#THAT THAWS AT MY LOVING HEART | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lowkeyren · 2 months ago

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—how to win my husband over 101

in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?

wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.

surprise pookies @vxnuslogy @luvether @knnichs @kazucee it’s finally here!!!!

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.

it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah.

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind.

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”

“y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

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coffee-and-geto · 7 months ago

Text

LET ME WARM YOU UP

summary: satoru comes home after an early morning when he went to the bakery to buy you some pastries, frozen to the bone by the biting early december cold. doesn’t he deserve to find you under the warm comforter where your warm presence hides?

cw: fluff, domestic, gojo has his nose pink from the cold, he’s silly, needy and so in love <3, i have put some pastries i know bc i’m french but ignore them if you don’t like croissant (what’s on ur mind) or pain au chocolat (i agree on this).

wc: 721

When Satoru enters the bakery — his body draped in a long coat, head wrapped in a knit cap, and half his face hidden behind a large scarf — the gentle chime of the entrance bell feels like a sweet melody mingling with the warm, sugary scent of the quiet, early-morning haven.

Behind the sparkling glass displays are heaps of pastries that make his mouth water. From chocolate croissants to apple turnovers, the variety of treats teases his senses as he approaches the kind, tiny baker, who barely reaches his chest.

“Good morning, young man,” she coos like a grandmother, tilting her head up to look at him. “Feeling like something sweet this early?”

Six o’clock in the morning — was it too early?

Satoru would camp outside the bakery if it meant sharing pastries with you.

He hums thoughtfully. “I’d like a brioche, a chocolate croissant, a croissant, an éclair, and a strawberry tart,” he says, distracted by the vibrant colors tempting him to buy out the entire bakery.

The baker grabs a bag and carefully places his order inside, smiling warmly.

“Will that be all, young man?”

Satoru nods.

“Alright.” She names the total price and hands him the large bag once he pays. “Are you planning to eat all of this yourself, young man?”

A smile capable of melting ice stretches across Satoru’s face, despite being hidden behind his scarf. “I’ll share it with my girlfriend.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you.” After he pays, the baker hands him a blue lollipop, the kind that colors your tongue. “A boy like you, who takes such good care of his loved ones, deserves this.”

Satoru accepts it with a word of thanks before heading home, where you’re unknowingly waiting for him, still tucked beneath the warm covers of your bed.

He enters the apartment silently, closing the door with care and removing his shoes and coat in near-perfect quiet. In the kitchen, he wastes no time arranging a breakfast tray, loading it with the pastries he bought and a cup of tea and coffee.

He performs the task with an adorably proud smile, humming cheerfully at the thought of sharing a warm breakfast with you under the blanket, where you’d thaw his December-chilled body.

With the tray prepared to perfection, he carries it to the bedside table and sets it down gently before slipping into the bed. The combination of the soft blanket and your warmth, still lingering in the sheets, begins to ease the cold from his body. His stiff, frozen arms wrap around you, rousing you from sleep.

“Toru?” you whisper, your eyes fluttering open as a yawn escapes your lips.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Satoru murmurs into the crook of your warm neck.

You shiver at how cold he feels. “Did you go out?” You turn to wrap your arms around him, planting a kiss on his nose, pink from the cold.

“Brought pastries,” he hums. “Wanna eat with me?” He blinks at you cutely, his snow-dusted lashes framing eyes as deep and blue as the ocean.

“You did?” The corners of your mouth turn down as you pull him closer. Satoru’s habit of buying things for you without needing to be asked makes your heart ache in the sweetest way. “Of course, my love.” You pepper kisses all over his face. “Love you so much.”

He grins so cutely you want to crush his head in your arms.

Minutes later, you’re both sitting up in bed, the makeshift tray perched on your shared lap as you indulge in a perfect breakfast.

Through the bedroom window, the first snowflakes of December fall onto the balcony, covering it in a white blanket that matches your lover’s hair. The sky, equally white, might’ve seemed dull and cold, but sitting beside Satoru, who is devouring almost all the pastries, brightens the weather.

Once your stomachs are full, Satoru burrows under the blanket, pressing his face against your pajama-clad stomach. A giggle escapes you, your chest shaking gently with the sound.

“What are you doing?” you ask, raising a playful eyebrow.

“Cuddling,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the comforter.

“You look more like a whiny cat, you know.”

“If a whiny cat gets cuddles, then I am one.”

Your laughter bubbles over, warming Satoru, who nearly purrs as your fingers scratch at his scalp.

a/n: hello guys :)) i know it’s been like two weeks w/ anything but let’s forget that, hmm? so 1st december is the birthday of my bsf haha and sadly the end of fall for me... (i’m depressed bc of this). but, i’m in the mood to write everything fluffy, etc. (saying this while my brain is mentally preparing a big angsty fic for the coming weeks bwahahaha). hope you guys have a nice week and see you soon <33

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @cybersomniq @sanemistar

@monokaix

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iceunhie · 11 months ago

Text

— PUSH AND PULL : honkai star rail.

premise. as someone who's always believed in the term “try and try again,” (peak delusion, you know) rooting yourself in their heart has always been your goal, no matter the cold rejections and curt declines you receive. however, even you have your limits; perhaps this little push and pull you two have going isn't worth your time after all... but what happens then, if the chaser becomes the chased? (oh, how the turns have tabled.)

...or, when you play hard to get with them.

— ft. sunday, aventurine, jing yuan.

warnings: angst n fluff, messy messy, these boys are in love but are wayyy too chicken to admit they actually adore you, genderless reader.

a/n. inspired by @/xiaowhore's playing hard to get headcanons! my holy trinity 😇 n MY FAVES RAHHH

NEXT : BACK TO MASTERLIST || ASKBOX

SUNDAY is perplexed. very much aware of his qualities which enlists him as one of the finer (finest) bachelors of Penacony (he was the Robin's one and only blood, and was also the head of one of the main guiding forces of the Family, after all), sunday isn't sure he's ever come across someone as.... tenacious as you.

foolish, to be more precise, for he cannot for the life of him comprehend exactly why you are the way you are with... him.

no matter his respectful declines of your invitations to promenade around Penacony (re: going on dates), you really didn't know how to leave him be. though he hasn't exactly said he hated it, sunday was, admittedly, rather... affronted. your gifts, in particular, were your loud declarations of your affection (that make his wings flutter more rapidly than he'd like); but sunday was rather inconvenienced at the whole thing.

nonetheless, he does still accept them. reluctantly, mind you. not because he was fond of your constant shower of affections, which seemed so permanent that he began to look forward to them got used to it. to your credit, your gifts were very much to his tastes. (Robin once gave him a rather soul-searching look when he found himself wearing the gloves you gifted, light blue and white in color. he still uses it, just not when his sister is in the vicinity.)

in fact, perhaps he may have gotten too comfortable. little by little, your constant intrusions on his time have thawed a way to his heart; making sunday look forward to your jovial greetings and grandeur elaborations on your day, and such a thing makes him feel scared sunday needed to nip this in the bud, and fast.

so he confronts you, abruptly one day as you give him his newest gift—a jewelry box for his earrings. (surely, the rapid thumping of his heart was due to his irritation at your constant persistence, right?) “i'm afraid this can no longer continue. i am flattered by your... fancy for me, but i do not wish to enter a relationship in the near future.”

the utter silence that follows is torture to him—but he endures. he tries not to look at the momentary flash of hurt on your face. you seemed to quickly recover, though. giving him a simple smile (it didn't reach your eyes. it shocks him how his chest ached at the realization) and shaking your head when he returns the gift to you.

“i understand, mr. sunday.” the formal usage of his name instead of your chipper ‘sunday!’ makes his face twitch. “but please, keep the gift. think of this as my last declaration. it... would do me a great comfort, just this last time, if you accepted it instead.”

(if he had grabbed your hand at that moment as you left for the door, would he regret it?)

when you leave, sunday thought it would put the conflicting feelings in his mind at ease—but it doesn't. a week and two days counting, true to your word, sunday receives no flagrant gifts, nor little messages on his phone that tell him to take care of himself, to eat, and to make sure to remember to check up on Robin.

instead, contrary to the feeling of ease, regret follows him instead.

it's at two weeks and five days counting when sunday could no longer stand the sight of papers that stacked atop his desk and the image of you leaving for the door replaying in his head far too many times for him to count, that he contacts Robin.

and she, once hearing about the situation, gives him a very, very enlightening talk. (of course, not without giving her brother a lecture of the lifetime. part of him felt shame to know that his sister knew of his... turbulent love life, but she was the only one who he could trust, anyway).

“absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she says. “but in your case, brother, your heart has already decided it's course, right?”

sunday eyes the smooth velvet of the jewelry box you gifted, ruminating. his earrings lie there, carefully pristine and beautiful, gold and silver intertwined. he has worn them without fail, clean and spotless. (of course it was. such a design so intricate was only chosen by you. the thought makes his ears warm).

the next days are agonizing. vigor renewed and epiphanies well-spent, sunday spends the rest of his time after finishing his duties researching and painstakingly finding the best jeweller he can find (even employing the suggestions of a certain gambler, much to his dislike), and spending a god awful amount of time revisiting and rechecking which spots you like, which places you enjoy, to the point it comes up in Penacony's headlines that sunday is interested in someone.

surely, it should've reached your ears by now, yes? sunday panics. your preferences are well-accounted for, and he's sure the Bloodhound family members that report to him have to tell you that the person he had in mind was you. even Robin, who was your closest friend, has probably told you already.

it's embarrassing to admit, but; to hell with it, the day he meets you after three weeks and sees you having a pleasant chat with aventurine, of all people, sunday thinks his heart had shattered into little pieces and stabbed themselves into his body. not so much as sparing him a glance, moreso.

so when, finally at his wits end, sunday chooses to corner you at the dewlight pavilion and spills out how he has royally screwed up in the worst way possible, no one is surprised. at this rate, you would be swept up in the charms of that wretched gambler, and what sunday lacked in, aventurine more than made up for.

“wait, don't go to that gambler just yet.” he's breathless, he's chaotic—and something in his heart squeezes when you finally look at him. “i... i wish to take up your time now, if that's possible.” (he wishes he would take up your time forever, really, but that was still too early).

you eye his getup. all of your gifts, lined on the man you spent so long chasing after—you see the gloves you gifted, the tie with not so much as a single crease, and the earrings that shine more brightly in the light of the pavilion. (it suits him. like you) it was as if sunday had completely surrendered himself to you, had all but decided to proclaim that he was yours, and this was nothing short of a plea for you to hear him.

“please.” he says. almost begs. “i can't bear not seeing you anymore. allow me to correct such a damning mistake.”

and if you were skeptical, the way sunday looks at you would dispel any doubt you could ever have. (his wings, they were fluttering.)

(months later, after a nerve-ending confession, many days of dinners, shared gifts involving matching jewelry and promenading to your wishes, it dawns on sunday he was absolutely dancing to your tune. did he regret it, though?

....no, most certainly not.)

if AVENTURINE were to be honest with himself, he saw you as a useful “friend” rather than a romantic interest. was it bad of him? of a sort. but risk cutting himself open and letting someone he might grow to care for know about all the ugliness that follows his life? no, he's fine as it is, thanks.

the first thing he notices is that you're kind—though he distrusted most of his colleagues and preferred none to get close to him, aventurine, in some morbid moment of curiosity, instead allowed himself to bask in your attention. instead of curtly disparaging you, he flirts back at your compliments (the way your face heated up in return was far too endearing that he can't help but want to kiss you he finds it amusing) and consistently texts you a “did you get home safe” or a “i bought you this because it reminded me of you”; at this point, it was like you two were dating.

was it leading you on? yes, but he supposes it was a win-win; he could send you those tiny bits of validation that was enough for you to stay respectfully at a distance while he probed at your intentions. unlike others who attempt to garner his favor, you're genuine, and you seriously take the time to know him. because you always text back with hearts, always reassure him, tell him to stay safe and wish him luck at every gamble, every high stakes bet he finds himself in. you even complimented his perfume once (and, if he had to be honest, he could not stop thinking about it all day—because that perfume he commissioned exclusively was based off of your own favorite scents and it was extremely embarrassing that he loved hugging you knowing that you loved the way he smelled and that it felt extremely domestic).

(sometimes, he doesn't reply. for months on end. suddenly the golden-haired man you love goes cold and you know then that aventurine ghosts you and then returns when he's in need of a friend—never a lover. it hurts you, but at the very least, you know he cares in his own way.)

and, if aventurine had to be honest, it was killing him from the inside bit by bit. as if to drive the knife deeper, you never danced around what exactly was going on with you two. you never ask why he ghosts you, then sends you a bundle of gifts all of a sudden and then rapidly spends time with you and repeating the cycle. no, you were consistently by his side, so warm and so caring—so unlike him—that aventurine wonders if it's really all right to open his heart to you.

if, by some chance, he actually wanted to be with you, would you treat him even more sweetly than before? aventurine thinks you would—you were beautiful in your entirety, and he was practically undeserving of you. he imagines himself kissing your hand and having you in his arms—and that feels like ice cold water being dumped onto his head, because you could do so much better and yet, why him?

so when aventurine hears about how a certain doctor was visiting you for some unknown reason, his already fragile sense of security in this little will-they, won't they crumbles.

and when he finds out that you were staying over with ratio? something twisted lodges itself in the little brushes of his heart, coiling and coiling—making him feel green. aventurine is aware you and the doctor are good friends, and ratio was the one who even told you to make a move on him! how could he just—suddenly interrupt?!

(was it dramatic? extremely. but knowing his friend and the person he secretly adores might end up together? you can't really blame him.)

he supposes this can be attributed to him. it was an egregious mistake, a blunder aventurine made—he never gave you a clear sight of whether he truly loved you or not and now you're slipping away from him.

so, he does something very unexpected.

at 3:00 AM in the wee early morning hours, aventurine practically barges into one Dr. veritas ratio's home, demanding what the hell was going on between you. and as if he had expected it, his doctor friend merely gives him a shrug in return.

“perhaps they were simply getting fed up by a certain IPC member—who is clearly head over heels in love with them—giving them mixed signals.” ratio's tone is stern, and aventurine definitely knows that the look he gives him is the one he gives only to fools.

you idiot, the doctor seems to say. yeah, yeah, he is; aventurine ignores the clear pinprick at his dignity.

yes, he supposes he is the fool here. “ah.”

“yes, ‘ah,’ indeed. now, let me propose a question.” the purple-haired man says. “will you react in such a way when i tell you that in order for my friend to stop their anguish, i managed to get them to fraternize with one of my colleagues?”

“...what?”

“they will be having a meet-up seven system hours from now.” ratio shrugs. eyes aventurine, who's looking at him like a gaping, stupid fish. “i can only hope that no one would dare to disrupt.”

...it doesn't take him long to be rid of the gambler by then.

(a few hours later, you stop by the Intelligentsia Guild to see one veritas ratio with a smug smile, eyeing the fur coat draped around your shoulders, and the flushed and happy expression written on your face.

“did it work?” he asks.

you laugh, “splendidly.”

indeed, that gambler was a fool, and there's nothing more than dr. ratio loved than to educate such fools to shape.

“that will teach him.”)

as a quote unquote ‘old man’ who knows that he's well up in his years for a relationship, JING YUAN finds you to be quite amusing.

it doesn't take a detailed analysis to know that you were smitten with him, really. you're a complete open book by his standards—if your heated face and slightly airy voice whenever you were even placed in the same vicinity with the Dozing General was anything to come by. while flattering, he also shares the similar mindset of being too old for any love his way—and he could be mara-struck at any given time, and jing yuan does not wish such a life filled with anguish and pain for the one who may steal his heart. but, worry not, brave suitor of the Arbiter General! unlike the other two above, this man has the experience of millenia, and is open-minded and aware that you truly wish to be perceived as a potential lover.

in fact, jing yuan's recent favorite habit is sneaking off the Seat of Divine Foresight purely to freak you out, watching you scramble up your words, seeing the heat crawl up your nape and bloom all across your face. adorable. you certainly knew how to appeal, that's for sure.

(“heh, it seems i've found a new place to stay in so that the Diviner Fu won't grill me alive when she sees me.”

and when he's rewarded with a bashful and speechless look in return, a smile and your, “i'm glad, general.” it surprisingly lightens up his mood by more than he expected.

that, in turn, gives him a frightening 30% energy boost; fu xuan was utterly shocked to see the languid man actually working and looking like he enjoyed it, for once.

“did something good happen today, jing yuan? why so enthusiastic?”

“i just felt like working more than usual, diviner Fu. i seem to have my energy levels at a high.”)

now, jing yuan is considerate and perceptive first and foremost, so there's a high chance that out of all the men here, he is the most open to giving you the chance to pursue him. he does inform you beforehand that he has no plans of accepting your confessions in the future, and that is where the ‘hard to get’ part comes in.

it's like playing a confusing romance visual novel with a fickle love interest—you never really know what you're doing, whether it's something jing yuan would like or not, and you don't know if he even thinks your attempts are moving his heart. (tldr: he friend zones you).

he maintains the same distance no matter his banters with you, no matter how many times you tell him that you'd help yanqing out with sword lessons. it's like he was just... treating you as he would a friend, and that you were basically stuck in the friend-zone forever.

(he keeps it to himself, but something warm stirs in his chest when he sees yanqing sleeping on your shoulder after training practice, with your arm protectively around the boy's side.

your sleeping face didn't make it easy to look away either; it's one of the few moments in which jing yuan shows just the slightest bit of reciprocating your pursuits; he brushes back the stray hairs covering your face, and drapes a blanket over the two of you.

of course, perhaps to tease yanqing, he also takes the calligraphy brush and makes a work out of his face, doodling all over it.

when you wake up, there's a lingering scent of ink and yellowed paper that fills your senses. when you turn to the boy beside you, you almost giggle out loud.)

it's a little disheartening—and while jing yuan did acknowledge that you were slowly, slowly burrowing yourself in his heart, he doesn't act on it fast enough, and instead lets the realization sit in his mind for a while.

it gets to the point where it feels as though he were preparing to distance himself, and even yanqing had asked if he was well. your visits with the Arbiter General also decrease, as he suddenly buried himself in his work even more than before.

he doesn't get to see you all that much afterwards, despite the lingering feeling of missing you filling his heart.

....that's until jing yuan hears word of a recent mara-struck incident involving the Sky-faring Commission; with your name listed among those heavily injured.

when he visits Bailu's clinic after yanqing urges him, jing yuan takes in the sight of you, littered in injuries from head to toe. your life, about to snap. he never even told you that you won; you did manage to steal his heart and for the first time in a long time, jing yuan allows himself to love.

so if, after three weeks later when you're finally healed up and ready to go, jing yuan brings you into his arms and drags you to let him sleep in your lap, you can't really blame him now, can you?

a/n: i love yearner hsr men,,, might do a pt 2 though. thinking of mayb ratio, jiaoqiu and f/heng next time...... sighs dreamily

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

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norrissm · 5 months ago

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❀ WE LISTEN AND WE DON'T JUDGE — LN4

Lando Norris x Reader / est. relationship / library

Syn. Doing the TikTok challenge with your boyfriend. We listen and we don’t judge . . . except we do ;)

So Lando and I decided to hop on the TikTok trend, filming ourselves all cosy in bed — him in a hoodie, arm around me, and me holding the phone while trying not to crack up.

I hit play and turn to look at Lando. He was examining me while biting down on his laugh a devilish glint in his eyes.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” We say in unison.

“Okay I’ll go first,” I began.

“I once tried on your race suit when you weren’t home.”

“Wait what?” he huffed. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?” He hollered, half laughing. He was mad but the dusky pink in his cheeks gave it away.

I held on to his shoulder while trying not to choke on my breath with the way I was giggling at his comical expression.

“Did it fit though?” He asked giggling at the thought of it. “No Lan, your arms are too big,” I replied. I cupped his jaw unable to keep myself from chuckling. “Uh huh, fair.”

“Okay my turn,” Lando said.

“We listen and we don’t judge.”

“I keep screenshots of your texts when you say nice things about me.”

I was rendered speechless. My jaw hung open, warmth gushing to my cheeks with the biggest smile on my face. Lando was already out of frame as he hid his head, quivering down in my lap holding my knees for dear life. His neck was entirely a shade of red.

“Lando…”

“No shut up, don’t make a big deal.”

“But baby that’s so CUTE!” I called out now rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s so sweet. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He murmured now sitting up. “Okay okay next question!”

“We listen and we don’t judge.”

“I keep one of your hoodies in my cars when I miss you during race weeks.”

Now it was Lando’s turn to be speechless. He was thawing into a puddle. Immediately switches to a soft tone.

You do?” eyes crinkling into crescents at the idea of me nuzzling into his hoodie during his absence.

Instantly bombards me with a hug mumbling I love you into my neck — now both of us entirely out of frame.

After prying him off, now Lando entirely clinging to me and a love-struck smile on his face, we proceeded with the challenge.

“I once fake slept so you’d keep playing with my hair.”

He said spinning to me with a proud smile. I huffed at his confession although it made my heart skip a thousand beats.

“YOU LIAR!”

“What?? You were doing it so nicely. Scratching my scalp and shit.”

“So you mean I was sitting there for 20 min—”

“Yes and it felt great.”

I heave a pillow toward him which he successfully swerves with goofy grins on our faces.

“Okay last one,” I said. “We listen and we don’t judge.”

I hang back a bit, shyness overshadowing my demeanour. I clear my throat and barely veer away from Lando.

“Um, I kinda love when you’re all sweaty after a race. It’s disgusting, but it’s also unfairly attractive.”

My voice came out quieter than I aimed at as I looked at Lando. His mouth was barely open as he poked his tongue into his cheek. A cunning snicker appeared on his face.

“Uh-huh,” he plodded closer. “You’re down bad.”

I rolled my eyes at his teasing. Pressing him back by his chest. His body was warm under my fingers.

“Whatever, your turn”

“Alright then, we listen and we don’t judge.”

His demeanour switched to a more assured one this time around. He leaned nearer to me practically only whispering to me.

“I purposely wear gray sweatpants around you because I know you stare.”

My breath clamped in my throat under the gaze he ensnared me in. Before I could say anything he went on.

“I like it when you wake me up like THAT in the morning.”

“Lando STOP,” I whimper into my palms blanketing my face.

“Yeah? Then why are you hiding?” He picked on me. I could hear him sneering at this point.

“I’d give up a podium just to see you smile when you need it.” He declared ultimately.

My groans were hushed as I peeked at him from before my fingers. “You can’t say that.”

He simply chortled and whispered, “Come here, love.” Arms lurking around my waist as the video cut off.

[COMMENTS]

ln4fwdc: ‘I like when you wake me up like that in the morning’ SIR THIS IS A WENDY’S DRIVE-THRU.

user17371818: THE WAY HE LEANS IN AND LOWERS HIS VOICE. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS INFORMATION???

op81girlie: McLaren admin seeing this: ‘we don’t get paid enough for this job.’

maxriss: THE WAY HE SAID THE LAST ONE I JUST KNOW HE MEANS IT.

landoscar481: I just know this man is a PROBLEM behind closed doors.

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mylovesstuffs · 21 days ago

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learning to be loved after forgetting what it feels like to be safe.

🥕 bae-sically fake. yoon jeonghan

a mylovesstuffs production...

“one hundred days for what?” / “for me to woo you.”

synopsis. you swear when you made up your fake relationship, you didn't know that someone worked at the coffee shop with the same name or that your family would go to check it out. now everyone thinks you guys are actually together, and, well, pretending to be fake partners has never been so complicated. jeonghan plays along, and even offers you a deal—100 days to let him try and woo your closed-off heart.

pairing. yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

genre/s. fake dating au, modern au, bit of social media au (?), romance, comedy, slice of life, slow burn, emotional healing

status. upcoming [estimated: ~ 40k words]

content warnings. mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation, toxic ex, grooming mentioned [non-graphic but explicit reference], cheating and infidelity [past, non-graphic], mentions of underage grooming [girls legal but barely, predatory behavior], emotional trauma and flashbacks, ptsd-like emotional responses, manipulation disguised as affection [past], reference to stalking/following for confirmation of infidelity, heartbreak and betrayal, gaslighting implications [in past relationship], alcohol consumption, mild cursing/swearing, themes of grief and emotional vulnerability, soft romantic tension, no smut [so far; not written yet], emotionally guarded reader, indirect trauma references, workplace sexism [called out], fluffy but with realistic emotional baggage

will probably contain. fake dating, post-breakup healing, unexpected kindness, strangers-to-partners dynamic, deal-making [100 days to woo], soft and lover man!jeonghan, smart man!jeonghan protective best friends [celeste, seungkwan], healthy family, intense ex-relationship trauma, food symbolism [carrots, broccoli, lunches], slow emotional thawing, nice gestures [flowers, notes, meals], respect and gentle persistence, found family warmth, strong parent-daughter bond, work-life struggles, empowering ceo, flirtation, unspoken yearning, realistic emotional pacing [will be updated as chapters go on]

navigation/chapters & more under the cut ⟡

✦ navigation.

|| chapter one [wc: 14.4 k]

|| chapter two

|| chapter three

|| chapter four

last updated: 18.06.2025

querencia (spanish) /keh-REN-syah/ n. a place where one feels most at home; a source of strength and calm; a person or space where the soul feels safe without needing validation — often found not in places, but in people. “that name wasn’t meant to be a turning point, but somehow, it became hers — and he, her place.”

✦ in fiction we trust. love, celeste ˶ᵔ⤙ᵔ˶ so this fic is probably gonna be a long one [lmao oops] so i decided to split it into chapters. i’ve been wanting to explore some heavier themes for a while now [i promise, i kept it light], and this fic kind of became that space for me. despite the emotional grooming, infidelity, gaslighting, workplace sexism, and all that heavy stuff this fic touches on — one of the things i love most is that the reader has a genuinely healthy family. like actual supportive, emotionally present parents. and that’s something we don’t get to write often, so it means a lot to me. also the contrast between the two men… yeah. we’re gonna talk about that. and of course, we’ve got found family energy with the besties, so please look forward to their scenes too. also yes... i may or may not have written myself into the fic. yes it was intentional. yes i’m having fun with it 🤭

anyway that’s it for now. this fic went through a lot with me—emotionally and creatively—so i really hope you enjoy it and give it some love 🤍

started: 18.06.2025 — completed: dd.mm.yyyy

#svthub #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan seventeen #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x y/n #yoon jeonghan x reader #seventeen yoon jeonghan #yoon jeonghan imagines #yoon jeonghan smau #jeonghan smau #svt jeonghan #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen #jeonghan #★— mylovesstuffs twenty twenty five #★— mylovesstuffs

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rnm-magic-space-xsd · 1 year ago

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#f/o imagines #Bunny!Self #Moonlit Longing #Flower Garden Ragdoll 🌸🌵🌺💗💘💗 Sea Storms Heart #Our Souls Reuniting Again and Again // What is it if not Destiny My Love #The Space Cadet and Her Thawed Geode

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lowrisemiller · 2 months ago

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ᴛʜᴏʀᴏᴜɢʜꜰᴀʀᴇ °˖⋆ ℧

“i met you there in texas, somewhere on the thoroughfare”

“on the side of the road in the same torn up clothes with a pistol in my pocket”

arthur morgan x fem!reader x joel miller

| masterlist | 4.4k words | picture doesn’t depict the appearance of the reader just for aesthetic |yearning, tension, kissing, oral f!receiving, gettin tossed around by two burly cowboys, praise, unprotected piv sex, cuddling fucking from mr miller, aftercare !

summary- Two rugged ranchers, lifelong friends Arthur Morgan and Joel Miller, find their quiet world upended when a younger woman arrives to work their land—and slowly works her way into their hearts. As desire grows into something deeper, the three of them cross the line between friendship and longing, discovering a love too wild and tender to tame.

They didn’t talk much, and that suited them both just fine.

Arthur had always said the land did most of the talking anyway. The wind in the grass. The lowing of cattle at dawn. The metal clang of fence wire tightening under calloused hands. After years of gun smoke and ghosts, the quiet wasn’t so much peace—it was penance. And Joel understood that better than anyone.

They’d run the ranch together for nearly a decade. Fifty head of cattle. A weather-beaten barn. Long days spent working fence lines or chasing down strays in the hills. Evenings filled with whiskey and silence by the fire. Arthur cooked. Joel carved. They didn’t need much. Just the land, the dogs, the horses, and the kind of friendship you didn’t have to label.

They were men who’d lost too much to ask for more.

The work was hard, and that was good. It gave their hands something to do. Their thoughts are something to drown in. Neither of them said it, but the house felt too big for two men their age. There were extra bedrooms no one stepped foot in. An empty porch swing that never moved. Sometimes, Joel would glance at the seat across from him at dinner and imagine someone laughing there.

Arthur would look out across the pasture at sunset and feel the ache in his chest like a ghost pressing a hand to his ribs.

Then came the girl.

She rolled up in a truck that coughed smoke and looked like it hadn’t seen an oil change in ten years. It was early spring—the thaw barely settled. Joel had just come back from hauling feed when he spotted the dust cloud and narrowed his eyes at the figure stepping out.

Boots in the mud. Soft flannel. Strong arms. A stubbornness set to her jaw.

Arthur stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands on a rag. “You lost, darlin’?”

You shook your head. “Looking for the Lyle property.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Old George Lyle’s place?”

You nodded. “He passed a few months ago. Left it to me.”

Joel leaned against the post, arms crossed. “Didn’t know he had any kin.”

“I’m not,” you said simply. “Just someone he trusted. Taught me everything I know about cattle and fixing fences. I owed him.”

Arthur blinked, then smiled faintly. “That man was a hell of a card player.”

You smiled back. “So I heard.”

Joel muttered, “Place’s damn near falling in.”

“I can handle it.”

You didn’t ask for help. That was what caught their attention first.

────🌾────

Arthur watched you from the hilltop as he lit a cigarette. Joel noticed the way your back stayed straight, even when your shoulders shook from exhaustion.

By the end of the week, Arthur brought you a wheelbarrow and a fresh pair of gloves without a word. Joel handed you a water bottle and said, “You’re stubborn.”

You grinned. “So are you.”

You worked from sunup to sundown, bandaged your own blisters, and cursed loud enough to make Arthur chuckle into his coffee. You shared dinner with them one night, then two, then a week’s worth.

Eventually, Joel fixed the plumbing at the Lyle place. Quietly. Arthur rewired the porch light. You thanked them both with a smile that made something shift behind Joel’s ribs.

Then the rain came. And the roof leaked.

Joel stood in your doorway with his arms crossed, dripping wet. “Get your things.”

Arthur leaned in the truck window. “Spare room’s open. Ain’t much, but it’s dry.”

You moved in that night. One duffel bag. One quiet “thank you.”

────🌾────

Weeks passed like molasses, slow and sticky and sweet in their own strange way.

You never expected to stay this long.

The old Lyle property was half reclaimed from the brambles, but the rain had done a number on the roof, and more than once you’d found black mold in places you didn’t want to name. Arthur had patched what he could. Joel came over one morning with a cordless drill and never really left after that.

Eventually, they offered you the spare room in their house. Said it was temporary. Said it just made sense.

But after a while, no one brought up the word temporary again.

You all slipped into rhythm without meaning to. Mornings started with coffee and bare feet on cool wood floors. Joel took his black, Arthur loaded his with too much sugar, and you drank yours leaning against the counter in a sleep shirt and shorts, eyes half-lidded. One of them always made eggs. The dogs—Boone and Lady—sat at your feet, loyal and lazy, with their heads in your lap.

You fixed fence posts beside Arthur, sweat beading on your skin, nails between your lips as he handed you the hammer. He liked the way you didn’t flinch around mud, the way you cursed like a 70-year-old rancher and sang old songs under your breath.

Joel taught you how to ride his favorite quarter horse. Big, quiet gelding named Shimmer. Said you had good balance. Strong thighs. His voice always got rougher when he said thighs.

Sometimes he’d linger behind you in the saddle, correcting your grip with a hand on your waist. Sometimes his breath would hit the back of your neck, and you wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t even breathe.

You rode fence lines together at dusk. Swam in the creek on hot days. Played cards and drank beer on the porch at night. You started calling Arthur cowboy when he got bossy, and Joel sir just to see his jaw twitch.

They teased you back, sure—but never touched. Not really.

They were good men. Older. Quiet. They didn’t want to scare you off.

But something was shifting.

Joel caught himself looking at your hands. Your neck. The soft line of your spine when you bent over to stack feed bags. He started lighting his cigarettes farther from the porch—so he wouldn’t be tempted to sit too close.

Arthur got quieter around you. His laugh lingered a little longer, but so did the way his eyes drifted lower when you walked into a room. He fixed things that didn’t need fixing. Made excuses to be near you.

They never talked about it.

But you felt it.

Like that one night you were in the stables brushing Shimmer’s mane and Arthur joined you.

It was late. The horses were fed, the sky painted in fading streaks of gold and mauve. You were still brushing Shimmer down in the barn, sleeves rolled, boots muddy. Arthur stepped in, quiet as always, carrying a mug of tea like it was just something he’d thought to do.

“You keep brushing that horse, she’s gonna shine like polished silver,” he said in a low tone.

You smiled without looking up. “She likes it.”

Arthur leaned against the post. “So do you.”

You paused, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He stepped forward and handed you the mug. You took it, your fingers brushing his—rough against your smooth. He didn’t pull away.

“You work too hard,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “So do you.”

He gave a soft laugh, but didn’t move. He was close now. You could smell cedarwood soap and old tobacco. His eyes dropped to your lips, just briefly, and that alone made your breath catch.

“Got dirt on your cheek,” he murmured, lifting one hand.

His thumb brushed your skin. Slow. Careful. You swore he lingered. His hand didn’t drop right away. Instead, it cradled your jaw for just a second too long—his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t dare.

He held your gaze like a man about to say something dangerous—but instead, he only stepped back, knuckles brushing yours as he whispered, “Night, darlin’.”

You stood there in the hay dust, heart pounding, wondering what would’ve happened if you’d leaned in.

That morning with Joel in the kitchen.

The house was quiet except for the soft clink of dishes. You were in the kitchen rinsing out a coffee mug when Joel came up behind you—close, not touching, but close enough that your body noticed.

“You always leave your mugs in the sink?” he asked, voice low and dry.

You smirked. “You always hover behind people in the kitchen?”

Joel didn’t laugh. Didn’t move.

“You been wearin’ my flannel all day,” he said instead, voice rough.

You glanced down and shrugged. “Yeah. It was on the hook.”

He reached past you, slow, grabbed a plate from the drying rack. But his body brushed yours just slightly—his strong chest at your back, his hand ghosting near your waist.

You stayed still.

“I like how it looks on you,” he said, almost to himself.

You turned to face him, breath caught halfway. He was too close now. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up. His hand rested on the edge of the counter beside your hip.

“I’m not tryin’ to start somethin’,” Joel said roughly.

“Then don’t stand so close,” you whispered.

But neither of you moved.

His knuckles brushed yours. You swallowed hard.

“I do things slow,” he said finally. “But when I want somethin’—I want it all the way.”

Then he stepped back.

And your knees nearly buckled.

────🌾────

It became too much. The two men took over every single thought. Before you’d go to sleep at night you would replay memories and little things they both have done.

You hadn’t meant for this to happen.

At first, it was just about survival. About fences and feed and early mornings with dirt on the window. You were too busy trying to patch the roof and clear out the barn to think about anything else. Joel and Arthur had been kind—quiet and rough around the edges, but kind. You respected them. Trusted them.

But something changed.

It was in the small things. The way Arthur always made your tea just right. How he’d linger near you in the barn, his warmth close enough to touch. The way he looked at you like you were soft, like you were some delicate thing he didn’t dare grab with dirty hands.

And then Joel—God, Joel. That man carried tension like it was sewn into his spine. Everything about him was hard angles, clenched jaw, calloused hands. But the way he watched you in his flannel, the way his voice dropped when he was near—it made your whole body buzz.

You liked being near them.

Too much.

Sometimes you caught yourself comparing them. Arthur’s steadiness, Joel’s intensity. The way Arthur said darlin’ with that gravel-deep gentleness. The way Joel’s hand would rest on your lower back for a second too long, fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

It was starting to keep you up at night.

You’d roll over in bed, heart pounding, wondering what would happen if you reached out. If you chose.

But the truth was, you didn’t know if you could.

Because they were both slipping under your skin.

And then—

One night, it all cracked open.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a throw blanket pulled to your chest. The movie playing was old and slow—some western Arthur liked. Joel had fallen into the armchair, nursing a beer, and Arthur sat beside you, closer than usual.

You said something about the sky, about how it was turning purple outside. Arthur hummed.

And then you felt it.

Joel’s eyes on you. Arthur’s hand against your leg, heavy and warm. The silence between all three of you stretched, pulled thin.

You turned your head—and both men were looking at you.

Not casually.

Not kindly.

But like men who had been trying not to want you for a long, long time.

Joel’s gaze dipped to your mouth. Arthur’s thumb traced a lazy circle against your thigh. You didn’t stop him.

Your breath caught.

No one spoke.

But the silence was loud.

And you knew—without a doubt—that this thing between the three of you wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was burning.

Still no one spoke.

Arthur’s thumb was still brushing circles against your thigh, slow and patient like he was memorizing your skin through the blanket. Joel hadn’t moved, but his eyes were darker now—hooded, jaw clenched, fingers tight around the neck of his beer bottle. The air in the room was charged, thick with heat and breath and something unspoken.

You swallowed hard.

And then, just barely above a whisper:

“…what are we doing?”

Arthur’s hand paused. Joel leaned forward.

You looked between them—at Arthur’s calm, unreadable face and Joel’s gaze flickering over your lips like he was already imagining what they’d feel like against his.

Neither of them answered.

So you pulled the blanket back, just enough to show the curve of your thigh, bare under the hem of Joel’s old flannel.

Arthur’s breath caught.

Joel stood up.

He crossed the space in three slow steps and knelt in front of you on the rug, large hands bracing on either side of your legs.

“You really want this?” he rasped. His eyes were locked on yours—hungry, hesitant, already gone.

You nodded, whisper-soft. “I do.”

Arthur let out a breath behind you. You turned slightly, meeting his eyes.

He was leaning close now too, hand still on your leg. “You sure, darlin’? Once we start this…”

“…we’re not stopping,” Joel finished.

You let your knees part between them.

That was all the answer they needed.

Joel leaned in first—slow, deliberate. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip before he kissed you. It was careful at first, his lips warm and slightly chapped, tasting faintly of beer and restraint. But when you sighed into him, he deepened it—tilting your face up, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger he’d clearly been holding back for weeks.

Behind you, Arthur’s hand slid higher on your thigh.

“You two gonna make me sit here and watch?” he murmured, voice thick with heat.

Joel pulled back just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Thought you liked watchin’, Morgan.”

Arthur chuckled low, and then his hand moved beneath the hem of your—Joel’s shirt—his palm warm and rough against your bare skin.

You gasped, turning toward him, and his lips were already there—softer than Joel’s, slower, his kiss all patience and promise. He kissed you like a secret. Like he wanted to keep you.

You moaned softly, body caught between them, and Joel let out a sound from deep in his chest.

“Bedroom,” he muttered.

Arthur didn’t answer—just stood and lifted you effortlessly into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. Joel followed close behind, one hand guiding your back, the other grazing your hip.

You were dizzy with it—wrapped in warmth and want, floating somewhere between them, their hands anchoring you. They moved like they’d talked about this before. Like they’d been waiting for the moment you’d fall into them.

And now?

They had you.

And they weren’t about to let go.

Arthur laid you down with care.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, creaking softly under the solid strength of his body. Joel stood at the edge of the bed, watching—his eyes burning dark, like he was trying to memorize you just like this: flushed and breathing heavy, hair mussed, legs parted slightly on the sheets.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur murmured.

His hands were on you already, calloused palms sliding up beneath the borrowed flannel. You gasped when his fingers brushed over your ribs—feather-light at first, then firmer as they moved up to cup your breasts, thumbs stroking lazy circles over your nipples.

“God,” you whispered.

Joel leaned over, hands braced on either side of your thighs. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Arthur was kissing your neck now, his beard rough against your skin, lips soft. He moved slow, like he wanted to savor it—each kiss dragging lower as he pulled the shirt higher, exposing your bare stomach inch by inch.

Joel’s hand slid up your thigh, spreading your legs wider. “She’s shakin’,” he rasped.

“I know,” Arthur murmured. “I got her.”

He kissed the curve of your hip as Joel leaned in and kissed your mouth again—this time harder, deeper. His tongue met yours with raw hunger, his grip on your thigh tightening. You moaned into him, your hips twitching upward, aching for more.

Arthur moved between your legs now, dragging his mouth lower, slower, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You whimpered.

“Patience, sweetheart,” Arthur said, voice low and warm. “We’re gonna take care of you.”

Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Gonna treat you so fuckin’ good. You hear me?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Arthur’s mouth pressed right where you needed it, hot and open, licking and sucking on your clit, and your back arched. Joel swallowed your gasp with another kiss, his hand sliding under your head, cradling you there, grounded and worshipped all at once.

They worked in tandem—Arthur’s tongue slow and methodical, like he was learning every response you gave him, every tremble. Joel’s lips at your ear, whispering things that made your skin burn:

“Can’t believe you’re lettin’ us have you like this.”

“Such a good girl.”

“Never gonna forget the way you sound, takin’ us like this.”

You reached down blindly, fingers threading through Arthur’s hair, and he groaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“Joel—please,” you breathed.

He growled softly, undoing his belt with one hand, kissing along your jaw with the other. “You want both of us tonight, baby?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. Please, I want—”

Arthur’s mouth dragged up your body again, kissing your sternum, your throat. “Then you got us, darlin’. Every fuckin’ inch.”

Joel’s mouth met yours one more time, possessive and rough.

And as they undressed—hands and mouths and quiet praise—you realized something:

This wasn’t just desire.

It was need.

Arthur kissed you again—slow, steady—his mouth hot and tasting faintly of you. He’d shed his shirt somewhere between the bed and your thighs, and now his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid. You could feel every inch of him, every deliberate drag of his chest over your nipples, every reverent pass of his hands over your hips.

Joel was behind him now, kneeling on the bed, jeans tugged halfway down. His eyes never left your face.

“You want Arthur first?” Joel asked, voice low, almost a growl.

Your breath caught.

“I—yes,” you whispered.

Arthur groaned. “Good girl.”

He kissed down your body again, this time moving slower. Not teasing—just devoted. He wanted to feel every shiver. Wanted you pliant beneath him when he finally slid into you.

You reached for him, fingers threading through the back of his hair as he nudged your thighs apart again, lining himself up with practiced care. You felt the thick press of him at your entrance, and your whole body tensed in anticipation.

Arthur cupped your face with one hand, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“Breathe for me, darlin’.”

You did.

And then—he pushed in.

A long, slow slide that made your toes curl and your jaw drop, gasping as he filled you inch by inch. He held himself there once he was fully seated, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting softly.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “How good you take me?”

You nodded helplessly, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch, the heat.

Joel sat beside you now, one hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead, the other trailing down to your chest. He cupped your breast, watching Arthur move inside you with a hungry, reverent stare.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Joel muttered. “Look at you.”

Arthur started to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that rocked your body up the bed. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, whispered soft praise as your fingers clawed at his back.

Joel leaned in, kissed your cheek, then your lips—deep and lingering, tasting every moan Arthur pulled from your throat.

“You’re so good,” Joel murmured. “So fuckin’ good for us.”

You were unraveling, every nerve lit up, caught between Arthur’s steady rhythm and Joel’s mouth and hands. You felt possessed, held, worshipped.

And then Arthur pulled out slowly, pressing one last kiss to your sternum.

“Think she’s ready for you,” he murmured, looking at Joel.

Joel didn’t wait. He was on you in seconds, flipping you gently onto your side, spooning in close behind. His chest was slick with heat, breath ragged against your ear.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured, lining himself up.

“Please,” you whispered.

He pushed in with a groan—deeper than Arthur, thicker, dragging a broken cry from your throat as he filled you completely. Joel’s hand curled around your waist, holding you in place as he began to move—grinding slow and deep, his mouth pressed to your shoulder.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he hissed.

Arthur knelt in front of you now, brushing hair back from your face, kissing your mouth sweetly while Joel fucked you slow and unrelenting from behind.

“You’re ours now, ain’t you?” Arthur murmured. “Both of us.”

You nodded, tears at the corners of your eyes from how full you felt, how overwhelming it was to be held between them.

Joel’s thrusts grew harder, his breath turning rough against your skin. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re ours.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “I’m—yours.”

And when you came—loud, shaking, completely undone—they didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t stop whispering how good you were, how beautiful you looked, how they’d never let you go now.

You belonged to them.

And tonight, they made sure you knew it.

────🌾────

The room was quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles in after a storm—soft and sacred, broken only by the sound of three tangled breaths.

You were between them again, your body boneless and glowing, cheek pressed against Arthur’s chest. His heartbeat was a slow, steady thump beneath your ear, and one of his hands ran lazy circles along your spine, grounding you.

Joel lay behind you, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, his body flush against your back. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin, the quiet way he breathed your name like a prayer.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You nodded, lips brushing Arthur’s skin. “Yeah. Just… wow.”

Arthur chuckled low in his throat. “That a good ‘wow,’ or a we-gotta-run-away-and-never-talk-about-it-again kinda wow?”

You laughed softly. “The first one.”

Joel hummed, and you felt his lips move against your shoulder. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not lettin’ you go now.”

Arthur shifted just enough to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. “Didn’t hurt, did it? We didn’t push too much?”

“No,” you said, voice thick and quiet. “It was perfect.”

They exhaled together, that tension in their bodies finally melting all the way out of them.

Joel sat up first, kissed your shoulder, then leaned over to grab a warm cloth from the bedside. He was slow and gentle cleaning you up, murmuring quiet things like I got you, just relax, you were so good for us. Every motion was careful, reverent. Like you were something fragile. Something theirs.

Arthur pulled the blankets up, letting you settle again between them.

You felt completely safe. Wrapped in warmth and worn flannel and calloused hands that held you like you were the softest thing they’d ever touched.

“You always this quiet after?” Arthur asked, his fingers trailing along your ribs.

You shrugged, half-smiling. “Not always. But I’ve never… done this before.”

“With two men?”

“With two people who actually care.”

They both stilled.

Joel leaned forward, brushing hair from your face. “We do,” he said quietly. “Care.”

Arthur nodded, resting his forehead against yours. “This wasn’t just a one-time thing for us. Not if it ain’t for you.”

You looked between them, your heart thudding louder than it had all night.

“I don’t want it to be,” you whispered.

Joel smiled—soft and warm and rare. “Good. Then stay.”

“I'm already here.”

Arthur kissed you again—slower this time, with all the gentleness in the world. Joel tucked himself closer to your back, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest flat over your heart.

You fell asleep wrapped in both of them.

And when the sun rose through the dusty window panes the next morning, they were still there—one hand in your hair, the other tracing your spine, like they’d never let go.

And maybe they wouldn’t.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @whimsydoe

826 notes · View notes

mihii-i · 6 months ago

Note

hear me out..... mizu x fem reader, a oneshot, smut, they're already together, they are out in town as 'husband and wife' while they obtain information. The reader is a brat, Mizu literally fucks the ever living SHIT out of her. Teasing and mocking until the reader is blabbing out apologies that are barely even coherent. SHI ION KNOW WHEN STRAPS WERE MADE BUT IF YOU BUST THAT OUT I WOULD BE VERY GRATEFUL 🙏 and of course aftercare with lots of praise yk bc if ur gonna call me a slut at least kiss my face and call me ur pretty slut thank YEW

chimes of the shamisen.

Pairings: mizu x fem!reader

CW: nsfw, female reader, afab reader, wlw, let’s ignore the episode’s events and the shindo dojo shit because yay sex, freaky asf obv, but first angst bc im evil kitty, bratty ass reader, argument, mizu is lowkey at fault for it too tho, but reader is still a bitch, hardcore sesbian lex, little bit of soft stuff sprinkled because I cannot write mizu going full on rough and angy with her lover, it feels ooc she would be atleast a little sweet :(, strapon use/harigata, the strap legit came outta nowhere, horny shit god, i genuinely don’t know if this is classified as degradation but I hate degrading so hope not, crying, really fucking rough I don’t think I ever wrote something this insane, not proofread.

A/N: ugh this lowkey turned out bad cause my tea was bad but im loving the stream of mizu requests I am absolutely feral over this woman like I want to kiss and hug her in my arms while also wanting her to tear off my clothes it ain’t funny anymore I GENUINELY DONT KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT WRITING EXTRA FREAKY MIZU BUT YER WELCOME. 🕯️

Blisteringly cold sweeps of wind swayed in the air in a near painful freeze as crystals of snowflakes sunk upon touching the bare skin of your hand, your tense shoulder pushed up against Mizu’s cloaked one in an attempt to seek a sliver of warmth against the stinging cold. It was currently nearing the end of the nullifying freeze of winter, spring approaching in supposedly a few weeks from now in hopes of thawing out the erected statures blanketed in a gentle white.

Both you and Mizu navigated your way through the dips and trails of each snow heaped pathway in the city, remaining side by side as you two shouldered past the hordes of people pouring in through Kyoto’s streets. Throughout your support for her during the perilous tread to find the remaining men she sought to kill, you had assumed the title of her supposed ‘wife,’ while Mizu, still under the guise of a man, displayed herself as your husband.

Honestly, it was quite difficult to fathom why you were trailing behind this bloodthirsty woman, who would snap apart the bones of any living creature she came across for the sake of her wretched revenge—pulsing through every vein in her body, like an unrest that compelled her stubborn soul to live on. You always questioned yourself as you trudged by her side, eyes frequently staring down at your own feet buried in the thick layers of snow to ponder why your heart raced for a demon presumed to have nothing but hatred oozing from any noticeable crevice of light within her.

You nudged your fingers against her palm, reaching over as your knuckles came into contact with the calloused ridges of her own. Almost in a seemingly desperate sense, your fingertips danced along her skin occasionally as if you were pleading to hold her hand, only to end up cupping your hand around nothing as she pulled away with each gesture of yours seeking her affection. Mizu subtly nodded her head toward you, tilting her chin up to meet your gaze through the orange tint of her glasses.

“Not now. Focus on getting more information regarding Heiji Shindo.”

It was getting tiring. Annoying even.

Mizu initially proposed the idea of cloaking yourselves under the cover of a husband and wife to seek information, to which you agreed. Considering the two of you had been together for quite some time, you believed that it wouldn’t hurt to cover yourself with an impenetrable front. Surely your false marriage wouldn’t get questioned considering how touchy and affectionate you were with Mizu, proudly believing that such a plan would remain the same as usual.

Unfortunately for you, it might have to be time to come to terms with the fact that her revenge mattered more than you.

All of her recent actions reflected a strict focus to the goal she had set, refusing to indulge in even the smallest of pleasures with her own ‘wife.’ You constantly strode alongside her through Kyoto’s crowded infrastructure, shielded by the overarching shadow of her kasa shrouding her face as she opened her mouth to inquire of the Shindo Dojo’s whereabouts left and right.

You couldn’t bear to see her disappointed expression whenever she was ignored or directed incorrectly, one of the residents even leading her to a pleasure house, much to her discomfort. However, nothing served to dilate the pit in your stomach more than Mizu brushing you off, rolling her shoulder past you whenever she was fixated on gathering information about some piece of shit connected to one of the white men hiding in Japan.

You knew she didn’t hate you. In fact, Mizu loved you like you were the most precious thing she had ever set her sights on. Held you and whispered in your ears that you were one of the only people that ever mattered to her, and how grateful she was to have you, all while you were hemmed in her overflowing grasp of affection. Yet, you were unable to help the twinge of discomposure swirling in your chest at how…comfortable she felt neglecting you like this.

Of course in retaliation, you began to bite back at her lack of feeling towards you ever since you reached Kyoto under the disguise, growing increasingly despondent to the words that left her mouth. The annoyance alone she was able to inflict on you in these past few days was more than enough to fuel a minuscule revenge of your own. You’d always snap back toward Mizu, words tinged with a short of sharp edge to them, & contrasting the usual gentle demeanor you often displayed for her.

Looking around the cramped lanes, you remained to Mizu’s side as her own eyes traced every inch of the vicinity, briefly tilting her glasses along the bridge of her nose to capture a clear view as darkness clouded the sky in a shrouding night. Rays of moonlight kissing the rippling bodies of water engulfing the bridge off at the end, accompanied by the muted lamps provided a faint expansion of light within such a late portion of day, some starting to die out into a smoky grey one by one.

A disappointed huff fell from Mizu’s lips at the sight of nightfall descending upon the two of you, striking a halt in the investigation that had been dragged out for the whole day. Although you’d never admit it to her, you wanted to breathe out a prolonged sigh of relief once your info gathering induction had ceased for the day, unsure of how much longer you could rasp out another word about the black market merchant.

“(Name). We’re done for today, let me know if you find a decent place to rest.”

“Shouldn’t you look for one yourself? It’s the husband’s job to provide obviously.” You muttered, loud enough for Mizu to hear as you rolled your eyes.

“This is a false front and you know it. Stop being so stuck up and just listen to me.”

“Or what? Fucking hell Mizu, is it stuck up to ask for a little attention from my girlfriend?”

The sudden announcement of your relationship’s actual title cause her eyes to shoot wide open, cocking an eyebrow in evident disrelish toward your lack of compliance.

“You know full well that we’re in the middle of something important, and you’re simply acting like an attention seeking child!” Mizu hissed under her breath, attempting to keep her voice subtle to avert any attention away from the two of you.

“I don’t care. You just brush me off like I don’t exist when you’re clearly supposed to act like my husband.”

“Quit acting so fucking bratty and maybe I’ll give you what you want after we’re done.”

“Forget it, Mizu. Can’t believe I’m in love with a demon like you.”

You could almost hear Mizu’s breath hitch in her throat, swallowing back a lump as her lips remained parted in a frown. Her eyes roamed over you in disdain, brows knitting together as her eyelids lowered into a contorted expression of annoyance and hurt.

Regret clawed at your mind as you took in Mizu’s expression, clearly not displaying a particular fixation on hurt alone, but definitely harboring a chagrin of sorts. You felt your heart ache, realizing the words you had just uttered to your lover, unable to reflect upon what you just said to the woman you supposedly loved as she turned her back to you. Was she leaving you? Right here?

You jolted up at the sight of her head tilted over her shoulder to glance back at you, a cold expression still carved onto her already wounded gaze.

“Are you coming or not?”

Clearing your throat, you managed a soundless nod in response, the crunch of your footsteps being the only thing breaking the silence fostered between the two of you. A surge of anxiety crept up within you, the bitter taste flat against your tongue from the sheer feeling along worse than raw bile. What the hell was the matter with you? You claim you love her yet you struck a blow at one of her deepest insecurities? You couldn’t even begin to comprehend how disgusted you were with yourself right now.

Your footsteps abruptly ceased their movements as soon as you noticed Mizu’s own feet, stationary and sunken in the snow as she eyed the large wooden building with a sign hammered along a plank off to its right in a messy fashion. She immediately pivoted in the direction of the paper door upfront, pressing her fingers to the wall to push it aside and make way as it disappeared the further it was slid.

Despite following suit, you had completely blanked out, mind fogged with nothing but a storm of plaguing thoughts and raw hatred for your earlier words lurching at your chest. In this very moment, you couldn’t even begin to describe the guilt gnawing at the back of your head over and over. Similarly to a demon whispering in your ear endlessly to send you spiraling into madness.

No. You don’t get to put the blame on a demon. You demeaned your beloved as an onryō despite claiming to love her. The only real demon here was you.

A swift tap dragged along your shoulder shook you out of your jaundiced trance, Mizu’s unfeeling eyes stabbing through yours as she stared you down.

“Come on. There’s a room available.”

You cocked your head in confusion, not following the series of events that followed while your mind was wandering off. A sigh pushed past her tongue as she looked over at you, an unamused look painted all over her face.

“The room. We’re staying at an inn for the night. Then we continue investigating tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay..”

That was all you could whisper out. Even speaking to her reminded you of that pained expression etched onto her face, draining the affection thay once presided in her blue eyes.

As soon as the door to your room slid open, such a minute detail presenting itself before you twisted like a dagger to your heart, feeling it drop to your stomach like a heavy stone. The two futons situated on the floor, one each big enough to fit both you and Mizu on it, yet still having two seperate beds against the floor far apart from each other. Was this some higher power’s way of telling you that your relationship was done for?

Not wanting to be held back by spacing out again, you begrudgingly set your foot down within the confines of the room, stepping into it as you were drawn to the futon on the far left. Kneeling beside it, a somber tiredness masked your face as you stared down at the fabric, with a few slight wrinkles adorning its stretched edges. The futon was quite spacious as it was splayed out on the tatami mat, oddly comfortable as well as you ran a hand along the surface.

You paused for a moment, slowly turning a head behind your shoulder until you caught sight of Mizu in your periphery, intently transfixed on her grasping at the kasa in her hands before setting it down beside the end of her own futon, her tinted glasses following alongside her cloak in a small pile of discarded clothes—if you could even call such accessories that. The weights strapped to her arms and legs also loosened to the floor with a clank, joining the discard pile as she took in a deep breath.

Mizu almost immediately plopped herself atop the futon without so much as looking over at you, back facing you as she lay on her side with the weight of her head pressured atop her arm.

“Blow out the candle for me, will you?”

Averting your gaze from her back, you sluggishly padded over to the candle, each step you took burning your heels as you felt like you were carrying the deadweight of your own body. A quick rush of wind was expelled from your lungs as you puckered your lips to blow out the candle, the flame flickering momentarily before vanishing into a thin trail of smoke wavering in the air and stinging your nostrils.

The strong miasma of smoke you were close to began to swirl within your throat within the darkness of the room, breath hitching as your head fogged up from discomfort. Perhaps you should refrain from inhaling smoke, only idiots come close enough to purposefully take in the scent of an air that could beset your lungs.

Only idiots hurt the person they love, much less if that person has been hurt enough in their past.

Returning to your futon, you also proceeded to lay on your side facing away from Mizu, fighting back the urge to want to see her gorgeous face. You closed your eyes, albeit a bit hesitantly as you screwed them shut, wallowing the quiet, wordless atmosphere fostered in the darkness once dimly illuminated by a tiny flame.

Or rather, former silence.

Your eyes almost immediately shot open at the abrupt chime of a distant shamisen echoing miles away in the dead of night. The smooth strums continued to ring in your ears in a soothing, yet harsh melody. Strange. They often didn’t hold any kabuki theater plays this late at night. You remained perplexed at the endless melodic chimes of the shamisen, yet oddly relaxed. Unable to comprehend the reason behind such a noise drifting through the streets so late, yet enjoying the comfort it enveloped you in.

Such a shame your comfort tore away from you, this night possibly being the last night you could even lay eyes upon your lover. You were sure you’d shattered everything you had with one simple comment alone. In this moment, you were no better than the man who had betrayed her in the past.

No.

No. You could never be apart from Mizu.

She was everything to you. You were nothing but determined to repair what you had supposedly shattered, using all you had to get the pieces to snap back together as with every ounce of internal strength you could muster if that’s what it took.

You sat up in one fluid motion, weakly dragging yourself over to Mizu’s futon while swallowing back the urge to just head back and sleep, ignoring the notion that this wouldn’t make it any better. Her body rose and fell with each breath she took in her slumber, eyes shut with a weary expression even as she slept. Without hesitation, you adjusted yourself to curl up directly behind her in a spooning position of sorts, arms encircling her waist almost immediately as you pressed your nose against her nape.

Mizu only shot you a quizzical glare, blinking groggily at the sight of your arms tightly fastened around her waist.

“Your bed is over there, you know.”

“These futons are enough for two people. Besides, I want to sleep next to my husband.” You muttered against her skin, breath fluttering against her nape in a warm embrace. Her breath caught in her throat at the mention of the false title the two of you had to act on, muscles tensing up in your grasp.

“What if I kill you? I am a demon after all.” She reiterated, a bitter edge cutting a pang of anguish directly into the existing wound of guilt embedded within you. “I don’t care..” you choked out in a shaky voice, dragging your lower lip between your teeth to suppress the tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Mizu.”

…

The entire room fell silent once more, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest as soon as you felt the warm embrace of Mizu’s arms tightly curled around you, squeezing you to her chest as her face was buried within your hair.

“I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that either.”

You shook your head against her chest, a few tears rolling down your cheeks as Mizu’s expression relaxed, softening as she held you close to herself. Both of you remained in eachother’s embrace for a bit, relishing in the warmth of your wholehearted adoration. Despite the ridges that walled between you two at times, you would always come back to her. You know full well that she meant everything to you, while she reciprocated the same. She only hushed any more apologies spilling profusely from you, holding you tighter.

“Please..Mizu..let me do anything to make it up to you. Anything at all.”

You’ll never forget the sudden flare of hunger roused in her pupils as those words vibrated in her ears, bare hands outlining your body up to dig into your shoulders. Her voice came out in a quiet hum as she pursed her lips together, shaky hands fighting the ravenous desire to yank down the shoulders of your kimono right then and there.

“Anything?”

It didn't take long for you to catch onto her implication, your breath fanning in a series of shallow exhales as your torso pressed to hers with an urgent desire aflame within every drop of blood, every rushing fiber within your body screaming her name. Tilting your head up, you only rasped out a breathless plea as your lips ghosted over Mizu's, her heart pounding furiously against her chest to which you could quite literally feel from the clothed chest to chest proximity.

A palpable heat crept into the air as it fogged the atmosphere between you two, the tension fostered thick with a lustful infatuation hinted with the beauty of love itself. You couldn’t even pretend to hold yourself back, practically lunging yourself at Mizu as your lips smashed against her own, locking yourself in a passionate grasp accompanied by her hands wandering your body shamelessly as if she wanted to tear everything off without regard.

You gasped against her lips in response to her tightened hands bunching up fistfuls of your kimono silk, bundled up within her grasp as her tongue dragged along your lower lip, completely lost in the intense craving to devour you whole. Leaning back, you didn’t resist her hands tracing the darkened silhouette of your figure to slide down the shoulders of your clothing, urging her to undress you completely as you writhed in the unbearable heat your clothes trapped you in.

It didn’t take long for you to lay before her, flat against your back fully bare while your eyes lingered over Mizu’s now unclothed form as well, taking in every part of her nude body as you felt your face burn a deep crimson from the sheer beauty of the sight before your eyes. You couldn’t help but lose yourself in those gorgeous blue eyes, now heavy lidded and misted over with a covetous desire boring into your own.

Her lips found their way across your skin, kissing down your collarbone and tracing to your lower abdomen, hands snaked below your thighs as her gaze fixed on yours from below. You heard the subtle echo of your heartbeat thudding in the clearing as Mizu halted her movements for a second, seemingly having a thought interrupt her sensual touches along your body.

“Love..? Is something-“

“Hold on. I have something.” She interjected, reaching down into the discarded pile of clothing to scramble for a small—or rather large, rectangular box, fitted perfectly into her grasp as she lifted open the lid carefully. Breath hitching at the sight, your eyes flickered over to the phallic object firmly curled between her fingers, the length a nasty contrast to her earlier gentle kisses. You blinked in surprise at the fact that Mizu just- had a harigata on her, opening your mouth yet quickly snapping it shut as you didn’t exactly wanna question why she was carrying it around so casually.

You only responded to the sight with your heart throbbing in rapid beats, along in tandem with feeling a different kind of tingling fluttering between your thighs as you squeezed them shut upon seeing Mizu fasten the object around her waist.

—

“Fucking hell- you like that don’t you? You enjoy getting filled by a demon?”

Mizu hissed through her grit teeth as her hands squeezed at the flesh of your wrists, keeping them held down against the futon as her hips slammed forward into you to meet her skin against your with every fervent thrust. Your mouth hung open as your body jerked up everytime she bottomed out inside you, tear streaks coating your cheeks like a fashionable look to getting your insides wrecked by your lover.

Every wash of pleasure surged through your body as your walls accommodated to stretch out in response to the girth of her cock, clenching the velvety insides of your cunt to trap her inside, only to be met with her sliding the harigata out to drive back into you once more with a monstrous force. Eyes rolling back in bliss, you dragged your lower lip between your teeth in response to the rush of your blood igniting your body on fire, nails digging into Mizu’s back in response to the drag of her cock along your insides.

It was difficult to handle her rough movements ridging within the vice of your pussy, the tip of her faux cock circling that one spot inside you to drive you utterly insane. You were mad with lust as you clawed at Mizu for more whenever she paused, rolling your hips up with an aching need as a sinful ring of your slick, moist against the toy bounced off the walls of the room, only driving your girlfriend to drill you into the futon with a heightened arousal clouding her eyes.

Strings of incoherent cries and moans fell from your lips in a series of pathetic whimpers, wanton pants heaving your chest up and down as her cock lodged within you comfortably. Mizu grinded skin to skin with heightened desperation, using her strength to hold you down and reach that one spot that made you sob in ecstasy as she wrung you dry.

Her muscles tightened as her thrusts grew more rapid, face contorting in pleasure further on as if she was lost in it. She stared down at you as she fucked your into the futon harshly, grip tightening around your wrists and pushing you further without regard for anything but making you squirt all over the harigata. Strangely enough, her eyes shone with that same glint she harbored whenever she lusted for blood, brows furrowing as her pupils seemed transcendent and full hate, yet loving and burrowed in your pleasure.

“Say that you love it. Or are you so fucked out you can’t even let out a pathetic whimper?”

She gasped out a breathy laugh in response to your sobs, only jamming her hips further into you in a seemingly enraged manner.

“Oh? You can’t even talk? Such a shame. Here I thought you had a problem with demon bastards like me?”

She leaned her face in nose length with yours, meeting eye to eye with you as she continued rolling her hips harshly against yours.

“Say it. Say you’re sorry.”

Her girthy cock sunk into you at the command, only earning a cry ripped from your lips while you stared at the perverse sight of the dildo sheathing in and out of you sloppily, her hand moving to grasp your cheeks together and elicit a sharp cry. Mizu’s relentless thrusts spun your mind in a haze of euphoria, making you sputter out an apology despite being fucked into the mattress roughly without stopping for even a split second.

“I’m- m- mmh-!”

She rolled her eyes at the pitiful attempt, squeezing your face to look at her while she plowed into you with each powerful thrust nearly knocking the wind out of you.

“M’sorry! I’m sorry Mizu! I won’t ever- ah-! I won’t ever say that again please!”

You whined out, a smile crossing the woman’s features as she touched her forehead to yours, her thrusts keeping the same pace yet seeming far more controlled and gentle now. Mizu sighed against the crook of your neck, delicately peppering your skin to juxtapose her previously harsh and fervent movements against your poor, abused cunt. Her thumb darted down to circle your already swollen clit, hesitating momentarily before massaging the puffy bundle of nerves along with the gentle flurry of kisses along your collarbone.

It didn’t take long before Mizu’s hips plunged deep within you, her cock making one final movement before your juices ran down the dildo to dampen the futon, staining it in a darker color pooled between your trembling thighs. Unfasting the strap, she carefully withdrew herself from your pussy, setting aside the harigata as she pressed up to your limp body in an affectionate hold. Arms encompassing your heaving body, pressing kisses to the shell of your ear in acknowledgment that you did in fact do well for her, Mizu showered you with every action she could to possibly make you feel loved.

After your breathing subsided, Mizu thoughtfully rested her chin against your shoulder, humming to herself in satisfaction as you let out a shaky exhale.

“(Name)?”

“Mhm..?”

“I know we’re just putting on the whole husband and wife thing as an act but when we can…when I kill the remaining three..”

You tilted your head up, being met with a gentle kiss encompassing your body in a scorching flare of passion as she hemmed her arms around you tightly, like a promise to never let go.

“Marry me. Be my wife when everything is over. We can live away from everything. I’ll give you whatever you need- no..whatever you want.”

You were too spent to respond.

So with a smile, you manged a tender nod.

A/N: okay yall may like this but ima be fully honest…

I FUCKING HATE HOW THIS TURNED OUT SO MUCH ITS SO BAD.

IT DOESNT GIVE THE SAME VIBE AS MY USUAL MIZU FICS WHY DID I WRITE IT SO BAD FORGIVE ME

anyway my next mizu fic will actually be good trust sorry for making this ass anon 💔

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spurbleu · 2 months ago

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yeah yeah “johnny can’t sing” you guys are just cowardly lairs. anyway johnny singing a lullaby to your newborn daughter.

it startles you, at first.

your body moves like it’s under water as it wakes. gravity drowning the aches in your bones until you’re spit onto the shore, rolling against the cotton sheets of its bank. the heat of the room plummets when you rise, and you shiver as you lean against the headboard peer into the dark room.

moonlight spills like milk over the familiar; the wooden footboard, the tapestry carpet, the bookshelf. but it obscures the corners of the room, including the cradle.

handcrafted. embroidered lace trim, that you toiled over during the last days of your pregnancy. made special, by the little dreaming bundle that rests between feather bedding.

you squint, and your heart collapses against your ribs when you register a figure standing over it.

maternal instinct burns below your stomach and rises to your throat, cement rigid. lips notching, teeth bared, reaching for your husbands side of the bed when,

I will build my love a bower

By yon cool crystal fountain

And round it I will pile

All the wild flowers o' the mountain

his voice is quiet. thick. softer around the edges- more than it’s ever been. like his eyes, when he held her for the first time. it’s the eroding of stone, a dying fire, a tree curling to the sun.

and suddenly you’re crying quietly from your perch on the bed, listening to the way your daughter coos at his voice- whispering, singing, thawing- just for her.

Will ye go, Lassie, go?

And we'll all go together

To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the bloomin' heather

Will ye go, Lassie, go?

she’s back to sleep somewhere in the second verse, and johnny turns to find you a still, teary mess, curled against his pillows and in between dreams.

kisses your forehead, and finds himself raw and pliable because of the family that lets themselves be comforted. by the baby who he can sing for, and the wife who gave him the voice to do so.

pulls you into the bow of his chest, and begins to hum when you stir.

#johnny soap mctavish x reader #johnny soap mctavish x you #soap x reader #soap x you #call of duty #cod #john soap x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x you

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starcrossedxwriter · 10 days ago

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Still Standing Part 2 (Smoke x Black Reader)

A/N: Ummmm a bit late but here you go for all my Smoke girlies! 💙💙

Read part 1 if you haven't already!

Warnings: This is a reader fic (not Smoke x Annie - unless you wanna read it that way! I just love this gif (sue me lol), SMUT, DNI, mentions of violence and abuse.

*** The love between you and Elijah was forged one silent moment after another. He did not capture your heart with clever words and long winded soliloquies. He did with his presence. His ability to exist in utter stillness. His steadiness. Storms could be raging around him, designed to rattle, shake, and scare him. But none of it worked.

He never rushed.

And when he struck? It was with perfect precision and control.

It’s what made him Smoke. Lethal and unforgiving. Merciless.

But it was also what made him Elijah. How in his childhood silence, he watched everything about you. And showed you the depths of his understanding of you in the most exact ways. As if he studied you long enough to learn your soul.

How he brought you your favorite flowers for the first time once on a whim. A fact he knew not because you ever told him, but from noticing which flowers you spent the longest tending to in your garden.

How he endured being yelled at by your mama for staying too late when a storm was headed in. All so he’d be allowed to spend the night because he knew thunder frightened you. He’d stay up with you working or talking, holding you through the worst of it. You found out what it felt like to fall asleep in the warmth of his arms that way, only breaking apart if you heard the creaking floorboards of your mama coming to check on you.

It was the way he held you close to his chest after you bandaged his cuts and bruises after their father’s beatings, knowing you needed the reassurance that he was alright.

You had long stopped allowing yourself to fantasize about what it would feel like to be cocooned in his silent focus again. To be loved by a man as devoted and singular as he.

But at this moment, his silence was not the calm you once dreamed of returning to the heart of. It was thick, prickly with the tension of everything bearing down on both of you like a ton. Trauma, lost time, lingering questions, concern.

When he walked out of the barn some time later, his energy felt as if someone had dropped all the weight of the world onto his back. Blood splattered across his crisp white shirt, only interrupted by his charcoal vest. He did not say a single word to either of them as he slid his jacket back on. Stack whispered something in his ear as he passed him a rolled cigarette.

It was about you, you knew when Smoke’s eyes flickered over to you before climbing into the passenger seat. You imagined it was just to share what you’d said or done while the two of you waited, which had been nothing. Nothing that you knew would still be of interest to your husband.

You‘d allowed Stack’s gentle arm to lead you to their car and climbed into the backseat without a fuss, not uttering a word to your long lost brother. You just stared blankly with bloodshot eyes at the barn entrance, chewing your lip raw, body trembling as a small piece of you deflated every time the door opened and your husband did not emerge.

Stack had attempted to engage you in conversation, he could never stay quiet for too long. But even that could not thaw you out. You were not sure you even really heard him. Every brain cell was occupied with thoughts of him.

Your blank expression was not from a lack of things to express. But from the sheer overwhelm of too many questions and discussions.

What did he do to Red?

How the fuck were they back here?

Why were they back here?

Why did he leave you?

Would he leave again?

But it was folly to ask a single one to either brother. Stack was, rightfully so, far more terrified of his big brother than you so you weren't going to be able to pry a word out of him that Smoke did not want you to know. And when Smoke wordlessly climbed into the passenger seat, you knew he was not going to answer a question until he decided you were alright. All your questions about him would have to wait.

You and Stack could almost see his internal spiraling as Stack drove them a few miles home. You could feel him agonizing over what almost took place, what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there. You could feel his focus on you the entire ride. Every few minutes, his head tilted toward the backseat.

With only the corner of his eye, he examined you. How you anxiously chewed your lip, how your arms cradled around yourself, how you sat trembling but so stiff despite the exhaustion etched in your eyes.

You felt every millisecond glance, each one helping him understand what you needed to feel the depths of his love and devotion.

That tension rattled around you three until you reached your home. Stack helped you out, a relaxed grin taking over his features. The years away aged your husband a bit more than his brother. You wondered when he last smiled? Elias smiled all the time and always made sure you were too, even if it was while you rolled your eyes at him. But Elijah, smiles were rare for him. Laughter too rare. You imagined Elias and you were the only two people on Earth blessed enough to witness either.

It showed even in how they settled around your kitchen table, Stack leaning back in his chair without a care in the world. While Smoke sat but remained on high alert, sitting straight as if someone tied a board to his back. Always watching, always examining.

You busied yourself to fix them both something to eat. The same prickly silence expanded like air to fill your quaint kitchen. You felt his eyes following you in every motion and movement throughout your kitchen. Here, he was not regulated to side glances in the car. Here, he could consume you like the most riveting novel, memorize how your body changed in the last eight years.

You placed Elijah’s porcelian bowl down first, the man merely nodding.

“Thanks, darlin’.” His gratitude reflected sincerely in his eyes despite his lack of movement. His fork remained untouched, his body rigid as steel. His eyes decidedly cast on you.

You raised your eyebrows in a brief challenge. No husband of yours was going to sit at your table and not eat a proper meal. And the attitude starting to form as your free hand rested on your hip communicated just that.

But he remained unbothered as he continued smoking, consuming his drugs of choice. Tobacco and you.

This man of mine, you thought to yourself. Stand-offs such as this were far too common Being one of two people Elijah trusted came with the honor of being the person he trusted to care for him. But it had to be on his terms and only when he deemed it necessary. Stubborn as hell when he wanted to be. And today, he wanted to be.

But you couldn’t fathom loving anyone else.

You imagined he often had similar thoughts about you.

“If that nigga won’t eat, I sure as hell will. Specially if that’s yo gumbo?”

Stack’s words ended your staring match in defeat, forcing you to move on to hand his brother his food.

You remembered the last time you made their favorite meal, a family recipe from Louisiana that had been passed down to you. You made it for them on their last birthday in the Delta, before they left for Chicago. The first of many birthdays you expected the three of you to celebrate in you and Elijah’s home.

“Yea. I get the urge to make it every once in a while. Made it before Hattie’s. Helps remind me of home, I guess.”

In the last eight years, the memories of that last birthday were a buoy at sea you clung to, filling you with the joy the days alone depleted. You remembered Elijah, Elias, Mary, Grace, and Bo sitting around your table, smiles bright, laughter loud, bellies full with all of the twins’ favorites. You remembered Elijah’s gentle hands sliding around your waist to pull you into his lap as you passed him, your body exhausted from a long evening of hosting and an even longer day of giving him the birthday he deserved. And every time you tried to get up to pour someone another drink or fix him or Stack another bowl of gumbo, he’d gently tighten his grip forcing you to rest against him.

You remembered thinking that this was exactly what you wanted the rest of your life to be.

You and Elijah would grow old in the home he built to your exact specifications. With every passing birthday, your walls would grow full and vibrant with the memories of the life you built together; your furniture would become more and more loved and worn with time as the gathering spot for your family; your house would become louder and more rambunctious with the children you’d have together.

You remembered thanking the ancestors for that day, for how profoundly in love you were with your present and the rich future you saw with Elijah and this chosen family you had together. It had not been much. In your world, your people were not afforded much more than 'just enough.' But to you, it was everything.

The first birthday without him forced you to contend with the reality that such a coveted dream was barely clinging to life. Was it dead and lost to you forever? Everyone around you believed so. Or would your Sun return and breathe life back into your universe and future? At first, you held onto that hope that you could get everything you once had back again. But with every passing birthday, the dream lost its color, lost its sharpness and clarity as it slipped farther and farther away from you. And so did home, forcing you to cling to every fleeting memory and wisp of it that you could.

Your eyes lifted from your hands to glance at your husband, his eyes squarely set on you as if he knew what home really meant.

Him.

“Them ghosts you be talkin’ to might be onto somethin’.”

You jokingly hit him upside the head with your towel before returning to the stove. You knew the twins didn’t believe in the same powers you did. You didn’t believe in what they did either. But there was respect on both sides, acknowledgement that all of it worked together, somehow and someway. That their individual ways had their place in this world and why, against all odds, the three of you were still standing.

“Heard you takin’ care of crackers cross town now?” Stack asked in between bites, his bowl vanishing faster than light itself traveled.

You waved your hand, dismissing the concern you already heard laced in his tone. You did not need to turn around to feel your husband’s gaze intensify against your skin.

“Remind me to kill Grace tomorrow,” you muttered in annoyance. “Just a couple of the wives… one of ‘em Geraldine works for is from somewhere down in Louisiana. She likes her healin’ a bit stronger than the medicine them white doctors use.”

“Just be careful, aight? Met a lot of white folk n they all trouble.”

You chuckled, your eyes glancing from the towel in your hand to his brother who was still laser focused on you.

“You know mama used to say the same bout you two. ‘Always trouble with the SmokeStack twins’”

"'N whatchu think?”

“Trouble ain’t all bad. There’s good trouble in there too if you can find it.”

“And the SmokeStack twins? What kinda trouble we to you?”

“The kind that makes it worth it.”

Elijah’s hand stilled, his cigarette halfway to his mouth as he recalled the first time you told him that. The night Smoke was born and became the world’s, and Elijah became yours. Though, if you let him tell the tale, he was yours long before you caught on.

“Mama, please. Somethin’ could be wrong. He don’t live far.”

Two days. You hadn’t seen Elijah in two days. And that was just so unlike him. For over two years, you spent almost every day together, even if he just stopped by for a few moments.

With your increasing responsibilities in your home and grandmother’s shop, Elijah’s presence was the stolen sweet moment in long, aching days. A sacred ritual. As your granny became too sick and her work fell to you, Elijah always seemed to know exactly what you needed when he stopped by. Some days, he would just come by to help you finish whatever task your grandma and mama set you to. Sometimes, he’d take on the task himself to give you a brief respite in your garden. And some days, he'd convince you to let him whisk you away to sit on the bank of the river or under the shade of a tree. And he let you lay your head on his shoulder and he let you just be.

And you tried to be the same for him.

You gave him your hand to squeeze when he needed to talk about his father or worry himself about how he could protect his brother, as if they both weren’t just boys themselves. You bandaged up his cuts and wounds privately, giving him the space to be in pain and vulnerable. You held him as he shared his fear that the talk around town would be true. That he and Elias were doomed to be as rotten as their father was. And you told him every time he needed to hear it that he was so much more of a man than his father could ever be, that they would survive him.

Without even noticing, he’d become everything to you. And the sweetest boy - who captivated your thoughts when you should be focused on so much else - had no one to check on him. No one to know or care if something was wrong with him or his brother. All they had in this world was each other… and you.

If you did not go, who would?

“You can wait till mornin’. Sun goin’ down, n Elijah lives too far to go now.”

“But mama-”

“Stop all that back talk now,” your daddy called from his perch on your porch.

“One more word bout it n you won’t go tomorrow either. How about that?”

“Yes ma’am,” you grumbled, deciding it was better not to push your luck.

“N I keep tellin’ you I don’t want you anywhere near his daddy or his house. I’ll let you go over tomorrow to check on em if it’ll get you to quiet down bout it n do your work in peace but then the twins gotta come here.”

“Elijah won’t let his daddy hurt me.” The conviction in your voice was unwavering.

“Can’t stop him from beatin’ the hell outta his own flesh and blood. Don’t see how he can protect you. From his daddy or anyone else for that matter. Even himself.”

You stilled, turning your head to her.

“I don’t need protection from Elijah. Why would you even say that? He’s a good boy, mama.”

“He’s a good boy now, Y/N. But we all know who his daddy is…”

“Elijah ain’t his daddy. He’s just him. N he’s a good friend to me, mama.”

Your mama shook her head and turned around to return to the stove. “You know I have eyes too, Y/N. I see the way that boy looks at you. N’ I see the way you look at him."

"N what way is that?" you asked defiantly.

"The way I looked at your daddy when we first met. Actin like you ain’t sweet on each other. It’s friendship today, yall too young for much else. But in time, it won’t be friendship. 'N not all good boys grow to be good men, Y/N.”

You shook your head in disbelief at her words. You tossed down your towel. “I know him, mama. You keep sayin' I got a gift but you don't trust that I know him? I know what I need to know."

“Quit hasslin’ that girl, Evie," your father jumped in, saving you the beating with a switch your mother would unleash if you kept pushing her. Even if you were technically right.

"You wasn’t listenin’ to Mama Mabel when I started comin round either. She just like you. Young, stubbon, n in love.”

“We’re not in love,” you tried to interject when your mama cut you off.

“Aint the same thing at all. We was grown, not two kids chasin’ after each other. That boy ain’t no good. Everybody in town know it. Why you think you’re the only one that spends any time with the twins?”

“Cause you raised me to do right by people who do right by me. N Elijah does right by me, helps me. Why ain’t that enough for you?”

“She right, Evie. N nothin’ you say gon’ change her mind n you know it,” Your father stood tall, his broad shoulders and frame taking up the door frame into the kitchen.

“I guess errbody in this house know better than me, huh? Like I ain’t the mama n I just don’t know shit,” your mama ranted as she angrily stomped back into your parents’ bedroom.

You bit down on your lip, your anxiety at upsetting her clashing with your gratefulness for your father for defending you. You understood it was your mother’s job to be concerned and protective but what you felt for Elijah? It was not some childish infatuation. And you knew he felt more for you.

“Do me n you a favor n don’t push it again tonight, aight? I’ll make sure she lets you go tomorrow.”

He leaned down so you could peck him on the cheek, too tall for you to reach even when you stretched. “Thank you, daddy.”

Tomorrow had never seemed so distant, as if they were asking you to wait ions not hours.

You’d get up at first light to check on him, you decided as you laid in bed. Elijah was an early riser anyway so he’d be awake. You made a plan to sneak over a few pieces of cornbread for them for breakfast too. Seemed like they only ate well at your or Mary's house and they had not been around in days. It would not be much but you could convince Elijah and Elias to come over for dinner once you saw them.

You tossed and turned into the night, sleep difficult to sustain as worry consumed you with every passing moment. The wind against your window, the calls and rustles of nighttime critters called out to you, begging you to break your mother’s rules altogether and race to him.

Something was wrong. You could feel it.

However, despite your age, you knew this was not the world for reckless choices, not for people who carried your skin tone. Reckless choices led to death and harm, harm you were forced to confront daily.

So you tempered yourself. The morning. At first light. You’d be safe and you’d make sure he was too.

A soft thud against your window disrupted your fitful tossing and turning. You glanced over your shoulder, deciding it must’ve been a small bird or something running into it. However, before your head could fall back onto your pillow, you noticed a hand knocking on it again.

Who on Earth would be at your window?

But you knew it could only be one person.

“Elijah.” You whispered it as a prayer as you catapulted yourself out of bed.

Your nightgown swayed around your feet as you tiptoed to your window. Something warm nestled in your chest, loosening the sharp talons of concern enough for you to breath again.

You gently pushed open your window, the clouds bathing you both in darkness. As your eyes adjusted, you could see Elias’ frame leaning against the house a few feet away.

“Elijah! You know it ain’t safe to be out in the middle of the night. You two alright?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he whispered, his voice more unsure than you ever remembered it being. “But he needs you.” He paused, hesitating for a second before his eyes fell down to his hands. “I… need you.”

Your eyes misted, three simple words steamrolling you like a train. You knew since your first meeting two years ago that, in some complex way, Elijah needed you as you needed him. But he never asked for it, never explicitly said the words.

But here, in a voice as uncertain and broken as you’d ever heard him, he asked for you. And there was not a world in which you would deny him.

A shift in the clouds bathed them in moonlight, his bruises and the dried blood splattered across his shirt. You did not need to be able to see Elias to know, if Elijah looked this bad, his state was far worse.

You clenched your eyes. You knew something had been wrong. You reached your hand through the window, cupping his cheek briefly as your heart splintered for him and his brother. How could anyone hurt them like this? They deserved so much better.

His head nestled softly into your palm as if it was the first comforting touch he had felt in far too long, a single tear sliding down his cheek. Your thumb whisked it away as he sniffled, clearly trying to hold it all inside.

“You got me, I promise. Meet me at the shop door.”

A look of guilt formed on his face.

“Yo mama? Don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

“Sleep. But I don’t care.”

He pressed a kiss into your palm, your heart fluttering.

This boy… your mother’s words of warning floated back to your mind. She had been so wrong. Whatever this was was so much more than friendship already. You were not certain you could live without him. You tentatively leaned forward and pressed your lips to where your palm had just been. You had never kissed him before but it felt right, like what he needed to know you would choose him, be there for him, every time.

“Come round to the front, okay? I’ll be right there.”

You grabbed your granny’s shawl, which she has given to you shortly after falling ill, wrapping it around your shoulders. You quietly snuck out of your room and down the hall to the shop attached to your parents’ home.

You were quiet, praying your mama and daddy stayed sound asleep for a while.

You held open the door, both staggering in, Elijah leading Elias to the bed while you turned to light a few candles.

With a candle in hand, you started to rush toward Elijah but a minuscule jerk of his head forced you to change course. Elias first, always.

As you approached them, you had to muffle a gasp. While their father had always done his worst, this seemed beyond even that, their bodies bloodied and bruised to a degree that should send their father straight to a county jail. Blood caked around a poorly patched wound on Elias’ head, which you figured accounted for the blood splattered on both their clothes.

You were so focused on their injuries that you did not even notice the pistol held tightly in Elijah’s hand.

Elias’ head hung low, a certain shame and despair settling around him that you weren’t accustomed to. His signature smile gone and the mischievous glint in his eyes completely extinguished.

Your finger lifted Elias’ head as you gently pulled the bandage off his forehead, the young man hissing in pain. Your breath was sharp as you took in the gash on his head.

“What he hit you with?” No one’s hands could produce such a wound. He hesitated. “You can tell me,” you whispered.

You were not as close to Elias as Elijah, of course, but as you fell in love with Elijah, a more sisterly love similarly bloomed for his more talkative half.

“Pistol whipped me. H-He didn’t mean it… tho,” Elias offered slowly, his voice breaking slightly as his hand lifted to wipe away a tear. “He was ju-...“

You glanced over at Elijah whose eyes seemed to soften for a mere moment with guilt before settling into something far harsher.

“I know. But let’s worry bout you for a while. Not him, hmm? Let me bandage this up right so you can get some rest. Then we can talk bout the rest in the mornin.’”

“Will it scar?” He asked quietly, a fear you often heard with injuries to people’s heads and faces.

“I think I can preserve your good looks,” You offered with a grin as you grabbed everything you needed to clean him up. “This gon’ sting a bit.” You paused for a moment before adding, “You know even with a scar, Mary would think you’re still the better lookin’ twin.”

You tucked your legs under you as you worked, cleaning his wounds and bruises with intense care. Your words about Stack’s crush, Mary, lightened the load weighing him down. His body perked up ever so slightly and he gave you the tiniest half smile.

“Ain’t nobody thinkin’ bout Mary,” he muttered, unconvincingly.

You merely nodded with a skeptical look on your face. “Uh huh, I’m sure nobody is. You know… she’s sweet on you too. Too shy to say it, maybe but she asks bout you all the time. Like today when I ran into her at the store.”

“What she say?” he asked far too quickly.

You giggled, even Elijah cracking a smile that made your heart soar.

“Thought nobody was thinkin’ bout Mary?” You teased playfully. “Just asked if I’d seen you round. Told me to tell you hi if you both came by.” You lifted his head to study it again before nodding. “Head wounds bleed an awful lot but you don’t need stitches or nothin’. Keep it covered, don’t mess with it, n’ it shouldn’t scar too bad. Got some salve for the cuts and bruises."

“Thanks, Y/N.”

“Of course, Elias. I’m just sorry you…” You stopped yourself, they never needed or wanted anyone’s sympathies. “Just sorry. How bout you lay down while I tend to this one?”

“If he’ll let you.”

“I think he’ll let me. I got the magic touch. But I’ll need you if he gives me any trouble. I’ll grab you another blanket.”

However, when you turned around, Elijah had already pulled another out and sat it beside you.

Of course he knows where we keep the spare blankets.

You draped the extra blanket over him, gently ensuring it covered his entire body. Your hand rested on his shoulder for a brief moment before you turned to grab the few things you needed to care for Elijah.

“Thanks.”

The word was soft, almost inaudible, but you heard and felt it all the same.

“You’re welcome. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”

You gestured for him to follow you to your bedroom. You snapped the door shut, knowing you’d be in a world of hurt if your mama caught you with a boy in your room. But you’d accept whatever punishment she doled out. Caring for Elijah would be worth every minute.

“Shouldn’t be in here. Your mama will…”

“I told you, I don’t care bout none of that Elijah,” you offered as you went to sit your burning candle on your nightstand before turning back to his rigid form by the door. Now able to truly focus on him, you saw it. His pistol.

The gun should’ve scared you, should’ve made you call for your daddy to talk to him. But you found that you were not in the least bit scared. All you saw in his eyes was exhaustion. Not anger, not rage… not an intent to cause harm. Just a weariness you were only familiar with in the eyes of the elderly, people who were haunted by too much.

It wasn’t fair.

“You’re worth every bit of trouble I’ll be in.”

Your words seemed to almost startle him as if no one had ever considered him worth sacrifice. You could tell he almost could not process such an idea, such consideration and devotion directed at him.

“Thanks for takin’ care of him,” he offered lowly as you closed the space between the two of you.

“Don’t gotta thank me. He’s gon’ be alright. So you gon’ put that down ‘n let me take care of you now?”

The old pistol shook as soon as you drew his scattered attention to it, likely for the first time since they stepped into your home. Now, no longer under the eye of his younger brother, the cracks in his iron wall started to show.

Your hands slowly cradled his face as he tried to avert his gaze, his eyes glassy from tears he refused to let fall.

“Elijah… you’re safe now.”

Silence. You did not repeat yourself, did not rush him to move or surrender his weapon or soul to you. That was not the way with Elijah. No, you just stood still beside him in the silence until he felt safe enough to move or speak.

“I… I needed it,” he finally whispered, his words barely audible. “H-he wasn’t gon’ stop. H-He was j-just gonna keep on hurtin… N’ Elias… he- I thought he was-” his words splintered as he finally spoke life into whatever brought them to you. “I had to do it.”

You did not miss the implications in his words, how he spoke about his father as he was - not how he is. You foolishly assumed the blood had been Elias but now the look in his eyes told a very different story. Your eyes clenched shut for a moment, your head bowing in sadness. Not for the loss of his father’s life, he did not deserve to live given what he did to his own sons. But for what Elijah was forced to do to be safe, to be free.

“H-he hit em with it n… I… took it. I d-didn’t even think… just had to. Y-You gotta believe me, I didn’t… h-he was gonna-”

Your hand moved to grab his free one as his sentences broke apart into pieces, frantic and erratic. He pleaded his case but you did not need to hear it. You saw what his father was capable of so you knew exactly what he feared, what your small corner of the world would believe.

“Breath for me, Elijah.” You helped him take deeper breaths, your hand moving to his chest to ensure his heart rate slowed back down a bit.

“I believe you, I know what you had to do, Elijah. But hey, look at me,” You gently lifted his chin so his solemn brown eyes were set on yours. His free hand gripping your hip to bring you closer to him. “It’s just me here. Just your girl. N I promised to be good to you so… you don’t need that in here, not with me.”

He said nothing, an internal battle raging so loudly around him that you could almost hear the debate. To acquiesce the weapon would force him to confront what transpired, what they lost throughout their childhood, and what they lost today. And you did not know if he was ready for that just yet. But you’d stand here as long as it took for him to rest.

“You can put it down. Just for while? Let me take care of you, Elijah. Please. Put it down for me, baby.”

At your pleas, he lifted his hand, allowing you to pry the weapon from his fingers. It pained you to move from his presence, even for the few seconds it would take to stow the gun somewhere safely. In those few seconds, the tremble in his hands spread to his whole frame.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whispered as you rushed back up to him, enveloping him in the most tender hug you could muster.

You could feel his surrender. First, of his body as he went slack, falling heavy and fully into your embrace. His legs gave way to his weight like paper beneath him, forcing you both onto the weathered wooden planks of the floor.

Then, of his heart as he shifted you into his lap. He intertwined your bodies so tightly, you no longer were certain where he began and you ended. No space for the ancestors between you as you clung to each other as if you were the rarest of air.

And his last and most vulnerable surrender of his soul as the dam finally burst and tears fell and sobs bubbled to the surface.

Neither of you spoke, time simply slipped past you both without conscious thought because every thought was wrapped up in your private cocoon. You just allowed him the space to feel it all privately, and stayed exactly where you were so he knew he’d always have comfort. He’d always have you.

Eventually, he shifted to look at you, his eyes bloodshot and filled with the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day. Of his life.

“Didn’t mean to… I’m sor-” he started to say but you would not hear it or accept it.

“Don’t apologize to me. Whatever you need, I’m here. You wanna lay down?”

He nodded softly, allowing you to extrapolate yourself from his arms long enough to get off the floor. You led him gently to your bed, both of you climbing in without thought or hesitation. Your bodies were chaste but the energy around you cracked with intimacy, yearning, need. You kept a gentle hand on his arm while you laid facing each other.

It was improper, you both knew, but you were not sure you cared. You were not sure you would have even been able to rest if he were too far from you.

You often found yourself searching for Elijah, finding his presence in a crowded room before anyone else's. You did not quite understand it, how instinctual it felt to be near him. But it was the strongest you’d ever felt tonight, this irresistible pull to be as close to him as possible, decency be damned.

“You think it makes me like him? Like everybody say?” The words were so faint but the weight of them, the fear in his voice let you know if he had been scared to ask it, scared of the answer. “T-that I was able to… maybe I’m a monster too.”

“No.” The sudden blaze in your eyes was fierce. "Never wanna hear you talk about yourself like that. He was the monster n you saved yourself. Freed yourself n your brother from him. That's all that matters.”

“N you? You not… scared of me cause of what I did?”

“I could never be scared of you, Elijah. You’re my best friend. You hurt him to defend someone you love, defend yourself. N that’s brave… that’s strength n courage. N that tells me everything I need to know about your heart. Your soul. N the kinda man you’ll be.”

He seemed skeptical, even in the darkness. So you continued, taking his hand and bringing it to your chest, “I know who you are, Elijah Moore. You’re a protector… you’re loyal, devoted, kind, gentle. You could never be a monster… Not to me.”

His hand rested tightly on your hip. Your bodies inched closer to each other, Elijah’s lips capturing yours. The first brush of his lips was light as a feather before he pressed in. Slow and deliberate as everything Elijah did was.

If someone had stolen your heart right then, you imagined its glow would eclipse the moon. In his arms, you felt flooded with such light that you could shine as bright as the Sun outside. You’d never been kissed before, never felt the fire of another’s touch quite like this. But it was surreal, magic as if the ancestors had blessed this stolen moment.

You loved this boy. And he eliminated any confusion or doubt you had that such a love was reciprocated. It was and it was the sweetest freedom this world had to offer. Your soul felt as if it could float away with Elijah Moore and no one and nothing on this Earth could stop you.

You whimpered as he pulled away, your body jerking forward in a bid to reclaim his lips. He rested his forehead against yours, pulling your body so you were flush against his chest.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered in your ear. “Don’t know what’s next… what Elias n I gon’ do but I know I want you around. That I wanna be more than good to you as a friend.”

“I love you too, Elijah.”

When you returned to the present, you realized you were not the only one who retreated into the past. That memory played like a film in both your minds, the only oblivious one seemed to be Stack who was contently rolling a cigarette, wanting for one of you to speak.

“Or at least one of you is,” you cleared your throat and threw him a teasing grin, desperate to stop the tension from rising to a boil. “Ancestors haven’t given me the final verdict on you yet, Stack.”

“I’ll just have to have a talk with em, then?”

“They don’t respond to threats,” you reminded him with a playful grin. “Don’t think you’ll get very far.”

“My powers of persuasion have evolved over the years, lil sis. They even work on you now.” He gracefully threw his hat back on his head as he stood, handing the cigarette he had been rolling in between bites of food to his brother.

However, this time, he rejected it with a slight shake of his head as his hand reached for his pipe, still in the window sill where he always kept it.

He caught your eye, which had softened at the exchange. Stack still rolled for him, not out of habit or kindness. But out of necessity. You hoped, when he first returned home from the war, that the tremors were temporary. That one day, he’d be able to do something other than hold a gun with a steady hand. Even though he’d proclaim, for your benefit, his gratefulness at being one of the “lucky ones.”

“Just an unsteady hand n bad dreams,” he’d say. “Nothin’ worth cryin’ over. "

But you knew, back then, that he did not feel lucky when you examined the resigned and defeated look that haunted his eyes with every tremor. The pang of sadness in yours to see him struggle with a pain your gifts were not enough to heal, a pain that made you question whether all your prayers and work to keep them safe had been enough.

Stack merely chuckled and handed over his lighter. “See nothin’ round here’s changed. Gonna grab a few hours of shut eye,” he gestured toward the spare bedroom in your home.

“Go head. Smoke that o-“

“On the porch, I know I know. Whatever yall bout to do… just don’t be too loud. I need my beauty rest.”

Before stepping outside, he walked up to you and pulled you into a tight hug. You were surprised at first before you leaned into it earnestly. He was not Elijah but there were wisps of comfort in Stack’s embrace, tendrils that wrapped around you with warmth and comfort.

“You aight, lil bit?” His voice low as his own eyes examined you, reviving a nickname you'd once prayed would be left in the past..

The lighthearted smile on his face took a moment to reach his eyes, replacing the flash of real concern you spotted within them. As loyal and protective as his brother when it came to you. You had not realized just how much until now, but you had missed him so much too.

“Yea I’m ok. Think that twin of yours’ll believe me?” Your voice dropped a bit to a fake whisper, grinning as Smoke rolled his eyes. He always claimed you and Stack were “conspiring” to tease him, gang up on him.

He chuckled before placing a chaste kiss on your cheek.

“Not a chance. Just glad we were…” He stopped himself, glancing at Smoke before allowing the unfinished words to settle in your kitchen as calmly as an off note on a piano.

It felt wrong to remember it here. Breath life into it here. But you knew you would have to. Elijah would not allow you not too.

“Me too,” you answered simply. “Thanks. And for bringin’ this one back to me in one piece.”

“Anythin’ for you. Night,” he squeezed your hand one last time for good measure and clapped Elijah on the shoulder before disappearing out your back door. It creaked in the night air, a tense symphony to the long-awaited private reunion with your husband.

You watched the door until it shut with soft finality. Restlessness, itchy and uncomfortable, spread in your chest as you two stared at each other. You glanced down at his plate, food still untouched.

“How long?”

Your eyes bored into him, not uttering a single word. Stretching and twisting his patience but you never particularly cared about that when your mind was focused on his well-being. When was the last time he even ate a real meal? Your eyes flickered his bowl and back up to him in a pointed fashion. A demand from his wife, one you knew he would not refuse. Elijah grunted his exasperation before eating two heaping spoonfuls to appease you.

Not enough to relax you but just enough to loosen your lips.

“How long?” The new edge in his voice felt just as sharp and quick as a blade. Reiterating. Demanding.

“Couple months. Hattie can’t stand on her feet for long anymore with her back. You know my brothers, they can only guard the door n try to fuck every girl that walks through it. Hattie said, ‘Needed somebody charmin’ n pretty to serve drinks n they ‘bout as charmin’ n pretty as rattlesnakes.’”

He took another bite off his plate, your body slowly easing back into the counter Elijah’s hands crafted for you. This maddeningly sweet dance you two weaved since you were children. A battle of wills and instincts between a caretaker and a protector. Two sides of the same stubborn ass coin. But when you both demanded answers but also required care? It was a battle to see who would surrender control and lean into vulnerability first?

Often, you succumbed first, soaking up the healing aura of Elijah for as long as you could spare. It had taken so long for him to convince you that it was not selfish to need him. To put yourself first. That it was not a burden to him as you feared, it was a privilege.

But you were not sure you were ready to crumble just yet. You did not know whether you wanted to fall into his arms and weep, curse the ground he walked on for abandoning you, or just run into your bedroom and sob. And you knew he would push and force you to make a decision sooner rather than later. It was inevitable but you could buy yourself some time.

“But there won’t be a charming soul left in the family now when Hattie gets her hands on me for breakin’ all those bottles.”

“Stack’ll talk to her in the mornin. Give her money for the liquor.”

“Thank you. She got a softer spot for money than me.”

“Everybody got a soft spot for money ‘cept you.”

“I just know it don’t get you nothin’.”

“Gives you freedom.”

“No kind that’ll last. Real freedom ain’t tethered to somethin’ someone can take from you.”

You bowed your head as your body leaned into the carved back of Stack’s former chair, silence surrounding you. It felt so familiar, countless minutes turned to hours spent in this kitchen while you worked or cooked and Smoke just sat with you. He just existed with you, let you talk his ear off or sit in utter silence. Whatever you needed in that moment, while he existed in your peace.

“You alright?”

“Suppose so. Still standin’.”

“Been a minute. But you know that ain’t what I asked, darlin’.”

He knew no one understood him like you, understood the intention behind every word he spoke like you did. Often, he did not need to say anything at all.

“I’m fine. It happens.”

“Some other nigga put his hands on you?” His eyes flashed with red, his hand instinctively twitching toward his gun.

“No, no. That ain’t what I… just that you know, men gettin’ drunk n too handsy at a juke ain’t exactly anythin’ uncommon. Shook me up a bit but no sense dwellin’ on it.”

He said nothing, infuriating silence loud pounding your kitchen like the bass in the juke joint.

“I’m fine, Smoke.” You attempted to reiterate.

His hand paused as he started to bring his pipe up to his lips. You let out a sigh and cursed under your breath.

Smoke. The fatal tell. If you used his moniker in this house, he knew one of two things were true: He was in trouble or you weren’t ready for him to be Elijah. Because there was no hiding with Elijah. Your love demanded authenticity, it demanded truth. Your deepest joys and purest happiness to the agonizing sorrows and terrifying vulnerabilities. In each other’s arms, there was no pretending.

You tried to deflect, push the conversation back onto him before he could pick at that thread further.

“You gon’ tell me why you came back? What trouble you and that fool out there brought back with you?”

“No trouble this time.”

“There’s always trouble chasin’ Stack. Which means there’s always trouble chasin’ you.”

“No trouble chasin’ either of us. We did what we needed in Chicago, now we back.”

“Why? For how long?”

“For you. Only reason to come back. Now… you gon’ keep standin’ over there or come here so I can take care of you?”

You raised your eyebrow, communicating that you were not ready to fall into his arms so quickly regardless of what he saved you from. He left you. You accepted it, you understood it, you justified it. But you would not pretend that it had not broken something in the depths of your spirit, leaving you lost without a piece of your heart for years.

And being back in his presence made every bit of it bubble up again. All that love, all that righteous rage, all that agony. You felt it. Those endless nights you laid awake sobbing resigned to living with the knowledge that - despite the depths of love you held for him - you weren’t enough to keep him here. The knowledge that life would be duller, so much darker without him and you'd just have to learn to live with that.

If you were going to open the floodgates again, let all the love you stored for him flow like waters through the Delta, you needed to know he was not just passing through. You needed to know that when the sun rose at dawn, he’d still be there. And when the sun would rise the next day and every day after, he’d still be here. With you.

You wished you were strong enough to withstand such torment again. But you wouldn’t. Seeing him again, even wrapped in his silent steadfast energy again, you did not think you’d be able to survive without him again. So you needed to know he was not planning to abandon you again, that he was going to put in the effort to earn your trust.

“What if I don’t need you to take care of me anymore? Been takin’ care of myself fine… Tonight excludin’,” you muttered, acknowledging the miniscule raise of his eyebrow at your words. “But hardly your business to tell me I need takin’ care of when…” you stopped yourself, turning away from him in frustration and shame at what almost crossed your lips. You didn’t want to still be angry. Your fingers curled into a tight fist to stop yourself from unleashing all that suppressed hell and outrage on him.

“Say what you gotta say, baby. I can take it.”

“You… you left me here. Abandoned me here alone. Broke your promise for eight years."

Your eyes glistened with tears, all that devastation threatening to boil over along with all the love you were struggling to maintain control over. There was not one without the other in a love like this.

”What if I’m still mad about that?” Your voice fell quieter, back to chewing your lip. “What if I’m still mad at you? What if I… hate you?”

The word did not even feel right directed at him. But that was what most women and men whose spouses ran off into the night felt. Hatred, deep and boiling, all consuming. Isn’t that what everyone would tell you to feel? To scream and curse him for leaving and then sauntering back as if nothing had changed. Some part of you desired to feel that, to just be angry. Anger was easier than confronting the hurt, all the nights you questioned your love, your worth. All the time lost without the person you could not live without.

He tilted his head as he blew out a billow of smoke. He sat it gently by his ashtray, never taking his eyes off of you.

“I’d deserve it. N I’ll spend every day of the rest of my days provin’ that I’ll still be good to you… like I promised.”

He stood up, slowly closing the space between you with calm and assured steps. He stood before you and all you wanted to do was touch him. Your hand twitched, desperate to rest on his chest, feel his hard-earned muscles beneath them, but you tightened a hand around your arm to stop yourself. Your body swayed as if his aura compelled you forward, a captivating drug enticing you to just surrender to him. You almost forgot why you were resisting.

His hand cradled your cheek, a content sigh escaping without warning at his touch. Soft. Warm. Healing.

“Yell at me, curse me… give me your worst, Y/N, for as long as you need, darlin’. I’ll take it. I’ll own it. Cause I love you. Never stopped lovin’ you. You get to be mad at me all you want. But I know he hurt you.”

“N-No, he didn’t. You made sure of that.”

“Just cause he ain’t leave a bruise, don’t mean he ain’t hurt you, baby. Ain’t that what you told me?”

“Hate when you repeat my words back to me,” you grumbled.

“I know you do, baby. Can’t help that you’re always right.” His hand gently tilted your head so your eyes were focused on him. You knew he could see it all. The anger, the heaviness, the sadness… the guilt and shame.

“I just wanna take care of you, like you’ve always done for me. If you’ll let me? Please.”

His voice was the soft embrace of a prayer, the steadiness of a summer rain shower. You could see the warm fog that was him encompassing you, slowly eating away at the walls you erected when he left until there was nothing standing between him and your soul.

In the contemplative silence, he retreated to his chair, sitting with his legs spread wide. An action that communicated your agency, that it was your choice whether to seek his comfort, seek his love. His words were a plea you could easily refuse. You could walk away, curse him as he suggested, and leave him alone at your table to feel a fraction of the rejection you did.

But how would that heal you? You wanted to feel whole more than you wanted to be prideful. And only his anchoring spirit and tender touch could stitch you back together this time.

Your steps toward him were tentative, each step increasing your courage. However, you stopped yourself just before he was at arm's length. He’d wait as long as it took, you knew. A natural nurturer and protector falling in love foretold some challenges. You each required patience, and a certain degree of coaxing, to strip yourselves bare. It was difficult, even with each other, to reveal the pieces of yourselves that were composed of glass, not steel. The pieces too fragile for another soul to hold.

One final question. And you knew you couldn’t surrender without an answer. Because in those eight years, in that abyss of heartache, you had become more like glass than he remembered. And you would not withstand the blow of him leaving again, not if this was not permanent.

“You leavin’ again?”

His eyes filled with sincerity, whatever was left of the boy you fell in love with and the man you married shining through.

“Next time I leave you, it’ll be to leave this world. I’m not goin’ anywhere again.”

His words loosened out the knot in your stomach, forcing you to nod. You had no other excuses, no other reasons not to feel everything the night conjured, every emotion consuming you.

You stepped in between his legs, your hands gingerly resting on his shoulders as you stared down at him. His hands gripped the soft curves of your hips to bring you as close as humanly possible before perching you on his thigh.

Your hands slid up to cup his face, his beard tickling your palms. Your eyes stung as you just stared at him for a brief moment.

“Elijah,” you whispered his name like a blessing as your entire body finally gave in, sagging into him as you finally felt the weight of the last eight years.

His broad hands tightened you to his hardened chest. If you leaned in any further, you’d be living in his skin. This was more than you could have dreamed. The callouses of hands against your skin, the soothing rise and fall of his calming breaths, his reassuring familiarity of his scent.

So perfectly him.

His natural musk from a long day in the Mississippi heat. The lingering hints of citrus in his cologne. The sting of gunpowder from defending your honor. Even the fading bite of copper from drying blood. Richly weaving the soothing scent of a man fiercely devoted to you. The soothing scent of home.

And with every moment in his arms, it became harder to hold the rushing waters back. Your poorly constructed dam fracturing with every second he held you. Because this was the one thing time was not powerful enough to diminish. Elijah remained forever your healer, forever the one place you could retreat to feel everything. And you were his.

“Look at me.”

You did not heed his instructions, your body tensing against his from the shame.

“It’s alright, darlin’. You’re ok.”

His patience. Steady and calm. He rubbed soothing circles against your back, he whispered assurances in your ear until you pried yourself out of his neck to look at him.

“There’s my girl,” he whispered, his smile brighter than you’d ever seen it, a smile that reminded you he was your safe haven.

The tears that welled up in your eyes immediately spilled over as they met his concerned ones. You tried to wipe them away but he stopped you.

“I-I told him no, Elijah. I-I told him I w-was still yours. H-He just w-wouldn’t listen ‘n I got scared. N I j-just froze. I’m s-sorry. B-but I didn’t want him o-or that. You b-believe me, don’t you?” you stammered, your voice cracking as sobs threatened to escape your throat.

You did not realize how your fingers dug into his jacket, gripping the wool fabric tightly as you begged him to understand.

His hand massaged the base of your neck, the spot where all your tension resided, as he held your gaze to him. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Don’t apologize to me. Ain’t your fault. That the only time? He hurt you before?”

You could see the anxiety and concern in his eye, the fear that the answer would be no. That all the threats of violence he left in his wake had not been enough to protect you from the realities and evils of many men. Abandonment forced you to question much about your marriage over the last eight years. But one truth you could not deny was that Elijah would unapologetically turn their corner of the Mississippi River into a graveyard to avenge you, to punish any other man who thought they could harm you and live to tell the tale.

“Yea, only time.”

“Y/N.”

“Only time, I swear. Red is… was harmless, I thought.”

He held your gaze for a singular moment longer than he needed before he allowed your eyes to fall away from his and he buried his face in your neck.

“Only harmless man is a dead one,” he muttered into your supple skin.

“Well I imagine he very harmless now then?”

“And restin’ for eternity at the bottom of the Mississippi River. No nigga in this town gon’ be a problem for you again. I know what I did ain’t how you wa-“

Your intention was to assure him that all you felt was gratitude for his actions. But the first brush of your lips against his set your soul ablaze. Whatever self control you believed you possessed vanished, you were as wild and untamed as flames as your hand cradled the back of his neck, the other clutching tightly to his suit. A carnal need to bring him closer than you’d ever been before.

You held it back as long as you could, held onto the fraying threads for as long as possible. But they were broken and you needed him. More than a hug or kiss or sweet words. You needed him to strip you down and heal you from the inside out.

Frantic.

Desperate.

Hungry.

Elijah did not often let you take the lead, did not often allow you dominance in the bedroom. But today, he allowed your lips and tongue to do whatever they craved. To consume him.

It only ended with a need that superseded the desire flooding you. The frustrating human requirement to breathe.

You rested your forehead against his, chest rising and falling with every inhale and exhale.

“Thank you, Elijah.”

If you had not been on his lap, Elijah would have been hard-pressed to hear your words. your voice so soft, vulnerable, and sweet, everything he was not. You had never done that before. Specifically thanked him for his violence when it served you. Fussed at him for doing it against your wishes? Sure. Offered him a kiss shortly after fussing that he knew meant thank you, a reluctant understanding of how their world worked? More than once. But to utter the words? This was a first. And the only way he could think to properly acknowledge it was with a soft kiss.

Slower. Measured. Intentional. As all things Elijah did was. His hands shifted your waist, turning you so you naturally straddled his lap.

“What do you need, darlin?”

You sniffled. You allowed the comfortable silence you were accustomed to with Elijah to fill your space, calm the storm raging in your heart and soul. Slowly, those winds stopped lashing against your skin, the thunder quieted and you could find clarity again.

He was the only balm your soul needed, the only one that would work.

“I need your hands to be the ones I remember touchin’ me… not his.”

You knew the meaning was not lost on him, a quick flame of lust lighting in his eyes before he tempered himself.

“You sure?”

“Never been more sure of anythin’.”

And that was all the permission he needed. In a fluid motion, he stood, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, his hands gripping your ass, as he walked you to your bedroom. He could not see a thing as he kissed you, his legs moving off instinct to your marital bed.

He gently sat you on the edge of the bed, his strong arms shedding his suit jacket before he sank down to his knees before you. He stared up at you with the reverence of a man staring at his reason for being.

“You know I dreamed about you every day?” His steady low voice felt as smooth as honey, as calming as a soft summer breeze, against your soul. He kissed the top of your thighs as he pushed the cerulean blue silk fabric of your dress up.

“Your laugh, your smile, the way you feel in my arms… how you taste, your moans. Tried to come back to you so many times.”

“Why didn’t you?” You breathed out, everything in you aching for him.

“I was a fool, baby. N I’ll spend every day makin’ it up to you.”

His teasing touches proved he still knew how to expertly play the instrument that was you. Fine tuned to perfection, he knew every inch of you intimately. And the music he created? It summoned more than mere pleasure. It was a magic all its own, strengthening the glittering threads that connected your souls. In him, you saw the past. The present. And a new future.

His fingers hooked into your panties, your hips lifting just enough for him to pull them off. You expected him to discard them to the side but instead he brought them to his nose, inhaling the scent drenched into the fabric. His eyes fell closed as he inhaled, a shuddering breath escaped him as if the scent of your slick injected him with new life. And then, he discarded them with a cheeky wink in your direction.

His hands gripped the meat of your thighs, spreading them widely to reveal his promised land. He licked his lips, his eyes focused on the essence leaking from your folds, already creating a mess at the zenith of your thighs. You knew his intention by the glint in his eye and you instantly became aware of how long of a night it would be. Smoke could stay head down between your thighs for hours, unsatisfied until you were boneless. Until your brain was a vacant plane of yearning and pleasure.

“I missed you too, baby. Lay back for me, darlin.”

He hooked your legs over his shoulders, bringing you closer to the edge of your bed as you leaned back on the soft quilt. You did not lay down fully, choosing to prop yourself up on your elbows. Eye contact was an aphrodisiac for you both. To see the other in their most human element, so uninhibited. No one who knew you both would call you reckless. Tempered, steady, patient. But in these four walls, you could be wild. Watching him uncoiled something in your gut, unlocking a new altitude of pleasure to reach.

His eyes locked onto yours as his tongue communicated what he did not have the words to.

His agonizing remorse.

His unyielding reverence.

His everlasting devotion.

His unquenchable thirst.

All for you.

He poured it all into every stroke of his fingers into your weeping heat, every lick of his tongue against your sensitive button. You felt like a person gasping for air, every cell in your body struggling to consume him after being without it for just too long.

“Elijah! It’s… too much!”

“That’s right, scream my name, baby. Missed hearin’ you scream my name.” He detached himself from your flower long enough to gift you with a soft nip to the inner thigh before returning to his favorite meal.

It was almost too fast, how quickly you found yourself dangling from the edge of the cliff. The rocks rough against your palms as an oasis of bliss invited you to lose all control in it. But you found your brain would not allow you to let go, not just yet. You tensed as you inched closer to the point of no return but it did not feel as simple as it once was to give into him.

“You can let go, baby. I’ll be here, I’ll catch you. Cum for me, sweet girl.”

Some called you the witch, but what was he? What spell did he cast that gave him such control over you, mind, body, and soul? Only he could command your body to such a degree? That every barrier crumbled at his assurances, his word? That he knew the layers of your soul so intimately that he knew his actions had shaken your trust, your foundation. And that one night would not erase that. But it was proof that he would offer whatever assurances you required, as often as you desired, to knock down every barrier your brain erected. Brick by brick, for as long as it took to earn your forgiveness again.

“Fuck! Fuckkkk! I c-can’t… Elijah!”

Your head fell back in ecstasy. Shuddering, shaking, breathless. The meager orgasms you gave yourself paled in comparison to what his skills provided. This was more than a reunion. It felt like a renaissance of your love, a revival of the sheer extent of joy he gave you space to feel.

“That’s it, darlin’. Fuck, you taste too good. So sweet,” he lapped up your juices hungrily, sending continued jolts of pleasure as you fell back fully onto the comforter.

“Elijah… please,” you moaned, your body twitching away from him from the overload of pleasure.

Your curls had fallen out of the updo you had created for the night, your eyes half closed lazily as your hand rested on your chest. You just needed to catch your breath. You were lucky these days if your orgasms moved you with the strength of the creek near your home. Elijah’s were the force of the ocean, knocking you right off your feet. And yet, you did not know if you actually wanted him to give you reprieve.

You were exhausted. But the chant building in the back of your mind was so much louder. More, more, more.

And frankly, far more enticing.

“You ready for me, pretty girl?”

“Please… I need you.” You would rest plenty amongst the ancestors one of these days. As for tonight? Your words were colored in desperation to be filled to the brink. To feel everything your body harbored and release it into the world.

You watched as he stood up, just long enough to shed the rest of his suit. It accentuated his hard-earned muscles, taunt and straining against his thick physique. But as delectable as it looked on him, it would look far better on the floor.

He unbuckled his pants, his eyes never leaving yours, as he pulled them off.

You licked your lips, your eyes glossing over with lust as you took in his manhood. Hard, thick, and leaking just enough that you wanted to ignore the ache between your legs and steal a taste. You missed the weight of him against your tongue, the salty taste of his cum. But you knew he was not going to let you steal that treat just yet. He was as desperate to be inside you as you were for him to be.

Your logical brain snuck to the forefront for a single moment, showing through in the faintest flicker of fear buried underneath fogs of lust in your eyes. His girth. Even when he made a sport of bending you over every surface in your home day after day, the stretch could still take your breath away. But eight years without him? Without nothing more than a finger or two? You would need him to take it a lot slower than he remembered.

Would that bother him?

“See what you still do to me, darlin? How bad I need you?”

His hand slid down your thigh as he kissed you before gripping your hips. He lined himself up with your weeping entrance. However, he paused as your body tensed beneath him, anticipating the sharp pain of his thrust.

“What’s wrong, darlin?”

“N-Nothin’.”

“It’s somethin’. You wanna stop? We ain’t gotta-”

“NO! No!” You almost shouted, Smoke holding back laughter at the aggrieved look on your face at the idea that you’d ever want this to end. You glanced up at him with your perfect doe eyes and whispered, “It’s not that. It’s… silly.”

Elijah shook his head as he lazily rubbed his tip along your entrance, coating it in your juices and teasing you. “You ain’t never said nothin’ silly to me. I ain’t movin’ till you talk to me.”

Maybe we do hate him, you seriously considered for a moment. When all you desired was a hiding place, the man you fell in love with would never allow you to wallow in darkness. It was why you fell in love with him, even if you hated it sometimes.

“I just… haven’t been with anyone since you left. Not like this, anyway. N I remember what you like. Just… may need you to go a little easy on me at first, baby.”

“Worried you can’t take me, baby?” The heat of his breath tickled your skin as his lips dragged against your neck. His touch was so featherlike, you questioned whether he was actually touching you. “Cause I know you can. My girl can take me. Just relax n I’ll go as slow as you need.”

A lesser man would’ve just sheathed himself in your heat without consideration to the hesitation in your muscles. He likely would not have even noticed. But not Elijah.

He sucked at a sweet spot on your neck, his greatest discovery on his many voyages of your body, to add bursts of pleasure to the painful sting as he pushed inside you.

“Shit, shit, shit. Elijah… i-It hurts,” you cried out at the familiar stretch of being filled by him.

“Deep breaths, darlin’. Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

He kept his eyes on you as he sank deeper and deeper into them, and you. You breathed through it, feeling every inch of him fill you again, your soft whimpers and moans instructing his pace. When he bottomed out inside you, he held you there for a few moments, letting you adjust to it.

Your eyes connected for a moment and it felt as if the world cracked open around you. Everything else sifted away like sand. There was no him. No you. Just a love so eternal, it floated you above to the heavens before gently guiding you back home.

“Fuck. You’re takin’ me so well, darlin.”

For Smoke, you knew slow only meant cautious. His strokes remained as deliberate and powerful as you once remembered. However, today, he maintained a pace that forced you to remember what every inch of him felt like.

His grip on the meat of your hips was tight as if he worried something would steal you from right beneath him. Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he fucked into you with controlled precision, his entire being focused on bringing you pleasure.

“Yes! Shit, Elijah! I love it, I love it.”

“You like how I’m fuckin’ this pussy, baby? I can tell this fuckin’ tight pussy missed me, darlin’.”

“You f-feel soooo good, Eli… don’t stop. Ah!” You cried out at the uncomfortable stretch in the back of your thighs as he brought your legs to rest on his shoulders, allowing him fuck you deeper.

A litany of curse words flooded your room as you felt him deep in your guts as he fucked you slow and hard. Your eyes rolled back into your head as every stroke forced you deeper into your mattress.

“No nigga gon’ touch what’s yours n what’s mine again, you understand? You’re mine.” His words were punctuated by the loud slaps of skin as his hips hit the back of your thighs with every thrust. “Tell me whose you are, baby?”

“I’m yours!” You panted, your heart fluttering like a sea of swallowtails in the wind at his declaration. And there was no one else’s you’d rather be. “I l-love you. Fuckkkk, I love you.”

You felt as if time slowed down for you or perhaps you were too enthralled in each other as he showed you the secrets of this universe time after time after time. He had no reason to rush as he moved you from position to position and forced you to feel every moment in each one. You screamed his name over and over again as he fucked you with abandon.

The closer he came to, what you knew would be his last release for the night, he had lost all control. Your body fell into his as he pounded into you, your thighs giving out while you rode him. Your body breathless and utterly spent. But you both were chasing one last high, the perfect explosion of euphoria that would allow you to collapse in a heap of limbs until midday tomorrow.

“Eli… baby.. I-it’s too much. I c-can’t…”

“Don’t run from me, darlin’. You can take it, pretty girl. Last one for me,” he demanded, the vibrations of his voice enthralling you like a spell you could not withstand.

He pounded into you, your pussy clenching around him as you felt your orgasm build.

“Where you want it, darlin’?” He asked, his words accentuated with grunts as he bounced your body up and down on his dick.

You could barely formulate thoughts, your mind a canvas with his name painted over and over again. You just wanted to feel him. You were spent, your body maxed out and you still craved more? To feel every single thing he could offer?

“Inside me, baby!”

“Don’t say that shit to me, Y/N.” His voice was a lethal warning. A dangerous proposition that you both knew would unleash a feral side of Elijah, a man possessed.

But that was exactly what you wanted. What you needed.

“Need you to fill me, baby. Please,” you unabashedly begged into his ear, tears streaming down your face from the force of his strokes.

“Gonna fuckin’ flood this sweet ass pussy, fill you with my baby. You’d like that? Keep you in here, safe, round n pregnant?” Every word accompanied his most powerful strokes of the night, reaching places you believed to be anatomically impossible.

But you asked for this, demanded it actually. And you did not have an ounce of regret.

You crashed first as a last particularly deep thrust sent you tumbling off the summit. Your toes curled as he thrust into you final time, your orgasm only continuing in waves as you felt him fill you with warmth.

Your orgasm faded slowly as you felt him pulsing like a heartbeat inside you, coating your walls with his seed. He held you against him for a few moments, giving you both a moment to get your boots solidly planted on solid Earth. But there was also some small part of you that just did not want him to move, did not want this moment to end even though it lasted all night.

He let you feel him deflate inside you, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back as he held you close. You whimpered when he finally released himself from your warmth, shifting your boneless frame into a new position.

“Stay right there, baby. Hold on.”

“As if I could go anywhere,” you muttered lazily, you imagined your legs would work about as well as a newborn baby’s.

Your eyes started to fall shut in the few short moments it took him to grab a wet towel to clean the mess between your thighs. Once he was satisfied, he lifted your body and repositioned you so you were resting on your pillow.

Elijah walked around to his side of the bed, everything on his nightstand exactly as he left it. He had been so worried, scared that he would not recognize you or this place when he returned. He would’ve understood it, accepted it. He left, not you. But it would’ve been a difficult hurt to reckon with.

Time ensured that things had evolved. You had grown older, wiser, as he had, more slick at the mouth like Stack than he remembered. But the core of you, the girl he fell in love under a live oak tree? She was still standing, still as steady, vibrant, and uniquely her as he remembered.

Smoke had seen all the jewels and all the suffering this world offered its hands. He’d traveled every part of this world with his other half to find it, the amount of money or power to feel like no one could have power over them again. But no trucks filled to the brim of money could make him feel a fraction of the freedom you did. He had not needed to go searching for more when he had you and his brother. That was everything that mattered.

He slid into his side of the bed and immediately brought you into his chest. Muscle memory. Your soft brown eyes opened long enough to savor one last look at him before sleep consumed you. Your fingers played in the coarse hair of his beard as he brought your thigh to drape over his, allowing you to be as close as possible.

“Never thought I’d have this again. Thank you for comin’ back to me,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“Don’t thank me. I shouldn’t’ve left. N I’m sorry. But I’m gonna make it up to you like I said.”

“I know you will, Elijah Moore,” you grinned at him. “But don’t think we ain’t still havin’ that fight tomorrow,” you warned.

He would gladly fight with you all day if that was what you needed to heal, to move forward.

“I don’t expect nothin’ else.”

His lips curled into a rare smile, not his half one. But a true smile, as small as it was, it flooded your world with the light of the Sun. Decades with him and your heart still skipped a beat when Elijah Moore smiled at you. Your eyes welled up with tears as you savored the moment.

“Still make you cry that easy, huh?” He teased. “With just a smile?”

You gently swatted at his shoulder in faux annoyance. “Thought you’d given me your last smile a long time ago, I guess.” Your hand rested on his chest as he held you. “I missed it.”

“I’ll always give you a smile, Y/N. And my shoulder,” he winked at her, an ode to their history. Rich and long it was, but it still felt like yesterday.

He opened his arms, inviting you to snuggle into his chest in your preferred sleeping position. Your cheek rested against his chest, the light thumbs of his heart lulling you to sleep. A sigh of relief and contentment escaped your lips as you settled against him, his arms tightening around you.

Sleep came easier than it had in eight years. You were finally home.

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A/N: It's 2 am, idk who I think I am being up this late but when I tell y'all I was on a ROLL hahaha anyway, this became so much longer than it should've and took too long (sorry!) butttttt had to do big daddy justice hahaha

Drop a comment and let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!

Also I got a lot of the tags but not everyone! So sorry!! I'll update when it isn't 2 am lol

#black writers #michael b jordan x oc #black panther #michael b jordan #michael b jordan x reader #sinners #sinners 2025 #smoke x reader #elijah smoke moore

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