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notsoverymerry · 2 days

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Boyfriend (j.yh x reader)

summary: You can't believe you're dating Yunho. Others can't either.

genre/warnings: smut, unprotected sex (please use protection!), fluff, use of pet-names a/n: let me know literally anything about this :) word count ~3.6k

You were dating Jeong Yunho; you really were.

You went on dates, held hands, kissed, and said the cheesiest, most sweetest, tooth-rotting things to each other. All the time. And yet, none of the boys had caught up. By some mysterious miracle or rather an ominous curse, guys and the staff have considered you two to be just really good friends. You could've screamed love proclamations at each other from mountaintops, and nobody would take that seriously. His habit of calling you his little bro, or some variation of that, as a pet name did not help in the slightest.

At first, it was funny. Just at the beginning of your relationship, when you intended to keep your fondness away from prying eyes and wanted to enjoy exploring each other in this new, intimate side of things, having people consider you pals was great. You can recall Seonghwa making a few remarks about how cute you would look together, but it was dismissed rather quickly. The first time it happened, you totally saw Yunho's ears go red, him stammering out something about friendships and trust and members making you uncomfortable.

At the end of your third date, you were sure you wanted this man next to you for life. He took you to the aquarium. It was a cliché, but it's something you have always dreamed of. You love animals, love to learn new things, and you think you love Jeong Yunho. He looked dashing in just a pair of blue jeans and a white sweater; your heart definitely skipped a beat when he smiled, hands reaching to greet you in a short embrace. It skipped a beat again when you heard him laugh lightly at some joke you made. And again, when his hand brushed against yours as you walked to your destination. Stepping into a room with tiny fish specimens showcased in various tanks, blue lights now illuminated his frame and those round sparkling eyes. Your heart doesn't seem to work correctly.

Few hours went flying. You took pictures. Half of them when he wasn't paying attention. You told him he looks like the prettiest starfish they have and didn't miss his cheeks darkening with blush even in the dim lights. Not too long had passed before you started to point out funky ones to each other, exclaiming, 'You!' and laughing. After a particularly accurate comparison of you to a dwarf puffer ('Dwarf puffers are aggressive, sensitive, and active' the sign read), he reached and intertwined your fingers, not a single hint of trying to hurt you with that juxtaposition, his eyes full of adoration, a huge smile on his face. You could have just kissed him.

He insisted on ice cream later in the evening. You were just heading out the shop when you bumped into Mingi. Faces red but happy, Yunho's arm hugging you to his side, a small bag of sweet treats in his hand. It took a second for Song Mingi to take the sight in. And another second for him to smile and greet you, to ask how's it going and where you're going to go.

''Oh, my girlfriend and I are just going to relax somewhere in the park nearby.''

You couldn't help the giggle that escaped your lips. Girlfriend. You can definitely get used to being called his girlfriend. And then it happened. Cue Mingi's cluelessness, or the fact that he's just tired from their hectic schedules.

''Man, it's great that you can be so close with each other and aren't afraid someone will mistake you for a couple. If you could act a bit better, maybe you'd even get a discount sometime!'' With that, he was gone.

There was a little tradition your small company liked to keep. Board games.

Every once in a while, when everyone wasn't busy, you'd spend an evening playing, talking, lightly drinking, and overall just relaxing. Adult life could take a really boring turn, the one that only had 'road work ahead, and so should you' sign. Bills, taxes, colleagues being stressed and mean, and yada-yada. Idol life was probably even worse.

There was some catching up due, and this Saturday night seemed just the perfect opportunity. The lot of you chose a game, lo-fi music was put on for background, and the living room area was cleaned so up to ten people could comfortably sit in a circle. Drinks were cold and ready to be handed out.

You took a seat in between your beloved Yuyu and Yeosang, a dear friend of yours who got you in the group. You'd expect him to know your heart of all people. Although when you told him about your new boyfriend, all he did was laugh and say that was a good one.

Bewilderment washed over you in a tidal wave. It showed up on your face, swimming behind your eyes and overflowing in a strangled sound from your lips. And you, Yeosang? With your confused and hurt whimper, the topic was brought to everyone's attention.

''Did you guys know y/n likes Yunho?'' Maybe it was the alcohol, but you heard more laughter.

''Oh? But y/n likes all of us, don't you?''

''Well, yes, but—'' you were not going to finish that sentence. He heard what he wanted.

''See?'' Wooyoung looked so smug; if your brain wasn't so busy being confused, you'd be infuriated. Right now you looked like there was a loading circle turning in your head. Hopefully you won't bluescreen.

''Are you guys pulling my leg?''

''Are you? Seriously, you and Yunho.'' There came a playful nudge to your side.

You wanted to protest, to ask your boyfriend to back you up, but turning to him, you saw his eyes creased by a smile. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to say that it's fine and they will catch up to it eventually. He knew it was going to take them a while. And with his hand lightly caressing your back, your anger dissipated, replaced by a warm feeling inside your chest. Was it always so hot in here?

''Just relax, little pal. I got you.''

A while has passed before you decided to be openly affectionate, at least around those closest to you.

It was a day off for the both of you. You planned on going out, but upon seeing your boyfriend's tired eyes, you opted to offer a quiet night in. Weather seemed to agree with that, given that it started raining against the broadcast's best predictions.

You were met with Hongjoong, who opened the door and let you in. When you entered their living room, you saw Yunho, still in sweatpants and a big shirt, holding a steaming mug.

''Hey.'' He said, ''Isn't it my favorite little dude!''

''Hello, honey.''

The warmth in your voices could melt the arctic icebergs. You took a few moments just to look at each other, gentle smiles tugging at the corners of your mouths.

''Oh, hey, bro! I'm also in the room, where's my sweet greeting?''

It was San, a pout already present on his sleepy face.

''You'd get it when you have a girlfriend.''

The day was spent in the comfort of their couch, with soft cushions and comforters draped around. None of you cared for the cancelled plans, not really, when all you ever wanted was to be in each other's presence. That was enough. Several movies were watched, hot tea keeping the cozy atmosphere company. You were cuddled with Yunho, feeling warm and giddy. That's when Seonghwa made another comment about how cute the two of you were.

''But I don't want to make you uncomfortable, y/n. Don't take this close to heart. We know there's nothing romantic going on.''

It was as though they were doing it on purpose.

''It's okay, Seonghwa; we are together. Like, I love him and all that.''

Your voice was steady, your face was serious, and yet…

''Of course you are,'' San almost scoffed. ''But that behavior is exactly why you can't get a date these days. People see Yunho and don't dare approach you.''

A light chuckle could be heard from the room; Yunho also couldn't contain his. The more blunt you were at stating your relationship status, the more oblivious band members became.

''Little broski is saying she doesn't need a date. She has me. Right, darling?''

Yunho was being honest. You nod at him, darting your eyes back at your friends in hopes of seeing the realization there. Yet, his playful tone and charming smile did nothing to convince the others. It's not like you've been actively trying to make them believe you were an item. Though now it seemed to irritate you a bit. Was it really that hard to imagine you and Jeong Yunho together? Were you not good enough in their eyes? Or was it his habit of calling you bro? You never knew.

''Why is it so hard for you to believe we're dating, though?''

You voiced your thoughts, needing to know the answer now.

''Y/n, love… You'd date a reputable scam artist before Yunho; we know that much. You'd probably even date Hongjoong first if-''

''I can hear that!''

That was the captain's answer from the kitchen.

''A reputable scam artist?''

That was your confused reply. What does that even mean?

''And what is so wrong with dating me? I'm handsome, I'm charming, and so, so funny! A real treat. I could also be a scam artist if I really wanted to.''

A strangled sound tore from your chest.

''See? That's a laugh.''

There was another. He was not at all interested in proving them wrong.

You couldn't believe your luck when you showed up at the dorms a week later and no one was there.

Yunho had called you, asking you to come in, some mischevous spark laced in his tone. It turns out, the boys had work, and those who didn't decided on spending the day outside. There was undoubtedly a need for shopping for essential items, as well as just a bit of fresh air and relaxation for those workaholics. Well deserved. Yunho needed it too. So when he asked if you could just cuddle him a bit and maybe cook something easy later, you couldn't find it in yourself to deny this request.

His bed? Soft. His body? Warm. Hands? Big and strong and held you against him perfectly. You were happy. You basked in the feeling of his chest pressed against your back, like puzzle pieces, you thought. You traced the veins on his arms, switching to play with his fingers from time to time. This feels nice. This feels so right. How could his members not see this? You were practically made for each other. You decided to bring it up.

''Why do you think our friends don't take us seriously?''

He let out an amused hum, his breath fanning over your neck.

''I dunno. Maybe they all want you, just can't take the fact I already hogged you for myself.''

He hugged you tighter. In all honesty, that was distracting. How could you think about other guys, about anything else, really, when your big and strong boyfriend held you so tenderly against himself? The thought of him wanting you and caring for you as much as you did for him should melt your heart. Instead, with the way his fingers played with your shirt, caressing your skin where it had rode up, it sent hot waves someplace else. Were you cruel enough to ruin this perfect cuddle session with your dirty thoughts?

''You're here, love?'' His hand went up to cradle your face.

Turning to him, you couldn't avoid looking at his lips. So pink and soft. You know just how nice they feel against yours. Your eyes had darkened already, the feelings you had for this man had your head all dizzy. Without much thinking, you moved forward, connecting your lips in a sweet kiss. You felt his breath hitch. A tiny sound tried to escape his throat, but your mouth didn't let it. His hands moved to your waist again, holding you even closer.

You put your hands in his hair. You just couldn't resist massaging his scalp and tugging gently, soft locks slipping through your fingers. And god were you rewarded with another sound from him, right into your lips, chest reverberating against yours. He stopped kissing you; for a moment he just needed to look at your face. Rose hue on your cheeks and blown eyes — no doubt he looked the same.

''I see,'' he chucled. Hands roaming your body, skimming your sides. ''You're so amazing. I can't get enough of you, my little bro.''

There it was again. The way he said it was ethereal. His voice so soft and perfectly low, his eyes dark and full of adoration. But it was the bro part that got your mind out of the gutter. Only for a moment, though.

''I want to make love to you so badly,'' you started. He sucked in a breath. His eyes fixated on your face, jumping over to your lips for a second. ''But please, stop with the bro thing. You can put that mouth to better use.''

''I'll be good,'' is his promise.

With that, he leaned in to kiss you again. This time pressing into you harder, needier. You couldn't control yourself any longer, too. With a soft moan, he moved even closer, almost getting on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. And it feels, oh, so good. You bite on his lower lip carefully, anything to hear his beautiful sounds again. You let him take the lead, tongue gliding over yours. He moans at the taste.

Tongue keeps rooling over yours; he lets his hands slide under your shirt. He kneads your breasts, then moves his hands over to grab at your hips and thighs, and back under your shirt again. You feel on fire. You want him to touch you everywhere at once; you want to touch him even more. You're the first to give in, reaching to help him take his t-shirt off.

He's gorgeous. Hair a bit messy, lips glossy and red from the kiss. He pants a little, and you reach to glide your hand over his abs and chest, circling over his nipple. You can hear a tiny pleased sound leaving him, but it's not enough. He reattaches himself to you right away, mouth finding your neck. He kisses, bites, and licks at your most sensitive spots. You take him back gladly, hugging him close and moving your hips to meet his. He seems eager to do the same, another perfect sound leaves his lips. It's a groan, and it's right into your ear, and it makes your head spin.

''God, you feel amazing.'' He breathes out, and you can't take it anymore. You want him, you need him with you, on you, in you. Your clothes get swiftly discarded, that eagerness earning you a quiet snicker. You don't care; your brain is in a fog, Yunho is the only thing on your mind.

''Please, touch me.'' you ask, settled in his sheets and looking up in his eyes, dark pools filled with lust to the brim.

He obliges, positioning himself at your side. ''How do you want it, baby?'' He asks, but his hands are already on you. He groups your breasts once more, bringing his mouth to suck at your neck, moving down until he can lick your nipple. He plays with you as he pleases, kneading your skin and ghosting over the area where you want him the most. ''Please,'' you whine.

''What? Isn't it good when I touch you here? Or maybe here?''

He moves his hand to massage your thighs so close to your hot core, playing with your inner thighs, pinching slightly. You start to buck your hips involuntarily. Oh, but then he moves it over your belly to your nipples again. You tug at his hands and whine again. With more and more whimpering coming from you, he surrenders.

Long fingers find your sticky folds to roll through them. The sound you let out makes his dick twitch in his underwear. When he finally pays attention to your clit, you feel exstatic. You look at him, at his concentrated face as he plays with you. You're lost in this feeling, lost in him. His fingers enter you suddenly, and you try to say something, but no real words come out. All you can think of is how good he feels inside of you. Your fingers can never do what his long ones can. They strech you a bit, just enough to feel this sweet pressure and leave you wanting more. Just enough to reach that gummy spot there that makes you see stars behind your eyelids.

''You look so good like this, fuck.'' He praises. His voice brings you back to reality. ''So fucked out already, and I barely even done anything.''

You want to protest, to say that you are not fucked out yet, but the way your walls clench around his fingers is a dead giveaway. You are losing your mind a little. Can he really blame you, though, when he's the one pressing on that spot inside of you, so, so well. You can't really say anything, the only sounds escaping are your moans. Yunho thinks your voice sounds like honey, so sweet and thick with arousal. He bucks his hips against you, breathing deeply.

You reach for his cock, still trapped in his sweats and boxers. Suddenly, the fabric is just so frustrating. He lets out an airy laugh at your feeble attempt at touching him, taking his fingers out. You mewl at sudden loss pathetically.

''What's wrong, love? Do you miss me already?''

He leaves your side not even for a minute, but it feels like forever. With a teasing grin, he discards the rest of his clothing and finally climbs back to bed, now on top of you. It's great. He's big and pinning you down and pressing to you just right.

You want him inside, so you try to shift a little, make it more comfortable for him to finally fuck you, but he doesn't budge. The look you're giving his way is comical. You're flushed and needy, and there's that throbber almost visible on your forehead again. Your boyfriend doesn't give you time to ask, diving into another heated kiss with you. Your moan is bordering on a sob when he opts to fuck your mouth with his tongue instead of fucking you like you desperately need him to.

When at last he's lining his cock up with your slit, you think you're actually going to cry. He's so hard and so big, the stretch feels euphoric. Pleasure overtakes and your eyes flutter shut as he slowly bottoms out.

''Keep your eyes open. Look at me, baby.''

His words come out in a mix of a moan and a growl. You swear you could come just listening to him, hand-free and all that. You open your eyes, and the sight is breathtaking. He moves inside of you, your walls feel hot and tight and like the most expensive velvet. You can see all of that in his eyes. He feels so good, and you're the one making him hiss and groan in pleasure, his mouth forming the perfect O's and stuttering muddled praises. God, you love him.

You can't keep thinking about it for much longer. The pace he's set becomes a bit faster and sloppier, and he reaches his hand in between your bodies to put pressure on your clit. With it comes his strangled warning, '' 'm close, honey.'' And you can feel it, too. His dick hits that spot in you just right, and with your clit stimulated, the familiar feeling is building in your stomach faster and faster. ''Me too,'' your eyes close without you realizing it, and with a cry of his name, you come all over his cock. A string of curses follows, and you feel him twitch, hips stilling, and warm liquid fills you up.

You take a minute to come down to earth again, and so does he. Leaving a chaste kiss on your cheek, he rolls over beside you, still panting a little.

''Fuck. My baby, you did so well.''

You're not sure how it is possible to feel so giddy and syrupy after being so unbelievably horny just a second ago. Guess he has that effect on you.

''It was amazing, Yuyu. I love you, so much.''

''I love you too.''

He drapes his blanket over the both of you, snuggling closer, stroking your hair with your head on his chest. You want to say more cheesy things to him. Just as you open your mouth, though, there's a knock on the door, and Mingi's figure pops in, hand covering his eyes.

''Are you guys done? Please tell me you're decent; I do not want to see y/n's boobs or worse!''

You yelp, tugging the covers to your chin. Both Yunho and you decide to speak.

''We're decent.''

''When did you come back?!''

''Just in time to hear the closing credits.''

Mingi is now taking in the scene. Clothes scattered on the floor, Yunho's disheveled look, you trying to hide in the blanket. Lovely.

''I am traumatized, by the way.''

''What's that supposed to mean?''

''We brought beef, by the way. Wanna join us in the kitchen?''

You're lost. You don't know if you should feel embarrassed or offended. Mingi doesn't bat an eye at your barely covered form. At least that's what it feels like.

''Let us maybe get dressed first?'' Yunho chimes in, hugging you to him to try and cover himself a bit too.

Mingi leaves, and you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. You start to shift a bit when the door gets burst open once again, followed by, ''Wait, so you are actually dating?!''

#ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez yunho #jeong yunho #yunho x reader #yunho smut #fanfic #smut #x reader #fluff #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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luveline · 2 days

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do you still write for tasm!peter? if so i’d love to see ditsy reader with some new pet bugs🪲

“What’s this one called?”

“Peter.”

“Bub.” Peter looks up from the tank, your spider curling on a thin web an inch below his hands. “You can’t call them all Peter.”

You smile at him in your way, as though any disagreement at all is temporary. You’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier on Peter —half his flirtation lies in teasing arguments that you refuse to entertain. “I haven’t. The yellow backed one is called Parker.”

He rushes across the room to sit atop your legs, knocking your phone aside to empty your hands. As he predicts, you sew a hand into the front of his hair and scratch.

“What did I do to deserve such an honour?” he says, his voice sliding into a murmur as you bring his face against yours. It’s not always easy to relax in a room full of bugs; you’ve spiders and mantis’, beetles and stick bugs, even an enclosure of little moths. Each taken care of with more love than they could ever feel, but creepy and crawly. They put Peter on edge.

“Don’t they look like Peter Parker’s to you?”

“Am I that spindly?”

You feel along his arm. It tickles, your fingertips digging into tight muscle. “No, I guess not.”

“You’re flirting with me,” he murmurs, “aren’t you, bub?”

“You seem to think so.”

He laughs, pulling you in for a short kiss. “Any more newcomers I need to know about?” he asks as you part, words pressed from his mouth to yours.

Your breath warms his lips, “Only the punnet of mealworms downstairs.”

“Alive?”

You slide fingers through his hair, both hands, burying them against the sides of his head. His breath stutters as you kiss him with all the nonchalance of someone who was apparently made to kiss him, every inch of it right, and warm, and loving.

“Decidedly not,” you say quietly. Across the room, one of your bugs skitters into foliage. “They’re for the spiders.” You smile. He feels it under his lips. “Hey, do you think you’d like one?”

“No.”

“You’re part spider, now.”

“Still too human to eat mealworms, baby.”

You breathe out softly as he kisses your shoulder. “That’s a shame.”

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bruciemilf · 3 days

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So glad you clarified that "Alfred bleeding out at brucie's day party" was step 1 in becoming pennywaynes. I was just about to ask lol

Also thinking that Alfred doesn't say "fuck" because Thomas says it enough for both of them. And how they're both feral in opposite directions (loud and vulgar vs poised and eloquent) makes me wonder what direction Martha is feral in. Exceedingly painfully viciously polite? Barefoot in the dirt, she'd love poison ivy fae-tinged feral? Does this make sense? I'm sick. All I can think about is Thomas and Alfred preparing to carve someone up and you don't even know who you are supposed to be more scared of

I like to imagine Martha as Morticia Addams feral. Regal, majestic, peculiar, and could wipe the floor with your self-esteem in a minute if crossed. Bruce’s mama was a silent badass for sure.

I like to think Damian inherited her affection for animals! Hers pets were just more… Unique, let’s say.

Imagine you’re Alfred. You’ve been working at the Wayne manor for about two weeks now.

Thomas, your husband boss hands you a huge chunk of bloody meat hanging from a butcher hook, while yelling violently at a business partner on the phone.

“Al, go feed Bruce, will ya?”

“?????????????”

Bruce gently grabs Alfred’s hand (Alfred has to tilt down) and he’s taken to the pool area.

There’s a big ass tank.

There’s a big ass, 20 foot long, great white shark in that tank. Bruce hugs the glass. Alfred may or may not pass out. Martha gently takes Bruce in her arms, kindly asks Alfred to clean the floors, and vanishes in the shadows.

She also has an albino ball python that Bruce adores. Occasionally, she wears him as a scarf. Alfred is severely loving and regretting his life choices.

#alfred pennyworth #martha wayne #I also think martha speaks with a 20s Hollywood infliction. very smooth. she has velocity in every word #it’s addicting to listen to her voice and Thomas was down bad for her from minute three. ‘I like listening to her talk’ he always says #because I do think people perceive her as an autistic cryptid. a creacher if you will.#thomas wayne #pennywaynes #dc #dc comics #text #text post #the waynes

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megamindsecretlair · 2 days

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heyyyy sugarplummm, you already know why i’m here🤭🤭🤭. i’d love to a request for teddy richmond??? im thinking smutty smutty down to the ground, but i NEEDDDD overstimulation from oc to teddy and him tapping out??? some crazy crazy shit LMAOOOO please and thank you, i would forever be in your debt🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂

A/N: Hope I did it justice! I read a FILTHY fic from @planetblaque, make sure you check her fic out here! Good & Plenty

Ruined

Pairing: Daddy Dom!Terry Richmond x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. SMUT. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female and male receiving), fingering (fem receiving), teasing, size kink, dirty talk, face sitting, mean Terry, daddy kink, praise kink, overstimulation, reader is able to be picked up, all consensual. Sorry if I missed some, rushing.

Summary: See Ask. Story by @uniqueoutlierblog . Terry has been spending more time in the gym lately, preferring to retreat into his head like he often does. Tonight, however, you aim to take his mind off of his worries if only for a little while.

Word Count: 3,232k

AO3 Link

A/N: Ya'll don't ask about this man no more! I need to focus on this book, lordt LOL. He has rotted my brain, enjoy! Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, gif, or unhinged ask.

Your favorite part of your nightly routine was watching Terry workout. He was never more so in his element then when he was pumping iron, blasting his metal music, and in the zone. He became so focused, lifting weights, leg day, arm day, biceps, triceps, and whatever else he managed to hone into a deadly weapon.

You joined him most nights, but quickly became entranced in the way he lifted his body doing pull ups. Or working his legs out on the machine. Your home gym was nothing to sniff at. Making him deck it out in all of the equipment he ever wanted when he got his settlement from Shelby Springs.

You liked using the bike mostly, setting a program, and pretending to ride up the side of a mountain. You were able to zone out, picturing the mountain air and the subtle breeze. It was a wonderful sight to behold but did little in comparison to Terry’s massive form.

Terry had been a little distant lately, spending more and more time in the gym instead of resting. You entered the gym now to find him facing the wall of mirrors along the far wall, watching himself as he lifted heavy weights in his arms, doing curls.

Something was bothering him. You bit your lip as you watched him. What could it be?

He was focused, not even noticing that you were standing in the doorway. He wore a dusky blue tank and black shorts, compression shorts underneath showing off massive thighs. His earphones were in his ear, probably listening to his favorite band.

You thought over what could possibly be his problem… it occurred to you. It was the anniversary of all the shit that went down. Losing his cousin, violence, racism. You sighed, wondering why he didn’t say anything. Then again, he wasn’t the type of man to burden others with his thoughts.

You sauntered into the gym, taking off your pajama shirt as you did so. You wore no bra underneath so you were bare to the heated room. Your eyes were trained on Terry beside you, soaking through his tank top with sweat. The tattoos on his forearm moved with him, the star and moon on his arm curling.

You stopped beside him, taking off your sleep shorts and panties in one fell swoop. You grabbed your own set of weights and went through a series of light reps, stretching out your limbs and loosening up your body.

Terry looked over at you and then faced forward. He did a double take, nearly dropping the weights in his hands. He caught them at the last minute, placing them down on the dumbbell rack.

“What you doing?” He asked, a smirk curving his face. He took out one of his earbuds.

“Working out, what does it look like?” You asked. You didn’t look directly at him, opting to look at him in the mirror. That was easier. Easier to admire his face without having to look at his eyes dead on. Sometimes it seemed like he looked right down to your soul.

He licked his lips, siding up to you. He was huffing with exertion, reaching up to grab your shoulder. You sidestepped him, tsking at him. “You didn’t finish your workout,” you said.

“You gon’ do me like that?” His voice. Good god. He pitched it even lower, sounding put out and superior at the same time.

“Finish your workout. Go on,” you said. You switched up your stretches, adding in lunges and stretching your thighs.

Terry admired what you were doing, the jiggle in your ass, and the sway of your breasts as you moved. He looked at you in the mirror and you smiled at him. He nodded and then yanked off his tank top.

You faltered in your own routine. His body was insanely ripped. Like a lifelike painting. Like an artist painted each and every ab. You admired the way his body moved. Effortless. Easy. His eyes were trained on you as he took off his shorts and compression shorts, letting his dick spring free.

He was already semi-hard, long and thick, as the tip slapped against his inner thigh. He pulled his other earbud out, tapping away on his phone to put on a playlist you both enjoyed to pump through the house’s speakers. “Coming Undone” by Korn began to blast through the speakers and the dirty beat had you feeling excited. The vibrations in the floor tingled your bare feet. He moved back to retrieve his weights, standing beside you as you both got into your workout routines.

No words were spoken as you looked at each other, eyes dragging along each other’s bodies like a physical caress. His wide chest glistened with sweat as he pumped his arms, curling those biceps that you just wanted to sink your teeth into.

Your plan was to take his mind off of things, coax him into relaxing, and then talk about what was in his head. But you were making your own self bothered, staring at his lean hips, thick thighs, and strong legs.

Your pussy throbbed, as you stared at his dick moving with his effort. Wet slick starting to pool between your legs.

You grunted as you lifted shaking arms to put away your weights. You weren’t as skilled as him and that was okay. You would work yourself up to his level. Sculpting your own body the way you wanted.

You free-stretched, lifting your arms above your head and pushing out your chest. The room seemed to get hotter. You felt every inch of Terry’s gaze on your body. Everywhere his eyes roamed, your body tingled. You were connected to him on a deep, spiritual level.

Terry put away his own weights, the metal clanging above the music playing. The song continued to blast, making your body sway to the chorus. Terry stalked forward, licking his lips, eyes looking his fill as he approached you.

“Time for pushups,” you said.

Terry smirked, encroaching into your personal space. He leaned down to kiss you and you turned your head at the last minute, making him kiss your cheek. He chuckled. “You think you’re cute,” he said against your skin.

You shrugged, a big smile on your face. “Just a little,” you said. You pinched your fingers to show him how much. He laughed, sinking down to his knees. He got into position, facing the mirrors. You climbed onto his back. He tested a few push ups before flicking his eyes towards yours in the mirror.

Wordlessly, he began. He lifted you with ease, not a grunt on him as he kept going, kept pumping his arms. Sweat dripped from his face. You felt his muscles bunch between your legs. You giggled, excited from the high of being lifted on his powerful back.

“Good Daddy,” you purred on top of him.

Terry stopped, staring at you. You smirked and leaned forward, redistributing your weight so you didn’t hurt him. You licked the shell of his ear and he shivered from head to foot. “Such a good Daddy to me,” you moaned in his ear.

Terry shook his head, starting up the push ups again. You rubbed his back, caressing him, scratching your nails against his skin. He groaned, body shuddering again. You continued to tease him, running your nails anywhere you could touch.

“Fuck,” he moaned.

“I can’t wait until you’re all done, sweaty, feeding me that long dick of yours,” you purred in his ear.

Terry stopped again, arms extended. He smirked at you. God, he was fucking beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. He literally took your breath away whenever you saw him. A sigh carried off in the wind.

Music thumped as you looked at each other. Your thoughts were probably broadcast all over your face. You took a quick peek at yourself. You were perched on top of him like a lazy, feline goddess. Brown skin gleaming, eyes low, bottom lip between your teeth. You looked so pretty like this. Felt pretty. Felt amazing because he made you feel like you were flying every time you were with him.

You moaned, thinking of him. Of how wonderful he truly was to you. An entire gift. You rubbed yourself on his back, finding that little bit of friction to keep you going. “Oh shit,” you moaned, head falling forward onto his shoulder. You moaned, getting yourself there.

“Hol’ up.” Terry’s rough voice cut through your fog. He lowered himself to the ground and he rolled to the side to let you off. You climbed off of him and then faced him on the floor.

“You think you get to play with what’s mine?” He asked. He got to his feet, pulling you up with him.

Your thighs tingled as he stepped into your personal space. He grabbed your hand and pulled you onto the weight bench. He straddled it, laying down. You hopped onto him, and he groaned. He must feel the slick between your thighs rubbing against his stomach. His muscles flexed beneath you and you closed your eyes, pussy fluttering.

“Mine,” he growled, winking at you. He pulled you to slide over onto his face, lips sliding through your folds.

“Oh, god,” you sighed and moaned.

Terry hummed, licking his lips. You felt the entire motion, pussy growing wetter from the action. He began to lick you in earnest, moaning between your legs. You gripped onto the weight bar above the bench, held on for dear life, as your legs shook.

The song switched to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. Terry followed the erratic beat, flicking his tongue across your clit rapidly, making you shake and twitch on top of him. “Oh, fuck, Terry, shit, oh fuck,” you moaned.

Terry chuckled, gripping onto your ass and spreading your ass cheeks. Terry wrapped his lips around your clit and suckled. You screamed, your toes pushing you off of him from the ground. Terry held on, using his tongue to tease around your entrance.

Stars were blinking on and off in your mind’s eye, lower belly burning with desire. “Terry,” you begged, voice weak and pathetic. Oh fuck, you were about to cum. You began to sink onto his face, putting all your weight down when Terry moved his lips. He pulled away from your entrance right before you were about to cum.

You groaned, leaning back to look at his eyes. There was something deeply erotic about those mesmerizing eyes staring up at you from between your thick thighs. He winked at you and then pushed you off of him.

He sat up so that you straddled his lap. “Ready to stop playing games?” He asked, wiping your essence off.

“Who’s playing?” You asked. You blinked at him innocently, wrapping your arms around his neck. His dick was nestled in your ass, growing harder as you rubbed yourself against him. He hissed, hands flying to your waist to steady you.

You kept moving, kept rocking and rolling your hips so that your wet pussy rubbed against him. “Baby, the games have just begun,” you leaned down and whispered in his ear.

He pulled back, his eyes crinkling as a smile split his face. It was a predatory grin, full of evil intent as he kissed you. You sighed, nibbling on his big, juicy lips. He suckled your bottom lip into his mouth, and you moaned, canting your hips forward once again.

“Another Way” by Sleep Theory came on, turning up the heat. The heavy beginning reverberated under your skin as you scratched at his nape. You moaned into each other’s mouths. Terry’s hands on your waist were no longer hindering you from rubbing on him, grinding on him.

Terry cursed, his hand slipping between your legs. “Good fuckin’ girl. Getting wet for Daddy,” he said in awe.

“You make me so fuckin’ horny, I can’t stand it,” you confessed, capturing his lips with yours again. It was all true. The way his body felt beneath your questing fingers. Tracing every vein, every muscle, every inch of skin. It all served to turn you on more, drive your desire higher, reaching new heights.

“Let me train that throat,” he said, more of a command than a question. You smirked as you slid off of him, already planning your method of attack.

Terry scooted forward on the weight bench, and you gripped his thighs for stability as you lowered to the floor. You smiled, grabbed his dick, and rubbed the bead of pre-cum across your lips.

Terry moaned, licked his lips, tilting his head at you. Your pussy throbbed at the way it made his eyes narrow, made him look cocky. You aimed to change that. You opened your mouth, sucking him down and he groaned as you took him down to the base.

It was hard, no lie, considering his size. But fuck, you were greedy. You breathed through your nose and then slowly dragged him out of your mouth, making sure to lick every inch of him.

“Fuuuuck,” he moaned, throwing his head back. He grabbed the sides of your face, stroking his thumb across your cheek, before moving your head faster, making you take more of him.

Silly boy. You resisted, pushing against his hold. He grunted before he let up and that’s when you took over. Giving him the sloppiest, messiest, nastiest head you’d ever given him. “Shit, let me get out yo way,” he breathed, his moans competing with the sounds of the song playing in the background.

You stroked him as you sucked him off, his tip leaking cum. The salty taste of him made you moan, made your thighs tingle. You moved your fingers between your folds, rubbing your own clit as you sucked him off.

Curses flew from his mouth, eyes squeezed shut. Fuck, he was perfect. Absolutely perfect. His mouth dropped open, jaw going slack. He groaned, eyes crinkling with the effort. You took him deep, near gagging, bobbing up and down on his length like you were trying to suck the soul out of his body.

“Shit, slow down,” he said, voice growing needy.

You didn’t listen. You kept going, kept going faster, shaking with the effort. Rocking back and forth on your fingers and bringing your own pleasure back to the front. Back from where he teased.

“Damn girl,” he moaned. His jaw flexed with restrained effort. You moaned around his dick, humming, flicking your tongue across his sensitive tip. You suckled him there, drooling. Your saliva and his pre-cum dribbled down your chin. You locked eyes with him, spat on his dick, and then sucked him back down. Returning to the pace you set, sucking with extra pressure.

“Fuck, fuck,” he panted, his hips pushing up. He tapped your cheek softly and you reluctantly pulled off of him. His huffing breaths were better than the music. His eyes turned deep blue like a lagoon, drunk with pleasure.

His eyes narrowed, staring at you like you stole something. You licked your lips, licking up any extra taste of him. He watched you do it, before he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you to him.

He kissed you, lips soft and sweet. You opened your mouth to him, to his exploring tongue, to the bite of his teeth. You moaned, hands trapped by your side.

He stood up abruptly, pulling you over to the mirrors. He wrapped your legs around his waist, pushing your back against the cold, smooth glass.

You yelped, trying to get away from it. Your skin was too heated for it, too sensitive. “Terry, please,” you moaned.

“My turn, baby girl,” he said. He grinned, sliding into you with no preamble. Your mouth dropped open with a scream as he split you open.

“T-T-,”

“Shh, shh, Daddy’s got you,” he cooed as he moved in you like he was punishing you. He was relentless, moving like a jackhammer. Like a well-oiled machine. He held your legs spread open, taking his dick.

“T-too, mu-uch,” you cried, pussy flooding his dick. He was pounding into you so good, your vision turned black. Your ears began to ring. Your back tapped the mirror, shaking it, with the force of his deep thrusts.

“Too much?” He asked.

You held onto his shoulder, nails digging. “Too good, too good,” you moaned.

He moaned with you, synching up your sounds and bringing a new level of intimacy to the moment. He stared in your eyes, nose to nose, heavy breaths fanning across each other’s faces. The wet, dripping mess you made was leaking down your ass and leg, growing wetter.

“How ‘bout now?” He asked. He increased his thrusts, angling you so that he was fucking up into you. The tip of his dick rubbed against a deep spot inside of you, rubbing up into you and making you see stars again. His dick was huge, splitting you, and god it felt so fucking amazing.

“Meanie,” you whimpered, grip growing weak.

Terry kissed along your jaw, your cheeks. “So fuckin’ pretty. So fuckin’ good for me. Such a good girl, creamin’ on this dick. You always know just what Daddy needs, huh?” He asked.

“Daddy, please! Please let me cum, please, please,” You begged.

His dick throbbed and you crumpled, falling into that abyss of pleasure. Where it filled up your entire being. All of the teasing and edging just sent you overboard, losing yourself and finding yourself in an endless loop of give and take. You twitched and jerked, moaning loud in his ear.

“Fuck. Grip that shit. Show Daddy you love it,” he said. “Show me. Show me.” His thrusts grew frenzied, hips out of alignment, as he lifted one of your legs higher on his hip and then groaned as he climaxed.

His hot, pulsing seed filled you to the brim. “Ahh, that’s my good girl. Take all of me,” he cooed.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned.

You lazily found each other’s lips. He stilled against you, deeply lodged inside like he lived there. Like he didn’t want to leave. Hell, you didn’t want him to leave either. If you could live like this, you would. Never going a moment without him buried in your pussy where he belonged. Where he was always meant to be.

Terry kissed your temple and slowly, so slowly, pulled out of you. He looked down as he watched himself exit, a thick load of cum spilling out behind him. Your pussy contracted, trying to push him all out. You shivered as the cum slipped down, leaking onto the ground.

“Ruined,” he said, smug smile to accompany his words. You looked up at him and kissed him, needing his lips on yours just one more time.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whispered against his lips. He smiled against yours, leaning back just far enough to look you in the eye.

“I think I have a few ideas for the sauna,” he said.

“The sauna?” You asked. He fucked you so well, you didn’t think you could walk straight at the moment. However, there were plenty of areas to sit in the sauna. Light bulbs flashed in your mind, thinking of what dirty schemes he was up to.

Terry grinned, turning away from the mirrors and heading towards the sauna. You giggled and talked to him the entire way there.

The end.

There will be more, but seriously ya'll. Stawp distracting me! The Secret Terry Richmond Files

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@thegreatlibraryofalex @miyuhpapayuh @amyhennessyhouse @hihellogoodbyebruh

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purplestanleypinkblanket · 2 days

Text

First Kiss With Logan:

Pairings: (DP3 Vers.) Logan Howlett x reader

Summary: After a shitty date, you seek comfort from Wade who threw you a ‘Cherry Popped’ party. It ends up making you feel worse, which leads you into the arms of a man who’s grown fond of you. Logan.

Warnings: Kissing, talking about bad date, cursing, brief mentions of drinking, innuendos to "cherry popping", use of the word virgin. Self-deprecating talk in some areas, from both reader and Logan.

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 2,388

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You hated that you found yourself, seated across from a man who, frankly, hadn't asked you a single question about yourself all night. You also hated how much this man yapped. God, all he did was talk and talk without even the slightest breath. And you hated that you continued to stay seated. Perhaps you were too kind, or maybe you thought you had no right to leave. After all, the man was buying you dinner. It was hard to shake that kind of guilt. You knew you owed him nothing, that it's okay to leave a shitty date- but a part of you wondered if this was all you had going for you. A shitty date, with a shitty man on a shitty afternoon.

As you spaced out your thoughts drifted back to Logan, you wondered if dates with him were like this. What if they weren't? What if he was kind? Well, slightly kinder than normal. He didn't strike you as the pull-your-chair-out-for-you kinda guy, but you had a feeling he would ask you questions instead of yapping your ear off. Maybe he would ask about your day at work, or what you like to do in your free time. Possibly he'd like to hear funny stories about your family. No, that felt too intimate for a first date. Maybe on a third date you'd share those stories with him.

God, what are you even on about right now? You're on a date with a man buying you dinner and you're thinking about Logan! As your eyes looked over the man, you finally tuned back into what he was saying.

"My ex was fucking crazy! That bitch-"

Aaanndd, you lost interest immediately. The more this dude spoke, the more of a dick he sounded. You couldn't help but feel thankful when the date ended. However, the chime of your phone caught your attention during the walk back to your apartment.

'Hey, sugar tits.' Wade's text read. 'Come over, we're celebrating you getting your cherry popped!' That dick knew you weren't a virgin, he just wanted a damn reason to celebrate. What better way to celebrate then partying over your friend not getting laid? It was a cruel joke you really weren't in the mood for but the image of Logan blowing up balloons with Blind Al, a smile just barely tugging at his usually grumpy face...it was hard to say no too. And Wade knew that- its why he sent you the picture after all.

"Fucking dick." You murmured to yourself as you wrapped your cardigan around you tighter, pushing the front door to Wade's apartment open as you did so. The sight was ridiculous, balloons, streamers, wall decor, banners that read 'Pop That Cherry!' draped off the ceiling. You took a mental note to punch Wade in his smart-ass lip later. But, for now, it was nice being in the comfort of your friends. Yes, even the snarky teenager Negasonic and her girlfriend. You were a teenage girl once, but it still didn't stop you getting annoyed when she nitpicked your outfits. It isn't your fault baggy sweaters and legging were literally a godsent.

You trudged your way through the crowded apartment, hand adjusting your white sweater to cover the tank top under it a little better. As you approached Logan and Wade, you grew more aware of the length of your skirt. Was it too long? Too short? Would Logan think it looked good? God, why did you even care what Logan Howlett, labeled the worst wolverine, thought of you? You didn't think he was the worst wolverine. You'd never say it, of course not, because then he'd know you actually liked being around him! Perhaps it was selfish of you to keep yourself so guarded around him, but you couldn't shake the fear of letting down your walls and risking getting hurt. It was scary. Losing that much control. And over what, a feeling?

A hand extending towards you caught your attention, it was Logan, offering you a drink.

"Thank you." You spoke to him, voice quiet compared to the blaring pop music Wade was playing. He grunted in response, but you swear you heard a 'you're welcome.' You brought it to your lips, casually slow sipping the alcohol over the course of the night. It was fun to dance with Vanessa as Wade and Peter tried to convince Logan to join the group. You couldn't help the laugh on your lips when Wade made a snarky comment about Logan's panties being in a twist, earning a threatening unsheathing of claws from logan. You never fully understood the shame Logan felt, even though you tried incredibly hard to. To you, he was amazing, he was strong, he was...well, to say you only admired him would be a lie.

You wished you could show Logan the way you saw him, the way the world saw him. Sure, he was hot, unnecessarily hot, with large biceps and shoulders that went for days. But he was more than that. He was a grump who pushed people away out of fear of hurting them. And to prevent himself from getting hurt. It was ironic, really. Perhaps you and him were more alike than you thought. After a while in the overstimulating party, you slipped away, moving to stand on the balcony. You hadn't been there long, probably thirty minutes? It was nice, listening to your friend's party as you took a break to look at the city.

"Thought I'd find you here." Logan's rough voice spoke as he walked out onto the balcony, shutting the door behind him.

You hummed in response, flashing him a smile as you looked away. Logan could feel his heart skip a beat at your smile- it was always nice when you graced him with it. He'd give anything to see you smile. Hell, he wished he could make you smile and laugh the way Wade and Vanessa did. They matched your morbid sarcastic humor easily. Something he struggled to do. He approached you, leaning onto the railing beside you.

"Congrats on the...uh..."

"I'm not a virgin."

"Oh..."

The silence was awkward between you. You had to purse your lips to prevent you from bursting out in a laugh. You found it hilarious how just one statement suddenly made him go quiet.

"Wade had-" You spoke, trying to stifle your laugh with your hand. "Wade thought it would be funny to throw a 'cherry popped' party because it's been forever since my last date." You revealed, not able to contain your laugh any longer. "It's actually kinda sweet. In a weird way, ya know, Wades weird way." The corners of Logan's mouth lifted slightly at the sound of your laugh. It had always been his favorite sound after meeting you.

"Guess so." Logan contributed to the conversation, bringing the glass beer bottle to his lips. You looked at logan watching as he looked over the city, your eyes analyzing him. His jaw, his hair, the crow's feet by his eyes from his constant state of scowling. Maybe it was the liquid courage you had drank. Or you finally just decided to give Logan a sense of affection. You loved to shower your friends with affection, often times holding Wade as you two watched tv, or Vanessa sitting on your lap as you gossiped. Logan had seen it plenty of times. God, sometimes you even gave Peter affection. Each time he felt a twinge of jealousy, he wanted to be the object of your affectionate touches. Or the way you murmured praise directed at them after a task- he wanted that.

Your hand reached up, gently soothing out some strands of his beard that were in disarray. Logan tensed under your touch, and you immediately pulled away, guilt and embarrassment swarming you.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." You adamantly apologized, face heating up.

"Don't worry about it." Logan roughly said, silently regretting the way you withdrew so quickly. He watched as you tried to subtly put some distance between the two of you- the sting of rejection clear as day on your face. He hadn't meant to reject you; you were reading too much into it. His mind sidetracked as he looked away, maybe he was the one reading too much into it? "How was your date?" He settled on asking, bringing the beer to his lips.

"Shitty." You sighed, frowning.

Logan nodded, waiting for you to continue. Silence falls between you two and he flashed you an expectant glance. You hadn't realized he wanted you to keep talking until he looked at you.

"Oh, uh, there isn't really much to say." You shrugged, looking away. "He didn't ask any questions, just talked about himself the whole time. Was super annoying too." Logan couldn't help the satisfaction that welled in his chest upon hearing your defeated words. It sucked for you, of course it did. But Logan was so glad the date was bad- that way no one could come in, sweep you off your feet, and away from him. He hadn't made a move on you, and he couldn't decide if he ever would. He didn't want to risk hurting you like he had done the others he cared for.

However, the glance of tiredness in your expression when you had looked at him momentarily...he hated it. He hated himself for being so happy your date was bad, and he hated that he wasn't the one you wanted to sweep you off your feet.

"Like...it isn't hard to make a girl feel special. To make her feel like a princess." You laughed with a shake of your head. "I dunno, maybe I'm just expecting too much?" You looked at Logan as you asked, a need for reassurance present.

Logan stared at you; brows furrowed as he analyzed you. The scowl on his features prominent. Believing you had said too much, or you annoyed him with your ramblings, an apology escaped your lips.

"Fuck, sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"Princess." Logan's comment snapped you from your rushed apology. "Relax." He had taken that brave step closer to you, facing you fully as his side and arm holding the beer leaned against the balcony railing. He was glad you were comfortable enough to unload that on him and he was determined to keep it that way. "I don't mind." You looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed, lips slightly pursed as your mind ran. That was another thing he liked about you. It was so easy to tell if you were thinking. Your eyebrows always furrowed, your lips pursed into a line, and your eyes always spoke a thousand words.

Despite his better judgement, his hand rose, gently flattening the skin between your eyebrows. The gesture was small, yet it held so much intimacy. You had always been picky about who could touch you. You loved to shower your friends with affection, but rarely ever let anyone reciprocate it back. Logan wondered why that was. What had affected you so much that you refused to let anyone even shake your hand. Here he was, though, thumb moving from the area between your eyebrows to his hand cupping your cheek. Your eyes were wide, your throat dry. You had never expected this from him. This gentleness, the way he had observed your furrowed brows...you leaned your face into his hand, unable to help the way you melted into it. It was a chilly night, and, God, was he warm.

Logan closed the distance between the two of you, now standing directly in front of you. His thumb caressing your cheek. As he stared into your eyes, his gaze couldn't help but flicker down to your lips, a red faded stain on them from the lipstick you had worn to your date. They looked so soft, so enticing. And he couldn't help but wonder if that peppermint chapstick you wore 24/7 worked. He had never been one for chapstick, but you seemed obsessed with it. Logan's thumb slipped from where it rubbed your cheek to your bottom lip, slowly tracing it. You subconsciously licked your lips as he traced them, your chest tight. Why was it suddenly so difficult to breathe? Your throat was beyond dry, your face paled under his gaze yet somehow it felt like your blush deepened. The way his eyes analyzed your lip, your eyes, your nose, that mark you had since you were a child...It was like he was memorizing you.

You wanted to say something, anything. Preferably something sarcastic and witty. No words came to your lips regardless of the fact that your mind was working overdrive. Time slowed as his thumb gently pulled your lip down, encouraging your mouth to part as his hand cupped your chin now, guiding you closer to him. He leaned down, face inches from yours. He paused there, however, waiting for your permission because he knew that you needed that variation of control to feel safe. He wanted to make you feel safe, he wanted you to know you were safe. That he had you. You brushed your lips against his, slightly closing that gap between you two. He took that as permission as he pressed his lips to yours fully. It was gentle at first, as if he was scared that at any moment you'd disappear. Or worse, break.

Your arms moved to wrap around his neck, pulling him close as you held onto him. His hands finally rested around your waist, the kiss growing stronger as he deepened it. People claim that you would feel fireworks during a kiss, but that wasn't the case at all. You felt electricity against your skin that was against him, but the most powerful feeling was how right it felt. Like you were meant to be there, in his arms, kissing him, holding him. He had broken the kiss, opening his eyes to stare at you.

Logan wondered if he'd ever be able to let another person get close to him. He was certain Wade would've been the only one- a victim of the circumstance's kind of thing. But he sure as hell was glad that today he was the one who held you attention as he pressed another kiss to your lips.

#logan howlett x reader #ansgt #fluff #kiss #wade wilson #wolverine #wolverine x reader #deadpool and wolverine

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paarksunghoon · 3 days

Note

Hi I love your content so much I was wondering if you would to this that Jake mistakenly ordered few or one s.x toy that he would use on my later

ugh I’m so mad because I wrote this request, dropped my phone, then it disappeared. anyway hope you don’t mind I switched up the request juuuust a little.

***

Should he put it back where he found it?

Jake holds a baby blue bullet vibrator and inspects it in his hands. The whole reason why he’s in your room is because you asked him to grab a few pens from your desk before you started a study session. But now he’s discovered one of your toys and feels like he could be holding a bomb. He’d have to be a fool to pretend it isn’t a sex toy.

He gulps. Jake isn’t a stranger to this. He’s seen far too many Twitter porn videos to ignore the nature of the device and feels himself growing hotter with every passing second that ticks by. So begs the question: should he put it back where he found it?”

“Whatcha looking at?”

Jake turns around to see you standing in the doorway.

“N-Nothing!”

He panics when you step closer towards him and grab the vibrator from his hands. He watches you hold it up as if to inspect the toy, bringing it eye level until you finally look at him. Jake feels his cheeks warm up and looks down at the floor.

“Now, what are you doing with this?”

“I was just looking.”

“I asked you to grab some pens, not my vibrator.”

He wants to sink into the floor.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have your sex toys lying around!”

The man before you swallows when you chuckle. “It’s my room, Jakey.”

He tries to picture you as you are, in your pajama bottoms and tank top with fuzzy pink slippers on your feet. You look respectable like this. You look like his friend who invited him over for yet another study session that will likely go late into the night.

Instead, all he can picture is you sitting naked on the middle of your bed with this toy pressed right up against you. Jake thinks about what you might look like when your face is contorted in pleasure and what you sound like when you come. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about that before now.

“What about all the guys you’ve been sleeping with?”

You shrug. “Some were good and others were mediocre. I need something to tie me over in between hooking up with people.”

His silence makes you laugh.

“Wanna see me use it?”

Jake finds himself rock hard and hovering over your body. He doesn’t have to wonder what you look like underneath your clothes anymore. They’re discarded somewhere on your bedroom floor and you’ve got the toy pressed right against your exposed slit.

He watches in wonder and amazement when you drag the toy over yourself and studies the way your eyes close shut and how your mouth parts open to emit soft pants. Jake doesn’t know if he should look at your face or pussy. He tries to do both.

Amidst his own inner turmoil, Jake feels you pull his hand to cover your own until he’s holding the device. It feels so foreign in his hands when you push it against your pussy but he loves the way you sound when it happens. Jake loves watching the wetness ooze out of you. He can feel the vibrations against his fingertips. It’s so hot.

He fidgets with the toy, dragging it all over your pussy like he’s trying to find the spots that make you tick. He memorizes all of them and indulges your pleasure every time you moan from beneath him.

Jake wonders how you’d react if he turned the volume up a notch. He presses the button again and it roars like a small lion.

“Ah!”

The gasp alone pulls a deep moan from the back of Jake’s throat. He pushes the toy against your clit until your legs shake and hips buck against his hand. Jake uses his free one to hold your legs open and coaxes you into your orgasm, and he swears he’s never seen anything so angelic before.

Slowly, he turns the vibrations down as not to abruptly end your orgasm. He turns the device off when he sees your legs begin to still and allows you to catch your breath.

Although, it seems like the fun isn’t over. You smile at him like you know something he doesn’t.

“We should try it on you next.”

“Me?!”

***

comments and reblogs are appreciated! x

#enhypen smut #enha smut #jake smut #enhypen x reader #jake x reader #enha hard thoughts #enhypen hard thoughts #enha hard hours #enhypen hard hours #enha x reader #jake sim smut #jake sim x reader #hard thought*#my writing*

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seat-safety-switch · 1 day

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To my parole officer, I am sorry. I didn't last very long at the Honda dealership. Too many people wanted me to sell them cars that they didn't need. If I can be accused of a crime, it's honesty. And also I stole a lot of snacks out of the customer coffee section, but I'm pretty sure that's below the threshold to be prosecutable. Strictly small-claims-court shit.

I'm sure you've attempted to buy a car, or at least fantasized about it. One of the peculiar aspects of our civilization is that everyone is expected to have at least one chunk of steel that weighs between two and ten thousand pounds, which they use to go to the grocery store. Because of the inherent paranoia of our society, folks buying cars gravitate towards the heavy ones that make them feel big and strong and immune to consequences. They are, in their modern-day tank, protected from every other dipshit on the road, who is also driving a heavy vehicle that makes them feel big and strong and immune to consequences.

Someone needed to break this cycle. Politicians won't – telling folks they should buy a slightly smaller, or lighter, or more fun car is career suicide. Most people, despite their claims to be rational, research-guided adherents to Reason, actually buy cars based on the dealership experience and The Holy Test Drive. That's where I inserted myself, to tell everyone maybe to buy a slightly smaller car.

Now, I'm no dummy. I understood the value of margins, especially as they affected my commission. They were still the same value of car, but much smaller and more fun. No, where I think I went wrong was my sales strategy.

Placing a child-sized mannequin, pumped full of pressurized ketchup (courtesy of the Burger King across the street, it takes forever to steal all those little packets,) in the blind spot of a large vehicle during a test drive. That was a faulty plan. Backing over a humanoid water balloon full of tomato entrails may make great television, but it doesn't endear people to buy a smaller car after all. If it wasn't for all the bribes I took to "make all this go away," I wouldn't have made any money at all in this job.

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 22 hours

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Musician Age Gap AU Pt 12

With two back-to-back shows in Paris, with a new song added to the set list, Kara expects to largely watch Lena sleep. But somehow, the morning after the first show, Kara is woken early by movement beyond the shared door of their suites.

Upon knocking, she receives a bright "come in!" and opens the door to find Lena bustling around the room. She's dressed in leggings and spandex top, complete with brightly colored sneakers on her feet. Her face is bare of makeup, but retains the dewey vibrancy only youth can give.

"Good morning!" Lena greets, bouncing to Kara with more energy than she has any right to have. "Did you sleep well?"

"Sure," Kara returns drolly. "But not enough--- how are you even awake? We only got back at 3am!"

Lena laughs. "I've got to get a workout in before the meet and greet later." She lifts one of her earbuds in one hand, nestling its pair in her ear with the other. "Wanna join?"

"The meet and greet, or the workout?" Kara asks dubiously.

"Why not both?"

Why not both. She's here with the express purpose of supporting Lena, but now she's faced with the dilemma of deciding whether that included running. She hasn't seriously trained since she played volleyball in college... she'd probably trip over her own feet.

"Sure," she finds herself saying, before her brain can catch up. When it does, she hesitates. "Oh-- I didn't bring--"

"I've got some looser gear that should fit," Lena responds easily. She cocks a grin. "Or you can just spot me."

"Yeah... I should probably do that. I can run out and grab some gear later today. At least some sneakers."

She does take Lena up on the offer of her looser workout gear-- sweatpants that were more capris on Kara than not, and a tank top that would have sagged on Lena, but comfortably snugs against Kara's curves.

"Oooh," Lena says when she sees her. She trots over and gives Kara a peck on the lips. "I like this look."

"You speak of this to no one," Kara warns, more self conscious of her bare ankles than anything else.

"What happens in Paris, stays in Paris," Lena promises, then tilts her head towards the other room. "Come on."

Kara expects them to use whatever gym amenities the hotel offers its guests, but it turns out the suite of rooms includes its own exercise area, complete with treadmill, freeweights, and aerobic equipment.

"I prefer not to use the shared amenities downstairs," Lena explains lightly. "I don't want to hog the machines. Or disturb anyone else's workout."

Seeing Kara's curious look, Lena gives her a mysterious smile. "It'll make sense later."

Lena trains like a professional athlete. Kara is exhausted just watching, and almost an hour in, it seems like Lena is only getting started. At least, Kara reassures herself, the woman sweats like a normal human.

"What?" Lena pants as she pistol squats with a fifteen pound dumbell under her chin.

"You really like this stuff, don't you?" she asks. Watching from the weight bench, Kara can see that this isn't just a means to an end. She enjoys it.

Lena smiles. "Yeah, I do. I can't help it."

Her enthusiasm is infectious, as proven by the fact Kara is compelled to join Lena in her floor exercises. Core had always been her strong suit in college, but it's clear from her lackluster plank and crunch stamina that she's lost any and all conditioning she might have had.

Even so, instead of feeling discouraged, Lena's delighted giggle, Kara looks forward to her next attempt. The workout ends with cardio on the treadmill-- or so Kara thinks.

"I gotta put these in," she warns. "That okay?"

Kara nods. Lena's mystery smile returns for a brief moment, before the treadmill beeps on and Lena starts with a brisk walk. After five minutes Lena expertly keeps up with an increasing pace, until her sneakers are pounding out a heavy rhythm at a rate Kara can scarcely fathom. Only the most dedicated of players on Kara's volleyball team had been able to keep up that kind of pace for very long, yet there Lena is, strides long and even and surefooted.

Then the singing starts. Lena begins with a scale or two, then a few vocal warm ups. Kara recognizes the first song of Lena's setlist from the opening note, and from there can only listen in awe as Lena belts through her entire concert from start to finish.

It sounds as steady as any true performance, the notes strong and clear without any shortness of breath. It's... astounding.

When the treadmill finally slows to a walk once more, Kara comes around to rest her forearms on the rail. She looks at Lena expectantly, who is patently pleased with herself.

She shrugs with false modesty. "It's sort of my superpower."

In answer, Kara crooks a beckoning finger, prompting Lena to lean down and receive a kiss for her efforts. Lena doesn't even break stride, but she does fumble for the off button, slowing to a stop as the kiss persists, deepening.

When Lena hops off the machine, Kara has half a mind to press Lena up against it to kiss her senseless-- a temptation she fails to resist when Lena's hand slides up her shirt to run warm fingers over Kara's ribs.

"Jesus," Kara mutters, pausing for breath. "Lena, you... I don't know if I--"

"We go at your pace, darling," Lena murmurs back. "Just know that I really, really want--"

Kara swallows her next words with another, deeper kiss. Helpless to the attraction tugging under her ribs, Kara lets her fingers wander up Lena's side, until her palm cups Lena's breast. It earns her a heady moan into her mouth, and a tightening of Lena's arms around her neck, pulling her closer--

"Lena? We have two hours before the meet and greet!"

Jess' voice calls, innocent yet conspicuous behind a door that stays shut. Lena sags, the moment broken but not it's tension.

"Thank you, Jess!" she calls back, not bothering to unloop her arms from Kara's shoulders. "I'll be in the shower shortly."

Jess' footsteps pad away, but Lena doesn't resume their previous activities.

"We don't have a lot of time..." she starts conspiratorially, voice low. "Not enough to do *this* justice. But..." Her green eyes darken with desire. "Think we can make up some time by doubling up on the shower?"

Kara reaches up and grasps Lena's hand, bending to capture another kiss.

"There's only one way to find out."

They do not make up any time whatsoever.

#supercorp #musician age gap au #co-opting some swiftie lore #sue me #actually pls dont #im poor

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user211201 · 2 days

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I Was Just Being Ironic, Bro

--- Original author: realhankmccoy ---

That’s how it started, you see. With irony. With a joke. A joke Daniel made about grabbing em by the pussy. Jared said it was kinda offensive, man. Daniel doubled down, saying he was just being ironic, explaining how he’d never be that misogynist, obviously.

Jared did end up laughing, just not wanting to be rude more than anything. I mean, they were friends and obviously Daniel didn’t swing that way.

But one joke turned into another joke, days later. And another. And the ways things were spiraling, soon the two roommates – they lived in a shared house of four – were joking about it all the time. Pretending to be alt-right. Pretending because it was fun, it was funny, it was something to do, a way to make fun of guys who acted like that while simultaneously getting to feel what it was like to be that sort of guy themselves.

They were pretty regular guys. But it became funny to pretend they were jock studs, too. “I dare you to work out, bro,” Daniel goes one night. “I fucking dare you. If you can do 100 pushups consecutively, I’ll even let you grab me by the pussy,” Daniel goes, grabbing his own cock and balls through his shorts for emphasis, which wasn’t hard since he was freeballing that night.

“Oh yeah?” Jared said, “Watch this, bro.” He only made it to fifteen, laughing, but they kept up their dare. Jared was building some pipes on those arms. And months later, after a few shots of whiskey, he hit one hundred pushups for the first time in his life.

“Dude, if I’m gonna grab you by the pussy, I want to see you wearing those Old Glory shorts.” Yeah, the shorts Daniel bought to be ironic. Jared knew those.

And he did grab Daniel’s cock and balls through the shorts, holding onto them tight, laughing, squeezing. “Ouch, dude, that fuckin’ hurts,” Daniel said. It was hilarious. They were so drunk.

But then it was Jared’s turn to dare Daniel, saying he should get as pumped as he was, that is if he could ever catch up. “I’m working on 120 pushups, bro, and look at you. Fuckin’ puny. Little Daniel. I dare you, bro. You can grab me by the pussy if you ever catch up.”

Daniel wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. And soon his guns were just as big, if not bigger. Their jokes were becoming almost infamous in the house.

“Drop and give me 20, Daniel. ‘Merica!” “Come on, tiny hands, let’s see if you can beat me at arm-wrestling.” “Aww, so hot, bro. You and that MAGA cap. I bet you’ll be able to score all the pussy you want if you wear that out to the bars.” “Lock her up, lock her up!” Daniel said to Jared when he was drunk off his ass, trying to tie him to his chair with rope. The guys loved horsing around.

Jared and Daniel both had American flag shorts, now. They had flag tank tops, t-shirts, hats, even MAGA caps. They were getting to be pretty buff guys. Acting like right-wing jockbros had been ironic, but now they looked pretty convincing in the part after working out so much and buying the gear they bought. Vocal inflections, ironic at first, now sounded more and more legit as they got their impersonations down pat. Sometimes they’d go out and hit the bars, ham it up, see who they fooled, which was pretty much everybody.

They were good at this. It was fucking funny and fun as hell.

Drunk one night, Daniel found himself confessing to Jared that he thinks it’s really hot when Jared acts like a MAGA guy. “Yeah bro?” Jared said, “I think it’s hot too. Makes me feel hot. It’s like everything I secretly want to be when I’m like this.”

“Yeah bro?” Daniel said, “I think that’s so fucking hot, man. You look great as one of those guys. I almost feel like I could grab you by the pussy for real, bro.”

“Why don’t you do it then, bro,” Jared said, “When we’re home. I fucking dare you, bro. Get those tiny hands on this big cock of mine. Bet you don’t have the balls.”

But turned out Daniel did have the balls, and when he took Jared’s cock in his mouth behind that locked bedroom door, all Jared could say was, “Fuck, bro. MAGA, bro. That’s so fuckin’ hot, bro,” before he came, five minutes later, flooding Daniel’s mouth with white hot cum.

#frat bro #liberal to conservative #alpha #masculinization #straight to gay

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vampiricgf · 1 day

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WATER SONG [PT. 1]

merman leon x gov't researcher reader

word count : 7k+

warnings : female reader, reader has a sort of type A personality and some mild anger issues, talk of medical experiments, he's referred to as a subject and specimen quite a lot, descriptions of predatory behavior (animal kind, not the sexual kind), slow pace, sfw, lots of yearning for touch

okay part one isn't terribly exciting im sorry ajdgakab I just wanted to establish a connection between the reader and him in the setting n such before developing any deeper connection. also like 1% research went into this so im sorry if you're knowledgeable about oceanic research this'll probably piss you off lmao. also all credit for this au idea goes to @/bunnivievve tysm for letting me write a lil interpretation of your idea! this was inspired by this post of theirs as well ‹𝟹

JUNE

Subject Zero.

Male, combined characteristics of humanoids and aquatic species. Captured by a trawling vessel, out in deep waters usually traversed by cargo freighters but occasionally by commercial fishing vessels. A freak happenstance. When the net had been dredged up in a fantastic spray of salt water, the hoard of tuna quickly spilling into the sorting containers, the men on deck had spotted something much larger than white fin tuna thrashing in the net.

Upon careful inspection they feared they’d pulled up a man, some poor unfortunate victim of a seafaring disaster. A capsized or otherwise destroyed vessel, a near drowning victim that had fallen overboard perhaps.

Until they spotted the flashing of sharp teeth, and the thick, muscled tail slamming against the wet metal under their feet.

Thankfully their transmission to the Coast Guard was intercepted, a naval craft catching the broadcast and setting course as fast as possible for the trawler.

And now Subject Zero finds respite in your “office”. If an office can be counted as more of an observation space, nevertheless. A part of you feels bad, the less scientifically trained and inclined part that is, for keeping such a clearly intelligent creature within a tank inside a black site. The initial placement had been… difficult. It was clear the subject missed the open ocean, and you did feel sorry that it had been so unceremoniously plucked from its home and deposited in such an alien space on land. But there was nothing to be done about it.

He was far too valuable as a research opportunity. The cold, clinical part of your mind understood that. He was a marvel of nature, flesh and blood proof that man could be intermixed with seafaring species, it was one of the single greatest events in modern marine biology. And an immense privilege for you, the scientist chosen chiefly to study the subject.

A dream. The government all but telling you to do whatever you deemed necessary, no concern over the expense. Gone were worries of securing grant funding for more piddling projects or the endless anxiety of thinking you would be stuck as one name in an endless list of names relegated to ordinary oceanic study. Not that your peers' works weren’t valuable, but you always held the selfish desire for notoriety. Had dreamed endlessly throughout your undergraduate program of the day your name would be the one filling up library indexes and publications with impressive, weighty studies. Discoveries so undeniable you would join the ranks of the most noteworthy in the field.

And seemingly, your wish had been granted. Subject zero would be the gravel that paved your road to success. It’s just a pity it has to be such an intelligent creature.

You sit back, uncuring from your hunched position at the desk, rolling your shoulders and wincing as you hear your joints popping. Documentation was a never ending pain in the ass but it had to be done, if you wanted to keep the convenience of not having to answer to nor justify your expenses to an overhead department. Ordinarily that work would be relegated to a lower priority researcher, but you preferred being able to sign off on it all yourself, comforted by the fact that there were no unforeseen surprises lurking in the documents or spreadsheets or data tables. Nothing anyone would be about to point out as a discrepancy, leaving you humiliated and floundering.

As you close your eyes you can feel it, the hair on the back of your neck slightly on edge. The feeling of being observed.

He seemed to prefer watching you when your back was turned or if you were otherwise unaware. If you were facing the ten foot thick glass of the massive elcousure he would recede into the farthest corners of it, shying away into watery obscurity. In a way it was cute, an obvious curiosity for the beings around him but he seemed stricken by shyness, didn’t know if you were trustworthy. Which was understandable. You were the one keeping him there, at least to his limited viewpoint. The one that denied him reentry into his former home.

That irritatiningly scentimental part of your mind whispered to you again.

What if he thinks you’re cruel?

So what? We don’t even know to what extend he does think.

You say that but you do care, at least a little. Thats why you sneak him extra food.

You sigh to yourself, pushing up from the familiar desk, palms flat on its slick glass surface before rising to your full height. Out of the corner of your eye you catch the white coat you don most of the day, every day, slung carelessly over the back of another chair at a separate station. Your badge attached via a shiny, silvery little clip. Walking over you purposefully keep your eyes directed away from the elcousure, your movements slow. This is a good opportunity to see how long he’ll watch you as long as he believes you aren’t paying attention.

The badge is solid, though lightweight as you pick it up, bringing it closer to your face. It’s hard to believe you look so excited in the small picture in the upper lefthand corner. Your name in bold typeface as last name, first name all neatly lined up next to the photo. In it’s reflection you can see him, one hand perched against the glass, that thick midnight blue tail swishing up and down in a soft, rhythmic motion as he stays still. Ever watchful.

Its hard to see in the little reflective glimpse but subject zero does have more… handsome features. You smile to yourself, recalling one of the other researchers giggling while telling you it wasn’t weird to note that because it was true. What man on land, with two legs, had eyes that shade of blue or a jawline that impressive? None that aren’t using photoshop or filters.

Maybe if the discovery of the subject was publicized there would be throngs of people banging on doors trying to find out where he’s being kept. It did make you huff out a laugh, the idea that a half fish man who couldn’t speak was more appealing than the majority of men on earth.

Maybe we should open an instagram page for him.

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling, as you set the badge down.

The office slash observation room remained quiet save for the occasional sound of sloshing water. It was late, well past time fo anyone other than the usual armed military guard to be roaming the facility. Well past time for you to go home.

At that moment you turn, just enough to peek over your shoulder and as soon as your eyes fix on the spot he occupied all you catch is a low flash of dark blue, retreating into the shadowy depths encased in glass.

OCTOBER

Three months of observation.

Hardly enough to form any evidence based conclusions, but enough time to get started on the right path. You had approximately nintey days of solid data on his diet, his presenting condition each day, endless notes on his observable physiology. He preferred deep water fish, clearly an omnivore as he also didn’t mind the addition of oceanic plant species mixed with the fish when it was introduced into the tank. In fact he seemed to greatly enjoy the sudden introduction of variety, although still preferred to eat his meals in a semblance of solitude.

His distrust was only natural, you had to remind yourself. Until such time as he’s fully used to his new environment you’re unlikely to observe any great variation in his behavior.

At least he wasn’t showing signs of aggression. That had been a legitimate concern, and still was, of course. All proper safety precautions were followed to the letter when it came to subject zero, and absolutely no one was to physically get in the tank, not until further tests could be done on his temperament and how he reacted to certain stimuli both pleasant and unplseant.

You grimace seeing a newly sent email notification, the little computerized ding signalling that your attention was required.

When isn’t it?

You put the sleek desktop into split screen mode, keeping the charts on the subject to the left while your email opened to occupy the right side. Amid the usual low importance emails from general staff there was a new one, at the very top. The name made your stomach twist in preparation of the message. Dr. Gregg had, for lack of a better phrase, a raging hard on for the opportunity to remove the subject from the tank and getting it into a smaller one in order to sedate and extract genetic material. It didn’t matter that he’d already been sedated and had samples drawn when he was initially transported here, no. The good doctor wanted more than that, but you couldn’t accommodate the request in good conscience.

Or rather, you were worried about the effect it would have on him. It could set back the last nintey days of progress, or worse, inspire severe mistrust and heightened aggression towards all researchers. There was no way, even with sedation, that cutting into him wouldn’t cause pain. And a source of pain that a creature like subject zero had no way of understanding would only lead to problems.

The two of you had been butting heads over the issue for the last week, culminating in an argument yesterday where you all but told him to get fucked. You were the lead on this, you made the decisions and he wasn’t going to usurp your authority. Your credit.

But as your eyes scan the email you can feel yourself getting physically hot, your blood pressure threatening to rise.

You may be the lead, the head researcher on this project, but do not believe for one moment that I will not go above your head. You are not CIA, doctor. You don’t call the final shots here, and it would do you well to remember that. Whatever your personal feelings on subject zero, you cannot stand in the way of necessary elements that better out understanding of the creature.

With shaking fingers you close the window, not bothering to respond and not trusting yourself to either. Every fiber of your being wanted nothing more than to march down that hallway and wring his wiry old turkey neck. Who does he think he is? He’s just some physiologist, some ancient fuck. Who is he to threaten you? If his contributions were so invaluable wouldn’t he have been made lead?

You squeeze your eyes shut, hands clenching in your lap as you breathed deeply in through your mouth and out through your nose. The meditation app you’d been using had provided you with some useful tools, being that your temper had plagued you since you were small. Always the first to fly off the handle at even the idea you could be questioned, your competence or credibility casted in doubt.

Inferiority complex, a nasty voice giggled in your head.

It’s not that it wasn’t true, and it was a bit of an achilles heel for you. But what took priority now was holding Gregg back, keeping him away from the subject and minimizing the risk that he could fuck it all up before you even had a chance to really begin. So, once you felt that initial flashpoint of rage quelling you reopened the email application, setting your shoulders back as you began typing.

Under no circumstances are you permitted to sedate nor perform any surgical procedures on subject zero. You have not been given any formal authorizations, so it would do you well to remember not to threaten your head researcher in the contents of easily retrievable emails. You are free to broach the topic with any superior officer on sight, and I am more than happy to entertain a line of questioning from said superior officers on why I do not believe it to be prudent at this juncture to allow for another extraction of material. Research is not a race, Doctor.

You can’t help but smile smugly to yourself, imagining his fury at opening your reply. If he thinks just because you’re young that you’re easily pushed around he is sorely mistaken. Nothing and no one is allowed to jeopardize the most important work you may ever do.

With that you abandon the desk, it’s dull and mind numbing work, in favor of standing in front of the tank yet again. It was nice, having a portion of it extending into this area as an offshoot of the main tank where all the feeding and the bulk of physical testing was done. He seemed to enjoy it too, which despite yourself you did place some importance on.

It was important to ensure he was as comfortable as possible. He was still a living being, despite his status as a research subject, and you took no pleasure in the idea of him suffering in any way. It was definitely a slight drawback, you could begrudgingly admit, that you tended to get… overly attached to the species in your care. You’d done the same in both undergrad and postdoc, although it was more important than ever before to keep a tight hold on those tendencies now.

How would you feel, if you knew that man was so hell bent on slicing you open?

Probably afraid.

What are you feeling now?

It would be so much easier if he were capable of speech. The bridges that had to be built between what was known and unknown had to come from the very foundations, things that required occasionally unpleasant experiences in order to build their understanding of him. But if he could just explain some of it, that would be easier. A half formed bridge is faster to finish than one from scratch.

Uselessly you peered into the clear, clean water. Between swaying stalks of plants there was nothing to see except the seemingly endless expanse of water. Several mind boggling tonnes of it, all kept nicely contained in ten foot thick military grade glass. Bulletproof. Shatter proof. Even if subject zero were to ram it with intent, crack it even, it would still hold.

You couldn’t help but wonder, as you remained staring through that glass, if he was lonely. Seeing so many strange, upright walkers but being unable to even touch them, even consider the act of doing it.

As you frown at your own reflection, you feel it again.

Duel observation.

It was bizarre, to him. These two legs, tall men. He knew they existed, they’d always known a different sort of being lived on the land, domineered it and then took to making attempts at dominating the sea as well. It had all become so noisy, so very nearly unbearable thanks to their hulking monstrosities of shining metal and the things they constantly kept dumping into the water.

Every day there were new threats to avoid. Long gone were the days of simply worrying about other predators lurking in the open waters or within the sediment and foliage.

He hadn’t seen the net, as they called it, until it was too late. Had been too caught in the euphoria of finding such a gigantic school of gorgeous, meaty tuna, that his mind switched off to everything but pure instinct as he’d circled them quickly, calculatedly. His jaw had felt the ache of hunger so viscerally it was like the bones themselves were vibrating with it.

And then they’d all begun moving. Swept up, trapped in an upward drag that he’d been powerless to fight against while overwhelmed by the wriggling, frantic fish flashing across his vision, no way to know what was forwards or backwards, up or down.

Then the shock of air. His lungs had seized up painfully with it, the feeling of being constricted by nothing at all yet everything all at once had been horrific, beyond frightening.

After that it was too messy, too jumbled in his mind. Harsh sounds, their sounds, were prevalent in his memory but just beyond his grasp. Far too loud without the water to act as a buffer between, softening the blows of each reverberation against his eardrums.

But her sounds were different. Or, it was that she didn’t make many to begin with. The look of them all was mostly similar from behind the thick material they kept him in, in this unknown space. At least they offered readily available food, although not nearly what he was used to hunting for himself and his webbed fingers itched at the thought of clawing through water in pursuit of some darting piece of prey. It would feel so, so good to sink his teeth into flesh, to feel it rip and catch in chunks between his teeth, the iron rich scent of blood swirling around. The roar of adrenaline in his ears.

It was difficult to keep his focus on much here, save for her. The best parts were when the others disappeared but she would still be in that corner, down the long corridor of water and he would be able to see her, sitting and doing wholly alien things with her hands at something large and flat, but vaguely shiny. Hers didn’t have webbing, none of them did from what he could tell. How did they ever swim competently?

She was softer than the rest and he enjoyed watching her do her strange tasks, sometimes she would pace around holding a sheet of paper in her hands, chewing on her bottom lip. Her teeth didn’t seem all that sharp, since she never seemed worried about cutting her flesh on them. What did they eat, with useless teeth?

Just like at the present moment, with her back turned it was easier to look at her fully. Usually he wouldn’t approach openly like this, unsure of the intentions of everyone here, but this space seemed to be reserved for her only which put him at ease. That and none of those harsh spotlights were present, if anything she seemed to prefer it half dark which was fine by him, preferable to that loud bright area behind him back through the water corridor. But she seemed tense, the set of her shoulders curled forward, almost in on herself. Something in front of her was clearly upsetting and in some odd way he felt offense on her behalf. She was kind, gave him extra food before she would disappear through the night, always seemed to be keeping a close watch over him and how the others were with him.

He may not be able to speak, but he’s pretty sure she was the reason he wasn’t suffering in this place. And that was good enough, at present, to make him feel a sense of kinship with her. Closeness.

As she carried on with whatever it was that kept her so occupied his mind wandered to what it would feel like to touch her. They seem to enjoy touch, most of them being very casual with the way they interacted. How did she like being touched? Or would she dislike being touched by him outright? Would she find his webbed, clawed fingers disgusting, would she flinch away?

He frowned behind the glass. Hopefully not, but there really was no way to know. They seem intent on keeping a wide distance from him, which wasn’t unwelcome. The only one he was at all curious about was her anyway, not that he would purposely antagonize anyone who ventured inside his new domain, though he certainly wouldn’t circle them like one of the friendly, if a little dumb, nurse sharks do occasionally out in open water.

He was so caught up in that worry he nearly failed to catch her movement, but his reflexes are faster than hers. Before she could approach the glass fully he’d already retreated a safe distance away. Watching as she stared into the expanse of water, her face unreadable but the set of her eyebrows told him she felt some kind of stress, strain.

His fingers twitched at his sides, thinking about reaching out to touch her again.

You smile to yourself, a soft hidden kind, at the now familiar feeling. It was like there was a strange sense of understanding between you two, although you could just be ascribing things to him he doesn’t possess. Thats always something to keep in mind, as a researcher but more often than not lately you’re coming to resent that line of thought. It was clear subject zero was intelligent. Maybe not to the degree of a human being, but he was close enough evolutionarily speaking, that he was like a cousin in the chain. An offshoot of the formerly solidly established line of human life. Theres no reason, as yet identified, that he wouldn’t be able to communicate if given the chance to learn how.

You aren’t thinking of him as a subject anymore. That’s dangerous.

You know it is, know that voice is right. But it doesn’t account for everything. The odd push and pull, hide and seek game you two play here in this office every single evening. Its to the point now that you feel tense, uncomfortable if you don’t sense him behind you, watching you work or pace around nonsensically. You’ve spent over an hour before reading and rereading the same observational notes and data sets because you kept grinning to yourself like a fool feeling those eyes burning holes in your back.

He’d even made appearances in your dreams a handful of times over the last month, flashes of deep, endless blue that clung to the soft corners of your mind as you went about your morning routines, ruminating over his appearance as steam from your coffee curled around your hands, ghostly fingers clawing at the air. Tension crept up your beck, spreading out over the tops of your shoulders and trapezius muscles prompting you to stretch against the back of your office chair, rolling your joints and hearing their familiar cracking in response to hours of sustained poor posture. Lazily you grasp your phone from the desk, thumbing open the music app and scrolling a bit through your shuffle playlist before settling on something bubbly, but easily tuned into the background.

You wonder if he enjoys music, what his preferences would be if he could swipe through your library of songs. It makes you smile to yourself thinking about it, maybe that would make for a good test of his thinking abilities, how he responds to different genres, different artists. Standing, you bend slightly to make a quick note on a half discarded sticky tab: musical testing?

And suddenly a somewhat mad thought grips you, what if you tried right now? Whats the worst that could happen, he lurks in the background while you sway around the dim office like a fool? At least the only people who could see would be the guards, not that they’d say anything either beyond thinking to themselves that every researcher here must be insane. That makes your smile grow wider, giggling to yourself a bit as you take slight steps in time with the beat, giving a little spin on your toes to face the take.

It only somewhat shocks you to find yourself face to face with him, that he hasn’t retreated to the safety of the shadowy corners. His eyes, a remarkably similar color to the water surrounding him, track your movements with abject curiosity as you follow an imaginary path, one foot placed delicately in front of the other to carry your body with the faint sound of the music. All the while his eyes never stray from you, even when he has to move to keep you in his sights, even when you come right up to the glass and offer a little spin in front of him, giggling to yourself a little more freely now.

And to your amazement, at your laughter, he smiles. He smiles and it makes your chest feel light, like a ten pound weight you hadn’t even been aware of was finally lifted off. Some might find his fanged appearance frightening, to you it was boyishly cute. A toothy little grin, the tips of his elongated enscisors catching against his bottom lip, and his thick, muscular tail began to move. As if, had he possessed legs like yours, they would be moving in tandem with you.

It felt like a genuine breakthrough, making you hug your arms around yourself as you stopped moving, still laughing and feeling just a tad bit lightheaded. He genuinely smiled at you.

He was moving with you.

That was a major breakthrough, even if just a personal one. Increased rapport meant things would be easier going forward, for both of you.

With a contented sigh you pressed one hand to the smooth, icy surface of the glass, your fingers stretching over the sleek glass and he does something that makes your breath freeze in your lungs. Gingerly, the way people stretch out their hands to scared animals, inch by inch his own rases to be a perfect mirror of your own. One larger, webbed, hand pressed to the glass right behind your own. It felt silly but you were too afraid to even exhale with any effort, for fear even the barest noise would ruin the moment and he would flee right back into the far corners, beyond your reach.

But he doesn’t, doesn’t stop holding your gaze for a single second and you marvel at the way his blonde hair sways in the water, like the finest strands of silk-

“So, thats why you keep refusing to allow any progress of this “research”?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the voice from behind you, a signature grating tone you could pick out anywhere. As your head snaps to the side, body following the movement only a second after, you see him standing in the door way with his arms crossed nearly reeking of smugness.

Fuck.

One week.

You have one week to figure out what to do.

After shattering your late night revelation with subject zero, who has been increasingly attached to you ever since, the resident pain in your ass physiologist had made sure to fire off emails riddled with concerns and accusations addressed to the operatives truly in charge of the site. Questions of your ability to continue in any capacity with the project, the nature of your relationship to the subject, insinuating you had some kind of perverse intention, even going so far as to insult your credibility. Not only cc-ing yourself but “mistakenly” sending those emails to every person working on site.

It had effectively turned you into a pariah with regards to your peers. Whispers of conversation that would be cut off as soon as you set foot into a room. Strange looks from your coworkers, ranging from disgust to perverse curiosity. It felt like you were continuously on fire, every minute of every day. There would be a meeting in one weeks time, and until then you were relegated to nothing but the paperwork in your office, per the tense instructions given to you.

But your panic had less to do with your professional reputation, surprisingly, and more to do with feeling very nearly physically sick when you recalled how fixated he was with the idea of getting to cut into subject zero. If you were removed completely from this project there would be no one else to act as a roadblock, to keep that from happening.

Your eyes slide over to the observation tank, noting the worried way he’s been watching you for hours now. You wished you could haul him out of there, explain what was happening, the risk of what could happen to him. Maybe he would have some idea of how you both could get out of this. But was there any way out? Or is the only option allowing yourself to become a laughingstock, a professional embarrassment and to allow subject zero to languish in whatever horror would surely be inflicted on him?

You can’t say if desperation is the only thing motivating you, but your mind becomes mostly blank as you leave the office. Its early enough, after you’d been practically climbing up the walls all night, so maybe the choice was fueled by sleep deprivation. Whatever the case may be, you find yourself moving as if through a dream: down the cavernous corridors, turning and twisting to follow the slate grey concrete all the way to the impossibly large main observation chamber.

With a swipe of your ID card, forcefully and defiantly, the locks give a little beep before disengaging. Mechanically you make your way to where the suits are stored. Specially designed, one of a kind. Made of an interwoven, enmeshed material not unlike chainmail to prevent sharp teeth from being able to puncture both cloth and flesh, and featuring only the best in terms of diving design. The manufacturer had created them after winning a defense contract from the governenment and you wonder if they ever would have guessed someone would be stripping and tugging the suit on in order to come face to face with something most people would assume only existed in a fairytale.

But here you are: yanking and adjusting the suit before prepping the oxygen tank, also designed to be compact but sacrificing the amount of time one could spend fully submerged at any depth. Either way it would work for this application, although no one had been given clearance to dive yet.

You knew doing this would come back to bite you far worse than just those vendetta fueled emails. Diving without any clearance, using untested equipment. It was beyond insane. But the circumstances felt insane enough on their own to justify it. Subject zero was overwhelmingly likely to be just as intelligent as you were, and just as likely to feel physical and mental distress in similar ways. Trying to communicate was step one and what better way than face to face. Then you could form step two: proving beyond a reasonable doubt that he was intelligent and thus, could be advocated for medically even if he couldn’t advocate for himself.

That was the only way to halt the now speeding train of decisions being made on his behalf and without his input. If he could even write out the most barebones statement, even that would work to prove they needed consent to continue with any of this. Tomorrow you could wake up in a whole new world, one where there is technically a second legal classification of human being, one with a tail and gills. The though made you smile despite the tense circumstances.

What you were doing was a halfcocked, absolutely batshit attempt at a hail mary but it was worth a shot. Your reputation was already in tatters on site, how much worse could it be? If you fail in this all that happens is you’re dismissed and removed from the site, doomed to be a whispered footnote for future researchers. Did you ever hear about the lady that went crazy with one of the subjects? A cautionary tale about getting too attached to your work.

But fuck that. If you’re not at least a little attached to your work then do you even really care at all about any of it? You would argue that the resident physiologist holds no love for the work, only a love for the idea of something else experiencing pain.

With a deep breath you sit carefully on the steel ledge that runs the length of the tanks open ceiling. Easy, you just flip backwards and hit the water, reorient yourself and try not to get eaten by one potentially pissed off subject. Yeah, a real piece of cake. With that you decide theres no more time to waste, it’s probably already flagged in the system that you accessed the main deck, they’ll be here any minute.

Good, that means they can all see I’m not insane or inappropriate. He can comprehend things just like we can, the music wasn’t a fluke.

In the span of a second your worldview dips, swirls, and the splash of water hits your ears at the exact same moment the shock of cold does. The water is kept at approximately the same temperature as the water he was captured in, frigid Atlantic delights. As bubbles envelop you, you manage to get yourself turned right side up, carefully circling your arms to tred water and remain mostly stationary. This would be the key moment, you have to exercise extreme caution.

You’re another predator that has invaded the territory of a fellow predator. In the natural world, it’s a killable offense. But you keep your eyes open, sweeping the dimly lit, wide expanse of saltwater around you. No sign of him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here, watching you, gauging the situation. As you continue to keep your breathing even, your movements slow enough but steady enough to keep your body afloat, you catch sight of something in your peripheral. That intimately familiar midnight blue tail. He was moving behind you now, one webbed, clawed hand slicing through the water like knives as the rest of him came into your view. That sandy, dishwater blonde hair floating in fine tendrils around his face, framing piercing blue eyes that took you in critically, curiously.

You allow him to keep circling you, doing your best to calm your nervous system that felt on high alert, panic just on the cusp of overriding your sensibilities. Allowing that would spell disaster, you would certanly be killed if you started thrashing or spinning wildly, it would scare him, you could both be injured in any kind of violent altercation. They would kill him if he killed you.

But your worries abate as he slows to a stop in front of you, and despite your eyes staying locked together you’re conscious of the audience you have on the other side of the glass. The feeling of being watched by many people is something quite unique, it’s also unnerving. You wish you could apologize to him, you hadn’t realized before how uncomfortable literally living beneath a microscope was.

You raise your arm, hand extended, in a painfully slow movement that makes the muscles in your forearm ache. His attention goes to the appendage now how hanging between you two, eyeing it with equal parts suspicion and what seems to be excitement. The physical equivalent of a high pitched alarm happens in your body as he moves closer to you, the air suddenly locked in your lungs as you wait. This was another critical moment. Would he grasp your hand? Rip it off? It was entirely unknown, beyond dangerous.

But none of those things happen. The painting, god touching adam, comes to mind as he raises a clawed index finger delicately up to yours. They don’t touch but rather hover in proximity to one another before a grin works its way across his face, those sharp incisors catching against his bottom lip as his eyes flick back to your goggled face.

You hope he can see that you’re smiling too, but you hope its not like it is with monkeys where grins are signs of aggression. But it seems that fear is unwarranted as his tail twitches erratically, the wispy bits of filigree flesh on the split end swirling through the water in a gorgeous display of deep blue and white. Like sheer fabric winding through the air.

The ecstasy that floods your brain is a feeling like no other, a full body sensation that spreads from the tips of your fingers to your fabric covered toes. His tail moves to brush against your kicking legs, the heft of it is shocking. You can immediately imagine the sheer power of it kocking into you, it would feel like being hit by a freight train no doubt. For something that looked so elegant and otherworldly, it was still a threat.

But you couldn’t get distracted you needed some display of his intelligence, and you needed it now.

So you shake off the awe, do your best to refocus on his face. Carefully you draw back your hand, pointing to yourself and then at him. You repeat the gesture several times, hoping to receive a reaction that displays understanding.

And he doesn’t keep you waiting long.

In a flash one clawed, webbed hand encircles your wrist and halts your movement.

It’s like time suspends, a complete and total pause as you feel a different kind of chill within the suit. It’s like you’re watching in third person, your throat seizing as your fingers intertwine hesitantly. It’s an oddly tender gesture, and then your body is tugged through the weight of the water, pushed against the solidness of his chest. Your arms came gingerly around him, and his enveloped you in turn. He was all firmness, so solidly built it shocked you. You hadn’t properly appreciated the sheer mass of him, the way his body had been crafted for underwater pursuit, hunting. But also to accommodate displays of affection, just like your own.

And as you two embrace you can’t help but smile again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to form one hell of an argument on his behalf and you would shout until your face was blue that going forward, communication would take priority. Worrying about the innerworkings of his physiology could wait until later.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #resident evil x reader #merleon au #leon kennedy imagine

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toiletclown · 1 day

Text

breathless. (part two.)

spencer agnew x gn!reader

mostly fluff, a little angst.

part two of probably 5/6 (i can't stop writing this fic)

summary: to 'train' for an upcoming guitar hero stream, you head to spencer's for the first time in weeks. the tension is thick, and you have to call your best friend, angela, for some input. your feelings were growing to lengths you weren't sure you could handle -- but what other choice do you have?

word count: 2251 (7000+ remaining)

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

It was not fine. The AC in Spencer’s apartment had broken sometime between him going into the office and him coming back home. He sent you a text to let you know, and even offered to bring all his stuff to yours if that was easier, but you knew how many cords and controllers that entailed and told him it was fine, you’d just wear something you’d be comfortable in.

However, you were not prepared for just how warm his apartment was. You came over in a cropped baby tee and some comfy shorts, but you had worn a very thin cardigan over the shirt, hoping it would be thin enough you could keep it on. But alas, the world was constantly against you, and about fifteen minutes into your visit you knew you had to shed the layer. The windows were open but there was no breeze, and the standing fan and ceiling fan were working overtime.

So here you were, standing in Spencer’s living room, attempting to hide your Guitar Hero skills while also trying to hide your discomfort. Honestly, you weren’t even sure why you were uncomfortable. It’s Spencer. He’s seen you in worse. At least this outfit is cute, right? When you finally pulled yourself out of your thoughts, you realized you were beating Spencer in 1v1 by a country mile. What the hell was he doing? You knew he was good at this game, and despite you purposefully missing every few notes and hitting the whammy bar much too late, he was still way, way behind.

You paused the game and turned to look at him. You had been standing in front of the couch, since it was a little harder to play the guitar when sitting down. He, however, was sitting on the couch in gym shorts he had no right to be wearing (They were so short that if he moved one inch the wrong way there would be a problem. Why did he pick such slutty little shorts??) and a Zelda triforce logo tank top. His arms were on full display, along with his gorgeous legs, and you had to admit your words got caught in your throat when you saw him. You hadn’t really looked at him with much precision when you arrived because you were more focused on how warm the apartment was, but now, seeing him with his leg balanced on his knee and the guitar lazily draped in his lap, you were borderline salivating.

“You okay, Peach?” He always called you that, since you had a penchant for snacking on peaches and preferred to play as Princess Peach whenever the two of you played Mario Party or Mario Kart. He never let it slip at work, but a part of you wanted him to. Just to see how someone else would react to it. Would they hear it as a platonic, long-term-friendship type of nickname, or would they pick up on a subtle romantic vibe beneath that? Was it crazy to want that romantic connotation?

“Oh, yeah, I’m okay. Are you, though? I’m not very good at this and I’m still beating your ass. You good over there?” You willed your blush away at his nickname for you, knowing he, realistically, didn’t have any romantic implications behind it. You knew why he called you that, and it made sense. Let’s not think too hard on it, okay? No need to make a romantic mountain out of a friend-shaped mole hill.

Spencer sighed, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finding his words. “Yeah, sorry. The heat is kind of making my brain blank out, I guess.” He stood, pulling the string on his ceiling fan to move it from medium to high speed. You were silently wondering why it wasn’t already on high, but chose not to question him. You also knew he was lying. You’ve been friends with Spencer (on top of having severe unrequited feelings for him) for far too long, and you knew him better than he knew himself. You knew all of his tells, and currently, he was avoiding eye contact and picking at his right thumb, which he always did when he was nervous and/or lying.

You sat down next to him, still leaving some space due to the heat. You were both quite physically affectionate with one another, but lately you had both pulled back in that regard, though neither of you wanted to say anything about it. While he had basically stopped being touchy-feely altogether, you still attempted that contact sometimes. He didn’t react the way he used to.

“Spence, honey, I’ve known you far too long for you to lie to my face. What’s going on?” You voiced your concern with a gentle hand on his thigh, close enough to his knee that it didn’t come across wrong, but also far enough away from his knee that you felt a whoosh in your stomach. It was too late to move it now without him calling you on it, though, so you left it there.

He took a deep breath, seemingly gearing up for a word vomit. But instead he shook his head. “Sorry, I’m just dealing with some… personal stuff, I guess, and I was lost in my head. We can get back to it, I’m sorry, Y/N.” He patted your hand with his, before moving to grab the guitar again and start the game back up. You pulled your hand away, burning, and decided you needed to leave.

“Oh, it’s… it’s okay. I’ll head out, leave you to your thoughts. You can always text me if you need me, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow?” You stood to start gathering your stuff, and you felt Spencer’s eyes on your back as you bent over to pet one of his cats. The cropped tee was definitely showing off more of you than he had seen before, so it was only natural for him to look. But you wondered what he was thinking, too.

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow. Sorry again about the AC being broken. Maintenance should be coming by soon,” Spencer supplied, walking with you to the door. “Hopefully I won’t have to sweat to death for much longer.”

You both laughed, and you held your arms out for a hug. Spencer hesitated, before returning the hug and reassuring you that he’ll see you tomorrow. You offered him a goodbye and told him you loved him, like you both did every time you parted. You didn’t miss the fact that he didn’t say it back this time.

Angela, please help me. You didn’t know who to talk to about this. Your thoughts had been a bubbling mess for hours at this point, and you couldn’t talk to Spencer, and you weren’t quite ready to talk to Courtney about it. Courtney should be your go-to about this situation, but you weren’t sure how to broach it. Hey, you went from coworkers to friends to lovers. How do I do that? wasn’t exactly the best icebreaker to get into the conversation. Angela had heard you vent many times before, and although you never, ever named Spencer in the conversations, you had no doubt that little Italian gremlin knew you were talking about him. Angela was very intuitive and just because you leave a few details out and refuse to use his name in conversation, that doesn’t mean she can’t pick up on everything else. Especially since Erin was clearly picking up on it. Among others.

What an ominous text to receive at 1am. What’s up babe?

Holy fuck, was it that late already? You checked the time and sure enough, it was 1:03am. You’d been in your head for far longer than you thought.

Oh fuck I didn’t even realize it was that late lol my bad queen :(( we can hold off till tmr it’s nbd!

NOPE you’re not pulling that shit, ft me rn

You sighed, but it was near impossible to say no to Angela, so you turned your desk lamp on and hit the FaceTime button. You needed to get this out of your system soon anyway, it was starting to eat at you. With other people seeing it clear as day you felt as though you should probably work your feelings out before Spencer realized.

“Hello there my gorgeous best friend, what’s on your mind?” Angela was clearly in bed, face lit only by her phone and the fairy lights she kept strung up around her room. “Is it Spencer?”

Your face went pale at her question, which answered her for you. “Oh, so it is Spencer! Did you ask him out? Did he ask you out? When’s the wedding? Can I sing at the reception? Oh, that might be weird, right? What would I even sing? Oh, I know–”

“Angela.”

“Sorry, go on.”

She let you ramble on for a few minutes, starting from the beginning. When you were hired and instantly bonded with him. When the movie nights turned to movie sleepovers and the game nights turned to game weekends. When he got promoted to cast, then you got promoted, and suddenly your friendship felt different. The first Erin Dougal meme, the second Erin Dougal meme, and finally, whatever the fuck had happened tonight. The way he was distant, but not cold. The way you could feel his eyes on you, and the two times you caught him “lost in his thoughts” as Erin had phrased it. His lack of response when you told him you loved him tonight. That was what hurt the most. He had never left you hanging when you said it, and he said it more often than you did. At lunch, on set, while watching him play Fortnite. You always reassured each other in every aspect of life. And suddenly, it was like that reassurance and friendship was going dormant.

“I just don’t know what I did wrong, I guess? It seems like out of nowhere we lost our friendship and we’re back to being acquaintances, in a way. He’s not as touchy anymore, and he gets weird when I am. He rarely invites me over anymore. I haven’t stayed the night in months. And he didn’t say he loved me before I left tonight. He’s never not said it back. And like, why? What changed? What did I do wrong?” Once your word salad was out and in the open, Angela sat for a minute, thinking on how she wanted to respond.

“Okay, I have a question before we proceed.”

“Ask away.”

“Do you want me to respond as your best friend or as your coworker?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Only slightly.”

“Then as my best friend, please.” You took a breath in, knowing with this selection came some harsh words. If she was responding as your coworker she would be nothing but kind, but with the best friend response you knew she was going to drag you, hard. But at this point, you needed that, didn’t you?

“Y/N, my sunshine, my flower, my angel. He’s pulled back significantly as of late because he thinks that his feelings for you are one-sided.”

“His–”

“Don’t interrupt me, you clown!”

“Okay!” You laughed along with your friend, knowing that this conversation was going to be hard but it was necessary.

“He sees all these things in a different light because, somewhere in the timeline of your friendship, he got it in his head that you would never reciprocate his feelings. So now, all those things he used to enjoy, almost hurt now. Your touch on his skin is no longer comforting, because he wants more. And he doesn’t think he’s capable of getting that. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to lose you, but he also is having trouble coping with the fact that he doesn’t know if he can ‘just be friends’ with you. Spencer might have held his façade quite well for quite some time, but it’s cracking now and he’s scared. He doesn’t want to lose his best friend, but he also doesn’t want to be strictly friends anymore. He wants to love you openly, and he thinks he can’t do that.”

“Jesus, Angela. How do you even know all this?” You were absorbing her words, letting them flow through you. Spencer thinks his romantic feelings for you are one-sided? Spencer has romantic feelings for you? What the hell is going on, man?

“Because three and a half minutes before you texted me, he also texted me. I was basically reading his text out loud, word-for-word. And before you yell at me for breaking his trust, you are my best friend and I am legally obligated to tell you everything, just like you are legally obligated to tell me everything. Even though you seem to think I can’t parse that the guy you’ve been obsessing and gushing over is Spencer despite your obvious phrasing. You're not as slick as you think, babe.”

You sat in silence for a moment, really trying to let everything sink in. Your feelings weren’t one sided. You had a chance with him. He didn't suddenly dislike you, or hate you, or not enjoy your company. It was just harder now. And that, that you understood, quite thoroughly.

“Ang, how do I unfuck this?”

“I already have a plan for you, Peach.”

You groaned, “Okay, that’s not fair!”

“I know, I know. So here’s what you're going to do…”

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

taglist: @lokidokieokie (thanks for being my first ever taglister hehe)

#spencer agnew x reader #richie writes #smosh #smosh x reader #spencer agnew

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grimsonandclover · 1 day

Text

Blurb expanding on this idea. Not proofread, written in an hour tops.

Nsfw

College!Artrick in the modern day instead of 2006/7. They're bored, Art's finished his assignments and Patrick's procrastinating so they decide to go to a party someone is throwing near campus that they've heard people talking about. Patrick wants to get laid, Art wants to talk to someone other than Patrick (he loves his friend but they've been around eachother 24/7 for days now).

Art's the first to come across you at the party. Platform pleather boots with metal buckles up the sides, a black, lace trimmed miniskirt with ripped fishnets underneath. A large black knit sweater with small holes at the collar, and Art's wondering to himself if it came like that or not. Like moths got to it. A large silver cross on your chest with layers of necklaces stacked with it, the fingers gripping a red solo cup clad with chunky rings and long acrylics.

Your head is turned away from him initially, so he only gets a look at your clothes at first. He approaches because he wants to ask about the sweater (he's never been good with icebreakers). When you turn to look at him, he thinks his heart stops.

Your lips are painted a dark red, almost black, and the first thing he thinks of is if it would transfer to his lips if you made out. Because fuck, he wants to kiss those lips.

"It came like this" you explain, and then he realizes that you're answering his question. "Why?"

You shrug. "I don't know. Cause it's cute, I guess."

Art couldn't explain it, but he believed you could make anything look cute. So he shrugged, agreeing. It's when you introduce yourself by name that Patrick finds Art again, and it's his turn to oogle at you.

He's never been a picky guy, barely has a solid type unless saying his type was "hot" was a valid answer. But seeing you... you're his type. Just you. Patrick's shoulder to shoulder with Art in an instant, leaning in to introduce himself loud enough so you can hear him over the shitty party music.

When he gets your name, he smiles over his solo cup as he repeats it. Art gives his best friend a look. Oh great, he's into you, too.

"I like your makeup." Patrick points to your face like you don't know where it is. "I didn't know emos could look so hot."

That makes you laugh. "I'm not an emo, but thanks, I guess."

Art nudges Pateick in the ribs before speaking up again. "And your jewelery, too. How long does it take to put on?"

The rest of the night is spent with the two friends competing for your attention, flirting with you the best they can. You know what's going on, and you let them if not for your own amusement.

You start noticing the two more on campus, and when they see you (which isn't hard to do) they awake sure to strike up conversation. It isn't long before you can call them friends.

Neither of them want that, though. They wanna see if your panties are as black as the bra peaking from your tank top when the sun's threatening to turn the school into melted goo. You wore a sweater at the party when you met so they couldn't yell, but this tanktop showed off the absolute rack you owned. They wanted your tits in their drooling faces. They wanted your glossy lipstick smeared over their cocks. They wanted to hear you scream their name as you bounced on top of them, feel you cum around them.

Instead, they settled on the long game. While hanging out, you'd mention the music you liked, what album you were listening to, what band you went to see over the weekend. The moment classes end and you all leave to your respective dorms, the two tennis players are both removing Drake and Carseat Headrest from their ques and playing whatever song you last mentioned to them. They do it just so they can tlak over eachother the next time they see you about the songs on the album they both suddenly know. Patrick finds himself unexpectedly loving Seether, especially, and he didn't even think he'd leave the experience liking the music for real.

You really start liking Art and Patrick, which you didn't expect. Sure, they were cute, attentive, and incredibly hot, but they weren't exactly the type of guys who normally approached you. Guys like them actually tended to be intimidated by anyone in alternative styles or genres. And they listened to you. Would let you talk about your interests for hours if you wanted. It made you like them even more.

They were surprised, too. Like I said, Patrick doesn't really have a type, just hot people, but most girls he's been with aesthetically have been pretty "mainstream" all things considered. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but it made you stand out to him in his fantasies. Both your style and your tits. He really liked staring at your boobs every chance he got. His top fantasy lately when he jerks off involves him smothering himself in your tits while he fucks you. He comes hard to the idea, making bigger messes over his fist and chest than usual.

Art usually got with "clean girls" or girls adjacent to that aesthetic, so hes confused by the complete 180 his tastes seemed to have taken since meeting you. You're all he could think about now. He wanted to wake up next to you in the mornings and see you fresh faced before your daily beat, watch your ritual of doing your hair and picking out your clothes and jewelry. He wanted to witness the whole process. And he wanted to motorboat you, but that's a side thought. He's also gotten off to the idea of being with you, but he's always so ashamed. He doesn't want to sexualize you like that, it doesn't seem fair or nice. Does that stop him? No. He's still scrolling through your Instagram, painting his fist and the corner of his phone white with cum to your latest thirst trap selfie, imagining that it's your hand around him instead, your acrylics wrapped around his needy cock when he whimpers your name into his pillow. It's hard to look you in the eyes afterward.

#patrick zweig #art donaldson #challengers #challengers 2024 #josh o'connor #mike faist #x reader #challengers fic #alternative!reader #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson x reader #artrick #artrick x reader

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creepswrites · 2 days

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MASK OF HATE (CH 3) | Michael x Reader

just when i was finally starting to feel better physically, i tanked mentally :') so i'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. i hope this was worth the wait though! i promise i Do plan to work on other stuff besides just MoH but rn i just. needed to write Michael for a bit

MICHAEL MYERS x FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: You internally cursed Dr. Loomis for tormenting this man for so, so many years. Embodiment of evil your ass, he was so obviously desperate for love and care that he'd practically thrown himself at you as soon as you'd proven you would love him no matter what. He was more than the traumas he felt compelled to reenact. He was so, so much more and you loved every part of him.

PREV || NEXT

Halloween in Haddonfield was always a high-strung time for the town.

Ever since the Halloween killings a few years ago, the town had taken a hesitant approach to the holiday. Parents made a point to accompany their kids everywhere or just simply stay home with them. If phones went down or power went out, babysitting teens were told to cross the street and get help, no matter what. Despite the horrors, people still dressed up, still went looking for candy, and still snuck out to make out with their respective partners.

Halloween for you had been quiet. You'd gone to a small costume party with your friends and tried to stay busy. You knew Michael was out working since news of his crimes reached your party, people whispering and gasping at the reported murders coming from the televisions.

You tried not to think about it.

By the time you got home, it was nearly 2am and you were exhausted. As though sensing your arrival, the Boogeyman stepped out of the shadows of your kitchen, bloodstained and breathing heavily. "Busy night?" You'd called to him with a tired smile. He tilted his head in lieu of any response.

With the holiday over, you wondered what Michael would do next. For many nights after, you lay in bed and bore holes in your ceiling as you tried to come up with a plan. Would he leave? Go back to Smith's Grove? Surely he couldn't keep killing, right? There'd be no people left in Haddonfield eventually. But was that the point?

You didn't know. You didn't like not knowing.

But he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he'd sit on your couch and watch television, intrigued by the cartoons, or follow you around the house. If you left, he'd stalk you from a distance just out of sight. He joined you for dinner and movies in front of the television and seemed to enjoy watching horror films when you put them on. You knew him well enough to notice he had a soft spot for The Thing so you tried to put it on as often as possible.

It became the new normal. Domestic and quiet.

Months passed. Fall oranges faded to browns and whites as winter approached. You'd leave out food for Mayhem in hopes he'd come home but you began to lose hope. All you could do now was pray he didn't suffer or that he hadn't been eaten by some other animal.

Michael always watched you when you did this, stood in the doorway of the backdoor while you sat on the narrow steps, hoping your kitty would come home. It might've looked silly to him but he never tried to stop you. You appreciated that.

During all this, he didn't kill anyone. At least, not that you knew of. You tried to avoid the news and, with your dad gone, you didn't have much insider information anymore. Who knows if they were even still looking for him.

So you made a Thanksgiving feast. Michael was familiar with the concept but you knew it had likely been a long time since he'd actually gotten to participate. So you went all out - turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, green bean casserole, gravy, the whole nine yards. The two of you ate together on your couch and watched Charlie Brown episodes, eating your weights in food and falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch.

When you'd woken, you had been taken aback by how peaceful he looked when he slept. Curly hair ruffled from the awkward angle he lay against one of your throw pillows, his face still but not tense. Pretty, you thought to yourself not for the first time.

It was nice. Everything felt perfect.

One afternoon when you'd gotten back from work, you saw Michael masked up and standing on your front porch cradling something wrapped up in an old towel. "What is that?" You gasped, fearing the worse as you hurried closer.

But you broke down into tears, immediately recognizing Mayhem. Cold, trembling, and most certainly sick in so many ways but alive and home. You'd taken him to the vet's office, a sobbing mess in the waiting room. He'd need surgery for his infected wounds and have to be on antibiotics for a long time but you were just relieved he was home and safe now.

Michael never told you how he found him. You didn't ask, just baked him a pumpkin pie as thanks.

November browns turned to December blues as snow and frost began to make appearances. The first snow day, you'd bundled both yourself and Michael up and dragged him outside to see the falling snow. He wore the mask much less now, often leaving the thing in the corner of the closet, hidden away like a bad memory.

You didn't really understand that. Your best theory was that the mask compelled Michael to kill and now that Halloween had come and gone, he was back to some semblance of normal. He still wore masks from time to time - rustic paper mache ones crafted at your kitchen table on quiet afternoons - but significantly less now. Maybe it was just a Halloween thing and he was relatively normal the rest of the year? You weren't sure. Obviously, you knew better than to push about what happened with his sister but you wondered if the killings were a reenactment of the trauma.

Psychology has always interested you.

It wouldn't surprise you if the great Dr. Loomis neglected to acknowledge that Michael was traumatized, quick to demonize him rather than provide him proper care. That he didn't put together Michael went from a normal boy to suddenly completely nonverbal and monotonous after killing her. It had affected him, even if people didn't want to admit that. Michael himself included.

But wearing the classic mask a little less meant you could slip a cute wool hat on his head and drag him out, mitten-clad hands clasped together as you charged outside. "Come see, come see!"

Michael looked up at the falling snow, squinting against the snowflakes that began to freckle his face. You'd laughed and nudged him. "Try this," you said before opening your mouth and letting the snowflakes fall on your tongue.

He'd given you a bewildered look but tried it. Only because he'd grown so fond of you, you assumed.

Days passed. Mayhem made a full recovery and now spent his days lounging in the winter sun. Sometimes he'd brush against Michael for attention and the man had gotten better at returning it, fingers brushing soft black fur occasionally. It was sweet, you thought, how he'd slowly begun to reintegrate into your life.

When you caught him drawing on looseleaf papers, you decided to get him paints and canvases as an early Christmas present and cleared out your dad's old room to let him have an art studio to paint and work on his masks in private. You'd layed down old newspapers to keep the floor relatively clean when you revealed it to him. He'd spend hours up in there, painting or making masks. You'd helped him hang some up on the wall of the room with little thumbtacks as hooks. He was getting good, you'd thought as you examined a bright orange mask that resembled a jack o' lantern.

Michael didn't show you his paintings very often. That wasn't really the point anyways so you didn't mind. But there had been a few times when he'd leave a dried canvas outside your bedroom door or atop your bed like a cat offering dead animals. Your favorite so far was one of the winter sky painted with fluffy whites and cold blues with your own profile looking up at the sky. The way he painted was streaky, like his hands shook, but it was still beautifully detailed despite the messy lines and bleeding colors.

It was interesting seeing yourself through someone else's eyes translated to art. You'd kept the painting in your room and you'd trace your fingers along the raised streaks of paint, fingers running along the lines of your face. You wondered, fleetingly with bright red cheeks, if he painted you often and just never showed you.

There was a chance. You liked to think he did.

It was around the middle of December as you attempted to get ready for a holiday party. Attempted being the key word. “Michael,” you sighed, adjusting your elf hat. “I told you, I’ll be back later tonight. I’ve left dinner in the fridge and I promise I’ll call when I’m coming home.”

It was nearing Christmas when you'd gotten invited to a holiday party. You were attempting to get ready, dressing up as a cute little elf. Attempting being the key word. "Michael," you sighed, adjusting your stupid looking elf hat, "I told you, I'll be back later tonight. I've left dinner in the fridge and I promise I'll call when I'm coming home."

Michael glared at you behind the accursed Halloween mask. He had a habit of being a bit of a brat and you found it equally annoying as you did endearing. He'd put the mask on when he'd learnt you were leaving but you'd expected that. Whenever he was generally stressed out or upset, you'd find it covering his head. The symbolism there wasn't lost on you but you had more pressing things to worry about then the possible metaphor of Michael masking himself literally and figuratively.

"If you're so upset, why not come with?" You snorted to yourself as you focused on doing your eyes in a dark green with white mascara. "I can do your makeup, dress you in a cute sweater, no one would know it's you. Could be fun, yeah?"

You paused to do your lips in a dark red. Makeup wasn't really your preference but it suited the costume you wore - a dark green tunic with red and white striped knee socks with brown boots. The hat was a matching green and jingled stupidly from the little bell on the end. You'd done your face with a heavy blush and had drawn little white snowflakes in liquid eyeliner. It was cute.

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching you had you spinning around. Michael stood directly behind you and tilted his head when you made eye contact. "Wait, are you serious?" You blinked in surprise. You'd gotten good at reading him in the few months you'd spent living together and you could tell he was accepting your offer.

He gave you a blank stare before putting a hand around your neck and squeezing. You noted his tense shoulders and tried to relax. A few months ago, this gesture would have terrified you. Now you knew that it was just his way of expression. A knife and a violent hand was all he could use to convey things so you'd learnt to just roll with it, knowing that his intent wasn't to kill you.

So you didn't panic.

"I'm not making fun!" You insisted, lifting a hand to push lightly at his chest. "I just need to be sure you're actually interested in going. There'll be people there, you know that right?" Silence. "People you can't kill." More silence. "I'm not kidding either, you can't hurt or kill anyone if you come with me." It had been a long time since he'd killed anyone but you could never be totally sure of his motives. He could still be unpredictable from time to time.

Michael let you go and marched towards the dresser. You watched curiously as he fished out a black shirt and black jeans - clothes you'd gotten for him when he couldn't be in the jumpsuit - before offering them with outstretched arms. He gave you a curt nod and you smiled.

He didn't do that often so you knew he was serious.

"Alright then, c'mere big guy," you motioned for him to sit on the bed as you began gathering up makeup supplies. You kept your head turned away as he changed to offer him some semblance of privacy. Growing up in an institution meant he didn't have a lot of shame left but you always felt bad when you thought about that.

You missed the way his hands shook as he took off the mask, too busy searching for a colored contact for his injured eye. You found a pretty jade green and figured that'd work. Heterochromia was uncommon, not unheard of. Some red eyeshadow for his eyes would help cover up the scar and would also be cute for a Rudolph nose. You collected your supplies and turned to Michael with a wide smile.

That smile fell when you saw him sitting on your bed, dressed up nice as he stared at the mask clutched tightly in his hands. He stared into its face with wide, terrified eyes and that made you freeze. You'd seen that look only once before: when you held each other in the bathroom after you'd saved him from being shot.

"You don't have to go." Your voice was soft and reassuring. He looked up at you slowly and you continued. "I know this isn't something you normally do, but-" Michael blinked slowly as you rambled. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do this for me." The last thing you needed was him snapping and killing people at the party. You'd both be in trouble for that.

But you also wondered if he was unfamiliar with being given choices. You never forced Michael into things he didn't want to do and it was possible he wasn't used to that.

He stared at you for a long time, fingernails digging into latex, before he unclenched long enough for the mask to fall to the floor with a soft crunch. The two of you stared at it for a long time and he blinked rapidly as he stared. You could tell by the clenching and unclenching of his jaw that he was fighting something off.

You wanted to make it easier for him.

So you took a seat beside him and reached for his face with slow hands. His flinch made your heart break and you cooed to him softly. "It's just me," you soothed as you clicked open the container with the contact lens inside. "I'd never hurt you."

Michael relaxed slowly, watching you with something storming in his eyes. You cupped his cheek with one hand and his eyes fluttered briefly. "Have you ever put contacts in?" You asked, smiling warmly at him.

He shook his head once. This was going to be tricky.

It took some time to get the contact in. Neither of you really knew what you were doing and you kept worrying it'd roll back to his brain. But, with your combined efforts, it now sat comfortably in his eye. Pretty green-hazel heterochromatic eyes that you fought to not get lost in. Even with the scarring he looked… normal.

"Should I even ask if you've ever worn makeup?" You teased as you took out the eyeshadow. "I'll be brushing your face and around your eyes. Is that okay?"

Michael blinked slowly, which you took as a yes.

"Stop me if it gets to be too much, okay?" You said softly before dabbing the brush in the dark red and swiping it gently over his lids, relieved it covered the scar pretty well.

You weren't sure how familiar people were with his actual face. When people thought of Michael Myers, did they just see the pale, masked face of the Boogeyman? Or did they see his mugshot, televised on the evening news as they reported his escape and recapture?

When you moved to his next eye, his hand shot out to clench your hip tight. He hated feeling vulnerable. You were the only exception to his no touching rule because you'd proven your loyalty. In exchange, he'd given you protection. But he still disliked giving over control and holding you like a stressball was the only thing he could do to abate his anxiety.

You dusted some red on the tip of his nose and smiled to yourself. "So a few of my friends will be there," you hummed as you added the finishing touches on the raccoon-style eyeshadow you'd given him to hide a lot of the scars. Since he was wearing darker clothes, you reached for the black eyeshadow next with the intent of dusting it around his lids to give him a smokier look. It made him a tad intimidating, black soot that petered out into a dark red. "They'll probably try to talk to you but I'll try and take over. If they ask, we'll say you got in a car accident when you were young and haven't been able to talk since."

He gave your hip a squeeze in confirmation.

You brushed some red on the tip of his nose with a hum. "My friend Leslie is the chattiest so at least we won't have to worry about him. He's always rambling on and on about the horror novel he's writing. To his credit, it's really interesting." You began to brush a heavy blush on his cheeks, chuckling at the way he squinted against the sensation. "It's about some boy who was thrown over a waterfall before rising to take revenge on the town? I think? I mean, he'll certainly tell you all about it. I think he's calling it Behind the Mask or something, I'm not sure."

Michael opened his eyes when you finished with the blush and you froze. He looked good and you couldn't help but stare. Tight fitting shirt, half-lidded eyes decorated in smoky colors, and messy brown curls that you made a note to fluff up before you left. He looked painfully normal and pretty and you wanted to-

You cleared your throat and grabbed the white eyeliner pen. "This'll be colder but try not to move." Gently, you held under his chin to keep him steady as you began to dot little freckles along his cheeks and nose, pausing to draw larger snowflakes at the corners of his eyes. That way you two matched!

When you pulled back, you realized he'd been staring at you.

There were a few times in the time of you knowing Michael that you wondered if he could read minds. If, in order to be the scariest thing possible, he knew exactly what scared someone. But, you reminded yourself, this wasn't some Stephen King novel. Still, it unnerved you to consider he knew what you thought of him privately.

"Oh! I know!" You hopped up and hurried back over to your vanity, grabbing a brown headband decorated with felt horns wrapped in tiny bells. They were painfully cute and you spun to show him.

He squinted at you and you giggled. "Trust me, it'll look super cute." Sliding it atop his head, you finally got to fluff his hair out to disguise the band better. When you stepped back, you gave him a once-over and a smile.

Michael fucking Myers dressed up as a reindeer. Cute little nose, horns, and all.

"You think we should use nicknames to be less suspicious?" You hummed, tilting your head - a habit you'd picked up from him. "I could call you Mike." He glared at you and you smiled with a faux-innocence. "Aw, don't like it?" He glared harder and you laughed. "Well, if they ask for your last name, I'm making something up!"

He got up wordlessly and made his way to your vanity, examining himself in the mirror. As expected, he didn't say anything. But he did touch lightly at his eyes, curious when the powder came off on his fingers. You joined him, looking you both over in the mirror. From the outside, you two looked like any normal young couple heading for a Christmas party.

“Well Mikey,” you said as you grabbed your bag, “Shall we?”

You laughed at the slow, unimpressed blink he gave you.

You were honestly impressed Chrissy managed to get so many people to come. She'd been very popular in high school - a cheerleader who'd dated the quarterback of the football team, well-liked, and clearly still riding that high despite graduating out of high school cliques. Chrissy had been a year above you but had always been one of those girls to try and invite everyone she knew to any events she threw. So you weren't exactly close friends but you'd helped her with a school project once and apparently that was enough for her.

The house was decorated to the nines, lined in little white lights that glistened against the freshly fallen snow. Little reindeer animatronics made of the same lights "grazed" in the front yard and little candy cane lights lined the pathway. It all felt a little magical. A small flurry had picked up when you and Michael got out of the car and made your way up to the front door.

Michael paused to look up at the sky while you rang the doorbell, listening to the melodic chimes ring out inside the house. You swore he almost smiled, his hair dusted in little white flakes when he looked down at you. Your heart seized at the sight and you were struck with the urge to k–

Chrissy opened the door, smiling wide and dressed in an inappropriate Mrs Claus outfit. She surveyed you both and let out a surprised gasp, the corners of her mouth curling in delight. "And who's this hottie?" She whispered at you while giggling like a schoolgirl. "I didn't know you knew any cute guys. No offense." She twirled her hair, shamelessly looking Michael up and down.

Jealousy shot through you like a bolt of lightning. "He's my boyfriend."

"Oh," she seemed almost disappointed, which you tried to brush off. She'd always felt a little entitled towards whomever she determined was the most attractive guy. It was just how she was, even if it pissed you off in the moment. "Well, I'm happy for you!" She spun on her heel and led you both into the house, gesturing for her butler to take your coats. "Feel free to mingle, lovebirds! We've got drinks, food, and our chef made a bunch of cookies."

Michael seemed to notice the lovebirds comment and you flushed, giving a nod and smile to Chrissy while trying to ignore his stare boring into the back of your head. "Thanks. Oh, um, here!" You reached into your bag and held out a small, nicely wrapped gift. "For the Secret Santa."

She lit up and took the box enthusiastically. "Ohmygosh, thank you! I was just going to ask." Chrissy added the box to a nearby table and clasped her hands together excitedly. "Alright, perfect, you're free to go!"

You led the way to the kitchen, dodging a few familiar faces with smiles and waves and promises to return once you'd gotten some food and drinks. Michael held your wrist the whole way there, squeezing harder and harder the more people spoke to you.

The kitchen was huge, white, and perfectly pristine. The maid who cleaned everything always made their house look like an interior design catalog rather than an actual home. A large plate of highly elaborate sugar cookies lay atop the countertop, a large amount already missing with only trails of crumbs indicative of their place there.

You grabbed a candy cane shaped cookie and gestured for Michael to grab one. "I think you'll like these." He just stared at you, eyes widened ever so slightly. "What?" You asked through a mouthful of cookie. His head tilted slightly and you swallowed nervously. "Sorry for the, um, boyfriend comment. It just, uh, it felt like a safe alibi, y'know?"

Michael stared at you, eyes calculating. You prepared a million apologies in your head before he reached for a snowman cookie and bit into it, never breaking eye contact. You weren't sure if that was approval or disapproval so you both just stood there, staring awkwardly at each other and eating sugar cookies. Your fingers drummed anxiously on the cold marble tile of the kitchen counter as you tried to stand your ground.

When he finished his, Michael stepped closer to you and placed a hand at your waist. He leant forward and pressed his lips to your forehead, making you gasp in surprise. It wasn't exactly a kiss but the intent was there and the message was clear. You swallowed when he pulled back and you swore his eyes softened. "Okay, okay, cool," you said quietly, trying - and failing - to hold back your smile.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and smirked to yourself about the faint lipstick stain there. You snagged another couple cookies and a glass of cider. His cheeks were a soft pink when you passed him one of the cookies. "Shall we brace the music?" You grinned as you took his arm and led him out the door back into the party.

Everything went perfectly, all things considered. Of course, everyone you knew wanted to meet your new boyfriend. "It's a recent development," you'd say as Michael took a drink to avoid talking. "I met him when my car broke down and we just… hit it off, y'know?" You'd smile as though recounting the memories through your pleasant buzz from the cider.

"How long have you been dating?" You were asked a few times.

"Oh, a month and a half now, I think. It feels like it's been longer." You'd say while Michael chewed on cookies.

It had been, if you thought about when the starting point of your relationship could've been. Maybe not long after he'd gotten sick and you'd cared for him in a way he hadn't had since he was a child. Or maybe after you'd both made a wordless pact to each other while your father lay bleeding on the kitchen floor. Hard to say. But calling him your boyfriend had come so easily that you questioned how long you'd considered him that in your subconscious.

When Chrissy announced her parent's arrival with a few of their friends in tow, you went to greet them without a second thought. You froze in fear when you caught sight of her father: John Kallas. Officer Kallas. A friend of your father's who had been part of the team searching for Michael around Halloween.

You clutched Michael's arm and steered him to a quiet hallway of the house. "Don't let her dad see you," you whisper-yelled. When he tilted his head, you ran a nervous hand through your hair. "He was one of the cops looking for you. He might recognize you."

Michael didn't visibly react but you did notice him clenching his jaw. "I didn't know he'd be here! I hadn't thought of it until I saw him." You sighed, frustrated with your own anxiety rising. "I'm sorry. Do you want to leave?"

He seemed to think it over but you were interrupted by heels clicking on the tile floor. In a panic, you grabbed his wrists and put his hands at your waist. "Act like we were kissing." You whispered as you leant in, bumping your foreheads together.

His head tilted askew slightly and gave you a moment to mess up your lipstick a little. The footsteps came to a halt and you heard a familiar laugh that made all the anxiety in your body melt away in an instant.

Kalei stood with their arms crossed, looking you both over with an amused expression. "So is this the guy you were telling me about back in September?" They laughed at seeing the way you hid your face in your hands in embarrassment.

Michael gave you a quizzical look and you groaned. "Yes, yes, he is." You confessed with an exhausted sigh. "But shh!" You waved a hand at them to try and quiet them.

They didn't back down though. "He would gush about you at work to me all the time," they drawled out, ignoring your flustered protests.

"I didn't-!"

"You better treat him right!" Kalei said, crossing their arms over their chest. "I may not look it but I can pack a serious punch."

Michael blinked slowly before looking back at you. "What do you need, Kalei?" You sputtered, trying to change the topic before your impromptu boyfriend decided to make a scene.

"Oh, the Secret Santa's starting. Came to getcha." They gestured for you both to follow with an impish smile growing on their face. "Better hurry up before people start making assumptions." They teased with a waggle of their eyebrows.

Your face lit up like a torch and you gently pushed Michael away to march down the hall. "N-no, wouldn't want that, yeah." Your voice sounded far away to your own ears, too much blood pounding through your head.

Michael followed on your heels like a loyal dog and you tried to ignore the way that made you feel.

You and Michael took a seat on one of the couches and you held his arm almost possessively, especially when you noticed some of the other girls at the party kept looking at him with bashful faces. It pissed you off just how shameless they were even when they knew he was dating you. Was it that hard for people to believe?

The absence of John Kallas made you think that he and his buddies had gone into one of the other rooms. Which put your mind at ease, at least a little.

The Secret Santa was relatively uneventful. You clapped politely as people opened their gifts and were surprised when Chrissy handed you your gift from her. A book on growing vegetables with a tab already inside on a picture of a tomato plant. "You think I should grow tomatoes?" You gave her an amused smile.

"Well, duh! It, like, suits your whole vibe, y'know? I'm surprised you don't grow more vegetables." Chrissy had nudged you gently as you began leafing through the rest of the book, skimming the words as Michael watched over your shoulder.

As it finally came time to leave, you were saying your goodbyes to Chrissy when you spotted Officer Kallas leaving the kitchen. You pulled Michael out of there quickly, hoping that the stumble the officer gave was simply him tripping and not because he'd seen The Boogeyman as your date to his daughter's party.

Your walk back to the car was brisk and silent. White snow was like stars as it fell overhead before coming to rest on your shoulders and the ground below. "Thank you for coming," you said, reaching over to squeeze Michael's hand. "It was nice having you there."

Before you could pull your hand away completely, he gave you a squeeze of his own before climbing into the passenger seat.

Oh, you thought to yourself. Oh.

For Christmas, you'd gotten Michael a drum set.

It had been an impulsive buy, a decision you had made while walking past a thrift store and noticing a decently priced set on display in the window.

He enjoyed doing things with his hands - be it painting, making masks, or, most recently, helping you decorate Christmas cookies. So you figured he'd get a kick out of drumming. You lived far out enough that he could afford to be loud without worrying about waking the neighbors up and you had a detached garage he could play in. Maybe when the weather got warmer, he'd move outside.

And it might help him to let energy out. You'd caught him giving death glares to random postmen who came to your door and he'd already begun the habit of wearing the accursed Halloween mask around the house again. So you didn't want him to get bored.

“Here,” you said as you passed him the drumsticks. He examined them curiously and you gestured to the drums. When he gave you an empty stare, you took one of the stucks and whacked on the cymbals. That made Michael’s eyes widen and he moved around to take a seat. “You can be as loud as you want with them. No one’ll hear soooo… go crazy!”

Michael took the stick back and held them both in hesitant hands. With a few bangs that seemed exploratory coupled with getting the hang of pressing his foot to make a lower noise, he seemed to catch on pretty quick. His banging grew in speed and volume as he gained confidence and you laughed, covering your ears when the sound echoed off the walls of the small space. "You got it!" You called over the crashing cymbals.

A loud bang signified the end of his "song" and he stared at you with wide, crazy eyes, panting heavily. "Fun, right?" You smiled at him. "They're all yours so you're free to come play them whenever you want."

His lips curled into an almost feral smile that made you smile back. You'd never seen him smile before, much less like that.

Over the next few days, Michael continued sneaking – literally sneaking, like he'd be in trouble if you spotted him – into the garage to play the drums. His disorganized, chaotic banging was slowly starting to take form. Organized chaos, you smiled to yourself. The loud sounds and movements gave Michael a chance to express himself with noise which was quite the contrast to his usual quiet self.. You also found it exceptionally cute when he'd go play and come back inside hours later with his wild brown curls disheveled and a crazed grin on his face.

It had been unsettling at first seeing him smile the way he did but now it just made your heart seize. His fingers would drum on things to a tune you couldn't hear and he was painfully human now, relaxed around you and genuinely happy, from what you could tell.

So you made a mixtape for him that focused on heavy drum sounds, steady but loud beats the way he liked. At first he didn't seem too interested in it but you'd since caught him listening to it a few times, eyes closed and posture relaxed. Music wasn't something Michael had a lot of exposure to so you had fun introducing him to various bands and musicians.

Metal music seemed to be his preference, which made a lot of sense.

It was New Years when things really changed.

You and Michael had the television on with the channel turned to watch the ball drop. It wasn’t typically a tradition you cared about but you could tell your housemate was intrigued. He’d been upstairs painting for most of the day while you cleaned the house up a bit. "Spring cleaning," you said to Michael as he watched you from the kitchen. "Cleaning makes me happy. It's nice to get everything back in order after the holidays. 'sides, it's still too cold out for gardening."

Michael tilted his head but retreated back upstairs with his water jar for his paints.

Once the sun set, you made hot chocolate and ordered pizza. Michael preferred just plain cheese but you’d gotten yours with olives - something Michael always gave you looks for. "Don't knock it 'till ya try it," you'd snickered through a mouthful of pizza.

His brow furrowed in distaste as he took a bite of his own pizza.

It was cute. He had a lot of personality once you knew where to look. And he’d clearly gotten very comfortable with you during the time you’d been living together. It felt like a great honor to get to see Michael Myers do something as mundane as eat pizza in lounge clothes.

The two of you watched cartoons for a few hours until 11:57 hit. You flicked to the news channel and let your head loll to the side and rest against the back of the couch. "It's not the most exciting thing in the world," you said as you glanced at Michael, "But it's fun. It's nice to see everyone around the world get together for something like this."

Michael had just stared at the television with a slight tilt to his head. 11:59 struck and you felt your throat tighten as an idea came to mind. You recalled a conversation you'd had with Chrissy a couple years back where she'd told you about her favorite New Years tradition.

50 seconds…

It couldn't hurt to ask, right?

45…

“Hey, Michael?” Your voice was barely a whisper. You kept your eyes trained on the TV even when you felt his eyes on you.

40…

Swallowing was a challenge for you. “There’s, um, a kind of New Years tradition. That, um, it means-”

30…

“-you’ll have good luck for the rest of the year.” Your words were slow and methodical. It felt like you had to really sell him on the idea, even if you were afraid to tell him what it was. You weren't even sure you wanted to admit to yourself how badly you wanted to-

25…

“Want to do it?”

Michael just stared blankly at you. His eyes darted between yours, calculating. It made you feel flayed open despite the fact you were pretty sure he didn't know what you were talking about.

20…

He gave you a single nod. You quickly darted your tongue out to wet your lips. Now or never, you sighed internally.

“Trust me,” you said more than asked. His eyes widened slightly but he didn't pull away. You knew he trusted you and all you could do was hope he didn't react poorly.

15…

You swallowed around the heavy lump in your throat and tried to not look too worried. If he got the impression it was something bad, you may lose your chance. Lifting a gentle hand, you let your fingertips graze his cheek before slowly settling to cup his face properly.

It was like you could hear the sound of your own heart pounding even over the cheering on the television.

10…

"This okay?

9…

Michael's eyes softened and he gave a slight nod, as though worried he'd dislodge you entirely.

8…

You scooted closer, the both of you adjusting so you were sat facing each other, opposite shoulders brushing the back of the couch. He sat perfectly cross-legged while one of your legs braced against the floor.

7…

Slowly, you reached over with your free hand to tangle your fingers together in a loose hold.

6…

His eyes widened more and his lips parted. A look of realization flashed in his eyes and for a moment you worried you'd overstepped.

5…

"Still okay?"

4…

Michael gave a small nod again, eyes darting all over your face as he searched for…something. You weren't sure.

3…

2…

1…

You leant forward and pressed your lips together in a sweet kiss. The sounds of cheering that came from the television felt far away and underwater. Every sense in your body was focused on Michael - the warmth of his hand, the residual taste of hot chocolate on his lips, and the soft intake of breath you heard when your lips met.

It felt like the cheering was for you two.

At first, Michael didn't seem sure what to do with himself. With some gentle guidance, you tilted his head to the side to let him lean into the kiss better. He was clearly trying, so you scooted closer and let him set his hands on your hips to lift you into his lap without breaking the kiss.

When you parted to catch your breaths, Michael was staring at you with half-lidded, glassy eyes. It felt like your heart was going to burst out of your chest

You pulled him back in, tangling your fingers in his hair to keep him in place. His arms wrapped around your waist and you sunk into his hold. Being with him felt warm and safe.

So yeah. Things changed on New Years. But neither of you were complaining.

The snow finally began to clear up, being replaced smoothly by sleet and rain. It was honestly far more preferable to you, since it made walks in the forest more enjoyable. You'd always preferred the rain.

It had been a few weeks since the New Years and you and Michael were in some type of relationship. The word "dating" had come to mind but it wasn't really accurate. It was more than dating. You were partners in crime - literally and figuratively - as well as good friends, housemates, close confidants, and, more importantly, you saw each other. Really and truly. You'd both picked up on the others wordless sentences and slight shifts in your bodies were like loud declarations. Sure, you two held hands and he let you touch him more but that wasn't what was important to you.

Michael smiled more. He'd watch you with soft, sleepy eyes, stopped tensing whenever you cut his hair, and you'd caught him dozing off on the couch a few times.

You internally cursed Dr. Loomis for tormenting this man for so, so many years. Embodiment of evil your ass, he was so obviously desperate for love and care that he'd practically thrown himself at you as soon as you'd proven you would love him no matter what. He was more than the traumas he felt compelled to reenact. He was so, so much more and you loved every part of him.

Today, you needed to run down to the store to grab a few things. The rain had finally let up enough that you felt comfortable driving. "Michael? I'll be back around 5:30, alright?" You called into the house as you fastened your shoes.

Ever since the Christmas party, he'd gotten better about you leaving the house for short periods of time. So long as you promised to come back, that is. If you didn't, you knew he'd hunt you down with a knife and a bloodstained jumpsuit. Of that, you had no doubt.

Michael appeared in the doorway of the kitchen staring at you. You shot him a grin and grabbed your bags. "Be back soon!" You called over your shoulder as you ventured outside.

Looking back on it, you wished you'd stayed home…

You were examining a box of cereal for dents when someone approached you. "Hey," Chrissy's voice came from behind you. When you turned, she looked tense with her arms around herself and her smile was tight. Forced. Alarm bells began ringing in your head but you smiled back.

"Hey, Chrissy. Uh, you okay?"

"How's your boyfriend? What was his name, um, Michael, right?" She looked like she'd be sick and you felt white-hot adrenaline shoot through you like a bolt of lightning. "He, um, is he around?"

You swallowed, keeping your movements slow and casual. If you cracked, then she'd know. So you made a show of putting the cereal box into your cart and took the chance to look around. The aisle was empty but you caught the sign of movement near the end. Blue police uniforms, likely Chrissy's dad and his partner.

"No, he's traveling." You gave Chrissy an exhausted smile. "Y'know I'm not gonna pass your number along, right?"

She looked pale but her smile got wider and she took a small step back, like you terrified her. "Did, um, did someone die?" Her fake pout made you want to punch her in the face. Her faux sympathy oozed from her tone and you couldn't help the way your eye twitched. "Maybe his sister-?"

You froze in place. She knew. You don't know how she found out but there was no doubt she knew. Why the hell Officer Kallas had waited so long to act, let alone use his daughter as bait, was beyond you. Had he seen pictures from the party and asked Chrissy to identify him? Had he compared it to his mugshot? The thought of that made you irrationally angry.

"His dad is sick." You grit out through clenched teeth.

"You're sick," Chrissy shot back like a viper. "You've been sleeping with the fucking Boogeyman! You brought him to my house, oh my god, what if he killed-!" She choked back a sob, having the audacity to look betrayed.

Like a Barbie doll with mascara tears.

Enough was enough. You spun on your heel and marched away from a sobbing Chrissy like a man on a mission. You heard Officer Kallas call your name and you took a steadying breath before spinning, swinging the metal cart full of boxes and cans behind you and watching the two officers stumble and trip. Chrissy shrieked in fear and you took off towards the sliding glass doors. The crackle of a walkie talkie behind you was loud, too loud for you to make out any words being said. Everything in you was hyperfocused on running.

You heard heavy footsteps hot on your heel and you wished, momentarily, that you had a weapon of your own.

All you had to do was get to your car, the little piece of junk like an oasis in a hot desert. All you had to do was get in and you could get away, get to a phone booth and call Michael. Tell him to get Mayhem, pack bags, and get out. You'd promise you'd pick him up. Something. Anything.

But you’d never get the chance.

The officer tailing grabbed you around your middle and lifted you up like a bratty child hauling a cat around. “Put me down!” You shrieked and began to slam your fists on his arms.

"You're under arrest for disrupting justice, harboring a criminal, and assaulting an officer," his robotic words fell on deaf ears as you continued to fight for your life. Cornered animals bit and he was finding that out the hard way as you twisted to claw at his face.

But he easily overpowered you, shoving you into the backseat of his police cruiser and slamming the door. Tears began to fall down your face as you began to panic. Michael wouldn't know they were coming. They surely knew to check your house. They'd catch him there and then what? Would they kill him? Shoot to kill, like you remembered hearing on the radio all those months ago?

You felt like throwing up. All you could do was curl up on the leather seats and sob your heart out.

All you could do was hope he'd be okay.

Dr. Samuel Loomis considered himself a brilliant man.

He was assigned to Michael Myers' case when the young boy had first been admitted to Smith's Grove when he'd just been a young, non-speaking child. His mother had brought him in, her eyes red rimmed and pleading to help her son.

And Dr. Loomis always loved a challenge case. Every 'difficult' patient he ever had while working in this institution had eventually cracked under his methods. So he studied Michael, subjecting him to various medications, talk therapy, and tried everything to trigger any kind of response out of him. At first, Michael seemed to truly want to be helped. His mother visited every week and talked with him about home, about his life after the institution.

Michael took well to art therapy, much to Loomis' frustrations - he had strongly advised against giving the young boy access to making masks - and he started to make progress in sorting through what happened to him.

Then his parents died. It was like everything in Michael shut down after that. Walls were built up high and became impenetrable the longer Dr Loomis poked and prodded for a reaction.

Years went by and no more progress was made. It was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall with eyes like the devil, as far as Loomis was concerned. There was no way a child could commit such atrocities without an ounce of guilt, no confession of sin. He'd advocated strongly against Michael being released on parole, insisting he was soulless and dangerous.

So Halloween came and Michael escaped, killing teenagers and reenacting the horrors he'd committed to his sister fifteen years ago. And now he had escaped yet again. This time was different though - Michael had gone missing for several months now. Too long had passed without any new murders and Loomis was becoming anxious and impatient. Police had let the case go, grateful at the idea Michael moved on to terrorize a new town.

But Dr. Loomis knew Michael Myers all too well.

He stood in his dimly lit office, watching a police car drive up through the large open window. Watching you get unloaded from the car and observing the way you fought so viciously, Loomis felt like he hit the jackpot. It was no wonder Michael was so obsessed with you. There was a darkness to you that had yet to grow anywhere. Surely he was just biding his time, playing house with you while he waited for you to snap and join him in his killing sprees.

He couldn't have that though. Michael had to be returned to Smith's Grove before he caused any more devastation.

“Doctor?” Officer Kallas’s voice broke the psychologist from his stupor.

“Come in.” He turned, looking over his shoulder and smiling when he lay eyes on you.

There you were. In handcuffs with tear tracks on your face. Your lip was split from where you'd nicked it while trying to bite Officer Kallas. “We apprehended him like you asked. We’ll head to the house to retrieve-”

“Don’t,” Loomis held up his hand to still the room. “No. We’ve got all we need right here.” He approached you slowly, like you were something to behold. You felt slimy under his fascinated stare. “Michael will come looking for him. Then we’ll catch him. We can’t give him any home-turf advantages.”

Officer Kallas nodded and shoved you forward into the room before closing the door behind him. You felt like a muzzled dog, glaring down the doctor with such hate that it reminded him of Michael.

Dr Loomis took a seat at his desk. “Tell me,” he hummed, “What was it like being held captive by Michael?” You looked at him, brow furrowed. Held captive? Was that the narrative they were running with? He seemed to misinterpret your confusion and gave you a sympathetic smile. “I know you were held by him for quite some time. Your friend Chrissy told her father about it. You were seen-”

“I wasn't a prisoner.” You spat, almost offended.

“So you were simply afraid.” The doctor clicked his pen, beginning to write something down. His scribbling felt grating on your nerves and you felt the urge to strangle the man, cuffs be damned.

But you just glared at him instead. “What is this, an interrogation?”

Dr. Loomis lifted his head and you could see the arrogance in his eyes. “I’ve studied Michael for sixteen years,” he said slowly, “And I’ve never seen him so fascinated by another human being.”

“Maybe you’re just shitty at your job.” You scoffed.

If you weren't already glaring daggers, you would have missed the disapproving look Loomis gave you. "In good time, my theory will be proven." He gave you a smile and gestured to one of the chairs sat in front of his desk. "Michael will come for you. And when he does, I will finally rid the world of that potent evil." He said with a menacing, teeth-filled smile.

You wish you’d stayed home.

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