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ghostficwriter · 2 years

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Wrestlers as Types of Kisses: i. Pac - Kiss to the Fingertips

Fandom: AEW Pairing / Form: Pac x Reader / Drabble Genre: What is a genre anyways? I mean...it’s soft, but it has some angst ig?? Mostly soft Warnings: n/a Word Count: 687 Characters: Pac, Reader Plot: It’s not that Pac doesn’t want to touch Reader, to hold her hand, to hold her close, he’s just not quite sure if can - his hands were made to destroy, not comfort. First installment of my Wrestlers as Types of Kisses series. Tag List: @doctorbrittbaker @elitehoe @poisonouspixiedust

He was always so careful with you, as if he was afraid you would break, and you weren’t sure if it was because he thought you were fragile or he thought he was too strong.

It had taken a long time for him to warm up to you - as much as Pac warmed up to anyone. But at some point, his gruff grunts of reply had softened to quiet nods, and his harsh glares had become refocused. The intensity hadn’t changed, but it was as if the looks were intrigued rather than dismissive.

He did not embrace you. He did not kiss you. But when you finally dared to rest a hand on his bicep or brush against his shoulder, he leaned into your touch. With time you gathered confidence, and found he would allow your head on his shoulder on car rides, your hand on top of his on occasion, and once to wrap your arms around him. He never touched you in return, but once he squeezed your hand when you grabbed his after he took a particularly rough bump. “I’m okay,” it said without words, “I can keep fighting.”

So a week later, when he reached out a hand to you as you moved to leave after congratulating him on his latest win, you froze - in surprise, in fascination. But he drew it back, and you dared to speak.

“What are you afraid of?”

He didn’t reply.

His expression became defiant, as if he was about to deny the accusation, but then he took a breath, and he reached out again.

His gaze wasn’t soft, wasn’t gentle, but it was caring. Protective. Sharp as steel, biting as the ocean, ready to shear away anything and anyone that would harm you. Fierce, like looking into the eyes of a hawk.

But he couldn't protect you from himself. His hands were rough and worn, his body all sharp angles, forged to fight, wielded to wound. He was not made for soft caresses or gentle touches. Anything he placed his hands on became broken, for so he had willed it, had trained himself that way.

He kept his hand out, a dare in his sharp gaze now, letting you take the leap if you wanted.

Your hesitation wasn’t out of fear, but rather out of a desire to drink in the moment, to drink in the look in his eyes. When you took his hand, and the offer that seemed to go with it, you swore he shuddered. But before you could react to this, he curled his fingers around your hand and brought it slowly up to his face, his eyes still met with yours. He paused for a moment (Was it a moment? An hour? A year?) with your hand almost against his mouth, his breath a soft caress, and his eyebrows creased just a millimeter, silently asking. It was the last check, the last moment to escape. But you didn’t want a way out. You nodded.

Pac closed his eyes as he brought the tips of your fingers to his lips, focused and intense, as if concentrating all of his will onto careful, careful contact. The sensation was light, but you could swear your whole body warmed from the tips of your fingers to the tips of your toes.

Pac hummed slightly, paused with his lips on your skin, drinking in the moment, before gently moving your hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. The steady but hard beat thrummed. He kept his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. And so you reached out your free hand, carefully, tenderly, and ran your fingers across his cheekbone. When his eyes opened, you saw something you never had in them - fear.

So you took his free hand in yours and brought it slowly to your own lips, treating his hand as delicately as he had yours, and bringing it to your own heartbeat.

The corners of his lips twitched up, and you knew.

You knew it wouldn’t be easy, and you knew it wouldn’t be simple, but it wasn’t over.

And it was worth it

#pac #aew #aew x reader #pac x reader #pac imagine #aew imagine #pac fanfiction #aew fanfiction

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heelwriting · 2 years

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Headcanon: PAC + reader had a bad day and he helps them feel better

Fandom: Wrestling

First of all, how dare your boss ask you to stay two more hours just because he was too lazy to use the printer himself?

Anyways, you had to text your boyfriend to tell him you'd be late for dinner, but by 9 you had to tell him you weren’t going at all and by 10:30 you were finally on your way out

You were surprised to see Pac leaning against your car, he looked like he wanted to kill someone “do you want me to take care of him?” he said in a menacing tone “no I don’t want any problems, wait, why are you here? You said you were going to sleep”

His demeanor changed drastically, he was looking at the floor, fidgeting with a wristband, his voice was just above a whisper “I bought you dinner, and I wanted to see you” Your heart racing as he slowly talked louder “I didn’t want you to starve because that barbaric dipshit didn’t have the decency to buy you dinner” he was back to fuming, you smiled quietly “thank you”

He drove you home and went inside to eat with you, Pac had bought your favorite food and suddenly you were feeling much better, he looked at you while you ate, he was thinking about how happy you make him, Pac finished his plate and walked towards you, siting beside you he pressed his thumb to the corner of your mouth to wipe a stain, you froze for a few seconds

“What?” “ you had food on your face”

You went to the couch and he put on your favorite tv show, which he absolutely HATES “what are you doing?” “watching a show” “but you hate it” “but you don’t, so we’ll watch it until you feel better” you can’t believe it

You put your head on his shoulder, he might look stern all the time but he starts playing with your hair, eventually you fall asleep, he takes you to your room and leaves you sleeping

Your morning alarm goes off waking you up, you look around and realize you are in your room, you’re halfway through leaving the house when you notice Pac sleeping in the couch, you smile at his messy hair

“if ya keep looking at me you’ll be late for work”

#pac fanfiction #pac x reader #pac imagine #pac headcanon #pac

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solsays · 4 months

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they are so precious to me

Here’s the fic this lil doodle is based off of, by @yourfauxentropy on ao3 (go read it it is fucking adorable and they’re a great writer)

#qsmp #qsmp fitmc #fitmc #hideduo #pactw #qsmp pac #qsmp fandom #qsmp fanfic #fitpac #qsmp fitpac #qsmp hideduo #fanfic rec #fanfic inspiration #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #ao3fic

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miscellaneoussmp · 8 months

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I can see the Forever and Bad wedding now, actually. And it goes something like this (Edit: This fic was made before January 5th 2024.):

It's decorated in black and white, straight down the middle. Those in bright smiles sit in the bright white! What a happy wedding this is! It's perfect! Those without smiles sit in the darkness. This isn't a wedding at all. It's going to end up a funeral.

Cellbit stands on Bad's side, even if he's supposed to be Forever's best man. He can't bring himself to stand in the blinding white. They aren't his friends. Those aren't their smiles. He misses their actual smiles. He wishes he could stand with them. He's wearing almost all black. This feels like a funeral.

Jaiden stands at the altar. She's the officiant. Her smile is small, and she hates the fact that she feels like she's almost forcing it. She is wearing grey, a mix of the happy couple's colors. It's a happy occasion, a wedding. Why are people crying like it's a funeral?

Foolish stands next to Cellbit. He's wearing black at Bad's request, afterall he's Bad's best man. He doesn't like that it feels like a funeral. This is his idea, but he doesn't like how sad it feels. He wishes he could stand in the white. He wishes he could pretend this is a happy wedding. He knows it's a funeral.

Pac stands next to Forever, where Cellbit is supposed to be. It's not perfect, but it's fine! He gets it! He really does! Cellbit just wants to support Bad, one of his oldest friends! His nails are digging into his palm. Why is that? Everything is fine! It's Forever's special day! His wedding! That's why he's wearing a different shade of white, to not outshine his friend. What a happy wedding!

Tina stands at the end of the aisle. She doesn't like wearing black. It's not typically her color. Mouse stands at the end of the aisle. She doesn't usually wear all black. She prefers black as an accent color. Tina is holding a wicker basket of flower petals. Mouse is holding a pillow with two rings atop it. Tina pretends not to notice the tears running down Mouse's face. Mouse pretends not to notice how Tina's smile looks so terrified. They're in the roles found at a wedding, yet they're dressed for a funeral.

Phil walks up the aisle with Bad in tow. He decided to be the one to walk their friend up the aisle. He's not used to wearing black, but he thinks it fits. He noticed how Bad hadn't talked all day. It's fine, he doesn't have to be happy. If it all goes well, this will become a funeral, not stay a wedding.

Forever stands at the altar, in front of Bad. He can't believe it! They're getting married! How perfect! It's perfect! Bad isn't smiling, though. That's okay! He'll start smiling when they're officially married! They didn't even stop the clock joke for his wedding, how rude. Jaiden's voice is really nice! He's so happy she agreed to be the officiant!

"If there is any reason why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Etoiles stands from his seat, sword already drawn. He ignores the sound of other weapons being drawn and gasps and cries and sounds of people grabbing explosives. This wedding will become a funeral, it doesn't matter how. It's not truly a funeral if the end goal is almost like a rebirth, is it?

Quesadilla Island wedding tradition states that there should be at least one death and explosion at a wedding. Sometimes, people outdo their own traditions.

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tomfrogisblue · 4 months

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I just wanna thank cc!Cellbit for fulfilling my personal Wishlist of Fuckery while he was rampaging with Baghera today

Fucking with each member of Fuga Impossível individually ✅️

Searching out Pac specifically with The Voice ✅️

Messing with Ljoga and Malena ✅️

Threatening Natalan ✅️

Generally having fun torturing his friends and strangers alike ✅️

And finally, murdering anyone he wanted ✅️

#also initiating jack was hilarious #ALSO ALSO because of this all the qsmp fanartists animators and fanfiction writers have been fed - we will all eat very well :)#i just wanna see the crazy lil cat guy go apeshit ok #q!pac is one of my fav characters but i live for angst and his relationship with q!cell(bit) is f a s c i n a t i n g #anyway qpac has his roommate and his sons waiting to take care of him. he'll hopefully get a nice happy christmas then #qsmp #qsmp purgatory 2 #qsmp lore #cellbit #qsmp cellbit #today was so fun

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pactw · 7 months

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a trapped pac asks "god" for a miracle, which is exactly when fit appears to rescue pac with a codebreaker

#they're living out a fanfiction #qsmp #pactw #fitmc #fitpac #qsmp pac #qsmp fit

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missingkeyy · 6 months

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I found a fanfic on Twitter, so I decided to create this

//OMG ITS 01:10 WHAT???? //

#drawing #qsmp #qsmp brasil #tazercraft #qsmp pac #pactw #qsmp tazercraft #qsmp fitmc #qsmp fanart #qsmp fanfiction #qsmp fitpac #qsmp fic #qsmp hideduo #hideduo

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seriouslycalamitous · 1 month

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THE OFFICIAL HIDEDUO MURDER MYSTERY AU IS NOW AVAILABLE TO READ!

Title: Blood In Our Wine

Multi-Chapter

Detective/Widow AU, Hideduo

Link

AU Co-Creators - @sourlemonjuice and Pastel

#FitMC in a dress is now in writing form #widow fitmc #detective pac #murder mystery au #qsmp #qsmp fanfic #hideduo #fitpac #qsmp fanfiction #qsmp fitmc #qsmp pactw #qsmp fitpac

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keirawantstocry · 1 month

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that one time tubbo called pac a dilf 😵‍💫

okay wait…

young teacher tubbo and dilf pac comes to collect his son from class…..tubbos got such a crush on him and maybe he asks pac to stay back to talk about richas’s behaviour but it turns into something else….

you've come to the right person (guy who is obsessed with pacbo)

Tubbo wasn't quite sure how he ended up with this job. He had never in any of his years considered being a teacher of any sort. But after he adopted his daughter, he needed a second job. Mechanics weren't paying him enough. Luckily there was a daycare nearby that was hiring. It was a more difficult process than he had expected, much like the adoption. But he got it.

His daughter stayed with her “other father”. Tom's name was always said in a sigh like that. They were young and stupid and drunk and Tubbo didn't know what he was doing when he signed the stupid paper that Tommy had slid him across the dirty bar table.

Tommy, and unfortunately Molly, found it hilarious. They both insisted on watching Sunny while he was at work. Thankfully Sunny loved them. Tommy would do her hair in braids. It was something they did when they were younger. Tubbo remembered sitting in fields with Tommy's older cousin braiding his long hair.

As soon as Tommy saw Sunny's thick 3C curls, he stayed up two nights in a row researching and watching video after video of how to do cornrows and other braids in her hair.

Molly often sent him videos while he was at work on Sunny prattling on while Tommy listened intently, braiding her hair as best he could. As much as Tubbo joked about divorce and threatened, he was glad to have two people he loved watching his child and caring for them so well.

He closed his laptop with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. He was the last one there, his co worker had to leave because she had to pick up her own child but they needed someone to watch the singular child whose parents were incredibly late.

Opening his eyes, Tubbo stared down the young boy in front of him.

He was a Latino boy, probably around 7 or 8 with an oversized yellow jersey that he wore every single day. He was staring at Tubbo with large brown eyes. It was almost unnerving but he was a cute, decently well mannered child.

Tubbo remembered the day he joined the daycare. A man with shoulder length brown hair and a singular white streak through it brought him in and explained how the boy had been born without part of his leg but was still very capable of movement with the prosthetic his Pai had made him.

The owner of the daycare had nodded, assuring the man over and over that his child would be well cared for and that they would make sure the other children didn't say anything nasty as children tended to do.

Richas, Tubbo remembered, as he continued to stare down the boy. His name was Richas.

“Hello,” he said.

The boy grinned. “Ola!”

Tubbo laughed at his enthusiasm before picking up his phone to attempt to call the boy's parents once again. It rang and rang, like it had three times before click.

“Holy shit, we are so sorry. Our schedule got all mixed up and we didn't know who was supposed to pick him up today. Fuck!”

“Hey, hey,” Tubbo said calmly. “It's okay. I'm here with him. Get here whenever you can.”

The voice on the phone that Tubbo didn't recognize took a few deep breaths. “Sim, sim, of course. Peqi is on his way already. He should be there any minute.”

Tubbo smiled at Richas who bounced up and down excitedly, trying to climb up the front of the desk to reach the phone. “Sounds good, Mr…?”

The voice laughed. “Just call me Mike yeah?”

Richas made the saddest noise possible and Tubbo's heart melted. “Wait, before you go, I think he wants to talk to you.”

He removed the phone from the side of his ear and carefully handed it to the boy who cradled it with both hands and held it up to his mouth. “OI, PAI.”

Mike's voice came through quietly. “Oi, Richas. Você está sendo bom?”

“Sim, sim,” the boy sang happily. “Eu sou bom.”

“Bom menino. Pai Pac will be there soon okay?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Eu te amo.”

“Eu também te amo.”

The phone clicked, ending the call and Richas handed it back to Tubbo with a smile. Not even five seconds after the phone was back in his hand, the door slammed open. Standing in the now open doorway was a frazzled and incredibly attractive man.

Richas ran over, bounding easily into his arms.

“Richarlyson!” the man cooed, swinging him back and forth in his arms. He met Tubbo's eyes over his son's head. ‘Thank you’ he mouthed.

Tubbo was almost too stunned to nod but he managed to as Richas's father slowly lowered him to the ground to step over to Tubbo.

“I have to sign him out, yes?”

Tubbo nodded, still speechless. He cleared his throat and slid the sign-out sheet across the desk. “Yeah, uh, yeah.”

The man, Pac, from the signs of his scribbled signature, smiled blindingly at him, his son clinging to his leg.

Tubbo noticed at that moment that Pac had a near identical prosthetic to his son. “You match,” he said before mentally slapping himself. You don't just fucking point out a man's prosthetic, no fucking wonder you're still married to Tommy.

But Pac just laughed softly. “We do,” he said softly, rubbing the top of Richas's head. “He is very clearly my son.”

“Are you his biological father?” Tubbo asked. Holy fucking shit, shut up you fucking idiot. He is so tired of you already, why are you asking so many questions?

Pac just laughed softly again and the twist in Tubbo's chest felt like falling off a cliff. “Sim, yes, I am. I was the one who gave birth to him.”

Tubbo stopped himself from asking any questions about that. He knew better than that at least. “That's really cool.” He tried a smile and felt so awkward.

“Thank you,” Pac said. “And thank you for watching him past time. I know you probably have places to be.”

Tubbo brushed him off with a wave of his hand. “Oh don't worry about it. My daughter is more than happy to spend more of their time with her ‘other father’.” Out of instinct, he raised his hands and made quotation marks with his hands.

Pac raised an eyebrow curiously.

Tubbo flushed. “A, uh, friend of mine. We got drunk married and now my daughter considers him her other father.”

Pac laughed. “No spouse of your own then? One that you're in love with anyway?”

Tubbo flushed darker. “Ah, no. Just my husband and his girlfriend.”

“Mmm,” Pac said, leaning over on the desk. “Good to know.”

Tubbo froze in his spot as Pac's eyes, big and brown just like his son's, stared into his soul. He gulped before clearing his throat. “Yeah, uhmm, yeah.” The heat of his face was nearly unbearable.

Richas gently smacked his dad on the leg. “Oi, stop that.”

Pac leaned back, holding his hands up with an innocent expression. “What?? What?”

The little boy glared at him with no heat. “Pai Mike told you to stop that.”

“Well, Mikey isn't here right now is he? And he also has no control over my life.” Pac turned back to Tubbo and grabbed the pen again. He motioned towards Tubbo's arm which he held out willingly.

Quickly the man scribbled a number onto his arm, his grip strong and warm. Tubbo felt dizzy.

Pac dropped the pen with a smile and a wink before grabbing his son's hand. “Call me yeah?”

Tubbo stared in disbelief, red as a beet. “...yeah,” he said softly as Pav happily bounded out the door, his son berating him in Portuguese.

“Tommy,” he said softly when he got home, holding up his arm. “I think I got hit on.”

#pacbo #qsmp shipping #my writing #fanfiction #q!tubbo #q!pac #q!sunnysideup #q!tommy #molly is also there #q!mike #and also cellbit is mentioned but not by name #i started writing and then i couldn't stop so here's this LMAO #dilf!pac au

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itsragnary · 8 months

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From my pirate Au! In the future I will post more about, but all you need know is q!Pac is a thief and q!Fit is a navy general, the two flirt with each other and q! Pac loves to provoke q! Fit in front of the guards (just to embarrass him, okay? OK!)

// Sorry for my horrible English 😭

#fitmc lore #fitmcqsmp #fitmcfanart #pactw fanart #qsmp #qsmpfanart #artists on tumblr #digital art #artwork #hideduo #q!pactw #q!fit #q!fitmc #pac tazercraft #tazercraft fanart #qsmp tazercraft #qsmp fanfiction #qsmp au #qsmp shipping

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debbiechanclub · 1 year

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Part 1: The Man in the Blindfold

A House of Black magic AU

Pairing: PAC x OFC x Malakai Black Word Count: 3,357 Warnings: Alcohol use and the teeniest tiniest bit of smut so 18+ only

Strange things start to happen in her dreams one night. But she finds that reality might be even stranger.

Masterlist | Read it on AO3

A/N: This is a repost/re-write. I've changed the tense from a second-person "you" to a third-person nameless "she," and included Buddy Matthews from the get-go (when I first started writing this fic, he was not yet in HOB). Thank you to everyone who read the previous version, and I hope you enjoy this one just as much :)

tag squad: @aussiearrow @cowboyslariat @knifepervert @sldghmmr @rusevday @missbrownstone @meteora-fc @bec0m @thatgirlforever5 @rocca09 @adriii-omega

It started in her dreams one night.

It had been an entirely ordinary night. She’d come home from work and spent the evening alone with a carton of Chinese takeout and the television, a typically uneventful Thursday in the dead of winter. But when she finally shut off the TV and crawled into bed just before midnight, her entirely ordinary night turned… strange.

It wasn’t often that she dreamed. At least, not that she could remember, and the only dreams she ever did seem to remember were the ones not worth remembering at all. But that night, she dreamed a dream so vivid that it was permanently seared into her mind’s eye.

At first, she’d thought she’d woken up. Being a rather light sleeper, she had the unfortunate tendency to wake up more than once throughout the night. But as she turned over in hopes of drifting back to sleep, she noticed a light. A warm, otherworldly glow that danced and flickered against her bedroom walls like so many candle flames. But her blackout curtains were drawn closed, and there was no source for the light that she could see. It just… was. And as she tried to figure out how it was, she saw him. A man, standing motionless next to her dresser.

She would have thought it was a bout of sleep paralysis if she hadn’t jolted upright with a startled gasp. But then she was paralyzed by shock, pupils dilated, heart in her throat. And all she could do was watch him.

He looked, for the most part, like a normal man. Shorter than average, but more muscular, too, with a rather unkempt dark beard and long dark hair that was pulled into a knot at the back of his head. But what stood out as peculiar was a dirtied, white cloth blindfold tied around his head.

“Who are you?” she managed to ask, and she was proud that her voice didn’t waver. But the man didn’t answer. Instead, he moved toward her. Slowly, deliberately. And she didn’t shrink away or cower under her covers. She sat transfixed, captivated, filled with an inexplicable sense that he wasn’t there to hurt her.

And then he was right in front of her. He reached out. Her breath hitched in throat as calloused fingers brushed her cheek—

And then she woke up.

It was as if his touch had sent her back to consciousness. One second, she’d been sitting up in bed with him in front of her—solid, whole, clear as day—and the next she was curled up underneath her comforter, alone. The otherworldly light gone, her bedroom dark.

But her heart was still pounding just as hard as it had been in the dream.

It was a fitful, restless night after that. The next morning, she sucked down a venti cold brew to make it through the workday and tried not to think about the man in the blindfold. But it was an impossible effort. Because she’d realized: that hadn’t been just a dream.

It couldn’t have been. It had been too vivid, too real, she’d felt him touch her. She tingled at the memory of it now, how rough his fingers had felt against her skin. He’d appeared in her bedroom, in her subconsciousness, for a reason—a purpose. And she was determined to find out what that purpose was.

On most Fridays she met up with friends for happy hour after work, but that Friday she made up some excuse to go straight home. Part of her wanted to turn in early, eager to fall asleep, to enter that strange dream realm again and ask the man in the blindfold what it was he wanted. But that same inexplicable instinct told her that it couldn’t—shouldn’t—be forced; it just had to happen. So, she went about her evening as routinely as possible and went to bed around the same time she always did.

But she couldn’t fall asleep.

She was too keyed up, too anxious, and she tossed and turned in frustration, tangling the flat sheet under her comforter. Forty-five minutes ticked by, and she was on the verge of getting up to pop a couple melatonin gummies when she felt something. A presence in the room. She closed her eyes—and when she reopened them, she was in the dream realm.

The strange, warm light filled her bedroom again, illuminating the dark. But the man in the blindfold wasn’t standing in the corner. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, right beside her.

She sat up, but not quick or startled like the night before. Curious. He seemed to look right at her despite the blindfold, as if he could see in some way other than with his eyes. She knew that was the case when he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. But his touch didn’t send her back to the waking world that time; it exhilarated her. She leaned into it, heart racing. Her body seemed to move of its own accord as she traced her fingertips up his forearm to gently wrap her hand around his wrist. She wanted to see his eyes. But something told her it wasn’t yet time.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

Ever so slight, almost imperceptibly, the man in the blindfold shook his head. “Not yet.”

His accent caught her off-guard, rough and some type of British. But then he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip just so, and she re-awoke in her dark bedroom. The presence she’d felt before she’d fallen asleep was gone now. But her lip still tingled with the ghost of his touch.

The next few days passed by in a blur. Saturday and Sunday night each came and went without a visit from the man in the blindfold, and by Monday she’d checked out entirely from the real world. She spent time on the clock at work researching things like lucid dreaming and astral projection, hoping to dig up an answer to what was happening, how it was happening. But nothing quite fit or made sense. Frustratingly, it seemed that only the man in the blindfold would be able to enlighten her.

And, thankfully, on Monday night he visited again.

He appeared at her bedside just as he had three nights before. She studied him, interested, something electric and palpable pulsing between them, and it wasn’t long before he found the curve of her thigh underneath the blankets. He ran his hand slowly up, higher, higher, until he stopped just shy of where he wasn’t sure he had consent to go. Her body flushed hot with sudden desire. She wanted to feel him.

She ripped the blankets aside and climbed onto his lap, straddling him. His fingers gripped her thighs, and she brought her hands to either side of his face and kissed him. Lustful, rough. His beard scratched her skin, and she moaned into his mouth when he squeezed her backside. He felt as good as real—his lips, his skin, the muscle underneath. And as she threaded her fingers into his hair, she felt the knot of the blindfold at the back of his head.

She pulled back and looked down at him. She wanted to undo the knot and remove the blindfold. She wanted to see his eyes. And when he didn’t pull her fingers away, she knew it was time.

The knot was tight, and it took a few seconds for her to work it loose. But even though her fingers trembled, she wasn’t afraid of what she might find underneath. And when the knot came free and she pulled the dirty, worn cloth from his face, her heart sank.

His eyes were white. Entirely white, other than a faint, milky outline of what should have been his irises. But she didn’t get the sense he was blind; not really. She knew he could see her. And she also knew that whatever had happened to his sight wasn’t natural.

“Who did this to you?” she breathed.

But like all her other questions, it went unanswered. And the next thing she knew, she was awake and alone in her bed again, back underneath the covers, the cloth blindfold still gripped in her hand.

* * * *

One… two… three… four nights passed without another visit. She grew impatient, and then frustrated, and then worried. Was this a test? Was the man in the blindfold discerning if she could be trusted with the answers she sought? Or had she pushed too far too soon? Whatever the case, she sensed there was another party in this, another person, another entity she had yet to encounter—the one who had turned his eyes that eerie, milky white. And based on how quickly he’d disappeared after she’d asked who, she wondered if it maybe was for the best that she didn’t find out.

But her need to know was stronger than her fear. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.

When the weekend arrived, her best friend insisted that she get out and unwind; she hadn’t been herself the last week. Admittedly, her friend wasn’t wrong—she desperately needed a distraction. So, she agreed to go for drinks at their usual spot, a cozy Irish pub downtown. They sat at a table for two near the bar, but even after two drinks she still bounced her foot anxiously against the floor. She wanted to confide in her friend about what she’d been experiencing, but she neither knew how nor if she even should. She didn’t want to fail if this was a test from the man in the blindfold. She didn’t want her friend to think she was insane.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?” her friend charged. “You’re completely in your head about something, I can tell.”

She flicked her eyes up at her friend and bit the inside of her lip, bouncing her foot faster. How could she possibly begin to explain what was going on? I’ve been having strange dreams. But they weren’t just dreams. The blindfold tucked into the nightstand drawer back in her apartment was proof of that.

“Well?” her friend pressed.

“I…” she started; but a draft of cold air suddenly invaded the warmth of the pub, and the most imposing man she’d ever seen walked through the door.

He had to be six-foot-five and close to three hundred pounds, with dark hair slicked back with grease and a long, unkempt beard. He was followed by a young, pretty blonde who looked comically small and out-of-place beside him, and then an auburn-haired man who obviously spent a lot of time in the gym, the black hoodie he wore stretched by the muscle underneath.

But if those three had captivated her attention, it was nothing compared to the fourth person who walked through the door.

He was dressed in all black just like the others, tall and athletic with a stern, commanding brow and a tiny crescent moon tattooed above his cheekbone. She could tell by the way he carried himself that he was the one in charge—of what, thought, she wasn’t sure. But when he turned and met her gaze, every thought left her head.

And then the man in the blindfold walked in.

Every muscle in her body tensed at once. It was him. He looked nothing like how he’d appeared to her in her bedroom—he was normal, completely normal, with a black beanie on his head and square glasses on his face—but she knew it was him. She could sense it. And when his eyes scanned the room and found hers, she knew he recognized her, too.

“Hello?” Her friend snapped her fingers in front of her face and redrew her attention. “Seriously, are you alright? You’re starting to freak me out.”

“Yeah,” she answered. But she glanced back at the group that had just walked in. “I just think I know that guy.”

Her friend’s brow furrowed, and she discreetly looked toward where the four had settled at a table on the other side of the room. “Which one?”

“Glasses.”

Her friend looked a beat longer, clearly confused still. “From where?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up her glass and drained the last of her drink. “I need another,” she said, and she stood up and started for the bar before her friend could argue. She actually did need another drink now. But she also hoped that, if she went to the bar, the man in the blindfold would, too.

She set her empty glass on the bar top and asked for another of the same, and it wasn’t long before she got the distinct feeling that someone was watching. She fidgeted, tempted to turn around and look; but she leaned on her elbows and tried to distract herself with the extensive collection of liquor lined up in rows underneath the large, decorative mirror behind the bar. And then she saw movement—his reflection in the mirror. He was coming up to the bar, just like she’d hoped. Their eyes met in the mirror, and then he was right next to her.

He ordered a beer, and a tingle crawled up her spine at the sound of his voice, here, out in the real world. It was the same voice, the same accent that she’d heard just over a week ago, unmistakable. They found each other in the mirror again. His eyes weren’t inhumanely white now. They were a shade of greenish blue with a black pupil in the middle, entirely normal.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she quietly asked. She wanted verbal confirmation, a nod, a grin, something. She turned her head and looked directly at him. He smirked.

“Don’t ask unnecessary questions.”

Her stomach flipped. That was confirmation enough.

The bartender set both their drinks in front of them. He picked up his and glanced at her. “Don’t drink too much tonight,” he said, and as he walked back to his table, she knew it wasn’t just an unsolicited suggestion. It was an order. Because that night, he’d visit.

* * * *

She left the pub as soon as she finished that drink. Thankfully, her friend stopped prying after the second time she told her she was fine, she didn’t want to talk about it, she just needed to go home and sleep it off.

Her friend didn’t need to know what she really meant by that.

No sooner had she walked through her door than she stripped down to her underwear, pulled on an old, comfortable, oversized t-shirt and crawled into bed. She had a buzz from the alcohol, drinking on a largely empty stomach, too anxious to eat; and as her bare legs slipped between the sheets, she thought of his last visit. The feel of his hands on her body, his lips on hers, the way he’d grabbed her ass as they’d kissed. She slipped her hand under the covers, down her stomach—

And then she was in the dream realm. She opened her eyes. He was with her, overtop of her; and instead of her fingers slipping into her panties, it was his. He pushed them inside her and she let out a moan. He bent his head and nipped at her neck as he worked; she clung to his shoulders, digging her fingernails into his skin. His arousal pressed against her thigh, and she ached to feel it, to feel him inside her—but then he bit her skin hard enough to bruise, and it pushed her over the edge. A cry of pleasure tore from her mouth as her back arched, and then bliss as all her muscles relaxed. He looked down at her; she reached up and pushed his hair out of his face so she could see his eyes. They were white.

“Sleep,” he told her. “We’ll see each other again soon.”

That time, she didn’t awake in the physical version of her bedroom. She slept. More soundly than she’d slept in months, maybe years. When she awoke the next morning, there was a note on her nightstand. It didn’t say much—just an address, date, and time scrawled in black ink. Directions to see him again in just over a week. Not in her dreams, but in reality.

* * * *

Time passed more slowly than she would have liked before the date written on the note finally arrived. She was nervous in the way she might have been if a friend had set her up on a blind date. Butterflies teemed in her gut; she didn’t know what to wear because she had no idea what the evening would entail. So, she just put on a nice top with her favorite pair of jeans and white high-top Converse. It would have to do.

Upping her nervousness—and admittedly, her intrigue—was the fact that the address on the note was that of a private residence in the pricier, historic part of town. She’d recognized the house as soon as she’d pulled it up on Google Street View; she’d admired it many a time before on the way to her favorite ice cream shop. She’d wondered about who lived there many a time, too.

She’d find out tonight.

The note had instructed her to arrive at 9 p.m. sharp, and so she left her apartment with time to spare. She’d considered taking an Uber but had decided it would be best to drive herself; she didn’t want to rely on someone else if she needed to make a speedy getaway. She also hadn’t told anyone where she’d be. It was irresponsible, she knew, but something told her it was information that shouldn’t be disclosed. Besides, she trusted the man in the blindfold; she genuinely felt that he didn’t mean her any harm. And truthfully, she hoped that this cryptic invitation meant he finally trusted her, too.

She found a street parking spot at the end of the block. It was quiet and cold on the walk to the house, and her breath came out in puffs of translucent white from her mouth. She hesitated when she reached the wrought iron gate. It was wide open and there were cars—expensive cars—parked all along the U-shaped driveway, but even though she’d been invited it felt like an intrusion to walk in from the street. But she swallowed down her nervousness and made her way to the front door.

The house was built of brick, stately and old, but well-kept and updated with modern curb appeal. Flames flickered in wrought iron gas lamps mounted on either side of the door, and she thought of that otherworldly light that always danced on her bedroom walls with the appearance of the man in the blindfold. And then a little voice in the back of her head warned: something dark and terrible could be behind that door. But her intrigue, her deep-seeded need to understand, to discover the purpose, drowned it out and drove her forward.

She walked up the steps, treading lightly so as not to disturb the atmosphere of the place—but she had a feeling he already knew she was there. She reached out and pressed the doorbell with her index finger before she could lose the nerve. And then she stuck clammy hands into her coat pockets and waited.

But not for long.

The door opened; her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the man in the blindfold who had answered, but the man with the crescent moon tattoo. He was dressed again in an all-black, this time a suit. He smiled down at her; disarming, strikingly handsome.

“Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”

He pulled the door open further and stepped aside, gesturing with his free arm for her to come in. And for a second, she hesitated. But then she felt a pull, something beckoning her from inside the house, urging her. There was power and knowledge beyond understanding of what she thought was possible, if only she’d cross the threshold. And so, she swallowed the lump in her throat, and entered the house.

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