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melit0n · 9 months

Text

Miasma

- Oneshot

- Stalker Phantom/Reader

- Word Count: 4.9K

- Warnings: None

- Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50298724

Your feet move in sync with the fellow members of the soloists; different shades of tulle elegantly twirling in time with the orchestra. This was the final, full run-through rehearsal until to morrow’s show; a new production long awaited to be displayed to the public.

The dance routine was tiring, yet not the worst you had ever done: the repetitive, 10 hours of practice each day with a ballet master who was unwilling to take anything but utter perfection brought more ache to your muscles than completing your role in the show itself. Yet, even with tired, overworked calves, you continued to strive for the grace and refinement that your teacher had forged into your very bones.

The surge of the orchestra reverberates in your chest as adrenaline courses through your veins, as per usual when you danced upon the stage; practice or live show. Despite the hours upon hours you had spent practicing this piece, you still had the innate fear in the back of your mind of tripping over your own feet and falling, or crashing into one of the other fast-moving girls, subsequently earning a condescending reprimandment from the ballet master.

Nothing but perfection. Something hard to achieve with bruised ankles and lungs constricted within a too-tight corset.

Despite the lack of a large, judgmental audience, the sting of observant eyes burns into your figure. Being a ballet dancer in a prestigious company, with delicately crafted productions showing to the public almost every other day, you were used to the stare of thousands on your figure.

This, however, was different.

It was an almost eerie sensation; an uncomfortable tingle raising goose-flesh on the back of your neck.

Covertly, you scour the darkened auditorium, seeing nothing but the bright red velour of the thousands of seats and the rich gold of the engraved private boxes.

You would have left the odd feeling to be the result of nerves, or the watching eyes of the stage director, or even members of the chorus, yet, it felt unrelenting. Eyes somehow managing to stay trained on your figure and your figure alone, even through the organized flutter of tulle.

As you pirouette, however, you catch the stare of the first violin player in the pit.

Ah.

Augustine would laugh at me for my paranoia, you think to yourself.

Regardless, the swell of the orchestra sends a strain through your legs; your muscles pulled taught in anticipation of finally finishing for the day, if not to only do it again the next day.

Finally, the woodwind and strings grow louder, along with the leading soprano, and the piece is finished. You flourish your legs outwards in an arabesque, holding yourself delicately on the tips of your ballet shoes, careful not to wobble, careful not to do something that would be counted as anything less than perfection. Simultaneously, you flinch slightly as the sound of ripping fabric meets your ears.

You can feel the beads of sweat running down your back, soaking into the itchy fabric of your costume. Chest heaving, you hold your position for a few moments before a loud, happy applause erupts from the observers of the final rehearsal. Gracefully, the leading lady bows as members of the chorus and corps de ballet surround her; congratulating her on reaching her notes, as if that wasn’t what she had trained tirelessly her whole life to be able to do.

The glare of the calcium lights burns.

Eventually, the stage director himself praises your group and, as it has finally struck 6 pm, calls for the members of the ballet, the chorus members, the orchestra and the leading actors to part and leave for home. You walk, tiredly, off stage right, rubbing the back of your neck.

You avoid the eyes of the first violin player, trying to catch your gaze yet again.

Squinting in the gloom, you find a large rip on the back of your costume’s bodice. You scowl as you run your hands over the ripped threads, nails plucking the strings of fibre like those of a harp.

A careful hand finds your shoulder, and you look up to see your friend; Augustine. Happily, you smile at her, her clean white teeth smiling back while she tilts her head in question at you. You stand straight and state, annoyed, “My bodice ripped.”

“Good riddance.” She replies, sarcastically.

"For the amount of funding the costume department receives, I would have hoped they would make one of the main pieces of our costume more durable-”

“-And less itchy.”

“And less itchy.” You agree. “The costumers are not the ones dancing in those for two hours,” You sigh out as you run your hands over your bodice again, feeling the threads of the expensive fabric and praying, quietly, that the costumers would not ask for payment in fixing it.

Augustine laughs joyfully at your expense, saying, “Perhaps you should send a complaint to the costume department, or even-” You huff loudly, already knowing what she was about to suggest, “-The Opera Ghost himself! He’d be sure to scare the costumers into submission, no?”

Laughing tiredly at her jokes, and both of your aching muscles, you continue to walk backstage, cautiously avoiding the moving scene– being directed by the shouting stagehands above– and passing by your fellow actors; each either gossiping, rubbing their fatigued muscles or talking amorously with the sweating stagehands.

“I don’t think I’ve been so tired in my life,” Augustine mumbles.

“Perhaps you are getting old?” You joke back.

“Don’t you even start!” She nudges you harshly in the side, smiling, while you cry out in faux pain. “I don’t think I’ll be able to move after I’ve gotten into bed.”

“Bed?” You question with an eyebrow raised, “I thought we had planned for dinner this week?” Augustine and you had a ritual of going out to dinner, a new restaurant for each occasion, before a new show was performed.

“If I am to afford new ballet shoes, I think I may have to give dinner itself up for a few weeks.” She smiles a tired smile, one that does not reach her eyes.

“Do not speak so, Augustine. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, if you ever need help with your finances,” You place your hand on her shoulder, “Just say so, and I will be there to aid you.”

You both pause in your walking, and she looks at you with lapis-like hues as she speaks, “I could not– would not– burden you so.” You open your mouth to reprove, but she begins speaking again, “Yet, I appreciate your offer.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you pat her shoulder empathetically as you intertwine your hands. You walk further into the metaphorical guts of the theatre, squeezing up stairs too thin and creaky to be safe and down darkened corridors only illuminated by the dim gleam of the oil lamps not yet put out for the evening.

Oddly, with each dim hallway you pass, goose-flesh seems to arrive on the back of your neck. As you did during your performance, you chalk it up to the members of the ballet looking at you, or, perhaps, a draft coming from the cellars of the theatre.

As you walk, both of your hair pins keeping your hair in tight buns come out, as well as your shoes loosened. Many different people walk past you; male members of the chorus with bottles of liquor in their hands, hopeful, seasoned members of the corps de ballet, as well as your fellow soloists, and stagehands unhappy with their pay alike.

“What do you plan to do with this month's payment?” You ask, in an attempt to start a conversation again.

“A new-” Augustine begins.

“-Other than the new pair of ballet shoes.”

She glares at you, half annoyed and half entertained; “A restock of oil, most likely. Perhaps a new sewing kit? You?”

“Same as you; a re-stock of oil and more cleaning chemicals.” She nods, understandably, at your decision. As you turn past another unlit hallway, your goose flesh arises on your arms now, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to look for anyone in particular, perhaps that first violinist, but, you find no one. No one but the average crowd of gossiping dancers.

“Are you well?” Augustine stops and looks over her shoulder at you. “Are you looking for someone?” She squints into the crowd along with you, searching the different heads for who you may have been looking at.

“No, I apologise, I just…had an odd feeling.” Augustine looks at you incredulously, before a sly grin makes its way to her pretty face.

“Hm. Mayhap the Phantom is eyeing you from the shadows…” She puts on an ominous tone, the same tone the stagehands place upon themselves when telling ghost stories to the younger chorus members.

“Don’t-”

“-Eyeing his next victim-”

“-Augustine!” You begin to laugh.

“-Waiting for the perfect moment to drag you down into his cellars and make you a part of his bone collection!” She grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you vigorously as you laugh heartily; relieved of your paranoia by her jesting. With mention of the renowned Phantom, some members of the chorus walking past let out a nervous laugh, some lingering or slowing their gait to listen in on any gossip on the local ghost.

Still laughing, your chest aching with both the strain of the corset and the joy flooding out of your mouth, you finally reach one of the many dressing rooms, along with many of the female chorus members and soloists; some already changed, others half nude.

The dressing room was made out of warm, shined oak, and was lit in the lamp-light glow, fire-formed rays spreading like spring petals upon the peeling, ivory-coloured wallpaper of the walls. Multiple wall-length mirrors hang on the walls, the glass of them scratched and worn with time. Nothing in comparison to the official, commonplace elegance afforded to a select few of the principal dancers, let alone the dressing rooms of main actors.

Once, you had visited one of the secondary operatic vocalists in their room, invited to share tea and gossip as she had taken a liking to you, and were astounded at the elegance and grandeur of what should have been a spartan dressing room. The warm room contained a pier glass, a sofa, a dressing table and a cupboard or two. On the walls were intricately designed wallpaper as well as art pieces you swore you had seen once on a visit to the Louvre. Along with an astounding amount of flowers, a tall, wood-set, engraved mirror lay on the far left wall. It matched perfectly with the marble palisade that was the Théâtre National de l'Opéra.

As per usual, different shades of hats were sat, hanging, on dress hangers, as well as dull evening dresses. The more expensive, elaborate dresses with long trains were usually kept tucked away until show night when rich patrons (ring-bearing or not) usually paid visits to the female members of the chorus and troupe of ballerinas.

Reaching your designated changing area, where your own evening dress lay folded neatly upon the wooden bench, you began to converse with Augustine yet again.

“Are you sure you won't join me for dinner this eve?”

Sympathetically, she watches your form from the corner of her eye as she slips out of her costume, reaching around to finally undo her corset, “I am sure, I apologise, you know what it’s like-”

“-Don’t apologise,” You sigh deeply as you undo your own corset, letting the warm air of the dressing room fill your lungs. “I won't berate you for wishing to save some extra money.”

Aimlessly, Augustine chatters to you about the ache in her calves, and how she believes she’s found yet another ‘life-saving’ treatment for her damaged muscles. Your conversation filters in with the rest of the chatter that occurs in the room, and, half listening to Augustine, you pick up on some of the other’s words. In the left corner, a group of girls surround one of the newer members of the troupe of ballerinas, chatting to her with large grins placed delicately on their rosy faces. You spy the glint of gold and some sort of gem on her ring finger.

Lucky, you think to yourself as you begin to pull on your chemise and stockings.

In another corner, there are whispered nothings between two girls, one you know to be a young woman named Blanche; a tall thing with peachy skin and hair the colour of a golden sunrise, almost always kept in a tight plat. She looks at the shorter girl, half-dressed, next to her with the same sort of eyes some of the comtes and young vicomtes give to members of the chorus in the parlour.

You’re pulled back from your people-watching by tumultuous shrieking outside the corridor. Were you not accustomed to the trainee ballerina’s rambunctious shouts after they had finished practice, you would have expected them to have seen a ghost.

Or, rather, the ghost.

A collective sigh resounds in the small room as the noise dissipates down the hall, followed by your own dressing room door opening as three giggling girls enter. Augustine gives you a weary sidelong glance as the pitter-patter of ballet shoes approaches your corner.

“Hello Mademoiselle L/N, Mademoiselle Charbonneau! We finished practice for Polyeucte this eve!” Lucille, a lithe creature with a button nose and bitten-down fingernails speaks, excitedly.

“Yes yes! Yet we didn’t spot either of you,” Little Jammes began to moan, she was a favourite of the chorus and existing members of your troupe of dancers with her tip-tilted nose, forget-me-not eyes and rose-red cheeks. “You promised you would come watch!”

Before you or Augustine could respond, another voice added their opinion on the situation; “They couldn’t! They have the performance for the new production tomorrow eve, imbécile-”

“-Don’t insult Jammes so, Elaine,” Augustine reprimands. “I-” She quickly glances your way, “We apologise. Myself and Y/N are quite fatigued; we were not granted a break to day. If we have time, we will watch your practice in the morning on the Monday.”

The younger girls let out a happy cheer at their small success. Elaine and Lucille skip off to where the other apprentices and members of the corps de ballet were changing, while Little Jammes lingers behind.

Nodding to both yours and Augustine’s forms, she says “I hope your performance goes smoothly tomorrow, mademoiselles.” She begins to turn back to the rest of her group, however, glances at you and speaks yet again; “Oh! And don’t forget your scarf.” She giggles, almost maniacally, before prancing out the door and off to her group.

“Will do, Little Jammes.” You call out after her. She turns and smiles, acknowledging you.

Little Jammes was one fond of jokes, one being stealing your scarf and having you chase her around the Opera House looking for it. A game of hide and seek, as well as hunter and prey. You had kept up the game for almost three years now, her having just turned fifteen.

One of the girls, just putting on her bonnet, turns to you as she fixes the ribbons; “I’m unsure how you put up with such boisterous creatures, even Little Jammes; the lot of them are such brats.” She jokes sarcastically, you smile at her as her eyes, black as ink, look into yours for an answer.

“It is not much trouble, even if all the majority speak of is the fabled Opera Ghost.” The young lady and Augustine both laugh at your jest. As she finishes with the ribbons of her bonnet, she waves, and wishes you both a good evening.

By this time, most of the changing dancers had finished dressing and had left, including the members of the corps de ballet and trainees; eager to leave the domain of the Opera Ghost for the comfort of warm blankets and dinner. Augustine and you are slightly behind schedule, taking extra time to chat aimlessly.

“I can’t believe it takes you so long to dress,” Augustine jests as she finishes buckling her shoes.

“I know you wish to leave for your apartment Augustine; go. I will walk home on my own to night.”

“Are you sure? Will you be well?”

“Of course, I will be. I am a grown woman, Augustine. Either way, I must talk to the costuming department in order for them to fix my bodice.”

Augustine raises an eyebrow at you, as if thinking this is some test of friendship, before nodding and pulling her shawl across her slim shoulders.

“Good evening, Y/N. Be safe.” She calls over her shoulders as the click-clack of her heels descends towards the exit. “Oh! And I promise to go to dinner with you next week!” She peeks her head over the door frame to call back to you.

“Sure.” You call back sarcastically. You catch a small smile on her tired face before the sound of the door echoes in the empty dressing room. Finally, you finish dressing, placing your hair into its usual updo again. As you do so, a newspaper, left behind by the young woman of whom you had been talking to, catches your eye. Its newsprint page open on the Opera and Theatre periodical, and a title in bold reads; ‘800 Pounds on a Concierge's head.’

You recognised the tragedy almost instantly, for it had only occurred but three weeks ago. You were surprised the headline was still making rounds, let alone at the top of the periodical. Although, you suppose, this may be an old paper. Underneath the pompous title shows;

On the evening performance of Helle, May 20th, one of the counterweights for the Théâtre National de l'Opéra’s chandelier fell suddenly, upon Madame Colette Auclair, aged 56, during her first and last visit to the Opera House; as she passed on impact. Stagehands deny any and all involvement with the tragedy, and report no issues with the counterweights. Many of the members of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra claim it to be the work of the ever-so-infamous Phantom of the Opera; The Monster of Paris.

You cease reading the moment your eyes graze over the word ‘Phantom’. You felt it ludicrous that an official newspaper would accept and continue to publish such a superstitious and almost mocking piece. Someone’s death shouldn’t be attributed to a spectre that lingers in the imagination of artists, the superstition of the managers, or the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet.

As are the faults of journalism, you suppose.

Sighing, loudly, you close the paper and check the date, which read that it had been re-published not but a week ago. You glare at the bold print while reaching to the hanger for your scarf, and, when your hands find nothing but cold air, you turn.

All you find is an empty hanger.

How odd, you think to yourself. It was there but a minute ago, where could it have gone?

You begin to look around the dressing room, before realising what Jammes had hinted at beforehand. Yet, you frown. How could she have gotten in while you weren’t looking? Even if you had been distracted reading the paper, you would have most definitely heard the loud creak of the un-oiled door.

Eyes searching, methodically, around the room, you finally spot the hue of your scarf peeking out from the ajar dressing room door. The tassels lying, spread, across the scuffed wood of the floor.

Exhaling, yet again, you call out for Jammes, who you still swore had left long before you had, and begin to walk across the room.

I don’t know if I’ll even have time to visit the costumers at this rate. I do hope they’re staying late this eve, you try to convince yourself.

The heels of your boots send a resounding click-clack across the now bare room. As you near the door you crouch slightly, you begin to walk on the tips of your toes, like a cat ready to pounce on its prey.

“Jammes…” You mumble out with a smile growing on your face, slowly reaching out to grab your scarf, preparing for a tug of war with a giggling ballet girl, before your scarf zips out from beneath the pads of your fingers.

You scoff, surprised, before peaking your head out of the doorway, like some weary animal, and looking down the left hall. Your scarf sits, innocently down the hall, peaking out of another corner. Mocking you.

It was unusually silent. You didn’t hear a laugh nor giggle come from the teasing girl. Glancing down the other hall, you keep watch for the lamplighter. He is not here yet. Softly, you step out of your dressing room and begin walking down the hall to your beloved scarf.

The oil lamps send shadows down the hall, long, gangly ones that claw at the hem of your dress as you walk forward. Long, gangly ones that you swear whisper in the dark of the halls. Whispers that sound much too like your fellow dancers, asking for you to follow them.

“Jammes?” You call out into the moving mass of darkness.

No reply.

Yet again, as you creep closer to your prize, it is pulled away from your grasp; whisping down another ill-lit hallway.

“Jammes,” You whine, quietly. “This is not funny Jammes. I have to go see the costumers before they leave for the evening.” Despite your worries and growing annoyance, you follow your scarf down hallway after hallway. Ones you find lead deeper into the Opera House, down passages you were sure were only touched by stagehands. Down routes that only the spiders and their webs called home.

Quite admittedly, you begin to grow afraid. Afraid of both the dark and the odd whispers that you pray are simply the evening wind whistling. The gossip of the corps de ballet begins to catch up to you too, murmuring descriptions of a man, a creature, with the body of a corpse; skin rotting off its own bones and the Night itself hiding in the sockets of the ghost’s skull.

Perhaps you are just as paranoid as the brats of the corps de ballet.

Augustine would laugh at me for this, you repeat as your scarf slips out from under your fingers yet again. Just wait until I tell her about my little exertion to morrow morning.

Eventually, you find yourself in a dank hallway deep in the Opera House, near the storage room for all the set pieces, you suppose.

Jammes must have been dared down here by her friends at least once, you reason with yourself.

A trapdoor, locked, sits to the left of you, a bit further up the hall. The wood of the floors let out a cry each step you take; bending around your feet. You fear it may snap from right under you.

“Jammes!” You call out frustratedly. You had spent twenty or so minutes travelling down into the depths of the Opera House for a mear scarf; you could have spoken to the costumers and been on your way home by now! Typically, your cat-and-mouse chase with Jammes only lasts ten or so minutes, for her mother calls on her before she can go too far. You were tired, frustrated and ever so slightly fearful.

As you begin to turn yet another corner, one you would suppose would lead down into the storage rooms and the vaults of the opera, you are met with pitch black itself. It was as if there was a wall of night standing before you; a mirror reflecting a pitch-black sky you couldn’t see.

Out of the void reaches a white, silken gloved hand, holding your scarf, and your scream echoes loudly in the empty hall like the first chords played in a silenced auditorium. Your hand immediately goes to your chest, to squeeze your thumping heart into submission as your lungs heave for Oxygen it doesn’t have.

“Apologies, Monsieur, I…” You try to catch your breath, incomplete thoughts rushing through your brain due to the spike in adrenaline. “...I did not see you.” He wears the type of expensive glove only those who visit the Opera House and its members wear. Clean, white as pure as a dove’s wing, and well made. Immediately you question, mentally, what someone of supposed high status is doing so deep in the belly of the Opera House, especially since there had been no public show today. Further, if Little Jammes is nowhere in sight, then is this who has been leading you around the Opera House with your scarf? Or, perchance, has Jammes given your scarf to him in order not to get caught?

He speaks not a word; you do not even hear him breathe. Your nostrils are met with a terrible stench as a breeze ascends from under the trapdoor and behind the man, sounding more like agonised cries than wind. Mold, stagnant water and…and death. The type of miasma that lingers in your apartment when a trapped animal passes in the cage of your walls; rotting to dust.

Rotting. Rotting flesh. Rotting flesh pulled taught against bones like a drumhead. A horrible image infiltrates your fatigued mind.

You are unable to see a single inch of him other than his silk-covered hand, the beginning of his clean, nicely dyed overcoat and of course, your scarf. In the dim lighting, his hand seems to be trembling, as if holding a tremendous weight. Let alone the grip he seems to have on your scarf; the fabric crinkling under his fingers. Despite him holding it out for you to take, the grip he holds on to it with makes it seem he almost wishes not to let go. Conditioned by years of interacting with the higher class, your mouth immediately goes to asking on his well-being.

“Are you well, Monsieur?” You whisper, emphatically with fear laced in your voice.

The hand reaches further outwards with your scarf, and makes a motion for you to take it. You stand there, between the stagnant air and the man, looking back and forth between your scarf and where you believe his eyes to be.

You look at him with an uncertain stare, before gently reaching out to take your scarf. You approach this like you would approach a wild animal; with slow movements, and careful eye contact. Cautiously, your hand meets the soft fabric of your scarf, as well as the coolness of his gloves.

A shudder seems to run up his arm, and you’re half sure he flinched from your touch. Yet, your scarf remains in an iron-grip, despite your light tugging.

Again, you squint into the void, trying to find his eyes in the dimness of the oil lamps. “...Monsieur?” You mumble, even quieter than before, with an increasing amount of panic in your voice. As if suddenly remembering he’s holding your scarf, he jolts, yet again, and releases it.

Yet, his hand still lingers in the air.

Wrapping the scarf around your neck, you can almost feel his eerie gaze following your hands as you do so. His hand still floats, trembling in the air. It almost seems like he wishes for you to take it. Take it and follow him into the vaults of the opera house. Take it and make you a part of his bone collection.

You waft the idiotic thoughts away from your head with a swift movement of your hand, disguised by pushing the ends of the scarf behind your back.

Idiotically, with worry laced in your movements, you reach out for him again, gingerly placing your hand on his upper arm. A shiver of your own rattles through you, like a cold finger caressing your spine. The pads of your fingers find the expensive threads of his overcoat, and, dear Lord, he is so cold. Even through his coat, you can feel the wintery burn of his skin. He was so bony; ever so skeletal. With such a gentle touch, you felt as if you could crush the bones of his arm.

A half gasp half sob quickly escapes his mouth, regardless of the distraught tone he held, he manages to sigh with perfect pitch and time.

“Forgive me-” Taking a step backwards, you apologise immediately, but you’re met with the quick swish of fabric through the dank air as another foul-smelling wind arises from the trapdoor. It flutters through your hair and causes a chill to settle in your chest. It curls up around your lungs and heart and makes every breath difficult.

Your scarf does nothing to keep you warm.

Most of the dimming oil lamps are quickly blown out by the strong gust, and the little you could see of the man is engulfed by the dark.

Only one oil lamp remains, barely lit, behind you.

Quickly, you step backwards until your back hits the wall, and you reach for the lamp. Unhooking it, you bring it forth to the hall, thrusting it outwards into the void.

There is nothing there other than lingering dust.

Another gust of wind arises, and quickly puts out the lamp. As you now stand in the dark, a cacophony of whispers erupts upon the cold wind.

He’s here, The Phantom of the Opera.

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

I had an unbelievable amount of fun writing this. I'm sorry if this doesn't read completely right; I was doing my best to imitate Gaston Leroux's writing, since I wrote this for Leroux!Phantom rather than Musical Phantom (or any other phantom for that matter). Further, I apologize to any possible ballerinas reading this, for I know the terminology Google and some ballet Tumblr blogs gave me may be incorrect. I know there isn't that much actual Phantom interaction, but I wanted to focus on the more creepy and touch-starved version of him. Either way, thank you for reading <3

Historical Notes:

- Calcium Lights = Another word for limelights

- Théâtre National de l'Opéra = The name given to the Palais Garnier from September, 1870 to January, 1939

- 800 pounds on a Concierge's head = An actual headline written by Gaston Leroux himself. On May 20th, 1896, a performance of the opera Helle was underway when a counterweight, one of multiple that held the chandelier up, broke loose and fell through the ceiling; killing a Concierge on her first (and last) visit to the Palais Garnier, which inspired the falling of the chandelier in Phantom! Forensic investigators later said a nearby electrical wire probably overheated and melted the steel cable holding up the counterweight, causing its fall, yet, for all the superstitious opera workers, it was said to be the famous Opera Ghost. The name used for the concierge is made up.

#phantom of the opera #the phantom of the opera #fanfic #yandere #obsessive love #Phantom of the opera X you #Phantom of the opera x y/n #Phantom of the Opera x reader #no use of y/n #lots of eerie silence #horror #stalking #historically accurate #mel's musings

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twilightsagasworld · 20 days

Text

Garrett x Reader part 2

Unsettling revelations

(Y/n) sat across from Chief Swan, her hands trembling slightly as she recounted the events at the museum once more. The grizzled police chief listened intently, brow furrowed in concentration.

"And you're certain this man had red eyes?" Swan asked, jotting down notes.

(Y/n) nodded shakily. "Yes, they were unmistakable. And his skin - it was so pale, almost unnaturally so. And the way he moved, it was..." She struggled to find the right words. "Inhumanly fast and graceful."

Swan's expression grew increasingly grave. "This matches the description of a suspect we've been trying to track down for some time now. A dangerous drifter with a history of violence."

(Y/n)'s heart sank. "So you know who he is? What does he want?"

The chief sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, we don't know much about his motives or origins. All we can say is that he's extremely volatile and unpredictable. A real threat to the community."

Bile rose in (Y/n)'s throat as a horrifying realization dawned on her. "The children... Am I putting them in danger by being around them?"

Swan reached across the desk, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. "We're going to do everything in our power to keep you and the kids safe. In the meantime, I'd advise you to be extra vigilant. Don't go anywhere alone, and keep your doors and windows locked at all times."

(Y/n) nodded mutely, her mind racing. She had to find a way to protect her students, even if it meant putting herself at risk.

As she left the police station, a dark shadow seemed to loom over her. The unsettling encounter had shaken her to the core, but she knew she couldn't let fear consume her. She had to be strong, for the sake of the children.

Little did she know, the danger was closer than she could have imagined...

(Y/n) gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white as she drove back to the school. Chief Swan's words echoed in her mind, the ominous warning about the dangerous drifter sending a chill down her spine.

Her thoughts raced, trying to process everything she had learned. This man, with his unnatural speed and chilling red eyes, was a known threat to the community. And he had singled her and the young boy out at the museum. The realization that her students could be in danger because of her filled her with a sense of dread.

As she pulled into the school parking lot, (Y/n) took a deep, shuddering breath. She had to pull herself together and figure out how to keep the children safe. She couldn't let this stranger's dark presence cast a shadow over their lives.

Stepping into the familiar hallways of the school, (Y/n) felt a small measure of comfort. This was her domain, a place where she could protect and nurture the young minds in her care. She made her way to the principal's office, determined to discuss the situation and implement any necessary safety measures.

However, as she approached the office, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar, a faint light flickering from within. Furrowing her brow, (Y/n) pushed the door open cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest.

The sight that greeted her made her blood run cold.

There, seated in the principal's chair, was the red-eyed man from the museum. A twisted smile spread across his pale features as he locked eyes with her, his gaze burning with a predatory intensity.

"Hello, my dear," he purred, his voice dripping with a chilling menace. "I've been waiting for you."

(Y/n) felt her breath catch in her throat, all the color draining from her face. How had he found her? And what did he want? Panic gripped her as she realized that she was now completely alone, with no one to come to her aid.

Swallowing hard, (Y/n) knew she had to find a way to escape, to get help and protect her students. But the man's unsettling presence and the malice in his eyes made her doubt whether she would even make it out of the room alive.

The tension in the air was palpable, and (Y/n) could feel her heart racing as she braced herself for what was to come. She knew she had to be strong, for the sake of the children. But in the face of this supernatural threat, she couldn't help but wonder if she was truly prepared for the horrors that lay ahead.

( for @twilightlover2007 )

#Eerie #Supernatural #Suspense #DangerousDrifter #ProtectingTheChildren #CliffhangerEnding #twilight #twilight saga #twilight x reader #vampire

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sanityshorror · 1 year

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Erin Nichols aka Erin Eerie, OC and artwork is © @1-800-cr33py (permission given to me to post this)

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terrence-silver · 8 months

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Terry Silver taking Beloved to meet his parents?

---

-”Tell me again — how do I get them to like me, Terry? Really like me?”-

You inquire, worried, scooting closer to Terry on the backseat of the Rolls Royce headed north, out to the country, on a long drive from Beverly Hills, LA, to seemingly nowhere, until you felt like you were trapped in the opening scene of The Shining, on a winding road expanding endlessly into the vista, obscured only by the chauffeur’s head manning the vehicle endlessly forward on what seemed like a five hour drive. Terry chuckles, from beside you, giving you a smile veiled in smoke as he set down his cigar, crushing it in the ashtray filled with residue. -”The very fact they want to see you — you think the old Methuselahs invite just anyone out here, huh?”- He cocks his head to one side, giving you a long, lingering look that offered no comfort given the situation. Yeah. But, why you? Somehow, the very fact these supposedly unbelievably rich and equally reclusive individuals wanted to meet you, of all people posed more questions than it offered answers. Truth of the matter was, it frightened you a little. You legitimately thought Terry’s parents were long since dead until he mentioned they’re very much alive and wanted — no — ordered the two of you up here. It was like receiving an invitation from the nether realm, even though you tried very hard to be, as they say, a good sport about it all. For Terry’s sake. And yours. You just couldn’t wrap your head around the idea of what type of people Terry’s parents would be. -”Last time they came down from the estate was in 1965.”- He remarks, snorting, and you realized it was meant to be a joke to portray just how exclusive this visit was, but still. You couldn’t help but comment back, almost stuttering. It was 1981 now. With some basic math involved, that meant that —

-”That’s…almost twenty years ago.”-

You manage, confused and feeling a bit lost. That couldn’t be right. Was it?

Terry gives you an unblinking look, confirming that in fact, it was.

You understood they were richer than god, probably fully retired and had no need to go out because they had an army of staff doing and procuring everything for them, but did these people simply never leave their mansion? Never? To the degree it was easy to write them off as dead? You’d almost prefer if they were simply the ordinary manner of wealthy people you saw around Los Angeles on the daily. At least that way, you probably wouldn’t feel the anxiety pushing down on your spine to the point you the shiver running up and down your back was turning into the slightest tremor of shaking. Terry’s hand is on your shoulder, caressing you there, soothing you. A proverb slips across his lips like an antidote to your concerns and you sigh, melting into his touch. -”Action expresses priorities.”- Terry coos. You nod, trying to reassure yourself, staring ahead, towards the highway, telling yourself that maybe Terry’s family didn’t like socializing with just anyone merely for the sake of socializing. Maybe they liked being very specific. Yeah, specific. That they hand picked their company very exactly precisely because they could afford to be picky and to gatekeep. Perhaps you’d do the same if you had as much money as they did. Or maybe it was merely the fact that you felt the pressure of the whole world on your shoulders due to the fact that you were picked by them when they’re so exclusive and worry washes over you once more with the ever lingering question; What if I can’t impress them? Terry’s words come slithering back into your headspace like a shadow.

They don’t invite just anyone out here.

So, what on earth did he tell them about you?

For them to issue an invitation your way in the first place?

Terry smiles, all full lips and certainty and you feel the road ahead drift into the skyline.

The estate the car pulls up in front of is massive — with something positively old world to its style of architecture and if you didn’t know any better, you’d imagine you just stepped out in front of some manor in the south of France somewhere, its size undoubtedly rivaling that of Terry’s Mayan temple of a mansion back in Los Angeles, perhaps the only difference being is that Terry’s adobe overlooked everything, standing there, atop of Beverly Hills like the crown jewel of the city itself. This place stood alone, with nothing around it for miles and miles except tracts of wood, land and lawns. A massive iron gate encircling all of it and a fence that stretched unto infinity, the main entrance adorned with a singular decorative and rather ornate S that parts into two halves as the colossal turnstile barrier opened automatically, letting the vehicle pass through, heading towards the vast, empty grassy plateau. You sat there, looking around, through the windows, mouth slightly agape. There was nobody here, except a single figure in the distance, standing in front of the white marble steps of the behemoth of a house. -”Ma!”- Terry perks up from his seat, gripping your hand and vehemently tapping the veneer separating the chauffeur’s booth from the backseat, signaling for him to halt. Once he does, out the door it is, Terry ushering you forward, briskly, wide stride and all, towards the house. His mother? Was that his mother? Your heart starts thumping wildly. Her figure becomes clearer, all elegant lines and good posture as she extends her arms to receive him in a hug. Becomes apparent she was just as tall as him, even at what seemed like an advanced age.

You understood where he got it from now.

She smiles with immaculately white teeth once she’s done fussing him, turning her attention to you instead and she immediately reminds you of an aged, statuesque Hedi Lamar. Before you even have a chance to say anything, she already eclipses you, speaking first. So happens, her eyes were also blue. Just like his. Just as poignant and sharp. The way she gripped your wrist was just like Terry’s grip too. -”Terrence hasn’t brought anyone out here since John. But then again, we only ever ask he bring the really important ones.”- She laughs and you feel your brows perk up. Terry brought nobody here since John Kreese? When? Post-war? Years after the war? Has nobody qualified for a visit since? -”Which means, it’s safe to say you’re our in-law to be.”- She grabs both of your arms and gives them a good, affectionate squeeze, her words eliciting a doubt of laughter out of Terry. In-Law? Funny how in your gut, you thought the very opposite would happen; that they’d summon you out here to tell you how quite unworthy you were, but the acceptance doesn’t relieve any pressure. They wanted you to marry Terry? Well, you wanted to yourself, of course you did. More than anything in the world, but you never figured his parents would be quite so — what’s the word — vehement? Willing? You chuckle, awkwardly, feeling you have to say something. Anything. Finding yourself stumbling over your own tongue. -”I mean, there’s time for that. I’d love to, but there’s time.”- You shake your head, feeling bashful as you smiled, feeling your cheeks burn up with anxiety, deciding to water it all down and extinguish it with some common courtesy.

-”Lovely to meet you.”-

You manage and Terry’s mother and Terry give you a joint, matching smile, pointing towards the massive, imposing steps leading up to the house while the chauffeur parked behind you made himself busy with the vehicle. The entrance to the gothic looking structure that was the house still far enough to where it seemed that there was quite a bit of walking left to reach it. How big was this place. A man stood at the entrance, grim and as tall as a stick, smoking and smartly dressed, hair lined with silver. He seemed in a proper foul mood, even from afar. You gulp. -”You see that over there?”- She points to him, cheekily, with a discreet little finger of her long, elegant index finger, the Stepford smile never leaving her of Terry’s face. That’s about Terry’s own cue to separate from you, let go of your arm and go and greet the individual with a leisurely stride. An internal part of you almost begs not to be left alone, hoping he’d hear it.

-”That’s Terrence’s father.”-

She explains rather jovially and you feel yourself blink rapidly.

Why hasn’t he come over to say hello?

-”He’s not really vocal, you’ll excuse him. Hasn’t been since Terrence decided to up and leave for the whole Vietnam thing.”-

She adds as she entwined her arms with yours, almost as if reading the doubts etched on your face, leading you and locking you in place, walking at a relaxed slow pace. Your eyes shoot up towards the man whose face was comprised of all hard lines, joints and high cheekbones, dressed in black and as Terry stood there, greeting him, you imagined that in twenty years time, he might look like that too. Not vocal, though? What did that even mean? Did it mean he simply never forgave Terry for going off to war, leaving his family and obligations behind to the point he just…didn’t really speak anymore? Oh. The old man’s cold blue eyes meet yours for a second in the midst of Terry acknowledging him and you manage a tiny smile the well dressed, aging patriarch’s way, before looking away as quickly as possible. You really felt you were out of your depth here. -”But, I’ve been tasked to be his mouthpiece in greeting and welcoming you today. He told me to relay a special message your way.”- You perked up, meeting the eyes of Mrs. Terry Silver as you strolled together, managing a small grin. Suddenly, she halts in front of the looming house, giving you a very direct and poignant look, her roughed up, flawlessly, sharply drawn out red lips moving to speak with great distinction and emphasis.

-”You won’t sign a prenuptial because we don’t do divorce.”-

Wait? What?

Before your mind could ever process that, you’re interrupted by Terry’s cackle emanating from where he was standing with a grim looking Silver Sr. on the marble porch. What did that even mean? ‘They don’t do divorce’? You feel your legs stiffen.

-”Ma! You’re a sweetheart!”-

He chortles at her, his hands clapping at what you could only assume was a bit of dark humor, even though your gut instinct was telling you neither of them were joking, involving the non vocal senior head of the house. They really didn’t practice divorce. And they were letting you know. Long before you ever even married to the son. Terry’s mother’s arm ushers you forward, not unkindly, but with a grip that insinuated she had no intention of letting you go. The uniformed butler appears on the doorway and that’s your collective signal to move on inside, into the foyer. Mrs. Silver speaks, all charm, irregardless of how faint you felt.

-”Ah! That means the entree is ready! Come inside, please.”-

#terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #halloween #80's terry silver #terry silver's parents #silver family #spooky #eerie #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #yeah that image is from 'a cure for wellness' i know #written as per a private commission

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mrsoharaa · 3 months

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idk, something with predatory x prey play with Miguel just sounds sooo...hot omg.

#i just woke up half an hour ago lmao #i was tired tired #but now we wake up to miggy thots tehe <3 #need this man to hunt me down in a foggy eerie forest (or an empty street down nueva york and into an dark alley) and yEAH hehe #thots be thotting #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv

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adelphiafox2 · 1 year

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You are mine,no one else's

(Hi!I am new here so sorry if it's bad and I don't see a lot of yandere geralt because everyone loves him and wants to be with and I mean who wouldn't but any way I love geralt he's a very fun character but I really want to write a yandere story about him.)

{you are a girl who lived in a peaceful village till that horrible creature attacked and killed 2 children and a mother,the village wasn't save till that creature is good and dead,but what happens when a Witcher comes to your village and your village begs for him to kill the creature which he did,you did not like the Witcher he made you uncomfortable for some reason,so after the creature was killed the Witcher demanded a price,the village offered him everything that they had but he turned the offering down and instead he pointed to you and said "I want her"}

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I was wondering around my village to get some food for myself and my cat till I heard a blood curling scream making everyone run to the scream,I stayed still in fear and then decided to follow the people,while I was running I heard more people scream in fear making me stop in my tracks and I saw a huge creature carry a woman away my heart started to race I looked down on the floor and saw blood everywhere making me look away in disgust.

It's been a phew days since that horrible creature attacked and the master of the village demand that no one exists their homes,till that creature gets taken down or it doesn't show up,but a strange visitor came to our village,I saw him through my window.i wish I never looked through that window...

I stared at the stranger he was wearing a cloak so I sadly couldn't see his face,but he seemed to have caught me staring at him,he turned to me making me quickly look away.I could see his face a bit and He looked like those witchers, because why would a human have yellow eyes, it's just so unusual to see a human with yellow eyes do he must be a witcher.

I found out that the master has begged him the man to kill the creature because he found out that the man was infact a witcher and he offered him anything the man wanted women,coins,gold,food or shelter.which the man accepted,I saw the villagers stand outside and they thanked the man which I found foolish,but I didn't notice how the Witcher stared at me through the window I only noticed when some villagers left.i felt really uncomfortable so i closed the curtain and I saw my cat walk over to me making me smile and pick them up and went to my bedroom to take a nap or to read a book.

I was woken up from my nap because of loud cheering I got up from my bed to go check what is going out there when I went out of my home I saw the huge creature on the floor clearly dead,I looked at the man who killed it and the people thanked him again and people cheered in happiness,but I didn't know what was about to happen.

"for this kind act we will give you our finest widows!"shouted the master happily but the man declined"no"the master turned to him confused"if not widows we shall then give you coins!" "No"the village went quiet "well how about gold?"the master asked him hoping for a yes "no" "well what on earth do you want?food?shelter?money?coins?" I saw the man point at me making me confused yet frightened "I want her" my eyes widened "what!"I asked clearly scared "then you shall have her oh great Witcher" I looked down at the floor in disbelief 'how could they?' I heard footsteps making me look up and I saw the man he was taller then me so he towered over me as if I was a rabbit and he was a wolf.

I felt him grab me making me start to struggle "no!" "Y/n!please do it for your village,please" said the master making me stare at him then,I felt the man drag me to his horse which was beside my house I couldn't see him.the man helped me on his horse then he got on it "hold me" "excuse me?" "I said hold me!" He growled angrily making me hold him in fear of getting killed or even worse.i felt the horse start to gallop away from my village I looked back at my village village and started to cry 'how can they do this to me?after I've been nothing but kind to them' I then felt the horse suddenly stop "we shall rest here for the night" I looked around and saw nothing but trees,I saw the man get off his horse making me do the same,but when I got off I felt myself being pinned on the floor making me scream but I felt a hand cover my mouth,"be quiet,Don't want anyone hearing us" I nodded I then felt him put his face in the crock of my neck making me get chills all over my body,I felt him smell me,I felt a tear falls from my check but then I felt him wipe off the tear I looked at him scared "you'll get used to this sooner or later" I suddenly felt him bite on my neck making me scream in pain but it came out muffled. "Please stop" he ignored me and kept kissing my neck and nibbling on it, "I am marking you,so no man can have you" I looked beside me so I don't have to look him in the eyes "look at me" I didn't move a muscle "I said,look at me!" I felt him grab my jaw tightly and forced me turn to him, "you are mine,no one else's" he said looking straight into my eyes "got that?" I nodded slowly.i suddenly felt him kissing me on my lips it wasn't a soft kiss like you wish your first kiss would go it was a touch kiss as if he hasn't eaten for days on end. I didn't dare to kiss him back it will show that I want it,he finally pulled away and stared at my eyes then he got up "I'm gonna go and get some fire wood,and when I get back you better still be here or I will hunt you down and great punishment will happen" I nodded slowly then he walked away making me wait for a phew minutes then I got up and ran away which I will regret dearly

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{I enjoyed writing this one and I will make a part two some day or today or tomorrow I have no idea so just you know I will make a part 2 (I also write more than Witcher stories for example:I will write about the Hobbit,I will write about back to the future maybe,I will write about black phone and I will write luke evans characters oneshots) I hope you enjoyed this}

#the witcher #x reader #yandere #eerie #geralt x you #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n

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jacksonlywife · 5 months

Text

"A Strange Call"

Synopsis: You were up late just watching the TV till someone called..

GHOSTFACE

TWS: Cussing

(Fem!Reader)

The TV played various boring channels, the news, Spongebob, and so on boring you immensely.

RING, RING, RING.

The phone kept ringing but you knew better than to pick up rando’s calls. It could've been a scam caller of some sort but the constant ringing made you want to pick it up more than anything. What if someone was in danger and in desperate need of help?

You finally shot up from your seat placing your fingertips on the phone picking it up.

“Hello.?” Nervousness evident in your voice, making you seem shy to whoever you were calling.

“Hello sweetie.” A deep male voice spoke, sending shivers slithering up your spine.

“Who is this? Are you in any danger?” You replied the tiniest bit worried since it seemed by the caller's tone of voice he wasn’t in any danger. Maybe it was a prank? You thought to yourself getting a bit pissed.

“No no. I may be in danger in the heart though.” He said smoothly, sending your eyes agape.

“Heart?! Would you like me to call the ambulance?”

“No doll. My heart is in danger from your sweet voice.” Oh. He was flirting. You blushed at the flirt but quickly composed yourself letting you remind yourself that this was a stranger who called for no exact reason.

“Oh. Um. Thanks?” Unaware how to reply to that you thought.

“Look out your window.” He said.

What? Your eyes dilated at the sudden change of atmosphere, shivering feeling cold and tremor making its way all around your body. You shakily looked out your window just to see bushes and nothing but the dark sky.

“W-what are you saying?”

“Got you there didn’t I!?” He laughed while you could hear shuffling from the other side of the line.

“O-oh. Haha. It wasn’t that funny to be honest.” You reply immediately regretting it having a feeling he’ll be upset.

“Oh? My deepest apologies my dear. You see I’m quite the trickster and I enjoy pulling pranks on people. Especially people like you.” The last part was mumbled so you couldn’t hear it well.

“Is there a reason you called?” You say, still a bit uneasy from the prank he pulled on you earlier.

“I’ll see you soon.” The phone aisle dialed down.

Shit.

I KNOW ITS NOT HALLOWEEN BUT STILL. 😭

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cherrygummycandy · 9 months

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Awoken from my ancient slumber.... spooky season Eerie indiana fic maybe????

#cartoon x reader #x reader #chats with cherry #not a fic #gender neutral reader #fanfic #eerie indiana #indiana #halloween #marshall teller #Dash-X #Dash X

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ciaoteamo · 2 months

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Milk and Water Pt. II

pairings: doppelgänger!Milkman x fem!Reader

summary: the aftermath of letting him in

pt.I

(art credits: @yunonoaii)

warnings: 18+ content

“…what. the. fuck.” You mutter to yourself, watching the scene before you unfold.

“mmm, how about letting me in now? promise i won’t bite you too hard” His eyes were dangerously seductive.

Your desktop fan and the slight rustling sound of (what you could only assume was) him touching himself filled the eerie silence of your office space.

However, he could still tell that you were hesitant to let him in, especially considering what he just did to D.D.D.

“how about this, sweetheart we-“

“if i open this door.” You cut him off. He shuts up quickly and halts his movements with a blank stare. His eyes watching you intently.

“you come straight to me, or else i swear to fuck. it will not be a good time for you. you copy?” Your hands were firmly grasping the edge of the desk as you stared the man in his color changing eyes.

“i promise” He kisses the window and you give him one last short lived glare before unlocking the door for him.

BZZT!

He slowly turns away from you and walks toward the door and you felt relieved to hear a light knock a few seconds later before he let himself in.

“see? you can trust the milkman” He grins.

He was a mess. Between the torn clothing, the blood, and his unzipped slacks that displayed his black briefs holding back a huge bulge, he honestly looked like something out of a wet dream.

“this is quite a small space… you think i’ll be alright in here?” He closed the door behind himself and strides toward you.

“you don’t have any choice but to be alright” You retort and he chortles.

“i love this mouth of yours… i’ve never crossed paths with a human as bold as you…” He tilts his head, placing a hand under your chin to lift it a bit.

“unless you’re actually scared… and using this boldness as a tactic..?” His irises turn white once again and his grip on your chin tightened slightly.

Though you were enduring a near death experience right now, being that you were this close to a doppelgänger, you were unbelievably horny.

“tactics?” You start. You already knew that you probably wouldn’t be able to get out of his grip just by moving, so you used a more… inappropriate approach.

You took a step closer to him, closing in the 2 foot gap that sat between the two of you and you placed your palm over his hard-on.

His grip immediately loosened a bit and his fingers twitched against your skin. What a reaction that was…

You feel more confident, realizing that he’s just another horny good looking guy. “is there a reason i should be afraid of you?” You ask, hand squeezing around him and a finger rubbing his tip.

He shudders and his hand falls from your chin and rests around your throat. His forehead tapped against yours, and your eyes were fixed on each other. “…you really are something”

“wish i could say the same for you“ You start, breaking the eye contact to look at his lips and sharp canines. “you’re just a slutty and messy excuse of a monster” Your words would probably be venom to anyone else, but this only riled him up more.

You felt his throbbing under your palm and grin to yourself before being greedily pulled into a kiss. For a brief moment, you could taste a metallic bloody taste on his tongue.

You moaned at the warmth of his mouth and felt his hands rested on your hips, rubbing circles into the area.

You release yourself from the kiss with his bottom lip between your teeth and a smile. “desperate, are we?” You tease.

“painfully…” His eyes glistened. “what’ll it take to get those pretty lips to go a little lower?”

“show me what yours can do first and i’ll see about returning the favor” You challenge. His eyes go back and forth between yours before he kisses you again.

This time however, he started to undo your uniform. Groaning so deeply that you felt the rumble in your throat. His skilled hands loosened your belt and your slacks came down and off.

Next he lowered himself and lifted you a bit to get off your socks and shoes, making him get more sloppy and needy within the kiss.

At this point he was squatting and you were standing over him, holding both sides of his face. His hands travelled up and down your leg as he stayed in his position and this time, he’s the one to break the kiss.

You were both breathing heavily, and staring each other down. You almost forgot your resolve and let him fuck you right then and there.

But you had to stay strong, for both of you guys’ sake. You take a deep breath in and til your head.

“well, you gonna show me? or are just sit there and look delirious from a simple kiss?” You teased.

“…may i?” He asks with a slightly raised eyebrow, gesturing toward your leg.

“go ahead”

“hold on to something right”

“why am i h- shit!” You would’ve fell right to the ground if it wasn’t for the shelf behind you that held last months documents. Albeit, they’re scattered over the floor now.

Your legs were snatched from underneath you and each one was hooked over the man’s shoulders. His warm breath against you felt sinister. It sent a slight chill up your spine.

His eyes stared down at your sex and he licked his lips, looking more excited than you did for this. “don’t let go” He says before using gis fingers to spread you sticky lips.

His tongue pressed hard into you and drug from your hole, up to your clit. You bit your lip at the warmth and felt your back arch against your will.

“ha~ this all you got? Thought you said you’d be bet- anghh~!” Your eyes widen and your mouth drops at the new feeling below.

“you were saying?” He mumbles into you. His tongue was longer with a pointy tip, and his lips were wrapped tightly around your clit.

The pleasure was almost overwhelming. You could definitely admit that he made you eat your words and replace them with loud endless moans.

As you felt yourself getting closer you began to grind your hips over his face, chasing after your high.

“don’t stop” You could barely get out the last word before the wave of immense overstimulating pleasure came over you.

You curse and take in a few deep breaths, calming yourself down a bit, and only then did he let your clit go with a ‘pop’, making your legs to twitch.

“that wasn’t fair” You jokingly glare at him, the sweat making your skin shine and chilly from the fan air.

“i told you i was better” He wipes his chin with his thumb and licks it clean without breaking the eye contact.

“you have to be some sort of… sex demon” You shake your head in disbelief.

“maybe i am?” He lets you tug him closer by his tie and give him another sloppy kiss. The change in size of his tongue being just below too much for you as it explored your mouth.

“well let’s see how long you can last then… hm?” You ask, beginning to leave a trail of light kisses on his next before a harsh bite.

You could feel him shudder and decided to have him sit in your office chair. “let me borrow this..” You say, undoing his tie while he sat.

You spin the chair around and bring both of his arms to the back and tie them to the chair. When you spin his back around, his had such a mischievous grin that you went ahead and addressed.

“yes, i know you could probably get out of that in a heartbeat” You start and roll your eyes. He chuckles, amused at your awareness. “but, will you?” It was your turn to put on the sly grin now. The second he managed to break free from his restraint, would be the moment you’d send him off.

“…” He read your face, bit knowing if he should say something sly or not.

“right, thought so” You smile and give him a few taps on the cheek.

You kneel between the man’s legs, finally addressing the large and throbbing penis before you.

“god you’re hard… you weren’t kidding when you said you needed help” You joke, rubbing his wet tip through his boxers with you finger.

He grunted a bit and readjusted himself in his seat. You look up at him before pressing harshly on it with your thumb.

“oh fuck you~” He throws his head back and you giggle.

You reach for the hem of his briefs and tug at them, signaling him to lift his hips. Once he’s exposed, you could really see the girth and length of him.

He was veiny, thick… bright pink tip, and god knows how long it was.

You put your hand around the base, it was warm and nearly pulsating. Your pace was moderate, giving him just enough to work with. You knew it was a nice steady pace when his hips slightly jerked up for more friction.

“needy boy wanting to fuck my hand? this wasn’t even the main event you asked for, love” You coo, strengthening the grip you had on him by a smidge.

“i can’t help that you know how to use those hands of yours so well” He remarks, still facing the ceiling.

You pump your fist higher up and use your own skilled tongue to drag along his vein.

“@$?!~” He moaned and immediately looked down at you with a snarl. An almost threatening one telling you that he wanted more.

And were you planning on giving it to him? Absolutely not.

You stare right back at him and smirk, using the same motion and occasionally sucking the pre cum from its leaky pink source.

“i’m gonna cum” Your eyes welled a bit at the large shaft triggering your gag reflex. But he was close so you would endure the slight pain.

His thrust his hips up a few times and you force your head as far as you could before completely stopping.

“fuck- why’d you stop” His voice was almost a whisper and suddenly thick white ropes shot into the air and landed on his thigh.

“oh i’m sorry, i’ll keep going” You reach for his most sensitive spots, overstimulating him into a nervous laughter as he begged you to stop.

It was fun watching him experience more than he could handle, but all good things come to an end.

He sighs in relief, sweaty, heaving, and dazed.

“can i be freed now?” He asks.

“sure, why not. looks like you’re done here anyway” You shrug.

“who’s done?” He stands up, simply snapping the tie apart.

“oh… you’ve still got more in you?”

“im the milkman, i never run out” He suddenly picks you up and sits on you on the desk. Jesus, these things are strong.

You wrap your hands around your neck, suddenly feeling the arousal for another round yourself.

His hands find your slick entrance, teasing the outside and slipping two cold slender fingers into you.

“mmm!” You mean into the kiss, holding onto his forearm as he fingered you at an inhumane pace. You break away and cat h your breath trying to slow him down a bit.

“i don’t want to cum from this, put it in” You say.

“yes ma’am” He lines himself up without your entrance and slowly pushes himself in with a moan. You could every centimeter of the stretch as he went deeper.

You tapped the back of your head onto the window behind you and felt him kissing on your neck and collarbone.

“fuck you’re big” Your voice slightly shook as you stated the obvious.

“and you’re so warm and wet inside, i ashamed to admit that i almost came putting it in” He chuckled before biting back another groan.

RIIIIING

You snap your head in the direction of the phone and see D.D.D. calling.

Shit.

“stop, i have to take this.” He halts his thrusts and you grab the phone. “hello?”

“agent number” A deep voice says over the phone.

“5 5 8 4 3 7” You state clearly.

“thank you agent (Y/N), we’re calling about a few M.I.A. cleaners? it says in our system that you were the last to call. is everything alright?”

“ye-es~” You feel something rubbing your g-spot and look over at Francis. ‘stop, now.’ You mouth silently. He just smirks and speeds up.

“are you sure? you sound like you’re being threatened” The man on the phone asks.

“mhm~, im fine sir, just a little shaky” You put your hand over the phone speaker and look at Francis.

“what the fuck is wrong with you??” You ask, interrupting yourself with a few moans.

“just a little thirsty for some water” He thrusts harder, causing him to hit your g-spot, and your clit back to back.

You cover your mouth with your shirt and moan into it, hearing the buzz of a voice on the phone. Honestly you should be scared, they could show any minute, but right now, you could care less.

“im gonna cum” You whisper, still being mindful of the potential listeners.

“yeah?” He grabs a young and stands straight up, slamming you down into his cock. You let out something just short of a scream into the crook of his neck and find yourself twitching and shaking in his grip.

You heard a splash and felt him fill you up with his seed. You both were a moaning, groaning mess, heavily breathing in place.

“(Y/N), do you copy?……. we’re on our way” The phone then hangs up and the low buzzy voice is replaced with a prominent beep.

“you have to go, they’re coming” You lazily try to leave his strong hold with a tired push against his chest.

“but first” He puts you back on the desk where you rest your back against the cold glass window. “a drink..” His tongue grows longer right infont of you, and cleans you from your ankles to your navel, and of course he ran it over the bundle of nerves he’s been abusing all night, making your body jolt.

“you’re so delicious… i wish i could always taste you” His tongue goes back to its normal size.

“well i’ll get going now… i’ll be seeing you again soon, love. i’ll try not to cause too much trouble next time…” He gives you a peppery kiss on the nose and leaves.

Well, that’s one way to end your day shift…

#ciaoteamo #x reader #imagine #smut #milkman smut #milkman x reader #milk the man #milkman #thats not my neighbor #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses

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1-800-cr33py · 3 months

Text

iris

A/N:This is completely self-indulgent as I’m taking a short break rom working on the second part of Sedatives <3 this is not canon to Erin’s story just something I was thinking about. ^^

TW: Talk of past addiction, withdrawal symptoms,

It’s something stupid in all honesty, now tat I’m..now that I actually think about it, but to me it’s something so intimate about the act.

Buzzing of the overhead lights and occasional sniffling from the woman between your legs were the only things to break the silence that filled the bathroom. The scent of drugstore box dye and bummed cigarettes burned your lungs, yet the complaint never fell from your lips. Blue gloves long stained with black and shades of teal carefully parted and painted her soft locks, you could just feel the curls if you sought for them long enough. Erin was stilled, her shoulders slouched and stained black with dye.

“ Don’t forget my ends, they fuckin’ eat this shitty dye. “ Erin croaked, cigarette hanging from the corner of her lips. You nodded, eyeing the fried ends with a slight grimace plastered on your face. She sniffed, fiddling with the lighter in hand. You smiled, though your eyes held s certain worry for them. Erin had already quit…everything, or at least tried to, for good this time, and fuck if it wasn’t evident. The twitching, nervous behavior, but she was trying.

She was fucking trying, and thats more than a lot can say.

She was fucking struggling, hell yes, but she was fighting. It wasn’t uncommon to find her on the floor, but you..you were there. Some days were better than others, other days not so much but you were fucking there.

Erin relaxed, a sigh leaving her as you peaked a look at her face. Their eyes were closed in contentment, her plump lips twitching ever so slightly, the piercings the only factor of making it evident. Her face was bare of any makeup, not that you cared either way. You smiled, continuing to layer the last bit of blue on the strand of hair.

Intimate.

That’s what the feeling was now. Though there was nothing romantic lingering in the air, the fact that Erin trusted you enough to task you with such an important part of her identity left you feeling warm. It was the act of letting her guard down long enough to get this seemingly harmless task.

She was getting better, you’d like to think

AUTHOR’S COMMENTS: Okay so this is really short and really baad I just wanted to put something out for Erin. This is a somewhat altered account of my experience of my experiences of breaking my addictions and struggles. As a person with avoidant attachment and tendencies, I struggle immensely with getting to this level of trust/comfortably with others, and to write about the few times I have really helps me add depth to my characters. Also, if you or a loved one is experiencing addiction to substances, please seek out help. I know the journey is long and it’s far from easy or pretty, but you’ll thank yourself in the long run.

Help is available, if you are having any of these issues please reach out to a hotline or trusted doctor. Please be safe/

#1800cr33py #reqs open #the everlasting life of erin nichols #erin eerie #erin nichols x reader #800s ramblings #open comms #asks open #requests are open #open requests #erin nichols #i love erin sm #erin eerie x reader

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soaps-mohawk · 5 days

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 22: I Won't Be Gentle

Summary: Things begin to develop in your new relationship with Simon, but luck is so rarely on your side.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,074

Warnings: Slight NSFW, suggestive content, kissing, dry humping, anguage, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, Ghost’s emotional constipation, angst, a wee bit of horror at the beginning, also a lot of feet in this chapter (gross), oh yeah and did I mention ANGST

A/N: Please don't hate me

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

It’s far too quiet. You can hear the air blowing through the vents, the quiet hum of the fluorescents in the hallway. You push yourself up to sit, the blankets falling around your waist. It’s still dark out, the blurry time on your clock reading just past 2 AM. You’re not quite sure why you’re awake, aside from the eerie silence that has settled over the barracks.

You push your blankets back, shivering as you leave the warm, cozy comfort of your nest. You shove your feet into your slippers to avoid the cold floor before standing, making your way slowly to your door. Something feels wrong, something feels off. You’re on guard, listening, waiting for a sign of whatever is causing such a reaction.

The click of the lock on your door might as well have been a gunshot in the silence, the sound almost echoing. Any chance of stealth is out the window, so you’ll have to be prepared to run in case something happens, in case something is waiting for you on the other side of the door. How something or someone could have gotten in without the guys noticing is beyond you, but you suppose nothing is impossible.

You crack the door open, peeking out through the gap, but you can’t see anything. No one’s moving around, no one’s waiting for you on the other side. The urge to hold your breath is strong as you step out of your room, the silence almost deafening. It’s too still, not even the sound of snores coming from the other rooms. The stillness is eerie, sending a violent shiver down your spine.

You take a cautious step towards John’s room, moving on your tiptoes to avoid making any noise. You don’t really want to wake him two hours before he normally gets up, but you can’t stand the feeling crawling beneath your skin. Even if you just slip into bed beside him, it’ll make you feel safer in this ominous atmosphere that’s settled over the barracks.

The sound of shuffling breaks the silence, making you freeze mid-step. Your breath catches in your lungs, muscles tensing as you pray it was just your imagination, or perhaps your own movements that disturbed the unearthly quiet. Time seems to still as you stand there frozen, your heart pulsing in your ears.

The sound of shuffling unmistakably echoes in the air again. You don’t care how much noise you make as you take off running to John’s door, throwing it open in hopes it wakes him immediately before whatever it is that’s creeping around the barracks finds you.

His bed is empty.

It’s made up like he’d never slept in it, the sheets tucked in pristinely, and the comforter perfectly in place. He’s not in the bathroom either, the door cracked and the light turned off. You walk backwards out of his room, wondering if you had read the time wrong after all, or maybe if he’d just not gone to bed in the first place. You opt for Kyle’s room instead, hurrying to his door before opening it.

His bed is empty too, made up just as perfectly as John’s. You’re beginning to panic, your heart thudding faster than it had been before. Your shaky hands fumble with Johnny’s door across the hall, his room empty and more organized than you’ve ever seen it. You even check Simon’s room, a place you’ve never seen, a place you’ve never been in, but it’s empty too.

Simon’s clock tells you it’s too early for them to be up, too early for them to go to their training. They wouldn’t just leave you like that, would they? Not even a word or a goodbye? You’re panicking, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as you stand in the middle of the hallway. Maybe there was an emergency. Did they say anything about doing training tonight? Maybe this is training, maybe they’re testing you and what you’ll do if they ever disappear. Maybe they want to know exactly what you experienced when they left you the first time.

You turn as the shuffling sound gets louder, a quiet whimper leaving your lips as you spot the figure standing at the end of the hallway. It’s dark, the lights at the end of the hall off. They’re never off, the lights in the barracks always on no matter what time it is. Tears sting your eyes as you stare at the shadowy figure at the end of the hall. You can’t see their face, you can’t tell who it is, but something in the back of your mind whispers that it’s not one of your packmates. There’s nothing familiar, no comforting warmth at the sight of them.

Fear nearly blinds you as the figure begins moving down the hall, the lights going out one by one as he gets closer and closer. You’re hyperventilating, your brain screaming to run, but your legs are frozen. You’re alone and there’s nothing you can do. You’re alone and about to die, or worse, and no one will know. It could be days before anyone finds you. The thought of your pack returning to find your mangled body has a sob tearing from your chest, your scream dying on your lips as the darkness finally reaches you.

You jolt awake with a gasp, your heart thudding violently in your chest. You’re shivering, not just from the terror still pulsing through you from the nightmare. The blankets are still pushed down to the end of the bed, leaving you naked and unprotected from the eternally cold barracks.

There’s a heavy weight against your pelvis keeping you from shifting your position, or even sitting up. The aching in your hips and lower back is starting to register as your brain becomes more and more aware of reality. A glance downward reveals your legs are still tossed over Kyle’s shoulders, the position you’d been in before you fell asleep. Kyle is asleep too, his face squished against your pelvis as he snores quietly.

A quick glance at the clock reveals it’s just past 2 AM, your breath catching in your throat. The dream had felt so real, the sensations, the feelings. You pinch yourself, the pain in your back and hips not enough to make you believe you really are awake and not stuck in some nightmare still.

“Kyle,” You whisper quietly, trying to shift, but the hold he has around your thighs is stopping you. “Kyle.” You say a little louder, shaking him gently.

He lets out a quiet grunt as he jerks awake, lifting his head from your pelvis. He smacks his lips, releasing one of your thighs to rub at his face. You immediately free that leg from his shoulder, groaning quietly as you straighten it out. The crack of your knee is loud, Kyle blinking blearily up at you as awareness slowly returns to his brain.

“I think we fell asleep.” You say quietly, still shivering from the cold and the terror remaining from your nightmare. You’re tempted to reach out and squeeze Kyle, just to ensure he’s really real, really here with you.

“Fuck,” He breathes, untangling himself from your body, pushing himself up onto his kees as you straighten out your other leg, sighing at the relief of finally being able to move and stretch your cramped body.

He moves from between your thighs, giving you more room to move and readjust yourself into a more comfortable position. You push yourself up higher against the pillows, sighing at the ache in your lower back.

“Pussy so good it knocked me out cold.” He grins, settling himself down next to you, his hand coming to rest on your stomach. “Fuck you’re freezing.” He frowns, finally noticing the subtle shivering of your body.

He pulls the blankets up, tucking both of you in before wrapping himself around you like a koala. You turn onto your side, tucking yourself into his hold. He lets out a hiss as your feet touch his legs, his arms tightening around you. You press your cheek to his chest, listening to the quiet, steady beat of his heart. A shiver runs down your spine as the nightmare replays in your mind, feeling just as real as it did when you first woke up.

You’re not entirely sure it didn’t happen.

You know it couldn’t have. You woke up in the same position you fell asleep in, legs thrown over Kyle’s shoulders, his head between your thighs. He’d laid there, lazily lapping at your folds after making you cum three times until you both drifted off from exhaustion. It might have been embarrassing, had it not been for the time Johnny fell asleep still inside you moments after his orgasm. You had been stuck under him until he inevitably rolled away, starfishing himself as best he could across the small bed.

“Kyle?” You whisper quietly, not wanting to wake him again if he’d already fallen back to sleep.

He grunts softly, likely half asleep.

“You wouldn’t leave me without telling me, right?” You ask, not sure if you’re going to get an intelligible answer in response.

He shifts just slightly, his arms tightening around you. “Of course not.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “We’ll always tell you, love. Wouldn’t just disappear without letting you know first.”

His words end in a yawn, but they offer a sense of comfort to you. You know you might not always have much notice ahead of time. Sometimes they don’t even get a lot of time between finding out about an assignment and when they have to leave. John had warned you about that, that they might have as little as an hour between. They’ll always make sure you know, though. They won’t just disappear into thin air without so much as a goodbye.

It might be their last.

You push that thought from your mind, squeezing your eyes shut as you breathe in Kyle’s scent, praying for your mind to go blank.

It’s like being around a wild animal. You’re not quite sure what to do. You’re afraid to move too quickly, to startle him. Despite the confession, despite your intimate moment on the couch in the rec room, you still feel like you’re dancing around him a bit. You’re not sure where the boundary lies now, what’s okay and what’s going too far.

He sits closer to you now. On the days where you sit between him and Johnny at breakfast, you’ve been close enough to brush arms with him. He stares at you more now too, but less in the way one stares at an annoying fly buzzing around the room, and more in the way one stares at a painting or at the TV when they watch their favorite sports team.

He walks slower now, side by side with you, close enough his hand brushes yours every so often. The thought has crossed your mind to reach out and take it just to see what he would do, but you’re not sure you could handle the rejection if he didn’t want it. You feel very much like you’re tiptoeing around him, afraid to push too far but unsure of where the line stands.

You could just ask him, but you’re afraid he might laugh at you, that he might think you’re stupid for just not knowing. He’s so intune to you. You saw proof of that in the lingerie store, and how he always knows when you get uncomfortable in the mess. You wish you could read him like that, that you could be as intune to him as he is to you. It might be his training, his years of developing the skills to be attentive to every detail, every scent, every emotion. Or maybe that’s just him. After years of living the way he did growing up, you’d imagine he’d be good at knowing when someone is upset versus when they’re not.

He could probably read you like an open book, and yet he’s like a locked safe in an armored vehicle. You’d sooner be able to see through concrete than you would be able to figure out Simon Riley.

“You have to put your feet there?” The low timbre of his voice cuts through your thoughts and you look up at him from where you’re laying on the couch.

He’s staring at you from his seat in the chair, book in hand. You’re laying on your back on the couch, your legs propped up over the arm with your feet right next to him. You could probably reach out and touch his shoulder with your toes if you tried.

“‘S comfy.” You say, going back to your own book.

It’s quiet in the barracks, just the two of you occupying the rec room. John had taken Johnny and Kyle out to do some kind of training or something. You had only been half listening to Simon as he entered the rec room and joined you in the quiet space.

“Well, they stink.” He says, pushing them away from his arm.

“They do not stink.” You say, moving your book aside as you pull your foot towards your nose to smell it. “Liar. My feet are perfect.” You move it back over the arm of the couch, putting it closer to him than it was before.

“Eh,” He stares at your feet for a moment. “I've seen better.”

You gawk at him, looking offended. “Who's?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Johnny’s.”

You pause for a moment, thinking back to all the times you've seen his feet. “You're right. He does have beautiful feet. How does he manage it?”

“He gets pedicures every few weeks.” Simon says, staring at his book. “Usually goes when we return from assignments too.”

You gape at him. “And he's never invited me?”

“Don't think he's gone since you got here.” Simon shrugs. “Kyle was the one to put him on it. They go together sometimes.”

You continue to stare at him, mouth hanging open in shock. You wouldn't have guessed it. Kyle, it made sense for him. He takes better care of his skin and body than even you do, but Johnny too?

“He likes the massaging part. Says it makes his skin extra soft and smooth.” Simon shrugs. You can imagine Johnny trying to convince Simon to tag along, but the mental image of the giant, imposing alpha in a nail salon nearly makes you laugh.

You shake your head, picking your book back up. “I mean, it makes sense, taking care of your feet. They're a vital part of your job.”

“I think they're gross.” He admits, turning the page in his book. “Especially when they're so close to me.”

“Hey, my feet are clean.” You say, poking his arm. “I wash them every time I shower, thank you, and I change my socks every day.”

He pushes your feet away from his arm, letting out a huff. “Keep your trotters away from me.”

“I was here first.” You say, moving them back close to his arm.

“You're such a child.” He says, setting his book down.

“I am not-” The last word cuts off in a shriek as he suddenly grabs your foot, tickling the bottom of it.

You giggle and shriek, trying to pry your foot from his hand, kicking out with the other. He catches both, tickling the bottoms of your feet. Your book drops as you twist and wiggle, tears gathering in your eyes from laughing.

“Okay, okay!” You say, managing to pull away from him and sit up properly on the couch. “You win.”

You pick your book back up, curling up against the arm of the couch as you try and catch your breath. You know he's storing the fact you're ticklish away for later, and had you looked up, you would have seen the slight crinkle at the sides of his eyes indicating the smile hidden beneath his mask.

“Something’s going on with those two.”

“Yer right. It's odd.” Johnny says, leaning against the sink in the bathroom. “They're so...comfortable.”

“Not one tensed muscle or nervous glance.” Kyle says leaning against the wall.

“She's sittin’ close tae him too.” Johnny says. “I think my plan worked.”

“The panties?” Kyle's brow raises. “There's no way a pair of panties changed things this much.”

“It's not just the skids. Tha’ was the push they needed.” He smirks. “They did the rest themselves.”

“I can't believe it.” Kyle shakes his head. “What if it's just a fluke? She was there first and he chose to sit there by chance?”

Johnny shakes his head. “Simon always sits in tha’ chair.”

“What if she was too nervous to move after he sat there.” Kyle argues.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out what they’re really feeling.” Johnny says, moving towards the door.

Kyle follows him out of the bathroom and into the rec room. You don't look up as they enter, Simon barely glancing over the top of his book before going back to reading. Kyle and Johnny share a look before they join you on the couch, Johnny taking the seat next to you.

“Have a good afternoon, kitten?” He asks, stretching his arm across the back of the couch behind you.

You nod, glancing up from your book. “Yeah, just been reading.

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, staring at you. “That all?”

“Mhm.” You hum, continuing to read. “You can turn on the TV if you want.” You say, not even giving him the chance to ask the question.

Johnny turns away from you, glancing at Kyle before grabbing the remote off the coffee table. Kyle shrugs, settling into the couch as Johnny flips through channels. You and Simon continue to read, your body curled up against the arm of the couch, closer to Simon despite Johnny’s arm still draped nearly across your shoulders.

A small smile tugs at Johnny’s lips, a pleased aura nearly radiating off of him. Normally you would be sitting as far from Simon as you could, and you would have leaned into Johnny as soon as he sat next to you. Now you’re sitting as close as you can to Simon, and staying that way. Johnny’s not even upset by you unintentionally ignoring him.

He’s just happy his plan worked.

It’s not just existing around Simon that has changed since his confession and your moment in the rec room. Training has also changed. Things feel different, stranger between the two of you. Despite the partial lowering of the barrier, it feels as if there’s a thicker one between you. Is he dancing around you as much as you are dancing around him? Are both of you fumbling to find where the new barrier lies? The thought is comforting, that he might be struggling with this as much as you are.

He avoids touching you as much as possible during training, only adjusting your stance when necessary. You haven’t done much on the floor either, instead his focus is on working on your kicks and punches again.

He’s as stone-faced as usual, the tenseness back in his body as you throw punches at the bag. Your knuckles hurt and you’re quickly getting tired between the lack of sleep due to your nightly activities with the other members of your pack, your nightmares, and also the thousands of thoughts causing turmoil in your mind. You just want to know where you stand, you just want to know where that boundary lies. You just want him to talk to you.

You’re tempted to throw a punch at him just to get him to do something.

You take a step back from the bag, taking a breath. You want to confront him, ask him every burning question in your mind in a place where it is less likely someone will walk in and see you or overhear. You’re not sure how much longer you can stand this, how much longer you can do this dance before you lose it. You need to know, you need to place that boundary somewhere so you can stop worrying.

“You’re in your head again.” Simon says, snapping you out of your thoughts. “That’s going to get you hurt someday.”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t have to be in my head so much if you’d just talk to me.” You snap, starting to get frustrated.

He shifts on his feet, his shoulders tensing just slightly. Your words and obvious frustration striking something within him.

“I just...I need to know what we are...where we stand,” You continue. “I need to know what we’re doing, what’s okay. I feel like I’m just tiptoeing and dancing around you and I can’t stand it.”

He shifts on his feet again, staring at you blankly. You need him to say something, anything. It’s not often he’s been quiet, speechless when you’ve confronted him. You know you’ve put him in a place like you did in the rec room, cornered him in a vulnerable position. You also know that’s where he’s most uncomfortable.

“I...I don’t know.” He says, obviously scrambling for words, for something to answer you with.

“Well, it would be nice if you figured it out, because you’re stressing me out here.” You sigh exasperatedly. “I just...don’t want to make you uncomfortable or do something that’s going to ruin things.”

“I don’t think you could do that.” He says, shifting on his feet again.

You blink at him in surprise, not expecting that to be his answer. “I-I don’t-”

All thought of moving or defending yourself is out the window as he moves, knocking your feet out from under you and sending you sprawling on your back. He’s on you instantly, pinning you against the floor. Your breath leaves your lungs as you suddenly find yourself face to face with him, close enough to see the shades of brown in his eyes.

“Do you know how long you’ve been teasing me, torturing me? How badly I’ve wanted to touch, to feel, to get a taste for myself?” His face lowers towards yours, and you’re certain if he hadn’t been wearing the mask, you could have felt his breath on your lips. “Weeks I’ve been forced to sit and listen to you with the others, wishing it could be me, wishing I could have that with you without the risk of breaking you, of ruining everything.”

“You’re not going to break me.” You say quietly, trying to reassure him like you did during your chat in the rec room. “I’m not made of glass.”

“I can’t...I can’t risk ruining things for everyone.” He shakes his head, pulling back just slightly.

“What makes you so sure you will? Have you even considered the fact that I want you too? I’ve been waiting for this for so long. Hell, I would be happy if you just wanted to be my friend. I’ve been trying so hard for weeks just for your approval. I never even thought...” You shake your head. “I never even thought you’d feel like this about me. I thought you hated me for so long.”

He’s silent for a moment, staring down at you, his eyes searching yours. “I tried to. I wanted to hate you, but I couldn’t.” He lets out a long breath. “It’s not fair to either of us, it’s not fair to the rest of the pack if we keep doing this. It’s fucking us up, I’m fucking us up. I can’t focus anymore. I damn near killed Johnny when I caught your scent on him after you fucked him before training.”

Your face warms at his words. Of course he’d smelled like you, of course they knew what he was up to. “Well, it’s more like he fucked me... It was his idea.” You shrug.

“Christ.” He breathes, his eyes darkening just a little.

“You don’t have to hold back anymore.” You say. “I-I’m sorry I never noticed, I didn’t figure it out sooner.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” He murmurs, leaning in close again. “My own damn fault for being so stubborn.”

“You don’t have to be anymore.” You breathe. “It’s never too late to start.”

You stare up at him as he hovers over you, chests brushing with every inhale. You’ve been this close before, been in this position before, but it’s never felt quite like this. The intensity between you is greater, not just a test of your will, of your strength when it comes to resisting an alpha’s imposing energy anymore. You don’t want to fight him, you’ve never wanted to fight him in this position. It makes sense now, every time he’s forced you out of that headspace during these moments hadn’t just been to keep you focused on training.

He’s been holding himself back.

“I won’t be gentle.” He says, his voice rumbling through you. His words are honest, spoken in truth. You can see it in his eyes, silently conveying the reality if you decide to continue. It’s a warning, a chance to turn back. He’s offering himself up raw and unfiltered.

“Maybe I don’t want you to be.” You counter, eyes fluttering as you stare up at him. “I don’t need tenderness, someone to comfort me, to pick up the pieces. I’ll go to John if I need that. Maybe I just want you to be yourself.”

A low growl rumbles in his chest at your words, his eyes darkening as he stares down into your shining ones. The back of your neck prickles as the energy shifts, the tension between the two of you coming to a head as the wall keeping the two of you apart begins to crumble.

“I’m not made of glass.” You say, snaking an arm around his neck, his eyes dropping to where your teeth sink into your lip. “Maybe I want someone to be a little rough with me.”

Another growl rumbles in his chest as he leans down even further. You automatically submit to him, tilting your head and bearing your throat to him as you’ve done so many times before in this position. He doesn’t stop you this time, doesn’t force you to turn away as he sinks down completely, pressing his face into the side of your neck. He breathes in deeply, taking in your scent from the source for the first time since your arrival on base.

His breath is warm through his mask as he exhales deeply, his body going lax as he practically squishes you into the mat. It’s not uncomfortable, the heavy weight of him a welcome sensation. It feels like a protective barrier against the world, a comfort knowing he’d keep you safe from any physical threat that might pose itself to you.

That is the difference between the two alphas. John can keep you safe from the horrors in your mind, offer you a comfort only your alpha can as he eases your fear and anxiety. Simon offers a protection against the physical, not that John doesn’t as well, but it feels different between the two of them. John would stand between you and a gun, while Simon would run headfirst towards the person wielding it towards you without a second thought.

Simon shifts just slightly, pulling away from you enough to reach up towards his mask. Your heart stutters in your chest for a moment at the thought of him taking it off, allowing you in enough to see his face. You’re nowhere near that close yet, you know that logically, but the idea excites you.

He tugs his mask up over his nose before pressing back into your throat, his hand slipping under your back to press you tighter against him. A shiver runs down your spine as his skin presses against yours, warm and slightly sweaty from training. You don’t care as he inhales deeply, taking in your scent unfiltered. His exhale is warm and shaky against your skin, his lips slightly chapped as they brush the side of your neck.

Something twists in your stomach as he drags his lips across your skin. Your hand lifts to cup the back of his head, pressing his face further into your neck. You don’t care if you suffocate him, and he doesn’t seem to care either as his body shifts just enough for him to press his thigh between yours.

Your breath shudders as he mouths at your neck, his tongue dragging across your scent gland. Your hips push up against his thigh in response, the friction igniting a fire in your veins. A quiet moan slips through your lips as he drags his teeth across your scent gland, your hips pressing harder against his thigh.

“Fuck.” He breathes against your skin, his hand dropping to grip your hip as you grind against his thigh, your body feeling electric from his touch.

Your head is spinning, your entire body alight with energy as he finally lets go, as he finally loosens that hold he’s been throttling himself with. The sensation of him is nearly overwhelming. His touch, his scent, the knowledge that it’s him. You’d let him fuck you right here in the training room, right on this mat, if he wanted to. You’re already wet, soaking into your panties as you grind against his thigh, his muscles tensing under his sweatpants. You're certain there’s going to be a wet spot against the fabric, something that can’t be explained away by training.

The thought of him finally wearing your scent thrills you.

His hand holds your hip, guiding your movements as you work yourself up. It would be perfect, him giving you your first orgasm just like this. Fully clothed in the training room, the place where your relationship has been tested, where the boundaries have been pushed the most.

Alas, you’re not so lucky. You’re never that lucky.

Both of you freeze as his phone alarm begins to go off, signaling the end of training. It forces you both back into the real world, the electric feeling beginning to fade as the moment ends and the mood in the room shifts. Simon lets out a sigh against your throat, slowly releasing your body as he pushes himself up onto his knees. His eyes are still dark as he stares down at you, your face sweaty, hair sticking to your skin as you lay there on the mat, probably looking absolutely ruined already.

You stare at his skin, the only part of him you’ve ever seen before. You’ve tried to imagine what he might look like, trying to piece together the rest of his face from what you’ve seen.

“We’ll continue this later.” He rasps, tugging his mask back down before pushing himself up to go silence his phone.

You lay there for a moment, catching your breath. You never thought it would feel like that, like straight energy coursing through you. He’d barely touched you and you could have cum from that alone had you been given a couple more minutes. His promise of continuing things later has a thrill running through you, a promise of this new relationship building between you.

Simon walks you to the mess, your face still warm from what had happened in the training room. His arm snakes around your back, his hand on your hip as he leads you to the line, his fingers tightening their hold on you every time someone passes too close. They all stare at you, all giving you looks. You can only imagine the smell, imagine what’s going through their heads.

They all know. They think you fucked him before coming to breakfast.

It wouldn't be the first time you walked in smelling like sex and a member of your pack. It’s just the first time it’s been him.

Your pack eyes you both as you and Simon take your seats at the table, you sitting yourself between Simon and Johnny again.

“Bit late today.” Kyle says, giving you both a look.

“Training ran long.” Simon says, pushing his mask back up over his mouth. Your scent flares a bit as you think about what those lips had felt like on your skin.

John eyes you both, all of them obviously picking up on the change. “I’m sure it did. Did you have a good time?”

“Would have been even better if we’d had a few more minutes.” You shrug, trying to hide your burning face in your porridge.

“Your punctuality has finally worked against you, Simon.” John says.

The alpha shrugs. “Didn’t want a grumpy, hungry omega on my hands.”

“I’m not grumpy when I’m hungry.” You pout. All four pairs of eyes at the table turn to look at you. “Okay, maybe a little.” You admit, spooning a heaping mouthful of porridge into your mouth, hoping the topic of conversation at the table changes so you can cool off just a bit.

Your face is still slightly warm as John walks you back to the barracks. He’s quiet as he leads you across the courtyard, and for a moment you’re worried he’s jealous, or perhaps upset that you’ve taken interest in another alpha besides him. He wouldn’t feel that way. Simon is part of the pack. It’s perfectly natural for you to feel a connection with him. It’s perfectly natural for you both to want to progress your relationship. Plenty of omegas take multiple alphas in a pack. Hell, many of them are claimed by more than just one.

“I’m happy you and Simon have finally worked things out.” He says as you stop in front of your door.

You turn to look up at him, a soft look in his eyes as he stares down at you. “About time, right?”

He chuckles quietly. “Yes, Johnny and Kyle were going to lock you two in a closet soon if things didn’t start developing.”

Your face warms again just a little. “Well, it is thanks to Johnny that we got here.”

“Yes, the skull-print underwear.” John says, smirking slightly. Of course he knows about that. Johnny can’t keep his mouth shut. He probably gave them all a detailed description of what happened at the lingerie store. “I much prefer those pink lacy ones myself.”

Your brows lift as you stare up at him. “What, these ones?” You tug the waistband of your exercise pants down just enough to show the pink lace against your skin.

A low growl leaves John’s lips as he stares down at them, his body crowding you against the door. “Yes, those ones exactly.”

Your breathing quickens as you stare up at him, your underwear still uncomfortably damp from your little tryst in the training room that had forced Simon to leave you high and dry. How no one else had tried to approach the table from the smell of horny omega you had been projecting through the entire mess is a mystery to you. Then again, perhaps it was your pack that had kept you safe. The threat they posed was enough for all the alphas in the room to resist the scent of your slick leaking into your panties.

You wonder how many of them got up to sniff the bench you sat on after you vacated the mess, pressing their faces against the plastic in an attempt to satiate the effect you had on all of them. How torturous it must be, knowing they’ll never have you. An omega right in front of them and their desperation, but they can only look, as the threat of dismemberment is not worth the risk of trying to touch.

The thought has your stomach clenching, more slick dribbling out of you.

“Got you all worked up, didn’t he?” John murmurs, pressing his face against your throat and inhaling. “Fuck, that’s a mixture someone could get drunk off of.”

The alarm on his watch begins to go off, and you half expect him to pull away, to leave you high and dry too, but instead he presses closer to you, his lips blazing a path up the side of your neck.

“Don’t you have training?” You ask, your voice trembling as he nips at your jaw.

“I’m in charge.” He says, pulling away to turn the alarm off before he grabs the waistband of your pants, tugging them down around your knees. “They can wait.”

He spins you around, pinning your body against your door. You can feel him, hard in his cargo pants as he presses up against you, his breath hot against your ear. He drags his hips against your ass, the line of his cock brushing against the thin material of your panties.

“I’ve got more important things to see to.” He growls, slipping his hand down the front of your body to cup your dripping pussy through the lacy pink panties.

You should have known. You should have known things were too perfect, working out too well. Something always happens, something always ruins it. Something always comes between you, right as things begin to work themselves out, right as you begin to get comfortable.

“I’m leaving.”

You blink up at him, the words barely processing in your mind. “Huh?”

“I’ve got orders, shipping out within the hour.” Simon says, almost too casually.

It is casual to him, though. This is a normal event, part of his existence, part of his normal life.

“The others?” You ask, the words trailing off but you don’t need to finish the question.

“Just me.” He says, crossing the hall to open the door to his room. You follow, feeling like you’re wading through sand.

It almost feels sacrilegious, getting a peek into his room, into his personal space like this. You’ve never seen inside, the few times you’ve walked by as he’s exiting, you’ve averted your gaze, almost afraid to try and look, to see inside his most vulnerable area. The space where he gets to be himself.

Even now you find yourself looking away, turning your gaze down the hallway towards the door. The door he’s going to walk through and disappear for an unknown amount of time.

“How long?” You ask, fighting the urge to look as he moves past the door.

“Don’t know.” He answers, his voice slightly muffled as he stands behind the door, likely grabbing things out of his dresser. “However long it takes.”

You swallow thickly. Of course this is happening now. Of course he’s leaving right when things are starting to happen between the two of you, right when you’ve started to get closer, when he’s starting to allow you in. What will happen when he returns? Will things go back to the way they were before, or will they continue as they are now? What if he changes his mind with some distance, with a chance to clear his head?

What if he doesn’t come back?

Your teary gaze snaps to him as he steps back out into the hall, closing his door behind him. You want to beg him not to go, drop to your knees and convince him to stay with you. He’d never do something like that. He’d never give up his job, no matter what you said, no matter what happened. He’ll always be a loyal soldier over everything.

Even you.

“I’ll be back,” He says, tossing his pack over his shoulder. “Then we can talk.”

You stare up into his eyes, furiously blinking back the tears threatening to fall. “Okay.” The word is so small and broken sounding. You shouldn’t feel this way. He’s not even your alpha.

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment, hesitating just briefly before he straightens up, heading down the hallway. You hold your breath as you watch him go, his figure blurring as the tears continue to well up. You should tell him, you should run after him and confess, confess to everything. You should hug him, hold him just one more time because you might never get a chance to again.

Your shoes squeak as you race down the hall, throwing the door open. The rain bites at your skin as you run out into it, the weather a perfect metaphor for how you’re feeling inside.

“Simon!” You shout his name, hoping he can hear you over the rain.

He turns back around to face you, both of you standing there in the rain, staring at each other. It’s soaking through your clothes, your hair sticking to your face. You can barely see him, your eyes squinting from the water dripping into them.

This would be the perfect moment, the scene when you run towards each other and collide in the middle in a passionate kiss that speaks of weeks of longing and desire finally being released. No matter how badly you want to run up to him and kiss him, you know you can’t. You want to shout at him, tell him you love him, that you don’t want him to go. You want to confess everything, let all the walls down and beg him to stay, to leave this life behind and run off with you somewhere safer, somewhere there’s no threat of him not coming back.

You wish you could see his face, you wish you could read his thoughts, know exactly what he’s feeling right now. Does he feel the same, or are you a fly buzzing around him again?

“Be careful,” You shout over the sound of the pouring rain, the things you want to say fading to the back of your mind. When he comes back, if he comes back, you’ll tell him. You’ll tell him everything. “And come home safe.”

He stares at you for a moment before nodding. “Always.”

You turn back to the barracks, your shoes crunching on the wet gravel. Your steps are slow, your body still feeling like it’s wading through sand. You turn back, looking over your shoulder one last time at his retreating form slowly disappearing into the heavy rainfall.

Johnny is standing in the doorway as you turn back around, holding it open. You approach it slowly, feeling like the wet, miserable rat you probably resemble. You’re glad for the rain soaking through your clothes and your hair, glad for the droplets streaking down your skin hiding the burning tears sliding down your cheeks.

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