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lightsoutmatthews · 2 months ago

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hey jo! your writing is such a great escape, you’re so talented! i have a dramatic request: reader has only met auston’s family a handful of times—like this is very new territory for them. she overhears auston’s sisters talking about her, so she starts coming up with excuses not to see them. auston gets mad thinking she doesn’t like his family, but reader doesn’t want to say what is really going on. this leads to a fight with auston and reader, but with a happy ending between everyone please (sisters included). i know you can bring this drama to life 🙏🏻🙏🏻

I loved this request, sometimes it´s so nice to have a direct vision compared to just a one sentence request (not that I don´t like them 🫣)

What wasn´t said – Auston Matthews

Meeting Auston´s family for the first time felt like being dropped into someone else´s dream.

You knew how important they were to him. How tight knit he and they were but until you were actually standing on the front steps of his childhood home on Scottsdale, you didn’t realize just how intimidating that closeness could be to a newcomer.

He had been sweet about the invite, casual even.

“My mom is doing a little get-together Saturday, nothing big. You in?”

You had smiled and nodded, hiding the nervous twist in your stomach.

At this point you had been dating for a few months, you had gotten to know most of the important people in his life that lived in Toronto, his teammates, their partners, team staff, his management team, but this was new territory.

You wanted to make a good impression, not just for Auston, but because a part of you wanted them to like you. Really liked you. As much as he did.

The Matthews´ house was beautiful. Open, filled with light, a giant backyard that backed onto the desert.

His mom, Ema, was warm right away. She kissed your cheeks, offered you homemade lemonade and told you to make yourself at home.

His dad was quieter but equally as kind, asking about your job, your family and where you grew up.

Then there were his sisters Alexandria and Breyana.

They were beautiful. Put-together. Confident.

You could feel the closeness between them and Auston immediately. Instant jokes, casual teasing, glances that didn’t need explanation.

You couldn’t help but feel like a spectator trying to step into a movie halfway through as you watched their sibling dynamic.

They greeted you politely, not unkind, but not warmly either.

Alexandria, the older one, made a bit of small talk. She asked how long you had been dating Auston and what you did, but her tone was cool.

Breyana was chattier but distracted, like she had one eye on the conversation and the other one out of it.

You tried to stay positive. Helped Ema in the kitchen, complimented the backyard. You even asked Breyana about her earrings when she sat beside you. She said thanks and then got up to join Alexandria by the pool.

Later that evening, Auston put his arm around you while you both watched his cousins toss a football around.

“They like you,” he said, smiling.

You forced a small smile back. “You think so?”

“Yeah, my mom said you were so sweet.”

That part you believed but his sisters? You weren’t so sure.

Over the next few weeks, you met them a few more times. Dinners, game nights, little family things Auston included you in.

Each time you showed up with a bottle of wine or dessert, smiled even when you felt awkward, laughed at the jokes you didn’t fully understand.

But each time, you still felt like you were knocking on a door that wouldn’t open all the way.

---------------

The confirmation happened at a late-summer barbecue at Auston´s parents´ house.

It had been a hot, dry afternoon. The pool was open; drinks were flowing and the air smelled like grilled burgers and sunscreen.

You had spent the last hour chatting with Ema and Auston´s aunt on the patio, sipping lemonade and trying not to overthink every word that came out of your mouth.

At some point, you realized your phone wasn’t in your bag.

You excused yourself and headed inside to look for it.

The living room was empty, music drifting in faintly from outside.

You started to retrace your steps. Checked under the throw pillows, the coffee table and even the guest bathroom but there was nothing.

As you moved toward the hallway where the bedrooms were located, you heard voices coming from one of the rooms. Alexandria´s you thought.

The door wasn’t fully shut.

“…like, I don’t want to be a bitch,” Breyana said, her voice low but clear.

You froze. Instinct told you to walk away, but something held you in place.

“It´s just weird,” she continued. “She barely talks to us. It´s like she´s afraid to say the wrong thing, so she doesn’t say anything.”

“She´s so… I don’t know, careful?” Alexandria replied. “Too careful. It feels fake sometimes.”

“She acts like she´s sweet but it´s all too polished, like she rehearsed it in the mirror or something.”

You pressed your back against the wall, your throat tightening.

Alexandria sighed. “Honestly, I don’t get it. Auston could have anyone. What does he even see in her?”

“Probably someone who loves the NHL lifestyle,” Breyana said with a dry laugh. “He´s always been a magnet for that.”

The words landed heavy. Your chest ached.

“I´m not saying she´s awful,” Breyana added. “She´s fine, I guess but I don’t think she fits.”

You didn’t wait to hear more.

You backed away, heart pounding, and ducked into the guest bedroom.

Your phone was on the dresser, right where you had left it when you changed into your swimsuit.

When you returned to the kitchen, your face was calm, but your stomach churned. You smiled and told Ema you weren’t feeling well. Migraine. You were so sorry.

Auston offered to drive you back to his place, but you insisted you would be okay. He kissed your cheek and told you to text when you got home.

You cried in the car. Not big sobs, just quiet tears that slipped down your face and dried before you pulled into your driveway.

You didn’t tell him what you heard. At least not then.

---------

After that day, something shifted.

You couldn’t bring yourself to face them. not Alexandria´s cold glances or Breyana´s forced smiles.

Every time Auston mentioned a family dinner, your stomach turned.

So, you started to make excuses.

At first, they were believable.

Work deadlines. Friend commitments. A minor cold. Auston didn’t question it. He told you to rest, that he would catch up with you after.

But as the weeks passed, the reasons got thinner.

You declined three events in a row. Then skipped his mom´s birthday dinner entirely.

You told him you had a scheduling conflict, but the truth was you sat on your couch in sweats, watching TV and feeling ashamed.

You weren’t angry at his sisters. You were hurt. Embarrassed.

You hadn’t done anything to deserve that kind of judgement when they had met you all of three times before that.

The worst part was that you couldn’t bring yourself to tell Auston. Not because you didn’t trust him or because you thought he wouldn’t believe you.

You didn’t want to make things awkward for him. You didn’t want to be the girlfriend who came between him and his sisters.

Still, the distance between you and Auston grew.

He started noticing the little things. “You´ve been avoiding them,” he said one night after dinner.

You barely looked up from your empty plate. “I´m not.”

“You are. You always say no to the invitations now.”

“I´ve just been busy, you know how work can be.”

“Too busy to come over for dinner and spend two hours with my family?” he shot back.

Your silence answered him, but he didn’t push that night. Still, you could feel the questions behind his eyes.

And soon enough, his patience started to fade.

-------------

It was a Sunday afternoon when it all boiled over.

You were supposed to go to his parents´ for brunch. He had even bought you a new dress the week before, teasing that his mom would love it on you.

But that morning, you said you felt off. A headache, maybe a potential stomach bug. You told him to go without you.

When he came home, you were curled up on the couch. He dropped his keys on the counter and stood there, arms crossed.

“You okay?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah,” you answered absentmindedly.

He nodded slowly. “We need to talk.”

You straightened. “About what?”

“My sisters. My family. You keep pulling away and I´ve let it go because I figured maybe you needed space, but it´s been over a month now and I need to know what is going on.”

You looked away. “Nothing is going on. You´re imagining things,” you said, harsher than expected.

“Bullshit,” he shot back.

You winced at the bite in his voice.

“Did I do something wrong? Did they? Because I´m stuck in the middle here. I´m trying to give you space, but I can´t fix anything if I don’t even know what´s up. I´ve got my mom asking me every time when I show up without you if she did something to upset you and I´m tired of lying to her.”

His voice was harsh, and your heart wrenched at the confession about Ema.

She and Brian were nothing but incredibly nice to you. They had welcomed you with open arms and it was unfair of you to make them collateral damage but at the same time you could not face them while Alexandria and Breyana where there.

You couldn’t take more of their glances and whispers.

His voice softened just a tad when he spoke again. “Do you not like them?”

You closed your eyes and sighed. “No. I mean… it´s not that.”

“Then what?” he said, harsher again.

You didn’t want to argue about it, but you felt like this was the moment you had to come clean, otherwise it would all blow up in your face. “I overheard them.”

He blinked confused. “What?”

“That barbecue a month ago. I was looking for my phone and they were talking in Alexandria´s room.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

“They were talking about me. Said I put on a fake personality when I was with them, that all I said was like I rehearsed it in front of a mirror. Oh, and that I was probably with you for the lifestyle and that I didn’t fit.”

The room was dead silent.

You finally glanced at him. His face went a little pale with shock.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you said. “I didn’t want to cause drama, they didn’t need any more bad impressions of me, and I didn’t want you to feel like you had to defend me. They´re your family after all.

His hands dropped to his sides. “You should have told me. Maybe not there but when I got home that evening.”

“I didn’t want to make you choose between me and them and I didn’t want to make things awkward.”

He stepped closer. “You´re not making me choose but Jesus, I would´ve wanted to know. Of course I would´ve had your back. They´re my sisters, yeah, but they have no right to speak about my girlfriend that way.”

“I know,” you said quietly, tears brimming. “I just… I was scared what would happen if I told you.”

He pulled you in without another word, his arms tight around your waist.

You rested your head on his chest, letting the tears fall.

“I´ll talk to them,” he said into your hair. “I promise.”

---------------

Auston didn’t waste time.

That same evening, he called Alexandria and asked her and Breyana to meet him for coffee the next morning.

You reluctantly offered to come, but he shook his head.

“I need to talk to them first. Just me.”

He returned an hour later, quieter than usual.

He kicked off his shoes with more force than any other day and sat beside you on the couch, running a hand over his jaw.

“Well?” you mumbled.

“They didn’t deny it,” he started, sending another painful pang through your chest. “They remembered what they said and tried to play it off at first, like they were just venting or being protective of me.” He sighed.

You bit your lip. “And?”

“I told them it wasn’t okay. That they hurt you and that if they had concerns, they could´ve come to me. But talking behind your back like that? That´s not how we do things.”

You stayed quiet, fingers laced in your lap.

“They asked if they could talk to you and apologize.”

Your stomach clenched. “I don’t know if I´m ready for that.”

“That´s okay. You don’t have to do anything, but they want to make it right. I think they realized they crossed a line.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

-------------

Two days later you agreed to meet Breyana and Alexandria at a little coffee shop near Auston´s house.

You got there early and sat by the window, tapping your foot until they walked in.

Alexandria looked nervous. That surprised you.

“Thanks for coming,” she said as she sat down.

You nodded, arms crossed but still open enough to signal her to continue.

“I want to say this first,” she started. “We were wrong. We judged you way too fast. I don’t have a good excuse for it except… I think I got used to people coming in and out of Auston´s life quickly.”

“Some of them were only around when he was winning,” Breyana added. “When the season was going well, or the press talked about him. And I think we just assumed you were like them because we were used to that.”

You looked at both of them, staying quiet for a second, letting their words settle. “That´s the thing.” You started. “I´ve done nothing to make you think that. You barely know me and you never gave me a chance.”

“I know,” Alexandria said quietly. “And I´m sorry. Really sorry.”

Breyana leaned forward. “We want to start over. Only if that´s something you´re open to of course.”

You paused. Looked at their faces. There was no fake politeness now. Just honest, awkward vulnerability.

“I´m open to it,” you said finally. “But it will take a bit of time.”

“That´s fair,” Alexandria nodded. “We´ll earn it.”

----------

The next few weeks were slow and cautious.

You didn’t jump into family dinners right away, but you started small. Showed up to game nights again, helped Ema prep for a baby shower for one of Auston´s cousins, met for lunch with Alexandria once.

You still felt tense at first, but it slowly faded.

There was a moment at a brunch two weeks later where you and Breyana got caught up talking about a show you both loved. She laughed genuinely and looked surprised.

“Okay, okay. I misjudged you,” she said with a careful grin.

“You think?” you teased.

“I was an ass,” she admitted.

You smiled. “You´re working on it.”

They began including you more organically. Sending memes, asking your opinion about gifts for their mom because “Auston has no clue about that stuff anyways” and invited you to a Pilates class.

It wasn’t perfect but it felt like they were making a real effort.

One night, you and Auston were lying in bed, legs tangled under the sheets, when he kissed your temple and murmured “Thanks for giving them a second chance.”

You turned to him. “Thanks for standing up for me.”

“You´re my person,” he said simply.

---------

Months passed.

The weather cooled. You and Auston returned to Toronto. The season picked up. You found yourself at more and more family gatherings. Movie nights when everyone came for a Leafs homestand, birthdays, even a trip to the lake one-week Auston surprisingly had only one game.

You and Alexandria weren’t best friends, but there was a growing respect.

A shared look when Auston did something ridiculous. A text checking in when she heard you had a rough week from her brother.

Breyana was looser. Warmer. She teased you now with affection, not barbs.

At Thanksgiving, Ema pulled you aside in the kitchen, handing you a bowl of mashed potatoes.

“I´m really glad you´re here,” she smiled.

You smiled back. “Me too.”

Auston came up behind you later, looping an arm around you waist. “You know,” he said, voice close to your ear. “My mom told me yesterday she thinks you´re one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Even after I brought store-bought pie?”

“Even then,” he laughed.

You leaned into him, glancing around the crowded room. His dad was laughing with cousins, his sisters were setting the table together, Ema was calling for someone to grab more wine.

It didn’t feel like you were on the outside anymore.

It felt like you finally belonged.

#auston matthews #toronto maple leafs #auston matthews imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #auston matthews x reader #nhl imagine

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hometoursandotherstuff · 3 months ago

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"La Rocas" is a rock lovers dream, b/c it has boulders throughout the house, and if you like golf, the Cochise Golf Course is so nearby, you can see it. Built in 1997 in Scottsdale, AZ it has 4bds, 4ba, 6,984sqft, plus a 2bd casita. Priced at $5m + $340/mo HOA.

Look at the entrance hall- the glass wall is like a giant terrarium.

Sculptural round ceilings are like big wheels over the rock formations.

Glass outer walls provide a panoramic view. The dining area is between the living room and kitchen.

The rounded kitchen has an oval island.

Around this rock, there's a small everyday dining area with a built-in sideboard.

Large primary bedroom faces the patio.

The ensuite is very big and features a marble encased tub.

Off the bath there's a walk-in closet.

Large secondary bedroom and ensuite has a double window seat.

Here's a home office with big rocks, and a fireplace, too.

The pool looks like a natural spring, but it's not.

The grounds are lovely.

But, this view. Is that a factory?

It looks nice lit up at night.

1.81 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/10787-E-Prospect-Point-Dr-Scottsdale-AZ-85262/8083040_zpid/

#desert homes #estates #modern architecture #rock houses #unusual homes #houses #house tours #home tour

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ohbo-ohno · 2 years ago

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run until you feel your lungs bleeding (ghost x reader)

summary: You're on the run after finally escaping from your abusive husband's clutches, hitchhiking south along California highways. A strange man in a black mask picks you up, and it doesn't take you long to realize that not every hand offered should be taken.

word count: 6.5k

cw: dark fic!, noncon somnophilia, referenced abuse from a past partner, ghost does not care about reader's feelings, mentioned drinking while driving but no intoxication

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

One of your blisters is about to burst. You’d worn through your only pair of clean socks yesterday, leaving the back of your heel vulnerable to your old tennis shoes and their vendetta against your feet. You can feel your skin rubbing thinner and thinner with each step, know it’s only a matter of time before you’ve got blood flowing freely into your shoe.

You keep your left arm stretched out, thumb held up in the hope that someone will take pity on your limping form and give you a ride.

It’s not likely, you’ve been hitchhiking for days now and not a single person has slowed down. You’ve got no real destination, just a goal of putting as much space between you and your piece of shit ex-husband as possible. Your end goal is Arizona - you’ve got an aunt somewhere in Scottsdale, if you can get to her you can only hope she’ll help you get back on your feet.

A few people honk as they drive by. In the two days you’ve been walking, none have stopped. You take short power naps at night off the side of the road, pray to every god you can think of that you don’t get run over or eaten by something.

You haven’t yet. But you know if you don’t get a good night's sleep soon, don’t start putting actual distance between him and you, then you might not survive your escape.

The sun is at its apex when the semi-truck pulls up beside you. It’s black, the trailer attached is plain white with no logo painted on. You can hardly believe your luck, gape up at the massive thing as it slows. The door pops open a moment after the truck rolls to a stop, but it’s so high up that you can’t see who’s driving past their hand - gloved - before they pull it back.

You don’t have the luxury of asking questions. You just stumble over, flinching back with a little hiss when you place your palm on the metal of the truck and burn your hand. It takes a minute to finagle your way into the truck, but you manage it eventually, huffing and puffing all the way up.

The first thing you notice about the man in the driver’s seat is his size - he’s big. Bigger than any man you’ve seen before. You just reach his shoulders even with both of you sitting down, his legs are spread so wide his knees nearly rest on his door and the gearshift, his head is close to brushing the roof. He’s just… big.

He’s wearing a black neck gaiter pulled up to cover his mouth and nose, which strikes you as odd considering he’s driving on his own, but you brush the thought off. His hair is blond, greasy and limp on his scalp, you doubt he did more than run his fingers through it getting out of bed. His eyes are blue, a light shade that surprises you for some reason. You don’t know a thing about this man, certainly not enough to be surprised by anything about him, but the blond hair and the blue eyes… it doesn’t quite fit with the black gloves and the mask.

He’s reclined back in his seat, one hand resting on the wheel and the other on his thigh, eyes scanning you like a king his subject. His eyes linger on your tiny shorts (sleep shorts, what you’d been wearing the night of your escape), skip right past the sluggishly bleeding scrapes on your knees and scan your ratty backpack.

You hope he won’t ask you to empty it. You’d like to keep your gun for as long as possible, can’t imagine this trucker would be ok with the hitchhiker he just picked up having a loaded weapon.

He doesn’t speak when he finally makes eye contact with you. You can’t hold it for long at all, only manage a few seconds before you’re glancing around his truck.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

His car reeks of smoke. There’s a beer bottle in his cup holder, open and helf empty. There are more bottles - empty - by your feet. He doesn’t have the radio playing.

When you look back at him, his eyes are already trained on yours. You can’t help but flinch - the intensity of his gaze feels suffocating, even after only a few seconds of being held under it.

You work up the nerve to speak, take a few deep breaths and a few more long looks around the truck, the space this man spends most of his days in.

There are cigarette stubs on the dashboard, which has clearly been used as a makeshift ashtray. The seats are old, the leather peeling and tempting you to pick, and the dash itself is sunbleached.

“I’m trying to go to Arizona,” you finally say, flickering your eyes quickly to his and away again. His jeans are worn - but naturally worn, like he’s had them for months and washed them so many times they’ve lost their color. “Are… are you heading that direction?”

You look at him long enough to see him incline his head a bit. You don’t think he’s blinked since you got in the car.

“Goin’ south,” he affirms. His voice is a low grumble, British accented. Not necessarily unsurprising to hear in California, but a shock from a truck driver. “I’ll drop you somewhere along the way.”

He pulls away from the shoulder with that and turns away from you, apparently finished with the interaction.

Being dropped somewhere along the way isn’t necessarily your ideal situation, but your feet scream in relief at the lack of pressure, so you’re certainly not going to complain.

You shift a little further back in your seat, tuck the backpack between you and the passenger door. He could reach it if he wanted, but keeping yourself between this stranger and your prized possessions feels like the right choice. You think about propping your feet up on the dashboard, but decide you don’t want to seem too rude to your apparent savior.

You look out the window. You’ve never been in a car this high, and even the flat California highways look more interesting at a new vantage point. It’s easier to focus on the far-off mountains than the giant beside you.

“So,” you cough lightly, awkward in the relative silence of the truck. The engine is loud, but the driver’s radio is dead silent. “What’s your name?”

He grunts, gives no other response. You glance over to him, a little unsure of yourself. Had you made that bad of a first impression somehow?

He doesn’t turn to you, and he doesn’t answer your question.

Alright, you tell yourself. Maybe he does this all the time, maybe he’s tired of making small talk with homeless and desperate hitchhikers. That’s probably it.

You don’t give him your name. Instead, you tuck your feet up to the seat beneath your thighs, turn your body fully to the passenger window, fold your arms on the windowsill and lay your chin on your elbows.

The drive is smooth enough for you to relax, even though you know that logically you shouldn’t. You’re a young woman who’s just gotten into a car with a strange and intimidating man who could very clearly physically overpower you. Nobody knows where you are. You should have a hand on your gun already, ready for anything the driver might try.

But you’ve been walking for days, and hadn't been sleeping well before that either. You haven’t had a good night’s sleep since your wedding night. The low rumble of the engine, the heat of the sun beaming through the glass, the surprisingly gentle motions of the truck…

You don’t quite let yourself fall asleep, but it’s a near thing.

———————————————————————

The two of you stay like that for hours. Your benevolent driver seemingly comfortable in his silence with you drowsy and relaxing in his passenger seat. You don’t stay in the same position for more than an hour or two at once, shifting your legs and always keeping any pressure off your feet.

You’d like to pull your shoes off, to ask if the man has any band-aids. Maybe any food, any water. But you can’t risk pissing him off, not when your other options are nonexistent. So you settle for slow movements, trying to keep your blisters from being irritated.

He finishes his beer before the first hour has passed with you in his vehicle. Waits another two to have a second. You don’t comment on it, but the scent makes your lip curl, and you bury your face in your arms to hide the reaction. You hope he’s not a lightweight. And despite the heavy stench of cigarette smoke sunken into the interior, he hasn’t had one yet.

He’s the one who speaks next.

It’s a quarter until 6, and the sun has started her slow journey to sleep. You’ve been watching the sight for a while, entranced by the slow process with nothing else to amuse you.

“Pullin’ off,” he grunts.

You can’t help but jerk up straight at the sound, caught off guard. You’d nearly forgotten about his accent, about how deep his voice really is.

“For gas?” You ask, turning in your seat to glance at him for the first time in at least an hour. He only grunts again, a noise you’re just going to assume means yes.

“Alright,” you nod, letting your feet drop to the floor from where you’d crossed them beneath yourself. “Are you… do you want me to find someone else to ride with?” You cross your fingers where you tuck them beneath your thighs, pray to every god you know of that he doesn’t make that yes grunt again.

He looks over to you this time, and the two of you make eye contact for the first time since you’d gotten into the car nearly six hours ago. His eyes are brighter than you remember, and the impact of them sends a jolt up your spine.

You’re not sure how long he looks at you. You feel stuck under his gaze, a little wide-eyed prey animal spotted by a predator who can only lay still and hope they move on. You’ve never felt quite so pinned before, quite so unable to break eye contact. You don’t think you like it.

He looks away first, shifts in his seat and drops one hand from the steering wheel to lay on his thigh. You swallow at how tight his jeans are, how his thighs seem to nearly bulge from them.

“No,” he finally answers. It takes a moment for you to remember your own question, but your sigh of relief is loud once you do.

If you’re lucky, he’ll try and drive through the night. Dangerous, since it’ll make for nearly twenty-four hours on the road, but you’d rather take your chances with him than falling asleep at the wheel then spend another night staring into a dark forest and wondering if there are wolves in this part of the country.

He turns off the highway three exits later, pulls his truck into the first reststop. It’s the only structure in the nearby area, a McDonald’s-Subway-Shell mix with ten pumps, less than half with someone using them. It’s the kind of rest stop you’ve seen on countless roadtrips, one that you know exists off half the exits in the States. The familiarity of it makes your lips twitch up in the corners.

There are several other semi-trucks pulled up getting gas, none quite the size of your driver’s. He parks quickly and easily, in one try, and turns the truck completely off. You shift a little in your seat, unsure what he’ll want from you, but he’s hauled himself up and out of the truck before you can open your mouth to ask.

You settle a bit. He’d said he wouldn’t make you leave but you still can’t fully relax for some reason, can’t bring back the looseness to your shoulders you’ve had since he picked you up. You entertain yourself by watching a middle aged couple try and wrangle six kids that look like they’re all under ten, since I’m sympathy when the littlest one’s face goes red and he starts to wail.

The door next to you opens without warning. You manage to catch your bag before it can go tumbling out of the car, can’t hold back the little yelp of surprise. Your eyes are wide, fingers holding tight to the bag, when you look up through your hair.

The driver’s face looks the same as it has for the last six hours - expressionless. Even with the mask, surely his eyebrows should move at least a bit? He looks almost like a corpse above you - pale face and flat features. It unnerves you.

“Gettin’ food. You got money?”

You hesitate for a moment - you do have money, small bills you’d snuck from your husband’s wallet that you’d planned to use for a bus ticket. You’re not starving yet, the few granola bars you’d taken in your escape will tide you over for a little while longer.

You shake your head.

He nods, like he’d expected that, and glances over your form from head to toe again. “Alright. You want somethin’ to eat, now’s your chance. We’ll be back on the road for another few hours before I stop for the night.”

With that he turns away, jumps down to the parking lot and stalks off toward the McDonald’s. It takes you a minute to follow him, still a little shocked that you’d gotten multiple sentences from him at once.

The thought of free food is far too tempting to let you linger for too long, though, and you’re throwing your bag over your shoulders and scampering after him only a moment later. You have to trot a little awkwardly to keep up with his long strides. He doesn’t hold the door open for you, but you catch him glancing over his shoulder to see if you’re there.

The teenager working the register looks like it’s their first day, and you assume a middle-aged man leaning against the counter beside her is meant to be showing her the ropes. He’s far more occupied with whatever’s on his phone screen, leaving the cashier to stare up at your driver with wide eyes.

You get it. Standing next to him now, you decide he’s not big - he’s huge. Has to be at least six and a half feet tall, and at least a foot taller than you. Combined with his muscular form - another odd thing for a truck driver - and his all black attire, he seems almost like some sort of monster or omen come to warn about the future.

You step up to the counter beside him, give the cashier your best reassuring smile when she glances at you. It gives her enough courage to stumble over, “Welcome to McDonald’s, what can I get you today?” after only a few stuttering starts. You’re quite proud of her.

“Five Big Macs and fries. No drink.” The man rumbles, his mask umoving. He glances down at you, finally cocks an eyebrow (an expression!) for you to order.

“Uh, just… just ten nuggets for me,” you smile at the cashier, glance up at the driver to make sure you haven’t somehow ordered too much. “And, uh, a Coke?”

“Will that be all for you today?”

“Make it a twenty nugget meal,” your partner corrects, then pulls a worn leather from his back pocket and pays with a shiny card. You can’t help but eye the many bills folded neatly in the wallet.

“Thanks for the upgrade,” you say as the two of you slide onto a pair of stools to wait for your food. “I really appreciate it. I, uh, I can’t pay you back, though.”

He glances at you again, holds you pinned under his gaze and kicks your heartbeat up a few notches. It becomes a conscious effort to keep your breathing steady when he spreads his thighs enough to brush against yours.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Your meal is largely silent. He all but inhales three of his five burgers, leaves the other two wrapped up presumably for later on the drive. You try and eat all of your nuggets and fries, but your granola bar diet of the last few days means your stomach feels stretched to his limit only a few bites into the meal.

After your fifth nugget, you tuck the little box closed. Shift towards your driver and glance up from the window you’d been staring out to see him already looking down at you.

You clear your throat, take a little sip of your Coke. “I’m done.”

He shakes his head once, reaches forward to pop the little box back open. “No, you’re not. We’re not getting back on the road ‘til you eat at least half.”

You can’t help but blink in surprise at him, not moving to take any more food. He won’t tell you his name, won’t make any small talk whatsoever, but he will worry about how much you’re eating?

He grunts when you don’t make a move to listen to him, pushes the little brown box closer to you. “C’mon. Eat.”

You get through another five under his eye. He doesn’t look away from you, and now you know about the stare. It feels heavier now, like every little twitch from you is catalouged by him. It makes every bite difficult to swallow.

He nods when you tuck the little box closed again, glance a bit wearily at him to make sure he’s content now. He picks up your tray, tucks his two sandwiches in one hand, and leaves. You scramble to keep up.

His strides are a little shorter in the parking lot this time, and the slower pace keeps your blisters from further irritation. You’re not sure it’s intentional, but you’re thankful nonetheless.

The truck is still difficult to get into, but the worn leather seats are a familiar comfort now. This time, your driver flicks on the radio as he pulls out of the rest stop.

For some reason, you feel like maybe he likes you. There’s something in the line of his body that feels a little softer now, the tension in the truck feels a little drained. It could be the music, but you prefer to think that he’s taken a bit of a liking to you. It means he’s less likely to end up hurting you, means you're less likely to have to rely on your non-existent shooting skills.

With the sun nearly fully set and the soft music from the radio, it’s much harder to keep yourself awake. You curl up in the seat, lay your head down on folded arms, and try your best to keep your eyes open.

———————————————————————

You don’t know how long it’s been when you wake up.

The truck is silent now, no engine and no radio, and the world outside is pitch black. You jerk up at the realization, quickly lay a hand on your bag and turn to your driver.

He’s staring at you. You nearly yelp in surprise, bite your tongue so harshly to keep the noise back that you taste the tang of iron.

He looks nearly inhuman in just the low light of the truck. Pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, a dark black mask obscuring half of his face. His body is turned towards you, black shirt and dark pants making him look almost like the top half of his face is just… floating.

“I need to sleep,” he rumbles, keeping you held captive in what almost feels like a staring contest - like if you look away now, you’ll lose something. “You can take the bed in the back.”

That gets your heartbeat quickening, the thud of your pulse loud in your own ears. “Oh… I thought…” you swallow, finally tear your eyes from his to look around. You seem to be at another rest stop, this one a small dark building with two bathrooms and a few vending machines. There aren’t any other trucks parked around you. “I thought I might try and find a motel or something.”

“With what money?”

He’s got you there. You work your tongue against the roof of your mouth, clear away the blood and try to make your mouth not so bone-dry. “Yeah,” you nearly whisper, eyes darting back to his before away again. He hasn’t moved. You clear your throat before speaking again. “But, uh, I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I can sleep up here.”

“You’ll take the bed,” he reaffirms, with no room for argument in his tone. You can’t help but feel like there’s something more here, like you’re missing something. You don’t feel safe anymore, not like you had after the McDonald’s. Why did you let yourself fall asleep? You could have pressured him to pull off somewhere with a motel, tried to finagle or scam yourself into a room with a lock on the door.

Now you’re stuck in this dark truck, no one else but the driver around for miles.

You swallow again, force down a cough.

You don’t want to sleep in his bed. But a glance over at him tells you that’s what’s going to happen. Your driver doesn’t seem the kind of man to take kindly to disobedience.

“What’s your name?” You ask again, voice weak and quiet. For some reason, this feels important. Like a name will make him more human, easier to swallow.

He only tilts his head a little, face still stoic. “Get in bed. We’ll drive again when the sun rises.”

“Please,” you try, a hint of desperation creeping into your voice. You can’t explain it, but you need his name. Need some evidence that he’s more man than he looks. This moment feels pivotal, and there’s a little voice screaming at the back of your head that things are going in the wrong direction.

“Sleep, doll,” is all he says. His voice isn’t softer, but it’s quieter, like maybe he understands the fear coursing through you.

You squeeze your eyes shut a moment before pushing yourself up, both hands holding onto your bag - your literal only possible defense againt this man - like a lifeline. You know they’d shake if your grips was any looser.

It’s too dark to make out much in the back of his cabin. The bed is a decent size for you, but you wonder if he’s able to stretch out fully on it. You think you can see the outline of a minifridge and a few books resting on the floor.

He’s still watching you as you sit on the bed, his body unmoved but his head turned towards you. You try to keep your breathing steady as you toe your shoes off, tuck your feet up to the bed with you and curl up on your side.

The bag doesn’t leave your arms. His eyes don’t leave your form. He makes no move to stretch out and sleep like he’d said he would.

You force your eyes closed, no matter how wrong it feels. You try and will yourself to sleep, tell yourself everything will be fine. If he tries anything, you’ll shoot him.

You can still feel his gaze on you when you finally slip into unconsciousness.

———————————————————————

You wake slowly to movement behind you.

You blink heavy eyelids open, let them fall shut again when there’s no difference in what you can see. You feel cloaked by sleep still, like your brain has been held underwater and everything moves a little slowly, a little muffled.

The bed dips behind you, and there’s a warmth behind you. A hand at your waist. The top of a foot against the sole of yours. A chest against your back.

Your eyes stay closed, but your brows furrow a bit. Your husband has always hated the idea of cuddling, slept like a corpse on his back and berated you if you dared to touch him in your sleep. You nearly roll over, but figure that might set him off. Your arms still ache from the last argument you’d had.

The hand slips beneath your shirt, rough palm against your waist, thumb smoothing in little circles.

That catches your attention, too - your husband’s hands are soft. He’s never done a day of work in his life, the only job he’s had is some fake title made up by his father at his company. The hand on your skin isn’t soft at all, it’s rough with big, thick fingers that rest heavily on you.

The realization comes to you in pieces.

Your master bedroom was never this dark, the large windows always left wide open to allow moonlight into the room. Your ex-husband’s hands are smooth, boney and nearing on frail. The foot brushing against yours triggers a burning sensation in your blisters.

You keep your breathing even - an effort that feels impossible.

It’s not your husband at your back, it’s the truck driver.

He’s silent as he tucks himself fully to you. His breath is damp against your neck and you fight down a shudder at the sensation.

Your bag isn’t in your arms, which means you don’t have your gun. Whatever happens, whatever he does to you, you have no way of defending yourself.

The only reason you don’t cry at the thought is because you don’t want him to know you’re awake. It’s pure self-preservation that keeps your breathing even, your limbs loose, and your breathing slow.

He brings his head closer, his breathing loud in your ear. Every part of him is pressed against you, and you can’t help squeezing your eyes shut more tightly at the hardness poking into your back.

He’s silent as he sets his chin over your shoulder. His groin is tucked right beneath your ass, his knees behind yours and his feet benath yours. He’s just… spooning you.

It feels like an eternity passes just like that. Your heartbeat pounding in every bone, the heat of the driver’s body against yours. His breath is the only noise you hear, ghosting over your ear, heavier than your own.

Eventually, he starts to move. You almost whimper when you realize what he’s doing.

He’s humping you.

His movements are slow at first, just a little rock of his hips against you. But as the minutes pass he becomes more incensed, his thrusts harder against you, his breathing heavier. He grunts at one point, and it takes everything in you not to flinch away.

You want to scream. You want to open your mouth and shout, to roll over and make him stop.

But you don’t have your gun. And he dwarfs you, every inch of your back covered by him and then some. You can’t stop him.

So you let it happen. You keep your eyes screwed shut, try desperately to go anywhere else in your head and pretend you don’t feel how quickly his hips begin to rock.

His hand moves from your hip to your stomach, his pinky resting on the waistband of your sleep shorts. You don’t think you could stay quiet any longer if his fingers slipped beneath the hem, and you let out a near silent breath of relief when his palm continues up instead of down.

He almost rolls you onto your stomach, angles you so your front is closer to the mattress and he can grind more on you than beside you. His hand slips further up your shirt, and you bite your tongue at the feeling of his rough palm against your nipples.

That gets another huff from him, another low sound that could almost be a moan. You feel him shift again, his hips working a little more roughly. You’re not sure how he possibly thinks you’re still asleep, but you pray he doesn’t take it any further as long as he does.

He doesn’t pinch, just softly strokes over one breast. His hand engulfs it fully, fingers wrapping all the way around the little mound of flesh. The calluses on his palm send little sparks down your spine, and you curse your body for the buzzing sensation between your thighs.

His breath gets heavier in your ear, he’s nearly panting over you. If you weren’t wearing shorts and he wasn’t wearing jeans, he’d be fucking you. His thrusting almost feels like he is. The… thing grinding against you is clearly large, even through all the layers of clothing, and you say another prayer that he doesn’t do more than this.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his chin pushing hard into your shoulder. You almost jerk at the sound of his voice, the evidence that this is real and not some horrible nightmare.

You wish you could fall back asleep.

You don’t know how long the whole thing lasts. The pitch dark, the driver’s oppressive weight against you, it makes time feel liminal. You’re not sure if he lasts for five minutes or five hours.

But eventually his hips slow, give a few harder thrusts before he goes completely still and lets out a loud groan. Again, you wonder how he expects you to have slept through the noise.

He shifts back a little in the aftermath, rolling you back to your side with a heavy hand on your stomach. You try to keep yourself as limp as possible, try to make your face go slack.

He lays with you for a while, breathing even and slow. You wish he would leave, wish he would let you start pretending this never happened. His hand stays on your stomach, and you can feel the other crossed over his midsection at your back. His feet hold your ankles to the bed. You hope he can’t feel that you’re squeezing your hands into tight fists where they rest against your thighs.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he shifts his own thick thigh between your own, the rough denim of his jeans irritating the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He tucks his leg up, settles it right against your core.

You can’t help the way your breath hitches at the sudden pressure. You hold it immediately after, then try to breathe normally again when you realize how obvious the sudden change sounds. He doesn’t react, though, so you think you’re safe.

The pressure increases a bit more before stopping. You’re almost propped up on his thigh, your pussy pressed against him through your shorts. It’s hard not to open your eyes, to look down and see what’s happening.

His hand slips down from your stomach to the waistband of your shorts. You can’t keep yourself from moving this time, already knowing what he’s going to do. You shift your hips a little, make a tiny noise in your throat that you hope comes off as a normal still-asleep sound. The movement only presses you closer to him.

He hums lowly in your ear, fingers stroking across the waistband of your shorts before dipping inside, then past your little gray panties. You can’t help the little squeak you make, the way your hands twitch before you force them still.

The sound he makes is almost a laugh, too low and quiet to really be one though. He hushes you softly, pushes on the meat of your most vulnerable part to still you.

You don’t know if he thinks you’re awake. You think he must, there’s no way you could have slept through what he’d just done, and you’ve moved twice now. But he doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t become more aggressive.

You debate putting up a fight when his fingers sink lower, his palm resting heavily over your cunt. But the thought of him becoming rough, of him restraining you… it makes bile churn in your stomach.

You resign yourself to waiting until it’s over, go limp against the bed again.

Another hum, and his free hand moves beneath your body to grasp your hip. He moves you slowly, little grinding motions over his thigh. The hand over your heat uses two fingers to spread the lips of your cunt, tucks the gusset of your underwear and the fabric of your shorts to the side so your clit makes direct contact with his jeans.

You keen quietly at the sensation, a little animal noise of fear, of pain. You wish you had your gun, wish you could make this man stop.

But you can’t. So you bear it.

He doesn’t touch your clit with his fingers, doesn’t touch any part of your pussy but to spread you wide. His thigh moves along yours, his hand grinding you against it. You hate the slickness gathering at your hole, hate the way your nipples tighten, the way your breaths become heavier.

You bite your tongue to hold back any other sounds, that tang of blood returning after only a few seconds.

“C’mon,” he says into your neck, his voice a low whisper. “Come f’r me, doll... be good.”

You don’t want to be good, can’t suppress the little whine you make at even the thought. He rumbles low in his chest in response, pushes against you a little harder.

You can’t stay quiet through your orgasm. It’s a slow thing, rolling and deep. You feel it in your toes, in your scalp, and in every vein between. Had you been willing, been with a partner of your choice, you may have thrown your head back and cried out. But here in the truck, with this man you can’t believe you were stupid enough to trust, you squeeze your eyes so tightly shut that tears eek out the corners and bite your cheek until there’s a sore. And still, a moan vibrates in your chest.

He stops grinding you against him when your orgasm is finished. His finges slip from you slowly, tuck your panties back over your mound and give you two little pats before he fully pulls his hand away.

Both of his hands slip back up your stomach, grab a handful of your chest and massage you there for several moments. Your breathing gradually slows as your body comes down, your limbs going limp again despite the fact that his hands are still on you.

He rolls you to your back when he’s finished. You feel his lips press against each of your eyelids, squeezed shut no matter how hard you try to force your face to relax. Another tear slips down the side of your nose, and he kisses it away before it can reach your lips. You feel his tongue stroke beneath each eye, know that he’s cleaning away your tears. He gives you a final, chaste kiss on your lips before pulling away.

He’s gone a moment later, and you’re left cold and alone in his bed.

———————————————————————

He smokes a cigarette while he watches you sleep. Your nose twitches at the first hint of smoke, and he almost smirks at the expression.

He can’t believe he found you. A perfect little doll of a girl, limping all filthy and sad along the side of a highway, just waiting for someone to scoop you up. God truly does have a sick sense of humor, gifting a bastard like Ghost a gift like you.

He hadn’t planned to keep you at first. He figured he’d ride with you for a while, fuck you a few times to have a warm place to dump his cum before dropping you off at a rest stop for another driver to scoop up. But no, that won’t do now that he’s felt your cunt against his hand, watched you try desperately to hold back every expression because you thought it might keep you safe.

He’ll have to find out where the finger-shaped bruises on your arms are from. After this trip, he’ll find whoever left them and take care of them. He’ll be the only one hurting his little doll, no one else. Might even win him a few brownie points with you, if he’s lucky.

Your feet probably need bandaging, too. He’d seen the redness at the back of your ankles when you tucked your feet up on his seats, felt the blisters against his own feet when he laid with you. He’ll make sure you stay off your feet for a bit, give them time to heal.

That gets another smirk. You won’t be leaving the truck for a long time, there’ll be no need to worry about your blisters after tonight. He’ll keep you off your feet. Maybe have you thank him for taking such good care of you.

He’ll try your mouth next. He bites back a moan imagining your face pressed against his crotch, knows already that the difference in size between the two of you will be absolutely pornographic at that angle. Can’t wait to teach you to deepthroat him, salivating at the image of you holding him in your mouth on the road.

He’d already wasted one load, it’s only right you take the next. You’re his now, which means he shouldn’t have to come in his fucking pants like a teenager ever again.

But he’d gone easy on you, hadn’t made you take him in any of your holes this first night. Even let you pretend to sleep through the whole thing, though your shifting hips and little scrunched up face gave you away as soon as he pressed himself against you.

It was endearing, really, the way you tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t happening. He can still taste your tears on his tongue, mixing with the acrid taste of nicotine. He can’t wait to learn what your pussy tastes like.

He takes a long pull from the cigarette and considers your little shaking form.

You won’t need much now that you’re with him. Only a few outfits in case he needs to bring you in somewhere, but you’ll be kept naked when in his truck. He’ll have to find a motel sometime soon, get all the grime washed off your skin and the grease out of your hair. He’d like to see it brushed out, see how you might style it for him.

He’ll take good care of you. Feed you when you’re hungry, maybe get some little toys or books if you’re good, fuck you whenever you - or he - needs it.

It’ll take a while for you to settle, he knows. You’ll spend a bit looking for that girly little gun you’d been keeping tucked away in your bag. But that’s okay. He already knows he’ll enjoy training you, showing you just how to be the perfect little doll for him.

He stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray, climbs back into bed with you and tucks you tight to his chest. Your little sniffling breaths draw another little twitch of the lips from him, and he buries his nose in your hair before shutting his eyes.

Yeah, you're going to be perfect for him.

#cod #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x reader #bo writes #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #ghost riley x you #dark fic #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic

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saywhat-politics · 6 months ago

Text

‘A travesty’: Echoing Trump, Scottsdale guts its diversity office

In 2004, racists tried to destroy Scottsdale’s diversity office with a pipe bomb. Tuesday, the city council finished the job.

By TJ L'Heureux

February 12, 2025

Tuesday night at a Scottsdale City Council meeting, Don Logan looked on in dismay.

Nearly three decades ago, Logan was tasked with getting a diversity office off the ground in Scottsdale. This was a new venture among Valley cities, and the going was often tough. So tough that he nearly gave his life for it.

#scottsdale #arizona #diversity office

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studiogrimm810 · 7 months ago

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Not Made For This

pairings: (pining) psychic!sam winchester x gn!you, dean is also there

summary: after following one of sam’s visions, sam and dean meet another psychic kid who had the same vision as sam and he starts to take a protective liking to them

warnings: graphic depictions of violence, psychic visions

word count: 5,506

A/N: this was a request! i hope i did the idea justice!! this definitely went on a bit longer than intended but i had a lot of fun writing it. enjoy! ^.^

———————

Soft rain pattered on the foggy window that Sam’s head lay against. By the end of the day, they would arrive at the scene of his latest premonition. Sam kept a watchful eye on any news reports from the area due to a painful paranoia of if he’s too late.

It was late last night when Sam was so rudely torn from sleep with the adrenaline rush of yet another vision of some poor soul losing their life. This time, it had been a middle aged woman with curly red hair and a nose dusted with freckles. She appeared to be an innocent woman, a happy woman with a smile that almost calmed Sam during his vision. But her life was so needlessly taken by some thief with an eager trigger-finger.

There was another person he saw in the far background- a blurry, anxiety ridden figure, frozen in place, as the impact of the bullet with the woman’s chest woke Sam with a start. He quickly woke Dean to instruct that they needed to start driving to the landmark Sam spotted in his vision- some pub in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Sam hadn’t been able to get a wink of rest since. They’d been on the road for almost 9 hours and they were only halfway there.

“We should switch out, Dean, I can take it from here,” Sam offered, sitting up in his seat, he hoped that the distraction of driving, and the quiet lack of a 10th repeat of one of Dean favorite tapes, would provide enough spatial clarity to calm him just enough to survive this trip.

“You’re running on 2 hours, kid, I’m not risking you crashin’ my baby,” Dean scoffs with an upturned lip, rustling Sam’s hair just to mess with him. Dean would never admit this to Sam, but having his baby brother next to him on the road was something he never knew he needed until he lost it, and now he would relish in any moment with Sam to savor the pettiness of annoying his sibling.

“You’re not much better,” Sam sasses as he pulls away his head from Dean’s hand with a scowl. “Just let me know if you get too tired.” Sam rests his head back on the window, watching raindrops race each other as they descend the slick glass.

Dean's gaze hardens as Sam shuts down again. He hoped that Sam had finally snapped out of his funk since his vision. Dean worries about Sam, knowing these visions of people dying aren’t really sitting well with Sam, but there’s nothing he can do about it except help Sam save those they can. So that’s why he straightens his posture, turns his music down just a hair, and focuses on the dampened road before him.

———

The wash of dread that riddles Sam as the Impala passes a scene of police tape and flashing lights make him physically sick. Dean quickly parks the car to allow Sam to find the nearest patch of grass to empty his already depleted stomach.

They had rolled into town just after dark and were looking for a motel when sirens caught their attention and led them here. Dean stepped a bit closer to observe the scene, finding a dark puddle of blood on half rain-dried patch of pavement in an alley. The scent of gunpowder was still fresh along with a stench of sulfur, mixing with the warm rain.

Sam spit to clear out his mouth the best he could and tried to push down the gnawing guilt that came with his failure. He held his head high to prevent any pooling of tears in his lids and tried to collect himself.

Once he felt he had a semblance of apathy, he turned to find his brother who tepidly paced the span of police tape to gather any visual or auditory information. Sam had to pull his gaze away to keep himself in check. His eyes scraped over the crowd that had formed, some concerned faces, others curious. But one spectator stood out, a person who’s expression could only be described as devastation.

Their eyes were widened with exhausted fear and it was clear they were in shock. Their mouth was agape and a hand hovering just a few inches away to cover part of their face. They looked ready to dart as they took a few cautious steps back and their eyes remained locked in the gurney rolling a bagged body into a van labeled ‘MORGUE’.

Sam’s brows furrowed as his eyes watched the figure as they darted up the street. Sam wastes no time to follow them. He doesn’t know what the pull is or why it’s there but it’s strong. It’s like he can’t help his feet as they chase the stranger. He even ignores Dean’s calls for him.

The figure turns down an alley and Sam picks up his pace to keep up. As he reaches the corner, he slows as the sounds of panicked breathing echo from the brick.

Dean, who reluctantly followed Sam in his spontaneous dart, calls out, “what the hell, Sammy?” Sam snaps his head back, holding his finger to his tight lips.

“Wait here,” Sam whispers. Dean becomes even more curious but respects his brother's instructions- for once, Sam thinks.

Sam walks around the corner, trying to find the source of the hyperventilation, and his eyes land on you.

Your eyes were still wide and panicked like they were at the scene. You were shaking terribly and uttering nonsense as you tried to talk yourself down. Sam couldn’t make out what you were saying.

He took a cautious step forward, looking you over for anything out of the ordinary or any injuries.

“Excuse me,” Sam calls softly, hoping to not startle you. He failed.

You flinched at his voice, body tensing as you took in his disheveled appearance and sleepy eyes lined with heavy bags.

“I, um,” he didn’t really have a plan of what to say. “Are you okay?”

The sight of a sudden stranger shocked your lungs a bit to settle just enough, as if they reset, but your lungs still felt tight and the tremble through your core made you shiver.

“I’m Sam,” he offers, taking another step closer.

A sudden sharp throb in his skull made him gasp as an image flashed before his eyes. The image of the figure in the background of his vision, it was you. He weakly pulls himself back together but your prying eyes watching him struggle to keep a straight posture makes him flush in embarrassment.

“You knew her,” he states simply with a heavy rise of his chest catching his breath after the rattle in his skull.

“H-how do you know that?” The voice that pours out of your mouth is sweet like syrup. A gentle settle onto Sam’s ears like a balm.

“Just a guess,” Sam scoffs lightly, letting out the air his body subconsciously stored as he awaited your reaction.

“Why did you follow me?” You ask, darting your eyes down to his hands, then his hips, then his face again. You looked for any potential threats because you were now cornered in this alley by a very tall stranger.

Sam realized his mistake.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he takes a few steps to the side, opening a clearing for you to walk past him if you deem it necessary.

Your instinct is to bolt again, but you don’t.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Sam answers, keeping soft, discerning eyes on you.

You don’t know how to answer, you’re absolutely not okay. Three hours ago, you had a migraine that flashed images of your history professor being mugged just outside of the bar most students and teachers on campus frequent. It was completely irrational and most likely nothing, but your paranoia got the best of you and you had to go out just to make certain. Sure enough, Dr. Evans was at the bar with another professor and when they parted ways at the end of the night, it was a frame by frame replica of the horrific scene that invaded your mind just a few hours before. You were frozen and couldn’t believe it.

But you couldn’t tell Sam that, he would think you’re crazy, right?

“I’m fine,” you say with no emotion to back you up but plenty of hesitation to work against your mask of nonchalance.

“You saw it happen,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. Your eyes widen again with a glossy veil of tears.

“How do you know that?” You echo an already asked question. You had no clue who this guy was but he seemed to know everything about what’s wrong with you at the moment- well, not everything.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t know what makes him so confident, but he knows he has you pinned. “You saw it, like before it happened.”

Okay, so maybe everything. Seriously, who the fuck is this guy?

“It’s okay,” Sam hurriedly follows upon seeing the twist of complete perplexity. “I saw it too, and you were there,” in his head, this was reassuring, but he definitely feels like he’s freaking you out even more.

“What the fuck-,” you exhale a laugh of incredulity, tilting your head back with a roll of your eyes. You’re actually losing it. This is it.

“No, it’s okay-.”

“You’re doing a really shitty job at this, Sammy,” a gruff voice interrupts. Around the corner, a brick wall of a man with his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket emerges with a stoic glare that makes you shrink.

“Dean, I told you to wait,” Sam hisses.

“You’re freaking them out, man,” Dean gestures toward you with his elbow.

“What’s your name?” Sam zeros in on you with a pleading look of determination- sweet puppy dog eyes that show the sincerity of how much he seems to care.

You offer your name simply and when Sam echos it, it soothes you further.

“I had a vision of that woman getting shot last night,” Sam’s solemn words weigh down the tension between you, “and I think you did too.”

You look over to the man who hasn’t introduced himself yet, he stared back with a painfully unreadable expression that unsettled you. You swallow thickly as your eyes leave him and glaze over the cracked and pebbled ground beneath you.

“It didn’t feel real,” your voice leaves as a whisper and Sam listens closely, nodding softly to encourage you to continue, “it was a few hours ago,” you clear your throat and look back up at Sam with a pathetically drained expression. Sam offers a small smile, hoping to supply even a nudge of comfort. “What’s happening to me?” The desperation in your voice makes Sam’s face fall a bit and he gives the pebbles on the ground his attention for a moment.

“We’re trying to figure that out,” Sam puffs his chest with a feigned confidence and an assured nod as he looks back up at you.

“She was my favorite professor,” your voice cracks, “and I had to watch her die, twice,” your voice wavers, full of thick anguish that weighs you down through a metaphorical quicksand that threatens to swallow you whole.

Sam clenches his jaw to hold back the sting in his eyes and distract himself from the lump in his throat. He remembers his first vision, how confusing and frightening it was.

But there was something about you specifically that made him really feel for you, something about the innocence you radiated- like you had never experienced pain beyond the loss of a pet.

Sam started to form what he wanted to say to you next, but the groan that escaped your lips as you fell to your knees kicked any queued thoughts out of sight.

The images that flashed before you burned bright like the sun, making your eyes sting in the glare. You cry out softly, holding your head in your hands as waves of pressure press deeper and deeper into your skull. You feared the bone would shatter.

Through a foggy, disorienting eyeglass, you see a man in his own home making dinner, when another man breaks in and attacks the first man. The intruder's eyes held no light, they were pure onyx.

The intruder takes a large piece of glass from the window he broke through and stabs the first man more times than you can count.

The images flash away and the pressure around your skull lightens. Your breathing is labored and you feel hands on you that weren’t there before.

Sam.

He beckons your name, talking you through the attack. When you fully come to again, he’s kneeled beside you with a comforting hold on your arm and his free hand keeping you sturdy by holding your back. Dean has crouched just a few feet away from the bundle of you and Sam.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Sam nods, his large hands roaming your back innocently. “What did you see?”

He dreads to hear the answer because of the sheer exasperation on your face. The sight nearly breaks him because he knows you’re feeling what he’s felt all day- the ticking timer of someone’s life in your hands.

“B-break in,” you get out in fragments, “A man in his home and there was- was another man. The one who broke in, his- his eyes were-,” you choked on your words.

“Black?” Dean finishes for you and you nod with a heavy sigh.

“The clock on the oven said 6:43,” you added, your voice barely harnessing any body behind them.

“So we have time,” Sam concludes, still rubbing your back.

“Is there anything else you can tell us? Any details?” Dean asks.

“There was a uh- yeah,” you nod, remembering a flash of mail on the kitchen counter, “the address.”

“Perfect,” Dean shrugged with a simple smile. “We can take it from here, you should just go home- get some rest,” Dean instructs, turning to face Sam and continue speaking but you interrupt him.

“No, I’m coming with. I can help,” you insist. You couldn’t let someone die again, you couldn’t even stomach the thought.

Sam smiles softly, admiring your determination but also recognizing the fire that will burn out too soon if you don’t take care of yourself first.

“We have time,” Sam repeats with a small nod, looking back between you and Dean. “You should go and get some rest, we can meet again tomorrow.”

You really could use a warm shower and a deep sleep, but how are you supposed to get that image out of your head? You watched someone get shot, twice. And just saw someone get stabbed.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek with a soft nod.

“I’m gonna get the car, Sammy,” Dean stands, patting Sam's shoulder and disappearing back onto the street. Sam’s eyes remain on you, though, as if he were trying to dig deeper and read further into your soul.

“Are you okay?” He asks, but this time it’s more simple- sedated.

“Honestly, I hope I’m dreaming,” you say, dazed on the glistening pavement that was still wet from earlier showers.

“You’re not,” he follows, not sympathetic but also not too direct, just a simple stated fact. You liked his forwardness.

“Why us?”

“That’s an explanation for another time.”

“So you know?”

“I’m not certain.”

It’s quiet again for a moment, a small rumble of an engine nearby settles in your chest like a comfortable anchor- a hitch to the fact that you’re just some person, in some alley, in some city. Nothing special.

“I can’t do this,” you breathe out.

“You can. You shouldn’t have to, but you can,” Sam says. Again, simple.

“How long have you dealt with this? The visions, I mean,” you ask, ignoring the headlights of a vehicle you assume to be Dean’s.

“A few months, I’ve met some others like us,” Sam hopes these words are a comfort to you, that you’re not alone. Your eyes squint in disbelief that make Sam breathe out a small chuckle. “Yeah.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” you shake your head, holding your panic on a tight leash since it’s already done its damage for the night. You really wished to not lose it again in front of this handsome stranger.

“It shouldn’t,” Sam shrugs, keeping his distinct eyes on you, taking in every detail to help him understand what you’re thinking or feeling. “It’s a lot to take in. A lot to resonate with,” Sam nods in understanding, “It’s also a lot to see something like… that for the first time,” he spits out his words carefully- calculated. “If you need anything at all, all you have to do is ask.”

And he really means it.

After a moment of silence, Sam understands that you'd prefer some space so he ticks his head to the opening of the alleyway, “my brothers waiting for us.”

Ah, so Dean is his brother, you connect.

Sam stands first and reaches out his hand to help you up. Under different circumstances you may have blushed at the generous help of this gorgeous man.

Sam leads you out of the alley to the most beautifully sleek car you’ve ever seen. You don’t really know your cars too well, but you know enough to understand that this must be a classic.

Sam opens the back seat door for you and you take your seat.

“We can take ya home if you need,” Dean offers as the door opens.

“I uh,” you clear your throat, “I live on campus, just follow the signs,” you point at the various signs that lead to the school.

Dean nods simply and takes you home.

Once arrived, Sam walks you to your building, holding out a piece of paper. “Listen, if you ever need to talk, call me,” he says with those same puppy eyes that really showed he cares and makes you feel like everything is going to be okay. “And if you’re insistent on helping then give me a call in the morning and I’ll be here,” he promises, “but just don’t push yourself, okay? Get some rest.”

Out of this entire night, the only thing that feels normal is him. “Thank you, Sam,” you smile softly.

Sam can’t help but feel a rush of warmth through his stomach as he sees how beautiful you look in this moment. Frizzy hair from the rain, damp clothes, tired eyes, and yet still a thankful smile that lights you up and makes him feel accomplished.

You turn to open the door after saying goodnight and ascend up the stairs and to your dorm.

———

“Demons?” You sat on a motel bed in front of the two men who helped you last night. Dean, you had learned from context clues, sat at the small table provided by the motel and Sam had pulled up a chair to sit across from you as he did his best to explain everything they knew about yours and his ‘conditions’.

The pile of information flooded onto your lap was awfully hard to claw through but you managed to sort just enough to not feel absolutely crazy.

So far you have learned that a ‘yellow-eyed demon’ bled into your mouth as a child, causing you to have this ‘ability’ and that you’re supposed to be part of something greater. You’ve also had to cope with demons being real, along with ghosts and a handful of other spooky creatures that you didn’t let Sam elaborate on. Demons, ghosts, and psychics felt like enough for your lifetime.

You look at the clock in the wall, seeing it was only 11am. A pit of dread carved its way deep into your stomach as the harsh reminder of someone’s life being in your hands hits you once more.

“Do you have any questions for us?,” Dean sits up, watching you carefully.

“How do you guys know all of this stuff?” You nibble at the inside of your lip.

“It’s kinda our job,” Dean shrugged, “been doing it our whole lives.” He looks over at Sam who just nods back, keeping his eyes low.

You couldn’t imagine having to deal with life and death situations constantly. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since you had your first vision and it’s already taken a toll on you. However, you admire their commitment and courage.

Sam continues to answer any questions you have and offer you as much comfort as he could provide. You talk and talk, starting with the basics and important stuff regarding your shared abilities and such, but quickly morphing into more random conversation topics. You found out he went to Stanford for a few years, even had a girlfriend, but that part of his life was lost due to the yellow-eyes demon. It helps you understand his drive and motivation.

Something Sam says earns a genuine laugh from you that locks him in a daze. He feels beyond proud for getting you to laugh at a time like this, getting you to loosen up and relax even if it’s just for this moment. He watches as your eyes light up and your toothy smile erupts with a warm chuckle.

You yourself could get lost in his dimple, each time he smiles or laughs it pokes his cheek and it’s all you can focus on.

The dome around you both locked any unwanted force out, allowing you to have this frozen moment in time just for you and him. You even begin to forget about the looming reality of 6:43pm because talking with Sam just helps. Something about his presence is so calming and it’s like you’ve known him your whole life.

———

Soon enough, it’s time to scope out the man’s home, hoping to stop the invasion. You all piled into the Impala again which quite frankly was the most comfortable car you’ve ever ridden in.

“So, how are we supposed to handle the demon?” You ask from the back seat. Sam turns around to face you better as he answers you.

“We’ll trap it and exorcise it.”

“Not before I question it,” Dean adds, hands gripping the steering wheel. “There was sulfur at the crime scene, I’m guessing it’s the same demon.”

It’s a bit jarring how normal this feels, almost like this feels more normal than your finals coming up or graduation. Maybe it’s the drop of demon blood fed to you, like it’s pulling you towards this life and everything that comes with it.

That is not a comforting thought.

Demon blood.

In your veins?

What does this make you? Who does it make you?

You force the thoughts away, focusing on the fact that you can save someone’s life tonight, that it can prove that you aren’t what you fear you may be or may become. If this ability is going to be forced onto you then the least you can do is try and save someone in the process.

Dean parks the Impala far away enough to not be seen and to only be able to see the house with a set of binoculars. The plan was to wait until around 6:30 and then wait outside to see if they could find the demon and stop it before it even made it inside.

Sam goes over basics for this specific situation with you, telling you to stay with him and to keep the flask of holy water on you at all times. He assures that he and Dean have a handle on this and that you shouldn’t stray.

When the time comes, your nerves are at an all time high. You don’t really know what to expect, but when a hooded man makes his way towards the house you’re all watching, you know you just have to work with what knowledge has been given to you.

“Let’s go, stay close,” Dean says to both you and Sam and you nod in response. Dean leads the way as Sam guides you in front of himself by the small of your back. The touch is gentle and almost loving.

“Remember what I told you and you’ll be fine,” Sam whispered in your ear, making you shiver as his breath tickled your neck. His hand on your lower back gripped ever so slightly as if he were affected by the domestic touch as well.

As they got closer, Dean attacked the demon, spraying it with holy water. Sam carefully shoved you behind him, the placement of his hands feeling as if they were supposed to be there all along. The demon screamed at the pain but once the holy water fizzled down, he started cackling.

“What’s so funny?” Dean grunts but the demon only continues to laugh. “Who sent you!” Dean slams the demon into the brick siding of the house. “You killed that professor, didn’t you?”

The demon continued to laugh before unhinging its jaw and letting a thick black cloud of smoke roll out past its lips. “Dammit!” Dean growled, dropping the unmoving body to the ground. You watched as his jaw remained open and his eyes wide in dull fear. He was dead. The host was dead. You didn’t save him.

Sam turned to face you, standing to block your line of vision on the body just a few feet away.

“It’s okay, don’t look at him,” Sam tried to soothe but you felt distraught.

“He’s dead,” you breathe out, looking past Sam to see the body again but Sam places his hand on your jaw to firmly hold your face back.

“He’s been dead for a while,” Sam explains, “that’s what happens with possession. He hasn’t been himself for long enough, it’s better this way.”

You couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to lose your own body to a demon like that. You suppose Sam is right.

There’s a loud shatter nearby that startled all of you. Dean is the first to head to the side door, quickly kicking it in and heading to where he hears the crystals of glass coming from. Sam takes your hand and leads you with him, staying close to Dean but keeping you closer.

Once you all make it inside and to the kitchen, the sight is like the one you saw last night. There was a pile of shattered glass on the floor and the smell of something tomato-ey cooking. Except this time, the victim's eyes are black and he’s the one holding a large shard in his bloody hand. He starts to cackle and the sound makes you connect that this was the demon from outside.

Sam starts to chant something you can’t really make out but the impact it has on the demon is surprising. The moment the first words leave Sam's lips, the laughter stops and a scowl replaces the demon’s temporary face. It starts to jerk as if it were taking hits but it manages to lift the shard and stab it deep into its abdomen.

You gasp in shock, watching as the blood stains the shirt of this poor man who, by all you know, had absolutely nothing to do with this whole mess.

Sam’s words speed up and as he finishes, the demon expels from the man’s mouth and singes into the hardwood beneath him, burning away for good this time.

Dean is the first to run after the man as he stumbles, he’s still present and his eyes are panicked.

“Wh-who are you! Why did I do th-that?” He stutters with an underlying groan. Sam whips out his phone to call 911 and you just feel frozen- useless.

You feel like you failed.

———

After the man was rushed to the hospital, Dean dropped off you and Sam while he went out for dinner. You felt like a complete failure and Sam could tell how much you were kicking yourself for this.

“Hey,” Sam coos, sitting next to you on the lumpy couch in his and Dean’s motel room. “He’ll be okay, EMT’s said they arrived just in time. Mark is going to make a full recovery,” he adds emphasis on the name, hoping to show you even further that you actually saved someone.

“I didn’t do anything, I just stood there.”

“You helped us find him and that saved his life.” Sam insists, reaching out to hold your hand. “This stuff doesn’t come with instructions, you just have to learn to do the best with what you have given to you. And that’s exactly what you did tonight, you did everything you could and it saved a man’s life,” Sam searches your eyes, hoping you’re listening and actually believing his words.

You sigh and rest your head in your free hand, “I don’t know how I’m just supposed to go back to school. It feels so unimportant in the midst of all of this,” you nibble at your cheek again. Sam's eyes float the movement under your cheek and he smiles warmly, adoring the small habit of yours.

He lets your words sink in though, the idea of you dropping school so close to graduation. He doesn’t wish this path on anyone else, but he sees so much of himself in you that it’s a little scary.

“I just feel like I have this- this evil running in my blood, that my body isn’t my own, that I’m not who I’m supposed to be,” you pull up your head to lean it into the headrest of the couch, turing to look at him again and he rests his head next to yours as well, looking right into your eyes. He's a lot closer than he was before. “Like…”

“…Who you’re supposed to be is someone you won’t want to be,” Sam finishes in your trailed thought in a whisper, and it clicks like the last puzzle piece in your unspoken thoughts.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, your eyes stinging with fearful tears. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be,” you shake your head. There’s something about Sam’s eyes that holds you captive. That allows all of these fears and uncertainties to just fall out of your mouth and into his hands for him to collect for safe keeping.

“Only you can decide that,” Sam says, as if it's that simple. “You can go to school and live a normal life and ignore this world,” he urges, hoping that you’ll do what’s better for you, that you’ll just be selfish.

“I can’t do that, I can’t just pretend that my visions don’t mean something. I can’t let people die,” your voice cracks, but your tone proves that these are the most solid words to escape your lips in the past two days.

Sam reached his hand up to cup your jaw again, loving the feeling of your warm skin in his hold. It felt so natural and so right. His eyes search your face for any hint that he could talk you out of throwing your life away for the greater good. He wishes that this weight wasn’t on your shoulders, that you could just drop it and run far away.

He knows what this life does to people, he’s experienced it first and second hand, but he also knows the gratification and pride that comes with a life like this- the reward. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe it was meant to pan out like this.

His thumb caresses your chin, feathering past your lip ever so slightly that it earns a soft intake of air from you.

The tension between you and Sam had become undeniable, it was odd how quickly you had trusted him and how natural it was to be around him- to touch him.

“Come with us,” Sam speaks, his eyes dipping to your lips for a moment, “if you’re insistent on using your abilities to help, then come with us. At least until you learn enough to handle yourself. You’ll be safer,” he caressed your chin again, this time allowing his thumb to brush past the better half of your lip.

This was crazy.

This is crazy.

But goddamn if it didn’t feel right.

Your whole life you felt out of place, forcing yourself to stick to what’s safe and what you know. Sticking yourself in bubbles and boxes of those around you, mimicking what seemed the best for you and your future- but what you felt right now? The contentment in the unknown of the future? The certainty of this moment alone was enough to convince you that maybe you’ve been living your life wrong this whole time, maybe your calling was more than college and parties and marriage and careers.

Maybe your purpose is with these two hunters, saving people and using your forced abilities for the betterment of others.

Maybe your old life was never meant for you.

Maybe this was what’s you were made for.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #fandom #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x you #supernatural x you #supernatural x reader

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charliegyrth · 5 months ago

Text

Halloween Before and After

October 31, 2023

I met Mario at a Halloween house party near campus. He was Tarzan and I was a pirate. Match made in heaven.

I saw him through the crowded room. Shirtless. Bronze muscles bulging. He smiled at me first, as if I was some hot stud. As if I could possibly compare to him. I smiled back but was too afraid to approach him. (On some level, I thought it was a Halloween trick. This guy was way out of my league.)

He walked toward me, smiling wide enough to show the adorable gap in his front teeth. “I like your eye patch,” he shouted through the thumping music. That was his opening line. Cheesy, but it worked on me.

“I like your loin cloth,” I shouted back.

“Mario!” he shouted.

“Jake!”

We could barely hear each other, so he grabbed me by the wrist and guided me into the quiet backyard. It was a cold night, but Mario didn’t seem to mind. I guess his muscles insulated him.

“So. Jake. How’s your Halloween so far?”

“Uneventful.” I didn’t want to tell him that I felt deeply uncomfortable at the party, that my oversized, too-flamboyant pirate costume made me feel self-conscious, that I had no idea why a hot guy like him was talking to a non-entity like me.

“Well, it’s a big night for me. A really big night.” He smiled as if he’d just made a secret joke. “I, um… know you from sociology class. Professor Keating. I’ve always wanted to introduce myself.”

“There’s like 200 people in Keating’s class,” I said. (Slight exaggeration.)

“Exactly. Two hundred people, and you’re the only one brave enough to stand up to that tyrant.”

“Oh. That.”

He must’ve been talking about last month, when Keating had made some snide comments about the body positivity movement. He was one of those professors who got off on saying purposely controversial stuff and then shooting down any students who stood up to him. A crusader against PC culture or whatever. You know, one of those professors.

I’d grimaced at a lot of the things he said, but I’d never had the balls to say anything until he started talking nonsense about how it was good to fat-shame. How “not all bodies are beautiful.” I personally wasn’t fat. (In fact, I was noticeably underweight, and I came from a family of short, thin people.) But for some reason, his words really upset me and I pushed back. He absolutely tore into me, like he tore into anybody who disagreed with him. It was humiliating.

“Do you regret standing up to him?”

“I probably will once our grades come in,” I joked. “But no. Screw that guy.”

Mario smiled. I’d just said what he wanted to hear. ��Yeah. Screw that guy.”

We shared a silent moment together. His dark eyes reflected the light from the jack-o-lanterns behind me. God, I wanted to kiss him so much. And it wasn’t because he was ridiculously good-looking. It was because… I don’t know. Because he was pulling me toward him like a magnet. Giving off this raw energy. Warmth.

I could tell that, somehow, he was as interested in me as I was in him.

“What’s your major?” he asked, switching toward the more standard getting-to-know-you phase of the conversation.

I told him about how I was studying business and taking culinary classes on the side. I talked about my internship at Lascari’s, a high-end restaurant in Scottsdale.

And in turn, he told me about his literature classes. And his time on the wrestling team. And his family’s Mexican restaurant up in Lake Havasu.

The restaurant business was the big thing we had in common. But we had a bunch of other stuff in common, too. Swimming. A passion for horror movies. Very similar political beliefs. After talking for over an hour, I felt deeply comfortable with him.

And deeply attracted, of course.

“So why is tonight such a big night for you?” I assumed he was going to talk about his deep love for Halloween. (Which… I get it. I loved Halloween, too. Despite the awkward parties.)

But then he got weirdly serious. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Tonight’s my last night in this body.”

“What?” I thought I heard him wrong.

“Let’s sit down.” He led me toward a gazebo decorated in cobwebs and plastic spiders. It was much darker inside. We sat together. “How would you describe my body, Jake?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

“Um, muscular. Tan. Very attractive. Slightly hairy. Hot?”

“Agreed,” he answered. “Not to sound conceited, but yeah. Most people think I’m hot. And I show it off. Hence the Tarzan costume. But… it’s not really the body that I want. I’m going to change it, starting tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering my question, he took my hand and placed it on his beefy pec. I could feel his heart beat underneath. Then he led my hand toward his stomach, where he let my fingers trace the deep lines between his abs. He let go of my hand and I pulled away, though I really wanted to keep touching.

I felt myself getting hard, but I still didn’t understand what he was trying to say.

Finally, he got to the point: “I’m going to cover all this in fat, Jake. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to stop exercising and spend every afternoon eating until I pass out. I’ve done research into fitness, nutrition, pharmaceuticals. I have a detailed plan to gain as much fat as I can, as fast as I can. My goal is to become morbidly obese. It’s what I’ve always wanted. So tonight, I’m celebrating the end of my old life.”

I didn’t say anything for a long time. I knew he wasn’t joking. And I knew from his anxious smile that, despite how matter-of-fact he sounded, he was nervous to tell me all of this. I had to be careful with how I responded.

Deep down, his confession horrified me. He had a body that anyone would kill for (a body that I would kill to be with), and he wanted to destroy it. Not only was that unhealthy, but it was… a shame. I knew that gainers existed, and I’m the last person to ever kink-shame someone, but my God. Choosing to be morbidly obese, that was disgusting. This guy was nuts.

But he’d chosen me to confide in because of how I stood up for body positivity, so I couldn’t say anything negative. I couldn’t argue with how he wanted to live his life.

And more importantly, I knew that if I played my cards right, he’d take me back to his place and f*ck my brains out. This was my one chance to be with an absolute muscle god. All I had to do was say the right thing. Tomorrow, I’d wish him the best and leave him to his own weird kink, but tonight, while he was still perfect, I’d ignore his craziness and have a good time.

“It sounds like you’re very determined,” I finally said. “I know it won’t be long until you get the body you were meant to have.”

He kissed me with such hungry passion that I knew I’d told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

***

October 31, 2025

“Jake! I need help tying up my loin cloth!”

“One second, babe,” I called from the kitchen. “I’m still mixing your shakes.”

After pouring the thick liquid (a combination of condensed milk, butter, ice cream, and weight gain powder) into a thermos, I rushed back into the living room.

Mario stood in the center of the room, completely naked. He’d been getting his Tarzan costume ready for the last twenty minutes, and yet he didn’t have a single bit of clothing on. God, he depended on me for everything.

I glanced around the room. “Okay. Where’s the loin cloth?”

He looked confused. “What do you mean? I’m wearing it.”

I immediately burst out laughing. I walked toward my fiancée, hoisted up his belly, and saw the loin cloth already wrapped around his waist. His fat pad bulged out of it obscenely, the fabric stretched so tight that I could even see the tiny bulge of what was his once-massive cock. He’d outgrown the loincloth a hundred pounds ago, but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t even visible under his hanging stomach fat.

“Real talk,” I said. “You look f*cking amazing, but there is no way you can go to the party at our restaurant dressed like that. People will just think you’re naked.”

“But I’m not,” he said. “This is the costume I always wear.”

I let go of his belly and it flopped back into place. “Did you see yourself in the mirror?”

“Yeah,” he said mischievously. “I know I’ll get arrested if I wear this in public. But…”

“You just wanted to see my reaction, huh?”

I kissed him on his chubby cheek, pressing against his wobbling thigh so he could feel how the sight of him had immediately sprung me to attention. I was bulging out of my board shorts. (I chose a surfer costume this year.) “Well, you got a reaction out of me.”

I really wanted to take him into the bedroom, but then we’d miss the party. This was Halloween, our favorite holiday, and we couldn’t waste it by staying at home. Besides, we had to make an appearance at our restaurant. People were expecting us.

I circled around to his back, where the loin cloth had turned into a barely noticeable thong between his globular cheeks. I pulled it loose, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

“Okay, the Tarzan costume’s out. You can wear a bedsheet and be Fat Caesar? How about that?”

He agreed. We really didn’t have any other choice. I handed him a shake to keep him occupied and went into the bedroom to strip our bed. The sheet was purple, but it would have to do. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants (to prevent any wardrobe malfunctions) plus a couple safety pins. I also grabbed the framed photo on our dresser. Then I returned to the living room.

By then, Mario was back on the couch. I guess he’d been standing too long. He looked at everything I had in my hands. “What’s with the picture? Is that part of the costume, too?”

I sat next to him and handed him the photo. It had been on our dresser for two years now, so of course he recognized it. But you know how it is. The longer you have a decoration, the less you notice it.

It was a photo that we’d taken on the night we first met. We were posed in front of the party house, minutes away from going back to his place. Our mutual friend Sara saw us together and insisted that she record the moment. (I tried to tell her no. At the time, I assumed that Mario was going to be a one-night stand, not the love of my life. Thank God she didn’t listen to me.)

We had our arms around each other, both smiling.

I was practically swimming in my loose pirate costume. God, I was so boney back then, before Mario let me use his home gym and taught me all the exercises that he used to do.

And Mario, of course, was Tarzan. Before he grew a muffin top. Before his pecs melted into moobs. Before his chiseled jawline sprouted a second chin.

“We looked so different back then,” Mario said, nostalgically but not sadly. “That was, what? Two hundred pounds ago?”

“A bit more,” I said, patting him on the belly. “Sorry you can’t be Tarzan again this year.”

We both had fond memories of last Halloween, when he’d recreated the look. His gut was much firmer back then, so he wore the loin cloth just fine. Tarzan with a beer belly. He got a lot of comments.

“Do you remember what you said to me that night?” Mario asked.

“I remember saying a lot of things.”

“After I told you that I wanted to get fat. I was so nervous to hear your reaction. But you said, ‘I know it won’t be long until you get the body you were meant to have.’ Those were the exact words I needed to hear. Proof that you believed in me. And that you wanted this as much as I did.”

I didn’t then, but I do now. At the time, his confession had seriously freaked me out. I thought we’d have a one-night thing and I’d exit his life forever. But it had been such a good night, and then the next morning, when he started overeating, I was surprised by how turned on I was. And when he asked me to feed him… And when his body started to soften… And when I had to help him with simple tasks… And when we incorporated food in the bedroom… And when his moobs came in… And when he demanded belly rubs... And when… And when… And when…

With every step of his gaining journey, I grew closer and closer to my big, beautiful man. And now, two years later, I can’t understand how I could’ve ever been disgusted by the idea of weight gain. He’d built a perfect body for himself, and I was so lucky to be along for the ride.

Mario placed the picture on the coffee table and finished the rest of his shake. He burped a little because he knew I found that cute.

“Okay,” I said. “We’re done with the memory lane stuff. Stand up and I’ll put on your costume.”

I slid the sweatpants up his thick, dimpled legs. He spread his arms wide, letting his upper arm fat dangle beautifully, and I wrapped him in our sheet.

“Happy Halloween, babe,” he said.

“Happy Halloween.”

The End!

You can find all my stories here.

This story was also included in my anthology ebook Fatter for the Holidays.

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