Work Text:
New York had always been the epitome of achievement for any dreamer; yet tonight - you found it yours.
Outside the penthouse windows, the bright lights of the city twinkled across the sea darkness - sparkling opulence among the otherwise dark concrete abyss in the night.
It was freezing outside, those who dared navigate the bustling streets were bundled up to their eyes in coats and scarves. Wine glass in your hand, you watched the world below with the glow of pride in your chest.
Finally, you had accomplished it last night at Madison Square Garden. Artist of the Year. How that had even happened seemed like a blur of events, ones which you were incredibly grateful for. For nearly a decade you had been fighting to be seen, for your voice to be heard. And yesterday’s awards show was the highlight of your career so far.
What had followed was a night of laughter; champagne corks and confetti - dancing until your Versace platforms dressed your heels in blisters.
Today had been different. The quiet calm. The calls with family far away, shoving the gaudy golden-looking statuette into the lens of your camera whilst your aunt screamed over FaceTime.
As much as you enjoyed relishing in the celebrations of your efforts, being alone in your hotel penthouse suite for your last day in the Big Apple felt just as good.
Besides, you had company on the way. Company that the passage of time struggled to bury.
It was around five years ago that your path first crossed with the brooding and enigmatic energy that was Trent Reznor. You happened to be working in a rented studio space across from where he was working, and he had curiously sat in on one of your recording sessions after hearing your voice. What followed was a short and unexpected collaboration on two of the tracks on your widely ignored sophomore album - his input was limited, mainly guiding and advising your main producer, but hell the impact was felt.
Those tiny printed credits on the back of the album cover didn’t feel as if they amounted enough to the influence he had over you. There were a few occasions where it would just the two of you together, cooped up in this creative bubble for a few hours. This unspoken level of understanding, masked under this professional pretence that he was the coach and you were the student. It never went further than that, not out loud. But it was always there, present and heavy - like thick humidity weighing in the atmosphere before a storm.
And like that - the time you had spent time working alongside the musician quickly became memory. The critics didn’t mind your album too much, but those two tracks that Trent had been involved in were always solid fan favourites.
What followed over the next five years were strings of messages few and far between, mainly texts of congratulations on your respective projects. It was the kind of connection that if it had been purely work, it would have crashed and burned a long time ago. And yet, that taut suppressed air of whatever this was - kept it stringing along.
You received the last text at the awards after party night before. You remembered the exact moment it landed in your phone, the glass of champagne in one hand and a warming sensation creeping up your skin over the mere fact he had contacted you.
Congratulations, well deserved. I knew you would get there. How long are you in NY for?
The lights had been shining around you in a cascade of colour, bodies jostling at your side but for all you cared in that moment - it was just you, your phone and this crushing weight of feeling something was culminating.
With unguarded eagerness, you had responded quickly to advise Trent you were very much still in New York for the next day or so.
The heady feeling of the alcohol rushing in your blood stream was only escalated when he had responded; asking if he could come and see you.
You read those words what felt like a thousand times over, eyes dancing over the context around it. Something about him being here already for work, meetings about doing a film score. All of that felt like decoration next to the words in black and white - can I come over and see you tomorrow night?
You had obviously accepted, fingers typing back fast. And since then, the day had just been anticipating his arrival between the excitable FaceTime calls and recovering from the night before.
By the time the hazy winter sun had dropped behind the horizon, you had already changed outfit twice and contemplated just exactly how this might play out. It had been a long time since you’d actually seen each other; but you hoped deeply it would be just like opening the book from the page you last left it on. Charged, in tune - magnetic. Despite the connection in the studio never even daring to venture beyond heavy eye contact, everything else felt like intimacy in a league of its own. The way he encouraged you; he coaxed the best out of you in a time where you were already doubting your place in the industry. That was powerful enough, a guiding hand when you were wandering in the dark.
It always plagued you that you had never been able to emulate a closeness like that since. It felt like holding your breath until your chest ached - or screaming in a nightmare but no sound comes through. All the currents between you had been amplified, charged, and left with nowhere to go. It all just went away one day - unresolved, unnatural.
The texts often felt like masks, polite niceties deliberately skirting away from exactly what had tightened between you. As if congratulating each other on a number 1 single or a sold out tour was normal, safe territory. It meant neither of you could linger long enough to ask the question - what was that?
But now, as he texted you he was 10 minutes away from the hotel - you chewed your lip anxiously, wondering if the mental weight of this unclear situation burdened him as much as it did you.
You lit another candle, paced around the open plan suite and then sat down for five seconds only to stand up again straight away. The nerves riddled you, chest tight and fingertips tingling with anxious anticipation.
The knock at the door felt louder than it was, physically jolting you. Breath escaping shakily, you straightened your stance and headed over to open the door to your long awaited guest.
He greeted you with that soft smile - familiar enough to unsettle you. It was the same one he used when he’d coached you through something and you’d grasped it immediately; that quiet, contained pride he never showed publicly. He looked older than you remembered. Not worse… Just worn, like someone who didn’t sleep much and carried more than he ever allowed himself to admit.
Stepping aside, you opened the door further and invited him in. A brisk draft of cold air breezed in with him, the remnants of the wintery outdoors clinging to his leather jacket.
“Penthouse suite now, huh? You really have done well.” He teased, setting down a bottle of something on the kitchen island - a gift he had snuck in.
You shrugged playfully, the sleeves of your sweater dress tugged over your hands.
“I figured Artist of the Year has to mean something.” You replied with a grin, watching as he looked across at your trophy sitting on the coffee table in the lounge area, as casual as anything.
There was a moment of quiet, before he turned back to you with that same smile from the door - that flicker of pride.
“When I heard you’d won, I was so happy for you. Seriously.” He congratulated, the warmth of his voice almost too tender, it sent a heat crawling up your neck.
“That’s really sweet, thank you.” You moved into the kitchen with purpose, grabbing two glasses down from the cabinet, conscious of his eyes on you - fixed and steady. It felt like if you stopped moving for too long, the intensity of the moment could wriggle right out of its restraints.
You opened the bottle of wine and poured the glasses, making small talk about life and work. It felt uniform and acceptable so far, whilst you recited some stupid joke about needing your liver pumped after the award party.
Trent smiled at you fondly as you handed the glass over, the lightest grazing of fingertips already swapping out the lighthearted tone you had tried to set. Your throat tightened at he toasted out his glass to you.
“Here’s to your successes - present and future.”
His eyes didn’t leave yours, the two of you clinked glasses and took that first welcome sip. The atmosphere was poisonously taut - like a rope twisting and tightening by the second.
The alcohol warmed you as it slid down your throat, you welcomed the way it felt like an a confidence crutch in this situation.
“Do you remember the day I sat in on your session?” He asked conversationally, or it would have been - if the undertones weren’t blaringly loud like sirens.
Nodding softly, you passed the glass into your opposite hand and leaned your hip against the counter. You wondered for a second if he truly believed you could ever forget that.
“I was shitting myself, you were so intimidating.” You admitted.
His mouth curved into something amused, attentive - his eyes catching on you in a way that made your prior words feel like an invitation rather than a confession.
“…Intimidating,” he repeated, like he was testing the word. His gaze stayed on you, steady. “You never seemed afraid.”
His gaze was like gravity, grounding you fixed to the spot where you stood. Your breath unintentionally hitched, fingertips gripping the wine glass just that bit harder.
“I wasn’t afraid… just nervous. I quickly learned that you push for perfection.” You returned, tilting your chin a little as if to challenge his perception.
“Nothing wrong with that.” He smiled, voice low. “And look where it’s got you.”
The space between you felt smaller, hotter despite the fact no one had moved an inch in the last few minutes. That air that had always lingered between you before was back, like muscle memory. It felt useless to pretend it was anything different.
In the next moment, he exhaled slowly - like he’d come to a decision. “This,” he said, glancing between you and the space you weren’t daring to cross, “feels familiar.”
You placed the glass down on the island counter top, the clink on the marble remedying the silence.
“… I was hoping it wouldn’t be that obvious.” You replied with a soft smile, but the edge was sharp on your words.
To have acknowledgement felt dangerous in itself, like the moment had finally arrived where both recognised it that there was no turning back.
He stepped into your space, welcome and warm. Your gaze faltered, flickering away from his own - like if you looked too long something would betray you.
“It was always obvious.” He said plainly, voice low - the timbre of it stoking a heat you felt down low. He hadn’t even touched you yet and your heart was racing.
His fingers brushed your wrist as he shifted closer. It was brief, unassuming, but it sent a sharp awareness through you regardless.
You didn’t dare pull away, neither did he.
“I felt it back then too, you know,” he said, the admission all too easy now you were right there; wide-eyed and glossy-lipped. “I just thought it was easier not to name it.”
You shifted an inch closer, your fingertips grazing at the sleeve his leather jacket - strikingly cool against the heat of your own skin.
“Me too,” you added, eyes down momentarily. “I figured once we were done working it would just go away.” You looked up at him through your lashes, tilting your head.
“It was easier to just send you empty bland texts and pretend I maybe imagined the energy I always felt between us in that room.”
He smiled at you, that genuine smile that made your chest ache. He carefully cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek. You shamelessly leaned into the contact, breathless that this was actually unfolding.
“You were very good at it,” he said quietly. His thumb traced your cheek again, slow and repetitive. “Convincing yourself…Convincing me.”
A moment passed. Somewhere from outside, a distant siren blared.
“A little too good at pretending… for something that never stopped being there.”
Your hand crept up, fingertips latching around his wrist.
“You really want me like that too?” You whispered almost in disbelief, like if you said it too loud the moment itself might disappear into fantasy again.
“I wanted you the moment I sat in that studio with you.” He echoed, the hand resting on your cheek slipped back into your hair, gently tangling through your hair. His confession had you reeling, trying to compute how this scenario playing out could even be real. His touch on you felt a million times more intoxicating than the forgotten glass of wine could be.
His forehead dipped closer to yours, voice low and steady.
“I’m tired of it,” he said. “Tired of pretending this doesn’t exist between us.”
His hand tightened in your hair, just slightly. “I want you. Like this. Now. Even if it’s only for now.”
Your throat let slip a groan, the product of your arousal and frustration of ignoring this for so long. You grasped at his jacket, claiming and confident with your hands. You were beyond needing this now.
“Only took you five years.” You teased on a whisper, your eyes sparkling with dangerous delight. He playfully scorned you with a look hot enough it could melt steel.
“It was always a two way street, (name).” Trent husked, the hand in your hair pulling softly again, better angling your neck for his own selfish exposure. He caged you in with his other hand, as it settled boldly around your waist - drawing you in.
He didn’t give you time to think before his lips found your neck, slow and unhurried - as if he’d memorised the place. Kisses you’d only ever indulged in privately in your mind were suddenly real, drawn out against your skin. They made your breath stutter and subsequently you found yourself pressing closer without thought.
There was nothing tentative in him at all. Every touch carried the weight of intention, a quiet certainty that told you this wasn’t impulse. This was something he’d imagined too; for a long time. It echoed something he’d waited for, a craving he had relinquished to.
“Need… you…” he groaned in between kisses, your hands all over each other in a clash to just grab hold of anything to leverage yourselves in that moment. An unspoken fear that if letting go for too long might just end this long awaited fever dream.
Your bodies clashed again, this time you held your lips to his and didn’t let go, pulling at his jacket and taking the lead down to the sofas.
You didn’t remember pushing him down quite so defiantly onto the deep navy fabric of the seat; but the split-second moment where you separated - the hungry look in his eyes was still prevalent enough to drive you wild.
You’d had men look at you like that before - black lust and desire. You’d never required the feeling - not like this. This was the supernova of all those pressured late nights in that studio five years ago, brushing fingertips and talking about life into the small hours - all whilst you somehow feigned normality and kept your clothes on.
How?
That was the burning question as you lowered yourself into his lap, pushing his leather jacket from his shoulders - the comfortable weight of his hands steady on your hips. He squeezed the flesh there just slightly, that white hot gleam of need never once leaving his gaze. It only succeeded in turning you on more; seeing him like this. You’d only ever known the stoic music deity, mysterious and almost untouchable. Yet here he was, ready to worship you.
“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” You sighed heavily, the weight of wasted time more irritating than ever now you were desperate in his lap and he was hard underneath you.
“Because we wanted to play the long game?” He teased, smug for just a moment before cussing softly under his breath as you angled your hips further down in your seat, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Or you wanted to wait til I got an accolade before you fucked me? Was that it?” Your playful laugh cut through a bout of breathlessness, hands deftly ridding yourself of the grey sweater dress that was currently acting as one of the irritating barriers of contact.
“You’d be stupid if you thought for a second any of that means shit to me.” He responded, his tone shifting into that of something sincere. “I’m fascinated with you. Not the awards. That hasn’t changed.”
With your dress now gone, the tepid air of the penthouse suite breezed over your skin - pretty lilac lace bralette and panties the only decorations left on your figure. His eyes hungrily drank in the sight of you, tracing over every inch as if he had visited this many times before in his mind.
With careful appreciation, he slid his hands up from your hips and into the curve of your waist - touch constant and slow, you found the heat of the contact practically maddening.
“You’re still too… dressed.” You commented casually, as if sitting in his lap in your underwear had always been the most natural situation. Trent chuckled quietly, hands guiding on your hips as he eased you gently down onto the plush cushions of the sofa.
“Calm down… I’m not rushing,” he said, the quiet instruction sending a fresh surge of heat through you. He was older, more experienced, unshakably in control - and something about surrendering to that control softened you completely, pliant in his hands.
He crawled over you, caging you against the heat of his body and the softness of the furniture. He indulged you in another dizzying kiss, just when you felt as if you could already sink fully into the sofa and disappear. You couldn’t help but moan pathetically into his mouth, reduced to a feral being as he kissed you to the point of raw desire.
Just as hot as he had been on you; he left your lips abandoned and began a lethal tracking of slow and tantalising kisses down the length of your body - first your chest, then to your stomach and then lastly at top of your thigh.
You weren’t stupid; and had a pretty good idea of where this was heading and what he planned to explore with you next. It should have been shameful; how quickly you opened your legs for him. One braced at the cushions on the back of the sofa, as if to provide even more ample access. The simple fact was you didn’t care what you looked like, you wanted it.
He smiled darkly to the compliant manner in which you presented yourself to him, skin flushed already and pupils blown wide.
“These have got to go.” He murmured, kneeling on the end cushion of the sofa whilst he very helpfully aided in removing your panties. Fingertips hooked in the waist band, they slid over your seemingly scorching skin and left you near breathless with anticipation. “…pretty as they are.” He remarked somewhat cockily, dropping them without hesitation to the floor below.
You felt you could have physically ascended, when he grasped the underside of your thighs and hauled them up effortlessly. The motion laid you further down on your back, with him coming to settle perfectly between the soft skin of your inside thighs - your legs draped over his shoulders.
He was close enough now you could feel the heat of his breath dangerously close to your shamefully prominent wetness. It had been a long time since you’d gotten this worked up about anything; or anyone - for that matter.
“You’re soaking.”
I know, you thought, do something about it.
Instead you pressed your lips together, huffing quietly under your breath as you writhed your hips - angling that bit closer to him. Anything to get a crumb of contact, the arousal felt like a heavy ache that was bordering on a cramp at this point.
“Please…” you found yourself uttering without even thinking about it. Following the word, you felt his fingertips press down into the flesh of your hips, pulling you in nearer.
“Since you asked so nicely.” He cooed, minimising all your brain activity to zero the moment you felt the unmistakable warm, wet swipe of his tongue through your pussy. The sensation alone caused you to bite down on your lip to shut yourself up. As he traced his tongue upwards to swirl your clit, you groaned internally knowing you were well and truly doomed. He’d clearly done it before and was reserving his best tricks for you.
You reached down, fighting to grasp at anything on him to ground yourself in the moment. You felt down as far as his exposed forearms braced at your outer hip; gripping down as if to say ‘thank you’ and ‘please don’t go anywhere’. Not that he planned to.
His mouth does unholy things to your sex, tracing patterns with his tongue that are devised purely for your own tormenting pleasure. You don’t want to cry out; but you can’t help it - you were practically whimpering as he increased the pressure and speed, deliciously just right.
“Fuck, please let me come.” You begged, his ministrations left you headed straight for the edge. Your thighs felt as if they were cramping up, that gorgeously languid feeling of an impending orgasm creeping up on you steadily.
You could almost imagine the smirk on his face, considering he’s buried between your thighs - that would have to do. If he wasn’t so focused on the task at hand you figured he might have also been desperate to remark some quick quip, seeing you fall apart like this.
Instead, he seemed to consent to your unraveling with another gentle squeeze of his hands on your hips - right before mercilessly amping up the pressure of his tongue on your clit in that final blow attempt to send you reeling over the edge.
Of course it did; and with it you cried out something settling half in the territory of a moan and a wail. The orgasm ripped through you with little regard, stealing your breath and leaving you starry-eyed. Your thighs felt weak, ankles locking together over his back - you just wanted to keep him there until you were completely undone.
It left you with blood thrumming in your ears, chest rising and falling fast. After a moment of waiting for the sensation to subside, you sat up slowly - legs sliding away from him like jelly. Trent knelt back, a little exhausted looking from his efforts - but eyes still black with lust as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. You didn’t know whether to be ashamed or proud of just how wet you’d gotten.
Satiated, you just wanted your turn to drive him crazy.
“Sit.” You snapped, pushing at his chest lightly. He did as he was told, his eyes trained onto you with steady dedication as you sank to your knees on the rug underneath the sofa suites.
Positioning yourself between his knees, you pushed your hands at the insides of his thighs - trailing up over the rough fabric of his denim jeans, wetting your lips earnestly.
“You want to suck me off?” He purred, not so much of a question but an observation. His eyes conveyed a lustful tenderness as he stared down at you, stroking your hair softly. Nodding was as much as you could do right now, brain too wracked with carnal urge for words.
He unbuckled his belt as you worked at the button of his jeans, desperate hands moving together in clumsy synchrony. Once he was undressed enough, he leaned back with a lazy smirk - fed entirely by the unfiltered need written across your face.
You shifted on your knees, hands finding their way back up to his groin. He hissed quietly under his breath as you palmed at his straining erection through his boxers.
“You were always so good at teaching me.” You smiled at him, eyes half-lidded. “Teach me. Tell me how you like.”
Your fingertips freed him at the waistband of his underwear, his cock hard, his want impossible to hide. Yet he remained composed, controlled, indulging in his restraint like it’s something he’d chosen.
“You don’t need me to teach you on this one, sweetheart. I think we both know you’ll do just fine.” It passed as an assured compliment but edged along a challenge, one you are happy to accept.
You wrapped your hand around his shaft, settling closer between his thighs as your lips descended to the tip of his dick. He cussed something quickly under his breath, fingers tangling greedily through your hair. You teased at first, barely-there licks that have him thrusting at the swell of your lips.
The way his patience finally wavered breaks you in the best way, delicious proof that even his carefully curated control wasn’t immune to you.
You took him fully into your mouth, warm and impossibly wet. Saliva coated him, your lips gliding over the velvety skin of his cock tenaciously. You could feel him losing it slowly in the way his thighs trembled a little at either side, the way the gentle grasp on your hair tightened to a possessive grip.
“You’re such a good girl,” he praised, voice decked in layers of fraught lust. “Fuck, you are everything.”
You moaned in delight at his words, you’d always loved his praise but receiving it like this felt illicit, almost reckless. It coaxed on further to make this his undoing. Trent balled his fist in your hair, gripping tight with his head thrown back on the sofa cushions. The sight was the best kind of visual stimulation, and suddenly you felt impossibly wet all over again.
Exasperated, he suddenly tugged your mouth off of his length by your hair. His eyes were dilated and desperately disinhibited, chest rising and falling sharply.
“I don’t want to cum just yet.” His breathing was ragged, eyes searching beyond you rapidly. It would have alarmed you slightly if it weren’t for the follow up question:
“Where’s the bedroom?”
You grabbed his hand like the most delighted guide, rushing in the direction of the penthouse’s large master suite. You had wanted to savour this, to take it slow and drink up every last morsel of the moment but impatience was rearing its head. All you knew now was you needed him inside you.
Spurred on by that tempting thought alone, you kissed him hard as the back of your knees connected with the soft exposed end of the bed. Your hands frenzied, helping remove the last of his clothing, assisting happily in pulling his black tshirt over his head.
“I need you to fuck me.” Your lips betrayed the most carnal thought in your head, kissing along his jaw, the dusting of his stubble rough against your lips.
You heard the laugh rumble from his chest, as he made light and impressive work of undoing the clasp at the back of your bra, the intricate lace falling to the floor.
“You need it?” He chuckled pedantically, closing the gap between you to nothing but heat. His hand lingered over your breast, teasing your nipple as the ache only ballooned further between your hips.
“Please...” You practically whined, body pining for him, you arched further into his touch - feeling his erection brush at your leg where you both stood.
Enough was enough, you had decided in that moment as you boldly caged his gaze. You let him really look at you; to see what he had undone. You wondered if past the tar-black lust in your eyes, that familiar friendly gleam you had donned for appearances in the studio still existed; the disguise you put on to hide that swelling heat all those years ago.
He smiled fondly at first, as if he was admiring his work, his effect. Trent then carefully brushed some of your hair over your shoulder, tucking a few strands behind your ear. The touch was far too innocent for the moment, it made you shudder.
“Lay back,” he purred beside your ear, and the effect was immediate, desire pooling between your legs. You’d always followed his direction back in that studio, under fluorescent lights, trusting him to know when something was right. Now, freed from all that careful distance, you moved without any hesitation.
You sank back, catching yourself up on your elbows. Your eyes stayed locked on him, this was the cinematic unravelling you had been craving for years and were not about to miss a moment of it.
He shifted onto the end of the bed on his knees, hips aligned with yours as he settled between your legs which were already spread in audacious consent.
Your fingertips traced the muscles in his arms momentarily, searching hands then wandering to his face - drawing him against your mouth once more. He kissed you hard in return; reckless and full of promise. Instinct drove you, hips writhing in encouragement beneath him. It made him smirk into your kiss, breaking away just enough - nose brushing against yours softly.
“You were always impatient.” He chided you mischievously, nudging your opening with the head of his cock as if to twist the knife.
You groaned, hips lifting off the bed. “That was different.” It came out as a strangled groan, your evident desperation eliciting a dark smile from him.
“Was it?”
Fed up and achingly empty, you grasped his face roughly and plunged him back into your kiss - subtle encouragement, maybe. It was full of need, urging the next level of closeness that could only be achieved in one way.
When he at last sunk into you, deliberately slow - your agonising ache was somewhat allayed by the fullness and stretch of his girth. Trent groaned low as he bottomed out inside you, that matrimony of your bodies was sweet enough you could have died on the spot.
“So fucking tight…” he stated, voice fractured with lust. He kissed slowly along the curve of your neck, setting up a gradual but torturous rhythm with his hips.
Each delicious stroke filled you more it felt, the pleasure mind-numbingly good. It took you back to a level of functioning where you could just about manage breathing and that was about it.
You caught his eyes amidst this dangerous entanglement; intensifying the feeling again that this had definitely been the right decision. You pitied the girl who’d played it nice and cordial for 5 years, denying yourself all of this.
His mouth curved, restrained but unmistakable. “I knew you’d feel like this,” he said, voice low. “I always did.”
The muscles in his arms flexed as he held himself up over you, pinning you down with his hips. Each thrust was better than the last, steering your already sensitive body towards its second climax.
“Fuck, I’m close…” you whined out, no use in expecting any pity from Trent. He revelled in you beneath him, the way you were reduced to almost teary overstimulation. His eyes lit up, driving his hips that bit faster.
“Do it, sweetheart.” He encouraged, engaged fully by the idea of you coming around him. His breath stuttered as he watched your hand snake between the minimal gap between your bodies, circling your clit to bring you that bit closer to euphoria.
Close just didn’t feel close enough; you wanted to be under his skin the moment you fell apart again. You wrapped your legs around his hips, anchoring yourself firmly whilst he continued devastating you. You sensed him shift, that controlled guise slipping in the face of chasing his end.
“Fuck me, I’m almost there.” He announced breathily, the sound of it one of the most erotic things you’d ever heard. Leaning up, you kissed him hard again. You weren’t sure how much longer you were going to be able to do this, every nerve in you shredded.
A few more desperate rolls of your fingers over your soaking clit, your orgasm hit you hard - tearing through you, somehow heavier and more detrimental than the first time. It sparked Trent like a chain reaction, your body clenching like a vice around him. His thrusts staggered, impaling himself deep as he climaxed. As you fought the last waves of your own orgasm, your body seemed to drain every little last drop of pleasure out of him.
He dropped onto his elbows, pressing lewd and wet kisses gratefully over your chest and collarbones - ending at your mouth. His lips were less hurried this time, settling after the chaos of the prior moment.
He lingered there for a moment before speaking, voice still low. “That,” he started, almost to himself, “was a long time coming.”
It elicited a smile from you, a genuine, unguarded one - meanwhile relatively sank in heavy. Any chance of what was being redeemed was a distant cry, not that either of you wanted that.
“I can’t believe it… we actually….” You added in almost a whisper, sighing out shakily in elated relief.
He shifted slightly, beginning to ease off you with care - but then lingered, like he wasn’t ready to let distance be a thing again between you.
“You always did better once the pressure broke.” Trent then joked quietly, soft eyes fixed on you with a smile.
You huffed a breathy laugh, quietly adoring the way he looked at you. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“Of course.”
You smacked his arm playfully, relishing in the way things felt so much lighter now. The pressurised feeling of contained emotions was gone. You could both feel it prevalently, irreversible.
“Stay?” you asked a moment later, the word slipping out before you could second-guess it. There was something open in your expression now, it was an honesty you hadn’t meant to show so plainly.
“Are you sure?” he asked, gentle, though the smile already tugging at his mouth suggested he knew the answer.
You drew your legs around him a little tighter, an answer without words.
“It took us long enough to get here,” you murmured after a moment. “I don’t want it to end anytime soon.” Your face warmed at the admission, as if that were somehow more exposing than everything that had just passed between you.
His gaze lingered on yours, taking you in - the trust there, the quiet certainty. Something in him seemed to soften at the sight.
“Me neither,” he said at last, low and sincere, his smile reaching his eyes.
After the shower, you climbed back into the wide bed, sheets still tangled from before. You braced yourself for the familiar weight of unease; the spiral of what-ifs you’d learned to expect…but it never came. In its place, only relief, deep-seated and steady, settling into you as his arm pulled you close.
There was no fear of morning afters, no rehearsed distance waiting on the other side of sleep. Just the calm that followed finally giving in to something that had circled you both for years like a vulture, patient and persistent.
For once, there would be no polite, hollow text to send or receive.
Only the quiet comfort of drifting off with his arms around you, holding you there.