#GUESS WHOS BACK FROM VACATION

[loumauve]

in other news: doctors (of the psychiatric variety) and therapists love me. got invited to participate in yet another study lol

[luffysprincess]

Good morningggggg I just woke up from a stress dream where I was invited to a friends wedding and was so late lol. But I’m feeling good rn!! I hope everyone else is too 🩵

[aromanticasterisms]

oh man no wonder i'm missing my little guys recently. we haven't seen kaeya in almost a year

[seaofreverie]

So busy with Sparkstember that I almost forgot that I go back to school on tuesday

[fire-on-fuel]

People talk a lot of shit about the jedi order like its their culty evangelical basement church when it's actually more like a vaguely spiritual cbt therapy office that has a great track record in helping people unless your brain happens to be structured the way that makes going to more than 5 sessions of it the equivalent of flipping the Need To Hurt Something switch

[heloflor]

"Average European country has 5 earthquakes a year" factoid actually just statistical error. Average European country has 0 earthquakes per year. Iceland Georg, who lives on an oceanic ridge and has over 1000 each day, is an outlier adn should not have be counted.

[kingofthewebxxx]

“Miss me?”

[spilling-blood]

for the anon confession game i have this fantasy that you go on vacation and talk about it on your blog and you share that you are traveling near me and i catch this before you delete it and then i magically become way more brave and ask you to meet up with me then we hang out and i maybe kidnap you but only if you want to and only temporary i can't afford to support an entire kidnapping victim long term even in my fantasies and it seems rude to make you get a job in my country somehow sorry

Economy so bad it is knee capping would be kidnapper's consensual kidnapping fantasies damn.

Anon confession ask game

[alolan-weavile]

oooooh i am deeply unhappy actually

[landoughnut]

You're Dating Him?! - LN4

masterlist - request

pairing: lando norris x leclerc!fem!reader

summary: lando's been soft launching, but when someone spots the youngest leclerc out with him in Italy, her brothers don't react as they'd hoped

w/c & a/n: smau | I need smau fic ideas, chat gpt is not helping 😭

lando

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55, maxfewtrell, maxverstappen1, and 1,832,075 others

lando nice and needed vacation ☀️

view all comments

user1 IS THAT A G-GIRL ⁉️⁉️

carlossainz55 aye you bastard answer my messages 😑 ♥︎ by author

charles_leclerc looks like little lando norris is all grown up 🥺

maxfewtrell oh he's all grown up all right 😏

lando maxfewtrell you keep your mouth SHUT

charles_leclerc maxfewtrell ????

user2 damn we got lando soft launching before gta 6

user3 she looks oddly familiar but I can't think of how

maxfewtrell 😶

user3 maxfewtrell TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW

maxfewtrell user3 🤐

user3 maxfewtrell you BITCH

oscarpiastri looking tan mate 👍 ♥︎ by author

user4 do we think oscar knows who she is

maxverstappen1 why was I not informed about this

lando because you have connections 😄

maxverstappen1 lando so you're assuming I'd tell others ??

lando maxverstappen1 don't play the victim we all know you love to gossip 🙄

user4 lando says max v has connections to her 🤔 does that mean she's part of the f1 world ♥︎ by author

user5 YOU'RE ONTO SOMETHING

user6 LANDO LIKING ?????

user7 maybe she's a sister of one of the drivers??

user8 no way that would ever happen lmao

lando

liked by charles_leclerc, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri, and 2,310,871 others

lando they do say Italy is the country of love 🫶

view all comments

user9 soldiers we've lost him 🫡

carlossainz55 🫡😢 ♥︎ by author

user10 carlossainz55 LMAOAOAO its okay carlando lives on forever

oscarpiastri don't do anything I wouldn't do kids 👍

lando I'm literally older than you 🤓 and she's your age...

user11 NEW INFORMATION UNLOCKED ‼️ mystery girl is brunette, 23, knows f1

user12 that unfortunately doesn't really help much

user11 user12 yet...

danielricciardo since when did you take good pictures 🤨 ♥︎ by author

lando she taught me 🤭

user13 THAT SHOULD BE ME HOLDING YOUR HAND 💔

alexandrasaintmleux gorgeous girl ♥︎ by author

maxverstappen1 I recognize that back...

lando SHUT UPPPP

lando maxverstappen1 wait wdym you recognize her back 😾

charles_leclerc hey my sister went to Italy recently too lmao imagine if you ran into her

lando heh that would be pretty funny 😅

maxfewtrell lando can you be anymore obvious mate

yourusername I cant charles is so oblivious 😭

lando

liked by maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri, yourusername, charles_leclerc, and 2,310,871 others

lando 🌊🛥️ maxfewtrell

view all comments

maxverstappen1 interesting...

oscarpiastri stay hydrated folks 👍

lando yes dad 👍

charles_leclerc looking clean 🔥 ♥︎ by author

arthur_leclerc cute couple 🤝 ♥︎ by author

lando I hope you'll still think that when you realizewho she is

maxfewtrell 🤪

arthur_leclerc maxfewtrell 🤔

carlossainz55 you two better be keeping it PG 👀😏

lando more like MA

charles_leclerc lando be safe use protection ☝️

maxfewtrell charles_leclerc ☠️

charles_leclerc maxfewtrell ?????

alexandrasaintmleux tell her I said hi 🎀 ♥︎ by author

charles_leclerc you know who she is??

alexandrasaintmleux charles_leclerc hehe....

user14 I HAVE A SUSPICION ON WHO IT IS BUT Y'ALL WILL CALL ME CRAZY

user15 SPILL

user14 user15 I THINK SHE'S yourusername

user14 hear me out: she's oscars age (who are both 23), she's brunette (like charles lorenzo and arthur), charles told us that his sister recently went to Italy on lando's post of pics from there, she liked this post, AND alexandra (charles' gf) commented on this and the last post

user16 user14 WAITTTTTT I THINK YOU'RE RIGHT

yourusername

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell, alexandrasaintmleux, and 2,310,871 others

yourusername cat's out of the bag I guess 🤗 this is my cutesy boyfriend lando 💗

view all comments

user17 WHATATATATAAT YOU'RE WHO LANDO HAS BEEN SOFT LAUNCHING ⁉️

maxverstappen1 I KNEW IT ♥︎ by author

user7 I CALLED IT BRO I SAID A DRIVERS SISTER AND YALL DOUBTED

user8 IM SORRY 😣

oscarpiastri finally!! congrats 👍 ♥︎ by author

maxfewtrell NOOOO I WAS HAVING FUN TROLLING

yourusername yeah we know 😄

user18 how did lando pull a leclerc

lando excuse me???

user19 lando she's literally an angel and then you're.... lando

yourusername user19 that's exactly why I love him :)

lando yourusername I love you too baby 🥺 ♥︎ by author

charles_leclerc what the FUCK.

charles_leclerc I'LL KILL HIM

charles_leclerc WHAT THE FUCK WHY ARE YOU HUGGING THAT THING

lando "THAT THING" ⁉️⁉️

charles_leclerc lando fuck off je ne te parlais pas

lando charles_leclerc I don't understand french 😢

yourusername lando maybe it's for the better my love 🥰

charles_leclerc yourusername "MY LOVE"???? UNBLOCK ME AND ANSWER MY CALLS

alexandrasaintmleux yourusername don't unblock him he's got steam coming out of his ears... and arthur also showed up

maxfewtrell 😎🍿 ♥︎ by author

lando glad you're enjoying this while I'm fearing for my life

charles_leclerc WHO THE FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS TOUCHING MY BABY SISTER????

arthur_leclerc WHY IS HIS MOUTH ON YOURS IN THAT TWEET

charles_leclerc POURQUOI TU SORS AVEC LUI?? JE VAIS LE POUSSER DANS LES BARRIÈRES SUR LA VOIE, ATTENDS JUSTE

charles_leclerc lando YOU SAID YOU WERE KEEPING IT MA ON THIS VACATION

arthur_leclerc don't worry bro I'm sharpening my axe 🥰

lando arthur_leclerc AXE?!?!!? WHY DO YOU HAVE AN AXE??

maxverstappen1 lando it was nice competing with you

lando ☹️

user20 damn lando I wasn't familiar with your game 😮‍💨

lando everyone being so surprised that she's dating me is quite insulting 😪

leclerc_pascale beautiful ❤️ ♥︎ by author

yourusername I LOVE YOU MAMAN

lando I'm too pretty to die 💔

arthur_leclerc who lied to you??

lando arthur_leclerc your sister I guess ♥︎ by author

lorenzotl lando you're only digging your grave deeper

lorenzotl I'm so happy for you ma petite soeur ❤️ ♥︎ by author

yourusername thank you enzo I love you ❤️

arthur_leclerc lorenzotl YOU'RE OKAY WITH THIS ?????

charles_leclerc does he make you happy.

yourusername yes very happy 🥹

charles_leclerc yourusername is he respectful.

yourusername charles_leclerc he couldn't be more of a gentleman

charles_leclerc yourusername I still don't like this 😡 but... I'll give him a chance

lando charles_leclerc THANK YOU PLEASE DON'T KILL ME I SWEAR I'LL BE THE BEST BROTHER IN LAW

arthur_leclerc lando BROTHER IN LAW?????

[skinteresting-enough]

Me: I wonder what my work schedule for Friday next week will be. I want to go visit my mother over that weekend, so I do hope they won't schedule me for two routes (one of which is high volume) like they did (or tried to do) the last couple of weeks.

My work app: That Friday you are scheduled for one (1) low volume route.

Me: No takesies-backsies!

[kateschi]

back in action

synopsis: being the wife of bakugou katsuki comes with multiple benefits, one of which is a front-row seat to his scrumptious back.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: i know at least 2/3 of you have seen that figurine

you swear there’s no better sight in this world than katsuki bakugou’s back.

not the view from your honeymoon suite in santorini, not the sparkling ocean from your vacation in okinawa—hell, not even the perfect strawberry shortcake you baked last weekend.

no, none of that compares to the sheer beauty that is your husband’s ridiculously broad, wonderfully sculpted, unfairly muscular back.

the way his muscles shift under his skin when he moves? art.

the ripple of strength as he stretches? divine.

the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his shoulders after an intense workout? a masterpiece.

and, as if the gods of attractiveness hadn’t blessed him enough, the scars that mark his skin only add to his allure.

each one tells a story of battles fought and won, of heroism that the world praises but he humbly shrugs off. to you, those scars aren’t just symbols of strength—they’re proof of his resilience, his dedication, his heart.

so, yes. you are absolutely obsessed with your husband’s back, and no, you don’t care how shameless that makes you.

“katsuki,” you call from the couch, chin propped up on your hands as you shamelessly watch him rummage through the fridge.

he’s in nothing but a pair of loose sweatpants, the waistband hanging dangerously low on his hips, and his shirt? nowhere to be found.

a completely intentional choice on his part, because he knows exactly how weak you are for him like this. “did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got the best back in the entire universe?”

he pauses, a carton of orange juice in one hand and an eyebrow raised in your direction. “you tell me that every damn day.”

“well, I mean it every damn day.”

he rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother hiding the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “you’re such a weirdo.”

“damn right,” you shoot back, grinning when he snorts. “come here. let me look at it properly.”

“what, my back?” his expression is one part exasperation, two parts amusement as he shuts the fridge and leans against the counter, arms crossed. “the hell do you need to ‘look’ at it for?”

“because it’s a work of art, obviously,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “and I haven’t had my daily dose of admiring you yet.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face like you’re the most exhausting person on the planet, but he still walks over to you without another word. you can tell he’s secretly enjoying this, though.

“alright, idiot. knock yourself out.” he turns around, presenting you with the full, glorious view of his back.

your eyes immediately light up. “oh my god, it’s perfect.”

“it’s a back,” he deadpans.

“no, no, no. it’s the back,” you insist, reaching out to lightly trace your fingers along the curve of his shoulder blades.

he tenses slightly under your touch—his body always reacts before his mind can catch up—but quickly relaxes as you continue your impromptu “admiration session.”

“you’ve got no idea how unfair this is,” you mumble, running your hands down the defined lines of his lats. “how am I supposed to focus on anything when you look like this?”

“you’re ridiculous.” he’s shaking his head, but you can hear the way his voice softens, the way the edges of his usual gruffness smooth out when he talks to you like this.

it’s a few days later, and you're lounging on the couch, flicking through your phone when you hear him coming from the hallway, the sound of his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

katuski’s been in the gym for a couple of hours, and you can already hear the deep exhale he lets out as he moves closer, his breath still heavy from the workout.

"guess who's back," you say, looking up just in time to see him walking into the living room, wearing only a towel around his waist, his body glistening with sweat from his workout.

he pauses for a moment when he sees your face—wide-eyed and full of admiration, already zeroing in on that perfect, chiseled back. his muscles tense as he moves, and you feel your heart skip a beat.

"really?" he says, voice dripping with disbelief. "you still on about this?"

“can’t help it,” you say, setting your phone aside and leaning back against the cushions, fully prepared to watch him, unashamed. "I’m just amazed that someone like you exists in the world."

katuski rolls his eyes, but there's a soft chuckle that escapes him, betraying his indifference. "yeah, well, quit starin'."

"I can’t help it," you reply, your voice a playful purr as you look him up and down. "I mean, who else looks this good after a workout?"

he tilts his head to the side, his signature scowl starting to form, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“quit actin’ like I’m some kinda showpiece, alright?” he grumbles, though you can hear the lighthearted edge to his voice.

you laugh, clearly enjoying yourself too much. "sorry, can’t help it.”

later that week, you and katuski are out on patrol, both suited up in your respective hero uniforms.

it's business as usual—rescuing civilians, stopping some petty criminals, and making sure the city is safe.

the sun’s setting, painting the skyline in beautiful oranges and purples, but you're still laser-focused on one thing: his back.

it's a total accident—really, it is—but when you're standing next to him after you’ve just subdued a villain, you can't help but sneak a glance at the broad expanse of his back.

you feel that familiar pull to reach out, to trace the powerful lines of his shoulder blades again.

“don’t even think about it,” he warns, his voice low and gruff as he catches the glint of mischief in your eyes.

you smile innocently, taking a step closer. "what? I was just going to—"

"not here. we’re in the damn public," katuski growls, his sharp gaze snapping to yours as his fingers tighten around his gauntlet. "you really think I’m gonna let you paw at me in front of everyone?"

you laugh, unbothered by his obvious annoyance. "I’m not pawing at you, I’m admiring you. there's a difference, katsuki."

his jaw tightens as he glares at you, his usual frown deepening. "that’s the same damn thing."

you can’t help but grin, even though he’s clearly not having it.

but, deep down, you know that katuski secretly loves it. sure, he’s tough and grumpy in front of the public, but you both know how soft he gets when you're alone, how he indulges you without hesitation.

so, you take one last daring step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, letting your fingers brush along the fabric of his uniform.

he’s about to bark at you to stop, but you just flash him a quick, mischievous grin, and that’s all it takes for him to roll his eyes, muttering under his breath, "unbelievable."

and katsuki was right in his reprimand cause you were breaking the headlines the very next day.

for all the wrong reasons.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[sttoru]

Omg could we see reader getting jealous of Sukuna having sec with his other concubines? And maybe liek the other concubine rubs it in readers face?

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. angst (no comfort), suggestive \\ smut aspects. size difference. one tiny mention of reader being a crybaby. reader gets called ‘little one, brat’ \\ kuna’s an asshole! not proofread, excuse the grammar. no part 2. wc: 3.3k

you’ve been away from the estate for three days; three days too long for the king of curses. so much had happened while you were away to take some well deserved rest—a small vacation that sukuna had granted you because you needed it.

perhaps that was his first mistake. giving you permission to leave his side ended up being a bad decision. he hates that faint feeling in his chest, the feeling of missing something.

missing someone.

it couldn’t be. sukuna doesn’t have any weaknesses, and yet he can feel his body reacting to that unfamiliar emotion again. all because of you— that one human who always succeeds to occupy his mind.

he couldn’t let himself succumb to it—he’s not going to. sukuna is not going to let a mere human like you deter him from his superior identity that he’s had for decennia. he’s not going to let you have that power over him and his body.

and thus, when you return to the estate, you find yourself being laughed at. you were unpacking your luggage when two concubines stand at your doorway, hiding their evil smiles behind their handheld fans.

they don’t waste a single second and immediately rush to ruin your carefree mood.

“you know, you shouldn’t have returned at all,” the brunette giggles, her laugh sounding like nails scraping against a chalkboard. she looks to the other woman next to her before glancing back at you, “i mean—heh—lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence.”

you figure it’s just another way to get you riled up, so you do your best to ignore them. you put your packed kimonos in your wardrobe as your back faces the two.

yumi, the second concubine, nods along. she knows what she’s about to reveal will get on your nerves. and deserved, if you ask her. they had successfully caught the attention of their king while you were away. for the first time in a good while since your arrival in the estate.

the fact that they managed to spend quality time with sukuna again, is a wonderful first step to your downfall. one that will surely crumble your confidence as his so-called ‘favorite’.

“mhm,” yumi grins as she recalls the memories of her time with sukuna. time spent together that you were unaware of, “lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence when he had me in his bed last night.”

you freeze.

your brows furrow and the corners of your lips twitch. you don’t know if you should believe them—they could’ve lied about it for all you know. although, the voice in the back of your head had already rang the alarms.

guessing by the way they were dying to talk to you the second you came back - which never happens - you realise that they’re probably telling the truth. they’re only telling the truth to agitate you. it’s so painfully obvious, and yet so. . . hurtful.

“what?”

you don’t recall when you’ve choked up. you feel a lump in your throat. it shouldn’t even be there. you promised yourself to not get attached to a monster like sukuna.

so what if he went to bed with his other concubines?

but of course he’ll get pleasure from his other women when you aren’t around. he doesn’t feel any love, he sees it as worthless, so why did you expect him to not indulge himself? he still has his other concubines around for a reason.

you really shouldn’t be surprised by this revelation.

“what do you mean ‘what?’ - you heard me,” yumi shrugs, that cocky smirk still on her face. she’s clearly enjoying your reaction to everything she’s revealing. all the two concubines wanted to get out of this encounter with you, is to break that delusion of yours.

the delusional thought that you’re special to the king of curses—the delusion that sukuna considers you as something more than a toy to emotionally manipulate and play with until he’s tired of you.

“my lord spent all night with me in his chambers until the sun rose,” yumi continues without an ounce of shame. she bites her lip as she remembers the way sukuna had her body positioned on his large bed. for her, it was a dream come true.

though for you, it’s a living nightmare. even if you try to deny the fact that it physically and mentally hurts. there’s a painful twist at your heart—reminding you of the truth.

the truth being that you had truly thought that sukuna wasn’t really a monster of a man. you thought he was a different, more softer person around you.

you should’ve listened to the servants when they told you to not get tricked by sukuna’s special treatment, that he could easily manipulate you and make you do and act as he pleases.

“do you want me to explain it in detail?” yumi crosses her arms over her chest as she looks down at you with a menacing glare. both of the concubines are loving that face you’re making. that face of defeat that you’re attempting to hide from them, “how he held me and pleasured me until i—”

“enough,” you cut them off with your hands clenched into fists. you don’t want to hear another word. you’re already feeling awful; already, not even an hour into your return. you can never catch a break.

you have an urge to throw things around. you already feel stupid, and if you decide to throw a fit, you bet that you’d feel even dumber. you truly do not know why you’re getting this worked up about it.

maybe it’s because of the special treatment. the delusional thoughts you have about your relationship with sukuna. you really thought that you two had something special. an unofficial romantic relationship, perhaps, or something that resembles it.

a secret, unspoken deal where you’re promised his loyalty in exchange for your body and soul.

although, those dreams have been shattered this very instance. you’re once again reminded of the animalistic nature of the being called ryomen sukuna.

he told you clearly that he’d never tie himself to someone, a human no less. devotion to one person? why would he.

“out of the way.”

you push the brunette and her sidekick the other way. you’re going to confront the man yourself. or at least, you’ll try to. you can hear their sick laughs and chuckles fade into the background as you stomp your way towards sukuna’s chambers.

the other concubines seem to have gotten the gist. some peek their heads out of their rooms, grinning at you in victory. seeing your confidence slowly crumble and the realisation kick in - the realisation that your dear lord’s special treatment means absolutely nothing - is a sight for sore eyes to them.

you enter sukuna’s room and close the heavy doors behind you. you swallow the lump down your throat and try your best to look presentable.

no tears, you promise yourself. you’re not going to waste them on something like this.

“oh, it’s you, little one,” the familiar voice calls out. sukuna’s low and husky voice rings from his bed. he’s laid back against the many silky pillows, blowing smoke from his kiseru. he lays there like he doesn’t care about your reappearance at all.

he eyes you up and down, “how was your vacation, hm?”

sukuna asks like it’s the most normal thing to do. it seems like he’s trying to catch up with you, to ask you how you’ve been enjoying your time alone, though it also seems like he couldn’t care less at the same time.

“just absolutely fine, my lord,” you reply with gritted teeth and an obvious hint of sarcasm. there’s also a bitterness to your tone that doesn’t go unnoticed by the pink-haired man. he frowns—this cold greeting is not what he expected nor what he wanted to hear from your mouth. he expected you to at least smile at him like you usually do, but you didn’t.

on top of that, you seemed to be annoyed with him. that unexpected attitude of yours made something inside of him snap. it irritated him somehow; the fact that you’re so comfortable talking to him like that . . . it reminded him of the recent inner conflict he had which you were the cause of.

one of his hands tightens into a fist at his side. his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow into slits. you’re physically in front of him, which means that he’s also about to experience those complicated feelings again. the same ones he tried fleeing from by letting you go on a break, and by physically taking his mind off you.

he did the latter by taking his frustrations out on his other women. the stress that came with the thought of him possibly liking a human, relieved by pure animalistic sex.

that’s exactly what you’re upset about.

there’s an urge inside of sukuna to act normal. to ignore those difficult emotions and just treat you like he usually does. yet, another part of him is trying to protect his sense of superiority by trying to push you away.

there’s a war going on in his mind as he tries to calm himself down. you’ve always had this effect on him and it’s becoming unbearable. he has to show you, no - remind you, that you’re nothing to him. you mean nothing—nothing at all.

he’s the king of curses, you’re but a human. he’ll need to remind himself of that obvious statement as well. he’s got all the power in this situation. not you.

you cannot rule over him or his mind.

“you dare come back with an attitude? tch,” sukuna scoffs, nearly breaking the kiseru with his fingers as they squeeze around the solid material. he’s turning off whatever emotion present in his body. that doesn’t belong there anyway. he won’t care if you cry—he won’t care at all.

you notice the sudden change in sukuna’s tone as well. you’re sure you’re the reason for it. perhaps you crossed a boundary with how sassily you replied to him when he was simply asking you how your vacation went.

“my apologies,” you murmur with a sigh. you try to avoid getting on sukuna’s nerves any further, yet when you remember the words from the concubine, how she implied that sukuna had given her the best night of her life when you were away, you get mad again.

your eyes have a fiery look in them. you don’t want to get worked up. you don’t have the right to. you were warned from the very beginning to not get attached to an asshole like ryomen sukuna.

you’re to blame for feeling like this. it could’ve been prevented if you just weren’t so weak. if you just stayed away from him.

“did you have fun while i was away, my lord?” you continue, your voice shaking a little. you need the confirmation. you’re sure sukuna knows what you’re referring to by now, especially because of the way you’re acting out of character.

the king of curses raises a brow at your question. you sound even angrier, even more pissed off. he tilts his head after taking a deep inhale of the tobacco from his kiseru. he tries to figure out what you’re hinting at, “what are you—”

and that’s when everything fell into place. the dots connect.

sukuna’s jaw clenches. he realises that you’ve found out about him receiving services from his other concubines while you were away. there could be no other explanation behind your sudden attitude. besides, he knows how his other concubines could be. they must have told you the moment you came back.

normally, he’d say that it’s none of your business. what he does is up to him—he does not care about the consequences of his actions. though, seeing the slight hurt in your eyes, mixed with sadness and disappointment stirred something inside of him. he brushes that feeling away and stares at you intently, awaiting another comment. perhaps you’d cuss him out or bawl your eyes out in front of him.

either way, he promises himself that he won’t care.

sukuna is the king of curses. feeling bad for a human like you would only further tarnish his image, that image of superiority and power he has.

he’s a man of many needs. you should’ve kept that in mind when you left him. he wanted to keep you with him—to hold you down and refuse to let you leave—but that would be another sign of weakness. one sukuna could not manage to show.

when you departed, he was irritated by the fact that he had no one to turn to with his needs. from simple needs like wanting your company to sexual needs like craving your body.

keeping you by his side or letting you go; both decisions seem to clash. either way, there’s one thing he’s sure of, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it: he missed you.

sukuna can’t believe that he can feel an emotion like that. he can’t accept that fact. that’s why his irrational mind took over—his dark urges that strived to prove himself to still be the same old ryomen sukuna. the monster that did not need a single soul. the ruthless man that did not depend on anyone else, especially not a human. a woman like you.

he thought he’d forget all about you if he’s surrounded himself with other women. but, he was quick to be proven wrong, and that only caused to enrage him more and more.

every time sukuna fucked a concubine, his thoughts still manage to drift away to you. to how he wished that it was you he was holding.

nothing hit the same with the other women and that frustrated him. he’d keep them around in his room after he fucked their brains out, something he never allowed a woman to do except for you, yet kicked them out again after a few minutes.

it doesn’t hit the same.

you’re just different. your presence is soothing and calming to the chaotic soul of the pink-haired man. no one else could compare. that realisation made him feel inferior; a feeling he loathes.

sukuna’s red eyes glow. he hates seeing you look so defeated, but he cannot give in. if he tells you the truth, he’ll admit his weakness. he’ll admit that a human like you has completely taken over his brain. that’s no good.

if he doesn’t tell you the truth, he’ll save face. he’ll feel like himself again. his old self—the cold ruthless monster that he was before he met you. one without a soft spot for a human.

it’s an active dilemma that’s running through his mind as he slowly blows out another cloud of smoke. you cannot guess what’s going on behind those intimidating eyes staring you down.

sukuna tilts his head back and scratches his neck, smacking his lips as he makes his decision.

“yeah, i did. i had lots of fun.”

the words sting. they hurt you and make your heart ache in a way that makes you physically weak. you should’ve expected that answer. your shoulders tense up and your fingers curl around the material of your kimono—feeling a sense of anger and betrayal.

you can see a ghost of a smirk on sukuna’s lips, which only reminds you of his nature. his nature as an independent, aloof and cold man who likes to play with his prey. a natural disaster that knows no emotion, that shows no mercy to anyone.

you’re naive for thinking that you could be the exception. all of those times with sukuna were confirmed to be but a lie in that moment. as your gazes meet, you can now easily interpret what that look in those red eyes meant.

‘know your place,’

that’s what it means. you’re foolish, dumb. you take a deep breath to compose yourself after you’ve been made out to be a total fool. you should’ve listened to those warnings, you should’ve known that you were getting played.

this is exactly what sukuna desired to achieve. to build up your trust, to make you comfortable enough with him, to think you’re special and that he won’t need any other woman other than you — just to shatter your pathetic delusions when the time comes.

“tsk tsk. no need to look at me like that,” sukuna scoffs, a mocking laugh leaving his lips. he can hear a small voice in the back of his head telling him to shut up and let you go, to not make it worse, but who is he to listen to that irrelevant thought? he can decide for himself.

“y’ weren’t around, so the other concubines simply did their job by serving me,” he stares the other way, seemingly not interested by your presence anymore. his face is as expressionless as ever, “what do y’ think i keep them ‘round for, brat? for decoration purposes? hah, nah.”

another loud mocking laugh makes you nearly burst out in tears. you don’t know if it’s in anger or sadness. you take a deep, shaky breath for the last time. you unclench your fists and nod, accepting the reality check you’d just gotten.

it’s a slap to the face, but it helped you get out of your delusions. the delusions that sukuna is a man capable of loving someone, even if it is just for a tiny bit. this visit confirmed that there’s not an ounce of love or appreciation in that man’s body.

“i’m glad you had fun, my lord,” you answer after a bit of silence. you bow at sukuna in an attempt to stay polite while struggling with that inner turmoil. you don’t even glance up at him anymore. you need another break already.

sukuna isn’t dumb. you may think that you’re good at hiding your emotions, but you’re not. at least not around the king of curses. he’s spent enough time around you to realise that you’re going through a lot right now.

he’s the reason for it, yet he cannot bring himself to feel an ounce of empathy. he just looks at you with a blank stare, thinking that this is for the best.

“good night then,” you add and turn around to walk out of sukuna’s room. your steps are slow as you secretly hope to be called back, like sukuna would do every time you’d leave his room after an intimate night. you just want him to tell you that this was a test of some sort—a cruel joke.

you want to feel like his favorite again. you don’t want to be thrown away like this. you don’t want to be on the same level as all the other concubines. you want to stand out to him.

unfortunately, you don’t hear sukuna’s voice anymore. he lets you walk away without a care in the world. the heavy doors of his chambers close behind you and you feel your knees buckle. “fuck,” you cuss to yourself and clench your chest.

you lean back against the closed doors and try to regain your composure. crying can be done when you’re in your room—not in the hallway where anyone could catch you. you don’t want to give the other concubines more reason to bully you.

you drag your feet across the wooden flooring. all those times with sukuna, all those slight glimpses of his soft side that only you’re allowed to see— all of that is thrown into the trash.

you really shouldn’t have gotten so attached to him on an emotional level.

meanwhile, sukuna is silently sitting on his bed, thinking back to what just happened. he usually never doubts his decisions, but this is an exception. why couldn’t he just tell you the truth?

his mouth had moved before he could let his mind process all that he was feeling. a small part of him regrets it, though strangely, he couldn’t feel any real sympathy for your situation.

sukuna drapes an arm over his eyes, clicking his tongue at himself. he just wants to let the situation go, though his brain isn’t letting him to. the image of you standing at the edge of his bed, clearly hurt by his actions, flashes through his mind again.

he sighs. he’s sure that he’s going to forget about you soon enough. he needed an excuse to get rid of you for the sake of regaining control over his own being and he took the chance. he should be glad that he did—it meant that he’d be his usual self—with no weaknesses to look out for.

sukuna blows out another cloud of smoke through his mouth. as much as he’s proud of himself for not giving in to you, he can’t help but let his thoughts wander again. you’re probably crying in your room. he knows you’re sensitive. you would always cry about the smallest of things and he’d hold you (feigning reluctance) until you’ve calmed down.

he can’t do that now.

well, he can, but he won’t. sukuna has made his decision today: it’s power and status over you. that’s what it’s always been. you were but a toy he used to get a stronger grip on himself.

perhaps he simply is what people make him out to be; a monster. nothing more, nothing less.

[xinganhao]

⛓️‍💥 svt trying (and failing) to gatekeep you.

ANON REQUESTED “SEVEN-I wanted to gatekeep you from everyone else but I failed-TEEN and their bff/gf??”

ⓘ INCLUDES: romance, fluff, humor. established relationships, use of pet names, mention of alcohol (soonyoung). headcanons under the cut. ・ NOTE: the laugh i let out when i saw this request. my favorite genre of svt fr. ‹𝟹

⛓️‍💥 how (and why) seventeen failed at gatekeeping you.

seungcheol posts a photo of you on weverse. it's simple enough: a picture of you across the table from him, smiling over a dinner date. the only caption is a single red heart emoji. the photo choice is intentional. he chose one where your face is clear and your identity is unmistakable, because he'll be damned if any other guy tries to hit you up when you're spoken for.

jeonghan falls into the rabbit hole of couple items. it starts with the phone cases, but it doesn't end there. clothes of the same style. shoes from the same brand. he swears he's not playing relationship olympics; it's just so clear to him that the two of you are the it couple. anybody who says otherwise can talk to your matching luxury bags, thank you very much.

joshua misses the fact that he hadn't switched instagram accounts. he has two: his work-sanctioned one, and the one where he keeps up with everybody that matters. the boys call it his 'shrine' for you, because that's where he actually keeps log of your little dates. until he accidentally posts it to his main. where's that damn delete button, and why is it so elusive?

junhui is on a roll during an interview. he's in a chatty mood, and he's feeling a little loose-lipped. when the interviewer cleverly asks about his love life— phrasing it like they already know he has one— jun is trapped. hook, line, sinker. he happily yaps about you, only to realize much later that may have not been the move. too late. the interview's already live.

soonyoung should have known that alcohol and a media engagement would not be a good combination. he had begged the producers to cut the footage out, but, alas; it was the most clickbait-y part of the video. how could they? now, everybody knows soonyoung can rant about how much he loves you for upwards of twenty minutes.

wonwoo isn't aware he was supposed to be gatekeeping you. one fine day, he drops a carousel of photos on his photography account. you're partially visible in some of them— the side of your face, the curve of your side, the flash of your grin. the two of you had been on vacation. the account is his archive, anyway; everyone else's opinion be damned. he wants to remember you like this.

it's not a name drop, but it's a close thing. jihoon's never been the type to declare things on sns, so he does it in the way that he knows. a throwaway lyric. an entire song. fine, maybe a mini-album. he could have an entire discography solely about you, if he's being honest. people can guess all they want. if you're immortalize in his song, then jihoon's job is done.

from the very beginning, seokmin has wanted to scream you off the rooftops. he holds back because he knows the consequences of going public. he can't resist it, though, and he eventually sneaks a photo or two into a photo carousel. he gets giddy at perfecting the soft launch, at nailing the art of perfectly-cropped photos and choice songs. it scratches that itch of his— the urge to have everybody know about you, while also keeping you to himself.

you and mingyu show up at fashion week, immaculately dressed from head to toe. talk about a hard launch! he giggles as he answers questions from interviewers. it's clear to everybody that he's absolutely smitten. there are literal models in front of him, and he's looking at you like you beat them out any day. he never really liked these types of events, but if he gets to have you at his side, looking like the goddess that you are— well. he might have to start responding to a couple more invites.

minghao shocks the entertainment industry with a well-worded essay on weibo about the importance of valuing an idol's private relationships. in true minghao fashion, he makes it abundantly clear how important boundaries are to him. buried underneath that is the confirmation that he is dating, yes, and that it's a part of his life he'll stake his career to defend. this is just his job, but loving you is part of his life.

seungkwan's cover of a western love song has fans swooning, but a dedication buried in the description of the youtube video has everybody flabbergasted. 'dedicated to my girl,' it simply says. no explanation. no name drop. seungkwan has a girl, and that's that. he accepts your wrath; he knows you'll secretly enjoy reading the absurd speculation with him. chaos is fun in moderation, and this is one of the ways seungkwan likes to poke the bear.

it's a series of unfortunate events for vernon. he posts a mirror selfie of himself— a rare one!— without knowing anyone can zoom in and see you on his bed, (thankfully) fully clothed but definitely looking very comfortable. like you belong there. he takes a long nap after, missing dozens of calls and waking up to hundreds of texts. oh, well. you were going to have to go public one day, anyway.

your privacy might have lasted if chan wasn't so damn obvious whenever the two of you were out and about. even on your most discreet dates, chan looks a little too happy to just be hanging out with a friend. the paparazzi catches wind. the final nail on the coffin is a close-up stolen photo of chan's lockscreen: a selfie of him planting a big, fat kiss on your cheek.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[hatethysinner]

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʜᴇʀʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've found comfort in your solitary life. No one comes to visit the humble herbalist living on the town's edge who talks to her own plants. That all changed in the early morning hours of today, when your kindness betrayed you to help a suffering man on your doorstep. You let the wrong one in.

ᴡᴄ: 8.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: Haven't felt like dipping my toes into writing fanfics again since my Avatar era, which was TWO YEARS AGO!!! There are not enough fluffy Remmick fics, so I will be the first to change that. This is my official admittance into the mental hospital we call the Sinners fandom. White girls I promise you can still have your fun with this too, enjoy!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, fluff with a side of smut, a little angst i guess, dark!remmick is on vacation, you're getting overly grateful remmick instead, excessive use of the word perfect, reader is a little special, a little domesticity never hurts, yearning, vampirism, blood, biting, begging, absolutely pathetic man overload at the start, praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, offscreen parental death, detailed wound care, nursing back to health, religious undertones if you squint, general affection and eroticism, amateur knowledge of herbalism pls don't kill me, excessive divider usage, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: “Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[ponderingmoonlight]

Oh, to be trapped with Dante

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Synopsis: What's worse than getting trapped with Dante? Getting trapped with a stripping Dante.

Warnings: this is hilarious and fluffy at the same time, I'm still begging for Dante requests so get in my inbox if you have one, hope you like it @veijdana

You’re not sure what sets it off.

Maybe it’s the faulty lock. Maybe the door was always a little off its axes. Maybe the universe just has a sick sense of humour when it comes to you and that guy.

What you do know for sure is this: the door slams shut, there’s a sharp click, and no amount of jiggling the handle is getting you out of this storage room-slash-death trap. No windows, no signal, and the only light is from a flickering overhead bulb that looks like it could give up at any moment.

Perfect.

So much to being the greatest demon hunters of them all.

You turn slowly to Dante, who’s lounging against a metal shelf stacked with boxes labeled “Supplies” like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just help trap you both in a glorified closet with a single bottle of water and a half-eaten protein bar. Like he did something except for watching you struggle with that heavy ass door.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

“The door’s locked.”

“I noticed,” he replies, utterly unbothered.

“Dante.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest, barely able to hold it together any longer.

“Please don’t call me that right now.”

“Noted,” he declares, in a tone that means absolutely not noted.

He strolls over, casually tests the door for himself, then shrugs.

“Yeah. We’re stuck.”

“No kidding.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until someone finds us.”

“Which could be hours. Or days.”

He grins, shameless.

“Even better.”

You sit down hard the cold ground. It creaks threateningly, but you’re too irritated to care. He paces once, twice, then flops down across from you like this is a vacation, arms behind his head, one leg draped over the other ready to sunbathe.

Except this isn’t Miami beach but a mouse trap.

“Are you always this calm when you’re locked in small spaces with people you annoy for fun?” you question innocently.

“Only when it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes, gaze spitting thick venom at him.

“Do you actually enjoy pushing my buttons this much, or is it just some kind of defense mechanism?”

“Little column A, little column B,” he thinks out loud, flashing you a lazy smile.

“But if we’re being honest… you're kind of cute when you’re mad.”

You throw a balled-up wrapper at him. He ducks it easily, still smirking.

The minutes stretch. Then an hour. The silence tries to creep in, but Dante won’t let it. He talks. About nonsense. Old missions, weird dreams, things he overheard once that he probably wasn’t supposed to. You try not to laugh. You really try.

Eventually, you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, legs stretched out, head tilted toward him without meaning to. He’s closer now, somehow. At some point. The distance between you shrunk while you weren’t paying attention.

“I think you like being trapped with me,” he mutters, voice quieter now.

Less teasing, if that’s somehow possible.

“You haven’t told me to shut up in, like, ten whole minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“That’s because I’ve accepted my fate. Resistance is clearly useless. And somehow I get the feeling it turns you on even more.”

“Exactly. Might as well enjoy yourself.”

He bumps your knee with his. You don’t move away. No, somehow, this faint touch has a comfort to it, a warmth you haven’t felt for quite some time by now.

The silence now is different. Thicker. Weighted. Like you’re both suddenly aware of how still everything is. How alone. It’s just you and him. You and the walking sex symbol itself Dante.

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

“This is the part where you make some dumb joke about body heat, isn’t it?”

He chuckles, low.

“Tempting. But no. Not yet.”

You glance at him.

“Yet?”

He shrugs.

“I’m giving you a few more hours before I wear down your defenses. I’m not a complete monster.”

You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.

Another stretch of silence. Then:

“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard by that strange and unexpected question.

“About what?”

“Us. Like - if this whole ridiculous situation wasn’t so ridiculous. If it was… different.”

Your stomach does something complicated. You turn your head to look at him, your palms starting to get sweaty. Why do you always feel like this when he’s around?

He’s watching you, eyes dark and serious for once. No smirk. No teasing.

“Yeah. Sometimes,” you admit quietly.

A beat.

“I like the idea,” he confesses.

You nod.

“Me too.”

He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours now, solid and warm and real. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Still not sharing my blanket, though.”

You snort.

“I’m not cold.”

“Yet.”

You laugh. And this time, you let your head rest against his shoulder. Just a little.

Just enough.

Bonus:

You're curled on one side of the room, using your jacket as a pillow. Dante's a few feet away, stretched out like he owns the floor, arms folded behind his head. The silence has gone companionable, easy. You almost forget where you are.

Until he moves.

You hear the rustle of fabric first. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

You lift your head, every single alarm going off inside your head. No, he isn’t about to strip…Is he?

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to sleep,” he remarks like it’s obvious.

Which it isn’t.

At all.

Because his shirt is coming off, and now he’s unbuttoning his pants in the dim light of the room, clearly visible to your accustomed to dark gaze.

“Dante-”

“What?” he interrupts, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I always sleep naked.”

You sit up straighter, just the thought of seeing him naked, let alone shirtless...

“You are not - you can’t just strip.”

He shrugs, already stepping out of his jeans like this is just another Tuesday with a pizza waiting on his desk for him.

“It helps with thermoregulation. Look it up.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, turning away.

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that, but you’re not telling me to stop.”

You don’t. You don’t want to. Which is the worst part.

He stretches out again, now under the thin blanket you both agreed to not share (but he’s already claimed half of), bare chest barely hidden in the dark, a picture of shameless comfort.

You try not to look. You try.

He catches you anyway.

“See something you like?”

“See something I want to throw a box at.”

He laughs - low, satisfied, like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Relax. It’s not like I’m gonna pounce on you.”

“You better not.”

“Unless you ask nicely.”

You grab your jacket and hurl it at his face. He catches it one-handed, grinning like he’s thriving on your outrage.

“Goodnight, Dante.”

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

You lie back, trying to will your pulse to settle. But you can still hear him breathing across the room, steady and slow, and you swear you feel the heat from him bleeding across the short distance between you.

The night settles heavy. And you're very aware you’re trapped with a half-naked Dante, no door, no escape, and a dangerous lack of personal space.

Sleep is going to be impossible.

And you think he knows it.

“I still feel you staring-“

“Shut the hell up, Dante.”