#you’re not going to be normal when you’re raised like that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mikkomacko · 10 hours ago

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Him and I- Diamond Rings

Pairing: Mob Nico Hischier x reader

Warnings: some cursing, crying, nothing much

A/n: bit of a fluffer chapter after sad Nico and reader last chapter. Hope you all like it! I’ll be back soon with a Christmas blurb for y’all :))

Previous chapter

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Nico can’t sleep.

You can hear him pacing the room, the light taps of his feet on the hardwood floor as he attempts to quietly distract himself.

He’s always praised you for your ability to be light on your toes, amazed at how you move around on jobs with the boys without making a sound. It’s why he’s always called you sneaky. And it’s a skill he himself has never been able to fully accomplish.

Even now, with fuzzy socks up to his ankles and an awkward gait that he gets from trying to balance on the balls of his feet, you can hear him.

Careful to not move too much, you blink away sleep and watch him. He doesn’t walk too far, going from one end of the bed to the next. Sometimes he’ll look out the window, but most of the time he’s just nibbling on the side of his thumb, one arm crossed over his bare chest.

Something in your chest aches, throbbing painfully in the space that your heart normally resides. Except it doesn’t feel like your heart is there anymore. Only the echoing beats of it, painful thrums in the empty captivity that gapes there.

Maybe you messed up, talking to Rino like that. You wanted to protect Nico, to keep his father from hurting him again but it feels like you’ve just hurt him in place of his father. Nico didn’t get to confront him, didn’t get to ask him what this has all been for. But worst of all, you didn’t even give him a chance at closure.

Softly kicking the blankets back, the rustle of the sheets makes Nico look over. He drops his thumb from his mouth, fiddling with the raw skin instead.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He apologizes, reaching out for you once you’ve gotten close enough. His hand is cold, even through the shirt you’ve got on and you’re glad you fell asleep with your socks on earlier. You hate the feeling of cold floors.

“You didn’t,” you say, taking a hold of the hand he’s picking at “maybe I just missed you.” You press a kiss to the pad of his thumb, wrapping the digit protectively in your first.

“M’right here,” he eyes your mouth, your tongue instinctively prodding at the scabbed wound under his attention. It stings, not enough to make you outwardly wince but Nico notices anyway. “Should have let me ice that before bed.”

“It’s ok,” you dodge, “just a scratch I swear.” Nico raises his eyebrows, humming like he doesn’t believe you but he’ll let it go, for now.

“Did you have a bad dream?” He cradles your face, eyes examining you like he’s expecting to see physical evidence of a pained sleep.

“No,” you assure, laying your hand over his heart, feeling the steady thump-thump under his skin. Nico wraps you up in his arms, pining you to his chest when you shiver.

Arms squished between your bodies, you happily snuggle into his hold. “Let’s get you back into bed baby,” he murmurs, lips on your temple. Taking him by the hand, you guide him back to the bed, kneeing your way onto the mattress. His body is warm against your back as he follows, collapsing into the pillows.

Mimicking him, you pull the blankets over the both of you. It’s cute, the way his cheek squishes into the pillow, eyes bright even in the dim room. Nico looks younger like this, when it’s just the two of you in the quiet night. No families to sabotage, no Devs boys to watch over. No expectations.

Just you and him.

That spot in your chest throbs again, the emptiness rattling your bones and you squeeze the blankets in your hand, pulling them tighter over you and him. Like that’ll keep everything out.

“Did it feel like this?” You ask, unable to keep the sadness out of your voice. Nico frowns, questioningly. “When it was me up at night, pacing and-and…”

“Scared?”

You nod, the pillowcase rustling in your ear. Nico blinks, gaze morphing from looking at you to looking through you. It’s visible in his eyes that he’s reliving the months after you were taken by Philly, before Johnny and Alex were there to distract you, to help you. How everyday it felt like you were fighting just to breathe. And Nico, he was fighting for everything on behalf of you.

You wonder what moments he sees when he thinks about it, which ones were the worst for him.

“Empty,” he finally croaks, searching your face. “I felt so empty. I wanted to give you everything, I wanted to fix everything and it was hard because I felt like I didn’t have anything to give.”

A lump swells in your throat, pressing tightly into your windpipe and it’s suddenly so stuffy and warm in the room. But the covers feel nice, safe, so you stay buried in them.

“You did do everything,” you tell him “even when it felt like that, just having you with me made it so much better.”

The eyebrow not pressed to the pillow quirks, as if trying to say ‘look at us now, you’re doing the same thing baby’.

“M’not scared,” he murmurs, quiet but not unsure. “About what happened, about my family. Not sad either- I mean of course I’m sad it got you hurt but I’m not sad about…”

“Rino,” you fill in, “you’re not sad that he’s gone.”

Nico’s jaw ticks, the muscles of it flexing as he chews at the inside of his cheek. Unlike his thumb, there no way for you to shield that sensitive piece of skin from his teeth. That doesn’t stop you from frowning though, eyeing the dent in his cheek.

“He never liked me anyway,” Nico finally responds, a yawn stretching his mouth. “I was always just…business. Never a kid to him, never a son, never a man. Never enough, I guess.

“So I didn’t really lose anything. Not in him anyway.”

The rest of the thought goes unspoken, but it’s clear you both know what he’s been contemplating over. Was his mom involved? Did Luca have any idea that Rino was still commanding some of the men here? What about Nina? Was they all in on this gimmick to get Nico back to Switzerland?

You wouldn’t really blame them, if they were. Not that you’re condoning what they did but you know how people feel about Nico. He’s such a strong person, a strong leader, and it almost feels necessary to always have him around. You wouldn’t fault anyone for wanting to have him around, even if you were the collateral damage.

Not that they deserve him. They don’t love Nico the way you do, they don’t see how relaxed and sure of himself he becomes with you, with the Devs. He’s yours to keep and love forever, and as they’ve all seen, you’ll go to hell and back for him.

“How did you deal with it?” You ask, steering away from his family. “That empty feeling?”

All you want to do right now is bundle him up in your arms, tuck him into that hollow part of your chest where no one can ever hurt him again. But that’s impossible, you can’t protect him from everything.

A tiny smile curls at his lips, almost bashful and he’s gesturing over your head. “Hand me my phone.” You shuffle under the covers, stretching across the king sized bed to get his phone off the nightstand.

Nico unlocks it, the screen lighting up his face and he moves onto his back, sitting up on his pillows. You follow, fitting yourself into his side with your head on his shoulder. The hand that finds your hip is warm and safe, almost guarding as it holds you.

Turning his phone to you, he encouraged, Go ahead, take it.”

So you do, blinking away the spots in your vision until the light adjusts and you can see the notes app open on his phone. It doesn’t have a title, but it’s a numbered list.

Sleeping with the tv on

Don’t let her go to the bathroom by herself

Likes when I touch her neck but only softly

Mario voice “it’s a me!”

Talking about her favorite books

Hold her hand when she calls Marino

Car rides with hot coco

Hot coco in general

“Nico what is this?”

He taps at the screen, scrolling all the way to the bottom where the last entry reads Taking care of Alex.

“It’s a list of everything that made you smile or laugh, even for a just a second, for those months after Philly.”

When you think about it, a lot of these moments are things you did with him when you were struggling. Nico stopped setting the sleep timer on the tv and would instead leave it on the channel that plays sitcoms all night. In case you woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. And he would play guard at the bathroom door for you, even at restaurants and grocery stores when you afraid of being left alone. He’d get you a hot drink and the two of you would drive around Jersey and New York for hours, tolls and traffic be damned. Always holding your hand, touching the back of your neck when he could tell you were nervous. And Alex coming to Jersey had been the final thing to pull you out of the hole. You had a young boy that needed help and a family, and you loved him from the moment he stepped off the plane.

You could give him a family. You were happy to even just try.

“There wasn’t much I could do to make you entirely better,” he whispers, pride in his tone “but I could do all of this to make it a little easier.”

A wet giggle escapes you, tears welling in your eyes. You were so miserable then, so numb to everything but him. Nothing mattered to you, but you remember thinking everyday that eventually he wouldn’t want to do this anymore. He’d get tired of fighting to get you out of bed everyday, he’d get tired of sitting with you and counting to a minute while you brushed your teeth, of laying extra towels on the bathroom floor when you showered because you were scared to close the curtain but water would run everywhere.

Yet this whole time, he wasn’t. He spent months watching over you like a hawk, making lists of how he could get you to smile, and even now he sounds happy telling you about it. Like the memories of all this work is a fond thought to him.

“I love your Mario voice,” you giggle, locking his phone. If you read any more of his little notes you’re gonna start crying, for real. “And when I’d play Mario kart as Yoshi and you’d do his little noise.”

Nico moves his phone to the nightstand, grabbing your thigh and hauling you into his lap. He’s smiling when you look at him, cheeks visibly rosy even in the dark. “Yoshi noise,” he reminisces, “was number 15. I’d practice it all the time so that when I did it, it was perfect.”

You try to picture him in the shower, making food, cleaning the apartment, all those moments when you were sleeping or reading and he had time to himself, muttering the little frog noise under his breath, eyebrows pinched together in concentration.

“You’re the most perfect person, ya know that?”

Nico blinks, a little taken aback by the passionate sentiment but he shrugs and smiles, like it’s no big deal. “I just- I wanted you to know I love you. Even if you had a hard time realizing it then.”

You realize it now, how your mourning brain had fogged up all your emotions then, to point that you were so scared of losing of Nico, when in reality there was never a chance of that happening.

You don’t even know what to say, not that you could if you tried, because that bubble of emotion is sitting heavy in your chest. And you’re unsure of how to burst it, of what words would come out.

Nico must know though, because he takes ahold of the back of your neck, soft and gentle, just like he’s always been. “Let’s go for a drive,” he suggests, squeezing just once.

“M’supposed to be doing things that make you feel better, not the other way around.”

He pats your thigh, nudging you to get up. “This makes me better, you letting me taking care of you…I like knowing you trust me like that. It feels-I don’t know but it’s nice.”

‘Never a kid to him, never a son, never a man. Never enough, I guess’. His words from earlier, becoming even clearer now. He was never trusted to be more than just an heir to Rino, to have more responsibilities. Which is why now, as his own grown adult, Nico feels safe when he’s in charge. And he’s good at it, thrives at calling the shots.

“Ok,” you agree, and you let him guide you up from the bed and into the closet. You let him gather one of his sweaters and some leggings, snow boots and warm layers for you to wear. You let him take care of you, knowing that the both of you are safe with each other.

~~~~

The car inches forward, Nico slow and deliberate as he navigates up the steep roads of the mountains. His song plays over the Bluetooth connection, that one from the bar that he sings all the time and even though you can’t fully remember the translation, it makes you smile knowing it’s a love song.

You take a sip of the hot cocoa filled thermos, sucking in a wince when it burns your bottom lip…again.

“Stop,” Nico laughs, tangling his hand in yours after you returned the drink to the cup holder. “Let it cool down.”

“I thought it was!”

He huffs, squeezing your fingers playfully. “You said that five minutes ago too.” The song switches to something instrumental, the car steadily climbs the mountains, and the snow outside begins to brighten.

It’s all so beautiful, the evergreens bending and swooping under puffs of snow. The baby blue rising over the peaks, making them glow in a softened light.

“I know why you left here,” you say, gazing out the passenger window in awe “but it must be so hard to walk away from something so beautiful.”

Nico makes a thoughtful hum, turning the car off the main road and onto a snow packed one. The view gets even better, and you can’t take your eyes off the landscape.

“It was,” he agrees quietly, “but I found prettier things at home in Jersey.” You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, warming your cheeks and neck until you’re sure they’re flush.

“Timo is very pretty,” you reply weakly, clearing your throat to get rid of the jumble of words still caught in your throat.

Nico rolls his eyes, lips curled in amusement as he pulls to the side of the road. It’s a clearing coveted in snow, messed of boot prints marring it but not taking away from its beautiful landscape.

The sun is continuing to rise, blue turning to purple over the mountain tops, the snow brightening even more. You didn’t bring the clothes to go out and run through it, but you’re itching to get out of the car and snap a photo.

Maybe you could even get Nico to take a quick selfie with you, smiling cheeks pressed together with the open valley and mountains behind you.

“What are we doing here?”

Nico lowers the music, stretching out in his seat and gazing out the front windshield with a satisfied little smirk on his face. “Perfect spot to watch the sunrise,” he explains, nodding out to the view “when the sun hits the mountain tops, everything glows.”

You can picture it, the orange and pink glow, reflecting off big fluffy clouds and snowcapped trees, the last few stars twinkling in the brightening sky.

“Can we get out?”

Batting your eyelashes at him, you pull your best puppy dog face. Not that it’s needed, Nico is already looking at you like he’d give you the sun and the stars.

No hesitancy, he’s laughs. “Yeah, course.” Tugging the hood of your jacket up, you pull the laces tight to protect your neck. Then you’re gathering your phone, tucking it into your pocket and soaking up the last bit of heater before getting out.

“Kay,” you grin “let’s go.”

The air is an icy bite, stings your cheeks and makes your eyes water. You shiver, curling into Nico’s jacket further as you slam the car door shut and kick through the snow. He’s barely getting out of the car by the time you’ve rounded the front, messy hair shifting in the wind now that he’s abandoned his hat somewhere in the car.

“Nico,” you scold, shifting on your feet to generate a little body heat “your ears!”’

He shoves through the calf high piles of snow, hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders hunched, but his face is bright. A toothy smile and pink cheeks, dimples accentuating each side.

God, he’s so handsome. You swallow down the lump of words clawing to get out, reminding yourself that he always has a plan and intention. He’ll say them, he knows what he’s doing. And you trust him.

“Nothing like frozen ear drums to wake you up in the morning.” He jokes, and you step into him, humming at how warm he is even through the wind and layers. You stay huddled together for a few moments, Nico’s nose pressed into the top of your head.

The sun continues to rise, speeding towards the mountains tops and everything grows lighter and lighter. Mountains turn purple and pink, clouds bursting orange and yellow, edging out the dark hues of dawn. Once it all turns gold you pull away from him, the chill even worse after getting used to being tucked into his side.

Slipping your phone out of your pocket, you step closer to the clearing and pull up your camera. You snap a couple photos of the sun rising, tree tops peaking into the edge of the frame. The snow crunches under Nico’s boots behind you, and you’re reminded to get a picture with him.

“Nico,” you sing out, innocently, examining the photos you took as you turn to him. He makes a noise like he’s listening, and you lock your phone. “Can we-“

Everything freezes. The wind stops blowing, the sun halts its ascent, your fingers lock around your phone in a death grip. He’s kneeling, Nico is kneeling in the deep and powdery snow, his frozen fingers locked around a familiar black box.

You must look shocked or surprised or whatever that hot feeling bubbling in your gut is because Nico laughs, just one wobbling little chuckle. Hastily, you shove your phone in your pocket, but then you have no idea what do with your frozen fingers.

“Y/n,” Nico says, like he knows your brain is going a mile a minute “baby.” It’s like he’s calling you, voice a siren song that digs into the nerve endings of your brain and it makes all that noise fade away.

Instinctively, you drop to your knees with him, cushioned by the snow and the double layer of leggings and jeans. He holds out his hand to you, the one not holding the little black box, and you take it between both of yours, warming his fingers between your palms.

“You have completely turned my life upside down, ya know that? Or I don’t know, maybe you turned it right side up because now that I know what it’s like to love you, to have you, I don’t know how I ever lived before.

“Everything feels right when I’m with you, like every moment before us was just steering me to you. You match me, stride for stride. You’re the perfect amount of calm where I’m crazy, of smart where I’m stupid, of solid when I’m impulsive.

“You’ve learned and accepted my lifestyle as if it were second knowledge. You’ve taken my boys and made them your own. You’ve taken me and taught me what it means to actually love and be loved. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to show you the same. My darling love, you’ve been a Hischier for a while now, but what do you say we make it official? Will you please marry me?”

The snow has seeped through your pants, soaked into the soft skin of your knees and shins but it doesn’t matter. Maybe you’re numb from the cold, but either way you can’t even feel it. Not with Nico in front of you, eyes wide and glossy with love as he releases your hand to snap open the box.

And there, tucked between two pillowy cushions is the ring you only heard about in passing. It’s not the beautiful and intricate green emerald one from his mother, but instead one of his own design.

A thin gold band, shiny and sleek. A large, round diamond sits in the center, sparkling in the morning sunlight. But the most beautiful part is the tiny pearls beside it, wrapped around the diamond in a delicate band.

Pearls, traditional and elegant and significant for the lifestyle Nico and you live. A diamond, new and modern but just as beautiful. The best of both worlds.

“Yes,” you cry, a wet laugh bubbling out of you. “Of course I’ll marry you, Schao.”

He’s sniffling when he pulls the ring out of the box, taking your freezing and trembling hand in his steady one. The ring slips effortlessly over your knuckle, settling onto your left hand like it’s always belonged there.

“It’s perfect Nico,” you murmur, swiping at your wet cheeks. He licks his lips, nodding in agreement as he delicately runs his thumb over the diamond.

“Yeah it is,” he looks at you, lashes dark and clumped together with tears, his nose and cheeks rosy. “Come here, you’re fucking freezing.”

You’re practically jumping him, arms around his neck and you crash into him so hard he stumbles back into the snow. It’s so fucking cold, wetting his hair and stinging your hands but it doesn’t stop you from smothering him in kisses.

All along his cold cheek bones, on the tip of his glowing nose, on the dimple of his chin, and then finally his lips, chapped from the wind and tears. You hold his face and he holds you, numb hands cherishing each other like the precious gems on your ring.

“I love you,” you whisper into his lips, eyes fluttering open. “You have no idea how hard I’ve been fighting all day to not ask you first.”

He giggles, pecking at your mouth once more. “Yeah?” He kisses you again. “Is that why you went quiet on me?”

You nod, just barely because you don’t really want to stop kissing him. Pushing his hair off his forehead, you kiss between his eyebrows.

“I love you too baby.” He holds the back of your neck, the hoodie protecting you from his frigid fingers. “So fucking much.”

Then he squeezes, just once and you melt back into him, stealing his lips for more kisses. Frostbite be damned.

At least for the moment because after a bit you can feel him shivering, and your hands are so cold they feel like they’re burn off.

“Let’s go warm up,” he pants, breathless and beautiful when you sit up. You climb up from his lap, cheeks aching from smiling and he follows suit, groaning as he digs himself out from the snow angel he’s unintentionally made.

You both dart back to the car, boots crunching and joints protesting but the blast of heat that engulfs you once you get in is so worth it. Tugging off your hood, it takes some wiggling and shuffling but you kick off your boots and wet jeans too, tossing them to the backseat.

Nico reaches for the dash, grabbing for his phone and you realize where his hat from earlier went. He’s balled it up on the dash, phone propped up on it and his camera open and recording the scene in front of you.

He willingly froze his head off in favor of capturing your engagement.

“Well aren’t you a doll,” you tease, making him chuckle bashfully. He tugs his beanie back over his head, tossing his own wet jacket into the backseat.

“For photos,” he reasons, handing you his phone “think one of you tackling me would look real nice over our bed.”

That makes you laugh, setting his phone in your lap while you up the heat on the seat warmers and fish the thermos of hot coco out from the cup holder. Nico’s rubbing his hands together, trying to get them warm while you take a drink.

Perfect temperature. Almost like he planned it to be ready for when you’d get back in the car.

Suspiciously, you eye him and hand over the thermos. All he does is grin though, taking his own drink and winking at you playfully.

Either he’s really lucky, or he’s one smooth fucker.

“Come on, show me the video already!” He laughs when you’ve just been staring at him. Scoffing, you pick the phone up and lean over the console.

“Can I kiss my fiancé first or is that against the rules?”

It’s almost dizzying how struck and lovesick he looks after hearing that. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear that name fall from your lips.

~~~~

The bedroom door clicks softly behind Nico, overly cautious to not disturb the boys still sleeping in the other rooms. You drop the pile of wet and soggy clothes off to the side, biting your lip when Nico takes a hold of your hip. He’s gentle when he turns you, crowding you into the door. His palm comes up to cradle you jaw, thumbing at your bottom lip until you release it from between your teeth.

“Hi,” you whisper, the words settling into the stillness around you two. Nico’s eyes crinkle, gaze warm as it washes over you.

“Hey,” he replies, just as quiet. His lips ghost against yours, soft and hot compared to the kisses you shared in the snow. “Can I get you out of those wet clothes?”

You belly swoops pleasantly. “Yes please.”

Boyishly, he chuckles and presses his hand into your face, tilting your chin until he can peck your forehead. “Me too?”

Your smile grows. “Yes please.”

Squeezing your hip, his hands find the edge of his hoodie on your body, dragging it up your body and over your head. It gets tossed to the side with the other wet clothes. Then he’s taking a hold of your long sleeve and doing the same.

Back and forth it goes, you repeating the motions on him, and then him on you until every piece of clothing has been thrown carelessly to the floor. Your mouth finds his, cradling the back of his neck and you walk him back towards the bed.

As if expecting the move, Nico’s arms find your waist, hauling you up until your toes can’t touch the floor. Helpless, you wrap your legs around him, clinging to his shoulders.

He pulls back to see where he’s walking, fingers rubbing circles in your lower back and you lay your head on his shoulder, lazily mouthing at the juncture of his throat and collarbone.

Nico tosses you to the mattress, your body sinking into fluffy duvet and pillows with a shocked yelp. Standing before you, a hand on his hip and the most beautiful you’ve ever seen, Nico grabs at your thigh.

“My first time,” he says thoughtfully, “m’so nervous.”

He knees his way onto the mattress, your thighs spreading to accommodate his frame. “This is not your first time,” you laugh, goosebumps rising on your skin as he drags his palm up the inside of your thigh.

“S’my first time with my fiancée,” he retorts cheekily, pressing his chest to yours. Then he’s pressing his mouth to yours, teasingly licking at the seam of your lips, slow and tenderly, taking his time.

After all, what’s the rush when you get him for the rest of your life.

~~~~

The house is still quiet when you and Nico tiptoe down the stairs, your left hand intertwined with his and he absentmindedly swipes his ring finger into the band on yours.

It’s cute, you think, how obsessed with it he is. Not that you blame him, you never want to take your eyes off it. It’s beautiful and all you can think about is how Nico picked it for you, that he found it with the intention of knowing that it represents you and him forever.

Nico can feel you watching him, knows by the way you stumble into his side and he has to guide you through the living room. His lips quirk up into an amused smile, gaze flicker to meet yours as you cross into the kitchen and you giggle.

Wordlessly, he stops and wraps his arm around your shoulders, drawing you into him. Rising to your toes, you sweetly kiss at the corner of his mouth. Nico’s hand finds your ass, pressing you even closer to him and you make a move for his lips-

“Whoa PG in the kitchen please.”

Nico and you jolt simultaneously, your hand briefly squeezing his as you instinctively move behind him. He’s seemed to have the same reaction, turning as if he were going to shield you before freezing.

“Holy fuck Timo,” Nico gasps, his hold on you easing up “when the fuck did you get here?”

You sigh in relief, relaxing into Nico’s shoulder and trying to calm your racing heart. Apparently this trip has made you more jumpy than you’ve ever been, not that it’s not justified. You were kidnapped, choked, knocked on conscious, and slapped all within few weeks.

“Like ten minutes ago, why are you acting like I pulled gun on you-what the hell happened to you?”

Timo gapes when you look at him, dropping his half eaten toast to the counter and rushing towards you. He basically shoves Nico off of you to take a hold of your face.

“Long story,” you mutter, batting him away “we’ll tell you later when we go to finish the job.”

Nico takes ahold of your hand again, squeezing reassuringly. You can’t help it, you attach to him like two magnet ends, body and mind and soul aching to hold him.

“Are we gonna have to kill anyone again?” Timo frowns, “Because I just got the stains out of my pants.”

You look up at Nico, waiting for his lead. His lips purse, head tilting to the side like he’s thinking about it. “Nah probably not.” Timo slumps in relief. “Now tell us what happened with Amelia?”

Your friend’s whole demeanor perks up at that, blue eyes brightening and eyes crinkling with a huge smile. “We talked for hours,” he gushes, moving back around the counter for his toaster. “About everything! She talked about the shows she’s skated in and her lessons. And I told her about Jersey and the Devs, how big it’s all gotten.

“She wasn’t even freaked out either when I gave her like details on what we do. If anything, she was proud. She kept saying that she knew me and Nico would be big one day.”

He pauses, inhaling three large bites of toast. Crumbs scatter to the plate and countertop. “Timo, that’s great!” You encourage, but he’s not done. Holding up a finger as he chews and swallows.

“So she decided we’d give it a shot, yeah? Not dive head first like you psychos but we’re gonna do long distance and she’ll come visit more, feel it out? But I have a really good feeling about it.”

You’re already overly tender heart swells, and for the first time in a while, everything feels almost perfect. Timo is finally back with the girl he loves after years of enduring an ocean between them. You and Nico are getting married. You’re going home, back to Jersey and Moose and the house that will now have a roof over two Hischier heads.

“Timo, man congrats.” Nico says, awe in his voice. He must be realizing it too, soaking in the moment of things feeling right again.

We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.

Nico lets go of you in favor of wrapping Timo in a hug so tight it looks bone crushing. Timo chuckles, his grin mirroring Nico’s and they affectionately pat at each other’s chest. “Timo and Amelia, back together. Just like ol’ times.”

“That makes us sound like we’re forty.”

They giggle like school girls, your chest aching at the sight of the man you love with his oldest friend, still acting like they haven’t aged a day since turning 15.

“Will you quiet down,” Jack grumbles, annoyed and half asleep as him and the other boys shuffle into the kitchen. They’re still in their pajamas, bed head and pillow creases on their cheeks. Mercer looks at you, blinking a few times like he’s trying to make himself alert.

“Timo sounds like a fucking goal horn,” Luke adds, equally as grumpy as his brother. It must be a Hughes thing, their repulsion to the mornings.

“And all Nico does is giggle,” Jack glares at him, blue eyes glossy and swollen with exhaustion. He shoulders past Timo and Nico, heading straight for the coffee pot.

Nico looks to you, rolling his eyes but before you can even react back Mercer is there, large and gangly torso blocking your view. Confused, you look up at him curiously.

“Good morning Dawson,” you greet, but he just frowns, looking you up and down. You don’t miss the way he lingers on your busted lip, lips pouting. But then his gaze dips lower, trailing over where your arms are crossed and to your hands.

His gaze shoots up to yours, eyebrows raised in shock and something else. Maybe he’s…impressed? Like he thought Nico and you were gonna keep putting it off or something. Though you suppose he has taking into account that they’ve been telling him since Philly to put a ring on you.

“Nice ring,” he murmurs, voice scratchy and a toothless grin rises on his face. The kitchen goes silent, not even the quiet puff of breathes breaking the silence. Two heads peek over his shoulders, Luke and Alex looking at you expectantly.

“What ring?”

“You guys got married without us?”

Bashfully, you giggle, rolling your eyes at their dramatics. “No just engaged.” You dismiss, waving them off.

The kitchen erupts, a coffee cup clattering to the counter top as Jack and Timo leap to crowd in with the other three. They’re all jeering and shouting things at you, grabbing for your left hand and you laugh. Helpless to their excitement, you let them tug you around and show off the ring.

“I never would’ve guessed you be the first to get married,” Timo teases, whipping around the engulf Nico in a big hug again. Over the top of Luke’s tangled curls you catch Nico’s blush, the big toothy smile on his face. Until you’re being squashed into four pairs of arms.

Like a bunch of children on the playground, you and the boys all squeal and hop around in a jumbled group hug, the only thing keeping you from being bumped over is them.

“Part the Red Sea, please!” Timo shoves them apart, making a gap between Mercer and Alex wide enough to squish Nico in. You happily accept his open arms, let him wrap them around your waist and tuck his face into your neck. The group hug closes up, everyone squeezing you tight.

Giggling, you stroke through Nico’s bed head and he smacks sweet kisses to the side of your neck. You close your eyes, soak in the warm words and arms of those you love. Of your boys.

~~~~

Nico fiddles with his hair in the mirror, tucking it behind his ears and then tilting his head, bottom lip between his teeth as he examines it. Then he untucks it, shaking it out with his fingers and starting again.

“Baby,” you cap the perfume you were rolling onto your wrists. He hums in acknowledgment. “Are you ok? You seem nervous.”

He stops, gaze flickering to meet yours through the reflection. You’re taken back to all those weeks ago when he was first asking you to come to Switzerland, how he was fidgety and wide eyed all night. Did he have all this planned then? A proposal? Or did it just look out that way?

“Yeah,” he croaks, swallowing roughly. “I’m-I am nervous. I mean I’m ok but yeah.”

Placing your perfume on the counter, you slide over to him. Nico turns, propping himself up against the bathroom counter and you step between his parted legs. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your hand trails up his chest, stroking over the soft fabric of knitted sweater. He looks so snuggly, so sweet you want to wrap him in your arms.

Nico grabs at your hip, eyebrows pinching in pain as he sorts through his worries and thoughts. “I don’t know what’ll happen,” he says carefully “I hate that, not knowing. Especially when it comes to you.”

You smile, thumb fondly tracing over the lines of his throat. His five o’clock shadow scratches at the pad of your finger. “It always works out Nico,” you assure “we can’t know everything, but we’re always prepared, right?”

A grateful smile curls his lips for a moment, but his eyes blink at you sadly. “What if they knew?” He asks “what if they were all in on it? This whole time, after I trusted them? I’ll do it, but I don’t want to have to say goodbye again.”

That empty throbbing feeling from this morning returns, clanging painfully against your ribs and heart. Nico didn’t get to say goodbye to his father, didn’t get to talk to him at all. You took over, you took that goodbye from him without even realizing how it could hurt him.

“Nico,” you sigh, guilty “I should’ve talked to you about Rino before I did anything. Dragging Mercer in there all guns a blazing and forcing him from your life…I mean you didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

You think about that day in the hospital when Nico left. You knew exactly what he was doing, where he was going. It broke your heart that he lied right to your face in front of all his family. It hurt you that he was making decisions for you.

And yet, you did the same. Maybe the circumstances weren’t exactly similar, but you didn’t even hint to him about Rino. No, you sent him out on a day with the boys while you destroyed the sliver of a relationship he might have had with his father.

Nico’s watching you curiously, eyes boring into yours. You wonder what he’s looking for, what he thinks you’re holding back or shielding from that apology maybe. What intention is he looking for?

“I get it,” you add “how you felt with Lena. I didn’t even really think. I was just so mad that he could do that to you, that he’d hurt you like that and I reacted. I wanted to protect you, but I shouldn’t have done it like that.”

He looks pained almost, like your words crawled down his throat and into his gut, twisting and knotting everything up. But he also looks…angry. Eyebrows scrunched and gaze dark, his jaw ticking.

“When are you gonna get it?” He asks, not mean but frustrated. His grip on your hips tightens, dragging you closer to him. “What happened, all this stuff wasn’t done to me. It was done to you, they hurt you.

“I don’t care if it was done to get to me, it actually, physically hurt you. So you don’t have to apologize for what they did, for taking Mercer and confronting Rino. Anyone that would lay a finger on you isn’t my friend or family.

“You are. You’re my family baby, and that’s all I care about.”

Maybe it’s the emotions of the day. Between his proposal, Timo getting together with Amelia, the boys loving on you too, and now this? Or maybe it’s just the fact that the sweetest, most understanding and loving man in the world chooses everyday to love you. Whatever it is, you sniffle back tears, blinking wetly at Nico.

One of his large hands cups your face, thumb gently wiping under your teary eyes. He eyes you lovingly, gaze warm and comforting and for some reason that makes you cry more.

“Eesh,” he laughs, tucking your face into his chest. “Why are you crying baby?”

“I don’t know!” You cry , hiding in the comfort of his embrace. His chest rumbles with laughter, lips smiling against the top of your head and he nuzzles into you.

“Ok.”

After a moment you’ve stopped sniffling, Nico wiping at your cheeks and eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. “Pretty,” he murmurs, a sweet grin dimpling his cheeks. Blushing, you press a kiss to his chin.

“I think everything with your family will work out exactly how it’s supposed to,” you assure him, heart fluttering in your chest when he reaches for your left hand. His gaze sparkles as he examines your ring, thumbing over your knuckle thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” he agrees “I just…I don’t know. I really hope Katja wasn’t apart of it. I thought everything was fine after she came to check on you.”

You hum, unsure of what to say. You can’t guarantee Katja wasn’t a part of it. You also can’t guarantee that she wasn’t. If it were you and Nico, he’d never keep you in the dark about a deal like that. He’d have you right next to him the whole time, through planning, preparing, and even execution.

But Katja and Rino aren’t like you and Nico.

He presses a kiss to the palm of your hand, long eyelashes fluttering as he does so and you think of the day Katja took you for a drive. Rino excluded her from everything, she had no say over what the business did. And you could tell she hated it, especially by the way she lit up when she realized Nico treats you as an equal in the Devs family.

Startled, you look up at Nico with wide eyes. His eyebrows furrow, grip on your hands tightening. “What? What is it?”

“She knew,” you say, “Katja knew. But she wasn’t in on it.”

Her threats in the car, her insisting you weren’t safe with Nico weren’t threats at all. She wasn’t condemning you and Nico for having a life in Jersey, she was warning you. Rino’s plan for his kids, Nico’s stubbornness and ability to push back against his family. Rino’s loathing of insubordination, especially his youngest sons.

He didn’t agree with how Nico rebranded his life and was running the Devs. Katja was warning you that Rino was taking action against Nico.

“Nico she was warning me. She was trying to save us.”

#nico hischier #mob boss nico hischier #new jersey devils #nj devils #fluff #him and i #nico hischer x reader #New Jersey devils mob au

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signanothername · 19 hours ago

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How do you feel about the fandom?

I’m assuming you mean Ut/utmv?

How can I say this in the most gentle way possible hmm..

I genuinely do love the creativity within the fandom, the beautiful art and stories and ideas people come up with, the different interpretations of these characters even when i don’t agree with them or have my own thoughts/opinions, cause that’s what fandoms are supposed to, it’s all of us showing our love for these lil blorbos of ours in each of our own unique different ways

Of course, each fandom has its good and bad side, but to say the ut/utmv fandom is so damn negative to the point it’s suffocating is an understatement

I’m especially weirded out by the pro harassment behavior within this fandom, like, a mf would say “i’m anti harassment!!!!” Then turn around and post/reblog a post with +20 people name dropped to “raise awareness” for whatever little that is worth, you can “raise awareness” by messaging people privately, not make a list where an asshole can easily use it to harass people, and no, saying shit like “don’t harass these people!!!” Does not alleviate any responsibility from you if they do get harassed because of your post

That’s why messages are a thing, and only messaging those who explicitly state they want to be messaged, not jump in into people’s inboxes or messages and telling them shit out of the blue

So many people within this fandom need to learn fandom etiquette, how to mind their own business, and to use the damn block button, you’re uncomfortable with a certain subject? Tumblr has the most handy filtering system, don’t like a person/find them uncomfortable? Block them, blocking them isn’t enough and want to complain? That is what you can use your blog for, feel free to complain on your own blog to your heart’s content (not on other people’s blogs or under their posts if it’s not the subject for it) that’s what friends are for too, go to their DMs and complain till the end of time

Being just a bit bigger of an artist follower wise in comparison to other artists means that I deal with very special cases sometimes, because I’m also puzzled by the way people can get super comfortable with commanding strangers to do things they want or to break basic respectful boundaries like not getting people involved in drama even when they specifically state not to include them (me, I’m starngers, every time I reblog my boundaries post, it’s me implying that I got something that broke my very basic bitch boundaries that day, which says a lot about the fandom, cause i literally only got 4 boundaries stated damn)

That’s why I opt to not get too close to people within the fandom, and am generally careful as to who I let close to me, I’m very certain people might think I somehow have my own social circle within the fandom or have some wide connections they can never get, when in reality I’m isolated af

That being said, idk if it’s young people not knowing any better, or adults who act like children, but the fact harassment is very prominent and also very normalized within the fandom is something that definitely made me seriously think of just getting back to the Transformers fandom (one of the most chill fandoms i’ve ever been part of)

Fandom is fandom, keep it for rambling about blorbos, and learn to mind your own business <3

#rescue bot fandom…. my beloved oh my sweat baby i love you #this is the only post I’m making about the fandom btw #said what i said #won’t backdown or negotiate #post done go home /lh #fandom negativity #anothers ask

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sageyxbabey · 24 hours ago

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Every Move You Make

MDNI John Price x Fem!Reader | your husband likes to watch you

Inspired by @the-californicationist who so graciously tagged me with the idea "Price comes home and watches you finger yourself." Teehee c:

WC: ~900 (this is entirely not proofread it might be a bit shit i'm so sorry)

CW: none, really. just mutual masturbation and piv

At last, you allow yourself to melt onto your sheets. Freshly showered and free from work for the day. You should have two hours until your husband makes it home. More than enough time to help yourself release a bit of… pent-up tension. You wriggle your pants off, graceless in your exhaustion, and begin circling your fingers gently over your clit. No need to rush.

You’re finally in the throes of your pleasure, that slow build of warmth and electricity in your core just beginning to culminate into something absolutely delicious, when–

You jolt at the shift in weight at the end of the bed. Eyes flying open, you lock gazes with your husband, one knee resting on the mattress but otherwise preternaturally still, like a wolf waiting for his prey to bolt. He’s early.

“John,” you pant.

“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His rumbling voice is almost as dangerous as the smile slowly spreading across his face. “Don’t stop on my account.” He moves slowly, sinking his other knee into the bed and shifting forward until your thighs lay over his.

You don’t move, enthralled by the look on your husband’s face. He’s so very hungry.

Normally, John would have slapped your hands aside by now and taken over for you. Wasn’t that one of the benefits of having a partner? Orgasms that you didn’t have to give yourself?

He raises an eyebrow, looking between your face and your glistening cunt, “Well? I want to see the show I almost missed out on,” he grumbles.

Ah, it was going to be like that today.

Your fingers dip into the slick arousal pooling at your entrance before returning to dance over your clit. Your eyes never leave John’s face, but his stare is fixed upon the movements of your hand, licking his chops. He hums, big hands stroking over the sensitive skin of your thighs, soothing you like a wild animal. He’s burning you alive, you just know it. Every nerve ending lights up at his touch like iron filings following the pull of a magnet. There’s no stopping the moan that crawls out of your throat, and your pussy clenches pitifully around nothing.

Empty, empty, empty.

You need your husband. You need your John inside you.

When you’re finally considering begging, you watch him bend his head forward. “Stop,” he says.

‘Thank fuck,’ you think. At last, your husband is going to take care of it, and you can relax–

You hear him spit. You feel wetness land on your clit and meander down to your opening.

“Alright,” he whispers with a short nod, “Continue.”

You blink at him owlishly, frustration building with each pulse of arousal through your swollen clit. It’s only now that you realise John has shucked his work trousers down to the mid-thigh without your notice, one large hand fisted tightly around his cock. You tease yourself again, this time with the wet gift he has provided you, and his hand starts to move.

You stop. He stops. You speed up, he speeds up.

He smirks, a low chuckle escaping him. He looks like a dragon billowing smoke. “Thank you for finally catching on, love, I was worried you’d leave me to play all by myself.” That smile from earlier turns into a full-on grin, just a little too toothy to be innocent.

Dangerous, your husband.

That’s okay. You’ve always liked it when he puts those teeth around your neck.

“Don’t worry, darling,” you sigh. His eyes snap to your face for a moment at your words, before they focus back on his prize. “I’ll always play with you,” you croon. Your free hand trails a path from your knee to your centre, one fingertip circling lazily around your entrance. Your husband’s eyes narrow viciously.

“Don’t,” he growls. His hand stills on the base of his cock, watching. Waiting. Hunting.

You laugh and thrust two fingers inside yourself.

You barely get to crook them before John snaps, massive paw wrenching your hands from your flesh, notching himself against your cunt before sliding home in one smooth stroke. You’re not laughing now. You’re shrieking.

“You little fucking minx, you just couldn’t help yourself. Are you happy?” He asks, the weight of his hips pinning you open beneath him like a butterfly under glass. You’re grinning like the cat that got the cream, cheeks burning with mirth. Your husband chuckles darkly at the sight.

“Of course you’re fucking happy.” John pulls out until he’s barely inside of you, “Can never let me sit back and watch, can you? Always so desperate to have your husband inside of you.” He drives his point home with a brutal thrust, and you wail at the feeling of his tip popping past the tight ring of muscles just behind your entrance.

“Yes,” you cry. “Always want you inside, need you inside…” Your words trail off into moans, clawing at John’s shoulders until his entire body is draped on top of you, crushing you into the mattress. It takes barely a minute before you’re bearing down on his cock with a blinding orgasm.

You let your wolf devour you that night.

tag list:

@universitypenguin @teenagellamaangel @frogtowne

#price x reader #john price x reader #cod x reader #cod mwii #price x f!reader #john price x f!reader #yeehoo force that big man's hand #and did i make him husband? YEAH i did bcus that man is the most husband to ever husband #call of duty modern warfare #price x you #price x female reader #john price x you #john price x female reader #cod fanfic #captain price #captain john price

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persicipen · 2 days ago

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₊ ˙ ⊹ . 𝓜𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈. DR. RATIO ₊ ˙ ⊹ .

ৎ୭ — · · 0.8k ノ gn reader — suggestive. mentions of last night’s activities. nothing explicit. established relationship. domestic sleepy flirting. reposted from my old blog!

The morning sun seeps through the linen curtains, the entire room illuminated in the pink glow of the upcoming day. But it’s still too early for you. Not when your whole body aches from the nightly pleasures, rendering you soppy and melted under the bedsheets, with only your thigh peeking from under covers in the most comfortable position to nap through the remaining hour or two.

Veritas, on the other hand, feels like his routine cannot be interrupted no matter the circumstances, no matter how long he kept you both awake and active the evening before — this, however, he still finds extremely pleasurable and worth the little cost of a shorter sleep.

And so, with his mind refreshed from the quick trip to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water, he starts to stretch softly to wake his body, too.

Watching him through the half-closed eyes has become your favourite part of the morning. Once woken up for the first time after falling asleep on your belly, you raise your head only slightly to watch the man doing his exercises in absolutely nothing that could cover his bulging chest muscles, hands crossed above his head as he breathes steadily with each inhale and exhale. It’s fascinating to observe his toned stomach flexing each time, muscles rippling under the creamy skin sensitive to the sun’s warmth.

It was so much to look at, but today you decide to just admire quietly without disturbing Veritas’ routine, even if he already notices your satisfied gaze peeking from the side. With one last move of raising both arms up while taking a deep breath, he puts them down slowly to rest, looking at you with an amused smirk.

“You’re staring,” he points out gently.

“Sorry,” you reply with a light yawn, rolling over to lay on your back. “I really enjoy watching you do this stuff in the morning. Maybe I should start getting up earlier too.”

Veritas scoffs playfully, coming closer to kneel above your legs as he reaches out his hand to place it right behind your nape to push you gently against the sheets. “We both know there’s no way you’ll get up on time. Don’t be silly now.”

His face hovers above yours for a moment as you swallow hard. So handsome and so close to you.

“Don’t put those kinds of ideas in my head!” You protest in return, more worried about your thoughts getting less pure with each moment, brushing your nose against his in a flirty manner before adding. “My body aches all over. I need another day in bed… or two, at least.”

He blinks, hearing you out silently. Then he closes his eyes and laughs wholeheartedly, retreating from your embrace only to straighten his back while sitting above your thighs still, yet this time lifting both arms to rest behind his head, purposefully making it too dramatic for a normal relaxing after the exercise. It was the perfect view — showing off each muscle beautifully and without any shame whatsoever, although his sharp golden sight never stops studying you curiously, reading into every microexpression on your face.

And you were burning.

With a fierce blush blossoming on your cheeks as you let out a soft exhale, raise both of your hands to place them against his hard stomach, unable to not touch him any longer. He is still hot after the workout, fresh sweat dripping down his hairless skin, but it just made him more attractive, rather than disgusting, if someone had to ask you.

It was your little guilty pleasure.

“You’re doing it on purpose now…” you mutter while feeling his abdominal muscles twitching under your fingertips with each move and breath. Your gaze traces up slowly as you look at Veritas again. “I’m just going to pretend that I didn’t say anything to keep you from getting a bigger ego.”

With an amused huff, he finally relaxes his arms, stretching them both out on each of your sides as if he wanted to hug you, leaning towards you.

“But you haven’t said anything untrue so far,” he replies simply, lips pressing a tender kiss against your jawline, his voice lower as he murmurs into your skin. “Am I distracting you with this? More than the last night?”

Your throat goes dry, and your breath is held in for a second. Before you can answer, utterly dumbfounded, he slides off the bed, only to go right to his fresh clothes laid out neatly on the chair by the small table on the other side of the room.

Veritas could read you like a book and loved to tease you even more. He just enjoys how your gaze follows after him with a pout forming on your lips, not so pleased about being left alone, until he disappears behind the bathroom door to clean himself up and get ready for another day full of work and studies.

#—writing.#honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail fluff #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr fluff #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio x you #dr ratio fluff #cw suggestive

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ruruumin · 16 hours ago

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take my body back.

₊˚ ᗢ itoshi rin x childhood friend! fem! reader.

⤷ swapping bodies with isagi was not on his things to do, but loving you is.

this might have been either the worst thing imaginable, or the most humiliating. he is looking at himself in the mirror, eyes twitching. he brings up one hand to pull down the underside of his lower eyelashes.

after crashing into each other during a practice game, isagi and rin had mysteriously swapped bodies. with stifled laughter from the rest of their team, they had to stay within the same infirmary until things settled down. ego chalked it up to being a very rare malfunction in their suits. while he works on a solution with anri, the two were dismissed from practices all together.

isagi was the more panicky of the two. he was looking at himself frantically in the mirror, shaking bachira by the shoulder in a frenzy. he couldn’t go home. not like this, he kept saying. even though isagi’s wish of being taller and physically stronger, he did not mean he wanted to be in rin’s body.

“what is so wrong with my body?” rin asks, albeit in isagi’s voice, coming off higher pitched and squeakier to his ears.

“nothing!” isagi instantly shuts his mouth. he raises both of his hands, waving them around as he looks in all sorts of directions. being in the wrong body felt so weird. hearing rin’s voice come off as shy and embarrassed was the last thing on bachira and nagi’s bucket list. and god did they take pleasure out of their torment.

“its just that—how are we supposed to go back to our normal lives like this?” he confesses, scratching the back of his neck, “if i show up to my moms doorstep she’ll get the wrong idea!”

rin blinks slowly, a dull look casting over isagi’s body. “stop making such a big deal out of it. it’ll be fixed soon.” throwing a towel over his shoulder, rin is about to leave the locker rooms (in his body) before isagi reaches out to stop him.

“what about your girlfriend, what is she going to say?”

now this is the unfortunate reality.

he has no idea how you will react to him going back home in a completely different body. and although you knew isagi in passing, he can’t just show up to your shared apartment like this. its a sick and cruel joke, he thought to himself. rin glances over to isagi with a hardened gaze.

him and his six foot body, long lower eyelashes and scowl are now being flipped inside out and upside down. seeing it as a different person and not just a reflection confuses him on unimaginable levels.

whatever he’s suggests next comes off like acid on his tongue.

.☘︎ ݁˖

you are shocked when you open the door. seeing two men, one of which is your boyfriend, and the other his rival, with opposite expressions. isagi is staring at you with a deep grimace while rin looks happy and relieved to see you.

“let us in.” isagi, no, rin commands.

“why is isagi here?” you ask, pressing your lips together as you step to the side. they shuffled out of their shoes, dropping them next to the cubby beside the door. “you should have told me if we were going to have guests over, i would have tidied up a little.”

rin’s eyes scans over your figure. you were wearing a plain t shirt and shorts, your hair was a bit of a frazzled mess, a clear sign that you had just woken up from your nap. he has half a heart to hug you right then and there, but touching you in isagi’s body is going to feel like poison.

to his horror, you’re by isagi’s side, helping him take off his jacket. rin immediately reaches over to stop you, giving you a deadly glare.

“don’t touch him.” he warns.

this leads you to push him off to the side, frowning. “what are you doing?” in an accusatory tone, you peel off the jacket, “what has gotten into you, isagi? you used to be so polite.”

“a-ah, well-” isagi bashfully looks away, “the thing is, i’m actually not rin.”

“huh?”

rin pushes isagi away from you (god forbid he touches you in isagi’s body), huffing as he does so. feeling his chest through isagi’s hands is horrifically gross and he swears he will rip ego in half if he doesn’t find a solution quickly.

after some short but confusing explanation from isagi, the two of them were seated on the couch while you stood over them. with a hand on your hip, you mumble something underneath your lips, trying to wrap your head around the strange phenomenon.

“so my boyfriend is in...your body,” you point at rin’s body, dragging it over to isagi, “and you’re in rin’s body.”

“that’s what we’re trying to tell you.”

you flick rin’s forehead, causing him to deliver a sharp exhale, “this is your fault for not being more careful during practice matches. what happened to taking care of yourself? did it go in one ear and out the other?”

“of course not,” he huffs, brushing through his hair but noticing how much shorter it is now that he isn’t in his actual body.

“this idiot over here was the one who got the yellow card.”

“huh?”

isagi shoves a finger at rin, “you’re the one who rammed into me!”

“can it!”

the two of them start to bicker with one another. as serious as a head injury might be, you’re honestly flabbergasted seeing them together like this. it almost cracks a smile on your face when you see rin’s body soften. but you awkwardly clear your throat, breaking up the argument with a sigh.

“do you need a place to stay for the night?” you turn to isagi, “we can give you the couch to sleep on if you’re not comfortable going home right now. i think its the least i can do since rin has been so much trouble for you.”

before the man could protest at your words, isagi beamed with happiness and relief, “that would be great (name). i don’t want to overstay my welcome so i’ll leave tomorrow morning to see ego.”

“i can’t believe my rin rin can look this peaceful,” you say, swooning a little bit.

“shut up,” rin claps a hand over your mouth, “all this nonsense is making me tired.”

despite his harsh and seemingly cold words, you can read him too easily. the subtle touch on your shoulder is enough for you to decipher his wants, and what he wants right now is to unravel in your arms.

placing a hand on his lower bicep, you guide him into your shared bedroom, not before waving to isagi to tell him that you will fetch a warm blanket later. he nods and gives you few kind words. it makes you want to laugh at how obvious it was that they swapped bodies. rin can be polite to you, but never this polite. it makes the situation all the more entertaining when you feel your boyfriend drag you into your rooms.

away from isagi’s prying eyes, he is leaning his head against your shoulder, slowly exhaling. his chest moves up and down, shoulders racking down with shivers. you bring up one hand to pat him on the back, pulling him down from cloud nine. anymore of your warmth and he thinks he is about to sink into you. he has to hold back the urge to squeeze you because the body he is in is not his.

its killing him inside how he wants to love you.

you, his childhood friend and biggest fan, his light and first (possibly only) love. standing so cute and comfortable in front of him with eyes so warm it could melt his cold, popsicle-self into a pool of sticky wetness. he doesn’t mind that you aren’t dressed up. he thinks its even better, seeing you like this.

he doesn’t like how much shorter he is now. he used to be able to press a kiss on the top of your head with ease. now he’s...fun-sized, as he would put it. he lacks the arm muscles hes so used to having. he doesn’t have the confident suave he was born with (something you’ve always told was a birthright of the itoshi family).

it could have been worse, he tells himself. imagine he swapped bodies with igaguri or shidou. he would have thrown himself into the nearest river if he had to come home to you in shidou’s body. the thought alone makes him want to gag.

but with you in his arms, it makes his heart grow bigger. like the christmas grinch, he has finally found his happiness and the whimsical joys that come from being your boyfriend. its seriously killing him inside, he wants to kiss you with his own lips, hold you with his own arms, and carry you off into the distance in his body.

you wipe away a string of tears that dribble down his cheek. he didn’t realize he was crying until he heard your gentle whispers. even though he no longer looks like sae, he misses his own body. he yearns to see the scowl on his face that he has grown to slowly love, only because you kept pressing kisses to his cheeks and dimples. he wants to see his hands on your hips, lifting you off the ground and onto the kitchen counters to hold you even closer to his chest, to kiss you at the same height.

he didn’t realize how much he has taken for granted until he was in someone else’s shoes.

when you brush his, or isagi’s hair, he just wishes he could turn back the clock and kiss you stupid. steal the air from your lungs that he swore belongs to him, and him only.

that night might have been the most strangest yet sweetest experience in the world. with isagi taking the couch and you and rin sleeping on the ground next to him (he didn’t want to sleep in an empty bed without you, and vise versa, he promises he wouldn’t let you be alone as long as he was here).

hes holding onto your hand with his pinky, a subtle touch that sends warmth down his spine. even in a different body, you still love him.

and he loves you, so much that it hurts.

#₊˚ ᗢ ruruumin #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bllk rin x reader #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #rin x reader

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foreverisntenough · 9 hours ago

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‘Movie Night’

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

Index:

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

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

Disclaimer: Still the same.

Chapter 19 - 'Dad’ | ‘Movie Night'

word count - 10.3 k

It was just past 6 a.m. when Jack heard the soft creak of the side door opening. He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he rubbed the back of his neck. He had been up for a while now, nursing his coffee in the kitchen and mentally preparing for the day. The text Trent had sent somehow even earlier had left him rolling his eyes, and now here he was, sneaking in like some lovesick teenager. Jack set his mug down with a dull thud and turned as Trent stepped inside, looking more awake than he had any right to at that hour. A tired but knowing grin stretched across Trent’s face as he quietly shut the door behind him. A bag was slung over his shoulder, which caught Jack’s attention for a moment before he decided to brush it off.

“Bro, it’s just unnecessary for you to be here this early,” Jack muttered, crossing his arms and giving Trent a look that bordered on disapproval.

“Jacky lad, come on, don’t be like that,” Trent replied, punching Jack’s arm lightly as he passed. The playful gesture did little to mask the nervous energy buzzing under his skin.

“Nah, serious,” Jack pressed, shaking his head. “It’s mad early, and you’re creeping around my house like a burglar. Bit much, isn’t it?” Trent raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be quick. Thanks for letting me come over, yeah? I just… I gotta talk to her real quick. Won’t take long.” Jack stared at him for a beat, trying to figure out whether he was annoyed or just resigned.

“Yeah, alright, mate,” he said, finally giving Trent a shove in the shoulder. “Do what you’ve gotta do.” As Trent moved toward the stairs, Jack stayed rooted in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms folded. He watched Trent ascend the staircase, his steps careful and deliberate, and shook his head with a rueful chuckle. This was his new normal, wasn’t it? Trent sneaking into his house not to see him, his best mate, but to see you, his younger sister. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Jack was trying. For you. For Trent. He was glad Trent was putting in effort and glad he was coming to talk to you. Upstairs, Trent moved with purpose, his feet soft against the carpet as he made his way to your room. The house was quiet, the only sounds the faint ticking of a clock and the distant hum of the world outside. The early morning light filtered through the windows, casting warm streaks of gold on the walls. He reached your door and paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. A nervous breath escaped his lips, and he ran a hand over his hair, hesitating for just a moment. He hated how much he’d missed you, even though it had only been a couple of days. Finally, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open slowly, the faint creak of the hinges breaking the silence.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn but not fully closed, letting in just enough light to bathe the space in a soft glow. You were curled up in the center of the bed, buried under a blanket, your hair fanned out against the pillow. Trent’s lips tugged into a smile at the sight of you. He stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him and setting the bag down on the floor. For a moment, he just stood there, soaking you in—the peaceful rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes rested against your cheeks.

“Morning, pretty girl,” he whispered, his voice low and soft as he approached the bed. You stirred at the sound, your face scrunching up briefly before your eyes fluttered half open with a squint.

“T? Baby?” you murmured, your voice soft and laced with sleep as you felt the bed dip slightly. It took you a second to register the figure standing at your bedside, but when you saw Trent, a sleepy smile broke across your face.

“Mmmm, course it’s me, baby,” Trent whispered back, his voice warm and comforting as his lips brushed against the bare skin of your shoulder. His scent wrapped around you, a mix of his cologne and the faintest trace of fresh air from outside.

“What are you doing here?” you asked groggily, your brows furrowing as you tried to fully wake up. “Thought you were leaving. I was planning to already be missing you.” Your voice held a pout as you blinked up at him, your eyes adjusting to the dim light in the room.

“C’mere, pretty girl,” Trent murmured, his hands gently pulling you into him, wrapping you in his warmth. You didn’t resist, letting your body mold against his as he held you close.

“Hi…” you giggled softly, nuzzling into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Look so good like this,” he said with a smirk, his fingers playing with the thin strap of your pajama top. His eyes traced over you with a softness that made your cheeks warm.

“I look… tired probably,” you laughed, a little embarrassed as you nestled your face into the crook of his neck to hide.

“Not to me,” he whispered, his voice low and sincere, making your heart skip. You pulled back slightly, your curiosity piqued.

“No, seriously, baby. What are you doing here?” you asked, your arms instinctively wrapping around his waist to hold him closer. Trent let out a quiet sigh, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in slow, soothing strokes.

“I couldn’t go… not yet,” he murmured. Your brows knit together as you searched his face, trying to piece together what he wasn’t saying.

“Why? You okay, baby?” you asked, your voice soft and filled with wonder. He hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes flickering with something vulnerable, something real. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, holding you gently as he gathered his thoughts.

“When I go, baby, I want to leave knowing you’re mine. I want to leave with you as my girlfriend.” Your breath hitched at his words, your heart racing in your chest as you stared up at him. “You’ve been my dream girl my entire life, you know that? And… if you’d let me, I’d want you to be my girl for the rest of it. So…” He trailed off, his voice soft and filled with nerves as he studied your reaction. Your eyes filled with tears, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket.

“Okay,” you sniffled, your voice trembling as you gave him a small nod.

“Yeah?” he asked, his lips curving into a hopeful smile, though you could see the tension in his shoulders as he waited for more.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, a shy smile breaking through the tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Gonna be my girlfriend now, yeah?” he murmured, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “For every season. Gonna take care of you forever, pretty girl.”

“T…” you whimpered, unable to find the words as emotion choked you. Your hands clung to him tightly, your face burying in his chest as you nodded against him. He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he pressed a kiss to your hair.

“None of that, baby. Don’t cry.” He smiled sympathetically.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled as your tears soaked into his shirt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think anyone would ever love me like this.” You let out a sentiment far heavier than anything you were expecting this morning. His hands on you felt gentle something you never knew you didn't have.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmured, his arms wrapping securely around you, holding you as if he could shield you from all the pain you’d ever felt. “I’ll never let anything hurt you again. I promise.” You pulled back just enough to look at him, your tear-streaked face glowing as a smile spread across your lips.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words tumbling out naturally, as if they’d always been there, waiting for this moment. Trent’s eyes softened, his gaze locking with yours as he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss so tender it made your heart ache.

“I love you too,” he whispered against your lips, his voice steady and sure. The two of you stayed there, wrapped in each other, the world outside fading away as the weight of his words and the promise in his eyes made you feel more whole than you’d ever thought possible. “I’m gonna ask and properly take you out, swear,” Trent whispered, his thumb grazing over your cheek in the soft glow of morning. His voice was gentle, but there was an earnestness behind it that made your heart skip a beat. “I just didn’t want to take to the pitch ever again without you being my girlfriend, that alright, pretty girl?” His lips pressed to yours in a kiss so soft, so unhurried, that it felt like time stood still. You melted into him, your sleepy haze mixing with the overwhelming feeling of love that settled deep in your chest. Everything about this moment felt surreal, like a dream you never wanted to wake up from.

“You didn’t have to do all this, baby,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with emotion as tears threatened to spill over again. “Just you here…. this is perfect.” You confessed.

“Nah, Y/N… baby,” he murmured with a smirk that sent a flutter through your stomach. It was mischievous, cheeky and ever endearing. “You think I’m waking you up like this just with words?” His dimples deepened as his playful grin grew. You giggled, brushing your hand across his chest as he shifted beside you. Your brows furrowed when he leaned off the bed, reaching for something on the floor. When he straightened up, your eyes widened. In his hands was the most beautiful bouquet of fresh peonies, their soft pink and white petals still glistening with dew.

“For the most gorgeous girl in the whole world,” he said softly, holding them out to you. Your heart clenched as you took the bouquet from him, the delicate fragrance filling the air around you.

“Baby…” you whimpered, your voice shaky as you buried your nose into the flowers.

“You like ‘em?” he asked, his voice low, almost shy, as he watched you with a boyish smile.

“I love them,” you whispered, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes. "I love you." You pouted, emotion getting the best of you. You were having a hard time shaking your tiredness because this entire thing felt like a dream. Longtime crush, brother's best friend just asked you to be his girlfriend, waking you up with peonies in your bedroom? In what world? Evidently, your world.

“Not done yet,” he teased, leaning over the side of the bed again. You tilted your head, blinking through your tears as you watched him grab two boxes—one large and one small. He placed them carefully in your lap, his smile softening as he looked at you.

“T…” you started, your voice trembling as you stared down at the boxes, overwhelmed. Trent’s phone buzzed with a message. The notification irrelevant, but the time illuminated, not so much. He caught the time and sighed.

“I gotta run, pretty girl,” he said, his tone tinged with regret. “But you open these, yeah?” Your fingers brushed over the ribbons on the boxes as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips stayed there for a moment, warm and reassuring, before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “And you’ll call your boyfriend tonight, yeah?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. A smile broke across your face as you nodded.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you clutched the boxes close.

“Alright,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you again, slower this time, as if he couldn’t bear to leave. “Good girl. Love you so much, baby.”

“Love you, T,” you whispered, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him in for one last kiss. “Can’t wait to watch my boyfriend tomorrow.” He chuckled, his laugh rumbling softly against your chest.

“Let me know how he does.” he said cheekily, brushing his nose against yours before finally pulling away. As the door clicked shut behind him, you let out a shaky breath, the weight of the moment settling over you. You looked down at the boxes in your lap, your hands trembling as you untied the ribbon on the larger one. Inside was a gorgeous Chanel bag in the gorgeous turquoise tweed, the bag so perfect you wanted to scream but you were too tired, almost delirious at your unexpected morning. You needed to call Layla now but you still had one more box to open. And then amid your eagerness to gush to your best friend, your breath hitched opening the smaller box, revealing a delicate pair of earrings, just like the necklace you wore only slightly different. Nestled there were two butterflies, one gold, the other turquoise. It was perfect. It was you. It was you and Trent, finally evolving. Tears streamed down your face as you clutched the box to your chest. You didn’t even realize you were smiling until your cheeks started to ache, your heart swelling with a love so overwhelming it left you breathless.

“What are you doing before the final game?” Jack, out of the blue, asked. Games had come and went and now it was the end of Trent’s season. You paused, caught off guard by the question.

“Why? What’s going on?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. Jack hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly as if he was debating whether to tell you.

“Dad’s coming,” he said carefully. You froze, feeling your heart drop into your stomach. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. You hadn’t seen your dad in about a year, and though you’d always had a good relationship with him, it had become more distant as time went on. He didn’t really know you as an adult—didn’t know about the life you’d built for yourself, and definitely nothing about Trent. And now, the thought of that relationship, so new so fresh coming to light, made your chest tighten.

“Dad’s… coming?” you repeated, almost as if you didn’t believe him.

“Yeah,” Jack replied, scratching the back of his neck. “He, uh, wanted to come to the match and catch up, I guess.” He muttered. You nodded slowly, but your mind was racing.

“Okay, so… what’s the plan?” you asked hesitantly, not wanting to sound as anxious as you felt. Jack took a breath, his eyes flicking to yours.

“We’re supposed to grab lunch at that pub he likes… then, you know, I guess head to the match with him.” Jack explained cautiously and hesitantly. He knew you didn’t want these plans but nevertheless, they were your plans.

“Oh,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The weight of it all started to sink in. The pub he liked—the place you hadn’t been to in years. Your dad showing up, expecting to see the same version of you he’d always known. And Trent—how would he feel about all of this? How would your dad react, to realizing the relationship between you two? Jack watched you carefully, sensing your nerves.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice softer now. You forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah. Just… a lot to process, I guess.” You told him not wanting to even start because you knew it was all fairly fresh for Jack. An adjustment for everyone, including yourself.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Jack reassured you. “Dad’s not that scary, you know.” You laughed weakly, shaking your head.

“It’s not that. It’s just… he doesn’t really know me anymore, Jack. I don’t even know if he’s going to like me.” You explained poorly. Jack frowned, stepping closer.

“Hey, what are you on about. Of course, he’s going to like you. He loves you. You’re his daughter. He knows you.” He smiled sympathetically.

“Yeah, but Trent’s my—” You paused. You didn’t know if Jack knew, if Trent had told him. You didn’t want to hurt him anyone.

“Yeah, your boyfriend. My best friend, I know,” Jack interrupted firmly. “T’s a good guy, and Dad’s not stupid. He knows that.” You swallowed hard, nodding as you tried to convince yourself Jack was right. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the knot of anxiety forming in your stomach. This wasn’t just about your dad knowing Trent was your boyfriend—it was about him seeing the person you’d become and hoping he’d still be proud of you.

Seeing your dad was harder than you’d anticipated. There was a heaviness in the air, a kind of tension that came from too much time apart and too many things left unsaid. You sat awkwardly on the edge of your chair, your hands clasped in your lap as Jack and your dad caught up. Their voices filled the room, casual and animated as they sipped on beers, talking about work, sports, and everything else except the topics that mattered. You knew it was only a matter of time before Trent came up—his name felt like it was hovering in the air, unspoken but impossible to ignore. The clock was ticking; you’d have to get to the stadium soon, and once you left, there’d be no escaping the inevitable conversation. Jack leaned back in his seat, laughing at something your dad said. They were so at ease with each other, the kind of natural connection that came from years of shared history. You sat silently, feeling like a child again, a bystander in their world. You hadn’t expected to feel this small, this invisible, but here you were, the same as always.

It hit you, sitting there, how little had changed. Even now, as an adult, you were still on the outside looking in, waiting for a chance to be part of their conversation. But when you finally did speak, your words felt hollow, like they didn’t quite fit in their world. Maybe this was why you sought attention elsewhere, why you craved the kind of validation that left you breathless and seen. It wasn’t just about romance or excitement—it was about feeling like you mattered, like you were more than just someone to be looked over or around. Your dad didn’t mean it, you told yourself. He didn’t notice the way his conversations with Jack seemed to box you out, like you were still twelve and incapable of understanding the weight of their conversations. But that didn’t make it sting any less. They avoided mentioning your mum, which wasn’t a surprise. Her absence was like a shadow in the room, unspoken but lingering in every quiet moment. You glanced at your dad, wondering if he even noticed how uncomfortable you were, how small you felt sitting there. The stadium was calling, and part of you was glad. At least there, you’d see Trent, someone who made you feel like you belonged, like your voice mattered. But that didn’t erase the ache of sitting in at the pub, waiting for the conversation to shift, for someone to notice you were there.

“Jack we need to get going… “ You said. The atmosphere in the room was thick with an uneasy silence, a weight that neither of you could shake off. “I told Di I’d meet her outside before so…” you awkwardly interjected.

“How is Di? Can’t wait to see her and Mike at the match.” Your dad sat at the table, his hand still wrapped around his half-finished beer, the glass catching the dim light as it rested on the surface. He was relaxed, too relaxed, as though everything was fine. His words, casual and unbothered, contrasted sharply with the tension in your chest. His assumption that things were as they always had been — that you could talk about Dianne and Mike like nothing had changed — stung in ways you couldn’t put into words. Your father’s gaze drifted from you to Jack, lingering for a moment before it returned to you with that familiar, unspoken question. Why wasn’t Jack the one making decisions? His eyes didn’t need to ask it, but the look was unmistakable. You could feel the knot tighten in your stomach. You didn’t want to answer him, didn’t want to acknowledge that the dynamics between you all had shifted. That he had shifted.

“Just Di is going,” you muttered, your voice sharp as you tried to hold it together. The words fell like ice into the room. Jack noticed the change in your tone immediately. He could see it, the way you were pulling away, the way your nerves frayed at the edges. You stood up abruptly, the motion too fast, too sharp, betraying the calm exterior you tried to maintain. The chair scraped against the floor, the sound jarring in the silence that followed. “I told her I’d meet her…” you trailed off, your words faltering for just a second, but the pressure to leave was too strong. "I have to go, you can meet me there if you want to stay here longer, but I promised." You snapped. Your dad’s gaze flicked from you to Jack, waiting for a response, expecting one. But there was no response. Jack could sense the brewing storm, the way your jaw tightened and your eyes clouded. The air between you all was electric, like the calm before a storm, but Jack was the first to break the silence, his voice low and calm, a stark contrast to the storm inside you.

“Y/N, Y/N, jesus, hold on,” he said, his hand reaching out to gently grab your arm, but you flinched as if the touch burned. Jack immediately regretted it. It all came crashing back to hm. His fingers loosened, and he let his hand fall to his side, his voice softening as he realized what he had done. He could see it now — what Trent had told him, what you’d been through. Everything, the secrets, the pain. The moment hung there, suspended between the three of you. Jack straightened up, his gaze not meeting your dad’s but aimed directly at you. “I’m with ya,” he said gently, his words grounded, offering you the support that was starting to feel like a lifeline. He nodded, as if trying to anchor you in this moment. “It’s fine. Let’s go, yeah?” Your dad’s eyes flicked back to Jack, but Jack didn’t move. He was standing firm, waiting for you. There was a subtle shift in the air, as though Jack had pulled the rug out from under your father’s expectations, leaving the tension behind you like dust settling after a storm. “You never want to keep Dianne waiting,” Jack said, his voice a little more light-hearted, as if trying to smooth over the heaviness. But his words couldn’t erase what had passed between you all in that moment. And you didn’t want them to. You were already halfway out the door, trying to escape the weight of it all, but you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that things would never be the same.

The atmosphere in the stands felt charged, the sound of the game filling the air, but it was easy for you to tune it out as you focused solely on the field, your mind a whirl of thoughts. Jack had fallen into easy conversation with Noah and Trent’s brothers, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of being apart from everything. Maybe it was the weight of your father’s distant gaze, or the unspoken tension between you and him, but there was a disconnect you couldn’t ignore.

Dianne’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, and your dad turned as she approached, her expression warm and teasing. But as her gaze landed on you, wearing Trent’s jacket—something you had nicked without thinking—he saw the softness in her eyes, the way she always looked at you as if you were her own daughter. You instinctively tried to listen in, and for a moment, you almost wished she didn’t see the truth so clearly.

“Finally, hmm?” Dianne cooed with a smile, nodding to you in Trent’s clothes, the way you were leaning forward, lost in the game. Her voice was light, but you could tell there was an undercurrent of something more, a knowingness that settled between you. Your father’s voice came almost too quickly, a hint of forced joviality in his words.

“Ah, she’ll always hold a torch for him. I’m sure he has more lasses than he can handle though. Him and Jacky boy.” He chuckled, clearly trying to mask something—maybe his own discomfort or the way the whole situation made him uneasy. But you heard the words, and they stung a little more than they should have. You looked down, feeling that familiar ache in your chest. He’s fine because Jack is fine. Jack’s fine because Trent is fine. And everything will be fine because they all just fit together in this neat little package. But you? You were the complication, the one who didn’t fit. And yet, your father was never looking too closely at the things that didn’t add up, wasn’t he?

“Well… we’ve known he’s only wanted one, and Trenty’s got her now,” Dianne added softly, a playful tone in her voice but something deeper behind it. There was no judgment, only an understanding, and a subtle acknowledgment of everything that had been left unsaid. But the words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Your father, though he was trying to make light of things, didn’t see it—didn’t see you. He couldn’t see past the loss of your mother, the way you reminded him so much of her, both in looks and in the way you held onto things, quietly, intensely. It had always been easier for him to connect with Jack, the son who didn’t wear his mother’s ghost in every glance, in every gesture. Jack, who had managed to fill the space she’d left in a way that you hadn’t. But your father couldn’t escape the grief that came with you. And it hurt. You felt it in the way his words came too quickly, like he was trying to convince himself, to ease his own pain without even realizing he was pushing you away. You wanted to reach for something, anything, to make it easier, but instead, you just sat there, a quiet reminder of everything lost. Dianne’s gaze softened, and she didn’t need to say anything more. She saw it. She always did. She didn’t need to push. All she did was offer a quiet reassurance, a recognition that the divide was there. You were both standing in it, but only one of you seemed to have the strength to acknowledge it.

Your dad watched, almost frozen, as Dianne moved behind you, her hand finding your arm with that familiar warmth, a comfort he hadn’t felt in a long time. It stung a little to watch—how easily she could reach out to you, how easily she could offer you something he didn’t know how to give anymore. You turned towards her, smiling up at her with an expression that was softer, more open, than the one you had given him in ages. Dianne cupped your cheek gently, the kind of tender touch that felt like home, like someone who understood you without words. She tilted your head just slightly, guiding your face back toward your dad, as if to make sure he saw you—really saw you.

“So, so, so gorgeous, huh?” Her voice was light, teasing even, but with a layer of affection that felt bittersweet. She wanted him to see you the way she saw you, but it was all so much more complicated than that. Your dad’s eyes followed you, but there was an unreadable expression on his face. He was lost in it, in everything unsaid between you, between the past, the present, and the future.

“She’s beautiful, always has been,” your dad muttered, his voice tight. The words were there, but they didn’t reach you in the way they used to. The sadness in his smile only made the gap between you feel wider, more unbridgeable. He had always been so proud of you, but now there was something missing, something he couldn’t find his way back to. Dianne, as if sensing the weight in the air, pressed a kiss to your hair, her lips warm against your skin, and pulled back just enough to let you turn back toward the game.

“And finally Trenty’s got his head on straight, hmm?” she asked with a knowing smile, the kind of smile that said she wasn’t oblivious to the tension you had been carrying. She wasn’t stupid. She knew. You felt a flutter of discomfort at her words, a sharp reminder of how much you had been hiding. A part of you felt like you’d never tell your dad about Trent. And then you realized that wasn't really an option. But you didn’t think you could ever tell him about Trent, not like that. You weren’t sure if he could handle it, and you weren’t ready to deal with his disappointment or confusion. So, you let her words slide by, nodding as you turned back to the game, trying to lose yourself in the sound of the crowd, in the rhythm of the match. Your dad remained still, his mind racing, trying to piece together what Dianne was getting at. The look on his face betrayed a quiet frustration, as if he had just missed something important, something he wasn’t privy to. He felt like he was in the dark, and it hurt more than he’d like to admit. What was Dianne talking about? What was happening between you and Trent? The questions hung there, unanswered. He looked at you one more time, but you were lost in the game, your eyes focused, your body language closed off. And in that moment, your dad knew that things were changing, and he couldn’t stop it. The weight of the unknown pressed down on him, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate this new space between you, between all of you. Dianne, sensing the shift, took a seat next to Tyler, her presence no longer a bridge but a reminder of the complexities of what had been left unsaid. The game continued, the noise of the crowd growing louder, but for you, the world felt smaller, and the distance between you and your dad felt wider than ever.

You stepped inside, the cool air of the box a stark contrast to the heat of the stadium outside. Your gaze immediately landed on your dad, standing alone, watching the game through the glass with his usual intense focus. But there was something different about the way he stood, a slight distance between him and the rest of the crowd, like he wasn’t really part of it all.

“Keeping warm?” you asked, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. It was a weak attempt, but it was all you could manage. He hummed, squinting at the field, trying to follow the play. His focus was still on the game, but you could tell he wasn’t fully present. It was as if part of him was always somewhere else. “You know… you can see a lot better out there,” you suggested, motioning toward the seats where the rest of the group was. The words were casual, but there was a plea in them that you couldn’t hide. A hope that he might want to come closer, to bridge the gap that had grown between you both. He glanced at you, his excuse falling flat.

“Yeah, don’t want to crowd the space and all.” It wasn’t a good reason, but you knew it wasn’t really about the space. It was about something else, something neither of you were talking about. A sigh escaped you as you stood there, unsure of how to push forward. It felt like you were both stuck, circling each other but not quite connecting.

“Do… do you want to come sit with me?” The words came out hesitantly, like you were testing the waters, unsure if he would say yes or if you would even know how to handle it if he did. For a moment, there was silence between you, and then your dad finally turned, his eyes meeting yours. It was like a weight lifted in that brief second, his gaze softening, as if he had been waiting for you to ask. He reached up, his hand gently cupping your face, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you saw a genuine smile spread across his face.

“I’ll come sit with you, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm, sincere in a way that it hadn’t been for so long. The affection in his tone caught you off guard, and you felt a lump form in your throat. You tried to smile, to match his warmth, but it was hard to push back the tears that threatened to spill. “Gorgeous you are, huh?” he added, his smile growing. There was a hint of that old fondness in his voice, something familiar, something you hadn’t heard in a long time. You grinned, a shaky laugh escaping you as you fought to keep the tears at bay. In that moment, everything felt a little bit easier, a little bit lighter, even if just for a second. It was a small step, but it was a step forward. The game’s final minutes ticked down, but they felt like hours as you sat there with your dad, the tension between you both growing thicker with every passing second. The crowd’s roar seemed distant now, just background noise to the awkward silence you were both trapped in. To your surprise, your dad, who had always been so engrossed in the game, turned to you, his expression more serious than you were used to.

“Sweetheart, Dianne said something earlier… Does she know something Jack and I don’t?” he asked, his voice low but carrying a weight that made your stomach churn. The question felt wrong in so many ways—almost like an accusation. The assumption that he and Jack were always on the same page, always in sync, and you were the one left to navigate things alone. You couldn’t stop the frustration rising within you. You fought back the urge to snap, to let him feel your annoyance, and instead gave him a steady answer.

“Jack knows…” You didn’t want to get into it, but it felt like he was trying to pry, trying to put you on the defensive as if there was something to hide. And for a brief moment, it felt like he was accusing you of betraying Jack, not simply sharing your own truth.

“And… should I know?” His voice was soft, but there was an underlying expectation in it, as though you owed him an explanation. It hit you harder than you expected, making your patience slip. You turned your gaze back to the game, unwilling to meet his eyes, unable to mask the irritation building inside.

“I don’t know. Should you?” Your tone was sharp, your words colder than you intended, but you couldn’t hold it in anymore. The unfairness of it all—the way Jack and your dad always seemed to understand each other, always seemed to be in sync, leaving you as the outsider. It stung.

“Y/N…” Your dad’s voice softened, but the use of your full name was a reminder of a time when you hadn’t been this distant, when his voice was filled with care and not frustration. That small shift in his tone made something inside you crack, but it only made your anger burn brighter.

“What? Do you care enough to want to know?” You shot back before you could stop yourself, the words tumbling out sharper than you meant. You could feel your dad bristle, his frustration mounting, but so was yours. This wasn’t just a conversation—it was an accusation, a judgment.

“Hey.” His tone snapped, and the energy in the air shifted. You could feel Jack’s gaze on you from across the box, but you couldn’t stop now. This had been building for too long. Jack stood up and walked over, his presence like a wall between you and your dad, as if once again it was two against one. That old dynamic—the one that always left you feeling like you were fighting to be seen, fighting to be heard, while Jack and your dad stood side by side, united.

“Okay, yeah. Trent’s my boyfriend. Happy?” The words shot out like daggers, sharp and bitter. “There’s my life update. You can go back to wherever you are in Spain at the minute and act like you know anything that goes on here.” Your voice wavered for a split second, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You couldn’t keep pretending like everything was fine when it felt like you were invisible to them. Without waiting for a response, you stood up and stormed past Jack, your heart racing with anger and hurt. He called your name, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. There was no going back now, not with this tension hanging between you all. You had to break free, even if it meant isolating yourself again. Once again, it was you against them, and you were done trying to fit into the space they had carved out for themselves. Jack’s eyes softened as he looked at his father, knowing the weight of the situation, knowing the rift between you and their understanding of what you were going through. He had seen it for years, the unspoken divide between you and your dad, the way he treated you so differently than him. But now, it was worse. Now, your dad had crossed a line, and Jack felt the tension, the hurt that you’d carried for so long.

“Dad…” Jack sighed, his voice heavy with frustration and compassion. He could feel the hurt building inside him, too, knowing that his father was looking at the situation with an incomplete understanding. Jack wasn’t blind to the way his dad had always looked at you, how he seemed to hold back from truly seeing you, as if seeing you fully would mean confronting the loss of your mother all over again. But that wasn’t your fault. And this wasn’t easy for you.

“She… she’s dating Trent, and I have my own way to deal with it, but…” Jack’s voice trailed off, the words hard to form. He knew the history, knew the tension between you and your dad, and how impossible it was for your father to see things from your perspective. “You can’t just show up and ask for this huge piece of information about her…” He took a deep breath, the weight of what he was saying settling heavily in the space between them. “So much has gone on, I can’t even begin to describe it.” Jack’s eyes searched his father’s, trying to get through to him, but the words felt like they weren’t enough, like they could never be enough. “She’s had a really hard time, dad. This isn’t some spur-of-the-moment, rash decision… It’s been a lot, and it’s been really heavy for her, so please… Please talk to her.” His voice cracked slightly, a mix of frustration and helplessness. Jack didn’t know how to make his father see the pain you’d been hiding, the burden you’d been carrying in silence. He wasn’t sure if he could even explain it himself, but he tried anyway, hoping something would break through. Your dad looked at him, his face filled with a shock that Jack hadn’t expected. Maybe it was the mention of your struggles, maybe it was the revelation of just how much you had been dealing with, but something in him seemed to shift, even if just slightly. He didn’t know what surprised him more—your relationship with Trent or the fact that you had been struggling this much. But instead of addressing it, instead of asking questions or trying to understand, he simply turned away.

“I’ll give her a minute,” your dad muttered, his voice distant. He didn’t even look back at Jack as he focused once again on the game, his back turned to his son. Jack’s heart sank. He had hoped for more, had wanted his father to reach out, to show that he cared. But it was like he was retreating again, locking himself in the same place he had always been—unable to break free of the grief, of the distance between him and his children. Jack stood there, watching his father’s back, feeling a wave of helplessness and sorrow wash over him. The conversation had gone nowhere, and the gap between them was only wider now. He had hoped his father would understand, that this moment would spark something in him to reach out to you, but it didn’t happen. All Jack could do now was wait, just like you.

As the game ended and the crowd filtered out, you couldn’t shake the heaviness that lingered in the air. Your eyes were red and puffy from the tears you’d tried to hide, and your lips were pressed into a thin pout, an attempt to mask the hurt and frustration you felt. You didn’t even have to look up to know when Trent walked into the box. His presence was like a breath of fresh air, a sense of comfort in the storm you were fighting.

“Come here, pretty girl,” Trent’s voice was soft, concerned. His hands gently pulled you into him, and the warmth of his embrace felt like a balm to your soul. “What’s that face for, beautiful, hmm?” His words were a sweet coo, the kind that only he could make sound so tender. He kissed your forehead, repeatedly, his lips brushing your skin like a quiet reassurance. He tilted your chin up to meet his eyes, his gaze full of care. “Look at me… What’s going on, baby?” He asked earnestly. But just as you opened your mouth to respond, your dad’s voice cut through the moment, loud and blunt.

“Trenty.” Trent froze, his eyes widening for a moment as he turned to face your dad. The tension in the air shifted immediately. At the moment, his hands had been dangerously close to your ass, a comforting gesture that felt natural, but now it was like they were caught in the act. Trent cleared his throat, his smile faltering, and he quickly retracted his hand from a more intimate position.

“Ah, alright, sir?” Trent stumbled over his words, extending a hand for a handshake. It was awkward, but you could see him trying to play it off as casual, even though the situation was anything but.

“Course, had to at least catch one game this season,” your dad replied, his tone unnervingly normal, like nothing had shifted, like he hadn’t just witnessed a small piece of your private world that he wasn’t meant to see. His words, however, didn’t seem to match the discomfort in the room. It was like he was pretending to be fine, pretending that everything was the same as it had been before. Trent, though, immediately pieced it all together. The tears in your eyes, the tension in the air, the way your dad had come over so bluntly—it all clicked for him. His arm instinctively wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him protectively. You didn’t fight it. Instead, you leaned into him, your arms winding around his bicep, letting the comfort of his embrace ground you. Trent looked down at you, his expression softening.

“Okay?”He asked. He could feel the weight of everything you were carrying, and he just wanted to make sure you were alright. You nodded, leaning your face into his shoulder, finding solace in the warmth of him.

“Yeah,” you murmured, the simple act of being close to him helping to ease the pressure in your chest. Trent, still standing with you wrapped around his arm, continued talking to your dad, but now his attention was solely on you. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as he felt the familiar presence of your perfume wrap around him after the long match. There was something deeply intimate about the way you held onto him, and he relished it. “Stayed warm, huh?” Trent asked, pinching your side lightly, a playful spark in his eyes as he adjusted the jacket you’d borrowed from him. Your dad, however, was no longer paying attention to the conversation. His eyes had locked onto you, watching the way you interacted with Trent. It was clear he was taking it all in—more than just the casual handshake, more than the friendly chat. The dynamic between you and Trent had shifted in the air, and your dad, whether he acknowledged it or not, could sense the change. Trent, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in you. The conversation with your dad was just noise in the background. He wasn’t concerned with anything other than making sure you felt safe, loved, and cared for in this moment.

“So, Y/N finally wore you down,” your dad said, and it sounded like a statement wrapped in a half-joking, half-disapproving tone. Maybe it was the way he said it, but it didn’t sit well with you. You could feel the sting of it, the assumption that you’d been some sort of challenge for Trent. But then again, maybe he didn’t mean it that way. You weren’t sure anymore. Your dad’s words hung in the air, but there was something about the way he said them that felt off—like he was trying, but still not really understanding. You stiffened slightly, catching the slight edge in his tone, but you couldn’t be sure if it was truly patronizing or just his attempt to mask his discomfort. Trent, however, didn’t hesitate. He always seemed to have this way of handling awkward moments with confidence, and right now, he used it like a shield.

“Nah, I finally got my dream girl,” Trent said with a grin, flashing that million-dollar smile your dad had always found disarming. “Everyone’s on board with it now, even Jack the lad, so… What you saying?” Trent prompted. You couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth for him in that moment. He’d just taken the lead, not hesitating, not letting your dad’s old-world ways hold him back. It was like he was saying, This is happening. You have to deal with it, and you have to accept it. It was exactly what you needed to hear. You looked at Trent, grateful. He was doing all the hard work that you couldn’t bring yourself to do, and doing it with such ease, making your dad see that this wasn’t some fleeting phase or secret rebellion. This was real. And with his words, it felt like Trent was subtly reminding your dad that he couldn’t just sit on the sidelines of your life. Your dad, for all his avoidance and silence up until now, finally softened.

“Just want her happy,” he said, his voice sincere, and for a moment, you could see that he meant it. The weight of the words, even though they were simple, felt like he was finally trying to step into your world, into a space where he hadn’t been before. He reached out then, almost tenderly, lifting your chin with his finger, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “Just want you happy, sweetheart.” There was an effort there, something raw and unspoken behind his eyes. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t the resolution you’d hoped for, but it was something. For the first time in a long while, it felt like your dad was trying—really trying—to meet you halfway. And for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something different between you both.

“Aye bro, we going out tonight?” Jack’s voice carried over as he approached Trent with Noah trailing close behind, his energy already at full throttle.

“Yeah, mate, I’m down,” Trent replied with an easy smile, turning his head slightly toward you. “Gotta stop home first, but yeah, down.” Jack clapped his hands together, clearly excited.

“Let’s goooo. Trenty’s actually coming out with us. Been missing for a while. Wonder where he’s been,” Noah teased, his tone full of mischief. His eyes darted over to you, the wink he shot you making your cheeks heat up. Trent shook his head, a small chuckle escaping him.

“Don’t mate,” he muttered, though his tone was amused. Then he leaned down toward you, his voice dropping to a soft whisper in your ear.

“You wanna come back with me first, pretty girl?” The warmth of his voice made you giggle as you nodded, already feeling your heart flutter. You barely had a moment to revel in the intimacy before Jack groaned dramatically.

“Ew… fuck right off,” Jack grumbled, pulling a face as if he’d just walked into something awful. The embarrassment hit you like a wave, and you hid your face in Trent’s neck, trying to disappear. But he wasn’t about to let you hide for long. His arm wrapped securely around your waist, and you could feel his skin shift as he smiled. He leaned down again, his lips close to your temple.

“Want to get going? Hmm?” he cooed, his voice sweet and reassuring. You pulled back, giving him a small nod as you went to grab your bag. Trent watched you with that soft, fond look he always seemed to have when it came to you, and even with Jack and Noah’s teasing, you couldn’t help but feel completely safe with him.

As you grabbed your purse, you felt your dad step closer, his presence lingering behind you like he was unsure if he should speak. You turned slightly, catching the hesitation in his face. His hands were tucked awkwardly in his jacket pockets, and the tight line of his lips showed he was working up to something.

“Sweetheart… you’ve gotta talk to me,” he finally said, his voice soft but insistent, the same tone he’d used when you were little and in trouble. You stilled for a moment, gripping your purse tighter. Then, you turned to face him, already on the defensive.

“I don’t… I’ll talk to you next time you call Jack,” you snapped, your words sharper than intended, but you didn’t take them back. Your dad’s shoulders tensed as if the bite in your voice stung.

“Y/N…” he began, his tone gentler now, trying to tread carefully. “I’m happy you’re with him. But…” That one word—but—sliced through the air like a warning. Your heart clenched painfully, and the tightness in your chest spread.

“But what?” you demanded, your voice rising slightly. The tears you’d held back all evening were dangerously close now, teetering on the edge of your composure. He took a deep breath, gesturing vaguely around the room and toward the buzzing energy outside.

“Have you thought about this… what it’s like to be with someone with this life?” His hand swept toward the box windows, where the stadium lights and crowds shone brightly, as if Trent’s world was a foreign, insurmountable thing. You blinked at him, dumbfounded and suddenly furious.

“So Jack can be friends with someone with this life, but I can’t date someone with it?” you shot back, your voice tight with frustration. “What is it, Dad? Do you think I’m not strong enough? Or is it just easier for you to trust Jack with all this than it is for me?”

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, his tone dipping into something softer, almost pleading. “I just… I can’t see you hurt or upset. Please.” You took a step back, shaking your head in disbelief. His words felt hollow, like they carried a concern that wasn’t rooted in knowing you, but rather in trying to protect an outdated idea of you. A part of him never could trust Trent. It didn’t matter who he was, it didn’t change the fact that you were the only girl he had left, and Trent’s life was far too risky for his girl.

“Dad, you’re upsetting me right now,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to compose himself.

“Alright,” he murmured after a moment, his voice heavy with resignation. Slowly, he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. His arms felt heavy around you, like he was holding onto more than just you in that moment—grief, regret, guilt. “I’m sorry, hun. Just… can ya give me a ring sometime? Let me know how you’re doing?” You let out a shaky breath, your defenses crumbling as his embrace tightened.

“Okay,” you murmured weakly, unable to push him away when he was like this. You didn’t hate him or anything. It was just a strained relationship. One that was badly bruised but not broken. He pulled back, his hands moving to gently hold your face. His eyes, tired and watery, scanned yours with an unfamiliar tenderness.

“Always here for you, alright?” he said, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “Di’s right… beautiful…” His words caught you off guard, and before you could react, he leaned down and kissed your hair. There was something in his actions that felt like a glimpse of the dad you used to know—the one who saw you, really saw you, before the loss of your mum built an unspoken wall between you. But then he continued, and the weight of his words hit you like a wave. “Just like mummy was. Beautiful. So don’t lose that smile. I only have yours, sweetheart.” The compliment hung in the air, bittersweet and sharp. For a moment, the world seemed to pause as you absorbed what he’d just said. He was telling you you were beautiful, comparing you to your mum, but there was something beneath the words that made your chest ache. It wasn’t just a compliment—it was a plea. A reminder that your smile, your light, was all that was left for him now. You nodded silently, swallowing back the lump in your throat as tears blurred your vision. His hands lingered on your face for a moment longer before he stepped back, giving you space. But his words stayed, weighing heavy on your heart. He meant well, you knew that. But his love, wrapped in grief and unspoken expectations, felt like a burden you weren’t sure how to carry anymore.

The game had been intense, the energy of the stadium still ringing in your ears as you walked through the door. The weight of everything-the adrenaline from the game, the quiet tension in the air after the final whistle, and the lingering thoughts about the night-settled into your bones. You pushed the door closed behind you with a soft click, taking in the familiar scent of Trent's place, which should have felt comforting, but tonight it was a little too quiet. A little too still. You couldn't hide the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your mind was still racing with everything that had happened that evening. You didn't want to talk, didn't want to think about the crowd, the noise, the emotions. You just needed to forget, to be lost in something else for a while. He noticed immediately.

"Sweet girl, you okay?" His voice was gentle, soft with concern, but there was also a warmth in it. He could see past the cloudiness in your eyes, he could see you were carrying something heavier than just the weight of the game. You tried to smile, though it was weak, and shook your head slightly.

"Yeah, baby... I'm okay." You appreciated his presence, his effort to make you feel better. It meant more than you could express.He stepped closer, his hands sliding around you, pulling you into his embrace. He kissed the back of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"Hmm my baby..." He hummed with his lips staying pressed to your skin. "Thank you for coming," he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin again, sending a shiver down your spine. His arms tightened around you, the security of his touch grounding you. "You looked so good tonight," he murmured, his words affectionate and full of admiration. You leaned back into him, feeling the heat of his body against yours. His lips found your ear, nipping gently at it, and you closed your eyes, giving yourself to the sensation. "Need to shower before we go out, you know," he cooed, his voice low and teasing.

"Mmmm... do you need company?" you smirked, your playful side slipping through the cracks of your exhaustion.

"Absolutely," he whispered, his hands moving to peel your jumper over your head, the cool air in the house sending another shiver through you. Without a word, Trent picked you up, effortlessly carrying you upstairs to the bathroom. You giggled at the suddenness, his strength a comforting presence. As he set you down in the ensuite, you eagerly stripped off the rest of your clothes, your movements frantic as you tried to rid yourself of the tension from the night. Trent followed suit, shedding his own clothes, his back pressed against the cold bathroom wall. "C'mere," he whispered, his voice deep, almost commanding. He moved towards you, his hands sliding down the back of your thighs, coming under your ass as he picked you up effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around him, kissing him messily, desperately. It was a kiss that spoke of more than just desire-it was about forgetting, about feeling alive in the midst of everything that had happened. He pulled away, loosening his grip slightly, his fingers fumbling as he turned on the shower. The sound of the water rushing from the showerhead filled the space, the hot water soon warming the air around you, enveloping you in steam. Trent stepped in first, pulling you closer to him. It wasn't long before you were pressed against the wall, your back to the cold tile as Trent moved inside you with a rough intensity. His lips were on yours between every thrust, soft words of affection-’I love you,’ whispered breathlessly as the water cascaded over your bodies, mingling with the heat of the moment. You were shaking, your body overwhelmed by the intensity, but Trent held you tightly, grounding you. As the minutes passed, your breaths grew shorter, the euphoric high mixing with the crash of emotions, the pressure of everything finally coming to a head. When it was over, Trent gently set you on your feet, his hands still supporting you as you clung to him, the warm water cascading down around you, and for a moment, everything outside of this moment seemed distant. It was just the two of you, wrapped in the heat of the shower, bodies pressed together, hearts still racing from what had just happened. Trent's arms around you felt like the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. He ran his fingers through your damp hair, his touch gentle now, almost reverent as if he was trying to savor the moment. "I love you," he murmured again, his voice soft but steady, as if he needed to remind both of you that, despite everything that had happened, this was real. You looked up at him, your chest still heaving from the intensity of it all, your lips tingling from his kisses.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. Your emotions were all tangled, a mix of desire, love, and the lingering pain from the night. But in this moment, in his arms, it all seemed to fade away. Trent cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

"Don't let tonight get to you," he said quietly, his forehead resting against yours. "Let me take care of you." You nodded, closing your eyes and leaning into him, the warmth of the water and his embrace comforting you in a way nothing else could. It wasn't just the physical pleasure that had brought you together, but the connection, the way he made you feel safe, despite the storm of emotions swirling in your mind. He kissed you again, slower this time, more tender, letting the water continue to wash over you both as the world outside seemed to vanish. There were no distractions here, no chaos, just the two of you. For the first time that night, you allowed yourself to let go fully, to forget about everything that had happened-just for a little while. As the water began to cool, Trent gently helped you step out of the shower, wrapping you in a towel and pulling you close. "We'll figure everything out," he promised softly. "Just... trust me, yeah?" You didn't answer right away, but his presence was enough. You didn't have all the answers yet, and there was still so much uncertainty, but in this quiet moment, in his arms, you felt like maybe, just maybe, things could still be okay. In the aftermath, the world outside seemed a distant memory, the quiet between you two an unspoken promise that for a little while, at least until you headed out for the night, you could forget everything else.

•

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

Next part - Chapter 20 xx

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

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meetmypointlessaddiction · 2 days ago

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December Fic Day 13 ~ Puppy?

Summary: Your daughters want a dog for Christmas.

Warnings: none that I'm aware of

Pairings: pretty sure this is suitable for everyone (fem!reader/male!reader/gn!reader) but I am still new to writing anything other than fem!reader so any pointers are greatly appreciated.

Enjoy and please like and comment if you do. Something as simple as an emoji literally makes my day better and reblog to share my work :)

You and Logan had made sure that, when raising your girls, you made them appreciate family and the valuable time spent together more than anything else in the world. To them, Christmas time revolved around being together, having fun, cuddling up watching films and decorating. It was very rare that the girls had anything specific in mind for Christmas, normally they would point out a few toys in the store and Christmas would be sorted. That’s why when they came running into yours and Logan’s room one morning, screaming about their Christmas present for this year, you knew you were in trouble.

Logan was still snoring, having worked a late shift the night before, only coming to bed a few hours prior. The girls were usually quite considerate of their father when he was sleeping but this morning that seemed to have flown out of the window. They launched on top of him, Ada laying between the pair of us, looking at Logan, while Chloe laid top of him. The man was awake immediately, watching them carefully with one eye open as he slowly came to. “This better be important.” He grumbled, huffing though he couldn’t help but smile.

“We know what we want for Christmas, papa.” Ada said, resting her chin on Logan’s arm as she looked up at him.

“We saw an advertisement on the way home from school and it’s the only thing we want, daddy.” Chloe clarified and you and Logan shared a look.

“Girls, you know the rules about Christmas gifts…” Logan started but Chloe was quick to interrupt.

“It’s not just for us, daddy. Everyone will enjoy it and the poster said that it will be our new best friend.” Your eyes widened and Logan closed his eyes, seemingly already knowing his answer.

“We ain’t gettin’ a puppy.” He said sternly and the girls both whined.

“But papa…”

“No buts. Get your butts out of here and let daddy sleep.” He told them and they both looked at you, knowing that you could often get Logan to change his mind on most things.

“Don’t look at me. Daddy’s spoken, no puppy. If you wanna go change into jammies and you’re gonna be quiet you can come and get in bed but if not go play with your toys until daddy’s slept some more.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The idea of a puppy wasn’t brought up again for a few days, the girls seemingly taking no for an answer. In fact, it wasn’t brought up again until Christmas Eve morning, the girls had stayed at your parents and Logan had finished work early. He walked into the kitchen and you could immediately tell something was off.

“What have you done?” You said, watching as he approached you.

“Not even a hello? No welcome home kiss? Baby, I thought you loved me?” He started, nervous laughter leaving his lips as he leaned towards you, being stopped by your hands on his chest.

“You bought a dog didn’t you?” He looked away, his hand scratching the hair on the back of his neck as his other hand rested on his hip.

“Yeah… yeah I bought a dog.” He admitted and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“I knew you’d cave!”

“No! No I didn’t! No one of the boys at work needed to get rid, his landlord had changed the terms an-.”

“Logan, where's the dog?” You cut him off, not wanting to hear his excuses when you could be meeting the new addition to your family.

“In the truck. You wanna meet her?” He said with a cheeky smirk on his face and you nodded as he took your hand, pulling you out into the garage with him. “She ain’t a puppy, she’s just over a year old.”

As Logan opened the door, you saw the grey and white border collie sitting proudly on the front seat, one ear floppy with the other half up. “Oh my god… hi baby.” You let her sniff at your hand, only going to stroke her once she had licked you and nudged your hand with her head. “What’s her name?”

“Misty. She’s a beauty ain’t she?” He said, one arm around your waist and the other scratching behind the pup’s ear. “Real good with kids, already potty trained and needs plenty of time outside. I reckon she’s the perfect fit for us.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You and Logan were laid on the couch, your parents were dropping the girls off in the next few hours and you were both making the most of the peace and quiet. Misty was laid on Logan’s legs while you laid next to him with your head on his chest.

“I still can’t believe you caved.” You laughed and Logan shot you the biggest stink eye known to mankind. The kind of look that only a man as sassy as your husband could muster.

“I did not cave. I was helpin’ a friend.” He argued, poking your ribs.

“Definitely caved.” You mumbled and he rolled his eyes though he didn’t argue back, knowing you were right. “I knew it!”

Dividers: @coolcatsgraphics

I'm also on A03 :)

Requests are also open if there is anything that people want me to write 💛

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unhinged-summer-fun · 2 days ago

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edāx (oshamir)

edāx (Latin) greedy, gluttonous, voracious, devourer.

Rating: Explicit (22+)

Pairing: Osha Aniseya x The Stranger "Qimir"

Summary: Osha goes out with Fillik after all, and makes the acquaintance of a dangerous man — if he is a man at all.

Warnings: Vampire AU and all that entails, sexual content. 11k word count deserves a warning.

A/N: This is my gift for @tourmaline-dream for the Oshamir Holiday Gift Exchange 2024! I hope you like ittttt~ And many thanks to @starlightafterastorm for betaing this fic <3

“Would you quit looking at him?” Fillik hissed across the table. Their section of the cantina was loud enough that he didn’t have to whisper, but the quieter reprimand got the point across better than if he’d spoken regularly or even if he’d shouted it. None of the other nearby diners seemed to notice them—but that wasn’t unusual in this end of the galaxy.

Osha returned to herself, snapping from her reverie as if Fillik had poured his fussy little mixed drink on her head. The breath Osha took was ragged, like she’d been holding her breath—or forgotten how to breathe entirely. She avoided responding to the remark, this time gazing in the opposite direction of the man who’d caught her attention.

Her restraint lasted for all of three seconds before she peeked back at the shadier side of the dining area, catching a glimpse of dark hair, pale skin, eyes that glinted crimson—

“Osha,” Fillik said at a normal volume, flapping a sticky menu in her periphery to act as blinders. “You have the subtleness of a bantha, my friend. At least get up and talk to him instead of just gawking.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, breathing out in a slow, controlled exhale that did nothing to calm her nerves. Stars, but that man had rattled her from across the room.

“You’re going to have no chance at picking that guy up if you just stare at him like—”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s going to eat you or something.”

She rolled her eyes and sipped her drink, shaking her head at her friend. “I’m not here to pick anybody up, Fil.” Osha slapped at the flimsi he held up as a privacy barrier. Despite her protests, she checked again.

The man was gone.

Disappointment filled her chest, heavy and cold. The feeling sharply shifted to tension, hairs standing on end when—

“Hello.”

A deep voice, smooth as whiskey and dark as night, cut through all her thoughts with exacting precision. Her mouth went dry despite the taste of her drink still on her tongue, and she turned to look up at the person next to her, up and up and—

Dark hair with eyes to match, pale skin with teeth to match, bared in a half-smile that made some primal side of her soul shiver. Up close, the stranger looked even more fascinating, all cheekbones, lips, and jaw that would have looked ridiculous on any other face—but he wore his features comfortably, not an ounce of insecurity hidden on his person. She only caught a glimpse of his teeth before the smile grew closed-lipped, but she swore she saw something predatory around his canine teeth: too long, that primal soul said. Too sharp. Too dangerous.

But Osha had never let that little voice stop her before. She was a meknek, for fuck’s sake. She took strolls through space and risked her life every other day to distract her from the nightmarish silence of space.

“Hello,” Osha said, feeling a little silly. The stranger’s brown eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Hi,” he said, and damn, there was that flash of a tooth again. It caught her breath, but not before she made an even greater fool of herself.

“Hi.”

Silence rolled in like the tide, awkwardness threatening to overtake their meeting.

“Please join us,” Fillik said, breaking the silence. When he caught her eye, he raised his eyebrows and gave her a look that probably meant, don’t be weird and act like a normal person.

The man slid gracefully into the seat beside Osha, and from this close, she caught a glimpse of long, dark eyelashes. It may have been the harsh lighting of the spaceport’s refectory, but he seemed almost sickly pale were it not for the grace of his movements that spoke to his relatively good health. Fillik cleared his throat, pulling her head out of the nebulae and back to solid ground.

“Um.”

This was going great.

“What’s your name?” the stranger murmured, lips moving only as much as necessary to communicate. It made her lean in, as magnetized to him as her boots were to the outer hulls of starships.

“Osha,” she whispered, even softer than he’d spoken. An amused expression crossed his face, one eyebrow raising so naturally she almost didn’t notice it. She said again, louder, “I’m Osha. This is Fillik.”

Her friend didn’t seem too convinced of her normal person act, but he stifled his teasing in favor of taking on the role of a wingman. “We’re mekneks.”

The stranger hadn’t looked away from Osha once. “How daring,” he commented, the other eyebrow joining the first before his expression relaxed.

Osha’s small-talk abilities fizzled like a dying candle when the stranger didn’t offer his name or profession. “You don’t have a drink,” she said bluntly.

Fillik looked like he wanted to run headfirst into the nearest wall as hard as possible.

But the stranger wasn’t repelled by her awkwardness. The corners of his lips inched upward, and his eyes finally strayed from hers, dipping downward but not scandalously so. No, his eyes seemed more focused on her collarbone, tracing the delicate line of it back and forth with so much intensity it was almost a caress.

“I don’t drink all that much,” he said, still smiling softly, secrets galore held behind his lips.

“A cantina’s kind of a weird place to be, then,” Osha said. She heard Fillik suck in a breath, almost wincing at her observation.

“I was looking for a bite,” he shrugged. “Something smelled good over here.”

For the briefest moment, as his mouth wrapped around the word bite, Osha could have sworn she saw that impossible glint of too-sharp, too-long, dangerous teeth again. But at his affable, easygoing shrug, she stifled that instinctual urge to flee. Heart racing, she didn’t know what to do or say besides sit there and breathe.

“Oh, a menu.”

The stranger reached across the table, his hand glancing over Osha’s wrist. She flinched at the sharp, biting cold of his skin when it brushed hers. It reminded her of the frost that collected on her exo-suit after a long shift. After those shifts, when she stepped into the tepid spray of a shower, her body reacted to the warmth as if it were open flames. She wondered what her skin felt like to him, and watched his expression carefully. He must have felt something when he touched her, but his expression gave nothing away.

“Do you recommend anything?” the stranger asked, acknowledging Fillik. A brief thrill of satisfaction raced through Osha as Fillik straightened up beneath the stranger’s piercing, dark stare.

“What’d you see that smelled good?” he managed to stammer.

The stranger’s eyes flicked to Osha briefly—so briefly that she had to write off the red glint that reflected from behind his irises. Stars, but something about that was familiar. Her poleaxed expression gave way to outright curiosity, but on Osha’s face, it looked more like a glare.

Fillik and the stranger exchanged words, agreeing on what to order. Osha observed the stranger with blatant curiosity. She wasn’t used to this whole flirting thing, as much as Fillik tried to convince her otherwise. Yet, without a single word, she’d seemed to snare this gorgeous man’s attention from across a crowded room. To Osha’s surprise, Fillik rose from the table to get the order—“I wanted to get another round anyway. Be right back.”

She’d never seen him walk so fast.

This left her alone with the stranger, who turned to her as he’d done before. Now that she thought about it, he’d never not been facing her. Even when he spoke to Fillik, he’d only turned his head a little. His entire body seemed trained on her, and she didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention.

“Osha,” he said, drawing her name out like a song and ending it on an almost-whisper. The curling smile on his lips made her wonder if he was addressing her or testing out the feel of her name on his tongue. “Do you like being a meknek?”

Startled by the question, she answered honestly. “I like being paid for it.”

This shocked a laugh out of him—throaty, deep, and warm. With his head tilted back, she got a full view of his teeth, and there was no denying it now.

Those were fangs.

But she’d been a meknek for six years now and seen all kinds of species from all sorts of places. Plenty of species have fangs, she reasoned. Carnivorous species, her instincts added. And how many of them look like humans?

Just one, she thought.

She bit back the question that threatened to spill out of her mouth, content with just watching him enjoy himself, even if she was what amused him so. In all honesty, his laugh and the sight of those fangs made a coil of desire tighten in her gut so quickly that it almost stole her breath. “What’s so funny?” she asked once she regained her composure.

“You,” he said, leaning an elbow on the table and resting his head on his fist. He no longer hid his teeth behind a smile; he grinned widely, showing off the lethal points of his canine teeth. She knew, evolutionarily, that a smile was meant to set people at ease, promising good intentions. On him, however, his smile seemed to promise something far more primal and bloody. “Most would lie or, at the very least, give a neutral answer. You, however, seem to have no problem being honest with a stranger.”

“How do you know I’m not lying? That I’m not harboring a deep passion for thrill-seeking and advanced mechanics?”

His head tilted to the side, eyes sliding back to her collarbones and back up again. She gripped her drink to keep herself from shivering. “I’d know if you were lying,” he said.

“How? Are you—” That damn word stuck in her mouth. Jedi. Even now, the memory still pained her. She shoved it away.

The stranger was kind enough not to make her finish her thought. “Your heartbeat,” he explained. “For many people, especially humans, their heart races when they lie.”

Something about how he phrased it struck a nerve, like an old memory was stirring, vying for her attention.

Just one.

His hand reached out, but he didn’t touch her. His hands were so cold, Osha could feel it from where they hovered just over her skin, just above her pulse. He didn’t need to touch her to know her heart had skipped a beat. Osha got the feeling he was more than aware of her heartbeat, even without reaching out to her.

He continued, “Some humans can fool themselves with their lies, making it harder to tell when they aren’t telling the truth.” Those ice-cold fingertips trailed over her neck, still hovering above her skin. Across her collarbone before he returned his hand to where it rested on the table.

“Then how do you tell if they’re lying?”

“It’s in their eyes.”

She looked up at him again, unaware of her wandering gaze. That crimson glint returned, strengthening and blooming behind his brown irises. In just a few heartbeats, the rich color overtook it entirely. At a glance, his eyes wouldn’t have been anything but dark, but up close like this, they were near-luminous in the way a predator’s eyes would be, lit up from the darkness.

That familiar feeling returned, this time with a name.

“You’re a vampire,” she whispered.

His head tilted back to center, and his face gave nothing away. “Does that scare you?” he asked. She caught no hint of threat or menace in his voice, just open curiosity. It was probably a deliberate choice.

“I don’t think it does,” she said with a breathy laugh. She didn’t sit back, but she didn’t rock forward either—as much as she wanted to.

“You aren’t sure if you’re scared of me?” he said, letting a trickle of amusement back into his tone.

“You say that like you want the answer to be yes,” she countered. She had no idea where this bravery and boldness came from.

“Yes or no, it doesn’t matter,” he shrugged, a mask of indifference settling in over his features.

“It does, though,” Osha insisted.

His eyes sharpened on her, flashing as red as the neon sign some twenty feet behind him. “Then answer the question, Osha. Are you scared of me?”

Her mothers had taught her about all manner of things before they died. Her and Mae’s training with the Thread had only been part of it; although they grew up sheltered, they had not grown up ignorant of the ways of the galaxy.

There are others, Mother Aniseya instructed, who are powerful and feared and hunted, like us. Those who seek power from the night, like us. Those whose power is a right by blood.

Should we fear them too? Mae asked then, inquisitive and eager.

You should fear nothing, my girls, their mother had answered with a smile. When the fearsome things that walk the darkness brush against each other, you will know them, and they will know you. You will not be afraid. The monsters who hide within the sunshine are the ones to be wary of.

She hadn’t explained what that meant at the time, nor could she now, but the look she’d given Osha felt full of meaning that only seemed to make sense at this very second.

“I’m not scared of you,” Osha said, realizing almost after the fact that she was telling the whole truth of it. Her heart still raced; would he think she was lying? The look he gave her was still indecipherable.

Objectively, she knew her mother’s guidance was meant to cultivate a child’s curiosity and encourage open-mindedness but not recklessness. After her death, the Jedi had impressed upon her just the opposite: a deep sense of caution and suspicion toward others. They also stifled her inquisitive nature. Questioning the masters at the Jedi Temple always ended in reprimand. Curious adventures into the restricted section of the Archives resulted in punishments. Her attachment and investment in the family she lost ultimately led to her expulsion from the Order. But six years had passed since, and she’d more than shaken off the rust from a decade’s worth of stifled instincts. That old recklessness had returned.

If playing with fire would burn her, at least she’d die warm.

“Was that not the answer you wanted?” she asked dryly, draining the rest of her drink while she waited for an answer.

His eyes fixated on her throat as she swallowed, giving the gaze a different connotation, but one that didn’t evoke fear—at least not in her. The vampire leaned back, his face still an inscrutable mask. He couldn’t hide his eyes from her, however. The turbulent clouds of red in his irises churned like a maelstrom in a sea of blood.

Maybe she wouldn’t burn. Maybe she’d drown by the end of this.

“I think I like your answer,” he said, allowing half a smirk.

“You only think you like it?” Osha challenged.

He gave her the rest of his smirk. “Well met, Osha.”

They stared at one another for a while, letting silence fall between them even as the crowded cantina chattered away, oblivious to what was happening. She felt a static build-up in those few inches between them—between his hand and hers, where they rested on the table. As a meknek, she was trained to be cautious of electrostatic energy. (As a human, she was taught to be cautious of any creature that wanted her blood.)

“Why did you come over here?” Osha asked.

“Why were you looking at me?” he parried.

“I asked you first.”

“I’m sure they have the same answer,” he said with another sharp grin.

Because you intrigued me. Because I wanted to know more about you. Because I felt like there was no other choice but you.

Osha dropped the matter, running her fingers along the rim of her glass. She wished Fillik would return; she was so damned awkward around strangers—

He spoke so softly that she almost didn’t catch it. “You can call me Qimir.”

A new expression had replaced the intentionally blank face he had before. Now, he looked softer around the edges, more welcoming and trustworthy. Harmless with a touch of the uncanny, but not so much as the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing smiles he’d given before. How much of this look was real? Was this another ploy to get her guard down? Was he still trying to scare her?

Osha swallowed down her unease, remembering her mother’s advice. You will not be afraid.

So she met his eyes. “It’s nice to meet you, Qimir.”

His eyes crinkled up in the corners as he smiled this time, and a pulse of truth came to her in such a way that she hadn’t felt since... Since…

He wasn’t only a vampire. But the answer of what else he was seemed well out of reach.

This thrilled her even more, but some mysteries were more fun left unsolved—for now. “When you said you were looking for a bite…”

His features took on a boyish tint, teasing and playful. “I wasn’t lying,” he said. “Man’s gotta eat.”

“That he does,” she murmured, allowing herself to look at the rest of him.

His clothes were baggy and misshapen, hanging off of him in a way that hid the powerful, muscular body beneath. From this close (and the brief look she’d gotten of his forearms), he was like a coiled snake, strength radiating off of him in a way that no amount of baggy clothes could hide. Added to how he towered over her just a few minutes ago, he gave off an aura that felt genuinely intimidating. She was confident that if she stood beside him, he would seem even more imposing than before. He’d moved so silently, too; there was no outrunning him.

She pictured him and her in some dark nook of the spaceport, bathed in shadows and intertwined. His mouth at her neck, his hands wherever they wanted to be, her legs around his middle as he drank and fed—

He sucked in a sharp breath, and exhaled in a quiet groan. The noise was so deep that she could feel it in her fingertips. His expression had shifted again, the crimson in his eyes whipping around near-violently. “What?” she asked.

“What are you thinking about right now?” he asked, his voice rough and deep.

“I’m—” Osha’s face flared with heat, and she prepared to lie. But she felt that rush of blood in her ears, her heart rate kicking up—

He smirked, realizing her intent before she did.

“Nothing,” she said, just to cover her ass.

“Liar,” he smirked, one hint of fang flashing from his lips.

The sight, the reminder, brought her imagination to new heights, picturing those fangs sinking into a vein, those lush lips sealing around her skin and sucking, drawing her blood into his mouth—

“Osha,” he rasped, his voice nearly a growl. His hands flexed, and his skin was so pale that even the whites of his knuckles didn’t show. “You don’t want to play this game with me.”

“Why not?” she asked, cursing the breathy quality of her voice.

To anyone else, he would have looked relaxed. To her, she knew his composure was in tatters, that whatever control he had was fraying by the second. A brief flash of concern, of desperation, gusted through his eyes. “I am… perhaps not as well-fed as I should be.” He couldn’t meet her eyes, focusing now on her neck and collarbone.

Her heart did flips in her chest, and her recklessness reached new heights. “Does it… hurt?”

“Does what hurt?” he asked.

The hunger? The restraint? She should have said those things, but they weren’t what she told him. “The bite. Feeding.”

He sucked in a breath, held it. He’d gone so still she almost thought he’d expired right there at the table. Stars, this situation escalated quickly.

“Yes and no.”

“How—”

“In that order.”

“Oh.” Osha blinked. Yes, the bite would hurt. She’d expected so; wounds of any kind were bound to hurt, even ones you were prepared for. But feeding? The act of drinking from another… didn’t hurt? “What do you mean?” she asked, leaning in.

The crimson in his eyes settled into slow, lazy swirls. “I don’t know how it is for others, but I can make it feel like anything you want. Pain. Numbness. Pressure. Pleasure.” He said this last part with his eyes heavily hooded, desire plain on his face. “How would you like it, Osha?”

Osha had no idea what to say to him. She was, of course, curious about exactly what he meant, but some measure of caution still held her back, cold and frowning.

“Would anything happen to me?” she said, avoiding the question.

“You mean, would you turn?” he asked, a husky chuckle following. “No. Vampires are, for the most part, born—or so I know.”

“What do you mean?” she said again, frowning.

“I wasn’t raised around others of my kind. The ones who raised me, they…” A brief flare of some hot emotion gusted through his aura—something like anger. It dissipated as quickly as it came, leaving her confused and a little wary. “They didn’t know what to do with me. I’ve had to learn as I go.”

A pang of sympathy rattled her bones. Osha knew what that was like. The Jedi her age were already well-versed in topics and routines she was unfamiliar with, and it left her feeling more than a little like an outsider to them. And when the Order cast her out? She had to do it all over again, learning to be a meknek to survive.

“So, no,” he said, drawing her attention back. “Nothing would happen to you, bar perhaps symptoms of minor blood loss… among other things.”

“Other things?” she said.

He grinned, fangs out. “Fun things.”

“I don’t know if I should trust your definition of fun, Qimir,” she said, picking up her glass and sighing when she realized it was empty.

He’d frozen in place, and it took her a second to notice. She was about to ask what was wrong when he said, “I like how you say my name. More than is probably appropriate.”

She was going to pass out if her heart kept racing like this. Osha was once again speechless in the face of his brazen want, unfamiliar with the script or steps to follow here. She chewed her lip, and his eyes flicked to the gesture. The heat in her lower half only increased until she felt like she needed to squeeze her thighs together to grab some measure of composure. But that felt like a lifeboat drifting away in a stormy sea. She was going to drown in him, sooner or later.

“I…”

“Yes?”

“How badly do you need to feed?” she asked, the words slipping out almost by accident.

“Very badly,” he said simply. “Why do you ask?”

He was playing with her; he knew exactly why she was asking and was going to make her say it. The rush of embarrassment bloomed right from her cheeks, heating her entire body this time as she fought the shyness stilling her tongue. “Because I…” she swallowed. “I’m curious what it’s like.” There. Safer ground. “And a man’s gotta eat, like you said. Seems we can help each other out.”

He smirked at her but didn’t call her out. His eyes sparkled just the same as they’d done the last time she avoided the truth with him. Liar, his voice echoed in her head. The real answer—that she wanted him as desperately as he seemed to want her—refused to be spoken aloud.

“I don’t think your friend will approve,” he teased.

Oh right. Fillik.

She looked over his shoulder at the bar beyond, where Fillik sat beside someone draped in glowing green fabric. As if sensing her attention, Fillik looked over and made the hand signal for are you okay? They only ever used the code when their communicators shorted out while on jobs, but it worked well here.

Osha signed back, okay. Then, after a moment, she signed, see you later.

Fillik’s grin and double thumbs-up needed no translation.

If only he knew just what Osha was walking away with.

“Fillik’s fine,” Osha said, looking back at Qimir. He seemed oddly… charmed by the exchange.

But his demeanor changed the moment she gave her answer, eyes darkening and going a little wild. She could have sworn the crimson in his irises had bled into the whites of his eyes, but the moment passed after a beat. “Then I think we should find somewhere more private, don’t you think?”

Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, the thrill of danger sparking her senses in a way no meknek job ever would, in a way the Jedi never could. Qimir stood, offering his hand to her. She took it, marveling at the coolness of his skin touching hers. He did not let go as he led her from the cantina.

They didn’t go far, but the sharp twists and turns down the side passages of the spaceport left Osha feeling a little disoriented. When they stopped, she caught sight of a familiar landmark and a sign that would lead her back to her ship when they were finished. He pulled her into a small micro-hotel, but it didn’t look as seedy as the ones she’d seen on-world.

Apparently, he already had a room because they bypassed the reception droid entirely and went to the back. The lights were down-lit around their ankles, making him seem even more dark and imposing than he already was. When he looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes pulsed with a glow that reminded her of sunsets… and lightsabers. It stole her breath.

Then they were in a room. Alone. With no crowd to drown the silence. Just her slightly uneven breathing—and his notable lack thereof.

“You don’t breathe?” she blurted out, trepidation making the words a little louder than she intended. She winced.

Qimir let go of her hand and sat on the bed, letting his hands hang between his knees. Making himself smaller, she observed. Non-threatening. “If I didn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak,” he said, his voice coming a little higher—another tactic to draw in unsuspecting prey or to calm the suspicious. “And I do have a pulse, despite all evidence to the contrary.” He gestured at himself, most likely referring to his cold, pale skin.

“Oh,” Osha said, laughing a little.

He caught her nervousness like one might catch a butterfly from the air. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. You can back out at any time.”

“No, it’s not—okay, it’s a—I’m a little nervous,” she admitted.

He rose to his feet, closing the distance between them. “I’m not so close to the edge that I can’t control myself, Osha,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a loc of her hair behind her ear. His eyes were everywhere, dancing their phantom touch everywhere from her face to her chest in just a heartbeat. “I know what I am. You know what I am.”

“I do,” she whispered. “And I want this.”

“I think you just need the tension broken,” he said, a teasing smirk on his features. “May I?”

She had no idea what that meant, but she discovered the answer immediately when she nodded. He descended on her, and she held her breath, expecting pain—

But she got a kiss instead. His lips were soft, and though they were cold, they weren’t unpleasant. Her mind unwound itself from the tangled, anxious knot it’d been trapped in. His hands settled on her—one at the nape of her neck, the other resting on her hip. She realized that oh, she should probably be kissing him back, and moved, reaching for him just as he deepened the kiss.

A soft noise escaped her throat when he squeezed her hip, walking her back until her shoulders met the door. He didn’t pin her, per se, but the intent was clear: he’d trapped her. And she’d let him, gladly.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, ending his question on a slight nip of her lower lip. It thrilled her, that reminder of why they were there, of what was coming.

She nodded, feeling much more settled in her skin, even though her heart was still racing. “Um, do I—?” She began to tilt her head to the side for him, but his fingers tightened against the back of her head, stilling her.

“That’s a bit… intense for your first go,” he said, sounding almost awkward about it.

“But I want—” She cut herself off, shame flaring through her veins.

He waited for her to finish her thought, but the bravery couldn’t break through to her again. “You want to know what it’s like?” he inferred. She nearly slumped in relief, nodding. Stars, but he knew just what she needed, and Osha had no idea how much she needed that kind of intuition in a partner until now.

Qimir pressed a kiss over her pulse, which ratcheted up the speed considerably until he pulled away. “So responsive,” he murmured, but she could hardly hear it over the pounding in her ears. He pulled back, and Osha almost whined at the loss of his closeness. “Why don’t I tell you what I’m going to do to you? Would that help?”

She considered it, then nodded. He brought her to the bed, sitting them both down side-by-side. “Thank you,” she said quickly. “And I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about and nothing to thank me for,” he said, leaning back in to kiss her and scatter her thoughts to the stars. “I’m a selfish man, Osha. But I’m not so selfish to look past your discomfort just to get what I want.”

She got the feeling he didn’t offer the same consideration to many others, which made her feel all shivery. A wide, cool hand pressed against her shoulder until she leaned back, laying fully on the bed beside him. He loomed over her, face half-cast in warm shadows from the lone lamp in the small room. “Why am I lying down?”

He seemed to ignore her question as he spoke. “I’m going to bite your arm first,” he said simply, but the casualness of his words made her breath hitch. “Riiight… here.” He traced his fingers over the inside of her forearm, near the elbow.

“Not my wrist?”

He shook his head. “Too many delicate little veins, bones, tendons, nerves.” He flicked a fingertip off the tip of one of his fangs. “These might do some serious damage to your hands if I’m not careful. I’m in control of my urges, but might not be as controlled about how gentle the bite would be.” He lifted her arm up, and for a moment, she thought he was going to bite her right then and there—

He pressed a cold, wet kiss over the spot he indicated, and beneath his kiss, heat rose to the surface. An ache bloomed in her belly, pulling at sensitive parts of her.

“And you’re lying down in case you pass out from the bite. As I told you, it will hurt, but not that much. Your anxiety will only make it worse, especially if it’s not what your body is expecting.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling a little silly.

He kissed her arm again, gentle despite his insistence he could not be. “Next, I’ll—”

“Bite my neck?”

“I will check if you want more,” he said firmly. His eyes flashed bright red again, serious.

The care he exhibited over her choice, her consent, and her safety made her insides feel all warm in a way she wasn’t used to. Master Sol had been concerned for her safety, but where Qimir’s care was warm, Sol’s had often been chilly and uncomfortable.

“Okay,” she whispered, squirming a little on her back. He noticed the movement, a teasing glint returning to his eyes. “What will you do after that?”

“Then, if you’ll allow it…” His hand trailed lower, brushing the side of her breast, passing her ribs, almost tickling her waist, then over her hip to rest on her thigh. “I’d like to feed from here.”

Even though his hand was cold and they had a barrier of clothes between them, she could have sworn his touch left a searing brand against her thigh. “Why there?”

“Some major arteries are down here, very active. And I’m hungry, Osha.” He didn’t elaborate, moving his hand back up her body. He brushed over the fly to her pants, fingers snagging over the bulk of her belt. She gasped and flinched, but he paid it no mind. He traced his fingertips up, up, between her breasts before his cool hand rested at the base of her throat. “And I’m selfish.”

“Wh—how is that selfish?” she asked, fighting between her desire to know and her desire to feel. He leaned down, tracing his nose over the shell of her ear.

“Because when I’m done, you’ll feel the ache in your legs with every,” he kissed her ear, “single,” a nip, “step.”

Osha couldn’t help but moan. It was embarrassingly loud, and he was hardly touching her at all, but she was certain she’d never been more turned on and ready for him.

But Qimir didn’t comment, only looking her over with that heated crimson gaze—like he expected such a reaction.

“Do you want to know what I’m going to do next?”

She nodded, swallowing hard enough to feel the brush of his hand over the base of her throat. “Please.”

At that single whispered word, the energy in the room shifted. Qimir stilled, eyes squeezing shut as a shiver rippled over him. A low groan left his lips, the breath cool against Osha’s temple. “Fuck,” he whispered, taking a ragged breath and shaking his head. His hair fell into his face, out from behind his ears. It gave him a wilder look, eyes half-hidden behind a dark veil. “Fuck,” he repeated, drawing back a little and going still.

Osha didn’t dare move. She already knew Qimir was nearing the last reserves of his control, assurances made or otherwise. But all she’d said was please, and it nearly broke him apart. His arrival at her side in the cantina had made her mouth go dry, but now, it watered—she wanted to taste him, touch him.

“Fuck, Osha,” he said a third time. He got up on his knees and laughed, though there was little humor in it. He sounded doomed from where he sat above her. “You keep thinking whatever you’re thinking right now, and I’m not going to be as gentle or as polite as I would like to be.”

“Why do you keep saying that? Can you—can you read my thoughts or something?”

His face smoothed with forced ease, and he closed his eyes before shaking his head. “A vampire’s sense of smell is very good—and I can taste how aroused you are right now. Without even seeing, without even touching. I can taste how wet you are for me, Osha.”

Her blood oscillated wildly between hot and cold, the realization that his reaction back in the cantina had been because of—? Oh, shit. She was at once mortified by being so laid bare, thrilled by the acknowledgment of his predatory nature, and insanely turned on by his ease in talking about her desire. His were the hands of a dangerous man, but she was in good hands nonetheless.

“Sorry,” she whispered, chewing her lip again.

His hand lifted from her neck for his thumb to press down on her lip, freeing it from her teeth. “That’s my job,” he admonished, surprisingly soft. It made her heart flip in her chest once more. “So—” he took a breath, steadying himself. “Only after I’ve taken from your arm and your thigh, that’s when I’ll take from your neck.”

“Why?”

“The neck is quite the erogenous zone, Osha.” He brushed his fingers over her pulse, which tickled, but more than that, it set her trembling. “The nerves there are much more sensitive than the other places I mentioned. And therefore, the feeling you’d get from me feeding would be… heightened.”

“Heightened?” she asked weakly.

He did not explain. All he did was nod.

Fun things, she remembered him saying. Fun things would happen to her.

“That, and drinking from the neck is one of the most primal things I could do. You baring your neck to me… it both sates and encourages that part of me to give in to those instincts. I could kill you, drain you dry if I drank here first.” He almost sounded saddened by it, which was odd.

Osha brought her hand up to his wrist and wrapped her fingers around it. He watched her, fascinated by her curiosity. Osha traced her thumbs over his hand and pressed his fingers flat and open before she leaned up to kiss the center of his palm.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?” He swallowed roughly, eyes flickering over her face again.

“I think I like your plan.”

He smirked. “Oh, you think you—”

“Shut up,” she groaned, reaching up to pull him in by the back of his neck. Their kiss was more heated than before. For all his bloodless skin chilled her, he possessed a fire in his flesh that did not dissipate and did not waver after the initial rush of feeling.

When she was certain her heart wouldn’t beat out of her chest, she said his name. It brought him back up, and she traced how his lips had grown a little darker, the shade of old bruises. He looked obscene like this, truly rumpled and fueled by want. “Yes?” he whispered, breathing quickly.

“Do it.”

His pupils dilated sharply, almost to the point where the crimson in his irises disappeared entirely. A heartbeat passed, then he leaned down and bit her exactly where he said he would.

Instantaneous burning pain slashed at the pleasure his kiss and touch had brought, setting her body rigid on the bed beneath him. He did not stop, even at the tight whimper that escaped her. At the stomach-flipping sensation of him withdrawing his fangs from her, she made another weak noise, wondering if this had all been a mistake—

But then his mouth touched down next, encompassing the bite mark wholly. Both his hands cradled her arm like something precious, something fragile. There was a bit of pressure—then release. She couldn’t help the wild moan at the new sensation, her surprise warring with the wanton waves of pleasure his mouth was giving her. She felt her eyes cross a little until the shock waned. Phew. Don’t pass out.

He remained hunched over her, on all fours across her vulnerable form. Once she steadied her breathing, she could hear the little noises he was trying to hide. Small whimpers and whines, near-animalistic against her skin. His noises rippled through her bones, resonating with her like a tuning fork pressed against her skull. Her hand moved without warning, pushing up through his hair and grabbing hold at the root. He made a small, distressed noise—

But she did not pull him off. She pushed him closer, feeling his lips slip against her arm even as he drank. His whines turned to moans, and his shallow breaths turned to deeper, harsher breaths than before.

Stars, if this was how it felt on her arm, how was it going to feel on her neck?

He seemed to have found himself again after some time—how long, she had no idea. The whole room had gotten a little fuzzy and sparkly, stars dancing against her skin. Qimir dragged his tongue over the bite, which stung a little in the cooler air once he let go.

Because Qimir had grown warmer since drinking from her—or she’d grown cooler. But her first guess was correct. He turned around to face her, and she saw the flush of blood high on his cheekbones, of life in his features.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice wet and raspy. Idly, his thumb brushed over the wound, but she wasn’t focusing on that. She could only see the dark red of her blood staining his teeth, his tongue.

She blinked a few times, processing that he was speaking to her. “Yeah. Holy shit,” she laughed. “I’m okay.”

Something soft and almost distressed fluttered through his features when she laughed, like he didn’t know what to do all of a sudden.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

He seemed just as stunned as she’d been by the question. “Good.”

“Still hungry?” she asked. His eyes traced down her body and rested on the place he’d planned to go next. She went for her belt—

“Let me.” He stilled her hands, and while he wasn’t blazing warm, the difference was notable. “Please.”

Her whole body jerked at that single word, and shit, she understood why he’d been so affected earlier when she said it. The amount of desire that could fit into a single syllable was fucking astounding, and she had no idea why she was so affected. She let her hands fall to the side, wondering what, if anything, she wouldn’t do when he said please like that.

Her belt clinked a little as he undid it, and then the fly of her trousers. She cursed when he tugged them down, only for the blousing straps to get caught in her boots. She leaned up to help and was hit with a wave of dizziness that had the room spinning. “Whoa.”

“Lay back down,” Qimir ordered, planting his hand on her breastbone. She complied, and the dizziness abated. He did the work for her, taking off her boots and pants with shocking gentleness—he’d really meant it when he said he could control himself. That taste he took from her arm had done wonders.

“What does—” she bit off the question she’d been about to ask again. Qimir needed to eat, and she kept delaying that.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured, lips pressing against her knee. His eyes were a much warmer shade now, bright scarlet in the lamplight. She was unable to look away. “You can ask me anything you want, Osha.”

She took a shuddering breath and blamed her courage on the funny feelings his bite had given her.

“What does my blood taste like?”

He traced his nose over her thigh, lost in thought as he considered her answer. “I won’t feed you some bullshit line about it tasting like sunshine and fresh snow,” he said dryly, looking up at her with a half-grin. “Blood tastes like blood.”

“Oh,” she said, about to feel silly again—

“But the warmth of it… it burned at first. Like drinking tea when it’s too hot. Scalding.” His thumb brushed little circles over her thigh, and he sunk down to sit on his heels between her thighs. It felt like an entirely inappropriate place to sit and have a think, but he seemed comfortable, so she didn’t say anything. She leaned up on her elbows as he continued. “And then, the longer I drank, the warmer my body became, and the more I could enjoy it. Enjoy you. And your warmth… it tastes like life. It tastes like the only light in a vast, cold darkness.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say more, but instead, he pressed his face against the inside of her thigh. For a few long minutes, he stayed there, just breathing her in. This close to where he knew she was wet and aching, she could only imagine what was running through his mind—or if her scent and taste stilled those thoughts in their tracks.

She put her hand back on his head, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging him forward. “You promised me another bite, and you’re still hungry,” she said. When had her voice gotten so husky and sensual?

He shuddered, moving where she wanted with no resistance. His throat bobbed as she pulled him back, exposing his own neck to her. His eyes sparkled with intrigue, like she was a wonder. “I did. I am.”

“So do something about it.”

“But you’re hungry, too,” he said, fighting her hold so he could level a look at her. She felt like she was wearing nothing beneath that gaze, like his hot stare had incinerated every bit of clothing left on her. “An appetite for something you can’t eat… but can fill you anyway.”

His fingers danced up her inner thigh, rubbing longingly over the darker veins beneath her skin before moving up and up and—

Osha jolted when his thumb pressed against the soaking-wet material of her underwear. “Can I feed you too, Osha?” he asked, that damned thumb moving in slow, precise little circles exactly where she needed from him.

She was seconds from making a mixing business and pleasure joke, but those words caught in her throat, leaving her only able to nod furiously. Qimir’s eyes flicked down to where his hand was splayed over her hip, just his thumb touching her indecently. He turned his hand and teased his fingers beneath the wet fabric. She held back her moan as his knuckles brushed over her aching core, where she needed him most.

“I don’t want to hear you holding back another fucking breath from me, Osha.” His eyes were suddenly ablaze, locked on hers. “Understand?”

She nodded, but at the increased intensity of his stare, she found her words again. “Yes, I understand,” she squeaked.

“Good.”

With that, he dove in. He pulled her underwear to the side, which made everything seem that much dirtier and taboo as he licked and sucked at her with abandon. True to her word, she didn’t hold back, grasping at his hair and practically shouting his name. The pleasure she’d gotten from him feeding on her was a strange, full-body kind of ache, like she was drowning in it. This pleasure, by comparison, was brutal, a crueler death than the other.

Burning and drowning.

He never stopped moving, not when he slipped one of those long, cool fingers inside her and not when her hips couldn’t help but rock up against his hand. She felt unbridled, chasing after an end she couldn’t see. But he guided her there nonetheless, never restraining her even once. He drew back after some time, sucking his finger into his mouth before returning his touch with another finger inside her. Osha moaned, settling into the rhythm and rolling against his hand.

Fuck, this was the best idea ever.

Qimir pressed his cheek against her thigh, just watching how his fingers moved in and out of her, seeing and feeling the way she grew tighter around him when he touched her just right. He was nearly locked in a trance, like he could spend the rest of his life just watching her fall apart from his touch.

She (barely) had the ability to speak a string of words that made any sense. “Qimir… please… c’mon, you said…”

Okay, maybe sense was stretching it.

Qimir caught her meaning, checking with her to make sure she wasn’t at risk of passing out for one reason or another. The bite on her arm wasn’t bleeding for whatever reason, and she wanted to know what it felt like with his teeth so close to where he had his hands. Wordlessly, he drew her leg up and over his shoulder, pressing his face against her thigh again as his attention caught on the way she seized up around his fingers suddenly. “Nervous?” he asked, his voice all throaty and rough.

“I won’t be if you just—”

He struck, sharp fangs sinking into her once more. The burning had felt all-consuming from the bite on her arm, but this time, it warred with the pleasure he was giving her just inches away. Instead of one drowning out the other, they intertwined in a song, leaving her ears ringing as she gasped for breath.

He pulled his fangs out and repeated the process anew, pulling her blood into his mouth with a helpless moan. He rolled his whole body against her, tongue coaxing out more and more of her blood as his fingers took up their rhythm once more. The waning effects of his first bite surged in, cranked to a higher intensity than before. The leg not around his shoulder shook as ecstasy began encroaching on her senses.

“Fuck, fuck—!” Osha’s voice broke when he pulled her over the edge. It felt like nothing she’d tried by herself in the privacy of her bunk and even less like anything she’d tried with a partner. She was certain she was hurting him, pulling at his hair like she was, but nothing could get her to let go until the pleasure abated.

And still, he drank.

She gave a weak whimper. “Fuck,” she said a third time. “You’re so good,” she whined.

Qimir gave a groan in return, and a deeper, subtler rocking motion joined his hand and his mouth. Fuck, he must have been grinding his hips against the side of the bed. She relinquished her hold on his hair to pet him gently, smoothing the strands out of his eyes and holding them back so she could see him better.

Red eyes lolled over to her in his first graceless move of the night. He seemed drunk, caught between watching her, fingering her, and drinking from her thigh. “So good,” she whispered again, brushing her thumb over his temple. His eyes closed, a furrow forming between his brows. She had no time to be concerned before he licked over the bite with his wet tongue. It left a smear of red behind on her skin, which he lapped at repeatedly until all traces of her blood had been consumed.

He gently slipped his fingers from her. That bone-deep ache had been abated somewhat from her orgasm, but his hand was nowhere near enough for what she truly wanted, what she needed. Qimir rested against her thigh again. His hair fell into his eyes, forcing her to focus on his lips. He licked them almost compulsively, like he had to ensure that every drop of her taste was safe behind his teeth.

“You—you okay?” he asked, his breath catching in the middle of his sentence.

She was. There was no wooziness, only the warm embrace of post-orgasm bliss. “I’m perfect,” she said, giving in and running her fingers through his hair again. It was thicker than it looked, and much softer than it had any right to be. He pressed into her hand like a cat, eyes still closed. “Are you alright? You seem…”

“Drunk?” he asked, cracking an eye open. A languid, bloodstained smile crept across his lips as he looked at her. “Yeah. Feels like it, a little. Might be the F—fucking incredible taste of you.” He brushed his thumb over the bite on her thigh before rising up with a soft groan.

His stumbling words almost concerned her were it not for the clearly straining bulge in his pants. Slowly, she sat up before him, nearly face-to-face with his erection.

While he just… stood there. He watched her with a slightly confused look on his face. There it was again, like he was puzzling her out or something.

“What?” she asked, unable to summon the sharp, defensive bite of her words this time.

“Nothing,” he sighed, reaching down to cup her face. His face followed, but he stopped himself just before he kissed her. The hesitation was clear; he didn’t know if she wanted to try the taste of herself—her pleasure or her blood.

Osha decided for him, pulling him in again as they both fell back against the bed. She moaned at the tangy, sharp taste on his lips and tongue. She didn’t feel the same way he did, about the warmth and the light in the darkness. Instead, she only tasted something wild and powerful. He caged himself around her, still fully dressed while she remained naked from the waist down. He probably did so for her comfort, knowing the chill of his body wouldn’t feel very nice. The consideration made her feel… safe. What a paradox to feel safe for the first time in years in the arms of a deadly apex predator.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked after some time, nosing beneath her jaw but making no attempt to continue his plans—that third bite he promised her.

“Nothing,” she sighed. Normally, such an admission would be met with skepticism, as that kind of answer to that kind of question was most often a lie. But this time, it was the truth. Nothing was on Osha’s mind. Not her worries about making ends meet, not her surviving grief over her family, not her remaining anger and frustration at the hand the Jedi dealt her. All that bitterness and anxiety had been safely swept aside. “Nothing at all.”

Qimir chuckled, the sound warm and soul-deep. “I believe you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. This, of all the kisses and touches he’d given, felt the most intimate of all.

“Am I still bleeding from the… from the bites?” she asked, curious to look but unable to do so with a huge vampire lying atop her.

He shook his head, his hair tickling her nose. She scowled at the feeling and only received a teasing smile in return. “I have some measure of influence over that. More than just how you’d feel from the act, I can control the wound itself. If I wanted you to keep bleeding, you would. But, no. I wanted you to heal.” I wanted to take care of you, she imagined him saying next, though not a single word of that passed his lips.

“Can all vampires do that?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe some.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching up to trace over the muscles and tendons in his neck. He was truly a masterpiece, and the more she ran her hands over his torso, the more she found she was right. He was absolutely fit beneath those baggy clothes, all rippling muscles and tight skin.

“Don’t mention it,” he said softly. Some emotion flashed through his eyes, and she didn’t know him well enough to even guess at it.

Qimir pressed his forehead against hers, and Osha was startled by how warm he’d gotten. “Do you… how often do you need to feed?” she asked, curious. How long had it been, for him to get to the desperate point he’d been?

He kept his eyes closed as he answered her question. “Ideally? Every two weeks, and just the amount you gave me from your arm.”

Concern lanced through her. Shit, it must have been a long time. She couldn’t imagine starving like that.

“But you don’t need to worry about me, Osha.” He pressed a kiss to her lips again, then gently tilted her head this way and that. “Have a preference for which side?” he asked, playful once more. He reminded her of a big cat, both prowling predator and playful in spades.

“Whichever one seems tastiest,” she said, letting her hand fall from his hair and trace down his spine.

His body stiffened the moment she touched some irregular bump over the deep groove of his spinal column. She withdrew her hand and left it to rest on his shoulder instead, getting the hint easily enough. He relaxed once her hand moved, but he was still all coiled muscle, the predator beneath his skin rising to meet her again.

“They both seem tasty,” he said, pressing his face into the crook of her left shoulder. She shuddered, latent full-body pleasure still coursing through her. It kicked up a notch at the press of his lips to her pulse point.

She didn’t realize what she was doing until Qimir stopped mouthing at her neck and stilled against her. With his thigh between her legs, it proved the perfect place for her to rock back and forth against him. It was firm, unyielding to her desperate search for pleasure.

“Need more, greedy girl?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest. She pictured dark rainclouds, a flash of lightning, rolling thunder. She shuddered and couldn’t even summon the urge to be embarrassed at how she was acting.

“Ple—” He silenced her with a kiss, moving his thigh away to bring his hand back to her center. “No,” she pouted. “I need more than that.”

He looked delighted to hear that. “More?” he asked again. “You sure you can handle more?”

“Yes, damn it,” she said, squirming again.

Suddenly, his hand jerked away, taking with it the shredded remains of her underwear. “Was getting in the way,” he said with a shrug.

Qimir rose up on his knees between her legs, deftly undoing the clasps at his pants and pushing them down. He was rough with himself compared to how gentle he’d been when he took her boots and pants off earlier.

He was hard and thick, and the head of his cock was a blushed, dark pink. Her mouth watered, arousal spiking once more, even after all he’d done to appease her hunger. One-handed, he stroked himself, watching her watch him. “You sure you can handle more?”

She gave him a scathing glare that silenced him but didn’t stop him from grinning at her. Even now, the sight of his fangs still inspired her heart to flip in her chest. Would she ever tire of it?

After tonight, she’d have to. Their ship was set to leave tomorrow, and she had to be there when it did. He didn’t.

Not letting that thought dissuade her from having a good time, she just nodded. “I want it. I want you to fuck me while you feed from my neck.”

A full-body shiver raced up his body, making his shoulders tense somewhat. What she couldn’t see before was now apparent: deep shadows raced beneath his skin, black veins pulsing with some dark energy as he fought it back for control. “Can’t say things like that,” he bit out, swallowing roughly.

“I wouldn’t have to say it if you’d just do it,” she argued.

Crimson eyes met hers, nearly glowing in the low light. The primal survival instinct in the back of her mind was screaming for her to run as fast as she could, but Osha didn’t give a fuck. She had what she wanted right in front of her.

“I’m fed enough to think straight now, but if I do—that, I might snap.”

Osha wondered briefly at what she’d really be losing if she died fucking a sexy vampire. A few knick-knacks in her bunk. A few friends who don’t understand her. Grief. Anger. Sadness. All in all, not much.

“I might snap if you don’t get inside me right fucking now, Qimir.”

He pounced. His hands were suddenly everywhere, just like she imagined back in the cantina. He grabbed at her, pulling her closer and closer into his body until there was no space left between them. It took just a few inches of adjustment for her to get exactly what she wanted from him.

His mouth hung open some when he sank into her, fangs glinting wetly in the low light. “Fuck, Osha,” he gasped, shuddering. Just like his fingers and mouth, his cock was cooler than she was, sending a shocking contrast of feeling through her veins.

Osha moaned, half her body confused by the sensation and the other half eager for him to sink another part of him inside her. She reached for him as he came down, hips starting to roll against her in smooth, deep strokes that had her practically gasping. He was thick, thought-stealingly thick. The noise she made wasn’t remotely coherent, echoing those twin feelings of confusion and lust as he fucked her.

“If I—if I’m taking too much…” he panted, looking down at her with fevered, scarlet eyes. “You fight me. You punch and bite and pull at me. You use whatever—whatever you need to get me off of you.”

She couldn’t form words but nodded at him.

He struck like a viper, fangs sinking into her neck like they were always meant to be there. Osha screamed, half-ecstasy, half-agony. Even when he pulled his fangs out of her and began to feed from her neck, she couldn’t keep quiet. Her moans were almost panicked from how amazing she felt. He was right; this was nothing like when he fed from her arm or even from her thigh. She couldn’t escape it this time, not when he was fucking her this deep and drawing her blood down his throat like it held the answers to the universe.

Her second orgasm took her by surprise. The third, hot on its heels, threatened to devastate her. After that, she lost count, lost in a roiling tide of pleasure as he took and took and took—and wasn’t that all she wanted? To be wanted enough to give herself over like this. Tears ran down the sides of her face, the ecstasy and fulfillment coalescing into an incredible crescendo.

Black and white dots burst in her vision, reminding her of meteor showers and lightspeed. Qimir shuddered against her, groaning into her skin, into her veins. With a sob, she felt another orgasm crash over her, overwhelming and ceaseless. She had no control of herself like this, and for half a second, she truly didn’t care if he drained her dry. Having known this pleasure, she could die right now, happier than she’d ever been in her life.

But he seemed to have found control, licking over the wound in her neck. His hand slid behind her neck to angle her head to him, and he paused just to look at the bite mark, marveling at it and brushing his thumb over it like it’d disappear. While her arm throbbed and her thigh ached like he said it would, her neck seemed to pulse with that lasting heat and pain, juxtaposing the pleasure his bite had brought.

Osha was boneless as he pulled out of her, feeling messy but unable to care at the moment. She closed her eyes as he wiped away her tears, sweat, and any evidence of their pleasure. His motions were so gentle, they were almost sweet. When he lay down beside her, arms curled around her, she had no more tears to cry—but he’d cause no more tears tonight.

His chin rested atop her head as they embraced, and for the longest time, neither moved. Her first words came out as a wretched croak. “You’re warm.”

Qimir chuckled, and she felt it against her cheek. His heart still thudded unnaturally slow behind his ribs, but he was warm and solid and real. That’s what mattered. “Thanks to you.”

He didn’t sound drunk, as he’d been after feeding on her thigh. He instead sounded… level. Satisfied. Full.

He spoke after they rested a while longer. “Don’t do anything too strenuous for a day or two while your body replenishes its blood.”

“Yes, doctor,” she grumbled, laying back down with him.

His laugh was softer now, carrying another feeling that tried to press itself into her mind. The Force had been good at telling her what others felt, but she hadn’t been connected to the Force in some time. It was probably just some post-coital haze.

Qimir murmured something to her, stroking his fingers over her shoulder. But Osha was too comfortable to concentrate, and dozed off.

He was packing up a bag when she woke. He’d put her pants back on, sans underwear, and even laced up her boots for her. He looked over when she stirred, taking inventory of her body. “Feeling okay?” he asked.

She supposed this was where he asked her to leave, yet the embarrassment didn’t rise to her cheeks like it normally would. “Yeah,” she said softly.

Then she cursed, the rest of the galaxy coming crashing back into her awareness at once. “Fuuuuck—” she groaned and checked her chrono. “Oh, thank fuck. I have an hour.”

“Don’t wanna miss movement,” he said, teasing. But he felt a little more closed off than he’d been before. He looked completely different than he’d been when they met. Gone was the deathly pale, starving vampire. Like this, he just looked like… well, a man.

His eyes were brown again. She didn’t know why this was the most disappointing part.

“Yeah,” she said, chewing at her lip.

He was in front of her in a heartbeat, moving so fast she didn’t even have time to flinch before he thumbed her lower lip away from her teeth. “That’s my job,” he said, his voice a quiet, fond murmur. When his hand turned, she pressed her cheek against it.

“Still warm,” she smiled up at him, gladdened by his lack of remorse over this whole… thing.

“Thank you, Osha,” he said, sounding slightly grave. “You’ve done me a great service.”

“Yeah, well. Ditto.” Ah, there was the embarrassment and shyness. Right on schedule. “Uh, if you…”

She trailed off, and he raised an eyebrow at her. She remembered the fervent order he’d given her before.

I don’t want to hear you holding back another fucking breath from me.

Her mouth went dry all at once, desire sparking beneath her skin. “If you wanna catch a bite in a few weeks, just look me up. We’re at this port a lot, I mean.” It felt overly familiar, attached in a way Master Sol would have chastised her for. But Master Sol wasn’t here.

Qimir leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss that stole any remaining thoughts from her mind, leaving nothing but…

Peace.

“I’ll find you,” he said, far too soft for what this was. But Osha allowed it, leaning into his touch until it was gone.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone.

Two weeks later

“I hope you guys can hear me,” Osha said to Pip, waiting for the merchant to hand her the long black shawl.

She had to pretend to be Mae, which was lying, thereabouts. For whatever reason, the racing of her heart felt like an omen. Something else pulsed beneath her skin, a feeling she had avoided acknowledging until then. She’d reached out to the Force back on the prison transport, but that had been fruitless. Even so, the closer she drew to the apothecary, the worse that feeling got, pulsing in three places in particular.

Heart pounding, she stepped in. She didn’t even see the man in the open doorway as she said, “Hello?”

But when he looked up, she felt her mouth go as dry as it’d done the first time he spoke to her.

It looked like she had found him.

Qimir grinned, half-smug and half-dangerous. “Hello.”

masterlist

#unhingery #oshamir #oshamir fanfiction #qimir x osha #the acolyte fanfiction #the acolyte

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cowboylikesvt · 2 days ago

Text

Spider-boy! 🕸 🎸🎧

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Chapter 4: Putting the “C” in Physics

warnings: Cursing

Word count: 1.5k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

Bouncing a leg up and down is a habit you’ve had ever since you were a child, which you’re currently doing as you wait for your tutor to arrive. It’s not out of impatience or anything; it’s nothing like that at all. You never really knew why you did this, but every time you awaited something, you always found yourself bouncing your leg or tapping a foot.

Maybe you just felt antsy. Maybe you were anxious. You never gave it much thought since you always found yourself doing it no matter how serious or unserious the occasion was. It’s just normal. Well, you guess it is for you, at least.

Sitting in the window of the coffee shop, there are all kinds of different people walking by. Businessmen in suits heading to their corporate jobs, nurses in scrubs heading to the hospital a few blocks away, and parents walking hand in hand with their children.

It was something so normal, but still, it stirred something within you. Sure, some parts of your life could be considered normal, but deep down, you craved that normalcy and obliviousness that the average person had. The one thing you knew you’d never be able to have. Never again, that is.

You never thought about being a full-time superhero, such as someone like Spiderman. You were selfish in a way. You can’t just easily suppress those feelings and put them aside for other people. That may be why you’re a cat burglar (see what I did there). You may not steal from the average person, but it’s enough of a distraction and adrenaline rush to make you forget about that ache deep inside your chest.

That’s why you don’t like Spiderman. Not because he’s annoying or always in your way but because he was a genuinely good, selfless person. He may not have the normalcy or obliviousness you crave, and he may even crave it as well, but he doesn’t let that get in the way of what he believes is right.

In a way, your entire situation could be viewed as wrong. What you do is wrong. How you do it is wrong. It’s all unethical. However, it’s deeper than that. There’s more to it, so you like to tell yourself everything is just morally grey. (That’s why your friends are still your friends, but more of the details of that later.)

Snapping out of your thoughts, you look up to the entrance and see the boy you met the other day. You watch as he glances around looking for you, so you stick your hand up in the air and wave so he can spot you.

You see him smile when he spots you, and you smile back as he walks over. He bumps into an empty chair at someone’s table as he walks over.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jisung says apologetically to the people at the table while cursing at himself mentally for embarrassing himself.

“Hi! I hope this table is alright; it was the only empty one when I got here. I also got us both hot lattes since it’s cold out; I hope that’s ok. I don’t know what you would want.” You greet Jisung nicely and slide the coffee cup over.

He takes his jacket off and hangs it on the back of the chair. “That’s fine, thank you!” He reassures you with a soft smile as he sits across from you. He bends over to grab his textbook and notebook from his bag.

“I’m going to be honest: I suck at physics,” you say awkwardly but honestly nonetheless. He deserves to know what he’s getting into. “Like, I’m really bad at it. Really bad.”

Jisung gives you a sympathetic look. “It’s alright; besides, that’s what I’m here for. What grade are you aiming for?”

“Well, I have an F right now, so I’m failing. I’d like to get it up to a D with the next test and possibly a C for the semester.” You begin to pull out your own notes and textbook from your bag.

He nods, “That should be doable.” You raise your eyebrows. “Really?” You say surprised, raising your eyebrows.

He starts to explain it to you as he writes it all down on a piece of paper. “Let’s say right now you have a 58 in the class. Getting a C on the next test could raise your grade up to a low D. With all of the assignments and extra credit being assigned, that could get your average up to about a 65.” He does the math in his head and hums to himself.

“We have another test after the one coming up. Then after that one is the final. So if you get a C on the next exam and then a B or higher on the following exam, you could finish the class with about... a 74 or 75. Depending on how the professor rounds it.” He then sets his pencil down, and you stare at him in awe.

“You did all of that in your head? That quickly?” You question the guy sitting in front of you. He rubs the back of his neck, chuckling nervously, “Oh, uh, I’m just really good at math.”

You nod, “I can see that.” You then look at the paper. “Do you think I could get a B in the class?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. It will be really hard, but it’s not impossible, I guess. You just have to do well on the next two tests and the final. I think if the professor gives out more extra credit opportunities, it could make it more likely too. I don’t know if he will, though.” He answers honestly. “I think it would be best to aim for a C for now since that seems to be the possible outcome.”

“Ok, then I feel better about this.” You then look up at him. “Not that I didn’t think you wouldn’t be helpful! I just didn’t know if it would be possible.”

Jisung shakes his head and waves his hands in front of him. “Oh, I didn’t think that at all. Don’t worry; I would never think that. EVER.” He then laughs awkwardly, giving you a confused look.

“Oh well, alright then,” you pause, thinking of how to break the now awkward silence. “Well, should we start then?”

“Right, yes. Yes, of course. That is why we are here.” He is a bit all over the place and a bit… well, strange, but he’s nice, and you know he is the best option when it comes to help, so you just brush it off.

He thinks to himself before speaking. “Let’s start with Newton’s Laws of Motion,” he smiles, flipping to a page in the textbook.

“Right,” you smile, then pause and then laugh awkwardly. “Uh, so… What is that?”

He looks up, and his eyes widen a bit. This is going to be harder than he thought.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

“Ok, I think I got it. Can you check it?” You slide the paper over to Jisung for him to check the problems he gave you to solve after an hour and a half of tutoring.

He nods and checks the problems. “You got everything right.” He smiles. “See, I told you that you could do it. You just needed a bit of confidence. After a few more sessions, I’m 100% sure you will be able to do these with your eyes closed.”

You can’t help but smile brightly at him. “Thank you so much for your help. It all makes so much sense now! I don’t know why I was so nervous. Honestly, you’re a better teacher than our actual professor.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but—well, I guess I am a pretty good teacher.” He lets the compliment go to his head. After all, it’s coming from you, the most beautiful person he has ever met.

The both of you begin to pack your things. “So, same time next week?” You ask looking up after zipping your bag. “Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect.” He reassures.

“Great! I’ll see you next Thursday then!” You smile, then get ready to walk off.

Jisung watches you start to walk off, but he wants to say something else to you. Internally he is beating himself up, not knowing what he should say or if he should say anything at all.

"Act how you think a normal person would act," Chan's words repeat in his head. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Jisung," he tells himself before calling out to you.

You turn your head around at the sound of your name. "Next time I'll buy your coffee. I owe you one." A smile creeps up onto your lips.

"I'll hold you to it then." You then exit the coffee shop, leaving Jisung standing there pumping his fists in the air excitedly. He can't wait to tell his friends about this, mainly because he will prove that he isn't a complete idiot.

He stops and sees the people sitting around him staring at him. He laughs awkwardly and rubs his head before pointing to the door and swiftly exiting.

Okay, maybe he is an idiot.

Authors note: I’m really looking forward to the upcoming chapters as they dive more into Y/n’s backstory, family, and how she became The Black Cat. As always I hope you guys enjoyed <3

#spider boy!#han jisung smau #skz smau #stray kids fanfic #stray kids smau #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #han jisung x reader

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writingsbytee · 3 hours ago

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SEXUAL HEALING

TERRY RICHMOND x BLACK FEM READER

WARNING / TRIGGERS: Reader is DEPRESSED, no thoughts of self harm or un-aliving herself. Babygirl is just having a depressive episode. Depressed themes, Sexual themes, explicit sexual content; dirty talk; soft Dom,

SUMMARY: Reader is depressed and Terry fucks her out of it

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

*Remember you are in charge of your own consumption. 18+ up audiences only; minora please don’t interact!*

*Also, this is complete fiction. I'm writing about the reader’s depression simply based on my experiences and knowledge of depression. I’m in NO WAY saying that this is what depression is for every individual. This is a safe space. If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health please reach out to your local crisis center so that they can provide resources. Read with care. Love you guys <3*

This hasn’t been proofread

You groaned as your phone rang yet again, reaching out from under your blankets, your hand blindly slapping your bedside table in search of the device. Checking to see who called, a pained sigh leaves your lips. Terry, your boyfriend called you 4 times in the past hour. Deciding to put him out of his misery you answer the call.

“Hello?”, you say, not even bothering to hide the quiver in your voice.

“Babygirl? What’s wrong?,” Terry asked, his voice sounding frantic.

A watery sigh leaves your lips, “I’m having a moment Terry, I’ll be ok. It’s just taking a little bit longer for me to come out of it.”

I hear Terry’s door shut on the other line, “I’m on my way sweet girl, Daddy’s coming”

A muffled sob leaves your mouth at Terry’s words. Always willing to stop whatever he’s doing to help you fight the demons constantly plaguing your mind. Religious therapy and an antidepressant regimen seemed to keep the dark thoughts at bay. Every now and then the debilitating thoughts would come back rendering you useless. Your apartment desperately needed a deep clean as well as your room. Your bed becoming a cesspool, you slept, ate, and cried in the same spot for a little over a week now.

Rolling onto your back you let out a deep sigh, wanting to be normal and not a basket case full of emotions.

45 MINUTES LATER

You could hear your front door open and close, signaling that Terry arrived. You heard him set bags down in your kitchen before his light footfalls made his way to your room. He knocked twice before peeking his head in. Terry’s small smile dropped when he saw the state of you and your room. It broke his heart to see you this way.

“Aww honey, I’m here,” Terry said walking toward you. Tear tracks making their way down your face and silent sobs wracked your body.

“I’m so sorry, Terry. I didn’t mean to make you come all the way down here,” You said, covering your face with your hands. Terry gently grabbed your hands, removing them from your face.

“Sweet girl, never apologize because the air gets a little too heavy for you. That’s why I’m here to take some of the load off,” Terry said with a small smile. Your gentle green-eyed giant, you grabbed your glasses, putting them on.

You brought a hand up to his cheek, “You’re too good for this world Terry Richmond. Thank you, for being what I never knew I needed,” you say with all the sincerity you can muster.

Terry’s eyes shine with unshed tears, “you’ll never have to go through these feelings alone again. Baby when I said I wasn’t going anywhere I meant that. You’re stuck with me sweetheart,” Terry finishes, with a watery smile of his own. He gently raises me into a sitting position.

“Here’s what I want you to do. I brought you your favorite body wash shampoo, conditioner and those wax things you like so much. Go take a shower, wash your hair,pamper yourself. I’m going to get started on your sheets. Okay babygirl?”, he asked. Your eyes practically turned into hearts looking at Terry.

A small smile formed on your lips as you said a gentle, “Okay, Daddy.”

His smile widened, leaning forward to place a kiss on your forehead. “There’s my girl. Now go get cleaned up, I’ll take care of everything else.” You nodded, rising slowly, and made your way into the bathroom. You didn’t dare glance at yourself in the mirror. Not in the mood for the thoughts to take hold again. Turning on the shower as hot as it would get you stepped in, ready to wash the bad thoughts away.

Meanwhile, Terry was in your room replacing your dirty sheets, putting them in the wash, and tidying up around your apartment. He hated that he couldn’t save you from your thoughts, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. He understood that everyone’s trauma affected them differently. His put him in attack mode, while yours forced you to shut down.

As you washed your hair, you could feel your sense of self slowly returning. You found peace in taking care of yourself. Detangling your curls felt as if you were brushing away all the bad thoughts. Exfoliating was like scrubbing away your impurities, leaving you shiny and new. You don’t know why you couldn’t muster up the strength to take the 15 foot walk to your bathroom. But that’s depression in a nutshell, making the most mundane tasks feel like climbing mount everest. You spent at least an hour in the bathroom, when you emerged you felt like a different person. Your heart warmed at the sight of your room, new sheets adorned your bed with a new hello kitty plushie and pajama set.

Exiting your room, you start searching for your boyfriend. Finding him in your living room playing your favorite vinyl and watering your plants. You will yourself not to cry at Terry’s selflessness, you just run up behind him wrapping his torso in a hug.

“Hey, baby. Feeling better?”he asks, turning to face you. You place a kiss right above his heart, looking up at him you nod.

“Yeah honey, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you” you say, staring up at him adoringly.

Terry pet your head lovingly, “Let’s hope you never have to find out. Now go make yourself comfortable, I ordered your favorite vietnamese take-out and I’m going to rub your feet until it gets here.”

A warm gooey feeling spreads from your head to your toes. A slow grin taking over your face at your adonis of a boyfriend takes care of your body, mind, and soul. Settling into your sectional, you wiggle your toes playfully urging him closer. Terry chuckles through his nose, making his way toward you. Sliding down beside you , he grabbed both of your legs, placing them on his lap.

“Relax baby, Daddy’s here now and I’m going to take care of you,” Terry said, running his hands up your bare calves. His touch warms your skin instantly. A content sigh leaves your lips as you rest your head on the arm of your sofa.

“Good girl,” Terry said, grabbing your right foot. He began slowly, just caressing your feet adding a tickle here and there pulling small giggles from your lips. Terry started to work on your foot starting slowly on your instep, applying light pressure. Then he moved to your arch applying pressure that was almost painful, causing a gasp to leave your lips.

“You’ve got a knot here, be patient I’ll work it out,” Terry said, digging in deeper. An involuntary moan leaves your lips, the release of the tenson expelling through your lips. Terry smirked, his plan was working. This kept going for a while, Terry expertly massaging your feet, and you moaning like he was massaging somewhere else. You're getting wetter by the minute.

The doorbell interrupts your massage as a groan leaves your lips, “I was just starting to relax,” you whined. Terry lets out a chuckle before getting up. Leaning to kiss your forehead, “You’ll have plenty of time to relax later, trust me.” And with that, he heads toward the door to grab the food. Terry doesn’t let you lift a finger while he plates the food for you two. Just advising you to find something “good to watch.” With a smirk, you put on your favorite show at the moment, ‘True Blood.’ Terry liked the show surprisingly, being the first of your boyfriends to take an interest in YOUR interests. What he didn’t like was how googly-eyed you got over Alcide. As trivial as it was, he wasn't going to sit and watch you drool over another man.

Plating your food,

Terry brought it to you. Plopping down next to you on the couch with a plan in mind, Terry just sat back and watched you enjoy your food. A small satisfied sigh leaves your lips at the first bite.

“Mmm, it’s so good! Thank you baby” you say, leaning in to kiss Terry’s cheek. He could feel his cheeks warm at your gratitude, placing a hand on your thigh and squeezing. Your breath hitched when Terry’s hand refused to leave your thigh. Instead tracing small circles while you ate.

After finishing your food you and Terry cuddled up on your sofa with a blanket. Rubbing his chest you say, “Thank you for everything Terry, I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Terry looks down at you grasping your chin forcing your brown eyes to meet his mossy green ones. “I’m just doing my job baby. What kind of man would I be if I let my woman suffer alone? I’m here for you, I love you, and I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of.” Terry’s hand migrated to the back of your neck, pulling you in excruciatingly slow. He watched your face change. Eyes become low, lips parting, and your breathing turns shallow.

Terry inches impossibly closer, your lips a hair’s width apart, “What do you want, pretty girl?”

“Kiss me, please?” you ask, fingers coming up to grip his t-shirt. A small devious smirk makes its way onto Terry’s face as he leans down, lips brushing against yours. The anticipation is killing you. You two were practically sharing the same breath, yet Terry wouldn’t close the gap and lay one on you.

“Please, Daddy? Let me thank you, I’ve been good haven't I?” you ask, looking up at Terry with the doe eyes that he loves so much.

A groan leaves his lips as Terry places your bowl on the coffee table “You know what that look does to me, baby. C’mere,” and then his lips are on you. A surprised moan leaves your lips as you pull Terry closer, sucking his lips between yours. He grabs your hips positioning you on his lap, right atop his growing bulge.

“How are you feeling honey, still sad? What can Daddy do?” Terry asks, his hand grasping and pulling at the fat of your ass. Grinding you against thick dick.

“Touch me, please Daddy”, you whine. You could feel yourself soaking through the seat of your sleep shorts, having forgone underwear. Terry smiles against your lips, “I am touching you pretty girl”. Pulling back for air, you move your attention to his thick neck. Placing wet open mouthed kisses there migrating up to his ear, nipping and sucking at the lobe. You hear Terry’s breath stutter drawing a smile from your lips. Terry pulls back in time to see the bright dopey smile on your face and he places a kiss on your nose.

Pulling your shirt over your head, Terry's eyes lock on plump mahogany breasts and chocolate nipples.

“Fuck, pretty girl. You’re not playing fair,” Terry says, head dropping onto the back of the sofa. A soft giggle leaves your lips. You slither up Terry’s body like a cat in heat, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“C’mon Daddy don’t you wanna feel how wet I am for you? Just for you,” you whisper into Terry’s ear, finishing with a lick. A small ‘fuck’ leaves Terry’s lips as his hand comes cracking down on your ass forcing a small yelp to leave your lips.

“Keep that up baby and I’ll give you exactly what you’re asking for,” Terry said, playing with your shorts. Pulling them halfway down to jiggle your ass or tugging them high up your ass giving your clit the much needed friction you craved. You two were making out like porn stars, sloppily, lips glistening with spit. You pulled back to look at Terry, his eyes half mast filled with need and desire for you. You’re positive your face looks the same. Terry picks you up off his lap, setting you next to him on the sofa as he gets up. Turning on your sunset lamp and turning off the lights to create an ethereal glow around your living room. Then he moves pieces of your sectional together making it a day bed of some sort.

“Strip babygirl, I want you naked by the time I get back,” Terry commands, then picks up your leftovers, and heads back to the kitchen. It was embarrassing how fast you threw the sticky shorts off. Your pussy was talking and Terry hadn’t even touched you yet. As you wait for Terry, you start massaging your tits. Nipples forming tight peaks, tugging and pulling creates a throb you feel straight down to your clit. Small moans started leaving your lips. The ache between your thighs growing almost painful as you whined, waiting for your man to return and fuck you stupid. After five minutes you almost debate finding him.

“Terrrrryyyy,” you cry out. When you get no response you peek over your shoulder, when you don’t see him you decide to start on your own. Sliding your hands down your body, you’re about to reach your pussy when Terry’s hand grabs yours, pulling a gasp from you.

“I said strip, when did I tell you to touch my pussy?”Terry's looking down his nose at you.

“I’m sorry, Daddy I need you please!” You whine, sitting up. Terry makes his way around the sofa looking like a lion stalking his prey. He stands in front of you crossing his arms, a cup in one hand.

“Spread those legs for me mama,let me see my pussy,” Terry said. Your legs fell open immediately the quiet ‘schlick’ heard between the two of you. Terry’s eyes darken, the color of a stormy sea and he takes a step toward you.

“Hands behind your back sweetheart, you know the drill,” Terry purrs, crawling on the sofa. Taking a long sip from his cup before setting it down. Like an obedient little slut you put your hands behind your back with a small smile on your face, “Like this papa?” you asked.

Terry dropped his head and groaned, “I’m trying to make you wait babygirl, I’m two seconds away from burying my face in that sweet pussy,” Terry said, his voice sounding like he was in pain.

“C’mon papa look at how ready she is for you, she couldn’t wait for you to get your hands on her,” you scooched your ass further down the sofa, practically planting your pussy on his chin. With a growl, Terry was on top of you, hand clutching your cunt.

Terry started massaging your clit with his fingers releasing a relieved moan from your lips.

“Unh Terry, it feels good!” you said, head thrown back, and your back arched.

A devilish smile formed on Terry’s lips. He loved the sounds you made when he played with you.

“Make that sound again baby,” Terry said, tonguing your nipple.

“Unh! Daddy!Take your pants off please. I want to feel you” you moan, gripping Terry’s neck. Pulling him down to lock your lips. Terry explored your pussy like it was his first time. Experimenting with how wet he could make you. Sliding his pants and boxers down he freed his monster of a dick.

“I’m going to fuck you baby,but first tell me how bad you want it” Terry said, his finger picking up the pace on your clit.

“I want you so bad Terry,” you say leaning up to peck his lips over and over.

A small chuckle leaves his lips, “Yeah? How bad? Let Daddy know sweetheart.” Terry’s working your clit between his fingers, the slick sounds permeating through your home.

“Fuck Daddy I want you to take care of me like you always do . You’re such a good provider, always making sure I have what I need! Ouuu! Baby, right there! Yes! You’re going to make me cum, fuck!,” You moan out, your voice rising in pitch letting Terry know you were close.

“Then come on my tongue sweet girl,” Terry leans down and takes your clit in his mouth. Your mouth falling open in a silent scream as your breath staccatos

“You look so pretty, baby. I love how wet this pussy gets for me. You ganna let Daddy fuck the bad thoughts away. Want me to make it feel better sweetie. Because I can, you know Daddy can help,” Terry slips two fingers into, causing your soul to leave your body.

Combined with his suction on your clit, you stood no chance against the orgasm that rocked your body. “Oouuu Terry! Yesssss!”, you moaned as Terry worked your orgasm out of you.

“That’s right pretty girl, give me that orgasm,” Terry said, adding another finger. You were beyond seeing stars at this point. There was a full milky way galaxy dancing behind your eyes. Terry had a dark smirk on his face, loving the effect he had on you. He loved making you come, how you gave yourself over to him completely. He was surprised when you forced his fingers out of your pussy, a harsh stream of liquid following. A high pitched moan left your lips as your body shook.

“Yes Honey! That’s it!” Terry moaned, slapping your clit a few times. Your body shook and shuddered in the aftermath of your orgasm. Vision hazy as you tried to center yourself. Terry stripped off his clothes and hovered over you, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“Hey, look at me baby,”Terry brought his finger to your face caressing you. Your eyes refocused on Terry’s soft ones, a small smile forming on your lips. Terry mirrored your expression, leaning down to press his lips against yours in a passionate sloppy kiss. Teeth and tongues clashing in a frantic meet of mouths. Both of you are trying to convey your love for one another.

“Papa, I need you inside me” you wine against Terry’s lips. Terry doesn’t need to be told twice, he positions himself at your entrance and eases in. Both your lips part, needy moans releasing from your lips.

“Terry, Terry, Terry! Oh my god!” You moan as he sets a punishing rhythm. Punching your cervix with the fat mushroom head of his dick. You lose yourself in the feeling of being fucked by him.

“How’s that feel baby, can you feel how much Daddy loves his sweet girl?” Terry asked. How he could ask you questions while digging your shit out like this is beyond you. You just moan and nod, his thrusts stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Words baby. I need to hear you say it. You’ll do that for daddy won’t you?” Terry asks, bringing his hand up to your throat applying slight pressure. The delicious feeling pulling a needy whine from your lips. Terry was hitting all your spots and you couldn’t think.

“Yes daddy, I feel it. I love it. I love you,” you moan your eyes slowly making their descent to the back of your skull. Terry loved when you started babbling on his dick, saying any and everything to please him. And please him it did.

Terry felt like a man possessed, your pleasure the only thing on his mind determined to coax as many orgasms out of you as possible. He was going at you like a man on a mission. The push and pull, the slick sounds of him going in and out of your pussy driving him insane.

“I love you more baby. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you with the dark thoughts, but I’m here now Daddy’s ganna fuck the depression out of you,” Terry said raising one of your knees so he could hit you even deeper.

You bring your hands up, grabbing Terry’s ass pulling him deeper inside you. “Baby you’re going to make me cummm!,” you moan out. Terry moans in your ear, pulling you in for another sloppy kiss. Terry releases your lips, leaning back to look at you.

“Open your eyes pretty girl, I love the way you look when you come for me,” Terry was long past close. He wanted to cum so bad, but he wouldn’t, not until he felt your velvet walls pulse around his thick dick.

“Cum with me Daddy! I need to feel you fill me up!,” You say reaching for Terry’s ears, rubbing them softly. Terry’s eyes start to roll in the back of his head. He loves it when you play with his ears.

“You’re so good to me Daddy, always taking care of me. You’re making me feel so good, thank you Daddy! Thank you for fucking the depression out of…” you never got to finnish your sentence. Orgasm hitting you like a bus. Terry was ejected from your pussy with the force, you squirted so hard your vision went white as a high pitched moan left your lips. Terry started in awe. He stood above you jerking his dick.

“Fuck that was so sexy baby I’m about to come,” Terry said. That all too familiar ache forming in his abdomen. Balls heavy and tight with the need to release. Your eyes regained their focus in just enough time to watch Terry erupt all over you. Painting you with his cum, a small smile formed on your face as his warm release landed on your breasts, tummy and legs.

“Mm that was a big one daddy, thank you,” you moan, collecting his essence to taste. A moan leaves your lips as the salty, earthy musk hits your taste buds. Terry leans down, placing another kiss to your lips.

“How do you feel now babygirl?” Terry asks, using the spare napkins to clean you up.

You place a kiss on Terry’s cheek, “Much better Daddy, but I think I’m still a little sad” you said, smirking up at him. Terry shakes his head at you with a playful smile on his lips.

“Well you better go grab us some waters babygirl, I’m not done with you yet,” Terry said before lifting you over his shoulders to carry you to your room.

THE END <3

I think this might be the fastest I’ve ever written anything. I just really wanted to create a vulnerable piece, and I LOVE how this piece turned out. This is supposed to be a one shot but that’s TBD as of now. As always constructive criticism is encouraged but please take it easy on me, I’m sensitive.

TAGLIST:

@blackgurlnhermoods @megamindsecretlair @dxddykenn @pinkkycherrish @pinkkycherrish @episodes-ff @kimuzostar @kianaleani @uzumaki-rebellion @urfavblackbimbo @shallipii @greatpandagladiator @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theereina @pocketsizedpanther @mymindisneverhere @onherereading @nayaesworld @earthchica @skyesthebomb @gg-trini @blyffe @melalsworld @mogul93 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @sweettea-and-honeybutter @diaries-of-me @simplyzeeka @kumkaniudaku

#rebel ridge fanfiction #terry richmond fanfiction #terry richmond #terry richmond smut #terry richmond x reader #terry richmond x black reader #black!fem!reader #terry richmond x black! fem plus size reader #black fem reader

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ikkyfics · 9 hours ago

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Vows

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: “Writing these vows. It’s an impossible task. How can I put everything I feel for you into words? There aren’t enough. I start writing and everything sounds... small, you know? How do I sum up you?”

Warnings: none

Part of 3 Marry Me

Masterlist

James was sitting in the armchair near the window, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow on his dark hair. He had a parchment in front of him, partially scribbled on, but most of the words were crossed out or abandoned at random. His quill spun awkwardly between his fingers as he looked at you across the room.

You were curled up on the sofa with a book, but he had no idea what the title was. For James, the sight of you, your forehead slightly furrowed in concentration, the way your fingers slid along the edge of the page before turning it, and the way the corner of your mouth curled, as if savoring each word, was simply mesmerizing.

“This is impossible,” he murmured to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

You looked up, confused. “What’s wrong?”

James let out a dramatic sigh, dropping the quill onto the parchment and sinking deeper into the armchair. “Writing these vows. It’s an impossible task.”

You tilted your head, a smile starting to play on your lips. “Why? I thought you were great with words.”

He laughed, messing up his already wild hair, his glasses slipping a bit down his nose. “Normally, yes. But... how can I put everything I feel for you into words? There aren’t enough. I start writing and everything sounds... small, you know? How do I sum up you?”

Your heart tightened, but also warmed with the intensity of his words. Closing the book, you set it aside and moved closer. “Let me see,” you said softly, sitting on the edge of the armchair and picking up the parchment.

He hesitated but handed over the paper with a guilty smile. “Don’t laugh, okay? I swear I tried.”

You scanned your eyes over the scribbled words. There were unfinished sentences, like ‘I promise to love you with everything I am,’ and others with little drawings beside them—hearts, stars, and something that looked like an attempt to draw you, though in a clearly awkward way. You couldn’t help but giggle when you saw one draft where he wrote: ‘I promise never to steal your chocolate, unless you offer.’

“James,” you began, your voice warm with affection, “this is so you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s perfect,” you said, looking at him with sincerity. “I don’t want perfect or polished words. I want them to be yours. And this...” you pointed to the clumsy drawing, “is exactly the kind of thing I love about you.”

James smiled, his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. He gently pulled you by the waist, making you fall into his lap. “Really? So you won’t complain when I give an entire speech about how beautiful you look when you’re concentrating, or how much I love it when you correct me with that face of ‘James Potter, stop being an idiot.’”

You laughed, the sound light as a melody. “Oh, I will, especially if you say it in front of all the guests.”

“Oh, so I should save it just for us?” He tilted his head, his lips brushing your temple before he kissed you gently.

Your heart melted with the gesture, but you tried to keep the playful tone. “Definitely. And the less you draw, the better.”

“Hey!” He made a mock pout, placing a hand over his heart. “My drawings are full of emotion, you know?”

“They’re full of something, for sure,” you teased, laughing when he pretended to be offended.

“All right, all right,” he said, holding your face in his hands and looking deeply into your eyes. “I may not be good at drawing, but I know exactly what I’m going to say in the vows. I’ll say everything I love about you at the right moment. Every detail, every little thing that makes me think I’m the luckiest guy in the world for being yours.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes and tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let you. “Hey, no hiding those tears from me,” he whispered, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. “They’re beautiful. Just like you.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you, slowly and deeply, as if trying to convey everything his words still hadn’t managed. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, a peaceful smile lighting up his face.

“So, what do you think? Do I still need the vows, or is this enough?”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I think you’ve already said everything.”

James smiled, pulling you closer as if he never wanted to let go. “Great. Now, let’s move on to the second part of the plan: doing nothing but staying like this with you for the rest of the day.”

And at that moment, with the sunlight glowing all around and the sound of your laughter echoing through the room, it felt like the whole world had been reduced to the two of you. And that was more than enough.

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korpuskat · 3 days ago

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Cadence [Michael Myers/Reader]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone had fought back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wedding.

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

No place to put a ring even-

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

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

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

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

“No? What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still clothed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He probably doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until he wants to be, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like the news.

Like if he’s killed already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you take a seat and wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!”:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No clue.

They don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would be a shame not to try some.

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

Michael would enjoy this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One eyebrow twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, Michael does not move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another encounter might not leave you so lucky.

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

The walk back seems longer, emptier in the darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t smell iron.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a thought for long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb strokes your skin.

#michael myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #halloween 2018 #michael myers x you

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kissme-withyour-cherrylipstick · 1 day ago

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Merry Kissmas, Day 21

Not having found anything for Morgana the day before, they head into town again and try out an assortment of other shops.

“What do you think Morgana would like from here?” Arthur asks as they stand in the kitchen section of one such shop.

“I dunno, she’s your sister, you know her better than I do.”

“Yeah, but she’s a girl. And you’re... you.”

“I am not a girl.” Merlin crosses his arms.

“Yes, I know,” Arthur says with a raise of his eyebrows that tugs at Merlin’s heart a little, another reminder he is not what Arthur wants.

“You know who’s a girl? And Morgana’s friend? And who you should have brought instead of me? Gwen.” Merlin pulls his phone out and calls Gwen. He stares at Arthur as he waits for her to answer, trying to shame him. “Hi, Gwen! What gift do you think Morgana would like better? A frying pan or a rolling pin?”

“Um. I don’t think you should get her either of those things,” says Gwen.

“She says you’re a clueless dunce,” Merlin says to Arthur.

“She didn’t say that.”

“I’m translating.” Back to Gwen. “So really, what do you think she would like?”

“Well, she was telling me the other day—” Gwen’s voice is cut off by Arthur scooping Merlin close with one arm and kissing him. Merlin almost drops his phone, but manages to turn comfortably into Arthur, arms slinking up Arthur’s shoulders and wrapping around his neck. It feels like the kind of kiss someone would give you if they genuinely wanted to kiss you for the sake of kissing you and Merlin forgets everything else as he becomes lost in Arthur’s lips and tongue, the heat from his chest against Merlin’s roiling something inside him.

It’s over as quickly as it began and Merlin stares at Arthur, utterly defenseless, now lost in his eyes, until the world comes back to him in the form of Gwen yelling at him from his phone.

Arthur feels it too. “I’m in the lead now,” he says, pretending like he didn’t just do that .

“Gwen?” Merlin answers his phone, and Arthur turns to look at kitchen utensils.

“What happened?”

“Arthur um... he... he’s in the lead now.”

“Oh. In public?”

“Yeah.” He looks around, but no other shoppers are acting like they saw anything. “Yeah. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is. Um. Yeah. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Oh, Merlin. Are you okay?”

“I’ll tell you about it later .”

“Okay, well, I was saying that Morgana wants weapons for Christmas.”

As Merlin lies in bed, he muses that it’s beyond his capability to comprehend how he’s never really noticed Arthur before. Sure, he always knew Arthur was an attractive man, but the precise way in which light caught in his golden hair, the way his eyes twinkled when he was excited, the curve of his shoulders, the way he worried his lower lip with his thumb when he was deep in thought—have never cut so close to Merlin’s heart before. His extreme pratishness has always veiled these things, but now these past weeks of kissing his friend have blown all Merlin’s defenses down and he’s trapped, helpless, in the storm.

Three weeks of kissing Arthur everyday and it’s been wonderful, but now it’s almost over. How are they going to go back to normal after this? Merlin doesn’t want to, but surely Arthur does. Gwen insisted this wasn’t the case but it’s hard to have faith in her words when she has just as much evidence as he does. He wants to believe that this is something reciprocal, but he also wants to be sure. When he feels moisture squeeze from the corner of his eye and down his cheek to Arthur’s pillow, he knows it’s serious.

Oh, god , he thinks. I love him, don’t I? Could there be anything worse?

#merlin #merthur #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin fanfic #merlin emrys #my fanfic #merry kissmas

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atenea585 · 2 hours ago

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A Car For Christmas

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: Dean doesn't seem to want to be there for Christmas, but it seems that it was quite the opposite

Word Count: 984

A/N: Merry Christmas and Merry Holydays, everyone! This is my @spnfanficpond Secret Santa gift for @spnbabe67! I hope you like it and let me know!

Tags/Warnings: 18+, smut, angst, sex in a car, Christmas is here, established relationship

“I just don’t understand why you don’t want to celebrate Christmas. You’ve always wanted to.”

“We have a hunt, I’ve told you.” He said as he packed his things into his bag.

“I know, but… Dean,” You held his arm. “It’s Christmas…”

He sighed and turned to look at you.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You shook your head.

“No, you’re not.”

He frowned and turned his body towards you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What you heard. It seems like you’d rather hunt a creature that any other lone hunter could than spend Christmas with your brother and me.”

He stared at you and you noticed his jaw tense.

“That’s not true.” He murmured.

“Then prove it.” You looked at him pleadingly in the eyes. “Stay.”

He sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t going to stay.

“I’m sorry, really.”

He walked past you, leaving a kiss on your head before leaving.

A week had already passed, today was Christmas, and you were alone in the bunker. The tree you had decorated with the boys seemed dull, lifeless from the absence of the place.

You had been stirring the coffee in front of you for about twenty minutes. The energy you had been saving for this day was nowhere to be found. But a noise made you raise your head.

Maybe it had just been a normal noise in a bunker that was years old, but you got up anyway and followed the noise.

“Damn… Thing...” You heard a growl coming from the room you shared with Dean.

You peeked through the door and looked in confusion at the back of a man as he fixed something on the bed.

“Dean?”

He turned around in surprise and ran a hand through his hair.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You raised an eyebrow and tried to look behind him.

“What are you doing here? And the hunt?” You asked as you walked towards him.

But he stood in your way, his hands on your arms.

“Well, you said it yourself, sweetheart. It’s Christmas.”

“What’s that back there?” You tried to look behind his shoulder again.

“Hey, hey.” He laughed nervously. “It’s nothing. Why don’t you go to the library for a while?”

“What’s that back there?” You repeated.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Dean tried to move you back, but you managed to get out of his grip and walk past him, seeing what was behind him.

It was a half wrapped box.

You heard him sigh behind you.

“It was supposed to be your Christmas present. But I realized I’m really bad at wrapping these things.”

You turned to look at him slowly, a smile making its way onto your face. Suddenly, you jumped on him, Dean immediately holding you up as you placed kisses all over his face.

“Whoa, hey, hey!” He looked surprised. “You haven’t even opened your present yet.”

You got off of him as you laughed.

“Okay, okay.” You said as you turned around and began to open the box.

When you opened it, you noticed a video tape. You took it and read what was written on it. The Best Lana Del Rey Songs.

You shook your head in amusement.

“Now I can listen to Lana del Rey in your car.”

“Or yours.”

You turned to look at him and he was holding up car keys.

“No… You didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, I did.” He nodded. “I built you a car.”

“Oh, my God…” You slowly placed the tape on the bed. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can show you, doll.”

He took your hand and grabbed the tape before leaving the room. He led you through the bunker until you reached the garage.

You let out a gasp of amazement as you saw a red car next to his Impala.

“Oh, my God, Dean.” You jumped up and down in joy as you walked over to your new car. “You did it? By yourself?”

“Of course I did.” He walked over to stand beside you. “You like it?”

“Do I? It’s the best Christmas present anyone’s ever given me.”

Dean obviously liked that comment. A smile appeared on his face. He really had tried hard to give you a good present.

“You know?” You bit your bottom lip, running a finger down your car before looking at Dean. “I think we should get it new.”

Dean’s mind was working in such a way that he understood your double meaning.

“Oh, I think so too, sweetheart.” He said as he left the tape on top of the car.

He didn’t even wait two seconds as he held you. You wrapped your legs around his hips and he opened the back door of the car, climbing in with you and leaving you on the seat face up. Your clothes quickly came off of your bodies.

“Baby, we'll get this car dirty before you even drive it.”

He entered you and you moaned loudly, your nails digging into his back and earning a growl from him as he started a steady pace, gaining satisfaction from checking out your expressions of pleasure. He buried his head in your neck and began nibbling on your skin.

“God, Dean, harder.”

He picked up speed, the car windows thickening as it swayed in rhythm with Dean’s thrusts.

“Merry fucking Christmas to me.” He mumbled as he pushed you deeper into the seat.

The car seats were starting to get damp beneath you in a mix of sweat and cum.

“You feel so good, Dean.” You sighed.

“Yeah? You like my cock in your pussy, baby?”

“Yes, I do.” You whimpered.

Your eyes rolled and you clenched around him as you came, sending him straight into his own orgasm and leaving his seed inside you, which slowly began to leak out and spread across the seats.

“God…” He huffed. “Merry Christmas, baby.�� Dean whispered in your ear before placing a kiss there.

“Merry Christmas…”

Dean Winchester One Shots

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enemiestolovershoe · 3 hours ago

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hey :) .. i‘m in desperate need for a very fluffy fic with chris and bsf!reader where reader went to the triplets house earlier that day and ever since she was off. she crashed on the couch and as chris went to the kitchen to get some pepsi he saw that the lights are still one and reader is still up. crying. he askes whats wrong (you make something up) and chris is comforting her in the end and they end up cuddling falling asleep on the couch. :) thank you so much

Shattered Trust

Christ Sturniolo x bsf!reader

Summary: After Y/N’s world shatters from betrayal, Chris offers her comfort and support, helping her navigate the painful path of healing and rediscovery.

Words: 5k

Warnings: Angst, Cheating, Emotional Hurt, Mild swearing, Crying, Emotional Distress, Betrayal

The glowing screen of your phone illuminated your tear-streaked face as you typed out a message. Your hands trembled, but you forced yourself to hit send:

Hey, Chris, are you busy?

It only took a few seconds for the reply to pop up.

Not at all. What’s up?

You hesitated, debating whether to tell him the truth or to brush it off as nothing. The thought of sitting in your room, replaying the betrayal over and over, was unbearable. You needed a distraction, somewhere to go, people to be with—people who felt safe.

Can I come over? you finally typed.

Chris’s reply came faster this time.

Of course. We were just about to pick a movie. You coming over for our movie night?

You blinked at the screen. You’d completely forgotten tonight was one of your monthly traditions with the triplets. Normally, the thought would’ve excited you, but now it just felt like a lifeline.

Yeah, movie night sounds good. Be there in 15.

Chris stood in the living room, holding his phone with a faint smile. "Y/N's coming over," he announced to Nick and Matt, who were sprawled across the couch, arguing about which movie to watch.

"Finally," Nick grinned, tossing a piece of popcorn at Matt. "I was about to call her myself. It’s her turn to pick the snacks anyway."

Matt raised an eyebrow. "You sure she doesn’t just want to escape from her crazy family? Remember that time she showed up because her mom and sister were having a screaming match over hair dye?"

Chris shrugged. "I don’t care why she’s coming. She asked, so she’s welcome."

As you drove through the quiet streets, your mind drifted back to the moment everything shattered.

Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, you corrected yourself—had always been charming, maybe too charming. You’d never questioned his late nights or the way he sometimes avoided your gaze when your sister was around. You’d trusted him completely.

But a week ago, you’d come home early from a canceled lunch with friends, only to find the two of them tangled up on the couch. The image was burned into your memory, along with the sound of their voices stumbling over excuses.

"Y/N, it’s not what it looks like," he’d said, his voice dripping with guilt.

"Seriously?" you’d spat, unable to even look at your sister. "How long has this been going on?"

Your sister had said nothing, just stood there, avoiding your eyes. That silence had hurt more than anything he could’ve said.

Pulling into the Sturniolos’ driveway, you wiped your eyes and practiced a smile in the mirror. The triplets didn’t know what had happened, and you weren’t ready to tell them. Tonight needed to be about something else, anything else.

Chris opened the door before you could even knock. "Hey, you made it!" he greeted, pulling you into a quick hug. "You okay?"

You nodded, forcing your practiced smile. "Yeah, just needed some company."

"Well, you’re in luck," Nick called from the couch, waving the remote. "We were about to watch something, but Matt refuses to watch anything fun. Save us."

"Hey!" Matt protested. "At least I pick movies with actual plots."

"Sure, if by 'plot,' you mean boring dialogue and depressing endings," Nick shot back.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Ignore them. You want something to drink? Snacks? Or just want to settle in and pick the movie?"

You hesitated, but the warmth of their familiar banter started to thaw the icy weight in your chest. "I’ll take snacks and the remote," you said with a weak laugh.

"Now that’s the Y/N we know," Chris said, his smile softening as he led you into the living room.

You flopped onto the couch with a sigh, curling into the corner as Nick and Matt argued over yet another movie choice.

"Okay, but why would we watch Inception right now? It’s like three hours long, and my brain’s not ready for all that," Nick said, waving his hands in exasperation.

"Because it’s a good movie," Matt shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah, but good doesn’t mean fun, and I’m in the mood for fun," Nick retorted.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, your first real laugh in what felt like days. "How about The Hangover?" you suggested, cutting through their debate.

Three pairs of eyes turned to you.

"Classic choice," Chris said with an approving nod.

"Finally, someone with taste," Nick said, glaring at Matt.

Matt rolled his eyes. "Fine. At least it’s better than whatever Nick would’ve picked."

"Excuse me, my taste is immaculate," Nick replied, throwing a handful of popcorn in Matt’s direction.

Chris handed you the remote and stood. "I’ll grab some snacks. Pepsi okay?"

"Perfect," you said, your voice soft but grateful.

A few minutes later, Chris returned with a can of Pepsi and a small bowl of your favorite chocolate. He placed them on the table in front of you, giving you a brief, searching look.

"You good?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that Nick and Matt wouldn’t hear.

You nodded quickly, not trusting your voice. "Thanks, Chris."

He didn’t push further, just gave you a small smile before sitting down next to you.

As the opening credits of The Hangover rolled, you settled into your corner of the couch. Nick had sprawled out on the floor with a blanket, Matt took the recliner, and Chris sat beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours.

The room quickly filled with laughter as the movie’s chaotic antics unfolded. For the first time in a week, you felt a little lighter, the ache in your chest dulled by the comfort of their company.

"Okay, but how does no one realize there’s a tiger in the bathroom until it’s too late?" Nick asked between bouts of laughter.

"Because they were all blacked out, genius," Matt replied, tossing a kernel of popcorn at him.

"Still. I would’ve noticed a tiger," Nick said with mock seriousness.

You smiled, shaking your head. "No, you wouldn’t. You’d be too busy freaking out over a missing tooth."

Chris chuckled beside you, his gaze lingering on your face. When you glanced over, he quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the screen.

It happened again a few minutes later during one of the movie’s funniest scenes. You caught Chris watching you out of the corner of your eye, his expression soft, almost worried.

"Chris," you whispered, leaning toward him slightly.

"Yeah?" He looked at you, his face unreadable.

"You don’t have to keep staring. I’m okay," you said, forcing a small smile.

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "I wasn’t staring."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe a little," he admitted, his voice lowering. "I just… You seem different tonight."

Your stomach twisted at his words, but you quickly shook your head. "Just tired, that’s all."

Chris hesitated but nodded, letting it drop. "Well, if you need anything, just let me know," he said softly.

"Thanks, Chris," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the movie continued, you tried to focus on the humor, on the familiar warmth of being with the triplets. But Chris’s quiet concern lingered in the back of your mind, making you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he saw through the smile you were trying so hard to keep.

As the credits of The Hangover Part III rolled, Matt stretched with a dramatic yawn and stood up.

"Alright, I’m done," he announced, rubbing his eyes. "If I watch one more scene of Alan’s nonsense, I might lose my mind."

"You lost it a long time ago," Nick quipped, earning a glare from Matt.

"Whatever. I’m going to bed. Night, Y/N," Matt said with a small wave before disappearing down the hall.

Nick was quick to follow, gathering his blanket and pillow. "Yeah, I’m out too. Y/N, make sure Chris doesn’t make you watch some artsy indie movie if you guys stay up," he said with a wink.

"Goodnight, Nick," you replied with a soft laugh.

As their doors closed, Chris turned to you. "It’s pretty late," he said, glancing at the clock. "You sure you’re okay to drive? You could crash here if you want."

You hesitated, but the idea of going back home, back to the empty room where every corner reminded you of betrayal, was unbearable. "Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you guys."

"Y/N," Chris said firmly, his eyes meeting yours. "You could never bother us. Stay."

You nodded. "Okay. I’ll take the couch, then."

Chris got up and grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet. He draped it over you carefully, his hand lingering on the back of the couch for a moment. "If you need anything, just knock on my door, alright?"

"I will. Thanks, Chris," you said quietly.

"Goodnight," he murmured, his voice softer than usual.

"Goodnight."

As soon as he was gone, the silence of the room felt overwhelming. You curled up under the blanket, the warm fabric doing little to shield you from the cold ache in your chest.

You pulled out your phone, hoping for a distraction, but the sight of an unread message made your heart sink. It was from your sister.

Why are you ghosting me? We need to talk.

Your breath hitched as the words blurred on the screen. She had the nerve to text you, to act as though everything could be fixed with a conversation. Fresh tears welled up, and before you could stop them, they spilled over.

You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sound of your sobs. The last thing you wanted was for the triplets to hear. They didn’t know, and you weren’t sure you could bring yourself to tell them.

In his room, Chris lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Something about tonight wasn’t sitting right with him. You’d been quiet, more than usual. The message you sent earlier had been short, almost hesitant, and now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen or heard from you all week.

Chris frowned, running a hand through his hair. He hated seeing you like this—guarded, distant. It wasn’t like you to pull away, not from them.

He turned onto his side, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep. But it was no use. His mind kept replaying little moments from the night—the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, the way you flinched when he asked if you were okay, the way you seemed to deflate the second Matt and Nick left the room.

Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but he was sure of it.

Back in the living room, you wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but the tears kept coming. The betrayal, the pain, the gnawing guilt of not telling the triplets—it all felt like too much.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block it all out, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw your sister’s name on your screen, her message taunting you, demanding an answer you couldn’t give.

You wanted to tell Chris, Nick, and Matt everything. You wanted to spill it all, to let them comfort you like they always did. But the words felt trapped in your throat, too heavy to say out loud.

And besides, they were probably asleep by now.

What you didn’t know was that Chris wasn’t asleep. He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, still thinking about you. And something told him he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep tonight.

Chris tossed and turned in his bed, staring at the ceiling for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Sleep just wouldn’t come. His thoughts kept drifting back to you—your forced smiles, the way you’d seemed a little too quiet all night. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

With a sigh, he gave up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, noting the time: 2:37 a.m.

"Great," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

He decided a Pepsi might help, so he padded quietly out of his room and into the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise. The kitchen and living room were joined, and he didn’t want to accidentally wake you.

As he opened the fridge, the faint sound of a muffled sob reached his ears. Chris froze, his hand hovering over the soda can.

He turned his head toward the couch, his brow furrowing. The room was dim, but he could see your figure curled under the blanket, your shoulders trembling.

"Y/N?" he called softly, stepping away from the fridge.

You stiffened, biting your lip to keep any more sounds from escaping. But it was too late—he’d already heard you.

Chris approached the couch slowly, his heart sinking at the sight of you trying to hide your tears. Without a word, he sat down beside you, the couch dipping slightly under his weight.

You turned your head away, wiping at your face furiously, but Chris wasn’t having it. Gently, he laid a hand on your head, his fingers threading through your hair in a soothing motion.

"Hey," he said softly. "What’s wrong, hm?"

"Nothing," you whispered, your voice cracking.

"Y/N," he said firmly, though his tone remained gentle. "Please. Tell me. We both know something’s hurting you. You can tell me anything, I promise."

You shook your head stubbornly, clutching the blanket tighter around yourself.

Chris sighed but didn’t pull away. "Okay," he said after a moment. "How about this? If you don’t want Matt or Nick to know, I won’t tell them. Whatever it is, it’ll stay between us. I swear."

You hesitated, his words making the weight on your chest feel just a little lighter. Taking a shaky breath, you sat up, letting the blanket fall to your lap. Chris stayed close, watching you carefully, his concern etched across his face.

Your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "Jason cheated."

Chris blinked, his jaw tightening. He opened his mouth to say something, but you held up a hand, stopping him.

"And it wasn’t just with anyone," you continued, your voice breaking. "It was with my sister."

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Chris stared at you, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth slightly open as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.

You looked down at your lap, your fingers twisting in the blanket. The silence felt suffocating, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

Finally, Chris found his voice. "Y/N..." he started, but his words trailed off, as if he didn’t know where to begin.

Chris sat there for a moment, stunned into silence. His mind reeled at your words, trying to process the betrayal you’d just revealed. But as he looked at you—your trembling hands, the tears that streamed down your cheeks—his shock quickly gave way to something else: protectiveness.

Without hesitating, Chris moved closer, sliding an arm around your shoulders. His touch was warm and steady, grounding you even as your emotions threatened to spiral.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t even know what to say… but I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve that. Not from him. And definitely not from her."

His words broke something loose inside you, and the tears came harder, pouring down your face and soaking the neckline of your shirt. You buried your face in your hands, your body trembling as you let out the sobs you’d been holding back for days.

"How could they do this to me, Chris?" you choked out between sobs. "My own sister… she knew everything—everything Jason and I had been through. And she still—" You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Chris felt a sharp pang in his chest. Seeing you like this—completely broken—made his blood boil. He wanted to storm out, to confront Jason, to demand answers from your sister, but he knew none of that would help you right now. Right now, you needed him here.

"They’re both selfish," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. "They didn’t think about you at all, and that’s on them. That’s not your fault, Y/N."

You shook your head, tears still streaming. "But it feels like it is… I keep thinking, ‘What did I do wrong? Was I not enough?’"

Chris grabbed your hands, gently pulling them away from your face. "Hey, stop that. Don’t do that to yourself," he said, his tone more intense now. "Jason cheated because he’s an idiot who doesn’t know how to value someone amazing when he has them. And your sister…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "She’s the one who betrayed you, not the other way around. You’re not to blame for any of this. Not even a little."

You tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. The weight of everything—the betrayal, the heartbreak, the shame—was too much.

Chris seemed to sense that. He didn’t say anything more, just pulled you into a hug, wrapping both arms around you tightly. Your head fell against his chest, and he rested his chin lightly on top of your hair.

"Just let it out," he murmured, stroking your back in soothing circles. "I’m right here. You don’t have to hold it in anymore."

The dam broke. You clung to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely, your tears soaking into his shirt. Chris didn’t flinch or pull away. If anything, he held you tighter, his hand continuing its steady rhythm on your back.

"It’s okay," he whispered, his voice soft but firm. "Cry as much as you need to. I’m not going anywhere."

And he didn’t. Chris stayed there, holding you like you were the most fragile and important thing in the world. Even as your sobs wracked your body, he remained calm, offering the kind of quiet strength you desperately needed.

Minutes passed, though it felt like time stood still. Slowly, your crying began to subside, your breaths becoming less ragged. But Chris didn’t let go, not until he was sure you were ready.

The warmth of Chris’s embrace began to steady your breathing, though your body still felt heavy with exhaustion. Slowly, you pulled away, your hands resting in your lap as you avoided his gaze. Chris leaned back slightly, giving you space, but his concern didn’t waver.

Your eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, your cheeks streaked with drying tears. Chris reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear that lingered.

He gave you a small, reassuring smile. "Let’s try and get some sleep, okay?" he said softly, his voice warm and steady. "It’s been a lot tonight, but it’s going to get better. I promise."

You nodded wordlessly, lying back down on the couch and pulling the blanket up to your chin. The headache from crying so much throbbed behind your eyes, and you couldn’t deny how tired you felt.

As you settled in, you expected Chris to stand and head back to his room. But instead, he surprised you. Without saying a word, he shifted to lie down behind you, sliding in close and wrapping an arm protectively around your waist.

You stiffened for a moment, startled by the gesture. "Chris… you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to," you protested, your voice soft and hesitant.

Chris’s hold didn’t falter. He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head and hushed you gently. "Shhh," he murmured. "I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. We’ll get through this together, okay? You don’t have to do this alone."

His words, spoken with such quiet determination, made your chest tighten. You felt tears prick at your eyes again, though this time they weren’t from sadness.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Chris." Your voice cracked slightly, but you meant every word.

He gave your waist a small squeeze. "Always," he said simply, his tone carrying a weight of sincerity that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t in days.

The steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his arm around you, and the comfort of knowing he wasn’t going to leave finally allowed your body to relax. The headache and emotional exhaustion took over, and before you knew it, your eyes fluttered shut.

Chris stayed awake a little longer, watching over you as your breathing evened out. He held you close, his heart breaking a little as he thought about everything you’d gone through. But more than anything, he was determined to be there for you, no matter what it took.

Finally, a small, tired smile crossed his lips as he rested his head against the pillow, letting sleep claim him too—right there with you in his arms.

The morning light crept through the blinds as Nick shuffled groggily into the living room, his eyes barely open. He stretched with a yawn, heading toward the fridge for something to drink. As he turned toward the couch, he froze mid-step.

At first, he blinked a few times, convinced he was still half-asleep. "What the…" he muttered, rubbing his eyes dramatically. The sight before him—Chris curled up behind you on the couch, his arm draped protectively around your waist—was not something he’d ever expected to see.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked aloud to no one in particular. After a moment of staring in disbelief, he turned and bolted down the hall.

"Matt!" Nick hissed, bursting into his brother’s room.

Matt groaned, burying his face in his pillow. "Nick, if this isn’t an emergency, I swear—"

"It is!" Nick interrupted, shaking Matt’s shoulder. "You need to see this. Like, right now."

Reluctantly, Matt sat up, his hair a mess and his expression sour. "This better be good," he grumbled, throwing the blanket off and following Nick back to the living room.

When he caught sight of the two of you on the couch, his annoyance vanished, replaced by wide-eyed surprise.

"Is that…" Matt started, leaning closer to get a better look.

"Yup," Nick whispered, his tone somewhere between shocked and amused.

"Did he finally make a move?" Nick asked, tilting his head.

"I don’t know," Matt replied, scratching the back of his head. "But… doesn’t she have a boyfriend?"

Nick frowned, looking at Matt. "Yeah, she does. At least, I think she does. So… what’s this about?"

Matt shrugged, his brow furrowed. "No clue. But they look pretty cozy."

Nick pulled out his phone, biting his lip to keep from laughing. "Should we ask them? Or should I just take a picture for evidence?"

"Definitely a picture," Matt said, smirking.

Nick nodded, holding his phone up and aiming the camera. Just as he was about to snap the shot, his fingers fumbled, and the phone slipped from his hand.

The loud clatter of the phone hitting the floor echoed through the room, and both you and Chris stirred.

Chris blinked awake first, squinting against the light and taking a second to register what was happening. He glanced down at you still in his arms, then up at Nick and Matt, who were both frozen like deer in headlights.

You woke up a second later, groggy and disoriented. "What’s going on?" you mumbled, sitting up slightly and noticing Chris’s arm still loosely around you.

Nick recovered first, quickly scooping up his phone. "Uh, nothing! Morning! Just… you know… didn’t mean to wake you guys!"

Matt, however, wasn’t as subtle. "So… are we gonna talk about this, or…?" He gestured between the two of you, his brows raised.

Chris rubbed his face, clearly trying to think of a way to explain. "It’s not what it looks like—"

Matt snorted. "Really? ‘Cause it looks like you two were cuddling all night."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Can we not do this right now?"

Nick crossed his arms, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face. "Oh, we’re definitely doing this right now."

Chris’s body stiffened as he quickly sat up, his expression suddenly serious. His protective instincts kicked in, and he shot a sharp look at Nick, his voice firm. "No, Nick. Seriously. Drop it. It’s not the time."

Nick froze, blinking in confusion at the sudden change in Chris’s tone. He wasn’t used to hearing his brother so... intense. But before he could ask anything more, his gaze shifted to you.

You had your face hidden in your hands, your shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. That’s when it hit Nick. It wasn’t just a casual morning moment between friends. Something was wrong.

Matt’s playful smirk faltered, and his eyes softened as he noticed the tears trailing down your face. His teasing nature immediately gave way to concern. "Y/N…?" he began, but Chris cut him off before either of them could say anything else.

"Look, this is serious," Chris said, his voice still low and full of emotion. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he turned toward Nick and Matt. "You guys don’t know what happened."

Nick looked at him, unsure. "What happened?" he asked, his voice quieter now, sensing the weight behind his brother’s words.

Chris glanced over at you, his heart breaking as he saw how upset you were. He didn’t want to push you, but he also knew you needed support. "Y/N gave me permission to tell you guys," he said softly, then turned to face Matt and Nick fully. "Jason—her boyfriend—cheated on her. With her sister."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Matt and Nick both looked at each other in stunned silence, their eyes wide with disbelief.

"Wait, what?" Nick whispered, shaking his head in confusion. "He… cheated on her with her sister?"

Chris nodded, his jaw tight with anger. "Yeah. And I know she’s been trying to keep it together, but it’s been eating her up. She didn’t deserve any of this." His voice cracked slightly, the weight of what you were going through becoming even more apparent as he spoke.

You wiped at your eyes, feeling the sting of their stares but too drained to care. Chris’s hand remained on your back, offering what little comfort he could, but you could tell this was a lot for Matt and Nick to process.

Matt was the first to speak up again, his face hardening. "That’s messed up," he muttered, clearly frustrated. "She doesn’t deserve that." He glanced at you, his expression softening. "Y/N, I’m sorry."

Nick nodded in agreement, though his voice was still filled with disbelief. "I… I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

You sniffed and looked up, finally meeting their eyes. "I didn’t know how to. It hurt too much. I didn’t want to drag anyone into it." Your voice trembled, but you tried to hold it together. "I just needed some time to figure out what to do."

Chris gave your back another reassuring rub, silently telling you it was okay to let them in. He looked up at Matt and Nick, a heavy sigh escaping him. "She needs our support right now, not questions. So please… just… give her space if she wants it."

Matt nodded solemnly, his usual teasing nature now completely gone. "Yeah, of course," he said, his voice softer than before. "You’ve got it, Y/N. Whatever you need."

Nick hesitated for a moment, then gave you a small, almost apologetic smile. "We’re here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone."

You nodded weakly, still feeling the sting of everything that had happened. But for the first time in what felt like days, you felt a small flicker of hope. With Chris, Matt, and Nick by your side, maybe things would start to get better.

Chris’s arm tightened around you once more, offering the quiet comfort of knowing that, for now, you weren’t alone in this.

The room fell into a quiet calm, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. Matt and Nick gave you the space you needed, no longer pressing you with questions. Instead, they offered small, reassuring smiles, letting you know they were there—ready to support you however you needed.

Chris, still sitting close beside you, rubbed your back comfortingly, his presence a silent promise that he wouldn’t leave your side. The warmth of his touch brought a small, but much-needed sense of peace.

After a few moments of silence, you took a shaky breath and finally looked up at Chris. "I don’t know what to do… or where to go from here," you admitted, your voice still thick with emotion.

Chris met your gaze with understanding in his eyes. "You don’t have to have all the answers right now," he said gently. "We’ll figure it out together. One step at a time."

You nodded, feeling the truth of his words sink in. Maybe you didn’t have the answers yet, but you weren’t alone. With Chris, Matt, and Nick by your side, you knew you had the support to get through this.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice breaking again, but this time with gratitude.

Chris smiled softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Always, Y/N. You’ll never have to go through this alone."

As the day began to unfold, you and the triplets spent the rest of the morning together. No more talk of Jason or your sister—just the comfort of knowing you were surrounded by people who cared. Slowly, the pieces of your heart that had shattered started to heal, one moment, one breath at a time.

And for the first time in a while, you felt a spark of hope for the future, knowing that with time and support, you’d find your way through the pain.

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