouth as he took another bite of his cheeseburger, his eyes briefly scanning the diner for a waitress that would bring him another cup of coffee.

“Dad bailed on me. I’ll probably have to hitchhike to get to New York.”

“What? No way! I’ll drive you,” he said immediately.

“Harrison.” You gave him a look. “You promised Audrey to help her and Angela with the charity drive.”

“Out of all people, I think Angela and Audrey would understand.” 

You raised a brow at him, knowing full well he’d argue until he was blue in the face, but you weren’t about to let him ruin his plans because of you. You were big on keeping promises, and you sure as hell weren’t going to be the reason someone broke theirs.

“Well, you can always spend Christmas with us. My dad won’t mind.”

And that’s how you ended up swapping the couch for the bed with Harrison every night, spending the first of many Christmas breaks with the Morgans. Well, technically the Morgan-Lindsays, but to you, Harrison’s dad would always be Mr. Morgan.

When you first called him that, he just stared at you, almost startled, but Harrison had quickly jumped in to explain. Not to you, to his dad, that you just couldn’t get used to the difference in their last names. He seemed to relax a little after that, though he still looked kind of stiff most of the time.

Sometimes, you wondered if he didn’t like you, or if your presence made him uneasy. But Harrison had reassured you that he was always like that. He’s just weird like that. Don’t take it personally.

So, you didn’t. And truth be told, over the next Christmases you spent with the father-son duo, you became more comfortable around Mr. Morgan – or Jim, as he insisted on calling him. “Jim” just felt unnatural to you, so usually, you just settled for “hey” to get his attention. But every now and then, “Mr. Morgan” would slip out of your mouth. And truth be told, you thought he liked it.

Eventually, it would become like a running joke between you two.

One night, during your second Christmas in Iron Lake, you caught him with that amused smile on his face when you said it again.

“What?” You asked, passing him a plate to dry as the two of you cleaned up after dinner. Harrison was in the other room, button-mashing his way through a video game.

“What?” Mr. Morgan asked, glancing at you with mock confusion.

“Every time I call you Mr. Morgan, you look like you’re holding back some big inside joke.”

“Do I?” he said lightly, his brows furrowed, but the smirk formed by his lips didn’t falter.

“Yeah.” You snorted, as if it was the most obvious thing. “It’s weird.”

“Weird? I’ll have to talk to Harrison, he’s bad influence.”

You just rolled your eyes. You weren’t going to kid yourself. You had developed almost a feet-kicking crush on him and his teasing wasn’t helping. You felt like a little girl with a silly crush on her classmate.

You remember how reserved he had been, intense, when you met him for the first time. It had made you a little bit uncomfortable, but paradoxically, you preferred that to some pretense-interest in your life. He already knew about your situation with your dad and your mother – or more specifically, with her boyfriend.

You loved Harrison, but he kind of had a big mouth on him, and he had told his dad. You could tell from the way Mr. Morgan avoided the subject altogether. Honestly, it was refreshing. Audrey’s mom asked about your parents every year – polite but a bit probing, sometimes you felt like she was judging you and or maybe thought there was more to the story. You didn’t blame her, though. First, she was a cop, and second, they were your family, after all. At least, by blood.

Still, you felt more welcome here than you ever did with your parents. Mr. Morgan made it so easy too, even if things had been a little awkward at first.

The first Christmas you spent in Iron Lake, you ended up in the woods with Mr. Morgan, collecting firewood. Harrison made sure you felt comfortable being alone with him, and you did, it was just a little awkward.

You didn’t know what was weirder – spending Christmas in Iron Lake, or trudging into the woods along with your best friend’s dad. He didn’t exactly scream “festive cheer” with his quiet, no-nonsense demeanor.

Harrison had once told you that he wasn’t always like that. Apparently, there had been some kind of hunting accident, back when Harrison was learning how to shoot. He’d hit his dad, barely missing the heart, but he'd survived. Harrison described it as a Christmas miracle, but from that moment on, Mr. Morgan just hadn’t felt the need to celebrate Christmas like he had the years prior.

You watched him move through the snowy woods with certainty, like he already knew exactly which trees to check for fallen branches.

“So, uh… you do this every year?”

Nice. Real charming. You were a master in manipulating professors into extending deadlines. How are you so bad at making casual conversation?

“Pretty much,” he replied without looking up, crouching to grab a branch half-buried in the snow. “Wood-burning stove keeps the place warm. It’s more reliable than the heater.”

“Oh.” You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you. The cool air bit into your cheeks, your boots crunching in the snow as you followed a few steps behind. Then you tried again. “I mean, I guess it makes sense. You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d be big on central heating.”

You tried to joke, but he stopped for a moment, straightening up and glancing at you with a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “What kind of guy do I strike you as?”

“Well, you know.” You shrugged, trying to not get distracted by the joke going over his head. “The ‘off-the-grid cabin’ type. Knows his way around a woodchipper. Probably has a couple of tarps in the trunk, just in case.”

He watched you, probably waiting for a smile to crack, but your expression remained serious. You started to think maybe you’d gone too far. But then he finally snorted softly, pointing the branch in your direction.

“Tarps are versatile.”

His delivery was deadpan too, so dry it caught you off guard. Was that… a joke? You couldn’t tell, but you let out a laugh anyway. You decided to just role with it.

“Right. For winter emergencies.”

He didn’t respond, just gave a faint nod as he tossed another branch onto the sled you’d brought along.

“You’re doing fine,” he said after a moment, his tone surprisingly reassuring.

It made you scoff, your breath puffing in the cold air.

“Thanks Mr. Morgan, I was really worried about failing Firewood 101.”

You really enjoyed spending time with him like that, even though he didn’t talk much. But the way he adjusted his pace so you wouldn’t fall behind, stepped on a stick that was stubbornly stuck to the sole of your boot, or helped you with a stubborn log trapped under the snow made you feel like you didn’t have to try so hard.

When that Christmas break ended, you felt kind of bittersweet, because you knew you’d now see him only occasionally when he’d visit Harrison in New York. That is, if you were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. But the year went by like nothing, and lo and behold, Harrison had invited you to spend another Christmas with them, saying that his dad brought it up first. To Harrison, it meant nothing, to you? Every-fucking-thing.

So now, during the second Christmas with the Morgans, you were doing domestic shit with him, like washing dishes while he was teasing you. It made your body all jittery with every passing moment. Hell, you didn’t even mind that he didn’t have a dishwasher, because you liked doing dishes with him. And Harrison was grateful for that too. See, everyone was getting something out of it.

“Maybe I just think it’s funny. You’re so committed to it. But I guess it’s better than calling me hey.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Okay, you brought that on yourself. No offense, but Jim just doesn’t suit you. It’s too basic.”

He had that faint smile on his face again, his eyelids dropped as if he was having a whole inner monologue again, but you didn’t call him out this time.

When that Christmas ended, you didn’t have to wait long to see him again. Harrison started inviting you to every holiday – Easter, Halloween and Thanksgiving. Of course, you couldn’t make it to all of them, but you did appreciate the extra time you got to spend with Mr. Morgan. He’d even helped you, Harrison and Audrey move them into their new apartment in New York. And you were too naïve and paranoid, so you thought he was doing it all for you.

So, next Christmas, you decided to come prepared.

“You can’t give her another necklace. Try to be original,” you said, sipping on your coffee, watching Harrison rub his temples as he tried to think of a Christmas present for Audrey.

“Okay… okay.” He sighed, letting his hands fall to the table, grinding his teeth as if he was contemplating his thoughts. “I have an idea. But it’s big and you’re gonna laugh.”

“Okay. All the more reason why you should tell me.”  

He took a deep breath, and then, he spit it out.

“I bought her a ring. An engagement ring.”

Your eyes widened and your lips broke into a huge smile. “No fucking way. Are you fucking kidding?”

“See? I knew you were gonna laugh at me.” He rolled his eyes and fell back into his seat, crossing his arms like a child.

“I’m not laughing at you. That’s amazing, Harrison. Oh, my God.”

“But?”

You stayed silent for a moment, figuring out a way to put it gently. “But… Audrey hates clichés.”

He closed his eyes in exasperation.

“Fuck.”

“No, hey. You can propose to her, but maybe don’t make it the main thing, you know.”

He sighed, rising to his feet with a small scowl on his face.

“Hey,” you said softly, “I’m so happy for you two. And she will be too.”

You exchanged smiles before he made his exit. You leaned against the back of the seat and looked out of the window to your right side, still smiling. You wondered if Mr. Morgan and Angela knew.

You got back to the crossword puzzle you put under your plate, munching on the bagel to fill your stomach and enjoying the faint Christmas music playing from the speakers. The waitress had just refilled your cup when someone slid into the booth across from you.

At first, you didn’t look up, assuming it was Harrison again, maybe realizing he’d forgotten something. But when you finally glanced up, you were met with a face you hadn’t expected.

“Morning,” the man said, his voice smooth and polite. It made you sit up just a little bit straighter.

“Uh, morning.” You smiled back.

“I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here alone,” he continued, leaning forward just slightly. “I’m Kurt. Kurt Caldwell.” He extended a hand across the table, his palm up.

You introduced yourself, putting your hand into his. You’d heard about Mr. Caldwell. They’d said he was a very kind and fair employer, someone who took care of his own. But after his son's death, he'd vanished from the public eye for a while.

For such a small town, there was sure a lot of accidents. Tragedies. On the brighter side, the number of of missing women cases dropped in the past few years, so that's that.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, just visiting,” you said with a smile but remained cautious. After all, he was a stranger. And you’re not one to underestimate the stranger danger rule. Not even in a small community like this.

“Really? We don’t have many visitors this time of year, Christmas tends to keep people close to home. You staying with family?”

“Friends,” you corrected.

“That’s nice. It’s always good to have people you can rely on during the holidays.”

You offered him another polite smile, unsure of what to say. He seemed harmless, but people randomly coming up to you were instantly weird to you. Welcome to a small town.

“You know, if you’re looking for something to do while you’re in town, I run a little truck stop just outside the main strip. Got a great diner there, too, and we’re always looking for friendly faces to stop by. First meal’s on me.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” you replied, laughing with him.

You pretended to get back to your puzzle, hoping he’d leave you alone, but before he could say anything else, the bell above the diner’s door jingled, and you heard your name.

You turned to see Mr. Morgan standing in the doorway, his presence commanding. He scanned the booth, his eyes landing on Kurt before flicking to you.

“Oh, hi.” You waved awkwardly at him as you watched him stride towards your table.

“Harrison forgot his gloves,” he told you, even though his gaze was locked on Kurt.

“Oh, right. I’ll text him.” You grabbed your phone, completely oblivious to the silent standoff happening between Mr. Morgan and Mr. Caldwell.

Mr. Caldwell stood, his smile losing some of its warmth. “Well, I should get going. It was nice to meet you, YN. Hope I’ll see you around.”

You gave him a polite nod and with that, he turned and walked out of the diner.

Mr. Morgan waited until the door closed behind him before he finally spoke.

“You okay?”

You hit send and looked up.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” You asked, brows furrowed.

“Just checking.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, grabbing the empty sugar packet on the table and crumpling it in his hand. “But next time, maybe stick to sitting with people you actually know.”

This time, his tone was firm, almost scolding. You blinked at him, taken aback by this side of him. Now that you thought about it, you had never seen him pissed. And you didn’t know how to react. Your muscle memory took over for you, feeling the need to get defensive.

“Okay… I wasn’t – he just sat down. I didn’t –”

“Finish your breakfast. I’ll drive you back.” He interrupted, glancing out the window one more time as he watched Kurt’s truck disappear down the road.

You weren’t sure if it was the way he was ordering you around, or the way his hand hovered over the small of your back as he led you out of the diner, or the darkness that spread across his face, but something was sending shivers down your spine.

That evening, it was the first time you touched yourself to the thought of Mr. Morgan. You started wearing more revealing clothes, nothing fancy, just simple shorts and tank tops that would just show your skin, even though it was literally freezing outside. Overtime, you got bolder, getting close to him when Harrison wasn’t looking, unnecessarily leaning over him or brushing against him with your ass. When it was your turn on the couch, you’d purposefully stay uncovered, hoping that the tight shorts would ride up your ass while you were sleeping, to bring a little diversity to his early-morning routines.

He was a smart man. He knew what you were doing. And unfortunately for you, he was resilient.

“You sure you aren’t cold?” he’d asked once as you mixed the batter for gingerbread cookies, leaning casually against the counter behind you. And when you turned around, you saw his eyes flick from your exposed legs to your face. He did exactly nothing to hide it.

“I’m sure.”

You gave him an innocent smile and returned your focus to the batter, smirking to yourself.

“It’s below freezing outside.”

Yeah, tell me about it.

“Exactly. Outside. That’s why we collect firewood, right?”

“Hmm.”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he studied you. Or tried to intimidate you? Honestly, you had no idea. “Doesn’t really explain why you’ve been walking around dressed like it’s summer for the past week.”

You paused, holding the bowl against your ribcage as you turned to face him.

“Maybe I’m just trying to liven up this place. Bring some Miami energy to Iron Lake.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Miami energy?” He repeated the words like they amused him, though his tone was dry. “Interesting choice.”

Your cheeks flushed and a shiver ran down your arms – and not from the cold. Maybe, just maybe, you should have kept your mouth shut. Harrison had told you that they’d moved from Florida. But you didn’t need to mention that part.

You were waiting for him to say something else, but he didn’t. He just stared at you, with that expression on his face that said that you were crossing a line. He made you too aware of your whole being – your skin, your lips, your eyes, everything was twitching or at least it felt like it was.

Gulping down the lump in your throat, trying as much as you could to make it unnoticeable, you turned your back to him again. He didn’t say anything more, and when you heard him walk away, you finally felt like you had space to breathe again. You hoped he at least checked you out one more time before leaving. Your cheeks still burned with a mix of embarrassment and frustration, and your body ached with an unfulfilled desire that he seemed intent on ignoring.

But still. He wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted you to believe. You just needed to figure out how to crack him.

Sometimes, less was more. So, the next evening, you decided to try something else. You’d packed a pair of thigh-high, cable-knit burgundy socks that you almost never wore – you found out quickly it was too impractical for everyday use. You thanked yourself for not selling them on Vinted, because now, they had a perfect use.

They clung perfectly to your legs, and you paired them with an over-sized sweater that was barely covering your thighs, leaving a teasing strip of skin visible when you moved. And that was the only thing you were relying on. Well, that and your sweater riding up when you’d stretch yourself up to hang the Christmas decorations.

You slid into your Birkenstocks and took a deep breath. Showtime.

You had been at the cabin alone, but you knew exactly when he was coming home. You’d timed it all perfectly, waiting until you knew he’d walk in and see you in the middle of something. Harrison wouldn’t have noticed the outfit, but Mr. Morgan noticed everything, even when he pretended he didn’t.

It was quiet as you set up for decorating, untangling the mess of Christmas lights while waiting. Any minute now. And then, you felt a gust of icy wind as Mr. Morgan made his entrance. You glanced over your shoulder, greeting him with a fleeting smile, pretending not to pay him too much attention.

“How was work?” you asked as you started to wrap the lights around the mantle, focusing on draping the string evenly.

“Average.” He said as he threw his car keys into the bowl by the door. “Did the cold finally get to you?”

You smirked to yourself, proud that you made unable to resist commenting on your clothes. First thing that came to his mind. Meaning the image of you in your usual shorts must've been lingering somewhere in his had. It had to be.

“Yeah, you were right. I wouldn’t want to spend Christmas in bed, on the cusp of dying,” you said, feigning defeat. “Where’s Harrison? He was supposed to help me.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t know.”

Well, you did. He was still at the tavern, because you told him you’d start at around nine. It was around six o’clock.

“Never mind." you said with a small shrug, turning to adjust a strand of lights. "At least I don’t have to listen to how everything's at the wrong angle.”

That earned a fait snort from him. His boots thudded against the floor as he crossed the room.  “You need a hand?”

“No, thanks. But you’re welcome to supervise. You’re good at that.”

“Funny.”  

“Is it?”

You reached for the next decoration – a thin garland of cranberries – and stretched up on your tiptoes to hook it around the nail, feeling the hem of your sweater ride up, baring the tops of your thighs. You could almost feel the moment he noticed by the way the silence in the room sharpened.

“I should’ve bought you some proper clothes for Christmas.”

Oh, my God. You couldn’t believe it worked.

“Really? And what would you consider proper, Mr. Morgan?”

You turned to face him, watching his eyes darken, his pupils dilate as his eyes flicked to your legs and then back to your face, his jaw tightening slightly. “Something warmer.”

“Warmer?” you echoed, glancing down at your cozy outfit. “I thought this was perfectly appropriate for decorating.”

“Appropriate for what, exactly?”

You tilted your head, the corners of your lips quirking upward as you shrugged playfully. “For making the place feel festive.”

“Festive.” He repeated with a strong voice. “If you say so.”

You stepped closer, your fingers fiddling with a stray cranberry that had fallen into your hand. “You don’t approve?”

Oof. Well, go big or go home.  

His posture shifted, straightening just enough to make him seem even taller, making you crane your neck to hold the eye contact. “I didn’t say that.”

A tiny victory. You nearly let your grin slip, but you had to hold it back. You still didn’t get what you wanted.

“Well, if you have any decorating tips, I’m all ears," you said casually, turning your attention back to the box of ornaments. You pulled out another string of lights and moved around the room.

You repeated the same tactics again and again. Sometimes, you bent down deliberately to give him a different angle as he ate his dinner, before retreating to the couch and doing something on his computer. Other times, you stretched a little too far to reach something, the edge of your sweater lifting again, revealing more skin.

The room was finally coming together, warm light casting shadows across the walls, the faint scent of pine and cinnamon filling the air. You collected the empty boxes and stray bits of ribbon scattered on the floor and stepped back to admire your work.

With everything in place, you decided to retreat to the bathroom for a well-earned shower. Stripping out of your sweater and socks, you paused with your hand on the faucet knob, another idea sparking in your mind.

If he wanted to keep his composure, he was going to have to work harder. You hadn't done all of this for nothing.

You grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around yourself before heading into the living room, where he was still locked in whatever he was doing on his laptop.

“Mr. Morgan?” you called, your voice intentionally soft.

“Yes?”

He glanced over his shoulder, and his brow immediately fell, his eyes roaming your body yet again.

“The shower isn’t working. You think you could take a look at it?”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes narrowing, trying to decipher your intentions. Shit, he was already onto you and you were scared you’d really scare him away. But then he rose to his feet and made his way to the bathroom. He eyed you suspiciously as he walked by you, but you just gave him an innocent smile. He disappeared into the bathroom, the faint creak of the old wooden door echoing through the cabin. You followed close behind, feeling the chill of the room raise goosebumps on your skin. The sound of him inspecting the faucet, twisting the knobs, testing the showerhead and eventually the sound of water filled the silence.

“It’s working fine. You probably didn’t turn the knob far enough.”

“Oh. My mistake.”

You stepped further into the cramped space, closing the door behind you quietly and leaning against it, nibbling on your lip.

He turned around, sighing as he was already aware of you caging him.

“YN,” he said, giving you a chance to back out. “What are you doing?”

He stepped closer to you, his sturdy figure towering over you. You shifted your weight from one foot to another, trying to not let your composure slip.

“Well, I thought maybe you could teach me how to fix it,” you shrugged your shoulders, the words stumbling out before you could really think them through.

“You don’t need to know how to fix it if it’s not broken.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the towel tighter, the only thing keeping you grounded, really. You could be here forever with this back and forth, words felt useless. So instead of saying anything, you rose to your tiptoes and kissed him. It wasn’t bold, not entirely; you lingered just long enough to make your intention clear, then pulled back.

You couldn’t read him, his eyes were closed and his lips still parted from the kiss before he finally spoke.

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” he said, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Why? Because it doesn’t fit into your routine?” You meant it as a joke, but this was really not the time.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away. But then he stepped just a little bit closer, his hands bracing on either side of the door behind you, caging you in.

“You can’t even imagine what I’m capable of.”

You probably couldn’t, but it didn’t even matter. You found him attractive, and you wanted him. It was as simple as that.

“You sure you want to take that risk? All because you can’t help but act on your impulses? Last chance. Walk away.”

But you didn’t and you let him know with a subtle shake of your head. And that was it. Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto snapped like a thread pulled too tight. His mouth was on yours in an instant, the kiss rough and urgent. His hand slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face just enough to deepen the kiss.

You’d never been with an older man, but man, was this something else. He wasn’t careful about it. Even though he didn’t strike you as the most confident guy at first sight, the kiss convinced you otherwise. It was a stark contrast to your previous boyfriends. They’d been clumsy and eager, but Mr. Morgan – Jim knew exactly what he wanted and how to take it.

You barely had time to catch your breath as his lips left yours, trailing along your jaw, his stubble scraping your skin in a way that made your knees weak. He didn’t waste any more time as his other hand slid up your inner thigh and beneath the towel, going straight to your pussy. You gasped as his finger found your wetness, fighting the urge to shy away.

In no time, his clothes were gone and the towel pooled on the floor. He gripped your hips firmly, turning your bodies around and guiding you under the steady stream of water pouring from the showerhead. The sensation of cool water against your skin was overshadowed by the way his hands roamed your body and pulled you against him, making you dig your nails into his biceps.

“Jim,” you gasped as his cock brushed against your cunt, but his hand shot up to your face, covering your mouth.

“No.” He growled. “You picked the wrong time to use that name.”

Your brows knit together in confusion. That name? What was that supposed to mean? 

“Get on your knees.”

Without hesitation, you obeyed, sinking to your knees in front of him, your kneecaps digging into the wet tiles. He shifted his body so his broad frame was shielding you from the stream of water, making you aware of the cool air prickling your damp skin.

The droplets were cascading down his chest and over the taut lines of his stomach. Your eyes lifted from the scar on his left side to meet his, and for a moment, he just simply looked at you. Admired you. Then, with one hand cradling the back of your head and the other stroking his cock, he guided you closer.

You opened your mouth automatically, your lips almost wrapping around his head, but before you made a contact, he gripped your soaked hair and pulled you away, making you shriek.

“Did I tell you you could put your mouth on me?”   

“No,” you said with a small voice.

“That’s right. So, let’s try this again. Who’s in control?”

“You are, Mr. Morgan.”  

You felt your pussy throb from the way he was ordering you around. And for a split second, you were doubting yourself that you could handle it. What if he thought you were pathetic? What if he waited for you to fight back? What if he wanted you to be bratty?

“Hey, look at me,” he said, his voice softer than before, but it was still demanding. His thumb brushed along your shiny lips before continuing. “You’re beautiful. Don’t overthink this.”

Yeah, probably easy for him to say, but you nodded anyway.

“Stick your tongue out. Keep it out.”

You obeyed, opening your mouth wide and letting your tongue rest on your chin. He gripped your jaw again, holding you in place. His cock brushed lightly against your tongue, before letting go of your jaw and bringing his hand to the back of your neck, squeezing, as he guided you down his cock. Automatically, your hands shot up to grab onto his thighs.

“Now, if it gets too much, you tap my leg three times, okay?”

You nodded, the movement of your head with his cock in your mouth making him hiss.

“Show me.”

You tapped his thigh.

“Good girl.”

Your chest swelled with pride as he praised you. This was a whole another level of making you feel good, and you’d never guess it would be coming from your best friend’s father. And not only was he making you feel good, but he also gave you confidence, making you slide your mouth around his cock in a more steady rhythm with him still controlling the movements.

It was slow at first, but you felt that he was holding back, so when he went to pull your head back, you overpowered his strength and instead let his cock slide deep into your throat, making you gag while he simultaneously moaned at the unexpected feeling. He pulled out of your mouth, a string of saliva and precum connecting your lips to the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he whispered, as his palm wiped your chin. Well, more like spread the fluids over your lower jaw, before he returned his cock into your mouth and fucked it. He finally let go, hitting your throat over and over again, making you gag and cough around him, up until the point tears started sliding down your cheeks.

You were so close to tapping out, but before you could signal to him, he pulled out and leaned down, grabbing your jaw as he kissed your open mouth, tasting himself on you.

“Get up.”

You stumbled slightly as you got to your feet, your knees weak and sore from being in that position for so long. He didn’t give you a chance to steady yourself, grabbing your hips and spinning you around. Your back hit his chest as he guided you toward the tiled wall.

“Hands on the wall.”

As you did so, his hand trailed down your back, lingering over the curve of your ass before landing a sharp smack that made you gasp, and wow. You’d never have guessed that he’d be such a kinky motherfucker.

It’s not like you hadn’t had a guy slap your ass before, but this was just different. You remember being unable to get turned on when your sexual partner would spank you. You remember thinking maybe there was something wrong with you. It’s not like you didn’t like it or like it made you uncomfortable. You just hadn’t felt anything. It hadn’t hurt. It hadn’t sting. It had been like eating plain, salted chips. They taste good, but they don’t really get you excited.

But from Mr. Morgan, it burned, and it was the best feeling in the world. He skimmed his nails against the flesh of your butt, as if tracing the hand-print that was surely forming there. He placed kisses down your back until he was kissing your stinging skin. You shied away as you realized he was now kneeling behind you, but he quickly caught you by the creases where your thigh meets your abdomen, pulling you back to him.

“Spread your legs,” he instructed yet again.

Your heart pounded, the position feeling unnatural, but despite that, you moved your feet apart, feeling the stickiness between your thighs. You flinched as his cold fingers made contact with your pussy, but quickly recovered. He buried his thumb between your pussy lips, parting them as he slid it from your hole to your clit, pressing down harder as he circled the sensitive bud.

Your whole body vibrated, the blood rushing through your body and into your throbbing clit. He kept flicking it with his finger, occasionally slowing down to pull the hood of your clit back to focus on the most innervated part of you. You arched your back, as he brushed over that spot, making your stomach tighten. Then he finally brought his fingers to your cunt, pushing in one, then two fingers. It made you mewl, the way he was carefully sliding them in and out, enjoying every ridge of your walls. You heard him sigh, feeling his hot breath bouncing off your ass. It made you realize how bad you wanted his mouth on your pussy.

And as if he read your thoughts, his fingers slid out of you and to your clit, as he replaced them with his tongue, flexing it and fucking you with it straight away. He was licking up your walls, the wet muscle prodding against them, making you moan. The finger still worked your clit, but when you felt him open his mouth wide and bury his face even further into your ass to get his tongue as far as he possibly could. It made you see galaxies.

When he felt you twitching against him, already trying to get away, albeit unintentionally, he circled both your thighs with his arm, trapping you against him. You were basically sitting on his face and now that his fingers left your clit, he slid his chin lower, his stubble scratching your skin as the tip of his tongue massaged your clit. His nose was buried in your wet hole now, his cheeks squished by your thighs, and you were scared you were going to suffocate him. Unfortunately, it was his fault and his fault only that you stopped caring as soon as you heard the squelching sounds of your pussy as his tongue kept delving into you. That’s what he did, he made you selfish. He was bringing you closer to the edge and the only thing you cared about was falling.

And with his tongue flicking against your clit, you soon felt the knot in your stomach tightening, until you let go. Your release poured out of you and he was catching it all on his tongue, licking everything up.

Once he got every drop, he stood to his full height, his arms encircling you. I made you feel safe, secured. One of his hands landed on your breast, squeezing and pinching your nipple as he kissed along your neck and then your shoulder, waiting for you to fully come down. You let your head fall backwards against his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck.

He smelled so good. Or maybe it was just the undetectable pheromones spreading through the air that sharpened every sense to its peak. You felt like a mess. Your hands itched to adjust your hair, to wipe at the moisture beading on your flushed skin, but you were too scared to move.

“Are you sure?” He asked as he pressed closer, his cock prodding at your cunt.

“Yes.”

And then he finally fucked you. Your back arched instinctively into him as he started thrusting, finding a steady rhythm. His hand slipped lower, tracing the line of your hip before dipping between your thighs again, spreading your pussy and grazing the nail of his finger over your clit. His hips moved harder and harder, the sounds of wet skin slapping against each other, his moans and your whimpers filled the room, the stream of water coming from the shower making a bad job at obscuring it. He was hitting that spot inside of you over and over again and combined with the sensation of his fingers on your clit and his teeth pressing against your shoulder as he licked the water from your skin made your knees buckle. He was going to leave a faint imprint, that’s for sure.

He was getting close too, or at least you thought so from the way he got louder and more high-pitched, fucking you faster. He wasn’t gentle about it. He wanted you to come hard around him, and it was working. You were getting closer and closer, and when he sank his teeth a little harder into your shoulder, not sure if it was intentional or in the heat of the moment, that name escaped your mouth on its own again.

“Jim–”

And in a snap of a finger, his hand shot up to your mouth, covering it and leaning your head back against his shoulder, his lips ghosting your ear.

“Dexter,” he said, his hand sliding down to your neck and lightly pressing against your throat. Your brain was mush, you didn’t know what he meant, your brows knitting in confusion as you tried to focus on what he just said. “Fucking say it.” He growled when you didn’t react, pinching your clit and giving you a particularly hard and deep thrust as he stopped him movements. 

“Dexter,” you moaned immediately. You just wanted to be good for him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he praised as he started fucking you again until you were coming around him. It made your whole body convulse. You hinged your hips to press against him and at the same time, to escape his wicked fingers. You brought your hand down to cover his on your pussy, thinking maybe it would bring you relieve from the overstimulation, but it did exactly nothing at all. You kept coming, coating his cock in your cum, making it easier for him to slide along your pussy walls, but harder for him to keep his cock from sliding all the way out. You were so slippery, your cunt clenching around him which brought him to his own edge, finally spilling himself inside of you.

Gradually, he slowed down until he eventually removed his cock from your pussy and freed your sensitive clit from his fingers. He did manage to slide them to your hole one last time, scooping up your mixed cum as he brought his hand in front your faces and admired it, his breath hot against the nape of your neck as he rubbed the juices between his fingers. You watched it slowly disappear under the running water before he let his arm fall to your hip, turning you around. He pressed his forehead against yours and closed his eyes, breathing heavily, before opening them again, his eyelashes catching the drops of water from the shower.

“Next time, I’m fucking you in those socks.”

[apparitionism]

Real

Can’t believe tomorrow is a particular Wednesday already; this season has rushed in like the most foolish of fools, and as a result I’m rushing to push out this new holiday story... because I too am a fool. This is set post-series (including the nonexistent season), though not by much, as the first little bit will make clear. It’s kind of all about fallout. And who wants what, and why, and whether they’re willing to work, wait, and do other things that probably start with “w” to get it. Anyway, season’s greetings to all—and to all (including, eventually, Myka and Helena, I promise) a good night.

Real

“She’s back,” Artie announces one autumn night, and before anyone (Myka) can fully register what that might mean...

...she is.

Is, is, is... a distillation of so much of what Myka instantaneously knows again as possibility, as hopes and wishes jolting back to life, as again (still) the only presence that instantly makes Myka aware of herself as a body, one that responds with barely controllable fervor to that presence—that other body.

Artie goes on saying words, “reinstated” and “agent” among them, but the roaring of Myka’s blood drowns them out.

She fears she will spontaneously combust. She would rather spontaneously combust. That would be better than having to consciously keep from spontaneously combusting, in response to Helena existing, to her moving and speaking, in a proximity that Myka should prize but that her body, fervently responding, informs her is completely insufficient.

Myka escapes as soon as she can, to sit in the dark of her room, to sit and process, but her usual, reliable processing processes fail her.

They always have, where Helena is concerned.

All she does is sit, empty but for the replaying of Helena’s entry into the dining room, her stride so sure, her aspect so unlike the dismissive, shrinking shrugs of Boone... that had sent Myka’s soul soaring.

Helena had greeted them all with good humor, her manner and words to everyone so convivial. So convivial, but also: to everyone, and that is what finds clawed purchase in Myka’s heart, here in the dark.

Here in the dark, Myka viciously tells herself that she deserves no special acknowledgment. Why would you?

She also tells herself, This will get easier.

****

In some ways it does. For example, Myka’s shock at, and subsequent need to recover from, each new sight of Helena lessens somewhat. Or maybe it’s that her body becomes accustomed to absorbing the impact.

In others, it profoundly doesn’t.

Case in painful point: one evening when they’re all cleaning up after dinner, Claudia says to Helena, “So can I ask you something?”

“Clearly you can. You just did,” Helena bats back, in play, and envy stabs Myka.

“You’re as bad as Artie,” Claudia groans. “But here goes: are you still seeing that lady?”

Terror appropriates envy’s knife, gashing anew. Myka has not let herself begin to imagine how to get such a question answered, and here Claudia just says it while lowering a stack of dirty plates into the sink.

Helena’s airy reply: “Still the case. Obviously we’re long-distance at the moment.”

Something previously un-knifed in Myka collapses at that “obviously.” Obviously. Obviously. Obviously, the Warehouse return had not entailed a renouncing of Helena’s non-Warehouse connections. As Myka had obviously, she now sees, believed—hoped!—it would.

The depth and breadth of her error sends her to her room again, lightless, wounded, empty, waiting for time to pass until she once again has something to do.

Such as a retrieval with Pete.

The next one of which proceeds well—it’s not a big, dangerous deal, but rather a matter of a sad, not villainous, loner seeking connection via an artifact-compromised comic-book message board. Pete’s his enthusiastic self about the comics of it all, and Myka lets it lull her into a near-trance of this is how it used to be, before everything.

Until they’re on the plane home, when Pete says, “So H.G.’s back.”

“Thanks for the update,” she says, bracing herself, because of course that won’t be all, because that would be too easy.

“And what about that girlfriend?”

“What about her?” Well, that was stupid: asking some reflex question she doesn’t want answered. She braces herself again.

“You think she’s her one?”

That’s worse than she’d imagined. Myka doesn’t want to go anywhere near that Schrödinger-box, for fear that peeking inside would reveal a very dead cat. Would in fact be the deciding factor in that cat’s demise.

After a stretch of silence, Pete says, “Bet she’s not. So what are you gonna do about it?”

What does he mean? Do about the girlfriend not being, or being, Helena’s one? Do about Helena being back in the first place? She would rather avoid nailing that down—another let’s-not-look Schrödinger box.

“I’m going to ignore it,” she says.

“That’s not healthy. I mean, I get it, but it’s not healthy.”

He coughs ostentatiously. Meaningfully? Myka doesn’t know. Can’t tell. Won’t ask. She hates how she feels compelled to leave this cat in limbo too, just so she can shift away from any potential situational consequences.

If only she had resisted the pressure to shift her definition of love.

She tries for resistance now, even though it’s too late: “I’m not going to try to keep her from doing what she wants to do.”

He cocks his head in that exaggerated what-are-you-saying way. “I thought you might though. Try.”

Myka is tempted to demand, “Why would you think that,” but she knows why he would think it, and revisiting that fight is an impossibility. Especially now.

“But you’re not trying,” he says. His tone, though, ratchets down the danger. It’s a relief. “So why not?”

Now Myka’s tempted to give some indignant “I don’t have to justify my behavior to you” answer... and yet. She does owe him more than that. Especially now, having misled him so severely before, she owes him some decent measure of honesty. So she says it as plain as she can: “Because people should do what they want to do.”

“Huh.” He puts on his “thinking” face—the real one, not the cartoon. “But you’re not doing what you want to do.”

“What?” Myka says, playing dismissively dumb. Hoping he’ll give some dumb response.

“You want to stop her doing what she’s doing.” Myka shakes her head at that, trying to pretend it’s dumb, but Pete rolls his eyes. He sees the weakness. How can he be getting her so right in this when he got her so so so wrong before? But then again she’d got herself wrong... “So why wouldn’t you do what you want to do?” he finishes.

Want, want, want. Myka wishes he would quit using the word.

Yes it’s her fault for using it first. Yes she should have shut him down forcefully to begin with. Yes that applies to situations preceding this one.

In any case, wanting is pointless. It literally does not matter: its only product is empty space, a horrific gaping sink, a vacuum as vast as space itself.

So she says, as pedantically as she can, “Because if one person’s wants affect another person’s wants, that’s a different category of... you know what? Never mind.”

“You only ever say ‘never mind’ when you know I’m right.”

“What? I say ‘never mind’ a lot.”

“Which means...” He taps his temple.

“No. No it does not.” But she does smile.

Pete bobs his head as if she’s actually agreed with him, and so they end on a familiar, jokey note. It’s far better than they could have managed some months ago, in the immediate aftermath of their... mistake? Misunderstanding? Mismanagement? Misadventure? Misapprehension?

Stop dictionarying, she tells herself. Despite its being one of her default ways of trying to process confusion, it rarely delivers the clarity she seeks. At any rate, their short-lived whatever-it-was was a mis-everything.

She takes out the book she’s brought with her, H Is for Hawk, so as to fill her head with Heather MacDonald’s solitude rather than her own. She has lately found that overlaying her own thoughts with someone else’s ruminations is quieting, so she’s reading even more than usual... it beats sitting in darkness, waiting. Which she supposes means she should thank Helena (thank her) for her extensive new knowledge: of, here, grief and falconry, but also, the Wright brothers, Joan of Arc, India’s partition, séances in the 1920s, Salem’s witch hunts, various aspects of the Supreme Court...

Erudition must surely outweigh emotionalism Extremity. Enthrallment? Embitterment.

Stop dictionarying.

****

Relentlessly, the holidays approach. Myka tries to ignore them too, particularly their invitation to soften. Unhealthy, Pete’s accusation echoes.

But in speaking to Pete, Myka had lied: she isn’t really ignoring anything Helena-related. In a folder of significant size in her mind, she stores a cascade of spreadsheets in which she tallies and tracks as many of Helena’s movements, statements, interactions as she can, in as much detail as possible: e.g., it wasn’t enough for Myka to get Steve to tell her about his retrievals with Helena—those accounts, while captivating, were incomplete, secondhand—so she has made perverse use of her hard-earned Warehouse database access to read Helena’s actual mission reports, like some pathetic online stalker. They’re literarily significant, she tries to use as additional justification, ignoring the fact that no one other than Warehousers will ever know how or why.

It’s not that she’s hoping to gain insight from any of this; the activity is simply itself. A flat gather of data. For those spreadsheets.

Which she uses, of course, to torture herself, not least for her damning inability to gain insight. Thus proving Pete wrong: it isn’t ignoring things that’s unhealthy. No, it’s paying them attention—stupid, pointless attention—that causes disease.

That’s true, but Myka genuinely does not know how much longer she can suffer making herself sick.

Lovesick, she sometimes thinks... but that makes “love” too prominent in the mix. No, the “sick” is what matters, and it is chronic, not acute. Which means it must be managed rather than cured, and she will manage it, because she has to: because she is an agent and Helena is an agent and they live in the same house and say the same mutually polite “good morning” to each other each day.

Sometimes Myka wisps a wish, in the wake of one of those morningtides whose undertow she cannot reveal, that she could begin to shift her thinking, to try floating above rather than falling under, the better work her way to commencing the actual ignoring.

But then Helena will talk to Steve about the particulars of his Buddhist practice, or to Claudia about a joint invention project’s feasibility, or to Artie about a disputed wrinkle of history, or even to Pete about, bizarrely yet bizarrely frequently, which menu items should be avoided at fast-food chains... and Myka enters each new datum into the spreadsheets out of avid habit, all while ferally wishing everything different—even, some days, heretically, Helena gone. And while castigating herself for having wished, before, so stupidly inchoately, pleading with the universe to let Helena come back. More: to send Helena back.

How very monkey’s-paw of you, she jeers, to leave out specifics. In particular, to leave out “to me.” Send Helena back to me.

Before Helena came back, Myka was lost; now she’s still lost, but differently. And if there is one thing Myka has never liked—in fact, has always feared—it’s change.

So in truth she can probably suffer making herself sick for quite some time. As long as nothing about the making—or the sickness—changes.

****

The days leading up to Christmas itself are blessedly busy. On the 22nd, Myka and Steve head to West Virginia to bag a problematic coal-miner’s lamp; the work keeps them away until Christmas Eve, and if Myka happens to linger a bit longer at the Warehouse after Steve goes back to the B&B once they’ve deposited the artifact... well, that’s because she’s very conscientious about filing reports in a timely fashion.

In fact, she lingers a lot longer, and she’s happy to arrive home to a mostly silent B&B... however, she is instantly deposited into precisely the sort of situation she’d hoped to avoid: she must walk past Helena, who is in the living room, alone, with the television on. Impossible to slink past undetected, and thus rude to try—particularly once Helena says, “Welcome home.”

How disorienting, for Helena to be here and to say that. Worse, the articulation seems to ring of... before. When Myka was special.

But she is imagining that. She must be.

“What are you watching?” she asks, though she doesn’t need to. Helena is watching the Yule Log.

You strike me. Myka’s thought stops there, true as can be. Aloud, she says, “You know what it is, right?”

“A strangely mesmerizing facsimile of a fire,” Helena says, without looking up. “Do I strike you as hypnotized?”

Now Helena looks up. She blinks at Myka and nods, oddly soft, childlike. “I consulted Google.”

Helena is absurdly fond of Google. Myka struggles to keep from finding this absurdly charming. She struggles similarly with the way in which Helena articulates the word itself—every witnessed occurrence of which is represented in the spreadsheets. so Myka is painfully aware of the way Helena puts a slight formal emphasis on both syllables, such that it sounds, in a capping absurdity, as if she’s saying she consulted Gogol.

Not that acquiring input from a dead Russian writer would necessarily be all that different, absurdity-wise, from having instant access to a towering percentage of the world’s collective knowledge. And Helena probably understands that congruence, if that’s what it is, better than Myka ever could.

Myka knows she’s thinking herself down treacherous paths; she should say goodnight and walk away. But it’s Christmas Eve, and she gives herself a present she shouldn’t want but feels she has earned, earned by ignoring—or, to the contrary, recording—so strenuously. She has done such hard work. So she lets herself ask, “Why are you so focused?”

“Pete gave me a choice: watch the Yule Log or talk to Myka. I believe he thought I would reject the former as unworthy of my attention. Yet here I watch, mesmerized.”

“Since when do you do what Pete tells you?” But thanks, I guess, for letting me know where I stand. She can’t then hold back a jab: “Anyway, shouldn’t you be spending the holiday with the famous Giselle?”

Helena blinks again. This time it’s not at all childlike. “That’s why he wanted me to talk to you. But to answer your previous question: since he told me he’s in love with you.”

He... what? “What?”

“You asked me since when do I do what Pete tells me. I’m answering.”

Keep up, Myka; keep up. “When did he tell you that?”

“This evening. As part of what I fear—or hope?—was intended as a Christmas gift.”

“For you?” That’s not keeping up.

“No.”

“Then for who?” That’s not either.

“Whom.”

“Well, excuse my grammar, but I’m a little weirded out.” This is the most extended conversation she and Helena have had since... before. That’s destabilizing enough to her ability to concentrate on words. but what, exactly, is she supposed to do with these words?

“Weirded out,” Helena says, an unexpected affirmation. “As was I. I wasn’t aware.” She makes a small “huh” noise, as if she has to bridge her way to what’s next. “That the two of you had been involved.”

Oh. Hence the bridge—but this is a shifting surprise. “I thought someone—Claudia—would have told you. Must have told you.” Must have, and that in turn must have contributed, Myka had been sure, to Helena’s lack of engagement. She’s always known your judgment was abysmal, she’d lashed herself, based on those must haves, and this is certainly fuel for that fire.

“Our discussions have been more focused on her future. And my past. And technology, of course.”

“Of course,” Myka says. And then, quick, before she loses her nerve: “It didn’t take.”

“Technology?”

“The involvement.”

“I gathered that from its current status.”

“Right.” The conversation, such as it is, should probably end here... but something is off. “Wait. You said he said he is in love with me.”

“Yes.”

Myka had believed it was over. All over. The idea of having to deal with it, with any aspect of it, in perpetuity, or at least with no clear sundown, preemptively exhausts her. And it rekindles her anger at the entire situation, at its utter pointlessness. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she says. She immediately regrets the admission.

“He said he’ll get over it.”

“Well, that’s something. I guess.” It comes out grudging, and that’s another admission Helena shouldn’t be privy to.

“He said you won’t.”

“What? Get over it? No, the problem was that I wasn’t ever in love. With him.” She’s saying far too much. She supposes it’s fortunate that she’s looking at this repetitively flickery video loop, rather than into Helena’s eyes. She supposes also that said loop is a reasonable metaphor for how her life has been proceeding. Lately. Before, and lately.

“He said that too.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re losing me.”

“Interestingly, he said a version of that as well.”

“That you were losing him?” Not hard to believe; sometimes Pete can barely follow a laser pointer.

Helena focuses her gaze on Myka again, adamantine. “That I was losing you.”

And just like that, Myka is through the looking glass. Trapped like Alice, trying to get out. “Why would you care?” she chokes.

Helena lowers her brow, a stern schoolmarm confronting an intransigent pupil. “Because as I mentioned, he said—and seemed quite certain—that you won’t get over being in love.”

Myka knows now what’s next. Helena is about to say, “With me.” Because once again: that fight.

Oh yes I will. That’s what the ignoring is for. When I work my way around to it, that’s what it’s for.

“I didn’t know,” is what Helena actually says, clearly taking Myka’s silence as affirmation of those unuttered words.

“Oh please. Like I could have been any more obvious.” Obviously. She says it with contempt at herself, past and present: what a pathetic moonstruck puppy.

“At which point?” Helena asks.

That’s a surprisingly troubling question. Timelines. Decisions. What did you know and when did you know it? What did you show and when did you show it?

“All I knew was how you responded. Not how you felt.”

Of course the former was all Myka herself had known, certainly at first, and their consonance surprises her. If only she could share that consonance, and her surprise in it, with Helena... but that seems too much like a reward, one that neither she nor Helena deserves. Again exhaustion: at their lack of merit. “I don’t want to play these games,” she says.

“Then don’t.” Was that a shrug? Did Helena really shrug?

“Fine. I won’t.” It’s childish, yet it feels like the best end she can manage tonight. You didn’t seek this out, she assures herself as she takes a first step away.

Before she can seal the escape with her second step, Helena says, “You might at least release me from this view.”

“You talked to me,” Myka says, doing her best to make it all go away. “You’re free.”

Helena turns from the flames too quickly for Myka to dodge being caught by the look. “I am in no way free.”

That is not my problem, Myka would like to maintain, but Helena’s gaze and tone are implicating, which is entirely unfair but still needs to be dealt with. She sits down next to Helena on the sofa. At a judicious distance.

Now they are both watching the Yule Log, which, indifferent to them both, continues its facsimile flicker. “I guess it is kind of mesmerizing,” Myka says after some time.

“We haven’t spoken much,” Helena rejoins.

“There hasn’t been much to speak about.” Without peril, Myka adds, internally, and by that she means, peril to me.

“On the contrary. But I’ve tried to ignore it.”

“So have I. I hear it’s unhealthy.”

“Perhaps. It’s Pete’s strategy as well, according to him,” Helena says. Then, following a throat-clear, “With regard to his feelings for you.”

Myka doesn’t need to clear her throat. “He’s the one who told me it was unhealthy.” Which puts her in mind of his ostentatious cough: it’s meaningful now. Ridiculous, but meaningful.

“Then I suppose we’re ailing, all of us.”

“I suppose we are. An epidemic of ignorance.”

Helena smiles a little at that. Myka can’t help but smile back, and she maintains it as Helena asks, light, “What is the prognosis?”

“Depends on the ignoring’s end result,” Myka temporizes.

“Pete maintains that ignoring something long enough makes it go away.”

Or it kills you, Myka might say, like cancer. But instead she stays light. As light as she can. “Maybe he’s right. No, probably he’s right.” She owes him that.

Now a pause. A wait. What’s next? “So is that where we leave it?” Helena asks.

Maybe it goes away. Maybe that’s what’s next.

Myka can see it, now: see the spreadsheets dissolving into unnecessarity, see herself not responding physically to Helena, see Helena becoming, in essence, like Pete: someone with a past version of whom a past version of herself made a mistake.

She hadn’t imagined, not before this minute, that it was possible. But now a road leads there.

Can she take that road? She looks again into the fire. The not-fire. It mocks her: Everything you really want turns out to be unreal. On the other side of some facsimilating screen. A mirage. She turns away from it, ashamed. She looks at Helena... for the moment, Helena is still real. Still able to render Myka’s resistance from her body, here in this moment by sitting quietly and watching fake flames, in the next by doing nothing more than breathing out, breathing in.

Myka has not yet taken that awful road. Not yet. One more try, she tells herself. But no, that’s not right. She’s never really tried. Never really. She’s waited—longer than she thought she should—and she’s hoped—harder than she thought she could—but that wasn’t trying.

So: one try.

It can’t be the try she might have made in the past, a desperate just-please-touch-me push. Under the circumstances, that’s impossible. So, what?

An olive branch? No, peace isn’t the right aim, even now.

Better, perhaps: something she wouldn’t have said before tonight’s... encounter. Something related to tonight’s encounter, something more real than she’s offered so far: “We fought. Pete and I.”

TBC