#but it's a marriage without love and a love without marriage

[raisinchallah]

the het shipper experiences self denial far greater than the fujoshi does i find it fascinating how many like popular m/f relationships defined by their like camaraderie and like viewing each other as equals in a job or profession where they have separate yet entangled lives and like its a drawn out subtextual tension or whatever like in many ways this is straight yaoi like the introduction of women into the professional workforce in jobs previously reserved for men gives this chance to have the fantasy of the woman treated with the same level of respect as the man and like to see this flavor of like the buddy trope now envisioned with its full romantic subtext when one of them is a woman or whatever but the het shipper denies themselves their true desires and works to make sense of this through basic romantic milestones like why do so many people want mulder and scully to get married or cohabitate or have kids like ur fully insane the operative fantasy is the fact scully never has to wash mulders socks you know like its that its entirely divorced from the home and allowed to be an equal partnership and you can literally see this break down in the show itself like the well loved amongst shippers episode where they go undercover in suburbia and its like normal mulder and scully goes out the window for bad jokes about domestic work and wanting scully to take care of certain things like in many ways the romantic fantasy of their relationship entirely disappears if u try and make it conform to these specific milestones but like they literally can be in a relationship but live in separate places they dont have to get married like you could open your mind and realize what you actually like and desire about this fantasy and thing about whats necessary or unnecessary here but people are so trapped in their normative ideas of romantic relationship milestones they cant imagine them both respecting each other and having sex and also choosing to prioritize each other forever without like marriage and children entering the picture which again completely defeats what people find desirable about them in the first place and this is a place of imagination you know anyways the ideology of the heterosexual mind..

[jeondesu]

LITTLE HANDS, BIG HEARTS — ꒰ 스트레이 키즈 ꒱

⌯ a collection of short stories following along the journeys of you and your marriage + sweet moments with your little family !

── ✧ ˚. ꒰ 𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ dad!skz x f!reader ˒˓ established relationship 𝓰enre/𝓽ags. pure fluff, very wholesome and cute domestic vibes, mentions of food and kissing, i think that’s really it.. 𝔀ords. 3.8k

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — ok so this turned out completely different than what i was originally envisioning on doing but i personally liked this idea way more idk >< i’m still battling w my writing abilities so pls go easy on me guys, i actually spent hours working on this so i’d love to know your thoughts if you have any :’) <3

방찬/BANG CHAN.

Raising four-year-old twin girls was most definitely not for the weak. There was never a dull moment in your household, and today would be no different. You already knew it was going to be a long morning the minute you caught Hyewon attempting to put sunscreen on the dog.

Before she even had the chance to empty the bottle on his tail, you quickly scramble to grab it. “Wonnie, no- no, that’s for you, not Berry,” you say gently, letting out a mini sigh of relief to yourself. Meanwhile, Haerin, was sitting quietly over by the front door, tightly clutching her beloved plush bunny, Tokki, like her life depended on it.

“She’s gonna drop it in the ocean,” you whisper worriedly to Chan as you zipped up the beach bag with last minute necessities. “Or forget it in the sand. You know how she gets—”

Chan looked up from packing the cooler and gave you a soft, slightly teasing smile. “Yeah, but you know how she gets without Tokki.”

Deep down, you knew he was right, and it was only a matter of time until you eventually caved in and agree. Haerin lights up like a thousand fireflies, hugging Tokki to her chest with a tiny, “thank you, Mommy.”

Somehow, miraculously, you managed to herd the two whirlwinds out of their pajamas, into their matching strawberry-print swimsuits and get everyone buckled up in the car. Chan was adjusting his sunglasses, worn with the world’s most offensively bright Hawaiian shirt, gifted by his own dad years ago, and grinned as he pulled out of the driveway.

The drive was filled with nothing but carseat chaos and boisterous laughter, Hyewon was demanding ‘Sunflower’ on repeat, Chan’s belting it at full volume with animated hand gestures, and Haerin’s quietly humming along, stroking Tokki’s ear as the wind from the cracked window tousled her hair. Your heart was overflowing as you leaned your head against the window, trying to cover your smile with your hand.

By the time you’ve arrived, the beach was already packed with loads of other families and umbrellas, but you were able to find a spot close to some shade thanks to a large palm tree. Towels were spread out, snacks scattered around haphazardly, and tiny sandals flung off with excitement. The girls ran around squealing while Chan chased after them, sand sticking to his calves, shirt clashing beautifully with the ocean behind him. You snapped photo after photo— Hyewon with melted ice cream on her nose, Haerin making the tiniest sand castle in intense silence, Chan holding both girls’ hands as they shrieked when waves nipped at their toes.

It was perfect.

Until, on the walk back to the car, Haerin suddenly gasped. “Tokki!” Her eyes wide, brimming with tears, bottom lip already trembling. “She’s gone!”

Without an ounce of hesitation, Chan hands you the car keys and gave a quick peck to your forehead before jogging back towards the beach like a man on a mission. After twenty-ish minutes or so, he comes back with Tokki triumphantly in his hand, sweat on his brow, and sand salting his hair.

“I found her under a bench,” he huffed, nearly out of breath, and grinning like he’d just won an Olympic gold medal. Haerin squealed, her little legs running up to go hug him with all the strength she could muster, happy to be reunited with her favorite stuffie, while Hyewon was clapping like she’d just witnessed a magic trick.

You smiled at the three of them, bathed in sunlight, cheeks rosy and eyes bright— like something out of the sweetest dream, and you couldn’t stop thinking ‘this is everything i could’ve ever wanted.’

Even if you still weren’t sure how he made that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt look good.

리노/LEE KNOW.

You should’ve known something was up the second Minho walked into the bedroom that morning, a big grin plastered on his face like he’d just hit the jackpot.

“Don’t be mad,” he started, crawling into bed beside you, “but I told Junseo that today is Yes Day.”

You blinked, confused. “Yes Day as in..?”

“As in, I say yes to whatever he wants. There’s no rules. No limits. Just for one day.”

You groaned, looking at him as if he’d gone crazy, which in your defense— he quite literally has. “Minho, are you insa—”

“Too late,” he sang. “The king has already declared it.”

In the next room, you could hear your five-year-old son, Junseo, already shouting something about “pajama adventures” and “waffles forever”, that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the day.

By 10 am, your husband and son were decked out in matching dinosaur pajamas and sunglasses, strutting into the grocery store like they owned the place. You followed behind in actual clothes, pretending not to know them while Minho loudly asked one of the employees, “excuse me, where’s the section for super awesome dads and coolest kids alive?”

Then came the living room trampoline hour, aka “couch jumping time,” where Minho taught Junseo how to perfect his “butt bounce.” You watched them from the kitchen, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“Minho, that couch was expensive.”

“Yeah, but did you see his airtime? Couches are replaceable, this moment isn’t!” He shot back proudly.

Lunch was popcorn with chocolate drizzle, gummy bears, and a juice box taste test. Dinner? Dino-shaped waffles eaten in a blanket fort lit up with fairy lights.

“I cannot believe you’re encouraging this,” you shook your head as you wiggled inside the fort with them.

Minho was lying flat on his stomach, sipping fruit juice from a neon green twisty straw. “What? I’m just following orders. I’m an employee of Junseo Industries.”

Junseo nods, a dried patch of syrup present on his chin. “You’re fired if you say no!”

Minho gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The night ended off with a sing-along dance party in the living room, Minho flailing around with a dish towel as a makeshift cape while Junseo’s half laughing and screaming as he tries to copy his dad’s questionable dance moves. You just stood there watching everything unfold, in utter disbelief that this was the man you married.

Later, after Junseo passed out mid-sentence on the couch, Minho gently scoops him up and and tucked him in for bed, brushing flyaway strands from his forehead with the most endearing look in his eyes.

He returned to your shared bedroom and he whispered, “he said it was the best day of his life.”

You sigh softly, leaning into him. “He’s not the only one.”

When Minho wrapped his arms around you, still in pajamas and smelling faintly of maple syrup, you realized something very true.

Your husband might be a child in disguise… but he was all yours— and the best dad in the entire world.

창빈/CHANGBIN.

“Welcome to the Nari Salon!” Your daughter announced with both hands in the air, a pink plastic makeup case clutched under one arm and a sparkly sticker decorating her forehead. “Today’s special is princess makeover. Only brave daddies allowed.”

Changbin’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in sweatpants and a nervous smile, glancing over at you for backup. You were curled up on the couch with your phone, already recording.

“Why only daddies?” He wonders, trying not to laugh.

“Because mommies already have pretty faces,” Nari replied with absolute conviction, opening her case like she was real makeup artist. “You have no sparkle.”

“Ouch,” Changbin pouts, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Roasted by my own child.”

Nari didn’t flinch. “Sit still, Appa. This might tickle.”

The next fifteen minutes was pure chaos.

Glitter eyeshadow ended up on Changbin’s eyebrows. Blush was aggressively swirled onto his forehead. Lip gloss was applied… to his teeth? Then at some point, a butterfly sticker was slapped onto the middle of his nose like a finishing touch.

“You’re doing amazing, baby,” you cooed, trying not to cry from laughter, “he’s never looked better.”

“I know,” Nari boasts with the utmost pride, stepping back to look with her hands on her hips. “He’s a glittery king!”

Changbin struck a pose, face glowing brighter than a disco ball. “How do I look?”

“Fabulous,” you said, barely holding it together. “Like someone who’s never getting that lip gloss off his eyelids.”

She climbed into his lap and cupped his cheeks, smushing his glittery face between her tiny hands. “Appa, you’re sooooooo beautiful.”

Hearing that made Changbin instantly melt into a puddle. His arms wrapped around her smaller form, expression softening beneath the rainbow mess on his face. “You made me beautiful, Nari. Only you could.”

“You’re welcome,” she giggles, humming to herself as she opens the bottle of nail polish.

Before she could start painting his knuckles purple, he looked up at you with sparkling eyes— part glitter, part happy tears. “She really said I had no sparkle.”

“She fixed you, honey,” you teased, grinning.

“Thank God for the Nari Salon,” he praised once again, pulling her in for another bear hug while she squealed with joy.

By this point, you were smiling like an idiot. Watching the two of them— your fierce little girl and your big, soft husband, covered in sparkles and love, it was almost too much for your heart to handle.

This was your life now. Glittery, loud, messy, but you wouldn’t change a single thing.

현진/HYUNJIN.

“Appa,” Seola says loudly between bites of Cheeto puffs, “I wan’ it to sparkle a lot. Like, super sparkle.”

Hyunjin, sleeves rolled up and brows furrowed in pure concentration, didn’t even look up. “I got you, princess. This castle is gonna outshine the sun.”

You peep your head around the corner from the kitchen, suppressing a laugh. The dining table was littered with various sheets of colored paper, glue sticks, markers, pom-poms, and without a doubt, looked like a glitter war zone. Your daughter who’s in first grade now, sat with her little legs swinging aimlessly under the chair, one sock is halfway off, happily munching away as Hyunjin diligently glued yet another swirl of gold glitter onto the cardboard turrets of her art project.

“Babe.. is this her assignment or yours?” You teased.

“She’s the visionary,” he replies without missing a beat, “I’m just the hands.”

“I said the glitter goes on the windows,” Seola chimed in, dramatic as her father, pointing a cheesy finger at the paper castle.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hyunjin responds with a mock salute, tongue slightly poking out as he carefully traced the edges of the cardboard windows with more layers of glue. “I’m just your humble servant.”

You shook your head, smiling so hard you could feel your cheeks starting to hurt. He looked completely ridiculous— dried glue on his hoodie sleeve, glitter dusting his cheekbones like highlight, and yet somehow still managed to look stupidly handsome. Meanwhile, your daughter’s living her best life, alternating between bossing him around like the little diva she is and licking cheese dust off her fingers.

At one point, she dropped her snack, and Hyunjin immediately reached for it. “I’ll get it, baby. Don’t touch your masterpiece with chip hands.”

“I wasn’t gonna!” She huffed, even though she most definitely was.

They bickered sweetly for another twenty minutes while you watched, heart swelling with something too warm to name. Every once in a while, Hyunjin would sneak a glance at you, eyes crinkling like he couldn’t believe this was real life— married to his best friend, helping his daughter craft the shiniest art project in the class.

When the glue was finally drying, Seola yawned and leaned against Hyunjin’s side, a glittered pom-pom still stuck to her hand.

“Appa, I love you.”

Hyunjin almost cried, kissing the crown of her head and holding her close. “I love you more, my little artist.”

You walked over and wrapped your arms around both of them, resting your chin on Hyunjin’s shoulder. “If her teacher gives her anything less than an A, I’m emailing the school.”

Hyunjin chuckled. “It’s fine. I’ll bedazzle the email.”

한/HAN.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Jisung was holding up the Lego Medieval Castle like it was his firstborn. “What if we need this one because it has a working drawbridge?”

You quirked a brow, folding your arms over your chest as you survey the overflowing shopping cart that’s filled to the brim with Lego sets— dinosaurs, spaceships, a sushi restaurant, two different Star Wars builds, and a suspiciously tiny Minecraft keychain your five-year-old son, Taemu, was cluthing onto since you’ve got here.

“Babe, that’s literally the fifth set you’ve added in the last ten minutes.”

“It’s not for me,” he rebuttals, blinking innocently. “It’s for our son. Right, Taemu?”

Taemu nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, Mommy! I need the dragon and the pizza truck!”

You squinted. “Since when do dragons eat pizza..?”

“Since now,” Jisung said confidently. “Plus, look! This one comes with a guy who has tiny armor. Tiny. Armor.”

You swap looks between the two of them, your son beaming up at you with big doe eyes and your fully grown husband doing the same, holding up the box of Lego ninjas like his life wouldn’t be complete without it.

“Please, Mommy,” they both say in unison. Jisung even adding a little pout.

You sighed out dramatically. “You two are the worst.”

“But the cutest,” Jisung grinned, kissing your cheek.

“Ugh, fine,” you muttered, tossing it into the cart. “But if I step on even one of these bricks at home, I’m throwing them all into the ocean.”

Taemu gasped. “Not the ocean! That’s where sharkies live!”

Jisung leaned down to whisper, “Don’t worry, bud. We’ll build a submarine next time.”

As you made your way to the checkout, the two of them started excitedly whispering about their build order, as if they’re discussing some kind of war strategy.

“Okay, so we do the dragon first, obviously,” Jisung suggests, nudging Taemu.

“But then the spaceship after. ‘Cause we need to fly away if the dragon gets mad,” Taemu added seriously.

You just went along with it in silence, heart ridiculously full.

Back at the car, Jisung helped load the trunk, humming a made-up Lego anthem while Taemu echoed every lyric in the backseat.

“Y’know,” you said, watching them with quiet affection, “I think you might be more excited than he is.”

Jisung makes his way over to you, caging his arm around your waist. “I just never grew out of the Lego phase, but luckily enough for me, I married someone who still loves me anyway.”

You leaned into his hold, laughing softly. “Yeah, yeah. I married two children.”

As you drove home with a trunk full of bricks and a car full of joy, you kept replaying it all your head— even through all the goofy smiles, an unreasonable amount of money spent, and more Legos than shelf space, this was exactly the kind of life you’d always dreamt of.

필릭스/FELIX.

The kitchen smelled like vanilla, flour dust lingered in the air, and there was already an ungodly amount of sugar coating the floor. Your daughter, Minji, stood on her little step-stool in a pastel pink apron that had “Mommy’s Little Baker” engraved on the front, sleeves bunched up, hair in uneven pigtails that Felix had proudly done himself. A smear of cinnamon clung to her cheek as a badge of honor.

“Okay, now we roll it gently,” you remind, guiding her small hands over the dough.

“I am being gentle,” Minji declared, dramatically squishing her palms into the dough with utmost concentration.

Felix snorted behind you, leaning against the marble countertop with streaks of flour across his black t-shirt. “Gentle like a baby elephant,” he teased.

Minji looks back, affronted. “Appa, ‘m not an elephant! ‘m a chef!”

“Yes, Chef Minji,” he said with a bow, laughing as he kissed the top of her head. “The most powerful cinnamon roll maker in the whole universe.”

“And Mommy is the assistant,” she added seriously, pointing at you with a cinnamon-covered finger.

“Oh, excuse me,” you giggled, saluting her. “I live to serve.”

The three of you moved in messy harmony— Felix sneaking pinches of brown sugar into his mouth, Minji narrating every step like she was filming her own little cooking show, and you trying (and failing) to keep everything somewhat tidy. Somewhere between spreading the butter and sprinkling the cinnamon sugar, Felix laced his arm around your waist, pulling you close and whispering, “still can’t believe I got to marry you.”

Your lips curve upward, feeling your face heat up. “You say that everytime we bake.”

He embeds a kiss to your temple. “Because everytime, it hits me again. Like, boom. You’re really my wife and we created the most beautiful family together.”

“Appaaaaa,” Minji groaned dramatically, scrunching her nose. “No kissy stuff while we’re cooking!”

Felix just grinned. “You’ll understand one day.”

They both looked at you with matching eyes; bright, golden, and full of the same affection that all started when you were sixteen and scribbling hearts on each other’s notebooks. It was the kind of joy that hadn’t dimmed since graduation day, when you two got married at the courthouse with nothing but dreams and cheap rings.

You watched as Minji proudly rolled up the dough, lopsided and chaotic, but beautiful, and placed it on the tray with such care.

“Do you think this one will taste like love?” She asks, peeking up at you with cinnamon-sticky fingers.

Felix ruffled her hair, smiling so wide his dimples made in appearance. “Sweetheart, with you in the kitchen? It already does.”

And just like that, your heart’s already melting faster than the frosting you were about to drizzle.

승민/SEUNGMIN.

The sun had barely risen, but Seungmin’s already pacing the living room in his Team Tigers dad cap, holding your son’s tiny glove as if it was made of gold.

“Do you think I should bring the big camera and my phone?” He debates, squinting at both intensely like he was holding a press conference and not going to a T-ball game full of six-year-olds who still ran to third base by accident.

You sipped your coffee, watching your husband buzz around like a fly, being the world’s most enthusiastic sports dad that he is. “Babe, you’re not shooting a documentary. He’s going to hit a foam ball with a plastic bat.”

Seungmin looked at you offended. “Excuse you. This is Tigers vs. Bulldogs. Game of the century.”

Your son, Sunwoo, walked in with his oversized jersey practically drowning him with mismatched socks peeking out of his cleats. “Appa, can I bring my lucky froggy?” He asked, holding the lime green plush for dear life.

“Absolutely,” Seungmin nodded seriously. “Every MVP needs a mascot.”

By the time you stepped onto the field, Seungmin had already introduced himself to the coach, made friends with two other dads, and claimed a spot along the fence with the best view. He pulled his phone out, ready to record like it’s opening day at a major league stadium.

“There he is! That’s my boy!” He shouts excitedly, zooming in as Sunwoo adjusted his cap and ran to the outfield with a tiny determined pout.

When Sunwoo missed a catch and accidentally bonked another player with his glove, Seungmin winced. “That’s okay, buddy! Nice effort! So proud of you!”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re acting like he just pitched a no-hitter.”

“He will, one day,” Seungmin voiced confidently. “Mark my words.”

When Sunwoo finally made contact with the ball, which was more of a thud than a hit, sending it rolling about five feet— Seungmin leapt to his feet like your son had just hit a grand slam.

“YES, SUNWOO! GO, GO, GO, RUN LIKE THE WIND, BUDDY!”

The other parents chuckled as your son sprinted to first base, grinning so hard his helmet slid halfway down his face. You watched Seungmin film it all, eyes shining, narrating like a proud coach.

After the game, Sunwoo ran into his arms, sweaty and smiling. “Did you see me, Appa?! I hit it!”

“I saw everything,” Seungmin beamed, crouching down to Sunwoo’s level. “I got it all on video. You’re a legend.”

You also snapped a photo of them, Sunwoo in his muddy cleats, Seungmin still in full proud dad mode, holding the phone up high with the evidence to prove it.

Right then and there, just watching them both glow under the sunlight, you knew this, exactly this, is what love is supposed to look like.

아이엔/JEONGIN.

“Appa,” your son whispered, tugging on Jeongin’s sleeve and pointing toward the crowded game booth, “I need that Snorlax.”

Jeongin followed his gaze to the oversized plush, which was nearly the size of your son himself— lounging behind a wall of neon prizes, looking as unbothered as ever. “Snorlax, huh?” He confirms, cracking his knuckles. “Say no more.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t even know how to play that game.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jeongin replied, already marching over with unbridled confidence. “For our son, I’m a man of many talents.”

You stayed back with your giggling boy, watching your husband take aim with a beanbag and dramatically miss by about two feet.

“So close!” You called out, choking on a laugh.

“That was a warm-up throw!” Jeongin shouted, waving his arms.

Four failed attempts and two near misses later, the booth worker took pity and decided to give him an extra turn. Jeongin narrowed his eyes, summoning all his dramatic flair that lead up for this moment and by some miracle, knocked the last can clean over.

He turned to your son with wide eyes. “Did you see that?!”

“I SAW IT!” Hajoon screamed, jumping up and down, flaring with excitement.

Moments later, Jeongin was parading back with a triumphant grin and an enormous Snorlax draped across his shoulders. “Mission complete.”

“You look like Snorlax’s Uber,” you teased.

He puffed out his chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Afterward, you spent hours wandering around the park, riding kiddie coasters, playing games, and sharing snacks. Jeongin disappeared to “go get water” and came back suspiciously sticky-lipped and a little more upbeat than usual.

Unbeknownst to you, he’d eaten three sticks of cotton candy behind the funnel cake stand.

By the time you buckled everyone into the car, Hajoon’s already dozing off with Snorlax in his lap, Jeongin was absentmindedly tapping his fingers to a silent beat and softly humming what sounded like the theme song from Pokémon— for the third time.

You gave him a little side-eye. “You good?”

“I’m great!” He assured, sounding way too enthusiastic. “Did you know cotton candy is just, like, magic? Sugar magic? I feel like I could fly home!”

“…How much did you eat?”

He looked out the window. “That’s not important.”

On the drive home, he pointed out every billboard, sang along to every dumb commercial jingle, and randomly turned around to whisper “Snorlax is watching you” to your sleeping son.

You were somewhere between exhausted and in love.

Later that night, when your sugar-crashed husband snored softly next to you, arm wrapped loosely around both you and Hajoon with Snorlax wedged somewhere at your feet, you smiled to yourself.

Even through all the chaos, sugar highs, and loudness.

It truly was the perfect day.

it’s literally 3 am and i wanna cry rn, i’m actually so sleepy and i feel like i can never finish ANYTHING at a reasonable hour but i’m happy to be finally done w this 😖💗

perm taglist: @justwonder113 @emilyywhyy @leeknowslefteyebrow @min-doesnt-know @velechi @kayleefriedchicken @jeonginsbaee @thelittletobsterthatcould @queenofdumbfuckery @met30rc1ty @mouthfullobats @geni-627 @amarecerasus @emma-your-goofy-girlfie @n4tr3ad5 @cowboylikemalika @obsessivemuso-withnofriends @skzfangirl143 @mmarusa @velvetskize @seungmyynie @n-inah @my-neurodivergent-world @yourgirljasmiin @xryusarax @natcap25 @bussdownflockiana @yvessntually @browniesandsunshine @jeonginslittledoll @camryn-haitani @hansmic @rhys-cosmos @lilscast @norabugz @sowntears @ilovetocas1 @kjinwoon @wishiwascutersstuff @ljh-lana @hrts4skzz @fairyssongs @velvetskize @ch4nniescurls @enhacolor @emmaluvsjisung @lovestaygirlie @dlizzzy @delulumel @yangstjeongin (50/50)

[sukunahs]

birds of a feather | ryomen sukuna

pairing: god of war!sukuna x goddess of love!reader

summary: when you're married to the most boring god on olympus, who can blame you when you seek out passion with someone a little more exciting?

mythology au. retelling of the affair between ares and aphrodite.

word count: 2.7k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, mythology, infidelity, drama, arranged marriage, piv sex, pregnancy, multiple positions, exhibitionism, public humiliation, reader and sukuna both could NOT care less about morality

a/n: I was originally planning to make this fic about toji but my brainrot took over and now I can't see ares as anyone but sukuna sooooo

You were bored. Painfully bored. 

Because, despite being the world’s most beautiful being, the goddess of love, the object of literally everyone’s desire; your father had decided to thoroughly clip your wings and force you into a marriage with the world’s ugliest and most tiresome god: Jogo, god of the forge. 

You couldn’t even look at him without feeling disgusted, a face that only a mother could love as mortals liked to say, but even that wasn’t true in this case considering that his mother had tossed him from the top of Mount Olympus when she’d first seen him, horrified by his disfigured face.

As you can imagine, being tossed from a mountain definitely didn’t improve upon his looks. 

Not to mention, such disregard led to Jogo’s physical ugliness seeping into his personality. He was a jealous and bitter man, even going as far as to trap his mother to a golden throne for her treatment of him in his childhood. 

That would’ve been amusing to you, if not for the negative impact that the situation had on your life. For in the terms of his mother’s release, Jogo implored the King of the Gods to grant him your hand in marriage, claiming that the only thing that would make amends for his treatment was to have the beautiful goddess of love become his wife. 

Marriage was an easy trade to make for the King, so you were given up easily - all of your sophistication and beauty wasted on this ugly man. It was your idea of hell. 

You loved your freedom, loved flirting with gods, with mortals, warming the beds of men and women alike, experiencing all the pleasures of the flesh that you possibly could. That was the whole point of your life, only for it to be ripped away from you at the hands of your jealous husband, whose one good eye was always watching you, making sure that you’d never be unfaithful to him. 

And it was boring. 

Sex with him was completely uninspiring. He didn’t know the first thing about women, treating you as though you were one of his little machines, taking a logical approach to each action, completing his duty in bed to the letter with the intention of procreation, no pleasure or passion involved in the equation. You hated it. 

You’d close your eyes and pretend that you were fucking someone else, but even that barely worked since your stupid husband couldn’t ever touch you well enough to get you anywhere near getting off. 

It sucked. Of all the gods, why did you have to be married to him? It wasn’t fair.

Lately you’d been wishing that you were married to Sukuna, God of War and Bloodshed. He was everything that your husband wasn’t: exciting and passionate, with a focus on his own pleasure above all else. He was handsome and confident, with sharp features, pink hair, sharp black tattoos curling over his muscular body, and an atmosphere of danger following him wherever he went.

From the way that he so brazenly checked you out at any given opportunity, flicking compliments your way and giving you that cocky smirk, it was clear that the two of you were birds of a feather. Matched in your desires far better than you were aligned with your own husband. 

He was egging you on, waiting to see if you’d make a move, if you were brave enough to ignore the whims of your husband and take the leap. And with his red eyes following you around Olympus the way they did, what were you meant to do? Say no? 

You were only human after all. Well, you technically weren’t but the same sentiment applied. 

So one night when your husband was working late at his forge, you snuck out of your marital bed to seek out the god of war. You’d been so needy since your wedding, unable to be with anyone but your pathetic husband, you had no doubt that Sukuna would help solve that problem - at least, if he fucked with the same passion that he fought with. 

Sukuna had been waiting for you that night, lounging about on his fancy sheets wearing nothing but a short red toga. His grin was all teeth, gaze fixed on you like you were prey that he was about to devour. Little did he know that was exactly what you wanted, coming in here batting your lashes, looking so innocent, as though you hadn’t fucked hundreds of men in your lifetime, wonderfully putting on an act of being a scared little neglected wife giving herself over to the big protective man. 

Because you desperately needed him to think he was in control of this situation, for him to dominate you like he was in charge and you were just a bystander. If he knew that was exactly what you wanted the dynamic would change, you needed it to feel real. 

It's what you’d been yearning for ever since you were thrown into a sham of a marriage.  

“Finally giving in, sweetheart?” He asked, his deep voice rumbling through the room as he rose to his feet, crossing the room to tower over you, gripping your slender chin with his calloused fingers. 

“He’s so fucking boring.” You complained, fluttering your lashes once more as you gazed up at him, pouting your lips softly. “I need someone to show me a good time or I’ll go insane.” 

Sukuna smirked down at you, tapping your chin thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, we can’t have that can we? I suppose I’ve got no choice but to give you what you want…” 

“Mmmm.” You responded, sliding your hands seductively up his chest. Sukuna stared down at you with amusement for a moment before pouncing, lips crashing against yours as he hoisted you up into his arms, wrapping your legs around his big body and letting him manhandle you as he liked. 

It was exactly what you’d been missing from your foolish little marriage. 

And with that, your affair began. That first night had been as filled with passion as you’d expected, Sukuna dominating you completely, fucking you up against the wall, his muscular arms holding you up as he made you come undone with long, deep strokes on his thick cock. 

He spat in your mouth and pulled your hair, called you a dirty slut along with dozens of other filthy names as he forced your head down on his cock, teased your ass with his fingers as he fucked you on all fours, slapping your ass each time you whined and squirmed, shooting several loads of cum over your pretty body and ordering you to lick up any that dripped onto the floor. 

It was passionate, exciting. It stirred your heart like never before. 

And the whole time he was so confident that he was in control, that he was the one inflicting his desire upon you, the object of his affection. Never catching on that you had actively looked to him for this treatment, that you’d been just as desperate for him to touch and degrade you like this as he had been to inflict it upon you. 

You’d left him there in the room when you were done, neither of you were under the illusion you that you were going to cuddle after fucking - no, this was all about raw, unfiltered pleasure, it had nothing to do with safety or comfort. His nature was violence, there was nothing more that you’d get from him. 

Perhaps others would look upon your affair years from now and feel bad for you, assume that you’d yearned for him in a way that he hadn’t yearned for you. But they had the wrong idea. You were the goddess of love, how foolish to think that you’d restrain that love to just one single person - it would be an insult to your very nature. 

You could love Sukuna just like you could love anyone else, the love that you had to give was as infinite as his was nonexistent. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. 

What a pair the two of you made. 

Years were spent with the two of you sneaking around. You'd go to him at night, your legs thrown over his shoulders as he fucked you into the silk sheets. You’d visit him on the battlefield, letting him bend you over his war table, scattering the carefully positioned map pieces as he drove into you so hard that the table shook. 

Sometimes, when you were confident that your husband was away, you’d even invite him into your own bed, getting off on the thrill of him taking you in the same place that your husband would usually have you, letting Sukuna’s cum drip out of you and onto the sheets when you were done - enough for your husband to doubt but not enough to prove your infidelity. 

A calculated risk to stimulate your hedonistic brain.

There were a few times throughout the years that you fell pregnant. Your husband always assumed that the children were his, always stupid enough to be blind to what was happening right in front of him. You knew better. The three children that you had in the years since your affair with Sukuna started all clearly bore a resemblance to the god of war. 

But it's not like that was all that scandalous, they’d be far from the first children in olympus born out of wedlock believing that they were the children of another. Once they grew older you supposed it would be harder to deny their heritage, but that would be a bridge to cross when you came to it. 

What was the point in worrying? 

Neither you or Sukuna were particularly convinced that you were being slick or subtle about your affair - the looks that he would shoot you in public made sure of that, but when you were both finally caught you couldn’t help but feel surprised, frustrated by the way that it had all gone down. 

You’d been out on one of your secret meetings with Sukuna, visiting him on the battlefield - you were in Troy this time, a battle that you had been paying close attention to because of your favor for the Trojan prince who had stolen his beloved away from her oaf of a husband. You were a great supporter of true love, always rooting for and aiding mortals who went for what they truly wanted, sneering at the very existence of arranged marriage. 

Love couldn’t simply be arranged. You were sure of that from your own experiences. 

Sukuna had been in a jovial mood when you found him. He too had taken the side of the Trojans, at your behest. He seldom cared whose side he fought on, as long as there was horror and bloodshed he was content, and this ongoing siege was providing plenty of that - dried blood and guts coating his muscular body when you approached him in his war tent. 

He’d smirked at you, requesting your praise for fighting so valiantly on the side you’d ordered him to support. And you’d given him just that, dropping to your knees and worshipping his cock until he was cumming down your throat. It had become routine for you, to give him whatever he wanted like this. It was what you wanted too. 

It had become so routine in fact, that the two of you barely bothered to make sure that you were alone before pouncing upon one another. That would be your mistake in this instance, for you had an observer from just outside your tent: Yorozu, the goddess of chaos, an obsessively jealous woman who had been madly in love with Sukuna for years, ever scorned by the way he would brush her aside. 

Now she understood why, and she knew just who to tell to bring this troublesome little affair to an end. 

So, weeks after your little rendezvous with Sukuna on the Trojan battlefield, the two of you were finally forced to face the music. Jogo had told you that he was going away for a while, and predictably as ever you had invited Sukuna into your bed, letting him climb on top of you and sink his cock into your warm pussy, just as always. 

And in that moment, the trap sprung. 

There was a mechanical whirring and a golden net was thrown over the two of you, forcibly keeping you both in place, tangled up with each other and pinned down uncomfortably against the bed. 

Your husband strolled into your room, snickering at the predicament that you’d found yourself in, cursing you for your infidelity, face growing red with rage as he started to spit vitriol at the both of you. 

But you weren’t really listening, and you imagined that Sukuna wasn’t either. You didn’t feel any remorse for your actions, and it was hard to focus on your surroundings with Sukuna’s cock still twitching inside you. If anything, it was taking all of your willpower not to start laughing.

“Let us go, Jogo.” Sukuna grumbled, pushing against the golden net only to find that it wouldn’t budge even under the weight of all his godly strength. 

“Not even an apology for fucking my wife?” Jogo hissed, and Sukuna shrugged, his body vibrating with chuckles. 

“Not like you were doing a good job.” 

“Whatever.” Jogo responded, and you couldn’t help but laugh, giggling softly into Sukuna’s muscular shoulder despite the uncomfortable situation you were in. 

At least you were in it with Sukuna. 

“Stop laughing, whore.” Jogo spat. “Since you’re so keen to open your legs for other men, how about we let all of Olympus see you like this?” 

Now that was humiliating. The golden net was inescapable, and all you and Sukuna could do as Jogo invited the other gods in to look and laugh was lie still, bodies still thoroughly entwined. You weren’t keen on every god getting to look upon your body, but considering that every statue of you depicted you as nude anyway, you decided that this was something of a lenient punishment. 

So as Jogo asked you if you were truly sorry, and made you promise that you’d never ever stray from him again, that you’d remain faithful for eternity, you nodded along compliantly. Pretending that you’d be his perfect little wife so that he’d release you from these bindings and move on, trying desperately not to whine or squirm at the way Sukuna’s hand was squeezing at your breast needily where your bodies were joined together, right under your husband's nose. 

Jogo seemed satisfied with your agreement, even if Sukuna’s simple ‘whatever’ just served to further temper his rage. In Jogo’s mind this was about you, not Sukuna. He had no jurisdiction over the god of war, but it was his job to control his woman. 

It was just embarrassing if he couldn’t. 

Unfortunately, Jogo was in for a life of embarrassment, because you and Sukuna weren’t so easily separable.

As time passed and your husband’s rage started to fade, you found yourself in Sukuna’s bed once more. Right back where you started, he had you bent over, fucking into you like he blamed you for the embarrassment of the two of you getting caught, his cock slamming into you until you were crying and clawing at the silk sheets, screaming his name loud enough that the whole of Olympus was likely aware of your continuing affair. 

You didn’t care, it wouldn’t be the last time - it never would. Just as easily as before you’d been caught, you fell back into the pattern of seeking him out, coming undone on his cock night after night and regretting absolutely nothing. 

What? Were you really meant to stay loyal to your husband just because of some silly golden net and a little bit of humiliation? What a waste. 

Such incidents were the spice of life, and Sukuna was like a drug that you were addicted to. You wouldn’t give it up so easily, and neither would he. He was yours and you were his. Love and violence had always gone hand in hand, what better pairing was there? 

Birds of a feather flock together.

a/n: thanks for reading! I had so much fun writing this one, absolutely adore writing the reader as completely unapologetic lol

if you like mythology fics, I have another sukuna one here (inspired by apollo and cassandra), and a gojo one here (inspired by paris and helen of troy). I'm planning on bringing out a choso one soon too :)

© sukunahs

[yamumsyadadd]

anxiety

Mentions of cheating, sex (nothing graphic)

There was a level of anxiety that came with a new relationship. You and alexia were still learning each other. How to make space for someone extra in your life and in your heart. 

She hadn’t met your children as your girlfriend yet, you wanted to be really really sure before throwing in another person. Leah had introduced her multitude of girls. But everytime a new one was introduced, Oscar would be more confused and you, ultimately, had to deal with his behaviour. 

You were only four months into your relationship and you were beginning to worry. There had been no sex, no hint at sex, no talks of sex. Nothing. You wanted it, so badly, but you were scared. 

You had two kids now, breastfed both of them and overall just aged. Your body had changed, a change that most the time you welcomed but then you remembered what Leah had told the marriage counsellor. 

You found out Leah was cheating completely by accident. Her phone was lighting up constantly while she was putting your son to bed in his nursery. Just like many times before, you decided to look at her phone.  

Without thinking about it, you opened the messages. You felt sick immediately. Your wife, your beautiful loving attentive wife, was messaging another woman. Not just any woman. A teammate.   

Jordan fucking Nobbs. Someone you also considered a friend. 

As you read through the messages, some which were just mundane team things, but the ones about your body, or the insecurities that you had expressed to Leah about being a mother - those hurt.

But then it got worse. If that was somehow possible. Leah would complain about your body, the way the stretch marks on your stomach and boobs turned her off. As if you hadn’t spent the last 18 months growing and feeding your child. 

You didn’t know what to do with this information. It hurt to even think about ending your marriage to Leah.

You were only eight months postpartum. Oscar hadn’t even been earthside for as long as he’d been growing inside of you. And yet, Leah had moved on while you were still together. She was telling Jordan she loved her, while saying the same thing to you. 

She’d pretend to worship your body when you had sex, only to then express her repulsion to Jordan. 

It took an hour before you burst. You couldn’t stop the tears even if you wanted to  Leah never denied it, instead she turned the blame onto you. The way you were always busy with the foundation, your son or dealing with the house renovations. As if that made it okay to cheat. 

Marriage counselling started two weeks later. You could barely look at Leah after she said she not longer found you attractive. 

“Before Oscar she was fit. Her boobs were perfect, she was perfect. And now?” She waved her hand around, “well now she’s not.” 

It stuck with you. It’s been two years since she said that and your brain remembered it at the worst time. 

Alexia wasn’t Leah though. You knew that, logically but the damage was still there. A conversation with alexia was well overdue no matter how much anxiety it caused. 

It was one of those rare days where the foundation paper work was slow, alexia was free in the afternoon and your two kids were happily playing with their friends at daycare. 

You’d planned to have a quick coffee with Miriam and then see Alexia before she had an event that night. 

Even though Miriam was also one of Alexia’s best friends, she was usually very diplomatic when it came to your relationship. She was there for you, not for alexia in that moment.  

She was your go to for relationship help because you knew she would keep the secret, she’d tell you the truth without sugar coating it and help you whenever you needed. 

“Alexia and I haven’t had sex.” Miriam barely reacted. 

“I know.” 

“You know?” You raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Yes.” The diplomacy in moments like this annoyed you. 

“So Alexia has said something then.” Miriam just shrugged. “She’s said something to you but not be me?” 

“She’s said about as much as you have.” You knew that meant she had barely spoken about it. 

You decided it was safer to change the subject. You needed to talk to alexia and only alexia. 

Subtlety wasn’t your strong suit. You had barely made it into her apartment before you blurted it out. 

“Why won’t you have sex with me?” 

Alexia was taken aback. “What?” 

“Do you not find me sexual attractive? If that’s the case just let me know.” 

“No no! I do! You’re beautiful and I lov-like you a lot.” 

“Okay then what?” Alexia didn’t reply so you just kept going, “I have only ever been with Leah. It that is? Or is it that I have two kids and my body has changed? I know it’s changed. Leah reminded me all the time but I didn’t expect you-“

“Stop.” You stopped and looked at alexia, she looked hurt, maybe a little scared but mainly hurt. “I don’t care that you’ve only been with Leah. Yes obviously your body has changed because you grew and fed two babies. It’s not because of the way you look, or anything like that. I was waiting for you.” 

“For me?” You pointed at yourself, wide eyed and confused. 

“Yes amor. I’ve been waiting for you to be ready, to tell me or initiate. I was waiting because I know you’ve only been with Leah. You were with her for ten years and now you aren’t. I didn’t expect you to want to jump into bed with me on the first date.” 

You were speechless for a moment, “oh. Sorry.” 

You sat on the couch next to Alexia, letting you pull you into her. “You’re so silly sometimes.” 

“You wanna have sex?” Alexia laughed. The sweet laugh that you had fallen in love with. 

“Yes of course. But not tonight. If you’re ready then I want to make it special.” She kissed your temple and pulled you into closer. 

And special it was. 

There was no pressure, not need to feel anxious or scared. 

Alexia took care of you. Slowly and lovingly. She worshipped your body in a way you’d never experienced before. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, you confessed that you loved her and she did the same. It solidified your role in her life. 

The next huddle would come in the form of meeting her family. 

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Sanctified Heat

Summary: When the preacher’s wife starts protesting outside The Blackline, Stack Moore mocks her from the shadows—until her holy fire turns to something hotter. Plain and pious, Sister Marigold Baptiste hides a body made for sin, and Stack makes it his mission to break her righteousness down to the bone. Their hate burns into obsession, and soon she’s sneaking out in her Sunday whites to be devoured in the dark. He fucks the holy out of her and sends her home to her husband full of his cum, knowing she can’t bear children—but she can carry the weight of his sin.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT (degration, dirty talk, BDSM, rough sex, deep throating, oral fixation, edging, cream pie, cheating, enemies to lovers)

Part One

Sister Marigold Baptiste was born in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, in a shotgun house that smelled of starch, sweat, and scripture. Her mother kept the windows open but the curtains closed, her apron tied tight and her rules tighter. Her father was a deacon—stern, long-winded, and quick with a leather belt that hung on a nail by the front door. Not for show. For discipline. For correction.

There wasn’t much softness in the house beyond the quilting in winter and the gospel music that played low on the radio while her mother shucked peas and hummed. Everything else—clothes, posture, mouth, behavior—was pressed sharp and tight like Sunday pleats.

“The devil lives in idle hands and hips that sway too hard,” her mother would say.

By the time Marigold turned fifteen, she had learned to make herself small.

To close her knees when seated.

To drop her eyes when men looked too long.

To silence her laugh when it felt too full.

She was a quiet beauty—the kind that bloomed beneath layers. Skin the color of pecan shells, smooth and even. Lips full enough to tempt, but pressed thin in discipline. Her eyes were what people noticed most—dark, wide, deep-set and watchful. She wore them like a burden. Like she saw too much and dared not speak it.

The Church Raised Her, Then Took Her

Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance had been her second home since she was old enough to walk. Pentecostal. Strict. Spirit-led. A sanctuary full of shouting, swaying, and tongues—followed by rules that stitched your life together like a straight-backed dress.

Marigold was a model child of the congregation. By eighteen, she taught the girls’ purity class. By twenty-two, she caught the eye of Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, the newly promoted assistant pastor. He was tall, quiet, pious to a fault, with a strong voice and calloused hands. He offered her marriage, stability, and a place beside him—not as a wife of passion, but as a First Lady of virtue.

They wed in the summer of 1905.

And over the next twenty years, Marigold became the standard.

The First Lady.

The teacher.

The listener.

The one who visited sick mothers and wayward sons.

The one who pressed her skirts, smiled without teeth, and kept her voice at a modest octave.

The Women of the Church

They called her Sister Marigold like it was a title of honor.

They admired her posture, her modesty, the way she never raised her voice or let her hair loose in public. Her bun was always firm, her collar always buttoned, her lipstick nonexistent. They trusted her to lead them, and she did—with a tender firmness.

But even among the women, there was distance.

She was loved, yes.

Respected.

But not known.

None of them knew that Marigold had once stood behind the outhouse at fourteen and pressed her fingers between her legs, curious and trembling.

None of them knew that she sometimes lingered in the back pews after service, breathing in the leftover musk of men who had shouted and danced in the Spirit.

None of them knew that she dreamed—still—of the sound a belt made when it snapped through air.

The Marriage

Obadiah loved her the way one might love a hymn—reverently, distantly, never with urgency.

They did not make love.

They performed union.

It was quiet. Closed. Predictable. Their attempts at children had long since passed. The doctor said her womb “tilted wrong,” like a broken shelf. Obadiah took it as divine redirection and turned to fasting instead of fucking.

Marigold learned not to ask for more.

But her body still asked.

Quietly.

Late at night.

Alone under cotton sheets.

How She Dresses

Marigold’s clothing was armor.

Muted colors. Long hems. Sleeves to the wrist even in July.

She wore foundation garments that flattened her curves, even though she had a body that defied modesty—broad hips, full breasts, thighs that swayed even in prayer. She bound herself in linen and silence, because if the world couldn’t see her, maybe the hunger would stay hidden too.

But no matter how she dressed—

No matter how tight the collars or dark the dresses—

Her body still whispered: Touch me.

—-

Before the signs. Before the sermons sharpened with fire. Before she gathered the women in white and pressed hymn books into their hands like shields—

There was only her.

Sitting alone in the church pew at dusk.

And him, just outside the window.

She had heard the stories long before she saw him. The women in town whispered with both shame and delight when his name passed their lips.

“He a devil in a fedora, girl.”

“Talks like honey, but his hands like to bruise.”

“He got them whores calling out scriptures while he bend ‘em over.”

Elias Moore.

Better known as Stack.

A man too pretty for his own good. Skin like river-soaked chestnut, always glistening like the sun had claimed him. Eyes slow and heavy-lidded, like he was always plotting something.

He smiled with wicked dimples.

He laughed with his chest.

And when he walked, it wasn’t just a step—it was a rhythm. Swagger and power and temptation braided into one. He wore his shirts open when the heat got thick. Slacks always hung low on his hips, like he didn’t care if the world saw where he kept his sin. He didn’t walk past the church—he lingered. Smoked slow. Let his voice carry over the fence like molasses poured too thick.

And Marigold hated it.

She hated how close The Blackline sat to the church—right up against it, like it had been placed there just to test the faithful. From the upper prayer room window, she could see the whole front of the building. The porch where girls laughed, lips painted red. The long wooden bar where women perched like sirens.

Sometimes she could even see him.

Holding a woman by the throat, gently, as he kissed her hard enough to melt bones.

Slapping ass like he was beating drums.

Leaning over one of the girls, back arched against the window frame, her legs trembling as he drove into her from behind—Marigold had seen that.

That was the first time she truly looked.

She hadn’t meant to.

But her eyes locked.

And he had seen her.

Stack looked right at her through that thin lace curtain, kept fucking that woman without missing a beat.

He grinned. Bit his lip.

Never broke rhythm.

Marigold had fallen to her knees and begged forgiveness that night.

But the image never left her.

The church sounded different after that.

Quieter.

As if the air inside had grown shy from the things she carried in her mind.

She tried to tell herself he was unholy.

That his girls were Jezebels and he was a false king.

But even the sound of his voice from blocks away made her legs clench.

Deep. Gravel-dipped. Smooth as a backroad sin.

She told herself he was dangerous.

He was lust. He was wrath. He was everything her Lord told her to run from.

But she didn’t run.

She protested.

Because protesting was the only way to get close enough to hate him up close.

And secretly, shamefully…

She wondered if he could tell she was already his.

—-

The first time Sister Marigold Baptiste stood outside The Blackline, the sun was high and merciless, burning through her starched collar and making the sweat gather between her breasts beneath her blouse. She didn’t flinch. She never did.

She held her sign upright:

REPENT. THE DEVIL PLAYS THE BLUES.

The other women flanked her like scripture—clean, pressed, expressionless. Wives of deacons. Church mothers. One girl just sixteen, trying not to fidget in her stockings.

They stood in silence, no shouting. That was the Baptist way. Pentecostals let the Spirit do the hollering. And from within the walls of that wicked place, the Spirit was moving—but not how Marigold had ever known.

Laughter spilled through the brick. Low music. A woman’s moan, so rich and brazen it made the sixteen-year-old next to her gasp and murmur a prayer. Marigold closed her eyes. Just for a second. The smell that floated from the door was thick—sweet and wrong. A mix of cologne, old smoke, and something darker. Something carnal.

And then—

he stepped out.

The door opened and Elias Moore—known to sinners as Stack—strode onto the porch like he’d been sent to test her will. Tall. Shirt hanging open. Suspenders draped low around his waist. Chest slick with sweat, like he’d just come off somebody’s body.

And she was for certain he did.

He dragged a hand over his hair, tipped his chin toward them, and smirked.

“Sister Baptiste,” he purred, slow and low, “Ain’t Sunday meant for worship? Or is that why you came… to be tempted?”

REPENT!

SINNERS!

UNHOLY!

Stack grinned wide, “Didn’t the Lord tell y’all to rest on the seventh day?”

Marigold’s lips tightened.

“There’s no rest for the wicked,” she replied, voice low and firm.

Stack stepped down one stair, just close enough that she could see the muscles flex in his chest with each breath. His left pectoral jumped and Sister Baptiste felt a shiver run down her spine.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he spoke, “I ain’t slept since Friday.”

The girls inside laughed from the doorway.

One of them—barely dressed in silk and shadow—leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and popped her gum.

“He ain’t lyin’ neither. Gave me three hallelujahs last night!”

Laughter. High, wild.

Marigold didn’t flinch, but her grip on the Bible at her waist tightened.

Stack cocked his head, tongue flicking between his teeth.

Filthy.

“Y’all got signs. We got hips and heat. Gotta admit—we winnin’.”

She didn’t respond. But when he walked back toward the door, he turned and said, quiet enough just for her:

“Don’t come to the gates of hell if you don’t want the devil to notice you, Sister.”

Then he disappeared inside.

That night, long after the protest had faded and the street had emptied, Marigold came back.

Not to protest.

Not to preach.

Just to look.

She stood in the alley beside the church donation crates, pretending to sort through a box of hymnals. From there, she had a clear line of sight to the side door of The Blackline.

It was open.

The heat inside poured out in waves. Women in red and gold stepped through the light, laughing, hair pinned up and glowing. One pulled a man in by the collar and kissed him so deep he nearly dropped his drink.

Marigold’s throat tightened.

She wanted to be disgusted.

She wanted to feel righteous.

But all she felt was hungry.

The way the women laughed—not politely, but fully. Loud and loose and alive. The way they walked, thighs unashamed. Bodies moving like they knew the power of being watched. Touched.

Then he appeared again.

Stack.

Leaning in the doorway. Cigarette in hand. Shirt off now, just his bare chest shining under the amber light. A girl ran her hand down his stomach. He let her. Barely noticed her.

Because he was looking into the dark.

Right at her.

She stepped back instinctively, heart hammering. Had he seen her? Could he?

She didn’t wait to find out.

Marigold turned, lifted her skirt just enough to step over the gutter, and walked away fast—back toward the rectory, back toward her husband, back toward silence. But her thighs were slick, her heart was pounding, and her chest was full of something she hadn’t felt in decades.

Not holiness.

Heat.

—-

The next day, Marigold was locking the church doors.

It was quiet on the block. The women of the congregation had gone home, choir rehearsal had been dismissed early, and even the usual clamor from The Blackline hadn’t reached full swing yet. She adjusted her gloves. Tugged them up to the wrist with a frown carved into her brow, her Bible pressed firm to her chest.

And then she heard it—

“So it was you.”

That voice.

Low. Slow. Dipped in sin and thick enough to smear across the inside of her thighs.

She turned.

There he was.

Elias Moore. Leaning against the church’s brick side like the house of the Lord couldn’t burn him down. Shirt open, sweat-slicked chest gleaming, suspenders hanging loose against his hips. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit.

His fedora shadowed his eyes, but not his smirk.

Not those dimples.

“You gone pretend you wasn’t watchin’?” he asked.

“Excuse me?!”

Her voice cracked. Not from fear. But from knowing.

Stack didn’t step forward. Not yet.

He just shifted his weight, rolled the cigarette between his fingers.

“That night…upstairs in the prayer room. Curtain cracked just enough. You was starin’ down at me while I was givin’ Peaches a good stretch against the window.” His grin widened, “And I knew it felt hotter than usual that night. Turns out it was you heatin’ up the glass.”

Her mouth parted.

“You filthy, unholy—”

“Say it again,” he interrupted, stepping off the wall.

One step. Just one. And her back hit the locked church doors.

“Say it again while your thighs clench.”

Her hands tightened around her Bible.

He was close now. Not touching, but close. She could smell sweat, leather, and that deep heat he always carried like a curse. His voice dropped.

“You peekin’ through windows now, Sister Baptiste? Hmmm?”

He cocked his head, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he was savoring her shame.

“You touch yourself after? Say a prayer with wet fingers? You imagine it was you bent over that sill? Your sweet holy mouth stretched open while I whisper all the ways I’ma ruin you?”

She gasped, but it wasn’t from offense.

It was the image.

The truth of it.

She tried to speak. Her lips trembled. Her knees weakened.

Stack stepped in just enough to let the buckle of his belt graze the hem of her skirt. His voice lowered again—filthy now, syruped with grit.

“Ain’t gotta watch through glass anymore, baby. You want a seat at the show, I’ll let you ride front row.”

Marigold’s breath stuttered.

He leaned in—nose brushing hers—and whispered.

“Or better yet…you can be the whole damn act.”

And then—like a devil disappearing into smoke—he stepped back, straightened his suspenders, and lit his cigarette without another word.

As he turned to walk away, he called over his shoulder:

“Next time you wanna see me fuck, just knock.”

—-

Her house was always quiet.

Not peaceful—just quiet in the way a tomb is quiet. Every corner was neatly pressed, every chair perfectly placed. No music played past sundown. No laughter echoed from the walls. Only the ticking of the hall clock and the occasional creak of old pine floors.

Sister Marigold Baptiste’s house smelled of lemon oil, starch, and ivory soap. The curtains were lace but thick. The wallpaper faded at the seams from years of sunlight, but no one dared replace it. Everything inside her home existed the way the church said it should: untouched, unbothered, unwavering.

The kitchen was clean. Too clean.

Not a spice jar out of place. No open jars of jam. Just tins sealed tight, cast-iron pans shining with lard that hadn’t been used in a week. Dinner had been plain—boiled greens, cold cornmeal, baked fish with barely any salt. Reverend Baptiste ate in silence, chewing slow, pausing only to murmur a prayer between bites.

Marigold sat across from him, her napkin folded just so in her lap.

No conversation.

No affection.

When he was done, he stood, kissed her forehead like a dutiful cousin, and retreated to the den to read scripture by lamplight.

“You staying up long?” he asked without looking.

“A little while,” she replied.

“Don’t let the bathwater run too hot. It weakens the body.”

“Yes, husband.”

And he disappeared behind the door like he always did.

The bathroom was cooler, tucked at the back of the house. A clawfoot tub sat in the corner, porcelain clean. She lit a single oil lamp, let her shadow stretch across the white tile, and ran the water slowly.

The scent of lavender and castile filled the air.

She slipped out of her house dress—gray with faint pinstripes—and hung it neatly on the hook.

Beneath, she wore a girdle and cotton chemise. Plain. Functional. She peeled them off slowly, folding as she went, revealing brown skin still soft, still untouched, still full. Her breasts were heavy, her hips wide, her thighs generous. But all of it had been hidden so long it hardly felt like hers.

She stepped into the tub and sank down, eyes closed.

The water was too hot. She didn’t care.

She leaned back and let the warmth kiss her neck, her collarbone, the creases behind her knees. Her hair stayed pinned up—until she reached for it.

The pins slid free one by one, clinking against the porcelain. Her coils tumbled down, thick and dark, brushing her shoulders.

She never let it down unless she was alone.

Not even for Obadiah.

He never asked.

Later, in the bedroom, she stood before the mirror in her nightgown. It was floor-length, high-necked, with pearl buttons and long sleeves. She had three of the same gown. White. Cotton. Worn thin at the seams.

She unbuttoned it only to her chest, then paused.

The mirror caught the curve of her waist, the shadow between her breasts. The lamp behind her made the fabric look sheer in places. Her thighs pressed together.

Her gaze dropped to the dresser drawer.

The Bible sat on top.

Beneath it, hidden in a box of old handkerchiefs, was a folded white cloth—a scarf she used during prayer, or when the Holy Spirit moved in service.

Her fingers hovered over the drawer pull.

She didn’t open it.

She slid beneath the sheets alone. Obadiah was already snoring faintly in the next room. He hadn’t touched her in years. Not out of cruelty—just disinterest. She had long ago accepted that her body was not for pleasure.

But still…

Stack’s voice lived in her mind.

Don’t come to the gates of hell if you don’t want the devil to notice you.

She turned on her side.

Her thighs clenched.

Her nipples ached.

Her hand moved beneath the covers. Then stopped. Hovered.

She couldn’t.

Not yet.

She stared at the ceiling and whispered, almost bitterly.

“God help me.”

But deep inside her, something whispered back.

I don’t want help.

I want to burn.

—-

The sanctuary was packed.

Wooden fans waved in slow rhythm, stirring the heat but not chasing it. Women in wide-brimmed hats dabbed at their foreheads with monogrammed handkerchiefs. Men in wool suits shifted in their pews, sweat trickling beneath starched collars. The choir was just finishing “Draw Me Nearer”, their voices heavy with spirit, but even heavier with July humidity.

Sister Marigold Baptiste sat front and center, her back straight, her hands folded neatly over her lap. Her prayer scarf lay draped across her knees. Her lips were closed. Eyes forward.

But her mind—her mind was somewhere else.

The night before.

Stack’s mouth.

His voice.

The way he stood in the doorway like he’d been sent to tempt her specifically.

She could still see the sweat on his chest. The way it beaded low on his stomach before disappearing into those dark slacks. The way his tongue flicked between his teeth when he grinned at her like he knew.

And he did know.

She had turned away too slowly.

Walked too fast.

Her hips had betrayed her.

Her thoughts had betrayed her.

She crossed her legs now, knees pressed tighter than necessary beneath her Sunday skirt.

From the pulpit, Reverend Obadiah Baptiste raised his voice.

“The devil is bold in these final days! He sets his roots deep in music, liquor, lust—”

The word lust hit her like a slap. Her stomach fluttered.

“—he sends his foot soldiers to the corners of our city! Juke joints! Brothels! The so-called blues halls where women bare their bodies and men throw their futures into bottles!”

The Blackline.

He meant The Blackline.

Everyone knew it.

Some nodded. Some hummed in agreement.

But Marigold sat still, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Her eyes drifted—not to the pulpit, but to the congregation. Somewhere near the back, two young women leaned into each other, whispering behind gloved hands. She recognized one of them—used to be in her girls’ purity class.

Now she wore lipstick.

Had her hair curled in waves.

Her stocking seam wasn’t even straight.

Loose, they would’ve called her once.

But now?

Marigold couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop thinking…

Is she the kind he touches? The kind he holds against the wall and fills with all that heat?

She felt her pulse in her thighs.

Her drawers dampening.

Her breath shortening.

She opened her hymnal.

Then closed it again.

Reverend Obadiah’s voice rose.

“We must be vigilant! The enemy does not rest. He preys on the flesh. He makes you think what’s unclean is sweet. He poisons the tongue and quickens the loins!”

Quickens the loins.

Marigold bit the inside of her cheek.

She thought of Stack’s belt, the sound it made when it slid from his trousers. She thought of being bent over her own prayer bench, her face pressed to the wood, tears and desire mixing together. She thought of him punishing her for every wicked thought.

And then—God help her—

She ached.

When the sermon ended, she stood with the others, but her hands trembled against the back of the pew. Someone asked her if she was all right.

She smiled.

Small.

Tight.

“Just the Spirit moving,” she said.

And the woman nodded.

But the Spirit didn’t move that way.

Not in the places she felt it.

—-

The house was darker than usual.

Marigold moved through it like a ghost, the hem of her nightgown brushing the wooden floor. The fabric clung to her legs with every step, the humidity making her feel bare even in layers.

Obadiah had gone to bed after prayer.

He didn’t ask if she was coming.

He never did.

She lit a single lamp in the bedroom. Its golden light pooled on the quilt, casting her shadow across the wall—long, full, womanly. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped.

The collar of her gown had come loose. One button undone.

She didn’t fix it.

Instead, she moved to the bed and sat at the edge.

Her thighs were already pressed together.

She hadn’t touched herself in nearly two decades. Not since her wedding. Not since the night before Obadiah laid beside her, turned his back, and told her that—

the flesh is weak but the Spirit must lead.

But tonight?

Tonight the flesh was singing.

She leaned back on the pillows, let her legs fall open just enough to feel the cool air kiss the heat between them. Her gown rode up, soft cotton rising over bare knees.

And her hand…

Trembled as it slid down.

Over her hip.

Across the curve of her thigh.

Down between—

Wet. Soaked. Drenched unholy.

She gasped softly and bit her lip.

Her fingers circled slow, teasing herself like she was learning, like she didn’t already know what her body craved.

Then, without meaning to, she whispered—

“Elias…”

Just once.

Then again.

“Stack…”

Her free hand clutched the sheet.

Her mind filled with him—shirtless, belt loose, tongue flicking fast between his fingers. His voice telling her she was a sinner. That she needed to be broken. That he’d show her what forgiveness felt like.

She pressed deeper.

Slid her fingers in slow, the way she imagined he would—rough but careful. Her hips lifted. Her jaw fell slack. Her moans were breathy, choked, but steady.

And when she came—

It rolled through her like a hymn.

Silent.

Trembling.

Whole.

She collapsed back into the pillows, heart racing, mouth open in the dark.

The shame would come later.

But in that moment?

She was free.

—-

The sun rose cruel and bright.

By mid-afternoon, the church women were out again, signs in hand, heat sticking to every inch of cotton and conviction. The usual hymns were humming—faint, forced, fraying at the edges.

Marigold stood among them, Bible against her chest like armor.

But something had changed.

She couldn’t stop remembering how her hand moved beneath her gown. How his name had spilled from her mouth. How her knees had shaken when she whispered, “Yes, Stack…” like a confession.

Her skin still tingled.

Her guilt sat high on her chest.

She almost didn’t come today.

But she did.

She always did.

The Blackline’s door creaked open. The music dipped.

And there he was.

Stack.

Leaning against the frame, shirt undone, vest open, sweat licking the dip of his collarbone.

But today…he wore a belt.

Not fastened.

Draped over one shoulder.

A heavy, black leather belt with a silver buckle that glinted when it caught the sun.

He stepped down the stairs, slow as sin. Took one drag of his cigarette and let the smoke curl around his words.

“Afternoon, saints.”

Cordelia laughed from inside, peeking over the top half of the door like a devil in silk.

“Look like we got a holy protest, Stack! You bring your scripture?”

“Better,” he said, pulling the belt off his shoulder.

He let it hang from one hand, low and loose, like he didn’t need to use it—but might.

His eyes locked on Marigold.

Everyone else disappeared.

He said nothing.

Just snapped the belt once.

CRACK!

The sound sliced the silence. Birds scattered from a nearby wire. One of the younger church women jumped.

But Marigold?

She stood frozen.

Hands clenched at her Bible. Chest rising. Lips parted. Her thighs pressed together so tightly it hurt.

Stack grinned.

“You keep showin’ up, Sister. You sure you ain’t here for the beatin’?”

The women gasped.

Cordelia howled with laughter.

“Ooh, he nasty!”

Stack stepped closer—close enough that she could smell the musk and cologne on his skin.

He leaned in, belt still swaying in his grip.

“I’ll put you over my lap and teach you what obedience really feel like.”

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed.

“And you wet.”

Her breath caught.

His voice dropped lower.

“You came last night, didn’t you? Whispered my name into that pillow? You think I ain’t know?”

Marigold turned to leave, nearly stumbling.

But as she walked away, he called out.

“That belt’s waitin’, Sister. And I don’t miss a mark!”

The other girls clutched each other, laughing and gasping, their heels clicking as they darted back inside, fanning themselves with cocktail menus.

And Stack?

He stayed where he was.

Belt in hand.

Watching her hips sway like they were already sore.

—-

The night air was thick.

Not warm. Not cool. Just heavy—like breath held too long.

Marigold lay on top of the covers, her nightgown clinging to her skin like confession. She had left the windows open and the fan on, but no breeze stirred. The room was still, the kind of stillness that listens.

Obadiah was in the next room again. They hadn’t shared a bed in years. The excuse had always been prayer, back pain, fasting, a calling toward celibacy. She never questioned it—not out loud. But tonight, lying alone beneath the shadows of her own house, Marigold wanted to scream.

Instead, she whispered.

“God help me.”

But the prayer felt thin. Hollow. Something she said out of habit more than hope.

She let her hand rest lightly against her stomach.

Then drift lower.

Over the soft slope of her belly.

Between her thighs.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

Her eyes closed. Her breath slowed.

And she slipped into a dream.

It began like always—The Blackline behind her, signs in hand, sweat rolling down the valley of her back beneath her blouse. The other women were chanting something, but the sound turned watery, slow, like hymns in molasses.

Then he appeared.

Stack.

Sweat-slicked. Bare-chested. A cigar between his lips and a belt in his hand.

Not coiled.

Loose.

He said nothing at first.

Just circled her.

Slow.

Predator-like.

Marigold’s body stood still in the dream, but her thoughts raced—heat blooming low and fast, like a match to oil.

“Say you want it,” he spoke low and seductively.

She shook her head.

He chuckled.

“You already bent.”

And she was.

Bent over a pew.

Hands flat.

Breath shaking.

Nightgown raised.

The belt touched the curve of her ass—not a strike, just a whisper.

Then another.

Then the crack.

SMACK.

She gasped.

He pressed his hand to the sting.

“You take it so good.”

Another strike.

And another.

Her legs trembled. Her pussy dripped.

He bent low behind her, kissed the place he’d punished, and growled:

“Beg me for it.”

In the dream, she did.

She heard her own voice—breathy, broken.

“Please…Elias…I need to be punished. I want it. Make me feel it…”

He shoved his fingers between her thighs.

“You already do.”

She woke with a jolt.

Soaked.

Panting.

Shaking.

The sheets beneath her were damp. Her thighs slick. Her heart thudded like sin behind her ribs.

She sat up, pressing her palm to her mouth.

The shame was instant. Sharp. But underneath it…

Something else stirred.

Need.

Need that wasn’t fleeting.

Need that was coming back for her.

—-

The church was empty.

The hymnals had been closed. The final amen had drifted up like smoke into rafters built on faith and long-suffering. The women had left in pairs, heels clicking, voices hushed with evening gossip. Even the deacons had gone, muttering about supper and the rising heat.

Only Marigold remained.

She stood alone at the pulpit, hands clenched around the edges, her chest rising and falling faster than the sermon should have left it.

The sanctuary was warm. Too warm.

Her scarf clung to the back of her neck. Her blouse stuck between her breasts. Sweat trickled along her ribs and she hated it— hated the way the stillness felt sinful, hated the way her thoughts burned.

Not with holiness.

But with him.

With Elias Moore.

With the way her body had come hard and soaked the night before, whispering his name like he was the one baptizing her in bed.

She had scrubbed herself twice this morning. Prayed twice before noon. But nothing could cleanse her skin of the memory of how it felt to want something so violently it made her sob in the dark.

And now—

Now the sound from across the street was louder than ever.

The Blackline was pulsing.

Low bass. Laughter. Rhythm. Lust.

Every note that drifted from those cracked doors felt like temptation calling her by name.

It wasn’t just music—it was mockery.

“I ain’t yours,” the beat seemed to say.

But you wanna be mine.

She stormed from the church before she could talk herself down.

The street was almost empty, save for the soft hum of nightlife and the thick heat of late summer settling like syrup.

Marigold didn’t stop at the gate.

Didn’t pray at the stoop.

She walked right across the road like a woman possessed, her skirt swinging with fury, her heels striking the pavement like rebuke.

When she reached the side door of The Blackline, it was already open.

He was already there.

Stack.

Leaning in the doorway, shirt half-open, suspenders low, a glass of dark liquor in one hand and that goddamn grin carved into his face.

“Well, well. Thought I smelled judgment comin’.”

She didn’t blink.

“You—”

Her voice broke, rage clenching her throat.

She stepped inside. Just a few feet. Just far enough to feel how hot the air was. How real he looked up close.

“You disgusting, vulgar, filthy man.”

He took a sip, unbothered.

“Guilty.”

“You stand out here like the devil himself, throwin’ filth at me in front of women who look up to me! You embarrass me. You—”

“You embarrass yourself, Sister,” he cut in, low and sharp, “All that fire in your voice and none in your husband’s bed. You mad at me ‘cause I noticed what he’s too scared to touch.”

She stepped closer.

Furious.

Breath shaking.

“You think just ‘cause you walk around with your chest out and your belt hangin’ like a weapon, you can say whatever you want to me?!”

He licked his bottom lip slow.

“Nah, Sister. I say what I say ‘cause every time I do—you clench. Just like you doin’ right now.”

Her hand flew—open-palmed, angry—but he caught her wrist mid-air.

Fast. Gentle. Firm.

She gasped.

He didn’t let go.

“Wanna hit me? Or wanna beg me?”

Her chest rose hard. Her cheeks flushed.

She tried to pull away, but he stepped in, the heat between them thick as sin.

“Tell the truth, Sister Marigold.”

His voice dropped.

“You touched yourself after I brought out that belt, didn’t you?”

She froze.

“You put your hand between them holy thighs and thought about me bendin’ you over.”

She shook her head, trembling.

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” he whispered, “I ain’t mad at you. You human. Just like me.”

“You’re not like me,” she snapped, trying to pull free again.

He didn’t let go.

“Not yet.”

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, the room was nothing but breath and want.

Hatred like kindling.

Desire like flame.

Then she finally yanked her wrist away and backed toward the door.

“You’re gonna rot in hell,” she spat.

He smiled, slow and deliberate.

“Only if you rot beside me, Sister.”

She turned and fled.

But he watched.

Watched the sway of her hips.

Watched the tremble in her spine.

And knew—next time, she wouldn’t run.

—-

At first, it felt like a blessing.

No signs.

No scripture-chanting at dusk.

No Sister Marigold standing tall at the curb, eyes sharp, mouth tight, Bible pressed flat against her chest like it could guard her from what he made her feel.

Stack leaned against the doorframe of The Blackline that first night she didn’t show, puffing a cigar with the girls buzzing behind him. Cordelia was laughing with her head thrown back. Odessa slipped between patrons like a serpent in silk. Mirabel twirled to the band warming up on stage.

But something was missing.

Something in the air didn’t bite the same.

No judgmental stares to push against.

No tight lips to tease.

No heat pressed beneath holy layers for him to unpeel with his eyes.

“Where the Bible Brigade at?” Cordelia asked, sauntering past with her hand on her hip, “Y’all finally scared ‘em off?”

“Maybe she laid hands on herself too hard,” Lana snorted, “Repented and ruptured.”

Laughter followed. Girls trailed into the night. Smoke curled up toward the moon.

But Stack?

He just watched the street.

Empty.

Clean.

Too damn quiet.

Days passed.

Then a week.

No protests.

No hymn humming.

No hard swallow from the Sister trying not to look at his chest when he stood in the sun. He didn’t say it aloud, but Stack started stepping out earlier in the evening—just to see. Lighting his cigarette before the music even started. Lingered near the gate. Checked the alley beside the church.

Nothing.

The following Friday, Cordelia caught him staring again.

“She ain’t comin’, baby,” she said, leaning into his space, “You broke her. Or maybe she finally realized how bad she wanna be broken.”

He didn’t answer.

Just clenched his jaw and lit another match off the brick.

“Or maybe,” Liza June chimed in, “she been touchin’ herself too good to risk fallin’ at your feet.”

Mirabel laughed behind her palm, “She’ll be back. Them holy ones always come back once they realize God ain’t the only one who likes to watch.”

But Stack didn’t laugh.

He stepped out to the edge of the porch, scanning the street again.

Still nothing.

No swishing skirt.

No pinched lips.

No belt-worthy tension bottled up in righteous fury.

Just the faint echo of her voice in his memory.

You’re vulgar. You embarrass me.

He licked his teeth.

Then muttered under his breath.

“Come back and say it again, Sister. I’ll give you somethin’ to be ashamed of.”

That night, when the club quieted and the music dipped into blues low and sweet, Stack sat in the corner booth alone. A girl tried to slide in beside him—he waved her off.

He nursed his glass, watching the door.

Wondering if maybe she really wasn’t coming back.

And why, in the deepest part of him, that thought felt like a loss.

—-

The Blackline ran smooth that night.

Liquor flowed easy. Music was hot and low. The girls were moving slow enough to tease and fast enough to earn. Every booth had company. Every room had noise.

And Stack?

He was restless.

He sat at the bar, swirling his drink, one elbow propped, watching the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

Cordelia was on stage, hips rolling slow, her voice a slow burn against the upright bass. Mirabel was on her knees at a table, flirting like a preacher’s daughter with a knife behind her back. Liza June was tucked between a businessman’s thighs, hand sliding up slow with a smile that promised sin.

Stack had broken every one of them.

He knew the moment it happened for each:

When Cordelia had dropped her robe and whispered, “What do you want me to do first, boss?”

When Mirabel had spread her thighs on his desk and asked if he wanted to watch or taste.

When Liza had crawled between his legs, a virgin with a filthy mouth, and said, “I wanna learn the hard way.”

He broke them all in his own time.

Not through cruelty.

Not with force.

With heat. Voice. Hunger. Control.

He trained them with looks, commands, the press of his hand low on their backs.

And they loved him for it.

But Sister Marigold?

She was the one he hadn’t touched.

Not yet.

She was the tightest lock he’d ever seen—and Stack was a man who collected keys.

He wanted her bent and begging.

He wanted to peel the starch off her, inch by inch—until her thighs were open, her mouth was filthy, and she was asking for what she used to condemn.

“Break her slow,” he muttered to himself, “Make her feel every crack.”

He imagined her again—nightgown clinging, thighs wet, mouth forming his name like it was the only scripture that still moved her.

He’d take her in steps.

First, a kiss—shocking, deep, with his fingers pressed just under her jaw.

Then, his belt—not striking yet, just dragging the leather over her thighs, slow enough to make her tremble.

After that? He’d have her on her knees, not praying. Watching her lips wrap around his fat dick like she’d been made for it.

“She’ll cry the first time,” he said aloud, “But not from shame.”

He stood from the bar and walked into the back hallway where it was quiet. The music dulled behind thick walls. His office door loomed at the end, but he didn’t go there.

He leaned against the wall.

Lit a fresh cigarette.

And stared at the front door like it might open and reveal her.

Come back so I can watch you fall apart.

And this time?

He wouldn’t stop her.

He’d make sure she never wanted to stand again.

—-

The fellowship hall smelled of deviled eggs, Pine-Sol, and slow-cooked rice. The women of Greater Calvary bustled between tables in church dresses and lace gloves, laughter echoing off whitewashed walls and pressed tin ceilings.

Marigold sat at the center table, her napkin folded neatly in her lap, hands poised around a glass of sweet tea that had already begun to sweat. She wore a soft peach blouse with a high neck and a gray skirt that fell to her ankles. Her hair was pinned back tighter than usual. Not a coil out of place.

She smiled where she was expected to smile.

Laughed when the timing called for it.

But her stomach was in knots.

Not from nerves.

From hunger.

Sister Ruth tapped her fork against her plate to get everyone’s attention.

“Ain’t this a blessing? We don’t gather enough outside of service. Just us womenfolk.”

A few amens fluttered through the room.

They went back to talking, eating, asking about children and neighbors and sore knees. Sister Lula mentioned her husband’s failing eyesight. Sister Anita bragged about her eldest joining the choir. Sister Bernice, always the sharpest tongue, leaned forward with a knowing squint.

“Y’all notice we ain’t protested outside that juke in two weeks now?”

That silenced the table for a moment.

Marigold’s fingers tightened around her tea glass.

“The Blackline,” Bernice continued, “Devil’s playground. Smut in stereo. Music that make your hips move without permission.”

“Mmm-hmm,” another woman agreed, “One of them girls strutted right past me on Saturday night. Smelled like bourbon and fornication.”

Laughter.

Someone muttered, “The jezebels multiplyin’.”

“What happened to our witness?” Bernice pressed, “We supposed to be light. But we ain’t marched by in days.”

Eyes turned, slowly, toward Marigold.

She smiled. Stiff. Careful.

“The Spirit led me to rest a while,” she said softly, “Let the dust settle.”

Ruth nodded, “That’s wise. Don’t want our protest to become performance.”

But Bernice’s eyes narrowed.

“Still. I heard that Stack Moore said somethin’ vulgar last time. Real shameful. Called out your name, Sister Marigold.”

Marigold’s throat closed.

“Is it true he said he’d—what was it—bend you over a pew and teach you obedience?”

Gasps and scandalous giggles rippled across the table.

“Men like that,” Ruth said, fanning herself, “need a swift stone to the head, like Goliath.”

“Or a woman to put him on his knees,” someone murmured.

They laughed again.

But Marigold didn’t.

She reached for her water. Took a small sip. Let it rest on her tongue like wine in a chalice.

They didn’t know.

They didn’t see the way her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt.

They didn’t hear the way her breath caught.

They didn’t feel the way her skin burned remembering the belt he held, the way his voice sounded like sin wrapped in syrup.

Say you want it.

I’ll break you slow.

She swallowed and placed her glass back down, careful not to let her hand tremble.

“The devil has always used noise to distract the saints,” she said.

The women muttered in agreement.

But inside?

Marigold was buzzing.

Not from fear, but from want.

And she knew it wouldn’t be long.

Soon, she’d walk down that street again.

Not as a protestor.

But as a woman ready to be broken open.

—-

The parlor was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of an oil lamp and the last dregs of daylight bleeding through lace curtains. The house was still. Even the floorboards had gone quiet. Reverend Obadiah Baptiste had retired early, as always. He didn’t ask why she stayed behind in the parlor, kneeling at the small altar near the window with her scarf wrapped around her shoulders and her knees pressed into the worn rug like penance.

He never asked anything of her anymore.

Which made what she was about to ask of God feel all the heavier.

She had been kneeling for nearly an hour.

Back straight. Hands folded. Bible in her lap.

Whispers had long since turned to pleas.

“Lord, I rebuke it. Take the thoughts. Take the hunger. Purify my flesh…even if it withers.”

Her voice cracked.

Her fingers trembled.

Her thighs ached from being pressed so tight together for days.

She hadn’t touched herself since that night in bed.

Not once.

Not when she woke up sweating from dreams. Not when her breasts ached from wanting to be kissed, held, bitten. Not when her thighs clenched so hard she saw stars.

She thought denial would purify her.

But it only made her crave more.

And he was everywhere.

Elias. Stack. The devil in skin.

He lived behind her eyelids.

The way he stood with his shirt open and belt hanging loose, his voice low and slow, eyes full of fire.

Wanna hit me or beg me, Sister?

Say you want it. I’ll wait.

She hadn’t said it.

Not then.

But in her head, she said it every night.

Tears welled.

She opened her Bible, but the words blurred.

She pressed her forehead to it, whispering through clenched teeth:

“Why can’t I stop thinking about him?”

Her breath hitched.

The tears came harder.

“Why does my body betray me? Why does your name feel weak next to his?”

She covered her mouth.

She hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud.

She gasped.

And then she broke.

The tears came—hot, silent, wrenching. Her shoulders shook. Her face crumpled against the worn leather of the Good Book as though it could absorb the filth inside her.

But it didn’t.

It just sat there.

Like it always had.

Still. Unmoving.

While she burned.

She stayed there for what felt like forever.

Not praying.

Just breathing.

And finally, whispering the one truth she couldn’t outrun anymore:

“I want him.”

Not in marriage. Not in courtship. Not in righteousness.

“I want to be ruined.”

She let the words sit in the dark air. And this time, no voice answered back.

Only the distant, rhythmic pulse of The Blackline across town.

—-

The air outside the church was thick with Mississippi heat and choir song.

Women stood in small circles on the front lawn of Greater Calvary, fanning themselves with paper programs and sharing the latest on husbands, births, and backsliders. Their skirts were long, hems brushing the dirt. Their sleeves reached wrists. Not a bit of flesh where it could help it.

And still—

Stack Moore watched them like it was a burlesque.

He was leaned back against his black Buick at the far corner of the block, shirt open halfway down his chest, belt undone at the top, one foot crossed over the other like sin had manners. His fedora was tipped just enough to shade his eyes, but the glint of mischief could still be seen clear as day. A rolled cigarette hung lazy between two fingers.

He licked it once—slow.

Twice—slower.

Then smiled.

“Damn shame,” he muttered, “how holy a mouth can look when it’s meant for filth.”

He didn’t move.

Just stood there, licking and rolling like he was thinking of something far less sacred than salvation.

Then she came out.

Sister Marigold.

Her Bible clutched close, lips tight, spine straighter than judgment. She walked like royalty in a battlefield—chaste but carved like a woman who wasn’t made to be untouched. That skirt hugged her hips just enough to tempt a gaze.

And Stack gave in.

“Mmm,” he hissed through his teeth, low and hungry, “That walk could raise the dead.”

She didn’t look at him—but her steps faltered.

He watched her go, watched the sway, and when she passed the edge of the church gate, he called out:

“Don’t walk like that if you don’t want a man prayin’ on his knees behind you, Sister!”

Gasps cut through the churchwomen like wind through reeds.

Marigold didn’t break stride—but her jaw clenched so tight it could’ve split wood.

Stack just smiled, rolled his cigarette between his lips, and tipped his hat slow.

Then turned.

And strolled into the mouth of The Blackline like he was the one leaving worship.

The air was cooler inside, humming with jazz and slow motion. Cordelia was behind the bar in a silk wrap and no bra, pouring bourbon like she was serving confession. Peaches was perched on a stool with her legs wide, red lipstick freshly applied and conversation just as hot.

They spotted Stack the moment he entered.

“Lord, look who just finished leering at the flock,” Peaches teased.

“You see the way Marigold walkin’?” Cordelia added, “Like she don’t know she got two whole sermons sittin’ on her hips.”

They laughed, loud and knowing.

Stack didn’t even sit. Just leaned on the bar and grinned.

“She hold her mouth too tight,” he said, plucking the cigarette from his pocket, “Scared if she pout, somebody gon’ see what them lips really made for.”

That made Peaches slap her knee.

“You a fool, Stack.”

“Nah,” he drawled, “I’m just waitin’. Holy don’t mean hard. Just means it ain’t been touched right.”

Cordelia leaned closer.

“Heard some girls from church came in here last week,” she whispered, half thrill, half scandal, “Young things. Fresh-faced. Left with stockings down and men on they knees under tables. Sucking.”

Stack blinked, then he smiled, slow, wicked.

“Church got better altar calls than I thought.”

Peaches licked her straw.

“You know who else I bet be hidin’ somethin’ under them skirts? Marigold. Tight drawstrings don’t mean dry. Just mean she screamin’ behind her eyes.”

Cordelia whistled.

“Ain’t no preacher man alive know how to handle all that body. She don’t need a pastor.”

“She need a wolf,” Stack finished.

He lit his cigarette, eyes low and voice thick.

“And I got teeth.”

—-

The Blackline’s upstairs office was smoky and dim, the only light coming from the desk lamp and the sliver of moon slicing through the blinds.

Stack was reclined in the desk chair, sleeves rolled up, shirt open. He was flipping through the tally book with one hand and rolling his toothpick between his lips with the other—still damp from his post-bath grin.

The door creaked open.

Smoke stepped in, tie loose, vest gone, the scent of vanilla and woman still clinging to his skin.

“Look at you,” Stack muttered without looking up, “Ain’t even need to ask where you been.”

Smoke gave a small smirk.

“You jealous, little brotha?” Smoke taunted.

“Mmm,” Stack drawled, slow and slick, “Ain’t touched pussy in eons. Walkin’ round here pussy drunk. That lil’ thing got you spellbound. What she got between her legs, a holy ghost?”

“Least I tasted it,” Smoke shot back, “Had her legs on my shoulders till she went to sleep,” he said, voice deep and smooth, “You ever eat a woman so slow she dream ‘bout it twice?”

Stack scoffed, grin twitching. He stood up and leaned in the office doorway, smirking with his toothpick caught between his teeth, watching Smoke pour himself a glass of bourbon.

Stack raised a brow, “Say what now?”

Smoke didn’t look up.

Didn’t smile.

Just took a sip and leaned back in his chair, cool and unbothered. Smoke met his gaze then—steady, bored, and deadly.

“You the one leering through church windows like a starving hound,” he said, voice low, “That holy woman got you pressed up against the glass like a boy who never learned what to do with his hands.”

Smoke kept going.

“You talkin’ slick, but you ain’t even tasted what you obsessin’ over. All them dames in here throwin’ pussy and you sittin’ in your car waitin’ for a woman who don’t even speak your name unless it’s followed by ‘hellfire.’”

Stack chuckled deep, but it was tight in his chest.

“She gonna say my name,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Smoke said, mouth tipping into a lazy smirk, “Right after you make her come so hard she forgets the Book of Psalms.”

He took another sip.

“So don’t talk to me about bein’ pussy-whipped when you out here tryin’ to baptize in backshots.”

Stack chuckled, slapped the book shut.

“Yeah? That little thing got you lit up like a Sunday candle. Been hummin’ her name since last week.”

Smoke leaned against the desk, arms folded, eyebrow raised.

“And you over here sweatin’ behind windows and doorways for a woman who still tucks her blouse in with a cross ‘round her neck.”

Stack’s grin dropped just a little.

“Say what you want. That woman’s mouth tight ‘cause she afraid to let it moan.”

“Nah,” Smoke said, slow, “She tight ‘cause you ain’t broke her yet. And it’s killin’ you.”

Stack looked away, flicked his toothpick once.

“You don’t know what the fuck you talkin’ about.”

Smoke chuckled, deep and low.

“Don’t I? You watch her like a dog at the fence. Lickin’ your lips every time she quote scripture.”

“So?”

“So next time you jack off thinkin’ ‘bout Sister Marigold, try not to say ‘amen’ when you nut.”

Stack barked a laugh despite himself.

“Fuck you.”

Smoke shrugged.

——

The sanctuary was nearly empty.

The last of the women had gone an hour ago, the scent of their perfume and powder still lingering in the air. A few hymnals lay closed across the pews. The lamps were low. The cross above the altar cast a long shadow down the center aisle like a wound still bleeding.

Sister Marigold Baptiste stood alone.

She was collecting donation slips. Fixing the flowers in the vestibule. Pretending she was busy and unbothered when truly, her body was still humming from what she almost did in the alley the night before.

She turned to reach for a stack of folded linen.

And froze.

The door creaked.

Bootsteps echoed—slow, deliberate.

He didn’t call her name.

Didn’t announce himself.

Just let the sound of his walk fill the air, followed by a lazy, Southern drawl that settled like sin against stained glass.

“Ain’t no service tonight. You stayin’ back to pray for me, Sister?”

Stack Moore.

She turned so fast the linen slipped from her hand.

“What are you doing in here?”

He stood just past the back pew, the brim of his hat dipped low, shirt unbuttoned at the chest, sleeves rolled like he’d come straight from work—or a sin he didn’t regret.

“Saw the light was still on,” he said, slow and easy, “Thought maybe somebody holy could teach me somethin’.”

“You need to leave,” she whispered, trying to sound firm, but her voice shook.

He didn’t.

He walked.

Each step toward her made her pulse trip faster. He passed the pews like they weren’t even there, eyes locked on her the whole way.

“Where your holy preacher husband at?” he asked, stopping a few feet short.

“He’s home.”

“Home?” Stack repeated, cocking his head, “And you out here by yourself? In the dark? In this big ol’ church?”

He smiled without warmth.

“Ain’t wise, Sister. Lotta crazy niggas and worse out there. Crackers too. You shouldn’t be alone.”

She didn’t reply.

Couldn’t.

Because now he was closer, leaning against the edge of the pulpit like the weight of the Lord didn’t press on him. Like the church didn’t scare him. His fingers tapped the wood like a slow ticking clock.

“Let me ask you somethin’,” he said, voice low, “Why you protest?”

She blinked, “Because—because that place is a den of filth and—”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

He straightened, took a step closer.

“I said why you protest? Every damn week. You ain’t tired? Ain’t got better things to do than shout about sin to people who already made peace with it?”

Her chin rose, stubborn.

“It’s wrong what y’all do in there. Wrong what you allow.”

“Ain’t no one draggin’ them girls in. They come on they own.”

“Because you tempt them.”

He smiled.

“Maybe. Or maybe they just wanted somethin’ they never had before.”

He took another step. They were close now. His scent wrapped around her—tobacco, musk, sweat. Her knees locked, and her fingers gripped the edge of the hymn stand.

“Let me ask you one more thing,” his voice dropped an octave, “He touchin’ you right?”

She blinked, “Excuse me?”

“Your husband,” Stack said, tone dipping into something darker, “He fuckin’ you right? He get between them thighs and eat that holy little pussy ‘til you cry?”

Her hand flew up—instinctive. But he caught her wrist before it landed.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just firm.

She tried to pull away.

“Let me go.”

“Answer me.”

“You’re sick—”

“Nah. I’m just honest.”

He stepped even closer.

Now his chest brushed hers. His nose nearly touched hers. His breath was warm on her lips.

“I bet he don’t even know what you sound like when you moan.”

She was trembling.

He could see it.

“I bet he never made you cum on your knees with your face in the sheets beggin’ for more.”

“I refuse to fall into sin,” she breathed, trying to hold her ground.

“No,” he whispered, “You already there. You just don’t wanna admit it.”

She turned her face away, but he followed, slow as syrup, pressing the words right into her ear.

“Say the word, and I’ll take that belt off and give you what you really pray for when you touch yourself at night.”

Marigold broke free with a gasp.

She fled down the aisle, out into the night, her steps wild and uneven.

Stack didn’t follow.

Didn’t move.

Just stood at the altar, a devil in Sunday shoes, watching her run like the temptation hadn’t already claimed her.

—-

Marigold didn’t speak on the walk home.

Her shoes scuffed the dirt in hurried steps, her heart punching at her ribs, throat raw from the way she had almost said his name. Not his title. Not “Mr. Moore.” But his name.

Elias.

The name sat like a bruise under her tongue.

The street was quiet save for the chirping of crickets and the distant throb of music still bleeding out of The Blackline. Even from here, she could feel it—the bass of blues pulsing like a second heartbeat between her legs.

She hated that she could tell which song was playing.

She hated that the memory of his scent was still clinging to her skin.

She hated that her thighs were slick.

She crossed the porch and unlocked the door with trembling hands.

The Home of a Preacher’s Wife

Their house was modest. Clean. Prim.

Lace curtains. Polished oak floors. A hand-carved cross above the mantle. The air was still, as if the walls themselves bowed under the weight of Scripture.

There were no pictures of passion. No laughter in the corners. Just discipline and devotion.

And silence.

Her husband was asleep already. His plate from supper still on the table, barely touched. A folded napkin. His Bible resting beside his chair like a faithful shadow.

She walked past it all.

Into the bathroom.

She locked the door.

Turned the knob on the tub and let the water fill hot and fast, her hands working in jerks as she undressed. She folded her clothes slowly—habit—but her fingers shook so badly she dropped her camisole on the floor.

She stepped into the tub and sank beneath the heat.

It burned.

She didn’t flinch.

She needed it to.

Letting Down the Veil

She washed her skin like she could scrub away memory.

His breath on her cheek.

His words like fingers trailing down her spine.

Say the word, and I’ll take that belt off and give you what you really pray for when you touch yourself at night.

Her thighs clenched.

Her mouth trembled.

When she rose from the bath, steam curled around her like a ghost.

She wrapped herself in a towel and walked to the bedroom.

Her husband lay turned toward the wall, breathing soft and shallow. She watched him for a moment.

She didn’t feel love.

She felt guilt for not feeling love.

She moved to her vanity.

Pulled the pins from her hair.

Let the thick, dark coils fall down her back in a heavy wave.

The image that looked back at her in the mirror wasn’t the preacher’s wife.

It wasn’t even Sister Marigold.

It was something else.

Eyes wide.

Mouth parted.

Skin still flushed from fire.

She slipped on her nightgown—thin cotton, high collar—and slid into bed.

But sleep didn’t come.

Her thighs pressed tighter.

Her breathing shallowed.

Her hand slid beneath the covers—and paused.

No. No. No. No.

Tears burned.

She turned onto her stomach and bit the pillow.

Don’t. You. Dare.

But her hips rolled once.

Twice.

She whispered his name into the linen—once.

Twice.

Bit down until the shame stung harder than the pleasure.

And when she finally came, it was with a stifled cry and the crushing weight of her own betrayal.

—-

The Blackline was quiet for now.

The crowd had emptied in the early hours, their perfume and sin still hanging thick in the walls. Upstairs, behind a hidden panel in his office, Stack’s private quarters were dark but warm with steam.

He stood at the mirror, body still wet from the bath. A white towel clung low around his hips, water beading down the carved slope of his chest, across his stomach, slipping past the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the fold of cotton.

He moved slow. Controlled.

A comb in one hand, the tin of pomade open beside the basin. He slicked his thick black hair into place with steady strokes, jaw clenched just slightly, eyes locked on his reflection.

The girl behind him watched in silence.

Mirabel.

Newer than the others. Quiet but sharp. Loyal to him in a way that was unspoken. She had already laid out his shirt and slacks on the bed. His shoes shined to a spit-polish black. She didn’t speak. Just moved around him like a soft breeze. Waiting. Watching.

Stack stared at himself.

Flicked his wrist and smoothed his part with precision.

“Mmm,” he muttered low, the memory hitting him again.

Her face.

That holy little mouth twisted in fury.

The heat coming off her skin.

The sound of her breath when he leaned close.

Sister Marigold.

“I bet he don’t even know what you sound like when you moan.”

His dick twitched beneath the towel.

Mirabel noticed.

Didn’t say a word.

Just moved forward on silent feet and sank to her knees behind him.

Stack didn’t stop her.

Didn’t need to.

Her hands eased the towel loose. His dick fell heavy and rising.

She took him in hand, warm and obedient, lips parting around the crown like a sacrament.

Stack closed his eyes.

Leaned forward on the vanity with one hand braced against the wood, breath hitching as her tongue circled just right.

But it wasn’t her he saw.

“Yeah…that’s it,” he groaned, “Right there…holy mouth…”

He could see Marigold on her knees.

Hair unbound.

Cross still hanging from her neck while her lips stretched around him, tears sliding down her cheeks, not from pain but shame.

Desire.

Her hands gripping his thighs. That tight mouth forced open for the first time in her life.

And he’d teach her.

How to suck.

How to use her throat.

How to beg while choking on him.

Mirabel bobbed deeper. Sucked harder. Moaned softly around him like a good girl.

But Stack’s body was tight with something darker. Rougher.

He bit down on a groan, hips twitching once—twice—and then he spilled, mouth open, eyes rolled, thinking only of Marigold.

His fingers dug into the wood.

His breath shuddered.

And he smiled.

“Lord help her,” he whispered, “She don’t even know what she in for.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[dollzstrology]

⋆.ೃ࿔ 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋 ᝰ Smoke's been gone on business, him and Stack out making shady deals and God knows what else. You’ve been home waiting for his return, trying to keep your hands busy and your anxiety at bay, but when he finally comes home, with blood dripping down his torso, all that waiting boils over into worry.

𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮… Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻… SFW ᝰ fluff + angst, non-canon, fem!reader, envisioned as black!reader while writing, pregnancy [second trimester], soft!Smoke, established relationship [married couple], use of derogatory word [cracker], implied anxiety & worry, depictions of injury, southern/country dialect used. implied southern/country accent. 1930’s time period.

𝑫𝑼𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵… 2.8k words

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑶𝑴 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹… Wanted to write something fluffy/angsty for Smoke since I recently posted smut for him and I came up with this idea. As always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions! I hope you enjoy!!

𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑺… Sinners M.List ・Sinners Taglist ・Main M.list

The house has settled for the night, there’s cicadas hiding in the trees, the hum of distant frogs buzzing in the air, and the gentle creak of the old floorboards beneath your feet as you move throughout your home. The house has been quiet all day since Smoke isn’t here for his voice to bounce off the walls and his shoes tapping against the floor.

Him and his brother are out on a “business” trip doing God knows what. Smoke doesn’t like involving you in his dealings, not wanting those type of things to spill into your marriage but sometimes you force him to tell you things and when you don’t feel like going back and forth with him, you ask Stack, bribing him for information with a warm pie or whatever he’s in the mood for.

These trips never have a set amount of time they’ll be gone, it could be a few days or a few weeks so you just wait for him to return to you. You’ve been trying to distract yourself all day, straightening up the house, folding the same blanket three times, and even baking a pound cake just to keep your hands busy. But now the night’s settled in, and you’re left with nothing but your thoughts.

You just finished up in the bathroom, wrapping up your hair for the night, and getting ready for your bed so you can get some sleep. You sit on the side of your bed, taking off your robe that’s tied loosely over your nightgown, your belly becoming rounder by the day as your pregnancy progresses. Your hand strokes over your stomach as you hum a little tune, reaching to turn off the lamp on your nightstand.

When you’re about to lay down and close your eyes, that’s when you hear it. The low growl of a car engine cutting through the quiet, tires rolling slow over the dirt road leading up to the house. You didn’t need to look out the window to know who it was. You can feel him, that familiar tug in your chest, the one that always stirs up inside you whenever he’s near.

A soft smile creeps onto your face as you slip on your slippers and tie your robe back on, stepping into the parlor room, turning on the lights so you can see in front of you without tripping over your feet. By the time you open the front door to greet Smoke, he’s already climbing up the porch steps, that same easy strut in his walk paired with his cold expression that doesn’t warm up until he’s in your presence.

You can tell something is off with him, you just can’t put your finger on it. His feet are moving a little slower than usual, and there’s a tightness in his jaw. Despite being a little curious you push those thoughts aside and welcome your husband back home. “How you be?” he says, his voice clearly tinged with exhaustion from travel but still tender enough for you to feel his love. “the baby been good to ya’?”

You don’t answer at first, at least not with words. You just wrap your arms around him the second he’s close enough, squeezing him tight against you. He wraps you up in those big muscular arms, one hand slipping to your lower back and the other curling over your belly. His lips press against your forehead, making you light up at his act of affection. “The baby been quiet,” you murmur into his chest, “and now that you standin’ in front of me in one piece? I’m doin’ real good.”

He lets out a low chuckle, pulling back just enough to give you a proper kiss, slow and deep against his juicy lips, like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s been away. You melt into it, your hands holding the sides of his face until you pull back just enough to search his eyes, wanting to make sure he’s alright. “Did you and Stack take care of yourselves out there?”

Your hand rests lightly on his chest, fingers splayed out beneath the soft fabric of his wrinkled shirt. The moment you ask if he and Stack were okay, you feel his hand graze along the curve of your belly one last time before pulling back. “Yeah, we alright.” he says, voice smooth like molasses but just a little too fast, like he already had this rehearsed. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Even though his tone is calm and confident you know better. That’s the voice he uses when he doesn't want you poking around, when he’s trying to ease your mind without telling you the whole truth.

You know every version of Smoke’s tone of voice; when he’s lying, when he’s happy, when he’s horny, when he’s in pain and trying to hide it. This one? This is his lying tone.

Your brows knit a little, but you don’t push for any information just yet. Instead, you take another approach, slinging your arms around his body, sliding your hands under his suit jacket and feeling the fabric of his dress shirt. Your palms travel down his back, then across his sides, searching for any sort of injuries he could be trying to hide.

You almost think you aren’t going to find anything until you feel a wet and warm substance against your hand. Your hand jerks back and when you look down at your palm, there’s blood against your skin. “Elijah…”

He doesn’t answer at first, just presses his lips together like he already knows you’re about to start fussing at him. You reach forward and press your hand lightly over the stain again on the side of his torso, and this time, he flinches. “Elijah,” you say again, firmer this time. “you bleedin’.”

He sighs, like it’s just a minor inconvenience, not really thinking too much of it. “It’s jus’ a scratch, baby. I’m fine.” When it comes to things like this, it’s like pulling teeth to get Smoke to admit when he’s in pain. You know it’s rooted in him to worry about everyone else’s well being and not his own but you won’t let him, not while you’re still walking this earth.

“That ain’t jus’ a scratch.” You pull him inside the house and close the door behind him, dragging him throughout the house and stopping once you both get to the kitchen. “Take that jacket off and lemme patch it up.” Smoke is about to tell you that ain’t necessary, but once he sees the look in your eye, the stern look you give him when you aren’t in the mood to play tongue tug-a-war, he does what he’s told.

He shrugs out of the jacket slowly and the moment it slips from his shoulders, you see the ounces of blood that’s seeped through the white of his shirt, clinging to his side in a way that makes your stomach turn. “Sit down.” you murmur, pointing toward one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He does, but not before grunting as he lowers himself, one hand bracing against the table, the other hovering near the wound.

You grab the little tin box from the cabinet that holds everything you need to doctor him up: bandages, alcohol, and a needle and thread just in case he needs stitches. You set it on the table with a sharp thud, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of him. “Take yo’ shirt off.”

Smoke undoes the buttons slowly, flinching when the fabric peels away from his skin as he tries to take it off. Once the dress shirt is away, and he takes off his t-shirt, your eyes fall upon the wound. It’s stretched just along his ribs, dripping with blood and jagged like someone tried to cut him and only half-finished the job.

You wet a cloth and bend towards him, pressing it gently against the wound. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. “What happened?” you ask quietly but with a stern tone, not looking up since you’re trying to focus on the wound. “And don’t give me some half-assed reason you jus’ made up in yo’ head. I wanna hear what really happened.”

Smoke leans back in the chair, his eyes flick up to the ceiling, then down at you as you doctor him up, your belly brushing his knee each time you shift closer to get a better angle at his wound. For a moment, you think he might lie again. Might smooth it over like he always does. But he must see the way your mouth’s set tight paired with the heat in your eyes, because this time he honestly answers your question.

“Man we went to handle,” he starts, voice a little raspier than before. “was s’posed to be alone. Told Stack I ain’t trust it, but you know him, runnin’ his mouth as usual, sayin’ it’d be quick money.”

You keep pressing the warm cloth to the cut, dabbing carefully and gently, though inside you’re ready to chew Stack out for putting your husband in a dangerous situation.

Smoke winces, trying to pretend he isn’t in pain but continues telling the story. “The man had two crackers waitin’ out back. Soon as we got ‘im cornered, they come rushin’ in. One of ‘em got lucky, sliced me while I was tryin’ to handle the other.” He grumbles at that, wishing he had you light him a cigarette before you started working on him. “Stack damn near lost his mind when he saw me all cut up, shot both of ‘em in the leg ‘fore I could even blink.”

You look up at him then, eyes soft but your voice is sharp, shaking your head at how Smoke and Stack allow themselves to be in these compromising positions. “And you didn’t think maybe you shoulda got that looked at before draggin’ yourself in here bleedin’ all over my floors?”

“Ain’t trustin’ no backroad doctor to touch me. Rather come home and let you fuss over me. You patch me up better than anybody.”

You scoff but your cheeks flush warm, hating how even all cut up, this man still makes you go soft for him. “Keep talkin’ sweet like that and I might let ya’ off the hook.” you mutter, rinsing the rag in the bowl and pressing it back firm enough to make him hiss again.

“Mm.” He grunts with his slightly jaw clenched. “Might be bleedin’, but I still know how to talk my wife. ‘Specially when she mad at me.”

You shake your head again, trying not to smile while your hands moves steady as you wipe away the last smear of blood. The gash isn’t pretty, but it’s clean now. It’s long but thankfully not deep enough for him to need stitches if you keep its wrapped tight.

You reach for the little bottle of alcohol next, needing to make sure it doesn’t get infected. Smoke sees it and narrows his eyes like a child about to get scolded, trying to brace himself for the upcoming sting.

“This gon’ burn somethin’ ugly.” He grumbles under his breath when he hear you say that, so low that you can’t catch all the words. But he sits there all the same, shoulders squared, breathing hard through his nose as you pour the alcohol straight into the cut.

He lets out a growl, hand gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles almost turn white .“Look at you,” you murmur, trying to soothe him and put his mind on something else as you blot the alcohol in with clean gauze. “Actin’ all tough out there, but the second you back in my house, you jus’ a big baby who can’t take a lil’ burn.”

He cracks the smallest smile through his gritted teeth, shaking his head at you calling him a baby. Even though he tries to deny it, when he gets around you he lets his walls down, allowing himself to be soft and gentle.

With you he doesn’t have to mean ole’ Smoke that everyone claims him to be, he can just be Elijah. “Only reason I’m sittin’ here lettin’ you torture me with that rag is ‘cause I love ya’. Anybody else woulda got they ass cussed out.”

You let out a small laugh, knowing that Smoke’s words are true, if it wasn’t you tending to his wounds he definitely would be cussing like a sailor to whoever’s trying to fix him up. When it’s finally clean, you coat it with a salve that Annie swears by and wrap it up snug with fresh bandages. Your fingers work fast and precise, practiced from all the little patch-jobs you’ve done on him over the years.

When you’re done, you lean back, hands resting on your round belly, looking him dead in his eyes. “You gotta be more careful out there, ya’ hear me?” you scold. “I ain’t let you knock me up just to end up raisin’ this baby by myself. Me and this little one need you comin’ back home in one piece. Every time.”

One of your greatest fears is that one day Smoke won’t come home, that someone will be at your door giving you the bad news that your husband has gone to be with the Lord before you could even tell him goodbye. You try not to worry yourself with what if’s but the image of him being in a casket before his time haunts you every time he walks out the front door.

Smoke’s eyes soften, knowing that the work he does makes you uneasy sometimes, especially at times like this where he comes home wounded. He dips his forehead to yours, wanting to ease your mind and let you know that you don’t have to worry about him. “Ain’t nothin’ out there worth more than what I got right here.” he murmurs. “Ain’t neva’ gon’ let nothin’ take me from you and this baby. You got my word on that.”

You swallow, fighting back the burn in your eyes, brushing your nose against his before pulling back, taking a sigh of relief. “Good,” you breathe, a tremble in your voice you can’t quite hide but you don’t let it stop you from bossing Smoke around. “Now, come to bed. You gon’ rest the next few days. Ain’t no runnin’ off behind Stack till you healed proper. You got that, Elijah?”

He doesn’t argue or rebuttal. He just leans forward slow, his brown dyes burning into yours like always when he looks at you. “Yes ma’am. Whateva’ you say, mama.” He presses a soft kiss on your forehead before standing up, putting his hand out so he can help you stand up since he knows it’s getting harder for you to do so on your own as your belly continuously swells.

You take his hand, letting him pull you up slow and careful. The weight of your belly shifts as you rise, and Smoke’s other hand instinctively moves to steady your back, like he always does now, a gentle but firm touch while he watches you like a hawk.

Once you’re on your feet, you don’t move right away. You stand there with him in the low kitchen light, your arms wrapped loosely around his middle, careful not to press against the bandages, your cheek resting against his chest. His heart beating steady beneath your ear, so strong you can hear each thump of his heart. “I missed you somethin’ awful.”

He hums, his lips pressing into your hairline before leading you down the hallway. “I missed you more. Missed hearin’ your voice instead of Stack’s loud-ass complainin’ every five minutes.” Hearing that makes you laugh because you know how much those two love to bicker about any and everything.

You lace your fingers with his as you walk slowly down the hall, both of you moving in sync like you always do. Once in the bedroom, you help him out of the rest of his clothes, folding them neatly on the chair while he climbs under the covers in just his boxers.

You untie your robe, slip it off, and join him under the quilt, your back pressing against his chest as he curls his body around yours protectively. One arm slips beneath your pillow, the other drapes over your middle, his big hand resting on your belly.

His thumb rubs soft circles into your skin, feeling the little fluttering movements in your womb. “Baby movin’?” he asks, his voice low and thick, already sinking into that drowsy place that only comes when he knows you and the baby are doing well.

“Mhm,” you whisper, smiling weakly against the pillow. “started up soon as I laid down. They must know you back home.”

Smoke hums, pressing a slow kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “Baby, already got good sense.” he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep but still soft and tender. “Know they papa gon’ always come home.”

You don’t respond to him verbally, you just reach down and rest your hand on top of his that’s sprawled across your stomach, holding him close, anchoring both of you to this little slice of peace y’all have carved out of this rough world.

Feeling your husband's warm embrace against your frame, comforts your soul, helping you easily grow tired and your eyelids to grow heavy. “Goodnight, ‘lijah.” You whisper, falling deeper into his chest while a yawn passes through your lips.

Smoke kisses your neck, pulling you closer to him before resting his head on his pillow. “Night, baby.” And just like that, the Moore house is silent and fast asleep. Both of you feeling a sense of relief now that you’re wrapped in the other's arms again, safe and sound.

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 — @Yungblud423 @nostlicions @loveabledovee @secretisme4 @pinkkycherrish @bl3ssyn @shamansha @queenofklonnie22 @rios-st4rs @Secretlifeofpreshap @bxrbie1 @t-wylia @bendoverboo18 @milesf4vg1rl @secret89sblog @gabbysbl0gg @li-da-savage @minyara-kun @st4rrdrexm @rose-bliss @sajoi @plan3tch1ld @queenofklonnie22 @n-ae-vis

— all rights reserved ©𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐙𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘. all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate, repost repost on other platforms (ex. AO3 or Wattpad) nor recommend on tiktok any of the works seen here.

[agentpeggycarterrogers]

“I like the idea of that, but I also don’t know if I know how to relax and just be, without us doing something. I feel like I would break the silence and talk. But that’s okay too sometimes, I suppose, but not when we’re reading. I do like reading, I used to read quite a few novels during the war, and right after when I moved to New York. It was a good escape from reality.”

Peggy sat at the table and relaxed, and waited for him to return with his selections. It really was nice just to be with him, no matter what they were doing. She was never one to relax anymore; there was always something to do. She felt this was the first time her life had slowed down since leaving her parents home during the war, and it only slowed down now because she’d made a conscious choice to relax on her honeymoon. No work, no obligations, barely a schedule, just them together. 

She really was going to have to rethink how she worked, because as important as her work was and as much as it fulfilled her, she wanted to savor each moment with Steve. She wanted to enjoy her life and her marriage; she wasn’t married to the SSR or her work. She would have to find a new balance of work and real life, because Steve was more fulfilling than anything else. She wanted more of this - more love, more happiness, more travel, more freedom. 

She was pulled back to reality when he returned, and she smiled up at him. “Goodness, darling. That looks delicious. But so much. I know, I know. You have your metabolism and you’re a growing boy.” She rose from her chair and leaned to place a sweet kiss on his cheek. “My turn.”

She grabbed a tray, and filled her plate with some of the same - eggs, bacon, pancakes, fried potatoes, and fruit salad. She poured herself a small pot of tea to bring to the table, and the cup, saucer, and sugar. Then she returned to the table and sat down, and first prepped her tea. “Everything looks so good.”

@steven-g-rogers

Peggy laughed and put her hand on his arm. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I’m just kidding,” she said. “I’m glad I’m the only one who gets to see that side of you - and you’re the only one who gets to see that side of me.”

She nodded. “Cards, pool, strip poker alone, drawing, all sounds lovely. I am happy just to be with you, too. We always find our own fun, even if it’s just us.”

Peggy bummed. “The buffet was quite delicious - and very filling. I love the variety.”

@steven-g-rogers

[chaeuvy]

hii! So, i just read you new aizawa fic and i Saw that you wanted aizawa x reader requests, so here is a aizawa x fem!reader one:

The reader is a doctor (you can choose if the reader hás a quirk or not) and she is really good at what she does. As a consequence, she is called by principal nezu to teach the first years how to help people without their quirks ('cause it's important). Aizawa didn't know the reader was doing this and the reader wanted to surprise aizawa. And she did. She teaches class 1-A and aizawa remains close to her. Closer then usual, and the class notices and after a lot of questions and a flirt from mineta directed to the reader, aizawa finally that the reader is his girlfriend/wife (you can also choose).

This may or may not and up with them havingsex at the end of the day, because aizawa gets turned on by the reader's competence and the way she handeled the class. And her brain 🤭

Hope you do it! Love your writing! 💗

⸝⸝ ＃┆ 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑‘𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒! ⎯ 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐀 𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀

summary: When U.A. calls in sweet doctor to teach Class 1-A how to perform emergency medical care without relying on quirks, no one expects their usually stoic homeroom teacher, Shota Aizawa, to react the way he does. So she turns out to be Aizawa’s secret wife, and everyone sees, even Eraserhead isn’t immune to being totally whipped.

warnings: whipped!aizawa, doctor!wife!reader, secret marriage, fluff with a side of chaos, Class 1-A being nosy, overprotective Aizawa, one-sided Mineta flirting, wife reveal, smug Nezu, subtle fanservice, teasing, soft Aizawa moments, mild language, swearing.

wc: 1.4k words.

anon: I actually loved the request, but i didn’t like how my writing turned out for it - thanks for your very well explained request — I love these !

“You didn’t tell him?” Nezu’s ears twitched with amusement, his head cocked to the side like a curious cat. Mischief gleamed in his beady eyes.

You slipped on your lab coat with the ease of someone who’d long mastered her role — calm, competent, unshakable. The smile you gave was sly, foxlike.

“Nope,” you said. “I want to see the look on his face when I walk into his classroom like I own it.”

Nezu gave a pleased little hum. “Excellent. Consider this my official endorsement of marital chaos.”

You laughed softly, shouldering your medical bag. The request to teach at U.A. had come days ago — a short-term course for the first-years on non-quirk emergency medical care. Triage without powers. Crisis management with nothing but your hands, your brain, and some gauze.

It was exactly your specialty — and of course, exactly what U.A. needed.

What Aizawa didn’t know was that you’d already said yes.

And now? You were about to walk into his classroom, completely unannounced.

Class 1-A was already seated when you arrived, a low hum of chatter echoing off the high walls. Aizawa stood at the front, wrapped in his capture weapon like a tired shadow, his usual bored expression firmly in place.

The second you opened the door, twenty pairs of eyes turned toward you.

Well—twenty-one.

You stepped in, white coat catching the breeze, heels clicking softly across the floor. Confidence radiated off you like sunlight.

“Good morning, Class 1-A.”

You didn’t look at Aizawa — not yet. But you felt him freeze. Felt the air shift.

“My name is Dr. (L/N). I’ve been brought in to lead a few sessions on emergency medicine — specifically, how to help people without relying on your quirks.” You scanned the room, letting your words settle. “Because no one cares if you can shoot lasers or explode walls if they’re bleeding out in the rubble.”

A few students blinked. Midoriya already had his notebook open.

Still not looking at him, you continued, “These next few classes might feel more like basic training than hero work, but I promise you — this knowledge will save lives.”

And then, just for a split second, you flicked your eyes to the corner of the room — where Aizawa hadn’t moved, hadn’t even breathed, as far as you could tell.

You gave him the smallest wink.

His eye twitched.

You turned back to the students. “Any questions before we begin?” You asked before starting.

The class went better than expected. Pressure bandaging, fracture stabilization, how to keep someone alive with nothing but torn fabric and willpower — they were surprisingly engaged. Focused.

But by the end of the hour, the students had picked up on something far more distracting than medical techniques.

Aizawa hadn’t left.

He always left guest lectures.

Instead, he stood against the back wall, arms folded, gaze locked on you like he was watching something precious he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

It wasn’t lost on anyone.

“Sensei’s staring,” Asui said plainly.

“Wait… yo, is he—smiling?” Kirishima whispered.

“No way.” Uraraka blinked. “Did he just nod?”

“He never nods,” Kaminari muttered.

Mina squinted. “Hold on—hold on a second. You guys. He’s totally got a crush.”

Unfortunately, that’s when Mineta piped up.

“Hey, Doc! If you’re single, I’d be happy to—”

“Mineta.” Aizawa’s voice sliced through the air like a scalpel. “Sit. Down.”

Mineta yelped and folded like a lawn chair.

But it was too late.

Now they were really invested.

“Sensei, how do you know her?”

“Wait, were you in the same agency??”

“Wait, is she your ex?!”

“Are you dating?!”

“Did you meet in the hospital like in those movies —?!”

“OH MY GOD IS THIS A DRAMA?!”

Aizawa sighed. A deep, world-weary sound, like he’d seen this coming and was still annoyed it arrived.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he was standing beside you. The class fell instantly silent.

He looked at them. Then at you. Then—without fanfare—rested a hand on the on your back and said, completely deadpan:

“She’s my wife.”

A beat of total silence.

Then — “WHAT?!”

Mina shrieked like she’d just watched a season finale.

Midoriya fumbled his notes. “Wait—I knew it! His body language shifted 0.4 seconds after she entered the room—!”

Kirishima was shouting something about manly secrets.

Jirou scoffed and turned away, but the red in her ears gave her away.

Mineta cried. Actually cried.

And you? You laughed. Hard.

You leaned gently into Aizawa’s side as the class spiraled into chaos, your hand brushing his. “Well,” you murmured, “that went better than I hoped.”

He didn’t smile — not fully — but the crinkle at the edge of his eyes gave him away.

“You’re coming back next week?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, still laughing. “Three more classes.”

“…Good.”

And Class 1-A never got over it.

They adored you after that — not just because you were sharp and commanding and knew how to set a dislocated shoulder with a popsicle stick, but because you made their grumpy, half-zombie homeroom teacher act like a man in love.

← MHA ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading.. it’s kinda short but I hope I did well, I also felt like smut/nsfw wouldn’t fit the vibe after so that’s why it’s only fluffy !

© 2025 chaeuvy ; ━━ do not copy or translate my work !

[crownmemes]

Domestic Sentences, Vol. 3

(Sentences for domestic and day-to-day moments between couples. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"I will love you until time has lost all meaning."

"Why can't I stop kissing you?"

"Come to bed. It'll all seem better in the morning."

"This is not quite the day off I imagined!"

"Thank you for tonight. It's meant more to me than I can say."

"You're lucky you're sexy because your cooking is a disaster zone!"

"Darling... Stop talking."

"They don't make husbands like you anymore."

"Can't it wait until after dinner?"

"Do you think it's too late for us to have kids?"

"I need to borrow a car tonight. Can I take yours?"

"Are you conspiring with my mother now?"

"You're like a poem, you know that? You make everything around you beautiful."

"You'd like another baby, wouldn't you?"

"You're wearing my shirt again."

"Deep down, you love being told what to do."

"I've never seen you at work before."

"Would you like some breakfast?"

"I want to be mad at you, but then you're so sweet!"

"I will love you for who you are."

"You're wearing my suit!"

"What have you been doing all day?"

"Your ignorance of the mind of the woman is the cornerstone of our marriage. Without it, I would have left you ages ago."

"I can't tell you what it means to lay these weary eyes on your beautiful face."

"Shut up and watch this sunset with me."

"I don't tell you that I love you enough."

"Keep this up and you'll be sleeping in the spare room tonight!"

"Are you wearing pants right now?"

"I don't deserve someone like you."

"I don't know if I can be in a relationship with someone who shows such poor judgement."

"When was the last time you danced?"

"And what time do you call this?"

"Why won't you come home to me?"

"I want to see you smile and know you mean it."

"What will you be wearing tonight?"

"Why don't we take off this weekend? Head down the coast?"

[coffeealwayshelps]

man's best friend

Bear did not listen to Abby.

Oh, Bear (named by 3 year old Ava Langdon, who insisted very loudly, "Daddy, he looks just like a TEDDY BEAR) was a good dog. Great, actually. The dog was beyond gentle with the kids, which was the most important thing to Frank. Bear was very protective of Tanner and Ava, actually, to the point where if the kids did something even halfway dangerous, Bear was barking loudly and alerting Frank or Abby that something was going on. Bear also herded Tanner and Ava when he was playing with them, which was just funny for everyone involved.

Really, the only thing that could have been considered a problem with the dog - and it hardly was one, honestly - was how big Bear had gotten. When Frank had first bought Bear, through a friend of a friend, he'd thought he was getting one of those small goldendoodles. You know, like those little ones that... well, that wasn't much larger than Ava's teddy bear. Either Frank hadn't been paying attention when he'd bought Bear, or his friend's friend didn't know what the hell they were talking about, because Bear turned out to be a standard goldendoodle. And a whopping seventy-five pounds, at that.

Bear was a beautiful rusty-red color, with big brown eyes and giant paws that he was constantly flinging around at everyone to get pets. He was sweet and a bit of a dope, and in Frank's opinion, Bear was pretty much the perfect dog for him and his family.

Well, perfect except for one thing.

Bear just didn't listen to Abby.

Once she'd gotten over the whole thing (and by whole thing, that meant the revelation of Frank's drug addiction, his leave of absence from work, his upcoming stay at rehab, and the fact that he'd just bought a dog without consulting Abby), she'd declared that they were taking Bear to puppy training classes. Frank had assumed that they went well - he'd never asked, but he knew that they had been completed. When he'd gotten back from his sixty days in rehab (which had been followed by another thirty three months later), Bear would come to Frank when he called for him. He would sit. He would wait, he would stay.

It wasn't until three months after Frank's return to PTMC that he noticed that Bear never listened to Abby.

He wasn't a bad dog, and he didn't act out around Abby. He didn't do the opposite of what she asked him, and he didn't run away from her. Instead, he just stared at her.

Abby would tell Bear to come, and he would stay across the room, staring at her. She'd tell him to sit, and he'd stare. She'd try to play fetch with him, and he'd stare.

Now, it wasn't that Abby wasn't a pet person. She could take or leave them. She liked cats and dogs in general, had grown up with a pet or two, but she didn't need to stop and pet every single dog that she came across. Not like Frank, Tanner, and Ava did. So she liked Bear, and she pet him and tried to play with him, and she thought it was cute when her kids played with him. But if she had to choose... well, she would have loved it if her husband who spent more time at work than he did at home hadn't brought home a dog.

The thing about Bear not listening to her had become something of a sticking point in their already rocky marriage. They'd been in marriage counseling for six months now and it wasn't going well, to the say the least. Frank and Abby now used therapy speak to fight with one another, which Frank was pretty sure wasn't the point of the whole thing. Abby had brought up divorce two weeks ago. Frank hadn't disagreed. Neither had their marriage counselor, noticeably.

Just out of curiosity - "Bear. Sit."

Bear sat obediently, big brown eyes looking up at him, tail wagging.

Frank smiled a little as he pat the top of the dog's head. As he always did, Bear leaned his head into Frank's touch. "Good boy, Bear."

They continued on their walk down the path in the park. Tanner and Ava were running a few feet ahead of him, playing some sort of relay race thing that Frank didn't really understand the rules of. They were shrieking with laughter and clearly having the time of their lives, which was all that really mattered.

"Dr. Langdon!"

Turning to look over his shoulder, Frank saw the golden-blonde head of Mel King. He couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips and he called out to Tanner and Ava, asking them to stop where he could see them. He pulled gently on Bear's leash and murmured for him to sit and stay.

Before Frank could say anything, let alone hello, he was interrupted by his children screaming, "DR. MEL! DR. MEL!"

Mel's eyes were bright as she knelt down, accepting enthusiastic hugs from Frank's children. She had met them at the end-of-summer cookout that Robby always threw, and she and Becca had drawn with chalk on Robby's driveway for quite a while with them. It was clear that neither of the kids had forgotten. "Hi, guys!"

Seeing Mel crouch down at his level, Bear had taken that as in invitation to get up and greet Mel enthusiastically by sniffing and licking her. It was the first time that Mel had met Bear, Frank realized with a bit of surprise. Hand tightening on the leash, Frank stepped forward, preparing to stop Bear from licking her too much. Bear could get a little too enthusiastic with his greetings.

"Oh no, it's okay, Dr. Langdon!" Mel was quick to assure him. She ruffled Bear's ears, and the dog practically melted into her. Mel laughed a little as she adjusted her balance on her haunches, running her hand down the back of his head to scratch his back. "I love dogs!"

Frank couldn't keep the grin off of his face. His kids were chattering a mile a minute and his dog was demanding practically all of Mel's attention. It was cute. "Hey, Mel. And didn't I tell you that you can call me Frank?"

"Right, of course. Frank." With one last pet, Mel brushed her hands off and stood back up, teetering a little as she tried to regain her balance. Frank reached out and gently grasped her elbow, helping Mel to steady herself.

Bear was at her side again, snuffling at her thigh and digging his nose into her palm. He shoved his head under her hand, which was his way for asking for more pets. With a laugh, Mel happily obliged as she murmured, "Good boy."

Why was it suddenly so hot? Frank shifted a little and cleared his throat. "Hey, we were about to go hang out at the park for a little while. Why don't you join us? We'd like the company!"

His kids, god bless them, started yelling, "Yes! Yes yes yes!"

Laughing again, Mel agreed. It turned out that Becca's center wasn't far from the park, and Mel had decided to enjoy the nice fall weather before taking the bus back home. Her car was in the shop, and Frank immediately offered to drop her off once they were done at the park. He knew that the city's transportation was... fine, but he would feel better knowing that he could get Mel home safely.

Mel asked him about three different times if he was "absolutely sure" that she wouldn't be putting him out by going out of his way to drop her off, and Frank reassured her each time that it was perfectly fine.

(Abby had more or less kicked them out of the house, claiming that she just needed some time to herself and some peace and quiet. Frank could understand that, of course, but he had also been too happy to take the kids and go. He wondered what their marriage counselor would have to say about that, although Frank could guess.)

So Frank found himself on a park bench next to Mel, arms and knees sometimes brushing together, as they watched Tanner and Ava clamber around on the jungle gym and swing on the swings. Bear had been laying at Frank's feet in the grass for a while, perfectly content to relax while Mel and Frank talked about a million different things.

Suddenly, though, Bear decided that he absolutely just had to have Mel's attention. He clambered up onto the park bench next to Mel like it was their couch at home and proceeded to flop onto her, laying his big head across her shoulder as he draped himself across her lap.

"Bear!" Frank exclaimed, although there was laughter in his voice. Bear was like this with him, and he had seen the dog do this to Tanner and Ava, too, whenever they were on the floor. He'd never seen his dog act like this around a new person, though. "Mel, I'm so sorry, I swear we trained him-"

"No, don't worry about it!" Mel told him as she giggled and wrapped her arms around Bear. She gave him a full-body rub, and that only made Bear lean harder into her. "He's so cute. Aren't you, boy? Aren't you just the cutest puppy?"

Bear was staring at Frank, brown eyes wide and somehow... knowing? Smug? Frank blinked. Was it possible to be jealous of a dog? Why was he jealous of his dog?

"He likes you," Frank finally said, a little stupidly. Well, what else was he supposed to say? Bear was a good dog, and he was gentle and friendly, but he had his people that he generally stuck to. Yet here the dog was, practically trying to meld himself to the front of Mel.

"Well that's good, because I like him, too," Mel said. She gave him one last pet and kissed the top of his head. Bear's tongue lolled out as his tail thwapped on the park bench. Oh yeah, Frank was pretty sure that his own dog was taunting him.

Mel smiled up at Frank before she said quietly to Bear, "Off."

The dog climbed off of Mel and off the park bench, entirely. Mel pointed to the spot next to her, at her feet. Bear sat, and then slid down to his stomach, settling in the grass. He put his head on her foot. Mel reached down and patted his head, and Bear stayed exactly where he was.

Frank blinked at the two of them - Mel King and his dog - and felt his heart beating a little too fast in his chest.

Well, shit.

[applekeu]

OH SISTER — 秦彻

〔 𝒾 〕 Sylus can keep it together during anything—missions, interrogations, battles, even diaper changes. But today has been one like no other, and only you can pull him back from the precipice of his darkest thoughts.

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐪𝐢𝐧 𝓍 𝐦𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 894 ⋮ general audiences ⋮ semi-angst with a happy ending, fluff, suggestive ending, dad!sylus, parenthood au, marriage au, sylus with twins of his own oh boy, anxiety-induced thoughts, pet names (darling, kitten)

To say that your husband was having an eventful morning was an understatement. This pillar of a man, intimidating to most who know him, including his closest confidants, is a wreck because of his two daughters' piercing screams.

Nothing is working—not warm bottles of milk that Sylus tested on the back of his hand, not the rocking of their little bodies against his chest, and not the classical music you played for nine months to stimulate peace and prosperity for your twins.

They’re not as difficult as Luke and Kieran on a good day, but right now, Sylus wishes he had some peace to harness for the difficulty that is facing such early hours of Monday morning without you. He can’t blame you for having duties away from home he can easily pick up on now that the twins have passed their three-month mark, but still. He wishes you were here to help with what he can’t manage today on his own.

“I know, Callie, I know,” Sylus murmurs as Calypso, the oldest, continues to muffle her cries into the fabric of her father’s shirt. Calliope has taken a reprieve from screaming herself, her tiny fingers tucked in her mouth, but Sylus knows that’ll change as soon as Calypso settles down.

The day is looking to be grim, and Sylus can’t shake the feeling he’s doing something wrong to make it so.

He’s never been one to dwell on the negative, despite everyone’s opinions that the man thrives in complete darkness. The Onychinus leader does anything but. He loves his life, especially the wedding band on his finger and the wife that is off on another mission with his heart in her back pocket. He adores his children, even during their agitated spells that make him wish he could erase their scrunched faces and balled fists tangled in emotions.

So, why is today not working out? Isn’t love supposed to be enough? Maybe his capacity for affection isn’t the issue, but he is. Maybe he’s undeserving of the peace he craves today because he never deserved it to begin with.

His composure slips as he holds his daughters tighter to him, afraid to let them go now that his worst thoughts are taking a hold of his rational brain. He falls back into his earlier emotions of yearning, wishing you were here to pick up the pieces.

Like a vision, you walk in, your hunter’s belt knocking into your hips as you saunter over. You don’t think twice as you take one girl from Sylus’s grasp, cooing and murmuring to your baby with the passion and patience of a skilled mother. You must’ve known, Sylus thinks as Calypso finally transitions from angry wails to gurgles in your arms. Somehow, you always do.

“I thought you were on a mission, darling,” Sylus finally says when you put Calypso down in her bassinet, her eyes closed and mouth agape from sleep.

“Something told me to pass it along to Tara. She can handle it,” you whisper with a smile. You run your hands over the small strands of Calypso’s hair. Calliope falls into her own slumber against Sylus, the faintest of snores passing through her mouth. Already, she’s gained a habit from you, and Sylus cherishes that.

He puts Calliope down in the matching crib next to Calypso, and he feels like his breath isn’t bated anymore. The tension in his body loosens, and the knots untangle from his head. All because of you.

He runs his arms around and across your middle, stroking your skin through the leather and binds of your work clothes. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he confesses with his lips in your hair.

You turn in his hold and quirk an eyebrow up. “You act as if I don’t ask myself the same question daily.”

“Really?”

The lost expression on Sylus’s face cracks you open, the tower of a man you call your husband broken down to his smallest parts. You know when he’s insecure like this that only the truest words in your heart can bring him back to his usual self, and you gladly give them.

“You’re an incredible husband, and an even greater father, Sy. The girls and I could not ask for better, and you still go the extra mile every day.” You squeeze him closer, burying your face in his neck. “I’m lucky to have you, to love you the way I do. Please don’t forget that.”

Sylus’s chest rumbles with quiet laughter, and his hand finds your cheek before he leans in. “Never.”

His lips coming into contact with yours are delicate, in stark contrast to the huskiness of his deep voice. The press of your mouths makes him think back to the first kiss you shared on your wedding day, and the millions more on your wedding night. How beautiful you were round and supple with the twins, and what life is like now for him because of the immensity of your love, and he couldn’t desire you more than right now.

You feel his body tighten against yours, and a smirk plays on your lips.

Sylus feels your reaction against his skin, and a matching cheshire cat grin forms on his face. “If you’re trying to make a third, kitten, I think it’s clear I’m amenable to the idea.”

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@xylatox @xomakara @frenchkisstheabyss

© 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗞𝗘𝗨; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!

[suku-enthusiasts]

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series) - New Home & Marriage 

❝you asked your best friend to take your v-card. As friends. No feelings, no strings- Spoiler: it completely ruined your friendship. Now you're dodging each other, pretending nothing happened, while secretly nursing a years-long crush. From meme-filled silence to tearful confessions, jealous fights, and awkward flirting — somehow, you stumble your way into love, marriage, and a house full of sarcastic chaos. Turns out, “just friends” was never really the plan.❞

word count ; 1.6k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. major fluff

main masterlist | series masterlist

It had been exactly thirty-four days since the wedding — one month and two days of “Mr. and Mrs.,” of half-finished thank-you notes and quiet Sunday mornings where you still caught yourself staring at your husband like he was a secret only you knew, and yet, here you were… tripping over a shoe rack in the hallway for the fourth time in a week. “This apartment is shrinking,” Sukuna muttered, half-dressed and annoyed, as he slammed the bathroom door behind him. You rolled your eyes from the couch, balancing your laptop on your knees. “No, you’re just messy.”

“I’m not messy. I’m expansive.” You looked up. “Expansive?”

“Yeah,” he said, toweling off his hair, eyes narrowed. “Big personality. Big energy. Big—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘dick,’ I swear to—”

“You said it, not me.” He grinned, dropping the towel onto the floor beside the already overflowing laundry basket. You stared at it. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet,” he said, walking over and pressing a kiss to your temple, “you married me.” That night, somewhere between heating leftover curry and sharing a too-small futon with your feet in his lap, the conversation shifted. “Do you think,” you started, cautiously, “we’re… outgrowing this place?” Sukuna blinked at you, chewing. “I mean,” you continued, “there’s your new workbench stuff crammed into the corner, and the spare bedroom is really just a closet with ambition, and don’t even get me started on our closet—”

“I’m listening.”

“—and I was just thinking, maybe something bigger? But still in Tokyo? A townhouse maybe?” Sukuna shrugged, setting down his bowl. “Sure.”

“…Seriously?”

“I don’t mind,” he said, casual as ever. “As long as it’s got two bathrooms. I’m tired of fighting you for sink time in the morning.” You gasped, offended. “You take forty-five minutes brushing your teeth.”

“I do not—”

“You floss your canines like they’re holy relics—”

“I have amazing oral hygiene, and you should be grateful.” That was the beginning of the end. A week later, you found the place — a hidden little townhouse tucked in the backstreets of a quiet Tokyo ward, two stories tall, with black wrought-iron railing and a front gate covered in trailing ivy. It had three bedrooms, two full baths, and a tiny square of garden that Sukuna insisted would never be used and now calls “his smoking temple” despite not smoking anymore.

The real battle?

The move.

You never realized how much stuff you’d accumulated until you were ankle-deep in bubble wrap and existential crisis. “Why do we own seven frying pans?” Sukuna asked, holding one like it had personally insulted him. You were labeling boxes. “That’s for egg moods. Big breakfast, single yolk, frittata dreams—”

“Why do we have a spiralizer?”

“To make zucchini noodles.”

“Zucchini. Noodles.”

“Sukuna.”

He sighed dramatically, setting it down. “God, I miss my bachelor apartment.” 

“You had black mold.”

“It never judged my cooking tools.”

The bickering escalated with each room. Who packed the extension cords? (You.) Who taped a box labeled “BATHROOM” shut without checking for the toothbrushes? (Sukuna.) Who decided now was a good time to alphabetize the spice rack mid-move? (Also Sukuna, and he denied it with every breath.) By mid-morning on moving day, you were sweaty, annoyed, and debating divorce, which is exactly when your friends arrived. Shoko showed up first — naturally — carrying a bag of kombucha and absolutely no desire to help. She pointed at the heaviest box, said “that looks traumatic,” and sat on it while sipping from a paper straw. Toji rolled up behind her, picked up the couch by himself, and then declared himself exempt from any further labor. He parked on the balcony with a beer and hasn’t moved since. Utahime brought candles and yelled at everyone to stop stepping on her sage. Uraume, silent as ever, began unpacking boxes labeled “KITCHEN” with surgical precision, quietly replacing your spice system with something “more practical.” You didn’t even notice until dinner.

Yuuji and Choso came in like a wrecking crew — Yuuji panting from the stairs, Choso cool as ever, lifting heavy boxes with ease and asking, “Where do the fragile things go?” while Yuuji tripped over a lamp. Suguru came late. Brought snacks. Had opinions. Did not help. It was a mess. But it was your mess. Loud and loving and chaotic.

When the furniture was finally in place — when the new couch was wedged in just right and your books had spilled across two walls of the office — you stood in the middle of the kitchen with Sukuna, barefoot, both of you covered in sweat and dust. “Feels good,” you said, breathless. Sukuna, hair sticking up, shirt twisted on one side, nodded. “It’s ours.” Then came the final boss: your parents.

They rang the doorbell like they owned the place, your mom bustling in with two bags of warm food, your dad grumbling about the stairs but handing Sukuna a six-pack like a silent offering. “You need to eat,” your mom said, unpacking rice, curry, and an assortment of side dishes. “You’re too skinny.” Sukuna tried to protest. “I eat—”

“She’s not talking to you,” your dad said, already cracking a beer. Dinner was on the floor, chopsticks clicking, laughter soft and slow. Your mom fed your dad from her spoon. Sukuna leaned against the wall, watching your family like they were something sacred. Something he never had but always wanted.

After they left, you and Sukuna stood in the kitchen — alone again. The fridge hummed. The lights were low. And outside, Tokyo pulsed quiet and close. You wrapped your arms around his waist, face pressed to his chest. “We did it.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, kissing your hair. “We did.” And it wasn’t the wedding, or the papers, or the photos on the wall that made you feel married.

It was this. It was watching him assemble a bookcase upside down. It was stealing a bite from his plate and him pretending to complain. It was peeling back the tape from a cardboard box labeled US. This was the beginning of the rest of your life. 

And it was beautiful.

Sukuna swore he didn’t care about furniture. “I’m a simple man,” he said that morning, mouth full of toast. “Give me a mattress on the floor and a coffee maker and I’m good.” But now? Now he was standing in the middle of a pristine, airy showroom like it was a battlefield, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at a perfectly innocent velvet couch. “I hate it.” You blinked. “You haven’t even sat on it.”

“Don’t need to. It looks pretentious.”

“It looks soft.”

“It looks like a couch that charges you rent.” You let out a slow exhale. “Sukuna.” He raised a brow. “Wife.” You wanted to strangle him. Instead, you turned on your heel and walked three paces to another setup, one with walnut-stained legs and saffron-colored cushions, the kind of bold-yet-earthy piece that made your heart flutter. Mid-century lines, vintage flair, and a touch of whimsy — your style in one perfect frame. You looked over your shoulder. “What about this one?” He squinted at it like it had insulted his ancestors. “Is that mustard yellow?”

“It’s saffron.”

“It’s a condiment.”

“It’s character.”

“It’s… food-colored.”

You stared at him flatly. “Did you just come to sabotage me?” He shrugged. “No, but that does sound like me.” Sukuna had been difficult the entire afternoon — not because he didn’t like what you liked, but because, in typical Sukuna fashion, he had to pretend he didn’t until it was his idea. Take the dining table. You picked out a gorgeous round table with flared legs, walnut finish, and a leaf insert for hosting guests. He said it “looked like something a professor would use for a séance.” Thirty minutes later, he was nodding at the same table, telling the salesperson, “Yeah, this one’s got presence.” Or the rug — handwoven, thick-looped wool, with deep emerald and rust-red accents. “Too boho,” he said. Then, after watching you pout and walk away? “Actually… this color hides stains. We should get it.” You nearly slapped him with a sample pillow. But the real battlefield?

The bed.

The frame you wanted was elegant but grounded — rich walnut with a low, wide headboard, warm-toned and timeless. Sukuna plopped down on it with all the grace of a human boulder, legs spread, arms stretched. “This is too low. I feel like I’m in a cult.” You crossed your arms. “You’d be the cult leader.”

“And you’d be my favorite disciple,” he smirked. “Focus.” He tested another one — a taller, industrial metal frame with sharp edges and zero personality. You recoiled. “Absolutely not. That looks like a torture bed.”

“…Kinda hot, though.” You threw a throw pillow at him. “No.” After two more showrooms and one smoothie break where he tried to flirt his way into getting the extra punch stamp (he failed), you finally found a compromise: A wide-frame walnut bed with a cushioned, textured headboard and legs tall enough for under-bed storage (his one actual request), paired with a bold rust-orange throw and deep green pillows to satisfy your need for color.

He sat on it.

Bounced.

Looked at you.

“I could have very passionate married sex on this.”

“That’s not a review.”

“It is now.”

You bought it.

Back home, as you unboxed candles and admired your new statement lamp shaped like a mushroom (which Sukuna said “looked like a Disney trip”), he passed by and gave your ass a firm pat. “You know,” he said, voice casual, “for all your overpriced taste…” You raised a brow. “…You’ve got a pretty good eye.” You turned, sliding your arms around his waist. “Even for saffron couches?” He groaned. “Don’t start.” But he kissed you anyway, pulling you close in the middle of your still-bare living room, surrounded by bolts of fabric and instruction manuals and a whole future you were building, one sarcastic piece of furniture at a time.

[azzifudd10]

Silent Strings

Chapter 12: Ceilings

A/N: double update bc tonights love island has be feeling GREAT

TW: DV this chapter is kinda super dark

Paige sat stiffly in a sleek, glass-walled office downtown, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Across from her sat her lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman named Naomi Reyes, flipping through the file Paige had handed over.

The fake marriage license. The notarized forms. The missing-persons report.

Naomi’s brow furrowed deeper with each page she read.

“How the hell did he even pull this off?” Paige demanded, her voice low and controlled, though her knuckles were white.

Naomi set the papers down and took a breath. “He’s good,” she admitted. “Not perfect — but good enough to fool law enforcement at first glance. Most clerks don’t scrutinize paperwork unless someone formally contests it.”

Paige’s stomach churned. “So what do we do?”

Naomi’s gaze sharpened. “What we can do. File to void the fraudulent marriage, then formally report the forged documents to the state. That will start an investigation into how he acquired the notary stamps and who helped him. We’ll also prepare a cease-and-desist order regarding his public claims about her.”

Paige nodded firmly, her jaw set. “Do it. Whatever it takes.”

Naomi leaned back in her chair, watching Paige carefully. “You care about her a lot, don’t you?”

Paige didn’t even flinch. “I love her. And I’m not letting him take another damn thing from her.”

Meanwhile, at the apartment, Azzi sat on the floor of Paige’s bedroom, her back against the bed, staring at her phone.

Her fingers hovered over the contact she hadn’t dialed in nearly three years.

Dad.

Mom.

Tim and Katie.

Her chest ached at the thought of their voices — at the memory of the last time she’d seen them.

Tim’s face red with frustration as he told her Ryan was dangerous. Katie crying quietly in the corner as Azzi packed her bags anyway.

She remembered Ryan’s hand on her back as they left, his quiet murmur in her ear: You don’t need them anymore. You have me.

And just like that, she’d let him cut her off from the only people who’d ever truly loved her.

Now she sat here, her thumb trembling over the call button.

Could she really ask for their help after all this time?

Would they even want to hear from her?

Would they even forgive her?

Her thumb hovered, then dropped.

Not yet.

But soon.

Maybe soon.

Across town, Ryan was sitting in his car again, his laptop open on the passenger seat, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

The PI was useless.

The posters were useless.

Even the marriage license hadn’t brought her crawling back.

But he knew Azzi.

Better than anyone.

He knew how to hurt her.

What to say. What to dig up.

He thought about the things she’d told him once, late at night in their New York apartment — the little secrets she thought she could bury.

Her fractured family. Her mistakes in med school. The things she did to survive her residency that she never wanted anyone to know about.

Things she’d rather forget.

Things she’d rather no one know.

If she wouldn’t come to him willingly… he’d make sure the world saw her for what she really was.

One skeleton at a time.

His lips curled into a dark smile as he began typing.

Ryan’s fingers flew over the keyboard in the dim light of his apartment, the cigarette smoke curling lazily around his head.

He’d already burned through every public record, every hospital database he could get into with his connections. Residency records? Scrubbed. Employment history? Predictable. Credit reports? Clean.

But Ryan knew people — dangerous, quiet people — and they knew where to look.

Tonight, his contact delivered.

A thick envelope slid across the diner booth toward him, sealed and stamped. “Everything you asked for,” the man muttered. “You didn’t get it from me.”

Ryan didn’t even glance at him, just slipped a wad of cash across the table and walked out without a word.

In his car, parked on a deserted side street, he ripped the envelope open.

And smiled.

It started small: a report from her first year at NYU. An incident in the on-call room no one had ever filed properly — no one but her and the head of surgery even knew about it.

A photo of Azzi, hunched over outside the hospital in the middle of the night, bruises on her arms, a gash above her eyebrow. A signed “informal agreement” to keep the matter private — no police, no formal charges, no complaint — in exchange for her silence about what she’d seen that night.

That was the first thread.

Ryan pulled it harder.

There were transcripts of sessions with a university therapist, notes scribbled in shorthand — PTSD symptoms… survivor’s guilt… dissociation… recurrent nightmares about the stairwell… claims she “deserved it.”

There was even a sealed disciplinary notice from her second year — something she’d managed to cover up well enough that no hospital had ever seen it.

It painted a very different picture of the poised, confident surgeon she presented to the world now.

But the real prize was at the bottom of the stack.

A photograph.

A grainy security cam still from a hospital stairwell.

Azzi on her knees in the corner, sobbing, her scrubs torn, blood smeared on her cheek. And a figure in a white coat standing over her — their face obscured.

On the back of the photo was written: Property of NYU Medical Center – Incident 6B. DO NOT DUPLICATE.

Ryan stared at it for a long time.

So she had secrets.

And not just embarrassing ones — the kind that could destroy her if they ever saw daylight.

No wonder she ran. No wonder she thought she could hide.

But now… he had her exactly where he wanted her.

Across town, Azzi stirred fitfully in her sleep at Paige’s apartment, tangled in the sheets, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Somewhere in the darkness of her dream, she was back in that stairwell. Back where she swore she’d never be again.

She jolted awake with a gasp, her heart hammering in her chest, her whole body slick with sweat.

Something told her — deep in her gut — that she’d never really left that night behind.

And now… it was coming back for her.

Meanwhile, Ryan laid the photo on his desk and smoothed it flat with both hands.

Tomorrow, he decided, he’d let her know.

Not that he’d found her.

But that he could.

And when she saw what he had — she’d have no choice but to come home.

The first one came folded neatly in a plain white envelope. No return address, no name.

Just a single grainy photo — the stairwell, the corner, her on her knees with blood on her cheek — and nothing else.

It was wedged between a credit card offer and a grocery store circular in the stack of mail Paige’s PI dropped off at her apartment that Saturday morning.

Azzi froze when she saw it.

Her fingers went ice-cold as she unfolded the paper, her eyes locking on the image she thought she’d buried years ago.

Her chest constricted until she thought she might be sick.

She quickly shoved it back into the envelope and stuffed it under the couch cushion before Paige came into the room.

“Anything important?” Paige asked, carrying a mug of coffee in each hand.

Azzi forced a faint smile and shook her head. “Just bills,” she lied.

The second one came a week later.

Another envelope. This time it contained a copy of the “informal agreement” she’d signed back then — her own signature staring back at her, a cruel reminder of what she’d given up to keep quiet.

I know what you did was scrawled across the bottom in red ink.

Azzi’s hands shook so hard she dropped the envelope.

She didn’t even bother hiding it that time — just shoved the entire pile of mail into the closet and closed the door, telling herself she’d burn it later.

By the third week, she started feeling it before she even saw it.

That prickle at the back of her neck, that quiet nausea every time the PI came by and handed her the week’s mail.

This time it was worse: a copy of one of the therapy notes, with a sticky note attached that simply said:

Does Paige know?

Azzi sat on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at it, the words blurring in her vision.

No matter how many locks Paige put on the door or how much security she hired, he was still getting to her.

Still reminding her that he was watching.

Still reminding her of what she wanted to forget.

That night, after Paige left for an evening workout, Azzi sat in the dark with the pile of envelopes spread out in front of her.

Her hands trembled as she ran her fingers over them, her breathing shallow.

It was working — exactly how Ryan wanted it to.

She was unraveling.

And she didn’t know how much longer she could keep pretending she wasn’t.

When Paige came home, she found Azzi sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing.

Paige’s brow furrowed as she set her bag down. “Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”

Azzi startled, then forced a small smile. “Yeah,” she lied again. “Just tired.”

But her hands stayed hidden in her lap, clenched tightly into fists, knuckles white.

Across town, Ryan sat in his car outside the post office, watching another envelope slip through the chute, his lips curling into a slow smile.

It was only a matter of time.

Practice had run long the next  day. Film review had been brutal.

Most of the team had already filtered out of the gym by the time Paige wandered into the coaches’ office to grab her phone charger she’d left earlier.

Ryan was still there, as she knew he would be.

He sat at his desk, head down, scribbling notes on a clipboard, looking every bit the dutiful coach.

She kept her distance, offering a curt nod before reaching for the charger on the counter near his desk.

But something caught her eye.

On the corner of his desk — partly covered by a folder but not quite hidden — was a photograph.

A grainy, black-and-white still from what looked like a hospital stairwell.

And there — unmistakably — was Azzi.

On her knees in the corner. Her cheek smeared with blood. Her eyes wide, terrified. Her scrubs torn.

Paige froze, the charger slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor.

Ryan glanced up casually, his expression perfectly neutral.

“Oh,” he said softly, following her gaze. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

But he didn’t move to cover it. Didn’t take it away.

Instead, he simply leaned back in his chair, studying her reaction.

“I—what… what is that?” Paige asked, her voice tight.

Ryan tilted his head just slightly. “She never told you, huh?”

Paige felt her stomach twist. “Told me what?”

He smiled faintly — a smile that didn’t reach his eyes — and carefully slid the photo into a folder. “Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have left that out. My mistake.”

But there was no mistake.

Paige could feel it. He wanted her to see it.

That night, Paige sat in her car outside her apartment for a long time before going in.

She held the charger in her hands like it was a lifeline, her mind still full of that image — Azzi crumpled in the stairwell, bleeding, broken, alone.

Why hadn’t she told her?

What else didn’t she know?

And why the hell did he have that photo?

When she finally walked through the door, Azzi was on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, watching TV with the sound turned low.

She glanced up, smiling faintly when she saw Paige. “Hey,” she murmured.

Paige swallowed hard, setting her bag down. “Hey.”

She sat beside her, unsure how to start.

Her eyes flicked to Azzi’s hands — the way they fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. Her lips — the way they pressed into a thin line when she was nervous.

She wanted to scream. To demand answers. But when she finally spoke, her voice was soft.

“Az… can I ask you something?”

Azzi nodded slowly, her brow furrowing. “Of course.”

Paige stared at her lap for a beat, then met her eyes.

“Is there… something you haven’t told me? About New York? About… him?”

Azzi froze, her breath hitching almost imperceptibly. “Why… why are you asking that?” she whispered.

Paige hesitated. “I saw something today. A picture. On his desk. It was—” she broke off, her throat tightening. “It was you. In a stairwell. Hurt. Scared. And I just…”

She reached for Azzi’s hand, her own trembling. “I just need you to tell me what happened. Please. I’m on your side, but… I can’t protect you if you keep shutting me out.”

Azzi’s eyes filled with tears, her fingers tightening around Paige’s.

“I… I can’t,” she whispered finally. Her voice cracked. “Not yet.”

Paige’s heart sank, but she nodded, pulling Azzi into her arms and holding her close.

“Okay,” she murmured into her hair. “Okay. But whenever you’re ready… I’m here. I swear.”

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s shoulder, silent tears soaking her hoodie.

And somewhere across town, Ryan sat alone in his apartment, staring at his empty glass with a satisfied smirk.

Just as planned.

[anticapitalistclown]

can I request marriage hc with the first gen? like how's the wedding, honeymoon, kids etc.. pleaaseee and thank you <3

sure! <3

Married life headcanons with the first generation, pt.1

Taesoo Ma

proposal: With Taesoo, the proposal was simple yet meaningful. The king of Ansan is a man of few words but, when he speaks, he means what he is saying. Taesoo decided he was going to propose to you when in his mind, he couldn't think of a future without you, after that same thought he was already on his way to a jewelry store to buy you a ring.

It was during dinner, on his mountain cabin, you just took a shower while he was cooking, you still had your hair wet and sat on the table. He prepared the table and started speaking about having a future with you, and then he just kneeled down, not even minding about the food getting cold.

wedding: The wedding was humanist (that meant that there were non-religious elements), it took place on a fancy venue with views from the mountains and sea. It was mostly private, only your family and friends and obviously his students.

honeymoon: You went on a luxury safari honeymoon (you can take the man out of the mountains but not the mountains out of the man). The mix of adventures and romantic ambience made your honeymoon amazing! He would never forget the experience of bathing with you in your hotel room's jacuzzi and while watching zebras and elephants walking around.

home: Taesoo could never think of separating you from your daily life, so he decided to buy a house near the mountains he owns, closer to the city. The cabin in the forest remains now a love nest for when you both want to rest from everyone and enjoy each other's to the fullest.

kids: Although he would have thousands of kids with you, Taesoo is really thoughtful, first he would let you decide on how many kids you want, how much he can provide and if you have more than one, he would think of an age gap where you don't get overwhelmed by taking care of too many kids but not a big age difference to make your kids feel like strangers neither to give the oldest the burden of raising the youngest.

For Taesoo the perfect number would be three, each one three or four years apart. He would make the time to help you raise them and bond with them, as a family and individually.

Jichang Kwak

proposal: Jichang knew since you both started dating that you were meant to each other, yet he decided to propose when he felt you two were on the age of people pressuring you both to get married.

He was not much of a showman, but the proposal was made with detail. After work, he would always wait for you to walk back home together, that noon was warm, and you walked in a comfortable silence back home. It was when you made your way to the entrance that you saw your terrace with lights, candles, flowers and a well set table, when you turned to him to thank him for the detail he kneeled and took the box with the ring.

wedding: The wedding was a mix of traditional Korean wedding and humanist, the traditional side was for the ceremony and the humanist was for the banquet. The people from the town, family and a few first generation kings were invited. The wedding took place on the town's temple and then a venue his brothers prepared on your new place.

honeymoon: Your honeymoon was in Bora Bora, you spend your honeymoon bathing on crystal water beaches, eating ice cream, and having each other's company on the hotel room while watching the amazing sea scenery.

home: A big Hanok house, with heating floors and a big garden. He had his eye set on that property the moment it was on sale.

kids: Jichang is also thoughtful, he would never make his children experience the pressure of taking care of the youngest siblings, he doesn't regret raising his brothers, but he could never make his children bear with that. So he would have only one, if you both feel like you could raise a second child without neglecting in any ways the first, then he would reconsider for a second child.

[antithetical-bolter]

Someone, Someday (1)

Chapter 1: It's Time To Go

hi everyone, this is my other robby x nurse ofc wip, it's been up on ao3 for a while but I decided to post it here too! yes it is yet another taylor swift themed title, this one has chapter titles too lmao. this one is a different POV style bc I haven't decided what I like yet so lmk what you think <3

4.9k words | ER nurse Hyacinth Clark decides it's time for her to get the fuck out of her marriage, before she becomes just another statistic.

warnings: discussion of domestic violence, emotional abuse, miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy. excessive use of the word fuck, commas, and em dashes.

page dividers: @saradika-graphics

also if you'd like to be tagged in future updates lmk in the replies!!

Next

Masterlist

“Sometimes giving up is the strong thing, sometimes to run is the brave thing”

Hyacinth

She needs to leave. Like, right now. She really should've left already. Fuck.

Hyacinth Clark ran into work at 1902, knowing she was already a few minutes past shift change. Hopefully she got put in the same section as Dana tonight, because she was going to need some help. And probably a few drinks after all was said and done. Maybe a brief grippy sock vacation. 

This evening was too close of a call for her comfort, and she knows she can’t go home now. He was too angry, too close to finally losing his cool altogether and getting physical with her. Thankfully she has a shift tonight and could use it as an excuse to leave the house abruptly. Their relationship has never been perfect, and Hyacinth frequently found herself wondering if she made the right choice. Despite her reservations, she made a commitment and had been willing to try and make it work. They’ve been together for over a decade, since their sophomore year of college. Unfortunately time does not heal all wounds, and it seemed this one would continue to fester. Knowing that she is one bad night away from becoming a statistic scares her - and she knows it's time to do something about it.

The last year has been especially tumultuous, Hyacinth having had a miscarriage almost exactly one year earlier. The day after Pitt Fest. Jeremy, who had played the part of the supportive partner throughout her pregnancy, was a different man when they came home from the hospital. Going to the hospital (not PTMC, only Dana knew she was expecting) with your wife for some mild cramping at 14 weeks and then coming home, your wife no longer pregnant and without a baby, would understandably change a person. But Hyacinth had needed him. Instead of her loving and supportive husband who cooked for her, held her hair when she was sick, and went out of his way to make her life easier she got a cold shell of a man who could barely stand to look at her. She chalked it up to trauma and the disappointment of not having the child he had been so excited about, and he did eventually warm up to her a little bit. Not that it lasted.

"Hyacinth!" A familiar voice jolted her out of her panic spiral, "we're together in critical care today." Dana told her, and instantly Hyacinth knew that her day would have at least one bright spot. Dana had trained her right at the start of her nursing career and the pair made an incredible team. Now 5 years into her solo ER nursing career, Hyacinth almost felt like she knew what she was doing. She could do most things by herself and felt confident in her trauma skills, but smart enough to know when she needed help and not afraid to ask for it. Having spent almost a year under Dana’s supervision, whether direct or indirect, she got to know the older woman quite well and considered her one of her closest friends and an incredible mentor. Hyacinth's 5'10" stature, waist length jet black hair, and penchant for pink scrubs (firmly against uniform policy) was a stark contrast to Dana's five-foot-nothing, bright blonde bob and strictly gray scrubs - but they were undeniably perfect work partners.

Dana had previously been the dayshift charge nurse, but after the Pitt Fest shooting last year switched to night shift and only charges once or twice a week. That day had changed them all. Dana more so than others. The lawsuit she filed on a patient who assaulted her that same afternoon was still not resolved, and while Dana clearly still loved her job she had taken 2 months of leave before she felt ready to return. Hyacinth had certainly not escaped the after effects of the shooting. She was almost positive that she had started to miscarry while working that evening. Often wonders if she had noticed her symptoms earlier if she might not have miscarried, but isn’t sure she would change anything about her actions that day. How could she, when she knows everyone played an integral part in saving so many lives? Nevertheless, working a mass casualty and then having a D&C less than 24 hours later was bound to leave its mark.

"Hi Dana, sorry I'm a few minutes late. Had an eventful evening to say the least and got out the door a few minutes later than I wanted to which meant I got stuck in northbound traffic and -"

"Cinth, honey, you're fine. It's 1904. Most of the night shifters are just coming out onto the floor anyway." She said, eying her protege suspiciously. "Are you okay? You seem a little frazzled, in a way I haven't seen you since after your first code." Hyacinth really wished she was better at lying. Not that she wanted to lie to Dana, but no way in hell was she having this conversation right at the beginning of their shift.

"To be real with you I don't think that I am, but I am also not ready to have that conversation right now. We can talk later, I promise." Her mentor turned friend continued to look at her like she might fall apart at any second (which, to be fair, she very well might) and Hyacinth followed up with "Just... just let me dive into work for a little while. Focusing on somebody else's problems will help me get my brain settled so I can fill you in."

"Alright, I'll drop it for now. If you need to step away for a minute let me know and I'll cover your patients." Hyacinth nodded, knowing she would not be taking her up on that offer. 

They continued walking through the unit, passing by patients in hallway beds and doing their best to avoid eye contact with disgruntled family members. Some people seemed to think that nurses controlled bed assignments, and no amount of explaining could make them understand that nurses are also angry and stressed out about patients being stuck in the ER hallway for days on end. They did they best they could to make their hall patients comfortable, supplying eye masks and ear plugs, but nothing could change the fact that they were stuck in a room where the lights never truly dimmed and the alarm bells sounded all night. Not exactly a restful, healing environment. Turning the corner and walking towards the locker room, Dana turned to Hyacinth again, studied her paler than usual complexion and the bags under her eyes. 

"You're sure you aren't sick? You kind of look like shit. " she said, to which Hyacinth scoffed and replied,

"Physically I'm fine, not sick or anything like that. Just a lot going on at home and me realizing I need to make a big change and it needs to happen soon", she took a deep breath before continuing. “The only thing I feel ready to say right now is asking if I can come stay with you guys for a few days, just until I figure out what the fuck I am going to do with myself.” This caused Dana to stop to pull her aside and ask,

“Did something happen at home? Are you hurt?” Hyacinth watched Dana switch her brain into nurse mode - assessing her. Checking for obvious bruises or other signs that might give away a physical injury. Watching her breathe, even reaching out to feel the pulse in Hyacinth’s wrist. Your classic nursing doorway assessment. A skill all nurses master, being able to tell if your patient is fine, sick, or sick by just walking in the door.

“No - not... physically. I really will tell you everything later, but for now can we please just go get report so I can shift into Nurse Hyacinth for a few hours?” This alternate persona, Nurse Hyacinth, was fantastic at compartmentalization. No room to worry about your own problems when you’re standing between your patient and a one way ticket to a celestial discharge. Dana was aware of this, had helped her form those coping skills. The older woman gave her a look that practically screamed 'I am unhappy about this but willing to wait'. Hyacinth put her bag in her locker, glad that she seemed to be letting it go for now.

“Yeah, let’s go. I get it, even if I don't like it. We can talk when you’re ready, and you can stay for as long as you need.” Dana gave her wrist (where she was still counting a pulse) a supportive squeeze, and they turned to walk to their dayshift counterparts to get report for the evening. 

She really hates when nursing superstitions are correct. Turns out that asking for some work to throw yourself into activates the hospital gods, and not in a good way. Six hours and two rapid intubations later, Hyacinth was just now preparing her workstation for the night. The nurses station was always cluttered after dayshift left, and she liked to start her night off by getting rid of any extra supplies, throwing old report sheets (mostly scribbled on paper towels) in the shred bin, and giving the whole area a good sani-wipe bath. Now that her patient was finally stable, there was some time to sit and finish charting. Needing a caffeine fix, she makes herself a cup of shitty hospital coffee and gets to work.

Not 15 minutes had passed when she hears, “Hyacinth - ICU on line 1 for report on your patient in trauma 2!” the charge nurse, an older man named Jim, yelled from his desk across the unit. She sighs, knowing that she won’t be finishing her charing just yet.

“Thanks Jim!” Hyacinth replied before picking up the phone. “ER, this is Hyacinth.”

“Hi, this is Sara up on ICU. I am ready for report on the patient you are sending to 504.” She said curtly. Hyacinth rolled her eyes - very rarely did she have to give report to Sara but every time she did it was a hassle. Sara is a great ICU nurse. She also has no clue the shit ER nurses deal with on a daily basis. Hyacinth was not looking forward to having to tell her that no, she did not do a 2 RN skin check or label his IV lines. The patient is alive, intubated, well sedated, their blood pressure is no longer 60/dead, and they’re in a clean hospital gown. Really what more could she ask for?

“68 year old male, witnessed collapse this evening. Had about 30 minutes of CPR, started by the family and ending when we got ROSC following intubation. Extensive cardiac and respiratory history, he is generally non-compliant with his home medications. Initial blood pressures were very soft, now he is on 9 of levo and systolic is holding at 90. MAP between 65 and 68. 8-0 ET tube measures 25 at the teeth, OG secured on the right. Temp sensing foley in place. He’s got 2 peripheral IVs and a triple lumen right IJ. Currently on 50 of propofol for sedation.”

In a shocking turn of events, Sara just said “Fine. Bring him up.” and then hung up the phone. A little rude, but Hyacinth would take rude over a slew of questions she definitely did not have the answers to. She calls her trusty respiratory therapist, grabs a portable monitor, and prepares the patient for transport.

“Alright Jim, Dr. Abbot, we are taking trauma 2 upstairs!” She yells, making sure they knew she was going to be off the unit for a little while.

“Take your break when you’re done - I don’t want to see you for at least another hour.” Jim says as Hyacinth, along with respiratory, wheel the patient, his IV pump, and his ventilator upstairs.

25 minutes and one very tense handoff later Hyacinth is sitting in her car attempting to eat her lunch. Unfortunately now that she is no longer operating in nurse mode, she’s starting to feel anxious again. Having always defined herself as 'a bit of an anxious bitch' - Hyacinth is no stranger to anxiety. This is feeling more significant than past anxieties, knowing that her physical wellbeing might not be guaranteed if she doesn't take some action. 

In classic Dana timing, the blonde woman knocks on Hyacinth’s passenger window and looks expectedly at her. Hyacinth unlocks the door and attempts to prepare herself to hash out whatever the hell is happening in her brain right now. Dana does not waste any time, and starts to speak as soon as the car door opens. 

“It’s time. I told Jim that he can deal without both of us for a little while. What’s going on? You've got me worried.” Dana has turned sideways in her seat and is facing Hyacinth directly, while Hyacinth cannot bring herself to look up past her lap where she is wringing her hands. Taking a shaky but deep breath, she tries to find the words to tell Dana what was going on without activating Mama Bear Dana at the same time.

Realizing this is not a feasible task, Hyacinth makes herself start speaking. “I have to leave Jeremy. You know that things haven’t been the same since my first miscarriage, but I haven’t exactly been as detail oriented as I maybe should’ve been when you asked me how things were going.” She sneaks a glance up at Dana, who continues to watch her with an open expression but is clearly expecting some elaboration. “I have had 2 ectopic pregnancies since then. After each he has gotten meaner and more aggressive, and before work tonight when he told me he wanted to start trying again I freaked out. It’s only been a little more than 5 weeks since the most recent one and I’m not ready.” She can feel the tears starting to form and tries desperately to hold them in as she says “I wouldn’t call most of our uhm… encounters this year non-consensual but I definitely was not enthusiastic at the idea and he could tell. I told him that I wasn't ready and wanted to wait a little while longer and he screamed at me. Said some pretty awful things that I won’t be repeating right now. Then he essentially threatened that we would start trying again soon anyway and went to grab my arm. Thankfully this was happening as I was walking out the door for work so I just bolted to my car and got out, but I have nothing with me. Just what I have in my car, and I didn’t pack anything except the extra change of clothes I keep in here all the time." Saying this all out loud makes her anxiety worse, like she's being shoved into a box and pushed off a cliff. "I can’t go back. I probably should’ve left already but I just ... really wanted things to be different and was scared to do anything about it and we've been together for so long and I didn’t kn-” Dana cuts her off by leaning over the center console and pulling her into a hug, rubbing her shoulders and reassuring her.

“We'll figure it out. It’s okay. You can borrow whatever you need from me. Hell, we can even move you out after our shift while he’s at work if you’re up for it. Especially if we recruit Jack. Between your car, my car, and Abbot’s truck I bet we could get you out in one or two trips.” This is what finally does Hyacinth in, and she starts to sob into Dana’s shoulder.

“Can we really move me out today?” She says after a few minutes, taking the time to cry a bit before she tries to speak. “What about your family? Shouldn’t you make sure Benji and the girls are okay with some random nurse you work with all but moving in?” Hyacinth has met Dana’s family a few times, but hasn’t spent enough time with them to really know them.

“Absolutely. Benji will be happy to help, and the girls are both off at college right now. Even if they weren’t we have an extra room.” Feeling reassured enough for now, Hyacinth nods and Dana continues to speak. “You can fill Abbot in on as much or as little as you’re comfortable with, but I can guarantee you he will help. Not like Mohan lets the man sleep between shifts anyway,” she says while rolling her eyes. Hyacinth laughs a little bit at this, and pulls back to grab a wipe for her face.

“Okay, then let’s do it. Getting all my stuff out is a huge step and I think it would help my anxiety to have it done quickly.”

“Then we’ll do it. Jeremy is for sure working? I assume so because he’s a teacher and it’s a Wednesday in mid-September, but just double check his school district calendar to make sure he doesn’t have a secret half day or day off.” Hyacinth pulls out her phone and googles the calendar for the North Allegheny School District, where Jeremy is a 6th grade teacher. 

“Yeah, according to this it is a regular school day. He will be out of the house from about 0700 to 1530, maybe 4 o’clock.”

“Perfect. That's the plan then - our garage is big enough to store anything you don’t want in the guest room. Which is yours for the foreseeable future. In fact, I am going to insist that you for a minimum of 3 months while you find your footing and navigate the divorce process.”

“I'm not gonna argue with you on that. Thank you.” Hyacinth says, reaching over to give Dana another hug. “Hopefully you’ll still be offering me all that storage space when you see how many books we’re going to have to move.”

“You have shown me pictures of those floor to ceiling bookshelves you love so much - I know what I’m getting myself into. Maybe I’ll finally pick up a book for fun. Who knows?” Dana replies, pulling back from the hug to look Hyacinth in the eyes. “I have your back. We will get you through this.” She pauses, but then asks “is that ectopic why you had to take last minute leave in August? I could tell you were holding something back but you really stuck to you story so I let it go.” She had taken time off of work with very little notice, telling her managers that she had a family emergency that would require her attention for a full two weeks. Technically she hadn't lied, it was a family emergency. Just little more immediate family than she had let on in her very vague email.

“Yeah. Jeremy’s sister didn't have to have emergency surgery. I did. The ectopic ruptured and I had my right fallopian tube removed.” Hyacinth looks away from Dana’s sympathetic gaze, not wanting to cry again. She was feeling bad for not telling her, but knew Dana would support her anyway. “Jeremy didn’t want me to tell anyone, told me that it was my fault and that everyone else would think so too. Objectively I know that isn't true, but I was so scared and just wanted his support so I went with it. I’ve never been on good terms with my parents and this situation has made it even worse, I just wanted to feel like someone was in my corner. It felt important that he support me when even my own mom wouldn't.” Dana reaches out and places her hand on Hyacinth’s cheek and says,

“Cinth. Honey. If nothing else, I am in your corner. Always. I’m sorry you had to deal with that by yourself. Are you okay now? Recovering from surgery okay?”

“Yeah, my recovery has been relatively smooth. Other than being stuck at home for 2 weeks and being a little scared of Jeremy the whole time I haven't had any issues. I haven’t had a period since though, and I’m sure the first one will be rough. It was awful after my first ectopic in March, and that one didn't require emergency surgery so I can only assume this one will be worse. But I will cross that bridge when I come to it.” Dana pulls her in for another hug.

“I will support you through that too. Your room has a giant bathtub and there is no shortage of bath oils and bubble bath. I have multiple heating pads and more chocolate than I probably should, and I’ll send Benji out for anything else you want. Plus, I can always bribe a doc into writing you a prescription for zofran if the nausea gets too bad!” She says, laughing.

“I have been pocketing every oral zofran that patients have refused for years. I’ve got lots!” They both dissolve into laughter at this, and Hyacinth feels herself starting to walk back from the metaphorical cliff edge. That is - until Dana says,

“Our break is almost up. Why don’t we go in now, corner Abbot, come up with a game plan, and then dive back into the wonderful distraction that is working in an emergency room?”

Hyacinth replies “Sounds perfect and also terrible. Let’s do it.” As they walk back into the ER, she can't help but feel like she is catapulting herself right off that cliff. 

Abbot is not hard to find as Dana and Hyacinth walk back onto the floor. Hyacinth, feeling nervous, lets Dana take the lead.

“Jack!” She shouts, making the doctor turn his head. Dana generally calls him Abbot while on the clock, so using his first name certainly gets his attention. “Can we borrow you for a second?” She asks while directing Hyacinth into the empty family room. Jack quickly follows and shuts the door behind himself. He stands against the closed door and asks,

“What’s the matter? A patient?”

“Ah, no, not exactly.” Dana replies, looking at Hyacinth.

Deciding to just get it over with, she quickly says “I need to kind of… very emergently change my current living situation. Like ideally before 4pm. I hear you have a truck?” Hyacinth says, finally turning to look at Abbot. He seems to startle a bit before catching himself and saying,

“You heard correctly. I do in fact have a truck.” Abbot replies, giving her a long look before asking “Are you okay? Has someone at home been hurting you?”

“Not physically.” Hyacinth says.

“So if I asked the triage safety questions, what would your answer be? Do you feel safe at home? Is anyone trying to hurt you?”

“Jack - seriously?” Dana interrupts.

“No, Dana. It’s fine. We ask literally all our patients that, I can answer them too. No, doctor Abbot, I do not feel safe at home.” Hyacinth says, no longer able to look either of them in the eyes and instead focusing on the vague landscape painting on the wall near Abbot’s head.

“Alright then. We will get you out today. I will have to tell Samira that I am rescheduling our breakfast date and she’ll more than likely want to come help, are you okay with that?” Abbot asks.

“Yeah, that’s fine with me. Samira and I get along well whenever she picks up her occasional night shift.” Hyacinth says, thankful that Dr Abbot didn’t press her for more information and immediately offering to help.

“Alright then. Dana, please start a group text with all of us in it and send Hyacinth’s address. We will all meet there right after shift change and get you out.” He says, looking at Hyacinth who nods in affirmation. Abbot turns to leave, but before stepping out says “Thank you for speaking up. Taking the first step out of an abusive relationship is often the hardest part, and always the most dangerous. Thank you for trusting us with this.” Giving one last pointed look at Hyacinth, who is very near tears again, he leaves the room.

“Now that that’s settled, why don’t you go splash some cold water on your face and come out onto the floor when you’re ready. I’ll have a coffee with your name on it.” Dana says, guiding her out of the family room and directly towards the employee restroom.

Alone in the restroom, Hyacinth gives herself a generous 60 seconds to cry. Everything she knows is about to change, and nothing about the process was going to be easy. At least she has support. Dana and Jack both immediately offered to help, no questions asked. It felt good to have people be so unquestionably supportive - her parents could never. Hyacinth wasn't even sure she was going to tell them. She just wishes she could jump to the part where she is divorced, living in her own apartment, and never letting another man into her house unless she deems it okay. She's ready to be happy again, tired of feeling like she's dragging herself through life. Her allotted mental breakdown time comes to a close so she splashes some cold water on her face, pats it dry, and declares herself 'good enough' as she looks at her reflection. Stepping back out onto the floor, she puts her Nurse Hyacinth mask back on for a little while longer.

Before she knows it, it’s 0645 and Hyacinth is getting ready to flip her entire life upside down and inside out. She is doing her best to give Princess a quality report, but she knows her heart isn’t in it.

“Girl it’s okay - I know last night was busy. I can read. Go home, I’ve got it.” The other nurse says as Hyacinth tries and fails to make her brain produce simple sentences.

“Thanks Princess. I will go ahead and get out of here. Hope your day goes well!” Hyacinth says, gathering her emotional support water bottle and pens off her workstation. She sees Dana and walks over to her, feeling emotionally fragile and knowing she could use the company on the walk out to the car. Dana sees her coming and immediately pulls her into a hug. Jack watches this and walks over from the other side of the nurses station, giving Dana a subtle thumbs up to ask if everything is okay. She responds with a thumbs up of her own, but her face clearly has a different story to tell. Jack nods and turns to find Robby waiting for him.

“Everything okay?” Robby asks, eyeing Dana and Jack who are both very focused on Hyacinth.

“Yeah - we’ve got it handled. Let me sign out to you and you can take over.” Jack says, steering Robby away so Hyacinth could collect herself in relative private.

After a few moments Hyacinth pulls away from Dana, saying “Okay, let’s go. We need to start or I’m going to lose my nerve.” Dana nods, links their arms, and they walk out to their cars.

Robby

Robby had met Hyacinth in passing many times, and genuinely enjoyed his interactions with her. Always finding himself looking at her during shift change, but he chalked this up to the bright pink scrubs she always seemed to be wearing. She is clearly an incredible nurse as well and he respects her knowledge and hard work. Anytime he assumed a patient she had taken care of the charting was complete and efficient, all patient care done, vitals stable, and the room was spotless. In the 6 years she had been working in The Pitt (one as a nurse fellow, and now five on her own), he had only seen her leave work in tears once, right after her first code blue. Now, the witty, intelligent, capable woman who he was used to seeing was clearly struggling.

“What’s going on there?” Robby asks as he watches Dana walks out with the younger nurse, somehow managing to support Hyacinth while also being almost a foot shorter than her.

“Don’t worry too much about it. Dana’s got it pretty well in hand. Kid has made some hard but necessary choices and just needs a little extra support.” Jack says, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation without betraying Hyacinth’s trust.

“Alright, brother. If you say so.” Robby says, clearly not wanting to drop it but also realizing he won’t get anything more from Jack right now. “She’s a great nurse, It will be fun getting to work with her now that I’m switching to nights.” 

“Your first shift is next week, you ready? No inclinations for past-the-guard-rail roof trips?” Jack asks, knowing Robby has not worked nights regularly for over a decade now.

“Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m excited for a change and to get to know the rest of the night shift crew, and fuck if I’m not thankful it will mean I see far less of Gloria.” Robby chuckles, knowing he will struggle with the transition but also ready to work within the freedom night shift offers. 

“Whatever you say, man. I am headed out. See you on the dark side!” Jack heads to leave, making sure to grab his backpack on his way out.

Robby watches him go, feeling like he was missing a lot of the story. Hyacinth was clearly very upset with whatever she was dealing with, and Robby knows it’s good for her to have Dana and Jack in her corner. He decides then that when he starts nights next week he will be sure to keep an eye on her, ready to offer his support as well should she ask him for it.

What else would a good coworker do?

[mononijikayu]

wildflower draft (1) — ending.

tw: depiction of toxic relationship and marriage, depiction of post-partum depression, depiction of depression, depiction of suicidal ideation, depiction of suicide, depiction of grief;

by all accounts, nanami kento had everything. applause that thundered across stages. awards that lined the walls of his study. a reputation carved into the marble of the industry. he was well respected, unshaken, untouchable.

but when the lights go out, and the house stills, even without the kids living there anymore, he is not alone. he never was. you are there. not visibly. not always. but he feels you. in the shifting shadows. in the cold side of the bed he never touches.

in the silence after nanami keiko asks why he always forgets her many school presentations. in the way nanami kenshin flinches when his father raises his voice at him, especially when hes drunk and upset.

"you never used to shout." keiko said once, in her visit. she spoke softly, not accusing, just sad. almost like you at one point. "mom never did."

he had no answer for that.

he doesn’t seem to know how to.

instead, there was only silence.

you were his wife. you were brilliant, perhaps more than he ever could be. there was once when you were a blossoming flower that could never be compared to any other. you were one of a kind. and you were everything.

everything about you was otherworldly. it was why he had fallen for you in the first place. it was why he chased you and married you. his beloved [name]. wild-eyed, stubborn, full of equations and ideas and dreams you thought you could still chase even after marrying a man like him.

"i want to apply for the summer program." you told him, your voice cautious. "just three weeks. i can take the kids with me. it's at the university."

"now's not a good time, baby." he muttered, eyes glued to his script. "i'm filming in june. who's going to be around for them?"

"i will be.”  you said, but it didn’t matter. not to him. “don’t worry about it.”

but he didn’t just neglect you. he didn’t just forget the way your fingers trembled after every pta meeting you had to attend alone. he took from you. he had drained you until you were hollow.

watched as you gave up on finding hope in getting out of your trauma of birthing his children. the dream to finish your chemistry degree and your hopes of being a world-changing chemist.

"i’ll go back, i have to try.” you had whispered one night to yourself, not even to him. "next year, maybe. just one subject."

he let you reach rock bottom. more a slave to his dream than a life of your own. more to misery than to any chance of joy, the same joy he had promised to give you after coming with him to leave everything behind.

nanami kento watched you raise his children, watched that hope in your eyes continue on and on thinking he’d someday return the favor with gratitude. or love. or fidelity.

instead, he gave you silence. and then took away the light in your eyes. more than that, he gave your place to someone else. over and over again. and you knew. you knew. and every day, it made you die inside.

"just tell me." you said once, in the kitchen, hands still wet from the sink. "how many this time?"

he looked at you then, not with guilt, but with exhaustion. "does it matter?"

"it does matter to me." you replied. "because every one of them takes something i never get back."

the affairs he conducted were always so brief. they were always so forgettable to him. flings that would never be. it was not something he thought anything of. at the end of the day, he comes home to you.

at the end of the day, he married you. at the end of the day, you had a family together. and no one else had that with him. just you. only you. you were the only woman he actually loves. at least that's what he has made himself believe.

but it wasn't the cheating that had made you go crazy with grief. it was the fact that he had ended up ruining you. the you that had been so determined to fight to stay alive in this world.

and your children had to watch that. 

that was what you hated most about all of it. they had to watch their mother be a shell of her being. defeated by the idea of a man that promised her the world, and gave her nothing in the end.

"i don't want them to look at me and think this is normal." you said to the bedroom mirror. he heard you, standing in the hallway. "i don’t want them to think this is what a mother should be."

you didn't want that to continue to be what they saw. you didn't want them to watch you be nothing but a miserable woman that would never get better. you didn't want them to see a miserable woman that will never be anything but a wildflower by the windowsill, dying out from the sun that she had so loved.

it was the last thing that broke you, that's what nanami kento thinks. but he didn’t know the truth. with such a long life, marriage, there was more that had broken you. and all of it was meet with deafened ears and willing ignorance.

by that point, you were too exhausted with everything. you hated it all. you hated being his wife. you hated being a mother. but most of all, you hated yourself.

you hated yourself in the worst, kind of way. nothing that should have ever be, of course. but you did. because in the end, you stopped fighting the currents of fate. you stopped hoping. and most of all, you stopped dreaming.

"you were supposed to be my partner.” you had whispered once, back turned to him in bed. "not my jailer."

you stopped dreaming that he would ever be the man you had wanted. your million dollar man would never be that boy you loved. he was no longer yours to keep. he belonged to the world more than he'll ever belong to you.

his memories about that one day were still fresh. it was almost like it happened yesterday. kento continues to live it over and over again. no one had heard from you all day. his parents had told him they had gotten no message from you at all. and that was concerning them. 

they had noticed your upset. and with the kids being with them tonight, they were concerned about you. that’s why they had called your husband. and he didn’t notice the messages until late that night.

kento wasn't supposed to be home that night. he was supposed to be home tomorrow. but everything finished up early. and his current piece of game was far too busy with another boy toy to be with him.

it was an odd feeling, driving up into the driveway. all the lights were off. and no bossanova was playing from the kitchen. the house was too quiet. but it was never quiet. not even when you wanted space to yourself to relax.

he called out your name. but there was no answer. not a single one. kento felt his brows furrow hard as he rushed to your shared bedroom, faster than he ever could have. he called your name again but no response.

when he opened the door, it was red that he had seen first. on bedsheets, on the pillows, on the carpet. almost everywhere. his caramel eyes widened. he rushed to you but it was already too late. this had happened hours ago.

they said it was an accident, likely from cleaning it wrong. you kept a gun after all. you were an avid collector, just like your father. he liked hunting sport in the spring. and you did that with him in the countryside when he was alive. you would have known what a gun does. what safety was. this was all too intentional.

he stumbled forward, knees hitting the bloodstained floor with a dull, wet thud. “no, no. what the fuck…” he whispered, shaking. “no, no, no—”

your body was still warm enough to deceive, but the pallor had already taken root in your skin. your fingers were curled inward, your wedding ring barely clinging to your knuckle like it wanted to fall off.

“what did you do?” he choked, voice cracking, desperate hands brushing your face. “what the hell did you do?”

but even as he asked, he already knew. the gun was still beside the bed. his side of it. your head tilted slightly toward his pillow, like you had been watching the door. he caught a glimpse of the note, neat and folded with your pen placed gently on top.

you’d written his name on the front. kento. not “my love”, not “dear”. not even “sweetie”. all that remained in ink, just his name. final. cold. his hand hovered over it, afraid to open it. afraid that once he did, it would be real. permanent.

“why didn’t you call me?” he asked, even though you couldn’t answer. “why didn’t you wait?”

the silence that followed was suffocating him completely. after a moment to collect his breath, he opened the note. just four lines, written in your even, unshaking hand:

the dreams stopped a long time ago.

tell keiko i’m proud of her.

tell kenshin he was always kind to me.

you don’t have to pretend to love me anymore.

he pressed the paper to his chest, curled over your body and sobbed like a man who'd never known loss until it stole everything in one breath.

“i did love you.” he gasped. “i did—i just—”

he couldn’t finish the sentence. 

there was no ‘just’ that made any of it better.

all that remained was devastation.

you had taken all of his world with you.

in the weeks that followed, people talked around him instead of to him. your death became a sensation you never wanted. the press knew you as nothing more than his wife. and that, you would have hated most.

but kento had no heart in him to correct them. he was too tired. and too hurt to even do it. instead, he accepted their whispered condolences like platitudes could sew back what had been severed.

over the next few days, he gave statements to police, kept the note hidden, locked away. no one could know. not even the kids. he tried to shield them away from all of this. but he knew they would never be able to avoid it. not when they’re his children.

"your mom..." he tried to explain to keiko and kenshin over dinner a week later, staring blankly into untouched food. "she... she loved you more than anything."

"but she left." keiko said, voice tight and brittle.

kenshin didn’t say anything. he just stared down at his plate, fists clenched. if anything, he looked down, unwilling to lift his head. kento knew that his son was closest to you. everything was going to be harder on him, he knew. 

“she didn’t want to leave.” kento said weakly, tears catching in his throat. “she just didn’t know how to stay.”

"you should've helped her.”  keiko hissed, standing abruptly. "you were supposed to help her. you were supposed to love her!”

he didn't stop her when she ran to her room. he didn't stop kenshin when he followed. instead, he sat there, alone, in the seat you once called your favorite—because it caught the morning light—and cried into the silence that had become his only companion.

because deep down, he knew: you hadn’t died from a wound. you had died from neglect. and he was the one who starved you into that point. he was the one at fault. and he was the one that was deserving of this punishment now. 

every night, it’s the same. he wakes gasping, cold sweat soaked through his sheets. heart hammering like a man buried alive. there’s no image, no nightmare. only that thick, suffocating feeling that something is wrong, missing, watching.

sometimes, the bathroom light flickers the way it did the night he found your note. sometimes, he swears he hears the front door open and your soft footsteps on the tile.

sometimes, he sees the outline of you sitting beside keiko’s long abandoned bed, patting it in hopes of brushing back her hair again. sometimes, you would find yourself in kenshin's room humming the lullaby only you knew to his childhood plushies.

he doesn’t believe in ghosts for a long time. but kento believes in guilt and regret. and both wear your face. back then it would talk. and it would look at him with the hate you couldn't show.

"still pretending you're not a coward, huh.” you say.

he flinches. the air drops ten degrees. your voice is steady, flat, unkind. as it was near the end. he looks up slowly. you’re there, most of the time. no longer bleeding like that day. not weeping like before all that. not even angry at him. if anything, you just look…tired.

"you’re not real." he breathes. "you can’t be."

"neither was your love, kento." you reply.

"i tried." he mutters.

"you tried to love the idea of me. not the real me."

he sees you more after that. not always clearly. but enough to lose sleep. enough to cry himself to a stupor. enough to create the worst of a man in isolation. a handprint on the steamed mirror. the scent of vanilla shampoo in the hall. the sound of running water in the shower, long after the faucets had been shut off for the day.

you haunt the places he never visited when you were alive. the laundry room. the nursery. the attic, where your books were boxed up when you died. where your last note was found. neatly folded and tucked into an old chemistry notebook.

"were you ever going to tell me?" he asks with his scotch untouched in his hand.

you’re leaning on his reclining chair and then on to him, your ghostly hair swaying in the wind coming in the window. the wind you don’t feel anymore.

"i did.”  you say. "you weren’t listening."

he doesn’t look at you. "i thought i was working hard for us. for the kids."

you scoff at him, low and hollow. "you were building an empire on my bones."

"i thought i had time….to fix it all.”  he chokes out.

"you never made time," you reply. "that's the difference."

he lowered his head in shame and guilt after that. everything in him feeling sick beyond words. nanami kento couldn't take it anymore. but he knew he couldn't leave this home.

this place where every piece of you haunted him. this place where every trace of you remained. there would be no more place for you to haunt him. there will be no more place to have you.

for bitter or worse, this was all that remained. and he couldn't let it go. he dared not let it go. he couldn't leave you again. after all he had done, not ever again.

this was his punishment, he knew that much. and he would not escape it. he would not escape you. even if it drowned him, he cannot leave you.

so he stays in his house. sleeps in the bed where you took your last breaths. lives in the same house that had been your gilded cage for years and years. even after the kids told him to leave, he just couldn't.

one night as he laid on the bed, still unable to sleep, he whispers to the dark, "what do you want from me?"

this time, there was no longer an answer. just the sound of broken records playing through the record player. his whimpering and crying softly piercing through the walls.

everything about it was a nightmare. still, nanami kento doesn’t move. despite his hurting and reddening eyes, he doesn't let himself give in to all of this.

he used to be the man who couldn’t be shaken. he used to be a man that lived with excellence, with praise. he had everything. but now, even silence is louder than screams.

when the night comes and the record player turns off and the world removes their eyes from him, it was silence is what greets him. all day, every day.

in his quietest moments, he wonders: was it really love, what you gave him? or just sacrifice disguised as devotion? he used to think he deserved your loyalty. now he knows he only ever demanded it.

you didn’t die because you were weak. you died because he made you carry everything until you couldn’t anymore. the dreams you buried. the children you raised. the meals you cooked, the birthdays he missed, the resumes you never sent. and he never once looked back.

now, even in death, you won’t leave him. and part of him begs you not to. because if you go, it means it’s over. it means he really lost you. not just your voice. your touch. your presence.

but your forgiveness.

"please…talk to me." he whispers into the dark. "haven’t i suffered enough?"

but it’s not your hand that clutches his chest. it’s his own grief. it’s his regret that haunts him. you were just the mirror. and every time he looks into it, he sees the man who killed the woman who loved him. he calls it a haunting.

but what really torments him is the truth: he doesn’t deserve to be at peace. not yet. not until your ghost finally stops calling his name. and the silence finally stops answering back.