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angelickks · 18 hours ago

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I. damnation

REVENANT, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader

synopsis Vampirism is a curse of memory. Reincarnation is the curse of almost remembering. And so they dance, century after century: She returns with dreams she cannot explain. And he waits, starved and reverent and wrong. Never able to touch her without bleeding. Never able to stop following the scent of her soul. Because love—when cursed—does not fade. It rots slow. It burns gentle. It waits. And Remmick has nothing but time.

warning(s) nsfw. mdni 18+. prolific dreams. religious undertones. oral implied (f and m recieving). choking (implied). alcohol mentioned - reader is a bar owner. whole lots of sea imagery cuz well duh. yelling at annoying tourists. swearing. reader feeling lowk crazy. insomnia. slowburn asf. no use of y/n.

angel talks omgomgomg thank u guys for all the love u showed just my TEASER. holy fuck. ive been so fucking excited to share my first series w u guys, like truly. i have so much in store for u guys so i cant thank yall enough for all the love and support. i kindly ask u guys to read my authors note before starting, that will be greatly appreciated to give some clarifications about the story going forward. comment on either the teaser or my mlist post to be added on to my taglist if u guys enjoyed this first part n wanna stick around for the rest of it, ageless or untitled blogs will not be added.

#NAV.ᐟ revenant mlist, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader

"i know you, i've walked with you,

once upon a dream..."

DAMNATION. Total. Inescapable. The kind that seeps, not strikes.

The nights were always the worst. Not for the work, or the faces that blurred together behind the bar, or even the endless crash of waves chewing at the black rocks beyond your window.

No—that sound had become something else. A lullaby. Crooked and ancient. The kind of tune that clings to your bones like smoke. It didn’t soothe, not really. It hovered. Whispered.

Like a hymn sung just behind your ear, in a voice too old to be trusted.

No, what unsettled you came after the lights went out. Sleep had never come easy. It arrived fractured, vivid, like slipping into another version of wakefulness where your body remained behind but something else wandered freely. The doctors once called it “sleep paralysis,” scribbled it down like a footnote in your medical chart and moved on. But in the darker and bone-chillingly quiet cracks of your mind, you figured it to be a twisted sense of familiarity

It wasn’t paralysis—it was memory. Or something close enough to rot.

You saw him there, always. A figure stitched together from shadow and something too devout to be holy—reverence soaked into every movement, every word he spoke like it might sanctify or damn you in the same breath. Dreams of knives kissing skin in acts too gentle to be violence and too brutal to be love. Hands that held you like an offering. Eyes that glowed wrong, just enough to keep you from calling them human. They burned with a light that didn’t belong to this world, red and undeniably angry, but when they were on you, it was an entirely different story. Just wrong. Too steady. Too knowing.

And God, the teeth paired with those eyes, so sharp. Sharp enough to split bone from breath, sometimes white, sometimes not, but always too many. One word had always lingered on the edge of your thoughts, even before you knew how to spell it—before you understood what it meant. Damnation.

Not just a curse. Not the flaming, shaking-fist-at-heaven kind they talked about in church pews and hymnals. This was something quieter. Older. Something that didn’t beg for repentance because it never offered redemption in the first place.

Damnation was not a place—it was a condition. A blood-deep certainty that you had been marked, chosen not for salvation, but for ruin. That your soul had been spoken for in a tongue older than any holy text. Signed and sealed in dreams that left your sheets tangled and your heart pounding like something had been chasing you through sleep and nearly caught you.

It wasn’t punishment for sin. It wasn’t justice. It was possession.

A slow, creeping inheritance of something unspeakable. It smelled like salt and coppery blood, like storm-drenched wood and old stone. It moved through you like instinct. You’d feel it in the pit of your stomach when the world went too quiet, in the corners of your eyes when shadows moved against the grain of the light. And in those dreams—those vivid, breathless, too-close dreams—you felt it fully. His touch like worship. His voice like rot dressed in silk. A liturgy of ruin sung only for you. He didn’t bring damnation. He was it. And somehow, impossibly, part of you was too.

You didn’t fear him. Not exactly. Despite the way his form shifted—familiar one night, monstrous the next—he was never made to be purely feared, or even truly frightening. There was something reverent in him, something patient. No, the fear didn’t lie in him.

It lived in the part of you that reached back. Or maybe not you, exactly—not the version you see brushing your teeth in the mirror, not the one who pays bills and walks the shoreline with salt-stung eyes. That version felt like a decoy, a performance of normalcy. The one in the dreams… she was older. Wiser. Willing. And somehow, terrifyingly, more true.

There were days when the boundary between the two began to blur, when waking up didn’t feel like waking, just moving from one version of consciousness to another. Days when your reflection seemed slightly off—as if your body remembered things your waking mind tried to forget. The dreams had lasted so long they no longer felt like dreams at all. More like bleed-through. A haunting with no clear source. And on the darker days, the ones where the sky felt too still and the silence too loud, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder: what if your dream-self isn’t separate? What if she’s always been you?

And what if he’s not just following you into your dreams— but waiting for you to remember what you really are?

That, in itself, was your damnation.

Not the holy kind. You weren’t raised on pews and psalms, didn’t bear the weight of stained glass judgment or whisper penance through trembling lips. You didn’t kneel beneath crucifixes with bruised knees and bloodied prayers like the wives in town—those women with salt-bitten hope clinging to their throats, who beg for husbands the sea refuses to return when it storms just right, cruel and alive. Though even that grief, in some crooked way, felt familiar to you too. Like you’d once known what it meant to wait on a shoreline for something that would never come back.

But no—this wasn’t religion. This wasn’t the devil in red or the wrath of any god written in someone else’s book. This was personal. This was knowing. A damnation etched into the marrow of your bones, whispered to you in dreams that smelled like brine and blood. It didn’t ask for belief—it didn’t need it. It knew you. This wasn’t a punishment handed down.

It was a homecoming.

But tonight, while the dreams always feel as real and vivid as your heart beating. This stirred differently, closer and too near on the horizon to be deep in the far depths of your mind.

You dream of that same man with rough hands. They move over your skin with the certainty of someone who’s done it a thousand times—someone who’s bled for the right. His palms are wide and calloused, like he’s spent whole lifetimes carving out places for you in the dark. He doesn’t touch you like a stranger. He touches you like a man who built you up, broke you, buried you—and never stopped coming back.

You don't know his name. Never really have.

But in the dream, he says yours like it’s sacred. Like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to whatever soul he still has left. He kneels between your legs, jaw tight, eyes darker than sin. His mouth is hot against the inside of your knee—soft, reverent. Your stomach pulls tight, breath catching in your throat.

“Mine,” he whispers into your skin. “Always been. Always will be.”

There’s a scar on his collarbone. Fresh, jagged. You don’t know how you know, but you gave it to him. A mark left in another life. One where you wore knives the way other women wore perfume.

You don’t know this man, no matter how familiar he is. But in the dream, you know how he sounds when he’s falling apart.

He mouths down your thigh, murmuring filth like prayer, eyes half-lidded like this is the end of the world and he’s choosing to spend it between your legs. You should be afraid, you think you were, once—but all you feel now is heat and grief.

His hands tighten on your hips. His tongue moves like he remembers every time you've ever broke, just like this.

“Still taste like sin,” he growls, mouth full of you. “Still so fuckin’ mean.”

You writhe beneath him. You don’t know why you're crying. You don’t know why it hurts.

There’s a weight to it. A mourning. This isn’t the first time.

This is never the first time.

“Don’t leave me again,” he says.

And it’s that line—that broken, gutted plea—that shatters the dream.

You wake gasping. Sheets twisted around you like chains. The room is cold but your body is slick with sweat, skin flushed and humming like a fever’s still clinging to you. Your heart hammers in your throat. Thighs aching.

You stare at the ceiling, blank-eyed, trembling. Hands no longer feeling like your own.

You've had dreams before, always had. Vivid ones. Strange ones. But this—this was different. This felt real. Like a life lost. Like a man you buried. You don’t know him.

And still, you're sure, after years spent tangled in sheets that no longer bring comfort—he’s looking for you.

╭━━━━━ ━━━━━╮

You slipped into what looked, at first glance, like your own little slice of heaven on earth. A quiet coastal town buried deep along the East Coast, the kind people send postcards from and never truly leave behind. You arrived like the fog that drapes the shore most mornings. Quiet at first, uninvited, but somehow meant to stay. Even if just passing through, you’ll still be here when the tides roll back in. The kind of town where the buildings don’t sag from age alone, but from the weight of stories pressed deep into the earth. Stone walls cracked with salt and time, quaint to the untrained eye, but if you looked closely—really looked—you’d see the carvings. Etchings. Traces of lives that never quite left, lives the sea took without asking.

The wind doesn’t just whistle, it claws. Scratches at your windows, as if it knows your name, as if it’s been waiting for you all along. The sea that surrounds the town speaks in a language older than words. Not in waves or spray, but in something older. Older than maybe blood itself—ancient, low murmurs that awaken something buried deep within your bones.

The place is silent not because it’s empty, but because it holds too much memory. If you stand still enough—listen beyond the hush and the roar—you’ll catch its whispers. Names of forgotten places, footsteps that vanished long ago, shadows of lives once lived and never fully laid to rest. The soil here is heavy with blood and claim, a patchwork of hands that took without asking, resting over bones denied peace. The salted mist clings to you like a second skin, a quiet mourning that seeps into your very being. No matter how raw you arrive or how much you try to wash it away, it remains—wrapping around you, pulling at your soul, like the land itself recognizes you as one of its own.

Your Home.

Though today, beneath a deceiving sky and promising clouds, the sun shines bright and the tides bring ships of men and women finally coming home. The town hums with a restless energy today—the docks alive with the sounds of creaking wood, shouted greetings, and laughter tangled with the sharp tang of salt and smoke. Mariners, returned after months of chasing horizons far beyond the map, pour off their ships with rough hands and tired smiles, clutching letters, gifts, and stories that shimmer with hope and heartbreak alike. The air buzzes with the weight of reunions, farewells, and the quiet promise of another voyage yet to come. Amidst the scuffle of footsteps and the town’s rising hum, your bar remains still—quiet as breath held underwater. It waits, as it always does, behind its stone walls, patient and expectant, listening for the voices that will soon fill it again. Your shoulders rest the way they always do after a night like the last—tense, worn down by a treacherous sort of familiarity. Not quite pain, but close. Not quite peace, either.

A tiredness that settles deep in the bones, edged with something stupidly hopeful. You wait for the only kind of relief you know how to ask for—not rest, not escape, but that strange, addictive calm that money can’t buy but often pretends to: the clink of glass, the scrape of boots on old floors, the same familiar faces with the same half-truths on their tongues. A little penance, a little pleasure. That masochistic ritual you’ve built your life around.

Your bar. Your haven. Your crown.

“Busy night tonight. Y’ready to see everyone?”

You didn’t turn right away. Just stood for a moment, eyes on the sea, its silver surface breaking like cracked glass in the late sun. Your voice came easy, even if your mouth pulled a little crooked with it. “You know, I see enough of everyone when they owe me money.”

A low chuckle answered you. Boots scuffed wood behind you, the weight of someone used to slipping in and out of places unnoticed.

“You know, most people might say that with a smile.”

You finally looked over your shoulder, slow and deliberate. “I’m not most people.”

There was a pause—just long enough for the breeze to lift the edges of your coat, to let your perfume coil into the salted air like something sweet laced with danger.

��That’s what they say, anyway. This godforsaken place. Whole damn town talks like it’s yours and you’re just lettin’ the rest of us drink here outta pity.” Carmen teases, light and playful as he is.

He's young—too young for the weight he carried behind the bar—but bright in that firecracker kind of way. All sharp teeth and quicker wit, brash enough to mouth off to sailors twice his size and charming enough to get away with it. He moved like he’d been raised in places with neon signs and trouble on tap, but something about the Crown suited him. He was exactly the kind of respectable you liked to keep on payroll: knew how to pour a drink, shut down a fight, and make a broken man laugh—all without ever letting on how carefully he was watching the room. He said things with a grin, but his eyes were always checking exits.

Just smart enough to survive. Just loyal enough to stay.

You turned then, fully, one brow raised, lips curled in that almost-smirk you were infamous for.

“It’s not pity. It’s taxes.”

The Widow’s Crown was the heart of the town—its pulse, its compass, its crown jewel. A bar tucked into the craggy cliffside like it was carved straight from the bones of the sea. Stone walls, stained glass in storm hues, a fireplace that crackled year-round like it knew secrets, and a back room only the brave or the stupid asked about.

Locals whispered that the land it sat on had been cursed or blessed depending who you asked. That your name was etched into the foundation somewhere, beneath the floorboards or deeper still, down in the cellar where no one but you ever went. The truth was simpler: you’d earned it. Fought for it. Outlasted men who tried to own it and townsfolk who thought you too sharp to hold anything soft.

You rebuilt it with salt and spite—stone by stone, drink by drink, until the walls held your shape better than your own skin ever did. Now they come to you. Always.

For drinks. For comfort. For penance.

The very things you chase yourself, just dressed different— burning in their throats as liquid courage, slipping through your veins as sleepless nights and hollow comfort. Familiar devils, all of them. And somehow, still so welcoming. Still so easy to mistake for home.

And tonight, the sea brings them back in droves—sunburned sailors, ghosts wrapped in skin, wanderers who remember your name even when they shouldn’t. “You pourin’ tonight, or is that honor left to your poor trembling staff?”

“Depends. You planning to behave, Carm?”

“Not in the slightest.”

You just rolled your eyes and turned toward the Crown’s doors—painted black, scuffed by boots and years, still shining like a secret—throwing over your shoulder:

“Good. I hate a slow night.”

And it wasn’t.

The evening bloomed loud and warm, thick with the scent of brine, sweat, cheap perfume, and something cooking slow in the back—probably stew, possibly regret. The Widow’s Crown filled like a throat: laughter wedged between throaty shouts, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, boots thudding against floors worn down by too many storms and too much living. The jukebox flickered alive like it needed to be summoned first. The first song it spat out was older than half the sailors inside—gritty guitar and a voice that sounded like it smoked three packs a day and made love with a knife tucked in its boot.

Glasses clinked like windchimes in a storm. Someone passed around a story that wasn’t true—about a siren, or a curse, or a woman who walked into the sea and never walked out—and no one cared enough to correct it. Not here. Not tonight.

You moved through it all like a current—barefoot in your boots, sharp-eyed, that rag always slung over your shoulder like a flag no one dared question. The crooked half-smile you wore wasn't an invitation, and everyone knew better than to mistake it for softness. You poured drinks. You counted cash. You made someone cry in the hallway without saying much at all, and someone else fall in love by the jukebox just by listening a little too long. You reminded the room—without raising your voice, without even really trying—that this was your place. You didn’t run the Crown. You were the Crown.

"You're late," you said flatly when Carmen finally slid behind the bar, shirt wrinkled and smelling faintly of oranges and gunpowder. "You're early," he shot back, ducking beneath the swinging shelf with all the grace of someone used to being chased.

“You work here, dumbass.”

“Debatable,” he muttered, already flipping a bottle upside down with one hand and wiping the sweat off his brow with the other. “I prefer the term essential presence.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll make you essentially unemployed.”

He grinned, all teeth. “That’s the spirit, boss.”

Across the room, Old Lemmy—the drunk with a glass eye and a tattoo of a flamingo he swore was a phoenix—slapped the table and yelled, “Where’s my goddamn drink, woman! I’m dyin’ over here!”

You didn’t even look up. “Lemmy, you’ve been dying since Nixon resigned. If it’s taking this long, I’m not rushing it.” The bar howled with laughter, and Lemmy wheezed so hard he nearly fell off his stool.

“You’re cruel,” Carmen muttered, pouring him a whiskey anyway.

“You’re soft,” you replied, lips twitching. “That’s why I keep you around.”

Near the jukebox, Birdie—sweet-faced, sharp-tongued, and back from her third divorce—was already telling someone half her age to stop breathing near her unless he had a boat or better cheekbones. She winked at you across the bar like you were in on a secret. You were.

You always were. Everyone inside had their place, their rhythm, their role to play. You just happened to be the one who remembered how the script went when they forgot their lines. Someone leaned too far over the bar and you stepped forward, not saying a word. He backed off with an apology before your hand even reached the rag on your hip. Respect came easy here. Not out of fear—but because they knew you’d earned it.

Carmen slid you a glass of water you didn’t ask for. “Hydrate or die, boss,” he said. You took it, downed it, rolled your eyes. “I swear, if I ever go missing, they’ll find you at the bottom of the harbor with my boot in your ribs.”

Carmen just smirked. “At least I’ll die hydrated.”

The night spun on, full of sharp turns and too-loud laughter, sweat-slicked forearms, sloshed drinks, and the kind of camaraderie that stung a little the next morning but never quite disappeared. And through it all, you stood at the center. Like a lighthouse. Or maybe—like the storm that breaks against it.

But time, like the tide, always rolls back. And when the last round poured, when the stories grew slurred and the ghosts of the sea called their children home, the night changed.

The laughter faded. The sailors filtered out with the last of their pay tucked in calloused palms. Music dimmed into memory. And the salt in the air thickened—not bright and bracing like a summer breeze—no, this was heavier. Older. Like the tide had dragged up something it shouldn’t have, and now the town was bracing for its scent. You kicked the door closed behind the last straggler and twisted the lock. The sound echoed, too loud.

The bar swelled with the sea’s return. Outside, the fog began to gather. Not the soft kind that kissed your cheeks and vanished with the wind—but a thick, bone-deep kind. The kind that didn’t move so much as settle. Stubborn. Intentional. Like it had been called here.

You stood in the threshold of the Crown, arms crossed, gaze locked on the docks below. From this cliffside view, the town looked like it was sinking beneath pale ghosts of clouds. Streetlights flickered down the narrow streets, amber pinpricks in a wash of gray. Footsteps grew quieter. Doors clicked shut.

Even the gulls had gone silent. All that remained was the sharp-teethed wind and the crash of waves gnawing at black rocks—daring anyone still standing to feel it, to bear witness to the sea’s temper without flinching.

The days that followed moved like the storm circling slow, waiting for the right time to strike. There was no rain yet, no thunder—just that hush that comes before something breaks. Despite the new faces that rolled in with the tides—sunburned tourists and wandering souls looking for something nameless—there were still those who had lived here long enough to know better. Men and women weathered by salt and time, whose skin remembered storms even when their mouths refused to speak of them. They’d seen the sea show its teeth. They’d lost half the town to it, years before the wind ever began whispering your name too.

The town loves cruel, in its own way. A deep, briny kind of love. Gentle only in its consistency. It seduces the naive with postcard charm, then leaves them cracked and hollow, forgotten in doorframes and stonework. You’ve seen it happen more times than you can count—tourists who stumble in under starlight and salt, only to leave pieces of themselves behind. Not always by choice. It’s a funny thing to witness. But so unmistakably human.

Over time, you’ve learned the rhythm of it all. The faces that return. The ones that never leave. The patterns—of footsteps, of stories, of half-truths rinsed and repeated. Calloused hands gripping scuffed glass, promises passed across the bar like currency. It’s all part of the tide. They come bearing sea-dreams and sunburned hearts. Eyes strung with salted hope, voices worn thin from chasing the horizon. But with them—always—come stories.

Tales whispered late, when the lights are low and the whiskey’s burned clean through the throat. Of creatures with eyes too sharp to be human. Of voices that echo too closely to the ones you hear in dreams. Of things that look like people, but aren’t. As unforgiving and brackish as the waters that birthed them.

Hungry things. Waiting things. And lately—you’ve begun to think they might not be stories at all.

First, like it always have started with, came your damnation. Like it always had for as long as you could remember. Tonight, a new image surfaces, one that always follows, always clings: arms around you. Strong ones. Holding you like you’re already gone.

They’re warm, yes, but not comforting. Not safe. It’s the kind of warmth that comes from fire licking too close to skin. Desperate arms. Pleading hands. A grip that trembles, not from fear, but from refusal. They love you, you think—whoever they belong to. But it’s a love that feels misplaced, off-kilter. It doesn’t fall soft like morning light or stretch out slow like trust. It crashes. It clings. Reverent and forceful. Obsessive. A love that wants not just to keep you, but to claim you. Like an oath. A curse.

You don’t know why you’ve chalked that haunted embrace up to love. Maybe because you’ve never really known what love was supposed to feel like. Or maybe because whatever this is—this endless, hungry thing that holds you in dreams and memories and waking shadows—wants you so deeply it feels holy.

But even holiness can rot—can calcify into something brittle and cruel. It doesn’t strike with the hand after it’s fed you, but as it does—a sanctified cruelty, masked in comfort, bleeding you slow with grace still on its tongue.

Another night, another dream that leaves you wrecked. You wake the way you always do—panting, pulse slamming against your throat, sweat slicking your skin like a second, fevered layer. There’s a familiar ache—deep in your chest, sharp between your legs—and it’s so goddamn specific, so precise, it almost feels like punishment.

Twisted. That’s what it is. Downright fucking twisted.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath and think—not for the first time—that maybe you’re the fucked up one in all of this. Maybe you hit your head as a kid. Maybe you buried something so traumatic your brain decided to toss you scraps of it in cinematic, semi-erotic nightmares. Maybe this is just how madness blooms—Soft at first. Slow. Sensual, even. And then, all at once, it lives in you.

These dreams don’t just haunt you. They know you. Have been haunting you for longer than you care to admit—long enough that whole years have blurred, and you’re not sure if they’re memories or reruns. Moments you feel in your bones but can’t pin to a place, to a date, to a version of yourself that ever really existed. Time doesn’t run straight in your world. It bends. It folds. And it leaves you chasing after ghosts you’re starting to think might’ve once been you.

Is this that imposter syndrome bullshit Carmen’s always rambling about when he’s three shots deep and pretending he’s a therapist?

Because if so—great. Spectacular. Guess you’re officially losing your mind at your grown-ass age. Perfect timing. Really.

Then came the eeriness. Not the kind you feel as a kid, tucked in a blanket fort whispering ghost stories with wide eyes and sticky fingers. Not even the kind that creeps in on a lonely walk through town when everything’s gone too still, too quiet—when the streetlights flicker and you swear the shadows breathe.

No, this was something else. Something older. Hungrier.

This was the kind of eeriness that drained a person—not just their nerves or their sense of safety, but their essence. Their warmth. Their blood.

The morning sun broke sluggish through the fog, bleeding gold across the wet stones and half-drowned streets. The sea had not receded so much as curled back to watch. You showed up to the Crown early, as always. Keys biting your palm, shoulders tight beneath your jacket, throat sore from the dream you couldn’t shake. You hadn’t slept—not really. You just laid there for hours, haunted and raw, your body still echoing with phantom touches and that voice, his voice, whispering ruin like a promise against your skin.

Still, you moved. Still, you worked. That’s how it always was.

The windows were fogged and beaded with sea spray when you unlocked the front. The jukebox flickered like it had seen a ghost. You cleaned. You stocked. You counted out registers with a precision that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with control. You’d nearly convinced yourself it was a normal evening by the time the regulars started trickling in.

“Storm's rollin' in slow,” one of the dockhands muttered, shaking off rain from his coat. “Don't they always?” you replied, not looking up.

But there was one new-old face at the bar today. Captain Eli. A relic of the docks. A man with sea-glass eyes and fingers like driftwood—bent and brittle, stained by pipe smoke and salt. He’d been around since the town’s teeth first showed. Sometimes you forgot he was still alive. Sometimes you wondered if he was. He sipped his drink like he didn’t have teeth and started talking like he didn’t need an audience.

“Saw fog like this once before,” he rasped, voice dragging like an anchor chain across the floor. “Back in ‘77. Cold as death. Fog so thick it swallowed a man whole. Sea gave ‘im back a week later. Hollowed out. Eyes still blinkin’. Mouth full of someone else’s name.”

You didn’t flinch, but your jaw went tight. Someone near the bar chuckled. “Just a drunk sailor’s tale.” Eli didn’t laugh. His stare locked onto you.

“Nah. Some places remember. Some faces too. They come back wrong, though. Same skin, new time. But they carry things. Like scars. Debts.” You stopped wiping the glass in your hand.

“My grandpa had seen it. Woman just like you once, long time ago. Mean as a cut lash and sharper than God’s own sword. Married a man who didn’t stay dead. Or maybe he just refused to stay gone.” A silence fell so deep you could hear the gulls scream outside.

You met his gaze and spoke low. “You see a lotta things that ain't there, Cap.”

He smiled with only half his mouth. “Maybe. But some of it sees me back.”

And then, just like that, he turned to sip again. As if he hadn’t cracked the spine of a nightmare and left it open on the bar between you. You walked away slow, each step deliberate. But the hairs on the back of your neck stayed raised. Because his story felt more like a memory than a lie. And somehow—you knew he wasn’t talking about anyone else but you. The night carried on. At least, it tried to.

Voices rose, laughter echoed, and the Crown did what it always did: held the town’s secrets between its stone ribs and didn’t spill a drop. Men came in with weather-worn hands and salt still in their boots, nodding greetings, passing flasks, scraping chairs loud across the floor. You poured drinks like always. Cashed out the machine. Fixed the jukebox when it spat static instead of song. But it all felt… off.

Like a memory you didn’t know you had. Like déjà vu with blood under its nails. Every word the old sailor had rasped was still rattling around in your head like storm wind in a boarded-up attic.

“Married a man who didn’t stay dead.” “Same skin, new time.” “Carried things. Like scars. Debts.”

You didn’t believe in curses. Not exactly. But you knew the feel of something following you. You’d felt it your whole life—lurking just behind your reflection, moving beneath the skin of your dreams, speaking in a voice you swore you never learned but knew in your bones. Tonight, it whispered louder.

You moved through the bar like a ghost in your own body. Wiped tables, nodded politely, smiled when you had to—but your hands kept twitching. Like they wanted to grip something. Like they remembered holding a blade, perhaps even a rifle. And then came the words. Not out loud. Just there. In your mind. Words that didn’t belong to you. Not really.

“What a fool you were, to love him past the grave.”

“Don’t ask a promise from a man you have to bury.”

You didn’t know where they came from, but they sounded older than the floorboards beneath you. The captain looked at you once across the bar, like he heard them too. He raised his glass halfway, eyes shining with something just this side of recognition.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low, dragging like low tide, “we used to say it different, back then. Before the war. Before the sea took half the town.”

You raised a brow. “Say what?”

He swirled the amber in his glass. “Love. Damnation. Fate. We didn’t call it that. Called it binding. Called it reckoning. Said some women were born with blood that called monsters to their door.” You swallowed, throat dry.

“And what’d they do with women like that?”

He smiled, all teeth. “Married ‘em. Then buried ‘em. Never stopped loving ‘em.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The words were in you now. Like a second pulse.

Mine. Always been. Always will be.

You stared out the bar window then. Toward the black mouth of the ocean. Toward the fog that hadn’t lifted since last night. Something inside you ached—not fear, not grief—something more like homesickness. But not for a place. For a moment. A face. A name you couldn’t say without bleeding. You were forgetting something. Or maybe—remembering it. And still, the bar kept humming.

The sailors told stories they barely believed themselves. The drinks kept flowing. The jukebox played a song older than it should’ve been allowed to remember. And Eli, half asleep in the corner, muttered something into his glass that sounded like a prayer.

“Let the sea take him this time.”

You didn’t ask who. But for a second, you wished you knew. Deep down, maybe you did.

And just like that—like the slow, unexpected drip of a cracked fountain—everything stopped.

Abrupt. Jarring. Like a needle screeching off a record mid-song, leaving behind a silence that felt too sudden, too knowing. The storm, still coiled somewhere out beyond the horizon, still clinging to your skin and leaving your bartop slick with condensation, simply… stilled. Not gone, not over. Just paused. Like the whole damn world had exhaled—one long, tired breath held too long.

It reminded you of those rare moments behind the bar—you, Carmen, and the poor souls that got roped into the shift—sinking onto overturned crates, backs pressed to liquor boxes, a stolen cigarette making slow rounds between burned-out hands. Not rest, exactly. Just a break from the chaos. The kind that doesn't last long, but hits like grace when it comes. Time, it seemed, had taken one of its own. And for a second, everything felt too quiet.

And yet, your irritation? Very much alive.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” you snapped, slamming a towel down hard enough to rattle the bottles behind you. “Get this son of a bitch outta my bar before I personally handle it. Where the hell is Jaime?!”

Carmen popped up from the back with a half-eaten orange slice in his mouth. “He’s bouncing some frat guy who thought the jukebox was voice-activated.”

“Ain't that a damn miracle,” you muttered. “Then someone else can bounce this one—preferably out the front door and into oncoming traffic.” The offender in question—a sunburnt, tank-top-wearing caricature of bad decisions—was currently arguing with one of your servers about why he shouldn’t have to pay for the drink he spilled on himself.

“Babe,” the tourist slurred, gesturing with a lime wedge like it was a threat. “I’m just saying—where I’m from, the customer is always right.” You were already halfway around the bar.

“Where you’re from, do customers get their teeth knocked in for being dickheads, or is that just a charming local tradition I can introduce you to?”

The guy blinked at you like you’d just spoken Latin. “Whoa, no need to be hostile��”

“I’m not hostile,” you said, sweet as cyanide. “I’m fucking working.”

Before the conversation could evolve into something more physical, and oh, it was close, Jaime appeared—broad, silent, and cracking his neck like punctuation.

“Please escort this pile of Axe body spray out of my building,” you said, already turning back toward the bar. “And if he resists, consider it cardio.”

“Yes ma’am,” Jaime rumbled, hand already on the guy’s shoulder. “Hey—hey!” the tourist protested as he was hauled toward the door. “This is, like, discrimination or something!”

“Yeah,” Carmen muttered, passing by with a tray of dirty glasses. “We discriminate against assholes. Tough break, man.”

The bar laughed—your people. Your locals. The townies. Regulars who knew to duck when glass flew and when not to test your temper. You swept behind the bar again, mood dark as thunderclouds, lips pressed into that dangerous little smirk that made grown men shut the hell up.

Carmen handed you a fresh towel. “Feel better?” he asked.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut rope. “You wanna join him?”

He held up his hands. “I’m just the talent, boss.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched. Outside, thunder groaned low and slow—like it approved. Despite the growing irritation thrumming just beneath your skin from the frat boys, the condensation, the low hum of thunder that hadn’t cracked yet—you were, admittedly, beaming on the inside. Quietly. Secretly. Like someone hoarding the last piece of chocolate or the best corner booth in a diner.

Because for once, you weren’t running on fumes and stubbornness alone. The stillness tonight? It wasn’t empty—it was earned. With the storm’s pause came something better: ease. A rare, elusive creature in your world. You hadn’t opened the bar this morning, hadn’t dragged yourself in at dawn on pure caffeine and curses. Instead, you’d woken hours later to a room still dark with fog, sheets wrapped loose around your limbs, your body heavy with the kind of sleep that didn’t ask questions or pull you under screaming. Inky silence. No dreams. No whispers through the cracks in your memory.

Just...nothing. And it had felt like a blessing.

Nine hours. Maybe ten if you counted the blurry half-conscious phone call to Carmen where you’d slurred something about prepping ice and not setting anything on fire. He’d grunted something in reply that vaguely sounded like “yes, boss,” and you’d hung up before your brain caught up.

You’d slept, by your very loose and slightly cursed definition of the word, like a goddamn baby. No ache in your chest. No tremor in your thighs. No sweat-soaked sheets or phantoms pressed too close. Just warmth. Stillness. Peace.

You’d even stretched when you woke up—stretched, like some self-care influencer and not a woman who usually started her mornings with a shot of whiskey and a half-forgotten scream into a cracked mirror. And now, even as you wiped condensation off the bar with more aggression than necessary, even as you threatened to personally exorcise the next tourist who mispronounced the town’s name—you felt the echo of that rest clinging to your bones. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Enough to make the thunder seem poetic instead of ominous. Enough to let your smirk linger a little longer. Enough to make you think—maybe just tonight—you’d make it through without a dream dragging you back under.

But even that peace, small and stolen, carried a warning. Because the calm always came first, before the sea took something back. And your body, whether it remembered it or not, had always known how to brace for the storm.

Sweat clung to the base of your spine, a thin sheen catching on the small of your back and soaking deeper into the black tank top stretched across your shoulder blades. It stuck tighter with every shift and lean, every dip between tables and worn barstools, the humid air turning skin to velvet and breath to fog. The kind of heat that softened the bones and sharpened the edge of every sound. Heat that made even the ghosts restless.

The Crown boomed with unmistakable pulse despite it all—rowdy, salt-laced, a little mean like all good places should be. Boots dragged across warped floorboards slick with sea-damp. A woman's laugh broke too loud and too fast, slurring into something just shy of a yell. Carmen was yelling back, of course, but it was the charming kind—him snapping a bar rag at someone with that shit-eating grin, bright eyes catching yours across the room.

You gave him a nod. Wiped the back of your neck. Told yourself you weren’t imagining the way the condensation on the windows seemed to crawl upward instead of down. The regulars were in rare form. Ricky, with his chipped tooth and lifelong tan, was in his usual corner nursing the same whiskey he’d been pretending to sip for twenty years. He was mid-story, as always, and by now you could mouth along with it like a song. “And I told the bastard, you ever touch my boat again, I’ll gut you with a spoon!”

Laughter followed—boisterous, a little too easy. “Bet you tripped over your own feet trying to get to that spoon,” someone heckled. “Hell, he probably drank the boat dry!” another shouted.

You smiled without thinking. Tossed a lime slice across the bar at Ricky’s head. It missed. Barely. He flipped you off with the kind of affection only earned by pouring a man drinks for a decade and dragging him off the floor at least twice a month. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

But then the jukebox hiccupped. Not skipped. Not glitched. Just… stopped. A single note held a little too long, like something got caught in its throat. You looked up. Carmen paused mid-pour. It started again a beat later—different track, older one. One that hadn’t been in rotation for months. You frowned. Made a note to check it later. Or maybe not. These kinds of things happened in the Crown. Electrical, magnetic, or just plain weird. It wasn’t new. Still, something about it crawled up the back of your throat and sat there. You shook it off.

Someone slammed a shot glass onto the bar. “Another round, boss lady!” You poured. Wiped your hands. Turned just in time to see the ceiling fan slow, its blades groaning like they’d aged fifty years in the last minute.

And then you heard it—faint. A scrape. Like nails dragged gently across the underside of a table. Like someone whispering their name just barely out of earshot. Your head snapped toward the hallway. Empty. Just the shadows stretching long and crooked in the corner, bending a little wrong in the flickering light. You blinked. They straightened. Carmen was talking again, someone was singing along with the jukebox, a glass shattered somewhere near the bathrooms and two patrons laughed like they’d seen it coming. But underneath all that—beneath the sweat and salt and noise—something pulled. Tugged low in your stomach like a muscle memory. Like recognition. And then it bled through.

Not a vision, not quite. Just a feeling. A warmth that wasn’t from the bar’s heat. A pressure at your throat, gentle and possessive. Hands that weren’t there, but once had been—holding your hips, lifting you, laying you down on something not a bed but not the floor either. Stone maybe. Wet. Cold. Sacred.

You sucked in a breath so fast it burned. The bar kept moving. You didn’t.

For a moment, your eyes didn’t belong to you now. They belonged to another room, another life. Dim candlelight. A mouth full of devotion and ruin against your skin. A voice rasping your name like it was a prayer and a threat all at once.

“Mine,” he’d said. You hadn’t heard it in this life.

But your body remembered it. A gust of wind swept through the Crown. It rattled the windows like a tantrum. Every flame flickered. Glasses wobbled on shelves. Then the door creaked. You turned slow. Then—A gust of wind.

It swept through the Crown with no warning, no cause. Just… entered, like it owned the place. The windows rattled with a fury that didn’t match the calm on the street outside. Flames in their low glass homes danced frantically. One blew out entirely. Glasses trembled against shelves. A napkin lifted off a table, floated, then dropped in silence. You turned slow. And there was nothing.

No figure in the doorway. No tall silhouette carved in lightning. Just the door cracked open an inch too far, letting in a mist that curled around your ankles like it had fingers. The storm, settled now, breathed soft against the threshold. A cold that sank deep but didn’t bite. You exhaled. Long. Slow. Practiced. The kind of breath you’d taught yourself to take when the dreams got too loud.

The ache in your ribs eased, just slightly. Then came Jaime’s voice. Firm, but not urgent. Just that steady, dependable calm he carried when things started to fray around the edges.

“Bar’s almost at full capacity… got a guy outside askin’ if he can come in.” You blinked—like waking up.

Your fingers found the towel at your waist, gripping it hard enough to feel the fabric bite. “Yeah,” you said, voice still a little hoarse from whatever that was. “Let him in. Just… keep an eye out, alright? Tourists are one thing, I don’t need this place flooding or fists flying in the middle of all this.”

Jaime nodded. You didn’t need to say more. He was good like that. And just like that—Normal resumed.

But something had shifted. Not the kind you could see. Just a thread in the weave gone tight. The seal had broken. You could feel it. Like a draft you hadn’t noticed until it sank into your skin. Minutes that dragged like hours passed, and then the tide came in. You were mid-pour when the Crown tipped sideways into chaos.

Not the violent kind—no, just the usual barroom mess: someone on Carmen’s end of the counter didn’t show, a table of locals were halfway through a bottle and demanding fries like it was their divine right, and the cocktail shaker was jammed again, refusing to come loose unless you used the heel of your palm like a weapon.

You didn’t flinch. You moved. Like tidewater—brisk, automatic, and always knowing where to go before anyone else did. It was muscle memory. Breathe. Step. Smile.

Carmen shot you a panicked look from the far end. You already knew. Section three was slipping. Someone no-showed, and now you were the net. You pivoted off your heel and wove your way into it—your rag slung over your shoulder, boots scuffing the floor, voice low and cutting as you flagged two college kids who were trying to steal shot glasses again.

You didn’t notice the door open with Jaime’s invitation. You didn’t hear it either—not over the hum of the jukebox, the clang of the kitchen, the bark of laughter from a group of off-duty dockworkers. It wasn’t until you turned, trying to steady a tray with two whiskey sodas and a plate of wings, that the air changed.

Like sea mist, an odd man was just—there. No thunder. No drama. Just presence.

You didn’t even look at him first, your mind too full of orders and numbers and that familiar throb behind your eyes that always came on busy nights.

“Give me a sec,” you said out of habit, turning toward the bar with the tray still in your hands, the words barely formed.

Then—He spoke. Only a jumble of three muttered words.

“‘Scuse me, ma'am.”

Simple. Low. Soft like silk dragged across old wounds. You turned without meaning to. And the tray in your hands nearly tipped.

It wasn’t that he looked familiar. It wasn’t recognition. It was the gut-punch of déjà vu without memory—the sense that your body had already knelt for this voice in a life that wasn’t yours. The rest of the bar seemed to hum around him, but nothing touched him. Not the heat. Not the sound. Not even the mist that clung to his coat like it had followed him in from the sea itself.

He wasn’t wet. But the scent of rain came with him. And like it had been waiting for his permission, the storm broke. A crack of thunder. Then the slow, deliberate tap of rain on the roof. First soft. Then steady. Then relentless.

And you—you just stared. The tray slid from your fingers and thunked softly onto the bar. Not broken. Just forgotten.

And somewhere deep beneath the Widow’s Crown, the sea shifted.

“Can I get you anything?” Your voice came out soft as a daydream, but as certain as the thunder that now boomed proud and bashful right outside your doors.

His eyes flicked up at the sound of you—cerulean, deep, and sharp around the edges like the sea right before it swallows a boat. He barely reacted. A single twitch, maybe, just a hair widened—but you caught it. You always caught things like that. Reading faces came second nature. Especially the ones that wanted to be unread.

He sat too still. Back straight, elbows resting stiff on the bartop like they didn’t belong there. His clothes were wrong, too—off in a way that set something low in your stomach turning. Black work pants, sure, the kind dockhands wore, but too clean, too pressed. Like he wanted to pass. Gray shirt clinging to a chest that told you he wasn’t new to violence, no matter how carefully he stood. You could’ve sworn—just for a breath—his eyes took on that same deep gray when they shifted under the crackling firelight, dripping down from blue like wet ink. And then that chain. Gold, delicate-looking, stretched tired across the pale column of his throat. Like it had been worn too long and he'd exhausted it. Like it had belonged to someone else first.

The leather jacket was the final nail. Too many pockets. Too many places to hide something sharp. Closed up tight like a confession not meant to be spoken, like a damn secret. Like he was trying to look like he was playing nice. He looked like a secret pretending to be a man.

In all honesty, it fucking irked you.

The silence that followed your question went on too long—long enough to feel pointed. The heat in your chest twisted, coiling like a storm all its own, the ember of your earlier mood flaring hotter behind your eyes.

You leaned in just slightly, arms crossed, smile long gone.

“You gonna keep staring, or can I help you, sir?” Your words bit, soft and polite only in form.

The way he swallowed at it—sharp and slow—should’ve been a sign that he was nervous, his throat bobbed. But maybe, if you really were as delusional or insane as your dream-soaked mind liked to suggest, he was satisfied with being bitten and chewed up. Even if it played as being soft, if it was you. And that—more than anything—was what really set your teeth on edge.

And then, only then, after soaking in what was barely more than a nip, he smiled. Crooked and slow, like he was in on something you hadn’t been told.

“Just lookin’ for a respectable place to ride out the storm, ma’am. Nasty one, isn’t it?”

His voice dripped like warm honey, coating each word in a tone that sank beneath your skin—soft, slow, and deliberate. It prickled as it landed, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. That alone was the first red flag: he wasn’t from here. No one local spoke like that.

His accent was strange, but not off-putting—Irish, unmistakably. But laced with something else, something Southern and smooth at the edges, like bourbon poured over old songs and Sunday confessions. The kind of voice that didn’t belong in this town full of hoarse laughter and salt-split vowels.

Just like him—he didn’t belong.

And in this sea of familiar faces, of regulars you’d poured drinks for a thousand times and traded insults with like they were currency, he stood out like a ghost in rainsoaked moonlight. Strange. Unsettling. And yet… undeniably familiar.

That caused the flames riding high and mighty behind your eyes in that steady and blinding pulse, to move to lick at your throat. You weren’t sure why you were so goddamn irritated at this peculiar stranger, it almost left you speechless, almost.

You blinked, your mind catching up with your body too slow, too dream-drunk for your liking. Still, your voice came out smooth. Steady. A practiced thing, even as the air around you thickened like it was listening.

“Respectable’s a stretch,” you said, cocking your head as your eyes dragged over him, shameless and sharp. “But if you’re lookin’ to keep dry and outta trouble, you picked the wrong night and the right place.”

His smile twitched wider, and you hated the way it made your chest tighten—hated it so much you wished your words had been meaner, sharper, cruel enough to split skin on contact. It was a strange thing to hold against a stranger, really. Irrational. Petty. But that didn’t make it any less true.

Because despite all that he was—strange, unsettling, far too composed for a storm night—he was still just a man. And yet, you felt the need to bare your teeth like he was something else entirely.

You turned then, forcing your attention back to the bottle of whiskey itching with cold sweat and anticipation next to your elbow, shoulders tense with the weight of something unnamed. Something old.

“What’s your poison?” you asked, voice clipped. Because suddenly, the storm wasn’t just outside anymore.

It had walked in, slow and smiling, and asked for shelter.

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selfindulgenceisthekey · 1 day ago

Text

If You Thought It Was Real Pt. IX

Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III Pt. IV Pt. V Pt. VI Pt. VII Pt. VIII

Once again, thank you @hannahbarberra162 for beta reading! Enjoy! <3

You’d like to say this was a thought-out plan. It was, at the very least, a half-thought-out plan. Maybe bordering on a quarter of a plan. Regardless, you had put some thought into it. The crew had ten people, and of those ten people, four had devil fruit powers. Which meant four of them couldn’t dive into the water after you. It was all a matter of timing after the plan started; if you were anywhere close to any of the others, then your plan would go up in flames.

Though part of you knew it wouldn’t work regardless of how much planning you implemented. Still, hope and fear make people do stupid things.

Your strength was only back to a degree; you could stand and walk a bit longer than when you were first moving around. Though your ribs still stung when you breathed too hard, and your ankle felt seconds away from rolling again. If you continued to sit around and be complacent, who knows what would end up happening?

You knew what would end up happening; time would continue to slip by and before you knew it you will have spent your whole life on a ship with people who were supposed to be distant memories.

You had to do this.

The storm approaching slowly gave you a perfect opportunity; most of the members were busy listening to Nami’s instructions to help steer clear of the worst parts and prepare for the rough waters ahead. Robin, and her terrifying many arms, were nowhere near you. If you managed to get into the ocean, even her devil fruit powers wouldn’t help her.

When you were woken up that morning, sluggish and stressed from overthinking the night before, and Chopper told you he and Brook would be accompanying you for a walk today, you knew this had to be your moment. Neither of them, from what you’d seen, had terrifying reflexes, and neither of them could jump into the water after you. Sanji pranced into the sick bay, a steaming bowl of cinnamon oatmeal in his hands, as you sat silently, listening to him discuss the meal preparation that would keep him busy. To you, it was like he was gifting you the perfect opportunity, though he discussed being away from you in the kitchen like it were the most heartbreaking thing in the world.

You just nodded, eating your breakfast with shaky hands. Chopper was worried your body was being strained, and your response was a shrug, knowing full well it was a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. The oatmeal sat like lead in your stomach.

As the three of you strolled along the deck, Chopper voiced his concerns about the impending storm. . You went along, quiet and complacent as he and Brook walked slowly with you. The skeleton was discussing some composition he’d been working on, Chopper listening along intently. The sea was vast, and empty. There were no ships or land that you could see. That wouldn’t stop you, that couldn’t stop you.

The time in between you stepping out and landing in the water was a blur, words sounded fuzzy, and your eyes couldn’t focus on anything. You almost didn’t even realize you’d gone through with it until you were submerged in the water, the cold waves sending shocks through your system. It took every muscle in your being not to gasp, knowing at least subconsciously you’d inhale water.

Adrenaline was pumping through you, and as you tried to adjust to the cold all around you, all you could hear was your own heartbeat. Still, you knew it was only a matter of time before someone dove in after you. That realization had your heart freezing in your chest— someone was going to come in after you. Why wouldn’t they? Why didn’t you think of that?

You couldn’t focus on that. Using all the strength you could force into your limbs, you went against your body’s natural desires and swam down into the ocean. You didn’t know where you were or where you were headed, just determined to be away from the ship. Your lungs were burning, but you refused to resurface; you’d sooner drown.

You felt something splash near you, rippling the water against your body. You couldn’t risk turning, too focused on trying to get all your body parts to cooperate and willing your speed to kick in. All those hopes crashed the moment you felt an arm wrap around your waist. It wasn’t Sanji, judging by the size and lack of button-up.

Zoro.

Shit, this was worse. So much worse. Change of plans.

You changed focus from swimming to escaping, or at least causing him so much annoyance he’d let go. So you began flailing, making it harder for him to push upwards and resurface both of you. You hit and scratched, pushing your nails into his arm, feeling slight satisfaction every time you broke the skin. It wasn’t working, and your vision was wavering due to the lack of oxygen. Even if you had your full strength you knew it wouldn’t have mattered; you fighting against his strength wasn’t even a minor issue for him.

You two gasped nearly in sync as your heads reached the air, and your breath was quick, almost painful. Despite the bone-deep exhaustion, you felt you kept struggling, flailing in his one-armed grip around you. He was grunting, though he sounded more annoyed than strained.

“Let go,” The words came out more of a wet cough than a threat, and you slammed your fists against his arm as hard as you could manage when he started swimming back towards the ship.

“Quit it,” Zoro’s response was sharp, and despite the fear his tone struck, you kept struggling.

Like hell you’d just lie down and be taken back to the ship. Again. The closer the ship got, the more desperate you felt. Hitting and scratching weren’t doing anything, so you leaned your head down, sinking your teeth into his forearm.

He didn’t respond; the only thing proving you had inflicted any physical damage was the taste of copper in your mouth. You bit down harder, maybe by some sheer luck, you’d be able to bite through his muscles, down to the bone. But—

“Love-cook may not hit women, but if you don’t let up I will,” His words were harsh, and they struck you to your core. So far, none of them had hurt you physically, but you were always afraid for that moment that one of them would. Looking at your position, it felt like you had created that moment.

The fight that had been keeping you going was gone, and as Zoro climbed the ladder lowered down for him, you hung limp in his arm. What had you been thinking? Did you really think that would have worked? Even if you had been strong enough to swim farther, they had a fishman on their crew; if not Zoro, then Jinbe would have gotten to you within seconds. And if you had managed to drown yourself, or even come close, Chopper would have been able to bring you back easily.

How could you be so stupid?

Your legs couldn’t hold your weight as Zoro dumped you back on board. Kneeling over yourself, dripping water, you kept your head bowed, staring down at the floorboard. Everyone was already closing in on the two of you, their voices muffled and overlapping. The familiar scent of cigarettes came close, and you didn’t have to look up to know Sanji was now next to you as he kneeled by your side. He moved to wrap a towel around your shoulders, soft and warm against your skin.

You wanted to laugh, hysterical and broken. You wanted to cry and scream. You didn’t react at all. He didn’t say anything, or maybe he did, you weren’t sure of anything going on around you.

Your name was called, a handful of times, before you finally looked up. Nami was in front of you, kneeled to be face to face with you. Her expression was blank, but her eyes were on fire. You heard the slap before you felt it, head turning sharply to the right. The crack was loud enough to silence the rest of the crew, and the stinging pain came seconds later. You were fully back in your body, bringing a hand up to cradle your now-burning cheek. Despite the mixture of feelings burning through your chest, you turned your head back, eyes wide as you stared at her.

“What the hell were you thinking?” She wasn’t yelling, but for some reason, you wished she had been.

She surged forward, grabbing you by the front of your soaking shirt, just holding you in place, “You already hurt Sanji once before! You already hurt us once before! What the hell were you thinking— are you trying to kill yourself? Are you so determined to hurt us that you’d do something so stupid?”

Her violence towards you was enough to leave you stunned, but her words rekindled that anger and that fight that had been buried. You only had so much strength, moving a hand up to grip her wrist, not able to tear it away or move it.

“Your captain kidnapped me,” Your voice was hoarse still, raw and borderline painful in your throat, “You all act like I want to be here— like there’s no problems!”

“You’d probably be dead if he didn’t!” She wasn’t backing down, and it felt like if anything, your words only fueled her fire, “I’ve seen men like the ones from your island, I’ve worked for people like the ones you did! Luffy saved you, and you could at least act somewhat grateful for that!”

“I’m not grateful!” You were shouting now, tears flowing and mixing with the salt water on your face, “I’m not grateful— he should have left me there! I’ve known for years I’d die on that island, I’m not like you all! I’ve long since given up my dreams, I’d accepted my fate! There’s no reason for me to keep living, and you all are the ones who need to accept that!”

You could feel the motion around you more than you could hear it, unsure who was moving. Sanji was still by your side, frozen where he knelt. One of his hands hovered over your shoulder, unsure. Nami tightened her grip on your shirt, shaking you once, twice— a few more times. The soreness was bleeding back into your muscles, and you wanted nothing more than for Sanji to step in. He’d been so protective over you since you had met; surely, he wouldn’t continue to let Nami get away with her abuse. But he didn’t say anything, he didn’t step in, he just turned to look away. He was uncomfortable with what was happening, but he made no moves to stop it.

No one did.

“That might have been true before,” Despite her anger, you could see a shine in her eyes. You were struck by how uncharacteristically emotional she was getting over this situation, “But you’re one of us now. You don’t get to make that decision for yourself!”

There was talking nearby, quiet murmuring. You weren’t even sure who it was that was speaking, your attention too focused on Nami. She was nearly shaking with rage where she was knelt in front of you, not able to say anything more. You couldn’t find anything to respond with, your hand still holding her wrist loosely. After what felt like an eternity, Sanji shifted, moving to unclasp Nami’s fingers from your shirt.

“ Nami-swan, please,” His voice was thick, it sounded like he was putting effort into even forcing the words out of his mouth, “Let’s give Chopper some space.”

Give Chopper space? Why would she need to give—

The second your realization clicked in your mind, she had shifted to stand, stepping back so the doctor could move forward. You barely had time to open your mouth before he moved, little hooves holding a needle that was quickly stabbed into your tricep. Before you could yelp or move your arm, he was removing it, whatever liquid already injected into you. It was only a quick sting, but you still flinched, clinging to yourself. He looked sad, but at the same time serious.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to keep you under surveillance going forward.” He spoke softly, as if explaining this to a wounded animal., “You tried to kill yourself., I can’t, as a doctor, let this happen again. Until you’re deemed to be safe to be by yourself, we’re going to have to implement a stricter schedule.”

The schedule they had you on was tight enough. You wanted to argue that, you wanted to cry or scream or even lash out at one of them. But your eyelids were already feeling so heavy, your arms felt like they weighed several tons. You blinked, each time your eyes closed, your vision became blurrier. You couldn’t feel most of your body now, any movement felt foreign. You were swaying where you were kneeling, that much you could make sense of.

“What…” The word came out more like a whimper than a question, your head spinning as you processed that you were now looking up at the sky.

The clouds were rolling in faster, the blue skies completely overtaken by gray storms. You weren’t sure if it had begun raining, too soaked to tell, too out of it to know. You were being moved, and once more, the familiar scent of Sanji overtook your senses.

He was carrying you, face locked and hard as he looked down. You were pliant in his arms, blinking sluggishly, unfocused gaze going back between the sky and his face. The mesh of clothes on you was still soaked, and he had the nagging worry of you catching a cold if you weren’t changed sooner rather than later. Chopper was with him, a few steps ahead as they made their way back to the sick bay. Brook followed, and though he lacked the skin to make facial expressions, Sanji could tell the skeleton man was feeling guilty.

Chopper was talking, his words coming out so fast, Sanji was mildly concerned he wasn’t breathing, “I know I promised we’d move her back to your room soon, Sanji! I’m so sorry! I’m a terrible doctor, I should have helped with her mental injuries too, not just her physical ones!”

“Hey, I don’t blame you,” He did his best to keep his voice gentle, though he didn’t look away from you as they made their way to the sick bay, and he carefully lowered you back onto your bed.

He knew what he had to grab, but he wanted to delay it as much as he was able. So he turned, looking from Brook to Chopper, “Neither of you, okay? We all should have paid more attention.”

Chopper just whimpered, tugging his hat over his eyes, and Brook looked down at his feet. Sanji sighed, running a hand through his hair, “All of this is new for her. She’s stressed and in over her head. We didn’t even think about trying to tell her what happened to her old hometown either, so she’s probably worried sick about a lot of people from there. Panic makes people do stupid things, and she probably couldn’t think properly.”

From behind his hat, with a muffled sniffle, Chopper nodded. Brook tilted his head, though he didn’t argue with Sanji’s words.

“Now we know what to look for, so she’ll be fine. I have no doubts, not with the world’s best doctor caring for her.”

The little wiggle dance came as an instant response, and wet giggles came from their youngest crew member.

“That doesn’t make me happy at all, you jerk!” He pushed his hat back up, eyes still shiny, but determined, “I promise, Sanji, I’ll do everything I can to make her better!”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I also wish to lend a promise, though I’m not a doctor like our Chopper is, some have said that music is the medicine for the mind. I’lll draft a tune elegant enough to bring a smile back to her beautiful face!”

Sanji nodded, glad that he was able to bring a buzz back to his crewmates’ steps. Though the comfort lasted for seconds, before his own heaviness returned. Brook, taking this as his cue to step outside, took his leave Once alone, Chopper began to fidget again.

“Um, Sanji? Do you think we should…?”

“I think it’s time,” Sanji was quick to admit, turning back to face you.

It would be easy to pretend you were just asleep, the rise and fall of your chest slow and peaceful. He winced as he realized how cold your skin was from the water, and he moved quickly. Chopper helped, grabbing clean sheets and placing them nearby, before grabbing from the pile of clothes Nami and Robin had lent.

Though the two of you had spent countless nights together, you had never fallen intimate with each other quite yet. Sanji had hoped the first time he’d undressed you in full would be under different circumstances. He had been hoping for passion, maybe some well-lit candles. Beggars, apparently, could not be choosers. So he had to settle on this, taking in the sights of your bare skin as he changed you into dry clothes.

Yellowing bruises still clung to your skin, and there were faint scars trailing different areas of your body. Chopper being in the room was the only reason his hands hadn’t wandered more; the softness of your skin was too tempting.

Still, he was a gentleman.

He gave pause, letting Chopper remove the wet bandages before replacing them with sterile ones. Once he deemed them secure, Sanji continued. Sleep shorts from Nami, a tank top from Robin, and once more, a sweatshirt that was Sanji’s. Once you and the bed were dry, he stepped back, almost admiring the work before him.

“Do, uh,” Chopper held them forward, “Do you want me to do it? Or would you like to?”

“Would you mind?”

Chopper shook his head, a small smile on his face, “Luffy said if we had to use it, you’d probably want to say when! So I trust you!”

Patting the little reindeer's head, Sanji grabbed the handcuffs from his grasp. They were lucky you weren’t a devil fruit user; they tried to limit the amount of sea prism stones they came into contact with. He rolled one of your sleeves up, enough space on your wrist to securely fasten one end of the cuffs on, before moving to attach the other to the bedrail. He tugged on it a few times, feeling satisfied with its lack of give.

“I’ll stay in here with her,” Chopper moved to hop onto his stool, sliding it to his working table, “Just for now. She won’t be awake for at least fifteen hours, and even then, she’ll be super groggy and really out of it. Nami says the storm will have passed by then!”

Sanji really didn’t want to leave the room; his skin was crawling at the idea of it. But each crew member had a job to do right now, and that included him. Chopper was watching over you, so he knew you’d be in good hands. He leaned down, lips pressing against your forehead, lingering for a moment as he took in the smell of sea salt. The reminder of what happened mere minutes ago had anger boiling up in him. Taking a deep breath, he stood, adjusting his tie as he made his way to the door.

“Oh,” Chopper called after him as the door shut, “I have some crushed-up sedative pills too, if you want to mix them into her food! It won’t be as strong as this, this was a level four, the ones for the food are more a- a level two and a half! I made it for situations like this.”

“Thank you, Chopper,” He sent the little doctor a smile, hearing the rumbling of the storm that was right overhead, “If you get a chance to drop them off in the kitchen, I’ll be using those with her next meal.”

A/N: I love schedules! Right now this is posted as I'm (probably) asleep on a plane! <3

Taglist: @hannahbarberra162 @sagyunaro @twismare @nerium21 @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @glaciuswduo @thekatisspooky @kultofkorii @cr4zybeach @ceramic-raven @theweirdgirl606 @jjsmeowthie @dinnersyummy @jetblackw1ngs @mizzhellsingsstuff @naheku @onepieceofass @zoecelestine @1sosleepyy @rururgent @flow33didontsmoke @mizzhellsingsstuff @maria-chwan @honestlywtfisgoingon @qalable

#one piece #one piece x reader #strawhats x reader #if you thought it was real #straw hats x reader #op x reader #yandere one piece x reader #yandere one piece #yandere sanji #yandere sanji x reader #yandere strawhats

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juliettejwnewinesa · 3 days ago

Note

please make a fanfic on Kim geonwoo ( bloodhounds ) x fem reader smut because he was jealous of her talking with woojin

omg yesss ive been waiting for a bloodhounds request yayayayayay love you anon😘

Title: Jealous Hands Pairing: Kim Geon-woo x Fem!Reader ft woojin Setting: After a boxing match, gym locker room > his place Tags: Jealousy, possessive sex, rough but loving, slight angst, dirty talk, aftercare

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Y/N didn’t mean to rile him up.

She had just been laughing at something Woojin said—something stupid, something harmless. The two of them always bickered like siblings, friendly jabs and sarcastic remarks flying across the gym like usual. But today, Kim Geon-woo was watching. And today, it felt different.

From the moment you smiled at Woojin and playfully shoved his arm, Geon-woo’s jaw had been clenched. He was usually patient, composed even in a fight. But not today. Today, jealousy burned hot in his chest like the aftermath of a body shot. You’d touched Woojin. You’d laughed at his joke. And Geon-woo didn’t like sharing what was his—even if you didn’t know you were his yet.

He waited.

Waited until everyone left. Until Woojin tossed a towel over his shoulder and walked out. Until the locker room fell quiet, the only sound the echo of the shower still running.

Then he cornered you.

“Y/N.”

You turned around, startled. “Oh, hey—didn’t know you were still here.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you. Breathing deep. His shirt was off—fresh from training—and sweat clung to the sharp lines of his chest. His fists flexed at his sides.

“Why do you let him touch you like that?”

The question landed heavy. “What?”

“You laugh with him. Touch his arm. Smile like that.”

“Geon-woo, it’s not like that. Woojin’s just—”

“I know what he is. I know what you look like when you want attention.”

You blinked, heart thudding. “Excuse me?”

He stepped forward, close enough that you backed into the lockers behind you.

“I train every day. Bleed in the ring. For you. And you go give your pretty little smiles to him?”

His hand reached for your chin, gripping gently but firmly, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. The fire in them was something you’d never seen before. Raw. Wild.

“Say you didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t—Geon-woo, I swear—”

He kissed you.

Rough. Desperate. His lips crashed into yours like a punch thrown too hard, all teeth and heat and tongue. You gasped into it, and he groaned—like he’d been starving and you were finally in his hands.

“You don’t get to smile at him like that,” he growled against your lips. “You smile at me. Only me.”

You nodded, breathless. Dizzy.

“I’ll remind you who you belong to.”

You didn’t make it out of the locker room.

Your back hit the cold bench, legs spread, and Geon-woo’s hands were already tugging your shorts down. His mouth found your neck, your chest, teeth grazing your skin like he wanted to mark every inch.

“Gonna fuck the thought of him out of you,” he muttered as his fingers slid between your thighs, already soaked. “This wet for me, huh?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails raking down his back.

He groaned when he pushed two fingers in, curling them just right. “You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone but me.”

“Geon-woo, please—”

You didn’t even have to finish. He pulled his sweats down just enough to free himself and slammed into you with one powerful thrust, making you cry out. He fucked like he fought—hard, focused, determined to win.

Each snap of his hips was possessive, deep, and perfect. He held your wrists above your head, body caging yours in, eyes dark with want.

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, hips arching to meet his every thrust. “Fuck, I’m yours, Geon-woo.”

“That’s right,” he hissed, lips brushing your ear. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else makes you cum like I do.”

You came around him fast and hard, trembling beneath him, breath catching in your throat. He didn’t stop. Not until he spilled inside you with a groan so deep it made your legs shake all over again.

Later, when the air was still and your body was sore in the best way, Geon-woo gathered you into his arms.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly, lips brushing your hair. “Just... hate seeing you with someone else.”

You smiled faintly against his chest. “You could’ve just told me you were jealous.”

He chuckled, pulling the blanket over both of you. “I figured showing you would work better.”

It did.

Oh, it definitely did.

#woo do hwan #kim geunwoo #hong woo jin #bloodhounds kdrama #bloodhounds #geonwoo x reader #dohwan x reader #woodohwan x reader #bloodhounds x reader

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seaouidbabyx · 3 days ago

Text

SUCKER || Dealer! Chris x Maneater! Reader

chapter three.

notes: sorry guys, I got carried away. I might split this into two parts. Also, sorry for not updating regularly, ive been swamped at work :(

warnings: swearing, smoking weed, mentions of drugs (no use, just dealing),

Jayden was... nice. I was currently sitting across from the boy with neatly styled hair, a pressed, clean shirt, and a suave smile. He had the balls to come up to me while I was out at the cafe near my apartment, he told me I was gorgeous, and that he would love to show me a restaurant for dinner if I liked this place. He was too nice, and the more that the conversation went between us, the more I felt like I was sitting in a lecture. A lecture purely on him. He spoke about all the houses his family owned, how he graduated with honors in Finance and Law. I don't think I've gotten a single word out this whole date besides the greeting when we first walked in.

The restaurant was great; it was a neat little Italian place a few blocks away from where I lived. He also offered to pick me up, but I politely declined. Sure, why don't I just let you see where I live, random man I've never actually had more than a single convo with? I sat with my little red dress, the long sleeves covering my arms as they crossed each other. My hair was in a classy, mid-bun with curls falling out, and my fingertips were tapping against the stem of my wine glass. My knee-high boots tapped against my folded leg as my foot played along to the song in the background. I don't think I've heard this man say anything even remotely interesting. My thoughts wondered to a certain brunette boy who would've given anything to see me smile.

I nodded with a tight lipped, polite smile as Jayden had started another story about how his grandfather took him for polo lessons as a kid. I looked around the resturant, looking at the people who were having actual engaging conversations. There were red and white plaid table clothes on some of the wooden tables, some wicker basket chairs after some of the booths. I actually really like this place, but god was Jayden making it feel like it was claustrophobic. His big head was taking up about half the room with his ego. "It was rather lovely, the fields were always green when we went in summer-" I zoned him out, when my phone lit up next to me. It was an unknown number, so curiously, I picked it up and opened it.

"you're enjoying your date over there, princess?" My heart raced, I instantly started looking around. How the fuck, did this drug dealer fiend get into a place like this. Then it dawned on me, what if it's some random? I looked around, trying to spot a certain brunette triplet, even going as far to lean out of my seat a little bit, but I couldn't see anyone. I was about to text back and ask who this was, when no other than Chris walked up to our table, one hand in his pocket and one hand holding a takeaway bag. His loose curls were free of the backwards cap, but he looked good. He swaggered up and had a smug smile on his face, looking like he just spawned out of nowhere. I sent him a sharp, what the fuck glare, which he just winked at. I was almost, almost about to get angry, but I knew that deep down I was breathing a huge sigh of relief. He stuck out like a sore thumb; his casual attire really did not match the vibe of this place. He casually just dragged a chair from the table next to us, placed it next to me and spread himself leisurely across it.

I think this was the first time that Jayden had actually just stopped talking. I looked at Chris, Jayden looked at Chris, and Chris just lazily smiled back up at me. "What are you doing here?" I finally asked, looking at him expectantly. Jayden looked pissed, "Yeah man, what the fuck? Who are you?" I rolled my eyes at that answer, my god. I know this wasn't convenient for him, but no need to be a dick about it. I sent a sharp gaze over in Jayden's direction, not impressed, but he didn't seem to care as his focus was all on the boy sitting next to me.

Chris leaned over, picking up a piece of bread from the basket in between us and started peeling off pieces and shoving them in his mouth. "'M here to save her from this god-awful date." Chris muffled through a mouth full of bread, and I was so shocked at his answer that I actually let out a laugh. I put my hand in front of my mouth embarrassingly so, which Chris just cheekily smiled at. Jayden then looked at me, back at Chris, then zoned in on me once again. "Did you set me up?" He seethed, his face turning flush with anger and I looked at him with an 'excuse me?' look. "You're just a fucking stuck up bitch, why couldn't you just tell me you weren't interested?" He shouted, slamming his hands on the table, acting like a toddler. I placed my hand on the table, leaning in to not cause any more of a scene then he was. "Look, I had no idea this man was even here, but you've done absolutely nothing but speak about yourself, I mean do you even know a single thing about me? If he can see that this is a terrible date, then I have nothing more I really need to say, now do I?" I smiled sweetly at him, reaching for my purse and throwing a 50 on the table, standing up and pushing the chair back with an awful screech.

"Here's for my wine, and next time you think about taking a girl on a date, give her a chance to fucking speak." I spat, grabbing my purse and tapping Chris on the back before making my way over to the entrance of the restaurant. Chris grabbed two more pieces of bread out the basket, before saluting Jayden and followed close behind me. He walked out next to me, "Hey! Slow down woman! Are you okay?" He asked, following in my footsteps.

As soon as we were a few walking steps down the sidewalk, I stopped, turned to him and let out a belly laugh. God, I can't believe this is happening to me. I placed my hands on my hips, breathing in big deep breaths in between laughs. I heard Chris nervously laugh along too, probably looking at me like I was crazy. I wiped the tears from my eyes, "Did you see the look on his face! God, what a stuck up, asshat. How did you know I was there?" I shouted and questioned, placing a hand on his shoulder, softening my giggles. He shrugged at me, "Oh you know, I just saw this pretty girl who looked bored out of her mind when I came to get see what they have for takeout. Thought she needed saving." He smirked down playfully at me.

Chris stood next to me with a big smile on his face, still shoving peeled off pieces of bread, I smiled up at him. "Oh, so that's why you're out. Totally not stalking me or anything." I teased, falling back into step with him. He rolled his eyes, passing his extra bread roll over to me without even looking at me. I gently took it, peeling pieces off as he did and started nibling. "Where's your car?" He asked, seeing as were almost about a block and a half away from the restaurant. I shrugged, "I took an uber, but its not far from my place, I don't mind walking." I ripped another piece, placing the soft bread in my mouth. He stopped, dead in his tracks and looked at me with a wild and absurd expression. He then rolled his eyes, shaking his head, before grabbing my forearm. "Not a fuck am I letting you walk. I mean, have you seen the type of dudes out here? You were just on a date with one!" He lectured, pulling me across the street and a little further down. I rolled my eyes, "I can handle myself, thank you very much. It looks like youre fucking kidnapping me right now!" We continued walking and I really was not complaining, before Chris stopped in front of a BMW 5 Series. I looked up at him and back at the car, and he huffed, rolling his eyes once again. He opened the door for me, holding my hand as he helped me into the car.

"Wow, a thug and a gentleman, who would've guessed?" I teased, sarcastic, as he made his way into the driver's side. He rolled his eyes as he got him, pushing the 'push-to-start' button, and putting the car into drive. "How do I know you're not one of those weirdo's out here to kidnap me?" I sassed, turning to look at him. He looked at me with a blank, 'really?' look. "Listen, I've got shit to loose, if anything, I'm scared you're going to kidnap me." He chirped back, shaking his head and looking forward, pulling out of the parking space and creeping up the street.

"Kidnap you! You're lucky I don't have my hands around your neck. I'm flattered you're scared of me, that's what I was aiming for." I said, crossing my arms, looking outside. He smirked, a ghost of a smile behind it, shaking his head at my reaction once again. "Alright, you prissy princess, where are we going?" I looked at him, with a skew look. "Um, my house?" I argued. He stopped at a red light, "C'mon, you got all dressed up and pretty and had a shitty date. How about this, I've got some to do some runs, but after that, I can show you what it's like to go on a real date." He rambled, talking animatedly with his hands as he drove. The way he acted, really didn't show that he was a drug dealer.

"Are you fucking joking? You want me to come on runs with you? I am not some thug accomplice Chris!" I said, turning my body to face him fully. He rolled his eyes at me, "I'm not hearing a no?" He huffed, smirking slightly at my reaction. I crossed my arms, looking out the window. "I did dress up really nice," I murmured, softly. I heard Chris let out a laugh, tapping my thigh gently with his big hand. "Atta girl, lets go have some fun." I smacked away his hand once again, missing it already. I heard him whisper to himself, "God, you're so dramatic." I gasped and pushed his shoulder. He put his hands up in surrender, "What? It's true!"

We eventually started driving through some random neighbour hoods, some with large, high houses, others with simple flats. He was nice enough to let me play some music, so I started shuffling through and decided to settle on some Pouya songs, which I could see he appreciated. Conversation flowed between us, naturally, and the more I got to know Chris, the more I started to realise that he was different. A good different, one that made me want to learn more about him. We had just talked about the basic things, where we grew up, our favourite shows, but he gave me chances to speak about myself, like he was actually interested. The last house we pulled up too, was a small, single-story flat. Its fence was not up to par and the streetlights were not all working, but the garden was neatly kept and the patio didn't look half bad. It had peeling green paint on the outside, and the rusted golden number showed '7'. Chris pulled out his phone, silently parking outside the house, phoning someone.

A man, in a black hoodie and some sweats, quickly opened the door to his house and made his way to Chris's window, with a huge smile on his face. He leaned down; Chris rolled the window so he could meet him. "What's up Chris? Thanks for coming dawg." He spoke, and as he leaned down, I locked eye contact with him. He had some face-tattoos, his hair in dreads. He smiled at me, gold grills on some of his teeth. I smiled politely, before looking at Chris, not knowing what the fuck to do in this situation. "Huh, Chris has got a girl with him, I ain't never seen that before. And she's hot as fuck. This your girlfriend Chris?" He teased, placing a thick wad of cash into Chris's hand. He kept looking between me and Chris, but continued to speak like I wasn't even there? What the fuck is going on? I was gobsmacked, most of the people just came and took their shit, this man doesn't seem to care.

Chris reached over to me, pulling open the cubbyhole, and pulling out a couple baggies, some had green leaves, and one had white powder. One bag even had some small, multi-coloured capsules. I blushed when I felt his arm press against my legs. "Something like that," He replied, clearly not interested in conversation with this man. He closed the cubbyhole, handed him his stash and sent a wink flying my way. I looked at him confused, but my heart beat increased, and I felt my face flush. We bid this man goodbye, Chris rolled up his window and drove off down the street.

He looked at me, clearly irked. "Sorry about him, he just doesn't know when to shut up." I shook my head, "It's no problem, I just didn't know what the fuck was even going on." I chuckled softly. He smiled in return, "Alright, that was my last run, no more scary people." He cheesed, looking at me with lazy eyes. "You hungry, Princess?" I smiled, a small one, trying to refuse how hot he looked. I nodded, "What do you feel like getting? Anything you want," He said, leaning back leisurely in his chair, his gaze flicking to me and the road.

I thought about it, looking at him with a teasing look. "If I'm being totally honest with you, I'm really craving some greasy fast food." I said, a little unsure. He smirked back at me, "Some chicken nuggets, for the finest lady?" Teasing, patting a hand on my thigh once again. "You have to choose where we go, though." I stated, cheekily smiling at the brunette. He nodded, pursed his lips. "I got it," he said, driving away from the suburbs.

He had pulled us into a Burger King, and my eyes lit up. I grabbed his shoulder and shook it excitedly, "Yes! This is my favourite! We have to get matching crowns too Chris." I said and turned to look at him. He had a grin on his face, parking the car. "Let's go get those crowns." He came to my side of the car, opened the door for me like the gentleman he was. I smirked, "Aren't you scared it's going to ruin your whole criminal look you've got going on?" I said, placing my hand in his and getting out of the car. He tutted, "I can still look swag as fuck." He gloated, pulling out a flex of his muscles, which made me fake gag in return. I followed him into the restaurant, walking besides him. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close, smirking down at me. "You know, I was not expecting to come to Burger King for our first date."

I shoved him off, placing a hand on my hip as we walked inside, "Who said anything about this being a date." I quipped, returning his smirk. He placed a hand on the base of my spine and walked us to the counter. He ordered for us but leaned down to me again. "We both know it's a date, sweetheart. Get off your high-horse and just enjoy it." He snipped, making me want to swipe that stupid smirk off his face.

"Fuck sakes," I mumbled, feeling a heat run through my chest. I blushed, looking away as he continued with the cashier. Chris grabbed the takeout, before asking the cashier for two of the paper king crowns, grabbing them and stopping me before we made it to the door. He placed the food on a table nearby, grabbing my waist and making me stand straight in front of him. He maneuvered the paper crown, folding it together, before he gently grabbed the underside of my jaw, and placed the crown on top of my head. I smiled up at him, scrunching my nose, as he gently took my hair behind my ear for the crown to sit properly.

He placed his own crown on his head, looking down at me with that, upside down smile, the one that looks like he's trying not to smile, but he just can't help it. He placed a hand on the base of my spine again, grabbing the food and walking us back out the car. He opened the door for me again, helping me into the car, placing the takeout bag on my lap, before heading to the driver's side. I handed him his burger and fries, taking out my own, and placing the chicken nuggets in between both of us on the centre console, so we could share. He sent me a charming smile, taking one of the nuggets and placing it in his mouth. "You know what would make this even better?" He spoke with a mouth-full of food, which I grimaced at before looking at him curiously. He reached into the side of his door, pulling out a freshly rolled joint. I cheered, "Okay, maybe this is like my dream date or something." I mumbled, quickly shoving some fries in my mouth. He looked over at me, placing the joint between his lips. He moved to fix the crown that had gone slightly askew on my head with a gentle touch. "Princess, this is the bare minimum. I thought you out of all people would know that." I shrugged, "I don't need expensive things to like you." I uttered out. He looked a little shocked, but smirked, nonetheless. He lit the joint, taking a drag.

Once he had puffed it a few times, he gave it over to me. We were both facing each other, the night lights and the interior Led's giving us a soft glow. I looked at him, big, aspiring eyes, before taking the joint from his hand. I took a few drags, blowing out away from his face, before handing it back. There wasn't much said, just two people enjoying each other's company. The lowered music in the background, my heart thundering in my chest. I looked at him again, but Chris's blue eyes were already on mine. I moved to hand him back the joint, but he grabs my wrist, pulls my hand over his shoulder and closer towards him, his left hand slithering towards my waist. We were inches away, so close I could smell the weed off his breath. He placed a soft hand on my neck with his right hand, his thumb just below my jaw, looking at me with hooded eyes. "Such a pretty girl," he said, almost a purr. I looked up at him once again, through my eyelashes. I could not show that he was making me blush, but I'm sure he could feel the heat from my neck. "You gonna do something about it?" I teased, to which smirked at, rolled his eyes, before speaking almost against my lips, "Do you want me to?" His eyes were now fully lowered to my mouth. I started to grow frustrated at this game, so I pulled my head to the side, "Don't waste my time, Chris." I said, more meaning than what I had intended.

Frustrated too, Chris's other hand reached up, pulling my face into his again. "Stop being so fucking dramatic," He whispered, eyes fire-y. And with that, he pulled me in for a kiss. It was full of emotions; his lips were softer than I expected to be. I gasped into the kiss, gripping his sweatshirt like my life depended on it. He asked for entry with his tongue, to which I allowed. We kissed each other, ferociously, our tongues exploring each other's mouths. The weed, him, the kiss, his hands, it was all making me dizzy. So dizzy in fact, that I had dropped the joint somewhere between. He pulled away first, but almost chased my mouth for another kiss, making me smile. "Mm, I think you could use a little more kissing lessons," I grabbed his chin, teasing him, looking at his soft, pink lips, now swollen slightly. Fully joking, knowing this was one of the best kisses I've had to date. His hooded eyes followed mine, before lazily smiling back up at me. "Only if you're gonna teach them." He muttered, placing a hand on my thigh. I let out a small laugh, leaning in to kiss him once more.

Who is the sucker now?

A/N: YAAAYYYY THEY FINALLY KISSED WHOOOO

tags -> @chrispycremedonut @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @iluvchr1s @passionfruitchris

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x you #seayaps

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soundop-central · 2 days ago

Note

RE: your post about rebranding to megasound-central. I've always thought the best flavour of megop has soundwave squeezed in the middle, and the best flavour of wavewave has megatron off to the side only half in frame. Which is to say megasound too also is only improved by optimus being in there somewhere. I understand you.

AJDBWIXBWIZWH

megasoundop is the only brand of megop that i can tolerate, not even going to lie.

i just think that both of them need a sort of buffer there. soundwave fundamentally understands megatron (imo), and has a knack for coming to deep and accurate conclusions about others. meaning that if he spent enough time with optimus, he'd probably end up liking him.

ive always shipped megasound, like how ive always shipped wavewave and optiratch. there is so many of my favourite dynamic tropes wrapped up in this ship (i.e.: knight/lord, guard dog/leash holder, devotee/idol, etc.). i've always liked ships that have subtle power dynamics wrapped up in a morally grey (or straight up evil) bow. megasound has always been "universe's worst enabler/universe's worst warlord" to me.

i havent always shipped soundop. i actually pavlov'd myself into shipping it just because i came up with a really funny crack au that accidentally sent soundop careening from "silly nonsense" to "oh god, they're actually really good". soundop isn't as cut and dry to me as megasound- there arent a lot of dynamic tropes that actually fit them, so it's hard to quantify in simple terms what their relationship would be like. but its based on agreements, a mutual acknowledgment of the past and the future, respect and understanding. it's a lot of work, but it's rewarding.

i love both megatron and optimus as characters, and i totally recognize why the fandom ships them (ESP the idw and tfo side) (though, side note, i do actually like dpax; my opinion on megop is very nuanced and continuity dependent.) either way, i just dont see it working after literal millions of years of war without someone to act as a sort of mediator. whether that be in a romantic or platonic position, its up to whoever is doing the interpreting; but here's my take.

so we've got this guy (soundwave) who's basically sworn to this other guy (megatron), and the depth of his oath has become pretty muddy to both of them, even teetering on blasphemous if one looks hard enough. their (now ex-) enemy is an all around pretty Okay dude (optimus). while he's definitely tried to destroy everything they've done, they have also tried to do the exact same thing to him. and now that it's all done and over with...

well hey, why not? optimus seems amicable. he's definitely still sympathetic to them; remembering their time together before the degeneration that the war had become. maybe it would be worth it to try and test the waters.

i see it as an enemies to friends to lovers deal on all sides. everyone has to want it, has to work towards it, has to put in that effort.

soundwave is very suspicious of optimus at first, and frustrated that megatron would simply welcome him in so easily. optimus has to earn soundwave's trust. soundwave is protective of megatron- it's hard to undo 4 million years of protecting him from the very person he's now let in their home.

optimus is, understandably, a bit intimidated by how... intense... the vibe is. he feels like he's constantly in hostile territory. but he also knows that he's the odd man out. he resents having to earn his place, but also understands that if they want to have any hope at success, he needs to have soundwave's trust.

megatron is... both delighted and cautious. he's probably the one who's walking the thinnest line. it was his idea, he's the one who kept touch with optimus, he's the one who wanted to at least try. he convinced soundwave, no easy feat, and optimus, only slightly easier. he has the trust of two people that he cares very much about on the line.

it's definitely stressful.

both optimus and megatron are stubborn mechs. megatron has a temper and optimus has a no nonsense attitude. both of them can bicker back and fourth for hours, and to anyone on the outside, it would look like a normal conversation. yet, it is bickering, and despite how much both of them try to deny their own internal feelings, it does leave them a bit more hollow each time.

megatron never wants to apologize; he can only admit fault if he's given irrefutable proof of wrong doing. it's like pulling teeth.

meanwhile optimus is trying so hard to be reasonable, but also firm in his stances. he wishes to help both soundwave and megatron adjust to a life without war- while he can barely do that himself.

but soundwave, at first, would be doing this for megatron. as always, he's the self-sacrificer, the one who will do whatever is asked in order to further their goals. that much hasn't changed, even if the rhetoric has. yet, as time goes on, he slowly begins to enjoy this arrangement. which is something he never expected.

soundwave is adaptable and level headed; able to parse out fact and fiction within a blink of an eye. as he slowly grows more confident in his identity beyond just being megatron's most trusted, he finds himself growing more and more satisfied by finding another ship in the sea that is loving megatron.

anyway, tl;dr - they're gay. painfully so. theyre also traumatized and like not having a good time usually. but they're trying to fix that and make it work. and if that isn't real love idk what is.

#asked and answered #megasoundop #megop #megasound #soundop #i kind of went off the rails here but alas #i am a yapper at heart #transformers #maccadam #maccadams

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this-isapen · 1 day ago

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Hi i love your writting.

Ive been dying for some drama with lots of make up sex if is ok with you. (Hozierx reader that is a member of the band or somenthing like that* thank you so much)

Thank you so much! <3 I really liked this idea, so I hope it's up to your expectations!! (though i will say i don't write sex scenes very often, so apologies if it isn't my best work).

My Fault

Pairing: hozier x fem reader

Warnings: slight angst and drama, mild (+ first attempt) smut

Description: You're having a bad day that culminates in arguing with Andrew, things not meant being said in the heat of the moment. But tensions have to ease eventually, one way or another.

Word count: 3, 479

titled after 'my fault' by zeph

fic under the cut :)

I stare at him from across the table, watching as he laughs loudly at some joke I didn’t catch. He meets my eye momentarily, and I recognize it as his silent way of asking how I’m doing. Not great, admittedly, having snapped at him earlier over something stupid during soundcheck that I can barely remember. I shoot back a halfhearted smile, trying to wordlessly convince him not to worry about it. The last thing I want is that much attention in the midst of getting dinner with the rest of the band. I don’t like to make a big deal about stuff regardless, but especially not around other people. Thankfully, he seems to catch on and doesn’t make any further indications that would draw unnecessary attention from our friends. I don’t think I’d ever recover from making a scene like that.

I keep to myself, perfectly content to just absorb the conversations around me without participating myself. I take to twirling my fork around my plate, playing with the remainder of my food in hopes of killing time until we head out. I’m not in a particularly social mood tonight, though if anyone other than him notices they don’t say anything.

Quietly excusing myself from the table, I slip out and head to the bathroom. It thankfully appears to be empty, and I feel myself release a breath as I try to expel the tension from my body. A quick look in the mirror above the sink reveals that I’m noticeably tired. This might be harder to keep under wraps than I thought.

“Get it together,” I mutter under my breath as I run my hands through my hair. I wash my hands to feel like I’ve at least done something while wasting time in here, inevitably wiping my hands on my jeans when the air dryer doesn’t do much. I take a final deep breath, using up every ounce of willpower to go back out there.

I’m startled to see Andrew standing by the bathroom entryway when I emerge, but try to walk quickly before he notices me. Unfortunately, my plan fails and he catches my wrist gently in his grasp.

“Oh, hey.” I glance up at him with a tight-lipped smile, trying to play this off as though I hadn’t seen him.

His brow furrows as he looks at me. “Darlin’? Everything alright?”

I brush him off with a mildly exasperated “I’m fine,” before turning to head back towards the table again.

“You sure? You seem... off.” He keeps his voice at a volume just barely above a whisper, the way he speaks when he’s worried.

“Yeah, just tired,” I assure him, silently praying for him to just drop it.

He lets me go, following me back to where the rest of the band is chatting. I easily insert myself into the flow of conversation around me, though whether it’s compensating for the risk of my distance being uncovered or an attempt to prove something to Andrew, I don’t know.

Eventually, we’re on the sidewalk heading back in the direction of the hotel that’s a short walk away. Andrew reaches for my hand like he usually does, but I pull away quickly, refusing to meet his eye in fear that his face will be written with as much hurt as I imagine it will be. Neither of us says a word to the other for the rest of the trek, which is fine by me. Talking feels too difficult right now, like it will take up the remainder of my already depleted energy.

I barely remember walking in the door, let alone getting to our shared room.

The door is barely locked behind us when Andrew speaks again. “What the hell is going on with you?”

His question stings more than I expect it to, the harshness of the words feeling like shattered glass pricking my heart. I don’t know, Andrew. Everything. Nothing at all. Too much to even begin to explain.

“Nothing,” my mouth feels too dry as I respond, anxiety eating up the words I truly wanted to say.

“Baby,” he sighs, and his obvious frustration only irritates me further. What right did he have to be annoyed? Why couldn’t he just leave this alone? “You’ve been acting weird all day; something’s up.”

“I’m not acting weird!” my voice comes out whinier than I mean it to, causing me to cringe. I feel like a hormonal teenager arguing with her mother, the way I shut down.

“Yeah, because you usually spend the day avoiding me and ignore me all throughout dinner,” he scoffs. “If something is bothering you, you can tell me. Hell, you can tell me to fuck off and leave you alone, but can you please just give me something to work with other than one-word responses?!” He’s getting upset now, and I feel a familiar sensation brewing in my chest – stress, anger, guilt.

“I’m fine, Andrew!” I snap suddenly, regretting it as soon as the words leave my lips. “I told you, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” It wasn’t really a lie; it had been a busy day today, but that was more of an aggravating factor than a cause, and he knew me well enough to see right through me.

“Darling, please. I just want to help.”

“And why do you assume I need your help?!” I can’t seem to stop myself from getting snippy with him, but I just don’t want to talk about this right now. Whatever this even was.

“Right,” he frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Sorry for caring about you. Sorry for trying to have a mature conversation like fucking adults.”

His last comment sends me over the edge; I can’t stand someone insinuating I’m immature. That one strikes me to very core.

“Oh, so I’m not an adult capable of holding a conversation?” I shoot back, glaring at him as the threat of tears stings my eyes. The room feels smaller somehow, too cramped. I need to get out of here before it suffocates me.

“That is not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“Then what are you saying?” I question. “Actually, forget it. I’m leaving.”

I rifle through my bag as quickly as I can until I find my hoodie, pulling it over my head as I make my way to the door.

“Where are you going?” I can’t tell if he’s angry or concerned.

“For a walk.”

“Wait, please. Just talk to me.”

“Andrew, please. Just leave me alone.” I emphasize, managing to slip out of the room, once again barely registering my route until I find myself outside again.

It occurs to me I don’t know where I’m going, but I inevitably just pick a direction and start walking, the cool night air a blessing to my skin. I don’t really care where I end up, I just couldn’t stand to be in that room with him another second longer.

*A*

I groan, tossing my phone on the bed after approximately my fifth call to her that only resulted in me getting her voicemail. I was a total asshole, and I only want to apologize for acting like I did. It came from a place of love, but the last thing I said was a low blow and she didn’t deserve that. I just don’t understand why she won’t talk to me when clearly there’s something bothering her. Something I’m guessing I’m the cause of based on how she’s acted towards me all day.

I rack my brain for anything I might’ve said or done to upset her, but can’t seem to recall anything of note. Had I been too distant with her? That doesn’t seem to be it. If only I knew what it was, maybe I could fix this. But then again, there’s only so much I can do when she refuses to tell me what the problem is.

It’s not like I don’t understand it, though. I can be pretty stubborn about these things too, so I get that it might not be fair of me to judge her for the same way that I’ve acted on countless occasions. Still, I only want to help.

Time passes painfully slowly, but I find myself spending all of it anxiously checking my phone for any potential messages from her. Eventually, I doze off, waking up to find my phone still clutched in my hand. It’s nearly four in the morning by now, and still no sign of her. Not a single call or text, no indication that she’s in the room. When she still doesn’t pick up my call, worry begins to take hold of me.

We’d gotten back around what, eleven o’clock, maybe midnight? Either way she’s been out far too long for my liking. She should have come back hours ago; where was she?

Unable to sleep now that I realize how long it’s been, I take to padding down the hall knocking on the band’s doors to see if anyone has heard anything. Alex isn’t much (or any) help, and I feel bad for waking him at this time of night. It hadn’t occurred to me in my anxious state that I’d be disturbing their sleep by doing this, and I make a mental note to buy everyone coffee in the morning.

The rest of the band proves to be much of the same – exhausted people who don’t know much and aren’t too thrilled to have their boss come knocking on the door in the middle of the night. The last room I try is Kamilah’s, who unfortunately also hasn’t seen or heard from her since dinner, but offers me assurance that everything is likely fine. I hope she’s right.

Sighing, I return to my room and pull my shoes on. I wouldn’t - couldn’t- rest until I at least knew where she was, that she was safe. And right now, it seems the only way to do that is to go looking for her myself. I don’t care if it takes me all night; I just need to know that she’s okay.

I finally tear my eyes away from the dark reflection of the lake, unsure of how long I’d been standing there. I’d purposely been ignoring my phone since I left, knowing that checking it would only serve to stress me out more.

It was clearly late, but it’s not until I give in and check the time that I notice just how long I’ve been out here. Granted, I don’t know what time I got here, but it had been a couple hours at least since I started walking. The fresh air had helped, though the realization that I was alone outside in the middle of the night was beginning to unsettle me as I try to navigate back to the hotel. At least the city was well lit.

I feel on edge walking down the street, hyper aware of my surroundings until I finally see the overhang bearing the hotel’s name. Relief washes over me as I slip inside, tiredly making my way to the elevator. Hopefully Andrew would be asleep by now because I don’t feel like resuming our argument right now. I’m barely in the mood to talk, let alone fight.

As I open the door, I see him pacing by the window on the far side of the room, turning immediately towards me. Well, there goes that hope.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asks, his voice thick with emotion. “I was about two seconds away from filing a report,” he mutters softly. Had he been crying? His eyes looked a bit red.

I don’t know how to respond, caught off guard by his admission. This is not at all the situation I anticipated walking into.

“I was worried sick,” he breathes, moving closer to me until he wraps me in a hug, holding me so tightly I wonder if he thinks I’ll disappear if he lets go. “I - are you okay? You’re not hurt?”

I shake my head, burying my face in his chest.

“Good,” he hums. “Do not fucking scare me like that.”

“I -” I choke out.

“You weren’t answering your phone; I – I went out looking but I couldn’t find you. I was afraid something happened to you.”

“I’m sorry.” I hug him back just as fiercely, hoping that it underscores my apology more than any words ever could. He searched for me? “For everything.”

“Me too,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

A few moments of silence pass between us while we cling to one another.

“I just want you to talk to me.”

“I know.”

“You know I love you, right?”

I nod against his chest, chuckling silently. “I know. I love you too.” Swallowing my pride, I add, “I don’t know why, but I think I was just in one of those moods where everything was pissing me off but I couldn’t figure out what was actually upsetting me.”

“Love.”

“I think being on the road has just started to take a lot out of me. I – I'm sorry for being such a bitch.”

He chuckles softly, pulling back to look at me. “Darling, it’s alright. It’s just that these are the kinds of things I want you to tell me.” Before I can interject, he continues, “I’m sorry for prying.” The softness of his lips and the gentle scratch of his beard on my forehead calm me a bit, the tender familiarity grounding me.

“I guess we’re both kind of assholes sometimes, huh?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing my lips. “We are.”

A smirk paints his lips suddenly, and he catches my eye.

“What?”

“What do you say,” he hums, rubbing gentle circles into my hips with his thumbs, “I make this up to you?” He bites his lip shyly, waiting for me to give him some sort of indication.

“Oh,” I giggle, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks at the implications. “You don’t have to.”

“No pressure,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of my nose. “But I want to, if you want me to.”

This conversation had taken an... unexpected turn, though I’d be lying if I said the thought of whatever he had in mind didn’t excite me. I meet his gaze, and have my answer. Who was I to say no to those gorgeous eyes that bore into my soul with such adoration?

“Okay.”

I smile upon seeing the massive grin spread across his face at my response. He kisses me again slowly, passionately, walking me back towards the bed.

His fingers tug at the waistband of my jeans, a silent plea for permission as he looks at me once more. I nod, and he unbuttons them, pulling the material down my legs. Without a word, I pull my hoodie and shirt off together, giving him even less clothing to work with. His fingers trail lightly up and down the sides of my thighs and up to my hips, leaving me with goosebumps as a result.

He kisses me, lips slowly trailing from my mouth to my jaw, neck, collarbone. A contented sigh escapes me with each new feeling. He continues to kiss his way down my body, lowering himself to reach the next section until he’s kneeling before me.

I take in the sight of him; he looked so fucking pretty like this. The only word I can think of describe his actions right now is reverence. I gently work my fingers through his hair, watching as he instinctually leans into the touch. I can feel my breath catch in my lungs as he kisses me through the fabric of my underwear. He tilts his head up slightly to meet my gaze, a wordless check that I want him to continue. I nod, and seconds later his fingers are hooked in the sides of the fabric, sliding them off my legs and tossing them aside next to my pants.

“Gorgeous,” he mutters quietly, my face becoming a deeper shade of red in response. Slowly, he encourages me to sit on the edge of the bed, placing my legs over his shoulders with a final glance up at me. “Alright?”

“You really don’t have to,” I murmur, instinctively resisting despite how much I can feel myself craving this.

“Darling,” he hums, chuckling slightly. “I want to, truly. Please let me.” There was the slightest hint of desperation in his voice, but I knew that he would stop without argument if I just said the word.

“Okay.”

With that, he buries his face between my legs, targeting the spot I need him most. The pressure of his nose and the feeling of his tongue provide a delicious feeling I didn’t realize how badly I needed. Before I know it, my words are a jumble of pleas and curses mixed with his name as his mouth and fingers begin to work in tandem to bring me to the edge.

“Andrew,” I gasp, gripping his hair in my fist, knowing that I’d soon reach my climax.

“It’s alright baby, I’ve got you,” he hums against me, sending a shiver up my spine. “Just let me take care of you.” The utter worship with which he treated me was still taking some getting used to.

“What about you?”

“I’m doing just fine, darling. My focus is on you tonight,” he murmurs, his fingers continuing to curl inside of me while he talks. Fuck, he’d be the death of me.

“Andy,” I whine.

“Shh, I have you, baby. I’ve got you, just let go for me,” he encourages, his words nearly enough to send me over the edge. Moments later, my orgasm washes over me, Andrew looking quite pleased with himself as I catch my breath. “That’s it, good girl,” he hums.

He rises from his knees, electing to sit on the bed next to me. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, kissing my temple as he pulls me in. “Good?”

“Great,” I laugh breathlessly in response.

“Good.”

“But,” I start, getting his attention. “I think I have some things to make up to you too.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles. “Don’t feel obligated, love.”

“I want to,” I assure him, finding it funny the way that we’ve managed to reach a complete role reversal. “You deserve to feel good too.”

“Trust me, I felt plenty good pleasuring you.”

I roll my eyes, playfully shoving him. I know he’s being serious, but he can still be so cheesy sometimes. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he chuckles, and I can only kiss him in reply.

Suddenly, I’m pushing him back on the bed, our mouths and bodies colliding as we laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Our hands are reaching for one another clumsily, happily. It’s nice to be with him like this after the day we’ve had.

He eventually rolls us over so he’s on top of me and presses his lips gently to mine. I reach for the waistband of his sweatpants and pull them down, though he needs to kick them the rest of the way off.

I smile at the sight of him in his boxers, blushing a bit despite this not being a new occurrence. He cups my cheek in his hand, kissing me once more before pulling back and sliding his underwear off.

“You ready?” he asks, looking at me with a sense of adoration I still wasn’t sure if I’d ever get used to.

I nod eagerly, letting him position himself between my legs comfortably. He presses into me slowly, allowing me time to adjust to the feeling of him inside me.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he compliments, the heat rising to my cheeks once more. “And God, I hope I never stop making you blush like this,” he adds, much more quietly, leaving me wondering whether he wanted me to hear that or not.

He thrusts into me slowly, only gradually increasing his pace. Eventually, he brings my leg up, fucking me gently at this new angle. My hips meet his, and the fingers on his free hand entwine with mine. The sheer gentleness of our movements together almost brings a tear to my eye.

I watch him as he loses himself in the feeling, his eyelids shutting contentedly as he eventually tips over his own edge.

“I love you so much,” he mumbles softly, kissing my forehead.

“Love you too,” I giggle.

After a few minutes, he pulls out of me and pads into the bathroom, returning with a washcloth a couple moments later. My eyes start to flutter shut as he cleans me up, the emotional and physical exhaustion both finally catching up with me. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is him wrapping his arms around me and pulling up the covers.

#hozier fanfiction #fanfic #hozier x reader #hozier fic #fanfiction #rpf #hozier #hozier smut

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