#zero idea where this is from to be honest

[deeversuswords]

‧˚₊ Truth Exposer 1: Uncovered — Ch.14

PAIRING — Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki/Vigilante F!Reader RATING — Explicit CONTAINS — heavy angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut, moral ambiguity, cheating (not between katsuki/reader), unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief/mourning, dark themes (past abuse, stalking, kidnapping, torture, quirk trafficking), violence, swearing, open but hopeful ending, dual pov (mostly reader), no use of y/n ◆ married bakugou katsuki—not to reader—and has a daughter too ◆ characters are in their late 20s SUMMARY — Running away would be the sensible thing to do. Getting as far away as possible from him, the one person who’s your ticket to losing your freedom. Not searching for him out of stupid curiosity and showing up at the last place you should: his house. They say curiosity killed the cat, but yours seems to always end up as the key unlocking doors that should probably stay locked. Because when you open the door to Bakugou Katsuki’s life, it’s not a loving marriage, not a happy family of three you find, but falsity, forced duty, and a dark secret that threatens his very own life. Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero tasked with catching you and your downfall. And you, the vigilante exposing ugly truths for a living—his salvation.

➥AO3 LINK // ➥AO3 CHAPTER LINK // ➥TUMBLR CHAPTERS LIST

CHAPTER SUMMARY — Frenemies make for scarily good partners in crime.

CHAPTER WARNINGS — mild violence

WORD COUNT — 4.6k

a/n: so, today i woke up with a curiosity. to you guys who actively read Uncovered, please indulge me if you’re up for it: do you have any theories about where this could be going? Or, I don’t know, what Reader’s next move might be? Maybe something about her past? Or maybe how Katsuki ended up kinda smitten with her?

another thing, thanks so much for enjoying/liking/loving this! 🧡 It's adding years to my lifespan seeing it.

lastly, if you want to be on the tag list, let me know. Same deal if you want off.

The hairs on your arms and the nape of your neck bristled. You knew fear. You knew the sneaky ways it slithered into the darkest recesses of your mind, paralyzing reason and stripping away intelligence, leaving only pure instinct and the certainty of mistakes.

But whatever had sub-zeroed the air around Katsuki was far worse. Fear still allowed movement; this forbade it.

You saw it, the true nature of his anger, when you had fought him tooth and nail to fuck off with his hospital ideas and come with you instead to Lovers Den. You felt how deep it ran when he had carried you into the park across from the love hotel and set you down on the first bench he found, finally seeing the extent of the damage done to your battered face under the bright light post.

His anger was the archetype of a primordial fury rivaling death itself in its unforgiving cold and solemn quiet.

Death had long since ceased to faze you. But this thing…this thing had sweat beading on your spine and your heart warring for every drop of courage.

You couldn’t get a read on it—on him—but could feel the existential bloodlust. Could almost see an imaginary maw inching closer to the seams of reality, salivating at the chance to sink teeth, sharp as obsidian blades, into the world and tear out a chunk.

Your offering at his altar of wrath had better be worthy.

You weren’t even sure you were breathing as he rummaged through the plastic bag, preparing to tend your wounds. At least not in any way that felt alive.

“You’re angry,” you softly stated the obvious, drawing his gaze to you. Your heart tripped over itself at the intensity of the connection. Frosted scarlet blazed hot. “It’s not with me, I think.”

"Don't. We ain't havin' that conversation." He gently dabbed your cheek to clean it, forcing your breath into a timeout to endure the burning sensation. "You and I can't be honest without admittin' shit we don't wanna. We're knee-deep in this. Guilty as hell."

The game. Your contact with him for more than a year. His inertia when it came to your case and the authorities. Your involvement in his life. Him losing his composure over yours. The banter, the lingering looks, the boundaries that kept shrinking.

Truth Exposer versus Dynamight. Yet somehow, on the same side, gravitating closer, despite knowing what would come when either of you finally slipped.

The beginning pitted you on opposite sides. The ending would see it through. The middle never mattered on judgment scales. Consequences would roll in, indiscriminately. So what if you were the one who initiated contact, when it was Katsuki who responded, knowing exactly who you were behind the anonymity? So what if he lacked solid proof of your vigilantism, when everything you sent dripped with implication? Enough for him to point a finger and send the authorities knocking on that accusation alone.

Winner? There wasn’t one. Not in any real sense.  

It was only a matter of claiming a fake victory or going down, hand in hand.

“Answer me this one thing.” Your hand curled around his forearm, halting him mid-motion. “And look at me when you do. Right into my eyes.”

Suspicion creased his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but you grabbed his nape and pulled him close, nose to nose. The question that had haunted you since learning about Miyuki finally slipped out.

“Are you secretly a villain?”

“No.” He didn’t miss a beat. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe. That no came right from instinct, and his whole face scrunched up, visibly offended. “Where the hell did you get that idea from?”

Your shoulders almost sagged with sweet relief. Not yet. One more question.

“For your daughter, would you go that far?”

Katsuki jerked his head away and looked like he was one beat from going nuclear for daring to question his integrity. But his jaw locked up. Teeth ground. Eyes focused elsewhere.

You nodded, your hands falling from him to your lap. “You would, if you had no other choice.” 

Which was why that door needed to stay closed at all costs. Because if he ever stepped through it, you didn’t think he’d come back.

“What do you—” He hesitated. The ice in his eyes melted, dread rippling over their surface. “What do you know to even ask me that?”

Biting wind swept over the tree canopies, ruffling the dying leaves. Some, too fragile to hold on any longer, snapped free and were violently whisked away. You wished it would steal the truth from your tongue and take it somewhere far, far away, where no one could ever reach it.

Telling him his wife was a villain—that the mother of his child took part in Quirk auctions, and by extension, human trafficking—was the dagger you’d plunge into his chest and twist, and twist, and twist. 

And make his heart bleed. 

And infect it with the knowledge.  

And kill it.  

You’d kill it and listen to it agonize over what it meant for him, for Yua, for the future.

“You’re right. We can’t be entirely honest,” you began. “That’s why I asked you to come with me so you can see for yourself and put the pieces together. If honesty is a luxury, then…validity is all we’ve got left.”

Besides, you were the only one he could bet on and win.

“It’s her, huh. Miyuki?” He rubbed a hand over his face, pushing his hair back with a weary sigh. “She’s involved in some shit.”

“You investigated her,” you muttered. 

He inclined his head in acknowledgment as he reached into the back pocket of his pants. The former chef’s picture was shoved under your nose—charred at one corner, crinkled, and splattered with blood and alcohol.

“So did you. The chloroform bottles and my suspicion got you started.” His finger tapped the photo. “The former chef of Lakki Café. You made him your target ‘cause he knows somethin’ about whatever you found.”

Laughter tumbled out of your chest, shaking your shoulders. Unprompted, but genuine. The speed at which he adapted to the new rule was breathtaking; something in you hummed with pride.

“What makes you so sure?”

He tapped his temple. “I know how you think. Two more people left that café, but their lives didn’t go to shit like this guy’s.” A tired smirk sealed the confidence in his voice. “Wild guess, Truthie. He stumbled on somethin’ he shouldn’t have, and you’re bankin’ on him to tell you about it.”

“He has amnesia.”

“And? You don’t need him to remember everythin’ to connect the dots. That brain of yours fills in the blanks just fine.”

“You’re insufferable, Bakugou Katsuki. Annoying to the bone.” You pursed your lips, slightly annoyed by how accurate that was, though it made sense after he’d spent so much time investigating you. Damn him, either way. He was already in your head, hijacking your inner voice at the most inopportune times.

“As if you’re any better, pain in the ass.” Mouth twisting in reluctant annoyance, he resumed tending to your cheek and grumbled, “Reckless little shit. What were you thinkin’, walkin’ in there like that?”

“What do you mean? I went clubbing to have some fun. You should try it sometime.” Wrong answer, even as a sarcastic remark, the glare he shot you said so. “Uh, that happened because I…miscalculated.”

“Go on.”

Your hands balled into fists as shame warmed your face. “I temporarily lost my Quirk.” You hated how much it sounded like an excuse. “That wannabe boss hit me with a dart. Whatever was in it suppressed my Quirk. I…didn’t expect their women to join the fight.”

“Back up.” Katsuki’s brows climbed to his hairline. “You lost your Quirk?”

“Yeah. I stopped feeling it for forty-four minutes.”

His brows climbed higher. “How the hell did you keep track? You were outta it.”

You shrugged. “I chose to be out of it. But that topic isn’t up for discussion.”

He sucked on his teeth, clearly not thrilled with your firm boundary. “Your Quirk goes both ways.”

“Also not something I’m willing to talk about.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Katsuki’s hand withdrew from your face, the blood-stained pad pinched between two fingers curling inward toward his palm. An orange glow simmered under his skin, steadily growing brighter. Pop. He shook his hand. Ash flakes rained down as smoke swayed upward, thinning into the night. “Fine. Back to those bastards. Know any of their names?”

“No. Even if I did, I wouldn’t give them to you.” You shot him a pointed look. “I know exactly why you’re asking.”

“Oh, yeah? Enlighten me, smartass.”

“You want to go after them.”

He took out a fresh bandage and stuck it to your cheek, fingers lingering a little too long. He stared, so did you. The air charged up for the umpteenth time with sizzling tension that would never go anywhere. Hot and heavy and hungry.

Starving.

“Any of ‘em touched you?” he asked, the restrained, deep cadence of his voice straightening your spine.

“No. But I can’t attest to them not getting off on the so-called ‘torture.’”

His eyes narrowed.

“Not physically,” you clarified. “Far as I know, no dicks were out. Did I miss something?”

“Nah. Just makin’ sure. If there was even a hint, they’d be the first in line for dick and balls implants.”

You blinked as a knot formed in your stomach, twisting into a vulnerability you shouldn’t feel, but maybe had longed for once. There was an ease in talking with him, and you wondered if it was the implicit history at play, or if sometimes people simply clicked with one another.

Clearing your throat, you snatched his hand and placed it on your knee before reaching into the plastic bag for a gauze pad. “How come you didn’t intervene earlier?” you asked. “That weird, stalkerish presence I felt was you, right?”

“Who else? That damn muscle-for-brains got in my way.”

“Aw, couldn’t bribe him?”

“Ain’t got the tits, princess.” Katsuki paused, and you peered up at him from under your lashes. The trajectory of his attention was a straight line to your chest hiding in his hoodie; you were wearing it, his hoodie. That tidbit seemed to have registered with him, too, because his throat worked hard on a swallow. “Did you seriously bribe your way in with a titty pic and a roll of cash?”

Heat bloomed from where he stared, spreading outward, making everything tingle. Your brain malfunctioned. Your tongue loosened. 

“Envious?” you blurted. “Want one too?”

He choked on his spit and whipped his head the other way, fist over his mouth. His ears turned red—impossibly red—sending your heart down the wrong road. Full speed ahead, gas pedal to the floor. Brakes broken. Each beat fluttered between your ribs, radiating a happiness that felt almost innocent.

And it scared you. While talking with him was easy, softening his fury was easier. You only needed your usual voice and the words unfurling from your tongue to break through the tempest like sunshine.

“I doubt you’re into overflowing trash cans for tits, though,” you chirped, light and teasing, but deep down, sadness curled in that soft place. More miserable than ever.

You indulged and pretended the tags slapped on the two of you didn’t read: heartbreak, tragedy, criminal. One more thing to add to the growing pile of things you shouldn’t do.

“Damn menace,” Katsuki muttered, side-eyeing you as the corner of his mouth subtly curved up.

You did it anyway.

Just once. Just this one moment wouldn’t kill anyone.

Right?

*

Lovers Den. 

The love hotel looked unexpectedly high-end and exclusive. Five stories tall and bathed in hot pink light from strategically placed spots below, giving the illusion that its pristine white facade had been painted over. You supposed it was for flexibility, and honestly, you found it rather clever from a business standpoint. Today, hot pink. Tomorrow, sunny yellow. All it took was adjusting a few RGB values. Profit.

Heart-shaped decorations and a flowery arch framed the entrance, with fairy lights dangling from it like a constellation dedicated to love.

You lunged for Katsuki’s hand, stopping him short of the revolving doors. “Is this really a good idea? I look suspicious as hell, and you look like…well, you.”

He rolled his eyes. “You were gonna walk in here anyway. Hell’s the problem?”

“Yeah, I was going to. Alone,” you hissed. “The problem is you. Married, well-known pro hero sneaking into a love hotel with a suspicious woman.”

“Forgot to add Breaking fuckin’ News, Miss Journalist-Gone-Rogue. If you’re gonna say it like a report, do it properly.” His nose wrinkled. Unfortunately, kind of cutely. “Just shut up and follow. I’ve already got an excuse in case we get outed.”

You pretended not to hear that nickname. “What excuse?”

He shook your hand off and faced forward. “Sidekick on trial.” Then he strode into the building, leaving you gawking, your jaw practically hitting the floor.

Sidekick on trial? Terrible excuse. You refused to think about how badly it could complicate things.

Groaning, already exasperated with how this was going, you scanned the area for anyone suspicious, namely someone holding a camera and grinning, or drooling. One well-timed photo, and they’d be richer. Much richer. Given Katsuki’s reputation, one scandalous shot could rake in millions of yen.

You pictured the headlines. Ran through a few escape plans, like booking a one-way flight to some remote corner of the world.

Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

Screw the label of homewrecker when the only thing you’d ever wrecked was his lip that one time you slapped him.

Your stress spiked.

“I hope you stub your toe,” you muttered, stomping after him. Your heart punched against your ribs, its way of reminding you he had saved your sorry ass. From those disgusting losers. And from yourself. Maybe wishing he stubbed his toe wasn’t the nicest way to show gratitude.

Lovers Den’s reception area matched its exterior—clean, modern, and deceptive. White furniture trimmed in silver, lit from below by hot pink LED strips. Light-toned walls carried abstract art and romantic quotes. Overhead, crystal chandeliers dangled, scattering fractured, dazzling light over pale marble floors.

You eyed them as you passed beneath.

Love reduced to scribbles and bright lights. Such irony. It was obscurity as much as it was luminous. Quiet as much as it was loud. It hurt. It bled. It killed. People went mad in its name, did stupid, irreversible things.

Love was—

“I apologize, but I’ve never seen this man.”

“Sure? Look again.”

You stopped beside Katsuki, fingers accidentally brushing his, and regarded the concierge, who was still staring at the former chef’s photo. “Excuse me.” Her eyes shifted to you. “By any chance, do you know a man who treats expensive liquor like it’s his one and only? He runs a nightclub twenty minutes from here, in the red-light district.”

“W-what?” she stammered, shifting under the weight of your stare like ants had crawled into her shoes. Her fingers fumbled over the keyboard as words spilled out in a panicked rush. “I just r-remembered! I’m so sorry, it’s been a long day. Yes, I’ve seen this man. He checked in about two hours ago.”

“He’s still here?”

She nodded quickly. “But I can’t—”

“The consequences won’t be nice for you.” You leaned forward on the counter and pointed lazily toward the camera behind her, subtly angled away to miss the reception desk. “Dead angle. Hmm, I wonder why that is.”

She glanced at Katsuki, silently pleading for help, but he simply rested one forearm on your shoulder and adjusted the brim of his cap. If she hadn’t already figured out who she was dealing with, she sure did now.

“You’ll be taken in for questionin’ once this gets reported,” he said, his deep voice ominous, as though he was about to impart a deadly secret. Your ears instinctively perked at the richness of that pitch change, feeling it akin to fingers dipped in thick, melted chocolate. “Criminal by association. You heard of it?”

A few minutes later, you stood in the elevator, facing the mirror and poking at the bandages on your face—one above your brow, another on your cheek, and a small plaster on your lip. You pressed lightly against the bruise on your cheek and winced at how tender it felt.

Katsuki, arms crossed, watched your inspection in silence before clicking his tongue and swatting your hand away.

“What gave her away?” he asked. To distract you, probably.

“She stared too long.” You stretched, muscles aching, and yawned. A warm meal, your own bed, and the city view from your bedroom sounded perfect right now. “The brain, uh, recognizes a face in less than a second. Add the time for a yes or no, and you’ve got an answer in approximately ten.”

“That what they taught you in journalism?”

“Self-taught. Are you fishing for—” You jabbed a finger into his tricep and twisted it. “—information, or something?” Katsuki flexed and knocked it off course, making you blink twice before you poked the rock-solid muscle curiously. “What in the world are you eating?”

“Protein bars. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack. Wanna guess which?” 

Your face was the picture of serenity as you rattled off the brand, flavor, and nutritional stats like a certified nutritionist specializing in pro hero diets. He looked more fed up with you by the second. You lightly kicked his boot and shuffled closer, snickering at the silly fact that the contents of his birthday truck still lived on.

“I was thinking—”

He scoffed.

“—you’d be great as their poster boy. Should I put in a word for you?”

“No. Zip it, and focus on the mission.”

Before you could throw him a mock salute and bark, “Yes, Dynamight, sir,” the elevator dinged open and he marched out like the man he was—on a mission to get shit done. You followed, hurrying down the long corridor, grateful for the thick carpet muting the drum of your footsteps.

“I got this,” you whispered, knocking twice. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m here to deliver a package.”

You pressed your ear to the door, listening to the hushed, frantic sounds, the rustle of fabric, the clink of metal. Heavy footsteps approached, closer and closer.

“Must be a mistake. We ordered nothing,” said a male voice. Strained, like he had a knot in his throat he couldn’t swallow.

“But I have here a bottle of liquor with your name on it, from someone called Boss. The brand name is…” You gave him the brand that wannabe boss was obsessed with. “It even has a red ribbon tied to it.”

The door creaked open, the former chef’s face peeking through the crack, more rugged than in your picture. His gaze dropped to your empty hands, and as you mouthed “Hi,” Katsuki barreled through and seized the guy before he could squeak a sound.

You stepped inside, kicked the door shut and locked it. The wall sconces, shaped like clusters of coral reefs, bathed the ocean-themed room in eerie blue light, casting undulating shadows over the grim tableau you uncovered. Tied to the seashell-shaped bed, a woman squirmed against her restraints, muffled screams escaping from the cloth gag tied around her mouth. At the foot of the bed, in front of a camera, sat a man, frozen stiff and looking like he’d seen a ghost.

And of course, your target—the former chef, likely the one who’d been behind the lens—now ruthlessly restrained by Katsuki. On his knees. Boot in the center of his spine. Arms twisted behind his back at an angle that told a painful story. 

“Where you want him?” Katsuki asked.

Your brows inched higher in surprise. You pointed to the shower cabin. He nodded once, then hauled the thrashing chef across the room and shoved him inside. The man swung his fist, but it bounced off the thick glass of the shower door, and Katsuki snorted like he wasn’t the very reason that happened.

“Get the memory card from that camera first.” Your hand replaced his on the handle. “Then find out why those two are here.” 

You slipped into the cabin with the hostile man and landed a hard kick to his shin when he tried to punch you. He howled, cursed your existence, and lost his balance. The thud of his fall made you grimace.

“You never quit Lakki Café,” you said. “Changed careers to what, serial kidnapper? Crime-scene cameraman? Professional blackmailer? You were recording that man, so there’s blackmail material, right?”

He bared his teeth. “Who the hell are you?”

“Not bad,” you nodded in mock approval. “Keep the client too terrified to talk. Classic.”

“Who—”

“Stop asking that,” you groaned, dropping into a crouch. “I won’t answer. No one in their right mind would. You, on the other hand, will tell me what I want to know.”

He lunged like the cornered animal he was, and you didn’t stop him. The shower door slid open as you fell against it. You hit the cold hardwood floor, with his knees on either side of your waist. He drew his arm back; you raised yours to gesture for Katsuki to stay put.

You smiled, lazy and unbothered. “Your two sons don’t know, only your wife. Sorry, ex-wife. But we can change that.”

A tiny muscle in his jaw pulsed as his fist began to tremble.

“When they find out their father—”

His knuckles smashed into the wooden plank beside your head. “What do you want from me?” he rasped, breath ragged and fast.

“Answers. Get back in there and let’s talk.”

“Do you even know what you’re messing with? You’ve stuck your nose in the wrong business, girl.”

“Oh, I know. That’s exactly why I’m here.”

He shook his head, something grim consuming his expression. “You’re too young to be involved in this. Him too.” He craned his neck toward Katsuki, but you grabbed his jaw and turned it back to you.

“Your business is with me, not him. Do not look at him. Do not talk to him.” You propped yourself up on one elbow and brought his face closer. “Think your life is bad now? Try living with your spirit broken.”

The bravado he had in him disappeared like water down the drain upon seeing the wicked thing you knew lurked in the depths of your eyes. Katsuki had exposed himself far too much—storming the club, using his Quirk, coming here with you—and if you could erase some of the traces, you would.

He scrambled off you and stumbled back into the shower, while you got to your feet and dusted yourself off with a sigh.

“You good?”

Your gaze found Katsuki’s. “Yeah. What did they say?”

“The woman’s sayin’ that piece of shit,” he pointed to the man now cowering in one corner of the room, “sold her to pay off his debt.” Then, to the former chef. “To this other piece of shit.”

You glanced at her, still restrained, still gagged. Her Quirk must have had the potential to be auctioned.

You pulled Katsuki to the side, your voice a whisper as you said, “Don’t untie her. Even if she begs you to, don’t.”

“What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“A lot. I know it goes against…you know, but do as I say. This one time. As a favor, or whatever.”

The former chef was surprisingly cooperative. He told you he’d worked at Lakki Café since it opened, up until a few months ago when he was abruptly kicked out. He couldn’t remember why or what happened in the time leading up to it. However, a specialist, recommended by the café’s manager—whom he described as short, chubby, sporting sparkly clothes, chain smoking, and talking like a delinquent—confirmed his permanent amnesia, attributing it to a traumatic head injury.

An accident.

But there was no bruise. Though the medical records said otherwise.

After that, bad things started happening. One after another. He refused to elaborate, saying his personal life wasn’t any of your business. You agreed. It likely held no useful clues.

“The fortune box in the café was there from the start?” you asked.

He nodded. “It’s the café’s whole gimmick to make it stand out. Try your luck. Write your name on a slip of paper and drop it in.”

“Must it be your real name?”

“Yes. If you win, you’ll have to provide your address to receive either goods or…” He trailed off, frowning as deep lines etched into his forehead. “I’m not sure.”

An invitation to the party.

Names were important in any world, but in the underworld, they were part of the currency. Dirt couldn’t be dug up without the real name, and Madam knew that. Smart woman. People gave up their identities for the thrill of feeling lucky, while she secured a steady supply of Quirks to auction, or leverage to blackmail the well-off into sponsorship.

Your hands balled into fists, skin stretching tight over your knuckles.

“Age limit?”

“No. Everyone’s free to participate.”

Not the answer you wanted. Anger lashed at your composure, each strike hotter than the last. You lost the fight. Your fist slammed into the shower wall behind you. The glass trembled. So did you.

“That boss of yours, what exactly is he having you do?”

“C-collect debt,” he stammered, fear flashing across his face as he flattened himself against the wall. “From, uh…people.”

“The woman outside said that man sold her to you to pay off his debt.”

“My job isn’t to r-regulate what people give up.”

On stiff legs, you pivoted and slid the shower door open, finding Katsuki already behind it, hands stuffed in his pockets. He glared at you first, then at the chef, then back at you, but your attention switched to the pathetic man wishing for the wall to swallow him.

“Thank fuck mine isn’t to care about the perpetrators. Piece of advice? Keep your mouth shut.” 

Slamming the door shut, you leaned against it and closed your eyes to swallow the disgust souring your mouth and recenter yourself. Fingers grasped your wrist, and you anchored to that gentle pressure, too close to floating away like a balloon lost to the wind, unaware of the cruel fate awaiting it: burst, crumble to earth, small rubber pieces scattered.

I’m sorry sat on your tongue, honest and heavy, but you couldn’t say it.

You peered at Katsuki, asking quietly, “Can you have that woman at the front desk call it in, then wait at the bike? I’ll keep an eye on these people until the police arrive.”

“Nah. You go.” He pulled you away from the shower cabin and toward the room’s door. You caught sight of the woman, still struggling, and the man, tied up and gagged but silent. “I’ll be gone by the time they show. One more thing.”

“You’re breaking the law.”

“Ain’t up for debate.” He reached into his front pocket and took out what looked like your burner phone, putting it in your palm. “Found it under the table, and figured it was yours. I kept it ‘cause—”

“Doesn’t matter. Thanks.”

“Yeah. Now get outta here. Go.”

As the elevator began its descent, you hoped his understanding of your mind was far from the core, and that he wouldn't search into the subtext of your actions to find and read your intention.

And you wished…

You wished upon that tiny drop of luck you might have that he’d never see the despicable side of you signing sentences in blood to open doors.

taglist: @lunaryasha | @tomiokasecretlover | @fiselle | @5oftkitty | @lousypotatoes

[clownpopper]

Rant

To be honest I would've liked to seen Jason as a third wheel of some sorts. Piper and Leo know each other well from Wilderness Camp but it's never really built on? Wouldn't Jason be left out considering he's the one with no knowledge of the the two. They only have a mist-altered fake memory of him. For example: Piper and Leo could be telling a funny story from camp and Jason would have no idea what they were talking about and the two would be like 'oh yeah he wasn't there' It's odd to me how he never felt odd being added into the group It would have been interesting to see Jason try to catch up with the group and Jason missing some jokes Leo made about actual situations at camp. Piper and Leo's pre-existing friendship barely shows up, they dont get much moments together that emphasize it either, and It makes the two seem like they have a weaker bond. I want to see tension and moments where they actually develop as characters and friends ex: Piper could lean on Leo for comfort at first rather than Jason Also Jason and Piper continuing there relationship despite not knowing anything about each other makes ZERO sense, they both find each other attractive but that doesn't mean anything. If you wanted to make them relationship make them slowly fall in love with each other or a temporary breakup until they actually get to know each other.

[doodler16]

To be honest, actually would even rather have irredeemable Lute alongside sinner Adam. Having him and Sera having that moment of "Oh fuck, what have I done?" Because they both are responsible of her state (Adam's toxic teachings and Sera not doing anything to help woman who clearly needs some help)

Of course I understand other anon's dislike for idea that a guy gets a second chance but the woman doesn't. Trust me I usually hate that too. But why this is different? Because I predict different path, the one to keep shippers happy. What I predict we would get from sinner Adam on the path of redemption would be "redeemed" Lute who joins with him in Hell. It will be painted as "oh Lute goes agaisnt her own beliefs to be with her true love/soulmate and look how much she is changed, oh our badass danger tits, the one who stayed faithful to Adam" etc. Even though in truth it's more like "No, she just wants her life to revolve around him, abandoning her cause 'cus he happens to be sinner now makes her even bigger hypocrite than she already was and proves that this woman has zero original thought on her own".

Sorry this came way too mean towards Lute xD, I've just happened to read too many fics where one second Lute is like "Everyone in Hell deserves to die!! I never change my mind!!!" *insert sinner Adam "On the second thought..." and I know it's supposed to be super romantic or something but I often end up thinking "damn this girl is obsessed"

“Damn this girl is obsessed.” LMAOOO. I can also see an irredeemable Lute and sinner Adam coming into fruition. Who knows they might raise Hell together somehow💀.

[stumpisstumped]

#38

Watching videos of Patrick Stump in gym class instead of participating is peak loser behavior

[talentforlying]

♠ — IF YOU WERE A DEITY, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR DOMAIN?

WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE. you are the divine guardian of truths both knowable and unknowable, of all words and languages spoken and unspoken. much like Death itself, you are perhaps one of the least understood of all deities, and yet the secrets you hold are highly sought after by scientists, philosophers, and theologians alike.

the origin of all innovation, your realm is the source of crucial advances in architecture, agriculture, political governance, and military strategy which have allowed many civilizations to become a dominant force in the mortal realm. your domain may also include the forces of magic and mysticism, and many cautionary tales exist among mortals of those who have unwittingly destroyed themselves or lost their minds in the reckless pursuit of mysteries and technology far beyond their comprehension.

your mythological equivalents are greece’s athena, egypt’s thoth, mesopotamia’s enki, and india’s ganesha.

tagged by: @eladead thank you!! tagging: @asteritm, @n1cap, @normaltothemax (any muse), @agentharkness, @demidritch, @whcwashe, @compatiissante, @devilscheck, @h3xappeal + @1carri0n (any muse), @outlawiism, @handgiven (any muse), and you!

[dollishmehrayan]

# “THE WOMAN WAS TOO STUNNED TO SPEAK…” ── .✦ ( batboys w an unhinged!reader and blunt!reader )

a/n: this is from my little brain of mine , and I like to honor it for @kyriakis anywhoo I’m back and omg 1k?! Alsoo guys dw! I’m gonna do the event tomorrow && I’m gonna pick out some prompts I have organized, so i didn't forget okay but i just got a lot of DMs asking when I’m gonna do it for you guyss so yeah it’s gonna be tomorrow since I’m gonna re-edit + add some ideas of your guys votes!! Tags: (batboys x unhinged!reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He’s always caught off guard but loves it. Your bluntness is a breath of fresh air for Dick, who’s so used to diplomatic conversations. You say whatever’s on your mind with zero filter, and he’s like, “Oh, wow. Okay. I respect it.”

Hates it when you don’t hold back with him. He’s used to being the charming, funny guy who makes everyone laugh, but you hit him with a “That was dumb, don’t do that again” and his brain short circuits for a second. “You can’t just say that!” “Why not?”

Finds it hilarious when you wreck other people’s egos. You have zero time for anyone’s nonsense, and when someone messes up, you let them know. Dick’s in the background, trying not to laugh. “Do you not think before you speak?!…” He’s always acts so shocked but hey, he’s kinda enjoying it unless it’s aimed at him. (He can’t fight verbally for the life of him without saying some cringe shit)

Doesn’t even try to change you. Dick knows what he’s getting into, and he loves you for it. He’s never going to ask you to ‘tone it down.’ He actually finds your unapologetic attitude pretty hot.

He’s 50% worried you’ll get into trouble, 50% impressed. But in the end, he’ll always back you up, saying, “She’s just honest. Get used to it.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Finally, someone who speaks his language. Jason lives for the fact that you don’t care what people think. He loves how blunt you are, especially when you cut through the BS with the precision of a sharp knife.

Gets protective when people try to push your boundaries. If someone dares disrespect you, Jason’s the first one to step in. “You’ve got a problem with her? You’ve got a problem with me.”, “Jason that was so fucking cringey..”

Appreciates that you don't sugarcoat things for him. You’ll tell him exactly how it is, whether it’s about his attitude or a bad decision he made, and he respects it, it’s like the tt sound where “that’s when it hit me, it was the best idea I ever had..” but like this: “Not gonna lie, that was a terrible plan, Jay,” and he’ll just nod. “Fair.”

You guys have the most chaotic, weirdest conversations. It’s a mix of witty banter, ridiculous one-liners, and deadpan sarcasm. Other people can’t even keep up with the energy.

The idea of dating a ‘good girl’ never appealed to him anyway. He thrives off your unhinged energy. You’re unpredictable, and it keeps him on his toes, which he loves. “Yeah, you’re definitely not boring.” (Although the thing is he does love innocent people, like if you’re like gen clueless he wants preserve your innocence.)

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Tim’s brain can’t keep up with you. Your blunt, no-nonsense attitude constantly makes him blink in confusion. One minute you’re casually roasting someone, and the next, you’re giving a straight-up critique of his latest plan. He’s learning that he can’t outthink you.

He admires your unapologetic honesty. Tim has a lot of internalized doubts, so watching you casually reject anyone’s judgment is a nice contrast. You don’t apologize for your thoughts, and it’s something he secretly admires.

Constantly second-guesses himself around you. Your sharp tongue makes him want to be as confident as you. He gets nervous about saying anything that might sound soft, so when he stumbles, you’re like, “What was that? I swear you just whispered something.” And he’ll blush hard, muttering an apology.

You both have a sarcastic sense of humor that others don’t quite get. You say something outrageous, and Tim will respond with the driest remark possible. People in the room often wonder if you two are joking or just genuinely a bit rude.

Not scared to call him out. When Tim’s too nice, you’ll be like, “You need to stop letting people walk all over you. Grow some teeth.” Tim won’t admit it, but that does motivate him to be a little bolder.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Damian is a bit taken aback at first. He’s used to people being respectful or like seeing him as kinda a role model, so when you come out with a “That’s dumb, don’t even talk to me right now,” he’s not sure how to handle it. He will stand there, blinking, while processing your bluntness. (He’s too stunned to speak 😞)

Genuinely respects your forthrightness, though. “I’ll admit, I have never met someone so… honest.” He starts respecting you even more, thinking you’re someone he can’t manipulate or charm easily.

Loves that you’re as stubborn as he is. If you’re determined about something, there’s no changing your mind. You’ll fight for your opinions even if it gets you into a heated debate. And Damian’s right there with you, arguing like it’s the most fun thing in the world.

Tries to match your bluntness. “You talk too much,” he says one day, and you immediately reply, “And yet, here you are, listening to every word I say.” Damian actually pauses for a second, impressed. “Right..”

Loves how you’ll shut down his critics with zero hesitation. Someone says something disrespectful to him, and you’ll be the first to shoot back, “He doesn’t need your advice, trust me.” He’ll give you a proud little smirk. “I like the way you handle things.”

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

At first, Bruce is a bit disconcerted by your bluntness. Bruce’s the kind of guy who expects people to be formal and classy, and you just come in with “This entire meeting is a waste of my time. I don’t care about any of this.” He blinks, then quietly admires your bravery.

Totally respects your unfiltered honesty. Bruce has had enough of the world’s games, so when you don’t bother to pretend or hold anything back, it’s like a breath of fresh air for him.

Secretly loves when you don’t play nice." He knows you're not afraid of saying what you think, and when you call him out on his brooding or overly protective behavior, he listens. “You’re right. I’m sorry for not trusting you more.” (He totally doesn’t have a tracker on your hair clip..🥰)

You both have moments of pure savage honesty that no one else gets. There’s no need for filters, and you’ll both exchange one-liners so dry that it leaves everyone else in the room confused.

Finds it endearing when you make his plans more interesting. “This is ridiculous. Why are we doing this again?” You snap at him in a room full of his board members, and he just gives you a look that says, “I’m never apologizing for you.”

[inkskinned]

your work matters, and you're not a very good judge of it.

you can have the fancy degrees and the years of experience. you can have zero idea what you're doing and nothing but a song in your heart. the way you view what you write will never be how i view what you write. which is why you gotta write whatever feels real and good and honest to ya.

i forgot this. it's really lonely to be an author. the world you slice through to carve into a page - it can't ever be fully realized. sometimes the sun is butter yellow, and i can never spread it onto toast to serve to you. i can never describe fully the feeling of a new england october, only that a place that is often too-cold is suddenly full of a strange and visceral warmth. if you're not a writer or an artist, the experience is like this: take a flower and study it. without eating it, cook me a meal that tastes like this flower.

so i didn't know how good the book is, only that i hoped beyond a hope that anyone out there might get a kick out of it. maybe someone nice will review it every few days, i thought. i just want it to help any 1 person.

i did a reading recently where far too many people were kind and thoughtful and so gentle with me that i got into my car and burst into tears. i've had a very rough year, and this experience felt like a hug. so many people telling me they love what i read from the book. and in it, listening to the laughter as i read - at jokes i have long since stopped thinking are funny - it sent a bird straight through my heart. oh shit, i thought. i've been so unnecessarily cruel to myself.

you have no idea how many people read your work and don't respond because they are too shy or busy or unsure. i have webcomics i've never commented on that i've been checking on weekly for actual years. there are artists on spotify i will never be able to see in concert. there are paintings in galleries that i couldn't afford but wanted to kiss. i love what you have made, and i have no idea how to tell you. i love you, and it hurt me and helped me and also sent me back home. i wish there was more time and more ways to shine the light back to you.

be gentle. you have no way of knowing if you're good enough, so you might as well make something that feels good to make. someone will love it. and that love is never wasted.

[dr-spectre]

I find it quite odd that no one has talked about the dialogue exchange of Pearl and Marina when they get Callie's palette in Side Order.

I like how this small 3 line exchange shows that Callie is so optimistic and positive that her friends can't even imagine her not doing well, but also.... they don't know what happened to her during the events of Splatoon 2. They just thought she went missing and came back... they have no idea what really happened which is... kinda sad to be honest. Only Marie truly knew what happened to Callie and maybe Agent 4 but they probably didn't get told the full story by Callie or Marie.

It's like Callie is hiding things from her friends and family, she even hints at this during ROTM.

Callie does seem to have mental health issues as shown with the Squid Sister Stories, the Splatoon 2 art book which talks about her busy schedule and of course the main story of Splatoon 2 where Callie joins with the Octarians to escape her life as a celebrity. While she shows zero resentment towards the Octarians due to willingly joining them during a rough mental health period (and her dialogue shows that too), then reuniting with Marie, changing her schedule so they can better be in each other's lives, and she seems to be a lot happier and energetic than ever before, she's probably still hiding some things and the cracks haven't fully healed yet.

Whether they'll actually follow up on this or leave it in the dust and do nothing with Callie remains to be seen. I just hope her friends and Marie are taking care of her...

[brownlyfe]

MY HEART BELONGS TO U

pairing: michael b jordan x wunmi mosaku

cw: sexual content

wc: too damn long

summary: michael has had a crush on her since the moment she did her audition. their chemistry undeniable. the hours they spent talking enhanced their connection between their characters, and it pulled their real selves closer. and now with the movie finally out to the world, maybe it’s time for them to be honest about what they want from each other.

notes: i had to throw my hat in the ring for this. I have a feeling that michael truly had a crush on wunmi so i wanted to capitalize on the ‘what if’ possibility. also i’ve been on a big jodeci kick lately so they inspired this one and the potential next one shot with them. enjoy this long ass one shot that had ZERO reason to be this long and the crazy part is it was wayyyyy longer, but i edited it down to this.

Ojai, California March 7th, 2025

The sun had just started to sink behind the hills, casting everything in Ojai in a soft, pink gold. The air smelled like oranges and dry grass, and the faint hum of summer bugs carried on the breeze.

They’d gotten away for a long weekend, just the two of them. They’d been staying at a private house tucked into a grove of olive trees.

Wunmi was out back, sitting on a woven blanket with a glass of wine in hand. She wore a soft, floaty sundress that was floral, low-cut, and delicate in a way that made Michael lose his damn focus every time he looked at her. Her hair was up, pieces falling loose from the sides, catching the light like honey.

Her bare legs were stretched out across the grass, and her hair was pulled into a loose updo, the kind that made her look both royal and impossibly soft at the same time.

He’d watched her like this all weekend, from across the kitchen while she danced barefoot to 90s R&B, from the tub where she made him promise not to check his phone, from the quiet edge of the hammock they never actually used. Every second, he felt the same thing building in his chest: “I need to do this now”.

Michael stepped out from the kitchen barefoot, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He’d been quiet all day. His quiet was thoughtful, but not heavy. He was just in his head.

Wunmi noticed, of course. She always did. She had busied herself with reading, or pretending to read, so he wouldn’t notice the way she would look at him every once in a while. 

“You alright?” she asked, eyes not leaving the book. Her accent sounded like pure heaven to Michael’s ears.

“Come sit up,” he said gently, settling beside her on the blanket. “I wanna talk to you.”

Her brow lifted slightly, but she marked her page and sat up, tucking one leg beneath her as he poured her more wine. Her dress slipped a little as she shifted. 

He turned to her fully, one leg bent, his knee brushing hers. “I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time. How to do it and when. I had all these ideas, but none of it felt like us.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely now. “You’re scaring me a little.”

His laugh was soft, nervous. “Don’t be scared. Just don’t say anything yet. Let me talk.”

She nodded slowly, brows drawing together. Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

“I’ve loved you since we sat in that trailer for four hours talking about nothing and everything. Way before I even kissed you,” he said, voice steady now. “You make me feel understood in a way no one else ever has. Like I don’t have to be anything but me.”

Her smile softened, and she took his hand again, grounding him.

“And I know people don’t see us,” he continued. “Not really. Not the way we see each other. But I don’t care. I don’t need anyone else to get it. I just need you. You already know what you are to me. You’ve known. You saw me when I didn’t have to explain myself.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet ring box.

Wunmi blinked. Her breath caught a little, but she didn’t speak.

“I want to be that safe place for you,” he said. “The way you’ve been for me. Will you marry me?”

Wunmi didn’t cry right away. She didn’t gasp or cover her face or any of the things women were supposed to do when the man they loved knelt in front of them. 

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I will.”

He didn’t even realize he’d exhaled until her fingers reached up to cradle the back of his neck and pull him into her. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was full and slow and grounding like they were touching something sacred.

The silence after settled warmly between them. She leaned into him, head against his chest, and they stayed like that until the sun slipped low behind the trees. Then she looked up at him again, the sky casting shadows across her collarbones, her dress falling just right.

“I love you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. When he laid her back against the blanket, she didn’t resist. The air was thick with the kind of stillness that came when the world dropped away, and nothing existed except the two of them and the hush of twilight.

His hand moved down her thigh, parting the fabric of her dress carefully, like every inch of her was something he was discovering for the first time. She reached up, dragging her fingers across his chest, over the gold chain resting against his skin.

She smiled, breath hitching as he kissed her collarbone. “You wore the chain,” she teased softly.

“Yeah,” he murmured against her skin. “Had to remind myself who I am.”

“And who’s that?”

“The man who belongs to you.”

They made love under the olive tree, slow and unhurried, surrounded by the scent of grass and fading sunlight. Every touch was familiar. Every moan is quiet, private, and intentional.

Afterward, Wunmi laid stretched across his chest, fingertips tracing his skin, the ring still catching bits of moonlight. She didn’t speak, and neither did he.

Mexico City, Mexico March 28th, 2025

The hotel was a sleek, luxury tower tucked into the heart of the city with minimalist decor, floor-to-ceiling windows, and an absurdly polite front desk staff. After the whirlwind of landing, being ushered through press check-ins, and waving off well-meaning handlers, they were finally in the suite. 

It was late, and they were both exhausted from the flight but it didn’t matter. Michael hadn’t been able to stop looking at her since they walked through the door.

She was already curled up under the covers, bonnet on, lights off. Bare legs tangled in sheets, phone abandoned beside her pillow. Her travel outfit was draped over the armchair across the room.

Michael had taken his time in the bathroom, letting the water run cold before finally killing the lights and climbing into bed beside her. Shirtless, chain still around his neck, skin still warm from the steam. Wunmi shifted when he joined her but didn’t open her eyes.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just scooted closer, arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her into him until her back was flush against his chest. She hummed, sleepy.

“Mm. Babe, you’re warm,” she murmured.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he said, voice low, already kissing behind her ear. 

She smiled sleepily, but kept her eyes shut. “Michael…”

“You said yes,” he said again, more like a breath than a sentence. “And now I can’t stop wanting you.”

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then her neck, then lower inch by inch, slowly trying to turn her toward him. His hand moved up her thigh under the sheets, warm and deliberate.

“Come on,” he whispered against her collarbone. “Let me make you feel good.”

She finally opened her eyes, groaning just a little as he kissed across her jaw.

“Michael,” she warned, voice drowsy but firm.

“I’m not trying to bother you.” He kissed her again, and she laughed against his mouth. “Just saying. You look so damn good.”

He was halfway on top of her now, chest heavy against hers, mouth trailing lower, one hand cupping her thigh with intention. She let it go for a second, not because she was changing her mind, but because it was hard not to melt when he was like this, needy and slow and loving.

But eventually she had to put her hand on his chest, gently pushing him back.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m on my period.”

He froze just slightly, face still close to hers, breathing steady. Michael nodded. “I know. I just missed touching you. That’s all.”

“I’m still right here,” she murmured, turning over to face him.

She kissed him once, slow and tender. Let her thumb brush the curve of his jaw.

“You’ve got me,” she added. “You don’t need my body to feel that.”

Michael stared at her, the hunger still in his eyes, but now layered with something deeper.

He pulled her close again, tucked her into his chest, and let out a low sigh against her hair. “I know.”

He nudged her gently until they were both leaning back onto the bed, his body half on top of hers, their legs tangled. One hand slid up her side, under her t-shirt, but stopped before anything more. His mouth met hers, a little desperation behind it. The kind of kiss that said I’d go further if you let me, but this is enough, too.

She moaned softly into his mouth, threading her fingers through his curls, holding him close but steady. When they finally pulled apart, her lips were swollen, her eyes glazed.

Michael rested his forehead against hers. “I wasn’t trying to start something.”

She smirked. “You’re always trying to start something.” 

He grinned. “Only when I’m around you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, eyes warm, voice soft. “Give me a few days.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Take all the time you need.”

-

The hotel suite was already humming with energy by 8:00 a.m. The glam team moved around Wunmi like a dance. Brushes tapped compacts, soft jazz played in the background, and the smell of hairspray mixed with fresh coffee filled the air. 

Wunmi sat in front of the vanity, wrapped in a black silk robe that skimmed her thighs, her legs crossed beneath her, head tilted slightly as her stylist added the final touches to her hair.

Downstairs, in a quiet corner of the hotel café, Michael was sitting across from Ryan Coogler, halfway through an omelet and a casual conversation about life.

“I still can’t believe she said yes,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Like, it all just hit me. Last night I was just watching her sleep, and I kept thinking, damn, this is it. I found her.”

Ryan smirked, sipping his coffee. “You sound soft.”

Michael grinned. “I am soft.”

“Good. Stay that way. The world’ll try to harden you up again, don’t let it.”

By the time Michael returned to their suite, he had two to-go bags in hand. The glam team was still there, Wunmi’s soft laughter spilling from the bedroom.

“Got your favorite,” he said softly, walking up behind her.

Wunmi met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “Thank you, baby.”

He handed her the bag and leaned down, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek, then one on her lips.

“You look beautiful,” he said, eyes roaming briefly over her reflection. 

She raised a brow playfully. “Go sit down.”

Michael grinned and backed off, walking toward the oversized chair in the corner of the room. He dropped into it, pulling out his phone while she picked through the bag, sipping her juice and nibbling on a small pastry between final touch-ups.

Ten minutes later, the glam team packed up, offered a round of compliments, and filed out with cheerful goodbyes. The door clicked shut, and silence settled.

Wunmi stood, closing the food bag gently and wiping her fingers with a napkin. Michael was still scrolling, relaxed, legs spread, head tipped back against the chair cushion.

Wunmi walked over, makeup flawless, hair snatched back, lips glossy and full. Her dress wasn’t on yet, just a silk robe cinched tight, her legs bare beneath it. She stopped between his knees, her hands resting gently on his thighs.

Michael blinked. “Everything okay?”

She didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him.

This kiss wasn’t like the earlier one; it was deeper, lips parted, full of pressure. Michael responded instantly, setting his phone down and grabbing her waist. He was about to pull her onto his lap when she broke the kiss and dropped to her knees.

He blinked. “Wunmi?”

She was already tugging at his waistband.

His hands froze on the armrests. “What are you–”

“I’m making your morning better,” she murmured, fingers moving to unbutton his pants and pull them and his briefs down just enough.

He sprang free, half-hard and already thickening quickly under her touch.

“You serious?” he breathed, eyes wide, head tilting back slightly as she wrapped her fingers around him.

Wunmi didn’t answer. She just leaned in and licked a slow stripe up the underside of him, her eyes flicking up to meet his. Then her mouth closed around the head. It was warm, wet, and perfect.

Michael groaned, low and long.

Her pace was slow at first, teasing. Tongue swirling just beneath the ridge, lips soft but tight. She used both hands, one at his base, the other stroking gently in rhythm with her mouth. Every few strokes, she went deeper, easing him further into her throat, her breathing steady and controlled.

Michael's hand slipped into her ponytail to ground himself. His eyes stayed locked to her, mouth parted, chest rising with each ragged breath.

“You tryna ruin me before press?” he managed to say, voice tight.

She hummed around him, the vibration making him shudder.

Wunmi found a rhythm quickly: mouth and hands working together, sucking just right at the tip before sliding down, throat relaxing to take more of him each time. The wet sounds echoed quietly in the room, broken only by the occasional curse slipping from Michael’s mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his head falling back.

She pulled off briefly, lips glossy, breath hot against his skin. “I love how you taste in the morning.”

He was about to respond, but she took him back into her mouth before he could speak, this time deeper, her throat flexing as she swallowed around him. Michael’s thighs tensed, one hand gripping the arm of the chair so hard his knuckles whitened.

It didn’t take much longer after that.

His release came with a strangled groan and a whispered “Shit, I’m gonna–” and then his hips stuttered, dick pulsing against her tongue. She took all of it, slow and controlled, holding him in her mouth until he softened. 

When she pulled back, her lips were flushed, her gloss mostly gone. She stood calmly, walked to the mirror, and reapplied her lipgloss with the same steady grace she’d done everything else that morning.

Michael was still in the chair, shirt rumpled, breathing unevenly.

Wunmi turned to him with a smirk. She stepped into her dress, zipped it halfway, then nodded at him. “Zip me up. We’re gonna be late.”

He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

And they walked out of the suite ten minutes later, not a single person the wiser.

-

The rooftop was bright with soft sunlight, the skyline of Mexico City stretching behind them like a painted backdrop. A few high-top tables were scattered with bowls of Mexican candy, sliced grapefruits, bottles of tequila, and tajín, ready for the vampiros drink segment.

The interviewer was all energy and easy charm, bouncing between questions for Hailee and Michael as the crew laughed off-camera.

But Michael? He barely noticed the cameras. His focus kept drifting sideways to Wunmi.

She was standing beside him in a sleeveless multicolored dress that hugged her waist and opened in a plunging neckline that made it harder for him to keep his composure

Her hair was braided back into a ponytail, loose curls falling around her shoulders, and her skin catching the sun in every right place.

Hailee stood on the other side with Ryan, and Miles was standing behind Wunmi. The interviewer immediately started bouncing between them, launching into questions mostly directed at Hailee and Michael.

But Michael barely looked away from Wunmi.

He stood slightly in front of her, always close. When she reached for ingredients, he instinctively helped, opening the bottle for her, holding the grapefruit steady while she squeezed juice in. Their rhythm was natural, practiced even, like two people who cooked together in shared silence and soft music more often than the world knew.

“You wanna put more tajín?” he asked quietly, voice low, just for her.

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Yeah, a little.”

He reached past her to sprinkle some on, hand brushing lightly against hers. Not even a flicker of reaction from either of them. It was normal.

The interviewer turned to the table. “Okay! You guys can try the candies while you work on your drinks.”

Wunmi laughed, leaning over the table to inspect the options. “I’ve never had any of this.”

Michael followed her lead, reaching for a brightly colored piece while she popped one into her mouth.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “That’s good. Spicy, but sweet.”

She reached for another one, a longer piece this time, just as Michael leaned over again for a second helping. Without thinking, Wunmi held one up between her fingers and brought it to his mouth.

“Try this one,” she said, her tone soft, absent-minded, like feeding him candy in front of cameras was second nature.

He looked at her, then at the candy, and parted his lips.

Michael’s mouth opened slightly, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he leaned in and took it from her hand, lips brushing her fingertips. The low and genuine sound he made when he tasted it sent a quiet thrill through her.

“Damn,” he muttered, chewing. “I like that one.”

“Right?” she replied, smiling around her words. They leaned into each other slightly, whispering back and forth about the taste, laughing softly. Her eyes sparkled, and he kept looking at her; first her mouth, then her cleavage, then back up like he was trying to behave and failing miserably.

The camera cut to Ryan and Hailee trying candy on the far end of the table. For a moment, it was like no one was watching.

Then came the two-minute drink challenge. Everyone scattered slightly to make their own concoctions. Wunmi moved to step around Michael to grab something from Hailee’s side of the table, and without even thinking, Michael placed both hands gently on her waist, guiding her past him.

He didn’t even realize he’d done it. It was like breathing. She didn’t pause, and he didn’t let go until she was far enough away. 

While she made her drink, he stayed close, quietly checking on her without words. His glances weren’t possessive, but they were protective. Making sure she had what she needed, that no one was crowding her, that she looked okay.

By the time they wrapped, everyone was laughing and full of sugar, sticky fingers and red lips. The producer called them together for a group photo in front of the Mexico City skyline.

Wunmi’s smile was wide and easy. The kind that lit up every inch of her face. Michael slid beside her like second nature, slipping an arm around her waist. His grip was gentle but grounded. 

And her hand brushed his wrist, just barely, just enough.

-

They were back in their suite after a long night of pictures, interviews, and interacting with fans at the premiere. It was quiet. City lights filtered in through the large windows, streaking the room in gold and blue. The hum of traffic far below barely registered. Their bags were packed, tomorrow’s clothes laid out. But none of that mattered right now.

What mattered was the bed and the space between them that had finally, finally closed.

They hadn’t touched all day. With separate arrivals, separate carpet entrances, separate interviews, smiles, photo ops, and polite laughter. Every moment, Michael had felt that quiet absence in his chest, the ache of not being as close to her as he wanted to be.

Now, Wunmi lay beneath him in a worn tee and cotton underwear, bonnet secure, skin still warm from the shower. Michael hovered above her, shirtless, breath shallow, muscles taut with restraint.

His hands were on either side of her shoulders, braced against the mattress. His hips lowered, not quite pressing into her, but close.

“I missed you today,” he murmured, voice gravel-deep. His eyes were locked on hers, searching. He kissed her shoulder slowly. Then her neck. Then behind her ear.

Wunmi cupped his cheek. “You saw me.”

“Barely. You know what I mean.”

He leaned down and kissed her, soft at first, then hungrier. His mouth moved over hers like he was trying to memorize the shape of it again. Her hands slid up his arms, slow and familiar, fingers tracing the curve of his biceps.

She opened under him for a moment, kissing him back, letting herself get swept for a breath until his hips rocked just slightly forward and she felt him, hard and throbbing, through his boxers.

She broke the kiss gently. “Michael.”

He kissed down her neck, across her collarbone, murmuring into her skin.

“I know. I know, you’re still on. But baby,” He lifted his head, eyes dark. “It’s been days. I just want to feel you again.”

“I know,” she said, turning her face toward him, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

She exhaled, her hand resting on his chest now, trying to hold space between them. “I don’t think I'm up for it tonight.”

“I’ve got condoms,” he offered quickly, desperate but soft. “We can be careful.”

She gave a small, tired smile. “It’s not about that. I’m just not in the space for it.”

He stilled, breathing hard. His face dropped to her shoulder, and he kissed her there again, slowly this time. Less convincing, more needing.

Then, he looked back up at her, eyes heavy, lips parted. He grabbed her hand, brought it down between them, and pressed it against the hard length of him through his boxers.

“Just feel it,” he whispered. “Feel what you do to me.”

Wunmi let her palm rest there, the heat of him pulsing into her skin, the weight of his want clear, urgent. Her thumb grazed him once, slowly.

He groaned, dropping his forehead to hers. “I want you so bad it hurts.”

She kissed him once, before pulling her hand away.

“Not tonight, baby.”

Michael’s jaw clenched not in anger, but in a mix of frustration and longing. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely audible. “I just…I needed you so bad, and I got caught up.”

She brushed her fingers through his hair, grounding him. “You don’t have to be sorry. I love that you want me and can’t keep your hands off me. But you need to be patient right now, okay?”

His face softened, and he nodded his head. Slowly, he shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling her into his chest. His cock was still hard, trapped between their bodies. She could feel it throbbing faintly against her hip.

“I’m gonna have the worst case of blue balls,” he muttered against her hair, and she laughed, full and quiet.

“You’ll survive,” she said, kissing his chest.

“Barely,” he whispered.

But he didn’t try again. He just held her tightly. Pressed his face into her neck and let her warmth settle everything aching inside him.

Want still lingered, but love was louder.

Los Angeles, CA April 1st 

The flight from Mexico had just landed early that morning. L.A. felt like a ghost town, a cool breeze whispering across empty streets.

Neither of them said much when they hugged goodbye at the curb. Just a quiet, tired kiss and a squeeze. 

“You get some sleep,” she murmured.

“You too. Call me when you wake up.”

-

Wunmi’s bedroom was filled with soft, filtered light when she finally stirred. Her suitcase still sat half-unpacked at the foot of the bed. The purple premiere gown hung alone on the back of the door like a memory. She stretched beneath the covers, sore in that good, worn-out way. The kind that said you’d been working, smiling too much, and hugging too many strangers. But underneath the fatigue was a buzz she couldn’t shake.

She could still feel the heat of his body from when he’d curled around her last night. His lips on her shoulder. The weight of his need. The way he’d tried to be patient.

She smiled to herself and rolled out of bed, stretching fully before reaching for her phone. There was a lot to do.

She had check-ins with her team, fittings for the U.S. premiere, voiceover pickups for an animated project, and a lunch meeting with her stylist about upcoming looks. The day filled quickly, with outfit changes, traffic, messages from her manager, and emails from the press team. Somewhere in the middle of it, she paused in her car between meetings, hand resting against the curve of her abdomen, remembering how his breath had hitched when she said “not tonight, baby.”

-

Michael’s day wasn’t much lighter. He had a few solo press calls to knock out, notes to approve for the rollout, and a production meeting for a project he was attached to but couldn’t yet talk about publicly. Most of the day, he spent in motion, on calls, reading scripts, doing voice memos into his phone from the back seat of an SUV.

But his mind drifted to the way Wunmi looked standing in that plum gown in Mexico, her laugh over breakfast, and to the soft “no” she gave him in bed, even as he was trembling with want.

He wanted to be near her again. Not even to touch her, just to feel her hand on the back of his neck, her knee against his under a table, the grounding, lived-in warmth she always gave without trying.

He pulled up her name in his phone at least four times. Started a message and erased it.

By late evening, he settled for sending her a random photo of himself in a hoodie, pillow behind his head. With a message following about how much he messed her.

She didn’t reply right away. But when she did, hours later, it was a voice note. With her voice sounding tired and amused. 

“You’re so dramatic. Go to sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

And just hearing her say it was enough to finally let his body rest.

-

April 2nd

The lights were hot. The chairs were close. The backdrop, a glowing, sunlit gradient, gave everything a kind of faux warmth that didn’t match how long the day had already been.

Wunmi sat effortlessly composed, her crisp white button-down dress with its dramatic sleeves neatly pressed, cinched at the waist, catching just enough of the light to make her look like she belonged to something bigger. Her braided bun was neat, her earrings bold, and she laughed like she meant it, even when the jokes weren’t that funny.

Michael, seated right next to her, was all calm and quiet in a black checked zip-up, silver chain peeking out at his collar. He looked composed, but tired. Yet, he looked hungry.

Not in a way the cameras would catch, but anyone who really knew him could see it. The way he’d lean in a little too far when she spoke. How his eyes drifted just long enough to her mouth, her hands, her collar. How he sometimes forgot the camera was even there. And then there were the under the table moments.

During one virtual interview, the camera only caught them from the waist up. Wunmi was mid-answer when Michael subtly hooked his ankle behind her foot beneath the table. A soft, instinctive tether.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to. She nudged her foot right back, just enough to hold him there.

But now they were on camera again. This time for an interview with Hailee. And the interviewer was a little too enthusiastic and a little too fixated on Wunmi. At least that’s what it seemed like in Michael’s eyes.

“Wunmi, I have to say,” the man grinned, “you absolutely crushed it. Like, next-level. There’s this elegance you bring to your character that just lives in the silence.”

Wunmi smiled graciously. “Thank you. That’s really generous.”

“No, honestly. It’s rare to see someone who can hold that kind of power.”

Michael’s jaw flexed slightly. He kept his hands clasped together between his knees.

“She’s magnetic, right?” Hailee added with a playful grin.

The interviewer nodded, eyes still locked on Wunmi. “Beyond. You were layered. Dangerous and vulnerable. How do you even prepare for something like that? Or is it just natural?”

Wunmi gave a measured answer, something about backstory work and finding softness in strength, but Michael barely heard it. His eyes were on the guy, reading every glance, every grin. He couldn’t call it. It wasn’t unprofessional, but it felt close.

He shifted slightly, legs spreading a little wider, gaze fixed just past the camera. And when the interviewer laughed a little too loud at something Wunmi said, a comment that wasn’t even a joke, Michael blinked slowly, then licked his bottom lip, jaw clenched.

He wasn’t going to say anything. He really couldn’t. This was part of their job: smile and entertain, but he didn’t have to like it.

After the segment, while the crew reset, Wunmi turned toward him, voice low. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, eyes still forward.

She nudged his arm. “You sure?”

Michael finally looked at her. “He likes you.”

Wunmi blinked, then tilted her head. “You jealous?”

He shrugged, lips twitching at the corners. “Just observant.”

She smiled, then leaned in. “You act like you don’t know who I go home with.”

He did. God, he did.

“That’s not the issue,” he said. “The issue is I can’t pull you into my lap mid-interview to make that clear.”

Wunmi bit her lip to hide her laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

Michael leaned back just slightly, enough to look relaxed again for the next camera cue.

“Maybe,” he muttered. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

She sat up straighter, laughing now, and nonchalantly brushed her sleeve off. “Damn right you are.”

-

Wunmi’s face glowed on the screen, soft and warm under the low lights of her bedroom. Her makeup was still mostly intact, earrings off, braid loosened down her back. She was curled up in bed with one arm tucked behind her pillow and the other propping her phone against her shoulder.

Michael’s screen was dimmer, his room darker, his face half-lit from the bedside lamp. He was shirtless, his head resting back against the wall. They’d been talking for a while, small stuff, the kind of catch-up that came after a long day apart.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Some guy paid for our dinner tonight.”

Michael blinked. “What?”

Wunmi laughed, shrugging casually. “Yeah, random. I went out with Sam and Lydia. We were at this place in Silver Lake, and he overheard us talking about the premiere stuff. He asked the waiter to cover the bill.”

Michael’s brows furrowed. “He heard you talking and paid?”

“Yeah. We were chatting about fittings and stuff. He complimented us, but we just said thank you and kept it moving.”

He nodded slowly. “Did you talk to him?”

“A little. Just to say thank you. He was nice, that’s all.”

Michael’s jaw flexed subtly, but he didn’t say anything. His silence stretched a little too long.

Wunmi’s eyes narrowed on the screen. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, low.

“Michael.”

“I mean–” he paused, exhaled sharply. “I just don’t get it. Some guy hears you talking about a movie and decides to pay for your whole table?”

“It was one dinner,” she said. “And I told you about it.”

“I know,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “I just…I don’t like that.”

Wunmi sat up straighter. “You don’t like it? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” he said, suddenly restless, shifting on the bed. “It’s weird.”

She blinked. “It’s weird that I had dinner with my friends and a stranger did something kind?”

“It’s weird that he inserted himself.”

“He paid for a meal.”

Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not hearing me.”

“No, you’re not hearing me,” she said, quieter now, but firmer. “I told you. I didn’t hide it. I was open with you because I thought we had that.”

“We do–”

“Then why are you acting like I messed up?”

“I’m not saying you messed up,” he snapped, then stopped himself, jaw tightening again. “I’m saying I don’t like how it made me feel.”

Her voice was soft now. “Then say that, Michael. Say that you felt uncomfortable, or jealous, or whatever the hell you’re feeling. But don’t twist it into me doing something wrong.”

Michael looked down. Ran a hand over his face.

“I don’t usually feel like this,” he muttered. “I don’t get like this.”

Wunmi sighed. “That’s not an excuse to project it on me.”

“I know.”

There was another pause.

She shook her head slowly, exhaustion overtaking her voice. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Wunmi–”

“Goodnight, Michael.”

The screen went dark as the call ended.

Michael stared at the empty FaceTime interface for a while, then lay back on his bed, hands over his face.

He wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at the feeling. The way it crept up in his throat and made him short when he should’ve just been honest.

He closed his eyes, her last words echoing in the quiet.

That’s not an excuse to project it on me.

And she was right. Now he just had to figure out how to fix it.

LA Premiere April 4th

Michael had been trying all day. Sending texts, trying to call, and sending a voice note he re-recorded three times before sending. Another one, shorter, just saying “I’m sorry. I was wrong. Please talk to me.”

Wunmi hadn’t responded. She said not a word. Not even her usual emoji reaction.

By 4 p.m., he was pacing in his hotel room with his phone in one hand and a suit steamer in the other, wishing he could rewind the last 24 hours.

By 6, they were all headed to the premiere venue.

The carpet was massive. Music pulsed behind velvet ropes, fans screamed, and the press clicked their cameras. Flash after flash, the energy was flowing everywhere.

And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, Wunmi stepped out of her car looking like vengeance in blue, and a slick, braided updo that framed her face like art. Her expression was perfectly composed, radiant, yet unreadable.

Michael’s heart squeezed at the sight of her. Not just because she looked stunning, but because she still wasn’t looking at him.

She greeted the rest of the cast. Took photos with fans. Laughed with Miles, grinned at Hailee, hugged Ryan. But when it came to Michael, she kept it business; a nod, a practiced smile, with no real warmth.

To the outside world, they looked fine, like any other polished cast doing their job. But the people who knew them saw it.

During one round of photos, Hailee leaned in and muttered, “Did you piss her off or something?”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “Something like that.”

Miles raised an eyebrow behind him. “Man, what’d you do?”

Michael didn’t answer. Because if he said it out loud, it would sound petty. Or worse, it would sound like he was insecure. And it wasn’t about the dinner or the guy. It was about how he handled it, or how he didn’t know how to handle it.

Now he was here, suited up and sharp under the lights, standing next to the woman he loved while pretending everything was fine. But it wasn’t. She hadn’t even made eye contact with him yet.

Still, he stayed close. He didn’t push. He didn’t corner her. But when it was time for their joint interviews, he was there, ready.

For one of them, a long-form on-camera segment, the interviewer smiled as she handed Michael the mic. He took it then turned to Wunmi, offering the mic gently so she could answer the first question. His hand rested low at her back, a light, guiding touch at her waist.

She answered calmly, eloquently, and as charming as ever. Michael nodded beside her, keeping the mic steady, eyes flicking toward her every now and then like he needed her to feel that he was listening, even if she wouldn’t look at him.

And she never once glanced at him. But when she passed the mic back for his turn, their fingers brushed, and she didn’t pull away.

After the last round of photos, Michael released a breath, then stepped out just in time to see Wunmi getting ushered toward the theater entrance.

She looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like she was trying to hold it all together.

He wanted to run to her. Apologize again, but say it better this time. 

But he couldn’t. So he just trailed behind, watching her back, heart thudding with everything he still hadn’t said. Even in silence, even with her mad at him, he was still watching her. Still making sure she was good. Because that’s what love looked like, even when it was hurting. 

-

The theater was dark, except for the flicker of the screen and the occasional flash of phones before security reminded people to put them away. The cast had filed into their reserved row near the center.

Michael scanned the seats and cursed under his breath. Jayme was sitting between them. Of course, she was.

He hesitated for a second before leaning over, voice low. “Jayme. Please. I need a favor.”

She blinked at him, amused. “What?”

“Can I switch with you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Please. I need to sit next to her.”

Jayme glanced at Wunmi, who sat primly with her legs crossed and arms folded, eyes focused ahead.

“Y’all good?” Jayme asked.

“Not yet,” Michael muttered. “That’s why I need the seat.”

Jayme studied him for a second longer, then sighed and stood. “You better fix it.”

Michael mouthed, thank you, and slid into the seat beside Wunmi just as the movie started. Her body stiffened slightly when she realized he was there.

“Don’t,” she whispered, eyes still on the screen.

“I need to.”

“Bakari.”

“I know, okay? I know I messed up. I know I made something small feel like something bigger.”

She didn’t respond. He kept going anyway.

“You were being real with me  and I acted like you owed me something more.”

Wunmi shifted slightly, not looking at him.

“I wasn’t mad at you,” he whispered. “I was mad at how it made me feel. And I didn’t know how to sit with that.”

Still nothing.

He tried again, this time quieter. “I was scared.”

Her head turned slightly now. Just a little.

“Not of losing you,” he added. “Of messing up something that’s too good. Of you realizing you could have any man who’d pay for dinner and not fumble the after.”

That finally cracked something.

She huffed softly, barely a laugh, and shook her head.

“I told you the truth,” she whispered, eyes still on the screen.

“I know,” he said.

They sat in silence again. The movie played on, but Michael didn’t hear any of it. His fingers inched across the armrest, stopping just before they touched hers. Then, slowly, she slid her pinky against his.

He held his breath, let it settle, and didn't push.

Another ten minutes passed before she finally leaned in, voice so quiet only he could hear.

“Don’t do that again.”

Michael turned to her, eyes soft. “I won’t.”

She nodded once. “And don’t assume just because I’m smiling for cameras that I’m smiling for you.”

“I’m learning.”

Her hand finally curled into his.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because next time, I’ll make Hailee sit between us.”

He chuckled too loudly. She elbowed him.

“Shhh,” someone whispered from behind them.

But he didn’t care. 

-

The second the front door closed behind them, the air shifted.

Neither of them spoke. There was no small talk, no recap of the premiere, no light teasing to smooth the night’s sharp edges. Michael watched her slip out of her heels and cross the room in silence. She had switched her dress after the premiere on the way to the after-party. Now she was in a silver dress that was riding up the further she walked into the room.

He could still feel the phantom of her hand in his from the theater, but he hadn’t touched her since. Not really.

“Wunmi,” he said, his voice low but sure.

She turned to look at him.

“I’m not spending another day like that. Ever.”

She didn’t answer, but her expression softened.

Michael walked toward her slowly, closing the distance. When he got close, he reached for her hand, brought it to his chest, and kissed the inside of her wrist.

“You’re about to be my wife,” he said, voice rough with held-in emotion. “You get mad at me, you tell me. You shut down, I’ll wait. But don’t you ever do what you did today again. You hear me?”

Wunmi nodded, eyes on his. “I hear you.”

He kissed her, softly at first. Then again, deeper, hungrier. All the ache from the last twenty-four hours poured into it. His hands were already roaming, gripping her waist, dragging the thin straps of her dress down in one slow pull until it slipped to the floor like silk.

“No more silence,” he murmured against her skin, dropping to his knees before her.

Wunmi’s breath hitched as he kissed the inside of her thigh, his hands smoothing up her legs and dragging her panties down slowly. He looked up at her, steady.

“I can live without a lot of things,” he said. “But I can’t live without you.” Then he buried his face between her legs.

Her head fell back immediately, mouth parting in a gasp. Michael worked like a man possessed; slow at first, savoring her, tongue moving in long, wet strokes, hands gripping her hips to keep her right where he wanted her. He groaned into her, the sound low, guttural, like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

When her legs trembled, he doubled down, lips wrapping around her clit, sucking gently, then harder, until her hands found his curls and she whispered his name in a voice that cracked.

“Michael– fuck, baby–”

He didn’t stop. Not until she was shaking, moaning, melting into him. Not until her hips rolled against his mouth and she came, high and broken, calling out his name like a promise.

Then he stood. Her eyes were glassy, dazed, full of everything she hadn’t said before now.

He didn’t ask. He just turned her around, bent her over the couch with a firm hand between her shoulder blades, and pulled his pants low.

“This mine,” he muttered, rubbing the head of his dick against her soaked entrance.

“All yours,” she breathed.

He slid into her in one stroke. One hand gripped her waist, and the other slid over her shoulders and landed on her throat, keeping her steady as he drove into her again and again.

“You don’t ignore me,” he growled into her ear. “Not when I’m trying.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“Say it again.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so– fuck– I’m sorry.”

Her words broke apart with every thrust, her legs nearly giving out. Michael pulled her upright, one hand gripping her jaw, the other pressed to her chest where her heart beat wildly.

“I love you so much it makes me stupid,” he whispered against her neck. “Don’t ever shut me out like that again.”

“I won’t,” she said, tears at the edges of her voice.

And with that, he wrapped his arms around her body and fucked her deeper, not just to claim her, but to anchor himself to her all over again.

-

April 9th

Their bags were packed, passports double-checked, with their flight to London set for early morning. The past week had been nonstop; press junkets, late nights, quick changes, and even quicker moments snatched in between. They’d barely had time to breathe, let alone slow down. But tonight, the stillness settled around them like something sacred.

Wunmi was in Michael’s bed, curled under a throw blanket in one of his old T-shirts, scrolling through her iPad as the soft hum of the soundbar played an old jazz record. Her hair was down, her body relaxed. That kind of quiet that only came from being completely safe.

Michael came out of the bathroom in a tank top and sweats, towel in hand, drying his face as he walked in. He paused when he saw her, letting his eyes just rest on her face.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

She looked up, then nodded. “Just thinking about home.”

He walked over and sat at the edge of the bed. “You nervous?”

“No,” she said, placing the iPad down. “I’m just…it’s been a while. And it’s not just home anymore, you know? It’s the place I grew up, but now it’s also the place I’m bringing you.”

Michael smiled, reaching down to take her foot in his hands, rubbing slow circles into her ankle. “You act like your family doesn’t already know me.”

“They haven’t seen us together, though. Not like this.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment, before looking up at her. “I’ve been thinking about that too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered, a little rough now. “I think it’s been so much lately, but now that we’re going to your place, I just wanna slow down.”

She slid closer to him, shifting so her legs draped across his lap. “You feeling soft on me?”

He laughed. “I always feel soft about you. Just haven’t had the time to show you.”

Her fingers found his. “We’ve been moving fast.”

“Too fast.” He looked at her now, really looked. “I don’t want the next time I hold you to feel rushed. I want it to feel like it means something.”

She searched his face, her smile quiet, steady. He leaned down and kissed her. She kissed him back, slow and patient, the kind of kiss that made you feel like time had folded in on itself, like the only thing that mattered was the present moment.

When they pulled back, she rested her forehead against his.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For choosing peace and stillness, finally.”

Michael kissed her once more, then wrapped an arm around her and pulled her down with him. They lay together, limbs tangled, heartbeat to heartbeat, no rush.

And in the quiet that followed, somewhere between their slowed breathing and the soft music drifting in from the next room, Michael whispered, “You’re about to take me home. I want to be the version of myself that deserves that.”

Wunmi didn’t say anything. She just kissed his hand, laced their fingers together, and held on until they both fell asleep.

London, UK April 10th

The city unfolded below them in scattered lights, wet pavement, narrow streets, and the cool hush of a London night.

It was just after 10 p.m. when the car pulled up to the hotel. It was tucked away in the quieter part of town where the lobby smelled like cedar and lemon, and the check-in process was handled in a whisper.

Wunmi was practically buzzing. She hadn’t said much during the ride from Heathrow, just stared out the window like she was trying to memorize every corner, every curve of the streets she knew by heart. Now, standing in the elevator beside Michael, her hand found his automatically.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, warm.

“Mmhm,” she nodded, eyes flicking up at him. “It’s just that I haven’t brought anyone home in a long time.”

Michael smiled, pulling her hand to his lips. “Feels special.”

She bumped his hip gently. “It is special.”

Their rooms were next to each other, connected by a private door, separated for appearance purposes. PR still wanted things to look clean. But by the time they’d dropped their bags, showered, and ordered tea from room service, they were curled up together on her bed, soft music playing from her phone.

Wunmi wore a robe and fresh twists tucked under her scarf. Michael was in sweatpants and socks, his arm draped around her like he’d been there for years.

“This city moves slower,” he murmured.

“A little bit.”

“I like it.”

She leaned into him, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

“We’ve got press starting at 9,” she said. “But we have time for you to meet the family this week.”

Michael’s smile shifted still soft, but steadier. “You sure they’re ready for me?”

“They’ve been ready,” she said, sitting up just enough to look at him.

He studied her face for a long second, then nodded once. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

“You know they’re going to be all over you. But they’ll like you because you show up the way you do when you think no one’s watching. That’s the man I’m bringing home.” She smirked.

He pulled her back into his chest. She melted into him, fingers grazing his wrist, and they lay like that, jetlagged but content, the hum of London outside the window like a heartbeat.

-

The London sky was still gray when Wunmi sat in the makeup chair, robe loose at the neck, shoulders relaxed, but her eyes heavy with sleep. She’d been up since before dawn. Her hair was already halfway done, and the makeup artist moved quietly around her. Her curls had been parted into thick, clean sections, and her stylist was just starting to shape them into smooth, thick braids.

She sat quietly, sipping tea she couldn’t remember asking for, blinking slowly as they worked around her.

They had a full day of press ahead. Radio, online junkets, interviews. And she was tired. The kind of tired that pressed into her bones. She was trying her hardest, but her body was still somewhere between London and L.A.

A knock at the door managed to pull her attention.

“Delivery for Miss Mosaku.”

Everyone in the room turned, except Wunmi, who was too tired to react fast enough. But when the stylist opened the door, there he was.

Michael, fully dressed in a white tee and fitted jeans, stepped inside with two takeaway cups in one hand and a small bouquet of fresh flowers in the other, soft lavender, white ranunculus, and pale pink roses, wrapped in crisp paper.

He walked straight over to her.

“Morning, superstar,” he said, grinning.

Wunmi blinked up at him and smiled before she could stop herself. “You’re already dressed?”

“Yeah, you know it doesn’t take me long,” he teased. He held out the coffee. “I got your order right this time.”

She took it, still smiling, fingers brushing his. “You got me flowers?”

He shrugged, setting them gently on the makeup table beside her. “You’ve been up for hours. Thought you needed a good wake-up call.”

One of the stylists behind her muttered, “Okay, gentleman,” and the room chuckled.

Wunmi exhaled, leaning back just slightly in the chair as she took a slow sip. The caffeine was helping, but his presence helped far more.

He stood near the mirror, arms crossed, watching as they finished her hair. His eyes scanned her through the mirror.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “You look unreal.”

Wunmi gave him a sleepy smirk. “Stop it. I’m fighting for my life right now.”

He laughed, stepped closer, and crouched down beside her.

“Good thing I’m stuck with you all day,” he said. “I’ll keep you awake.”

“By being annoying?”

He leaned in just slightly, voice low, for her ears only. “By keeping you smiling and happy.”

Later that morning, they sat side by side in the Heart Radio press room, red mics in hand, bright lights on them, their backdrop a glowing sun, and the word Sinners behind them in bold yellow text.

Michael was relaxed, leaning back slightly, letting Wunmi take the lead as she spoke, dressed in a dramatic all-black one-shoulder dress. He kept sneaking glances at her, grinning whenever she made a joke, throwing in ad-libs just to make her laugh.

She caught him once, mid-smirk, and mouthed stop without missing a beat. But of course, he didn’t stop. 

She was tired, still. The fatigue hadn’t lifted. But with him beside her, elbow brushing hers now and then, mic in hand, doing a little too much just to make her laugh? She didn’t feel it as much.

And somehow, the cameras never caught the way he was always looking at her first before answering a question, just to make sure she was okay.

-

The last interview wrapped just after sunset. Everyone was buzzing with adrenaline from being "on" all day, the shared momentum of a successful press run, and the fact that they were in one of the best cities in the world with a night off ahead of them.

Ryan and Jack were already talking about a pub in Shoreditch. Hailee was excited about finding this underground jazz club she’d bookmarked. Miles was hungry and trying to convince everyone to start with food first.

“Wunmi,” Hailee said, nudging her, “you’re the local. Where should we go?”

“Yeah,” Jack chimed in, eyes wide with curiosity. “Best food, best vibes, let’s hear it.”

Wunmi smiled, polite and easy. “There’s a really good spot in Soho I used to love, nothing too fancy.”

“Say less,” Ryan said. “That’s where we’re headed.”

They all started filing out toward the waiting vans, still laughing, tossing ideas and playlists back and forth. Michael stayed near the back of the group, just watching. He saw how Wunmi smiled and nodded, how she kept her arms folded tightly across her chest, not because she was cold, but because she was tired.

She wasn’t going to say no. That wasn’t who she was. But she needed rest. He knew it before she did.

So while the others were ordering at the restaurant, Michael slipped away to the bar. He spoke low and politely, handed over his card, and ordered two meals to go. Her favorite, just how she liked it when her head was starting to fog from the day.

While he waited for the bag, something caught his eye; a young couple at a corner table, clearly tourists. They had a toddler in a high chair throwing little bits of bread everywhere, and a baby strapped to the mom’s chest, fast asleep.

Michael stared for a moment longer than he meant to. The look wasn’t sad or wanting, it was more like wondering.

The way the mom leaned her head on the dad’s shoulder. The way he kissed her temple and reached over to wipe the toddler’s hands. The way they moved around each other like they were a team.

By the time the food was ready, he came back to find the group still laughing, still deciding what bar was next. Wunmi was at the center, smiling faintly but not speaking much, her hand bracing against the table like she needed something to lean on.

Michael slid the takeout bag into her hand before she could say a word.

She looked up at him, confused. “What’s this?”

“Dinner,” he said. “We’re going back to the hotel.”

“Michael, I’m–”

“You’re tired,” he said gently, without teasing. “I know you’re trying to hang, but I got you.”

She stared at him for a second, like she might argue. But instead, she exhaled and nodded.

“Thank you.”

Back in the hotel suite, he helped her out of her coat and into the robe they had hanging on the back of the bathroom door. They sat on the bed, lights dim, legs touching as he opened the food and handed her a fork.

“Eat first,” he said. “Then sleep.”

And she did. It was slow, but she made it through.

He watched her, legs stretched out, head starting to tilt onto his shoulder.

“You’re taking care of me too much,” she murmured.

Michael looked down at her, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Could never be too much of that.”

She didn’t argue. She just leaned into him, her food forgotten, and her lids heavy.

When she finally fell asleep in his arms, he didn’t move. Somewhere deep in his chest, the thought returned that he could build a life like this. With her and maybe a family.

-

April 12th

The sun had dipped just below the rooftops by the time the car pulled up outside the semi-detached house in South Manchester. The kind of neighborhood that held memories in every crack of the sidewalk, every porch with a potted plant or plastic chair that hadn’t moved in a decade. The air smelled like freshly watered concrete and something simmering with garlic and onions.

Wunmi took a deep breath as they stepped out of the car, wrapping her coat a little tighter. She looked up at the house for a beat before turning to Michael.

“You ready, babe?”

Michael smirked, adjusting the sleeve of his sweater. “Always.”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Just don’t embarrass me.”

“Never.” He took her hand, laced their fingers together, and followed her up the short walkway.

The moment the door opened, they were hit with warmth. Her mother was the first to appear, dressed in a vibrant patterned wrap, arms wide open.

“Wunmi, come here!”

They hugged tightly, laughter bubbling between them. Then her mom turned to Michael.

“Michael,” she said, eyeing him playfully.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, offering both a smile and a hand.

She didn’t take the hand. She pulled him into a hug.

“You know I like my hugs, yes?”

Michael chuckled. “Me too.”

They were ushered in quickly, shoes by the door without question. The smell of spiced stew and rice floated from the kitchen, and voices echoed from the living room where her siblings, cousins, and a few family friends were already gathered. It didn’t take long for the ring to become the center of attention.

Her aunt gasped when she saw it. “Eh-eh! You didn’t tell us it was this big!”

“Let me see!” another cousin shouted. “Wunmi, you’ve been hiding this hand!”

Michael stood off to the side for a moment, watching the way her family surrounded her, touching her hand and hugging her. Her smile was effortless here, her laugh louder, her energy lighter. It made him fall in love with her all over again.

“Michael!” her uncle boomed. “Come! We’ve got questions.”

He grinned. “I figured.”

They grilled him gently. Asked where he was from, when he started acting, what his parents were like, and if he could handle real pepper. Someone even made a crack about his People’s Sexiest Man Alive title. But it was never hostile. They were inviting and teasing.

And Michael handled it perfectly. Joked when needed, answered thoughtfully, and kept glancing at Wunmi like she was still the only thing in the room.

At one point, her mother pulled Wunmi aside and said, quietly but firmly, “He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.”

Wunmi smiled. “That’s how he makes me feel.”

Later, while dinner was being set, Michael helped bring plates into the dining room, taking instructions from her aunties without complaint. 

When they sat to eat, Michael took the seat beside Wunmi, knee against hers, hand brushing hers under the table. She squeezed his hand gently.

“You’re doing good,” she whispered.

He smiled, low and private. “I just like seeing you home.”

The house had thinned out a little after dinner. A few older aunties were sipping tea and gossiping in Yoruba. Music hummed low from someone’s phone speaker. The air smelled like stew and family.

Michael sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by a small chaos of children. One kid had decided he was a jungle gym. Another kept asking about his watch. Two were trying to pull him into a clumsy hand-clapping game he didn’t understand but kept trying anyway. He was laughing, genuinely.

Across the room, Wunmi was sitting on the couch, gently rocking her cousin’s baby, a chubby-cheeked girl no older than ten months, who’d fallen asleep on her chest. One hand stroked the baby’s back while the other kept the tiny blanket in place. She looked peaceful. Fully in her element.

Michael looked up and caught her like that, and the whole room just quieted in his head. Something inside him stilled. The laughter around him dulled. The kids were still tugging at his hands, but all he could focus on was her; her face, her arms, the way her body shifted gently to keep the baby from stirring.

And just like that, the thought came back. The thought that this life could be theirs. Not just the baby, but the whole moment. The easy way she fit into that kind of quiet. His woman. His family. His home.

It wasn't the first time the thought had surfaced. But this time it hit different. He was sitting in her family’s home, eating her mom’s cooking, and laughing with her cousins’ kids. And damn if he didn’t feel something pull tight in his chest.

She looked up then, catching his gaze. He softly smiled back at her. She tilted her head, brows raised like, ‘What?’ He just shook his head, still smiling, heart heavy with something he wasn’t ready to say out loud yet. The thought stayed tucked behind his ribs like a slow, certain truth.

-

The ride back to the hotel had been quiet, not from tension, but from a soft tiredness that comes after too much food, too much laughter, and too many voices calling your name across a warm room. Wunmi had kicked her shoes off in the elevator. Michael had carried them the whole way up.

Now they were curled up in her bed, lights off, just the faintest street glow filtering through the sheer curtains. The room was cool, but under the duvet, it was warm, soft, and still.

Michael was spooning her from behind, his arm draped fully across her waist, his nose pressed to the crook of her neck. He hadn't let go since they got in bed. Every few minutes, his fingers would trace along her ribs, or press a kiss to her shoulder, or run lightly down the curve of her arm just to feel her there.

Wunmi smiled into the pillow.

“You’re extra cuddly tonight,” she murmured.

Michael hummed sleepily. “Mmm. So?”

She chuckled, turning just enough to glance back at him. “I like it. But you’re not slick.”

He didn’t respond. Just kissed the back of her neck again.

“Be honest,” she said softly. “How was it?”

Michael let out a long breath, voice muffled against her skin. “It was really beautiful.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Your little cousins already asked if I could come back.”

She smiled wider, squeezing his arm. “They like you.”

He kissed her shoulder. “I like them too.”

They lay like that for a moment with just the soft sound of their breathing in sync.

“You were good,” she whispered. “Like, really good. You made them feel like you wanted to be there.”

“I did want to be there,” he said, pulling her closer. “I loved seeing you like that.”

Her chest tightened in the best way. She turned slightly and reached for his face, brushing her thumb across his cheek. “You’re being sweet.”

“I’m always sweet.”

“You’re being extra sweet.”

He smiled, eyes barely open. “Let me.”

She leaned in and kissed him. It was a soft thank you, more than anything else. He kissed her back with the same energy, hand cupping her jaw, thumb grazing her bottom lip before they broke apart.

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.

Wunmi nodded and settled back into his chest, her hand resting over his on her waist.

-

UK Premiere April 14th

The red carpet shimmered under stage lights and camera flashes, the “Sinners” backdrop flickering behind the cast like smoldering fire. Reporters shouted names, publicists hovered, and the velvet ropes barely held back the waves of fans calling out with phones raised high. But Michael only saw her.

Wunmi was radiant, draped in a red gown that clung and flowed in all the right ways, slit high up her leg, her skin glowing against the boldness of the color. Her hair was sculpted into a sleek, braided updo, elegant and dramatic, the kind of styling that made people pause just to admire.

And Michael had been fighting the heat in his chest since they left the hotel.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was need. That ache of wanting to be around her, near her, just in her space. It pulled at him all night like gravity. Even when they weren’t standing together, his eyes found her. His body tilted unconsciously toward wherever she moved. He couldn’t help himself.

He was supposed to move with the group, hit his mark, pose, pivot, and smile, but he kept drifting back to her like his body forgot what professionalism looked like. She wasn’t exactly encouraging it, but she wasn’t stopping it either. Not when he leaned in a little too close for a photo. Not when his fingers brushed the small of her back between interviews. Not when she turned her head slightly toward him during a photo, and he had to look away just to breathe.

They took a dozen photos, video clips, and press snippets together. But the cameras didn’t catch the way his hand stayed just behind her hip, steady. Or how he watched her mouth more than her eyes when she answered questions.

Wunmi noticed, of course. She gave him a small “What’s going on with you?” glance.

He didn’t answer, just smiled. But inside, his chest was humming.

It wasn’t just that she looked good. It wasn’t even just that she knew exactly how good she looked. It was the way being next to her tonight made something click in him. He didn’t want to look at her. He wanted to be near her. Touch her. Keep her close. Breathe with her.

Inside the theater, the lights dimmed and the audience settled, but Michael didn’t. He sat beside her, thigh to thigh, trying not to do too much. But even in the dark, his body betrayed him. His fingers brushed her leg, just above the slit in her dress. She shifted slightly, but didn’t pull away.

They watched the film, but he wasn’t really watching. Not with her hand resting on her lap, not with the rise and fall of her breathing beside him, not when every now and then she’d laugh softly at a line she’d heard a hundred times, and he’d look at her instead of the screen.

She let him hold her hand halfway through and he kissed her knuckles.

She looked over once during a quiet moment in the film and found him already watching her. He didn’t look away.

And for all the heat rolling off him, all the things he hadn’t said yet, she could feel that whatever this was building into and it wasn’t just desire. 

-

The tension followed them from the car to the suite. Michael had barely spoken the whole ride back from the premiere. He only nodded at the driver, staying close behind Wunmi as they walked through the hotel lobby, his hand brushing the small of her back, just enough contact to keep him grounded.

Wunmi didn’t say much either. But she felt it.

She felt it in the way he looked at her in the elevator like he was fighting to keep his thoughts to himself. She felt it when she stepped into the suite and his eyes never left her back. She was still glowing from the carpet. When she was wearing that custom red dress, slit high, sculpted bodice, heels that made her taller than him in brief moments. And she knew she looked good.

“I’m gonna shower,” she said softly, already unzipping the dress.

He nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. Okay.”

By the time the bathroom door clicked shut, Michael was pacing. Shirt half off, chain resting on his chest, hands running over his face like he could shake something loose. What he was feeling wasn’t just sexual frustration. It weighed heavier and ran deeper.

Wunmi in that dress. Her laughing with their castmates. Her holding the baby the night before. Her curled up in his bed last night. He couldn’t stop seeing it. The version of her that wasn’t just his now, but his forever. His woman. His family. The one his heart belonged to.

And now, as he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to calm his body down while she stood in the next room rinsing the day off her skin, his mind looped one question over and over:

What are we waiting for?

The bathroom door opened with a cloud of steam. She stepped out, wrapped in a towel, her shoulders still dewy from the heat. Her hair was loose now, and her skin practically glowed in the dim light.

He stood slowly, grabbing the lotion from the vanity. “Sit down. Let me.”

She watched him for a second before nodding and stepping forward, dropping the towel as she eased onto the edge of the bed. He knelt before her and started rubbing the lotion into her skin with slow, intentional hands. Her calves. Her thighs. Her feet. Kissing the spots as he went.

“Michael,” she said gently, noticing the shift in his energy, the quiet focus in his face. “What’s going on with you, baby?”

He looked up at her, eyes darker than she’d ever seen. His voice came low, like it took effort to ask. “Are you still on your birth control?”

She stared at him for a beat, her body still under his hands, skin warm where he’d been kissing. She was surprised. “I-I missed it the last two days. We’ve been so busy, I didn’t even think about it until last night.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just held her gaze like he was searching for something in it. And then he leaned forward, mouth against her inner thigh, and the words were gone. All of them.

He pulled her toward the center of the bed, lips on her thigh, then higher until he reached what he was looking for. No teasing this time, just mouth to skin. He ate like he was chasing something inside her, like every moan she gave fed something wild in him. She came once with a gasp, her hands twisted in the sheets. And still he didn’t stop. Not even when her thighs shook and her body tried to retreat.

“Michael–” she breathed, already breathless.

He kept her held open and coaxed another orgasm from her with just his tongue and his thumb. By the time he finally moved over her, she was panting, chest rising and falling, eyes hazy with pleasure.

Then he slid into her. 

It wasn’t about rhythm. It was about being inside her. His mouth on her collarbone, his hand cupping her breast, one of his favorite places, his forehead pressed to hers.

And she could feel it in the way he was moving. In the way his hips rolled, in how deep he was going, like he wasn’t just chasing his own release. He was chasing something else.

He stared at her as their bodies moved together. Her eyes were holding something warm that made him want to dive deeper, so he did. And he was rewarded with a sharp gasp, and hands flying to grip his swollen arms.

He kissed her neck, his mind swirling on all kinds of thoughts about them and their life, until he settled on one particular thought that wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Have my baby.”

Her breath hitched hard.

“What?”

He slowed, almost stopped. Looked right into her eyes.

“I want you to have my baby,” he said, voice low, trembling with intensity. “I want all of it.”

Her chest clenched. Her heart was racing. And suddenly, the last few days clicked into place, his hands on her stomach, the soft touches, the stares that lingered too long.

And she couldn’t deny that it was something she wanted as well.

“I want to have your baby,” she whispered. 

The moment she said it, something shifted in him. His eyes darkened. His grip changed.

And then he started moving again, faster, deeper, rougher. She gasped, arching under him as he started hitting places she didn’t even know existed.

She tried to shift away when he brushed that one spot that was a little deeper, but his arm wrapped around her waist, anchoring her.

“Don’t run,” he growled. “You said yes, so take it.”

“Michael–” she moaned, high and cracking. She could barely speak, barely breathe.

Her nails dug into his back, her legs shaking. He was pressing down on her lower stomach now with one hand, his thrusts getting messier, deeper, more possessive.

Her thoughts scattered like glass. She came again with no sound, mouth open, eyes rolling back. But Michael didn’t let up. Even when her body twitched and begged, he stayed locked in, hands on her thighs, guiding her, keeping her exactly where he needed.

She tried to push against his chest, her hands trembling. He caught them.

“Move your hands, baby,” he said, low and wrecked. “Let me finish, mama.”

By the time he finally came, it was deep inside her, with a groan so raw it made her shake. He held her there, panting, arms wrapped tight around her body like he could fuse them together.

They laid still afterward, limbs tangled, sheets kicked off, silence ringing between them. Michael looked down at her, heart thudding. And for the first time all night, he let himself breathe.

[especially-obsessed]

Cling

Summary: Three days away, and Jeremy’s acting like you were gone for a year <3

Pairing: Jeremy x fem!reader

Warnings: fluff! <3

Word count: 1.2k

Masterlist | Jeremy's Playlist

You’d only been gone for three days. A girls' camping trip. No cell service, no drama. Just hikes, s’mores, and way too much wine under the stars. It was a short break from Mystic Falls, but for Jeremy, it might as well have been a year.

By the time you pull back into town, the sun’s already dipping low. There’s a bonfire party going on at the old clearing. Music, laughter, the crackle of flames. You wave at a few people as you walk in, but you’re already scanning the area for one person.

Not by the fire. Not by the drinks. Not lost in the crowd.

You know him too well.

You follow the soft trail of memory to the edge of the clearing, past the noise and smoke, where it’s quieter. And there he is, sitting on a log with his elbows on his knees, watching the firelight flicker like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

You smile to yourself and sneak up behind him, soft steps over dead leaves. Then you slip your hands over his eyes.

He freezes for a split second, then relaxes. A smile blooms across his face before he even speaks.

“Took you long enough.”

You laugh under your breath. “You were waiting?”

“Of course I was. I knew exactly when you’d be back.”

You let your hands fall and before you can move away, he’s already up, turning, arms wrapping tight around your waist like you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.

“Hi,” you whisper, leaning into him. Your fingers comb through the hair at the base of his neck.

He pulls you even closer. “Hi.”

You don’t get much time for words after that. He pulls you down beside him, your legs brushing, his arm locked around your lower back. He doesn’t let go. Not even a little.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers trace slow circles at your waist. Then, voice low and quiet: “Didn’t like sleeping without you.”

It’s simple. Honest. A little unguarded in the way Jeremy rarely allows himself to be. It hits you harder than you expect.

You tilt your head and kiss him. Not deep. Just warm. Familiar. His hand curls into the back of your hoodie like it’s second nature.

And from then on, he’s glued to your side.

He follows you through the crowd, never more than a step away. If you move, his fingers brush yours. If you pause, he’s behind you, hand on your hip, or hooked through your back pocket with a smirk that dares you to call him out.

“I’ve got time to make up for,” he says with zero shame.

And he means it. Every brush of his thumb across your spine, every low murmur in your ear, every not-so-subtle lean into your space. He missed you. Badly.

When the fire dims and the crowd starts breaking off into smaller groups, the two of you quietly slip away. You end up at the Gilbert house, but instead of heading for the couch, he leads you straight upstairs to his bedroom.

The door shuts behind you, soft and final. The air shifts.

You drop your bag by the dresser and barely have time to turn around before he’s on you again. His hands settle on your waist, his forehead pressing against yours like he needs a second to breathe you in.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. His hands slide under your shirt, skimming along your sides. He walks you back toward the bed without breaking the kiss, guiding you down gently. It’s slow. Careful. But there’s heat under the surface, simmering.

You fall into the mattress, his weight half on top of you, legs tangled, his lips still on yours. His hand trails up your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your shorts.

“You have no idea,” he whispers against your skin, “how much I missed you.”

Your hand slides into his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp. “I missed you, too, baby.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the base of your neck. His lips are slow, careful, but there’s an edge underneath — a quiet urgency he’s barely holding back. You feel his breath stutter against your skin, the way his chest presses harder into yours like he’s fighting the instinct to just take what he wants.

He shifts on top of you again, and yeah, he’s definitely not holding back in one very specific way. You feel him, hard and insistent, through the thin barrier of your shorts and his jeans. The contact steals your breath for a second, your hips tilting up into him instinctively before you even realize you’re moving.

He lets out a low, almost broken noise and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his fingers curling tighter against your waist like he needs you closer, like even now you’re not close enough.

He breathes out, almost like a confession, "Didn’t know I could miss someone this much."

The words are raw and unguarded, a crack straight through all the stubborn walls he usually keeps up. They land somewhere deep inside you, settling heavy and warm.

Your hands find their way under the hem of his shirt, palms gliding up over warm skin and the hard lines of his stomach. You feel him tense beneath your touch, muscles flexing like he’s barely hanging on.

You pause there for a second, feeling the shiver that runs through him, the way his breath hitches again when your fingers brush higher.

And then, moving slow, teasing, savoring it, you tug his shirt higher—

“(Y/N)!” someone yells from downstairs. “We’re starting the movie! We need your help with snacks!”

You both freeze.

Jeremy lets out a guttural groan and drops his head to your chest. “Why do they hate me?”

You can’t help laughing, one hand covering your mouth.

“I told them I’d help,” you say, half-apologetic, half-regretful.

“Tell them you’re busy. With something important.”

“They’re not stupid.”

He sighs dramatically, flopping beside you on the bed. “I swear to God if they ruin—”

You roll over and kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, just to tease him. “We’re not done. Promise.”

"I'll hold you to that."

He watches you tug your shirt back into place and head for the door. “You owe me,” he calls after you.

You glance back with a wicked smile. “Big time.”

Downstairs, the movie’s already queued up, and the girls barely look at you when you arrive, too busy arguing over popcorn seasoning and pillow placement. You do your best to focus, but you can still feel Jeremy’s hands on you, still taste that kiss.

Ten minutes later, he appears in the doorway, hoodie on, eyes sleepy but still trailing over you like you’re the only thing in the room.

Without a word, he slides in behind you on the floor couch, wraps his arms around your waist, and tucks his face into your neck.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“You’re clingy.”

“I’m comfortable.”

You smile, leaning back into him. His arms don’t move. His grip doesn’t loosen. By the time the movie hits its first plot twist, you glance over your shoulder to see he’s completely asleep; soft breaths, lips parted, face still tucked against your shoulder.

You run your hand along his arm, tracing the shape of his wrist where it circles your waist.

He missed you.

And you missed this.

Masterlist

a/n: requested by @sc4rrc tysm <3

Taglist: @imanewsoul @s0urw00lf @bucklebunny8765

Let me know if you would like to be added to a taglist <3

[stiles24]

Right on Time. | e.m.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x (f)reader.

Summary: Eddie's best friend comes to the rescue when a certain 'fan' of his band just won't quit.

-----

Rushing through the doors of The Hideout, you're greeted first by the familiar rush of smokey air, and then the gruff smile of Nick the bouncer. Squeezing his arm as you walked past, something near the stage caught your eye.

Gareth had spotted you the moment you walked in, and was now waving frantically. Subtlety had never been his strong point, and today was no different. As each step took you closer to him, his eyes darted between you, and the side of the stage.

"Where's the fire, G?"

Following his gaze, it took only seconds to zero in on the source of his panic.

Eddie was kneeling at the edge of the stage, tonight's setlist clutched tightly in his ringed fingers like a lifeline. Leaning dangerously close to him was the She-Devil, dressed in her usual skin-tight clothing. Her real name was Tiffany, and she'd graduated from Hawkins High a few years earlier. She had a thing for guys in bands, and apparently, Eddie was really doing it for her these days.

Tiffany had been to the last four Corroded Coffin shows, each time doing more and more to get Eddie's attention. To her, this seemed to mean wearing less clothing, and invading Eddie's personal space more. You'd been a little surprised when Eddie had brushed her off the first week, but it was clear that he wasn't interested, something she wasn't, or didn't care to understand.

The first time she'd shown up to one of their shows with a few friends, it had earned Jeff a punch to the chest while the boys were packing up. He'd joked that you had competition for the title of their number one fan. You'd not so politely reminded him that you were their first, number one, and sometimes only fan, and that if he ever disrespected you like that again, you might slip and tell Ms. Dunne the math teacher about the dream of his she'd starred in.

Looking back at Gareth, he gestured wildly.

"You have to do something!" He went as far as to grab you by the shoulders and shake. "You have to save him."

"First of all, you've been reading too many fantasy novels, Gar. You need to take a breath."

It made you laugh a little as you watched your friend visibly inhale, as if it was the first time in a while that he'd done so.

Looking back over your shoulder, you took a breath of your own, trying to come up with an idea. Though you weren't above violence, The Hideout wasn't the place for it. You didn't want Nick to have to get involved, and it'd be a pain in the ass for the boys to have to find a new place to play for five drunks each week.

If you were being honest, you didn't want to get involved either, but Eddie looked like a drowning man, and as his best friend, you were almost legally obligated to help him in this situation. He winced as Tiffany ran a blood red nail down his arm, and that was the final hit of courage you needed. You just hoped what you were about to do wasn't going to blow up in your face.

Steeling yourself with a few deep breaths, you gave Gareth's arm a final squeeze and turned to where Eddie was in She-Devil's clutches.

"Hey, handsome!" Eddie's head whipped towards you at the sound of your voice, his eyes wide.

Before you could second guess your actions, you pushed yourself up on your tiptoes, and grabbed Eddie's collar, pulling him close enough to press your lips to his own.

The kiss was quick, over before it had really begun, but Eddie's hand came up to circle your wrist, his rings cool against your heated skin. When his eyes opened, you widened your own, pleading silently with him to play along.

A scoff came from behind you, and you called on everything you'd learned in tenth grade drama class as you turned to face the She-Devil herself.

"Oh, hi! I hope I'm not interrupting. It's just so hard to keep my hands off this guy when he's in the same room." Before she could say anything, you looked back over your shoulder to Eddie, who was trying his hardest not to laugh. "Sorry I'm late, baby. Heather just kept talking about her boyfriend instead of helping me close up, when all I wanted to do was get here to see mine."

At the insinuation that Eddie was your boyfriend, two things happened. Eddie's arm snaked around your shoulders from behind, and Tiffany huffed loudly, before turning to stomp away towards the bar. Once she was out of earshot, you turned to face him, raising an eyebrow.

"Mission accomplished?"

Instead of saying anything, Eddie slid himself off the edge of the stage, coming to rest directly in front of you.

"You-you kissed me."

"I know, Eds. I was there. I'm sorry. I just couldn't think of anything else, and you looked like you needed help, and-"

"You wanna do it again?"

It was pointless to try stopping the blush that spread across your cheeks, so you buried your face into Eddie's chest, feeling the rumble of his laughter. Folding you into his arms, a calloused hand found a home on the sliver of skin at the base of your spine, making it very hard for you to think.

"My hero," he whispered into the crown of your head.

"Sorry I was late,"

Pulling back a little, he shook his head.

"Nah, you were right on time."

[777heavengirl]

the one with the telephone

sirius black x reader ! - 2,450 words masterlist bags masterlist A/N: i have ZERO impulse control- enjoy!!! also i am sorry in advance my beta reader told me i was evil

Sirius Black was, contrary to popular belief, a patient man. It was a trait that was overshadowed by quick quips and even brasher decision-making. But when he needed to be. He was.

As the two of you fell back into the cloying domestic tendencies you once had, he could feel the desperation prick at his skin, like electricity coursing through his veins.

He was getting antsy, the need to have you closer than ever, to feel your lips on his, to hold you, it was all getting too much.

“What time are you coming back lovely?” He settled on embracing the fact that you had to work, he’d get that sorted out eventually. 

Someday he’d convince you. 

You rolled your eyes when he told you this fact. At least he was honest.

“Five dummy- I told you this already-” You walked over to the corner of the kitchen where he stood, and poured coffee into the cup in his hand. You stifled a yawn as you spoke. 

“Oi-” he was quick, so quick you could feel the coffee slosh violently around the pot as he pulled you by your waist. His head rested on your shoulder, long hair tickling your neck, his fingers dug into your sides enough to make you reflex away but his hold didn’t let you. "Dont call me stupid-”

“I didn’t call you stupid- there is a clear difference” You gave him a toothy smile, teasing. He couldn't help but stare at your face, the soft curve of your lip, the mound of your cheeks. Your eyes met briefly, and you tried to swallow the small gasp that threatened to leave your lip.

A beat of silence. He just smiled at you softly.

You pursed your lips in a fake scold “I gotta go stupid- let me go”

He groaned, but his hold on your waist loosened enough for you to start moving away.

“Good morning you two-” Remus walked through the door and you and Sirius let out a chorus of Morning’s. “How are we feeling this fine day?” A small smirk played on his lips as he rounded the corner of your kitchen, plucking the cup of coffee from Sirius’s hand, the boy’s protest falling on deaf ears, and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Where’s Pete?”

“At his nan’s” Remus settled on one of your stools, tall back hunching slightly as he sipped his coffee. “Poor lad always comes back with indigestion- she feeds him too much apparently-”

“Ah yes” you smiled, suppressing a giggle “I’m sure he’s mighty upset about that”

“Imagine the amount of food that woman has to be making- fucking vacuum that man” Sirius barked out, a laugh falling from all of your lips. 

“Well I gotta get going, otherwise I’ll be late- bye Rem-” you ruffled his light hair, the strands sticking in all directions as you shook his head slightly, the tall boy hummed in a sort of goodbye, “goodbye stupid- see you tonight-” 

“Yeah yeah-” Sirius sauntered over to meet you by the door, “don’t be late- you said five, not a minute later yeah?” He pressed a tender kiss to your cheek, soft and slow enough to make your breath hitch, he leaned on the open door, his hand under your jaw. “good luck at work love-”

You stuttered a small thank you and bye as you went through the door, Sirius closing it behind you. You could feel the heat crawl up your neck, small jitters running through your limbs.

There was no time to think about that now. You focused on the back alley of the office, eyes closed as the air twisted and turned, sucking you in and spitting you back out. 

“What in the bloody hell was that Pads?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Moons-” Sirius locked the door behind him, padding over to the kitchen and pouring a second cup of coffee “I don't appreciate the theft of my coffee by the way-”

“Come off it- you were basically about to jump each other” Remus retorted with a roll of his eyes. Sirius stopped, groaning into his hands. “How many times have we had this conversation Padfoot?”

“Many,” he said, voice muffled by his hands

“Exactly-” Remus rolled his eyes, taking the last swing of his coffee “You need to do it- I promise she feels the same” Sirius groaned into his hands again.

-

It was hard, although you didn’t dislike the job you got, answering the phone to muggles that pressed and pressed about trips and airplanes, and tickets to all sorts of transportation and places. It was hard, and it was tiring. It felt somehow worse than that, it felt futile. 

It had nothing to do with your life anymore, you may live in muggle London, but it did not change the fact that your life had revolved and had continued to do so around magic. It was a different world, different people, different needs and wants and lifestyles. 

You wondered how much more of this you could take as you bid farewell to the other girls on your shift, a tight smile on your lips.

You swore you might’ve ripped the door to the small travel office off its hinges as you walked out at exactly 5 p.m. Quickly apparating from the back alley directly into your room, the gush of air and twisting through space making your head spin as you stood in the middle of your room. You were quick to drop your bag on your bed, and swung your door open, calling out to Sirius

“I know I’m like two minutes late- no need to wail”

“You promised-” You heard him huff as you walked through the door, eyes landing on Sirius as he lounged on the couch, cheek pressed against the cushion. “Welcome home baby-”

You could feel your stomach do flips at the new nickname, it was cloying and far too endearing. You could feel the heat under your skin. 

“Were you sleeping? You bum-” Sirius rubbed his eyes and stretched, feet kicking off the blanket that had been haphazardly covering him onto the floor.

“And so what if I was? Hm? Is it such a crime?” He retorted, and you laughed as you approached, his arm extending to grab your hand. He pressed a chaste kiss on your knuckles. 

“No- just awfully lazy of you Black- I worked like a dog day and night for you to sit here and do nothing?” you tskd repeatedly “You make a horrid housewife-”

He laughed and pulled your hand, hard enough to bring you down on top of him. Both of his arms enveloped you, rolling onto his side so you were facing each other on your sides. Your arm settled and stretched out, and he was quick to lay his head on it. The tight space of the couch made you wonder if he was halfway out so you brought him closer, breaths intermingling, heat radiating from your skin. Your legs tangled together.

“Didn’t know we were playing house-” Despite the tease, and the slight smirk that played on his lips, his words were a mere whisper “Just because I don’t work I gotta cook and clean? Awfully stereotypical of you love- didn’t expect it from you” 

“Oh please- what else would you do all day?”

“Mhm, so what I hear is that you do wanna play house with me?” 

You rolled your eyes at him, but the closeness didn’t let you retort back- words caught in your throat. You were so aware of his hands, the way they squeezed you closer and fingers traced spirals on the exposed skin of your hip that you failed to notice the moment when his face got, impossibly, closer.

You didn't think you had ever been this close. Your foreheads finally pressed against each other.

It was easy to fall into this closeness, as new as exciting as it felt, it was still easy.

“Sirius-” You felt breathless

“Yes love?” Your eyes met his striking grey ones. He hummed in question when you didn’t answer, tongue flickering out to wet his bottom lip. He swallowed thickly. 

“I love you” You knew he knew that. But this time, you hoped he’d understand-

“Thank Godric-” His lips finally touched yours, softly, experimentally. It started as a breathless kiss, one that made your head spin and the tips of your fingers tingle. It quickly grew into something more- the way he held you impossibly tight, hands digging into your hips, thumbs pressing circles into your lower stomach. Your fingers intertwined with his hair as he dragged you on top of him, but he never dared to break the kiss. Lips moving against each other, the slip of tongue, the gasps that left your mouth when he kissed you harder. 

He felt frantic, the same desperation that had haunted him for years poured out of him with every squeeze and kiss and bite. He could feel the ghost of a smile on your lips as he kissed you, and his own lips soon mirrored it.

The phone rang. 

Loud and ringing in the far corner of the kitchen. You finally parted to look up at it, the little red light blinking at the incoming call.

“I’m going to kill them-” Sirius groaned as you sat up, you laughed as you pecked his lips and his neck cranked tightly to look at it too. You both stared at the machine until it stopped ringing, a laugh ripping from you as he brought you back down, hands holding your cheeks, lips immediately slotting against yours. 

He thinks he could get lost in your lips forever. 

But he heard it again. 

A groan reverberated through his chest as the phone started ringing once more. You got off of him, legs wobbly and clumsy as you stood up, his hand clutched yours pulling at it slightly.

The phone kept on ringing.

“Please tell me you’re going to unplug the bloody thing-”

“Sirius we have to answer-”

“No we don’t,”

“What if something’s happened hm?” the phone rang out

“They can do without us love-” 

“You’re going to feel terrible if something wrong and we were sitting here… you know” The phone stopped ringing, and Sirius’s plump lips broke into a wolfish grin. You ignored the excitement at the pit of your stomach.

You turned to look at the phone as he pulled you closer again

“No I don't know,” he smirked, and you squirmed under his gaze “Pray do tell— we were sitting here doing what?”

“You’re horrible Black,” You stopped next to the couch, his lips pressed against your hand and he tried pulling you down again. “You’re going to feel terrible if it’s James and we’re sitting here…” he raised his eyebrow “snogging” 

Sirius barked out a laugh and you could feel a deep blush fight to make its way up to your cheeks.

The phone’s ringing started up again.

“Bloody hell! Just go pick it up” he stood up now too, laughing incredulously as he followed you to the phone. He wrapped his arms around your torso as you picked up the receiver. 

“Hello?”

“Where were you?” Your dad’s voice broke through the static, angry and loud. Sirius laid his head on your shoulder, lips pressing kisses the stretch of your neck. His hands went under the wrinkled white button-up to squeeze at your sides. He fought the urge to explore further and you tried your best not to giggle.

“I just got back from work- what happened?”

“If I call you answer-”

“Jesus dad-” you let out a breathless giggle, as Sirius placed a kiss behind your ear. “I was just busy, can you just tell me what's wrong? There’s some stuff I need to… get to”

“Did you decide yet?” 

“Decide what Dad?” Sirius pressed up against you more, a kiss on your cheek as your dad’s voice cut through again

“If you’re moving out” Sirius froze in his tracks, all movement seizing. The echo from the phone was low, but he could nevertheless hear the words “I already told you, I have a guy that is renting this apartment close to us-” You could feel your heart in your throat.

“Godric- No Dad-”

“You aren’t thinking things through y/n”

“I’m not moving out Dad- I’ve told you this multiple times”

“You told me that you would think about it-”

“Okay well I have- I thought about it and I would rather stay here, I’m happy here” Sirius’s hold loosened, and hot tears gathered in your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere” You grabbed his arm as it fell away from your torso, his hand clutched yours instinctively. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore Dad-”

“You’re making the wrong choice-”

“No dad,” You turned now, Sirius stood a mere two feet away, staring blankly at you. Tears threatened to fall from your eyes. “I just can’t- I have to go-” You quickly hung the phone up, not letting him get another word in. 

“Sirius-”

“You wanted to move out?”

“No-” you sighed, the knot that formed in your throat quickly tightening until it felt sore “he keeps telling me I should-”

“How could you not have told me-”

“Told you what Sirius? I got a job and you freaked out— Imagine if I told you that my father wanted me to get out of here because he has some twisted idea of what I should be doing with my life” You tried your best to get the words out without crying.

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, sighing in defeat. 

“I can’t believe you”

“Oh please-” your lip wobbled, tears started falling from your eyes, dotting your cheeks. “You’re one to talk- you’ve had a foot in the door the entire time we’ve lived here”, you said, the words biting even to your ears. 

He still held onto your hand.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He said as he finally turned to look you in the eye, the hurt that flashed in his eyes quickly replaced with shame as he saw your tears.

“You’ve never unpacked your trunk, Sirius! It’s been sitting there- practically packed for two years, and I- Merlin I can’t believe you’re upset about the fact that my father- not even me wanted me to move when you’re the one that’s been basically ready to go-” the tears flowed freely, and the unmeasurable weight of the anxiety over him leaving, the one you carried with you every day since you moved in, finally washed over you like waves. 

Each of you squeezed your hands harder, grabbing onto each other despite the sting of your words.

“It’s the fact that I’ve spent the past two years thinking I’ll wake up to you walking out the door with your bags”

taglist ; @thatlittlered @giuli-in-earth @notsolong-pause @niceonejames7 @caspiankingofnarnia @ilovejamespottersomuch @bmyva1entine @lanadelreykt @froggiedragon @stanzie @theendofthematerialgworl @featherlightfairysworld @plk-18 @coldthinghairdobakery

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

hi mx witch, I’ve been debating whether to send this in for a bit but I am curious what you think. I’ve been going back and forth on the ongoing “can you read at least one singular book by a Black woman” discussion bc there is a thing where especially white readers (I am also white, non american but also somewhere with significant Black diaspora) hold up Black authors as somehow being the pinnacle of diversity and ending the conversation there. I don’t think you are doing this btw but this is the reading comprehension site. I just worry it doesn’t prompt people to think about more general issues of diversity in publishing when E/SE/S Asian authors also get screwed over in the industry (especially Asian women who don’t want to write about being Oppressed by their Traditional Culture) and there are just shamefully few published Indigenous authors from any continent.

HOWEVER. then I see some of the more tar pit responses to your book posts and to the rap discourse (oh my god the rap discourse) and I am like. hmmm maybe we should stay focussed on prompting people to challenge their anti-blackness for a bit when so many people are clearly incapable of the baby step of reading more widely. Much to consider.

📚

ps if you post this and anyone reads it and goes “oh wow this is so right, I guess I don’t need to read books by Black women”: no

pps SORRY for spam if this is a second anon, I asked this morning with dodgy signal and have no idea if it went through or if you are just swamped/don’t want to reply. no pressure.

hi anon,

I think it's a really good and thoughtful question, and I appreciate the good faith engagement with this question a lot! your concern reminds me a lot of something Yaa Gyasi (an author who's come up a lot in discussion about Black women writers!) said in this interview a few years ago:

Representation isn’t enough. It’s not enough to see people as representatives, and not actually engage with what they’re trying to say. I guess I’ve been feeling dispirited about the way that my work gets read, as it allows people to pat themselves on the back and feel like they’ve done something. Is literature enough? That’s frankly the question I’ve been asking this past year. I used to be the kind of person who would say this is making us more empathetic. But I’m not sure anymore if that’s what’s happening. Are you reading, or are you reading? 

and I definitely agree with her, and think that a lot of people have a tendency to reduce authors who aren't white, heterosexual men to tokens whose work they're morally obligated to read to be Good Allies, rather than because the work genuinely speaks to them, entertains them, moves them, challenges them, or does anything else that literature is capable of. it doesn't help that the publishing industry itself has an awful tendency of tokenzing authors, as you alluded to.

this is one of the reasons why I never include spaces pertaining to an author's personal identity on the reading bingo sheets that I design. I know that prompts like "read a book by a Native author" or "read a book by a trans author" and so on are quite popular in many book bingo spaces, but to me they run the risk of tokenizing those authors and make it seem as if it's fine if, for instance, no Native or trans authors are found anywhere else on the sheet, since they have a designated space. which isn't a perfect solution, to be sure - without a specific prompt, it's just as likely that there will be zero authors who are Native or trans or whatever other marginalized identity one can come up with on the bingo sheet. I'll be honest: as much as I love seeing the bingo sheets my followers are filling out, I'm a little stunned and disheartened to see how starkly white many of them are!

in this conversation, where people are being challenged to name even a single author who's a Black woman and coming up short, I think many people, especially hobby readers, are maybe realizing for the first time that they way they read doesn't quite live up to the ideas of equity that they personally hold and they're interested in changing that now. I've received a lot of feedback that does boil down to people excitedly reporting that they're now deliberately rushing to the library to seek out books by Black woman, and I can easily see how, pessimistically, that could be seen as further tokenizing those authors.

as much as I've rolled my eyes at the people who loudly insist that they couldn't possibly know what gender, race, ethnicity, etc, any author is because they only care about the story (with the implication being that knowing anything about the author would somehow cheapen the story - lmao), I do somewhat understand where they're coming from. while colorblindness is certainly not the solution, it would be ideal if nobody had to think much about hitting any kind of quota in regards to their reading habits. and I'm certainly not advocating for anything that strictly structured! but if so many people can't name a single Black woman who's written a book, then we need to acknowledge that there's a reason for that, and that not all authors are being read equally, and that it takes an active effort to course correct something like that.

my hope is that, with time, readers broadening their horizons enough that they don't have to actively seek out Black women authors (or Black authors in general, or Asian authors, or Latine authors, or trans or Muslim or disabled or Jewish authors, or authors translated into English, and so on) because those authors and their works will become a natural part of their literary diet that no single author is a sole representative of any group or perspective and can be appreciated solely on the basis of their craft.

but maybe the first baby step, as you said, has to be googling "Black woman authors." and maybe that's a little tokenizing! but when we're beginning from the rock bottom position of people struggling to name a single Black woman author at all, you have to start somewhere. I'm really glad to see people actually getting excited to do the work, and I hope they don't stop at reading one (1) book by Yaa Gyasi or Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie because a tumblr post made them feel uncomfortable.

I hope that makes sense and is a satisfying answer!

[dansemacabre]

i’ve been thinking about “sixer, it would eat you alive” since i read it and. man. every layer you peel back makes it worse. im not a bill apologist but. shit

if you (1) take it at face value, it paints bill as an apologetic murderer in his single (and maybe sole) open moment of regret. he doesn’t let his walls down often- only with ford do we even get to see the remnant of his galaxy, see the “actual remorse” ford describes, get just a hint of his origins. but he does it, because he thinks ford should know.

if you (2) take it from ford’s point of view, as something he committed to journal three, like. wow. imagine being so committed to a being that you’d hunt down and kill the monster that destroyed his home, only to (assumably) figure out later that that being was the monster. the small moments of trust, the “good times”, are so key to manipulation. how long did ford hold onto that one shred of vulnerability? no wonder ford stayed for as long as he did. in his eyes, bill was a survivor. ford wanted to survive too.

(slight tw below for unreality- any time i mention our reality, i mean “our reality” as a narrative device used in the book of bill as a proxy for the idea of bill being in our reality, since he can’t actually be in our reality. all of this is a fictional theory about a show/book with fictional contents!)

but if you (3) remember that “even his lies are lies” and absolutely Nothing bill says should be trusted. Whoo boy. if i read tbob right the book itself is being created in the theraprism (even tho it shows up with the ciphertologists at some point? idk that’s a whole other post). it’s meant to show what the reader wants to see; it manifests in our reality as what the collective fandom wants to see. so if we want to see truth, if we want to see where bill ended up and who he actually is, there’s a non-zero chance that the whole interaction was a complete fabrication.

imagine bill, stuck in the actively harmful, probably earth-illegal theraprism, once again being forced to be “fixed” and molded into something more palatable, being forced to conform no matter how much it hurts. (i know natural uncontrollable mutation ≠ just so much murder and destruction and chaos, but. you can’t ignore the similarities. bill has obviously been thinking about those silly straws.)

he looks back on everything that went wrong, back on his relationship with ford, back through every dimension where he wins. would that one moment, that one truth amid centuries of lies, have saved him from purgatory? if he had just been open? shown his damage? maybe he did think of his parents, or his henchmaniacs (especially the oracle). people who he might have once opened up to. maybe he just wanted to open up to someone again.

so in his own weird way, stuck in a cell, he reshaped reality again. in this reality, for this fleeting moment, he had been someone worth believing. and ford had listened, hell, ford had wanted to help. looking back, knowing how he treated ford, knowing how ford ended up because of it, maybe bill would have said the most honest thing he’d ever told ford: i am the monster, i am not worth your time or belief, and i will eat you alive.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

When your Characters Need to Stay in Love

To stay in love - means to maintain a romantic connection and relationship for a lifetime.

Whether or not you choose to solidify such a connection with your partner through marriage is up to both of you.

At the end of the day, putting in the effort to remain in love and avoid heartbreak has more to do with daily actions than a single wedding ceremony.

As long as you can continue to approach one another with an open heart, you have the chance to stay in love for a long time.

How to Stay in Love

There’s no one secret to what makes for a long-lasting relationship, but there are certain ideas you can put into practice to make it easier to stay in love. Keep these tips in mind as you spend each day reminding your partner how much you love them:

Communicate your needs. Every long-lasting partnership requires effective communication. Your partner won’t know what you need from them unless you tell them in the first place. If you notice your relationship trending toward a point of stasis, take a step back and ask yourself if you’ve told your partner everything that’s been on your mind. Make sure they know how you hope to receive love from them and ask how they would like to receive love from you, too.

Compromise on nonessentials. To have a healthy relationship, you and your partner will both need to decide what’s nonnegotiable and where there’s room for compromise. For instance, your partner can be honest that they can’t change something essential about themselves for you but also still be completely in love with you. Fortunately, when it comes to trivial matters, there’s likely to be plenty of room where both of you can meet each other in the middle.

Date each other long term. As you settle into a long-term and loving relationship, continue doing fun things together. Try to plan weekly date nights as well as occasionally longer romantic getaways from time to time. Go to places with sentimental value for both of you. Explore new areas you’ve both always wanted to see. Seek out concerts and other events you know will be positive memories for both of you.

Engage in productive conflict. Long-term relationships can sometimes flounder and hit significant speed bumps. For that matter, it’s common for even the happiest couples to experience at least some degree of conflict. In either case, relationships can sometimes feel like hard work. Circumstances like these require you to fight with each other fairly. Avoid defensiveness or cruelty, choosing to mutually listen and empathize with each other instead. Consider speaking with a marriage counselor if problems persist.

Express your love often. There are an endless amount of ways to say “I love you,” so do your best to zero in on the way your partner most palpably experiences love. For example, some people might want you to explicitly tell them you love them on a regular basis, while others might feel more love if you just do little things around the house for them. No matter what the case, do whatever will make your partner feel special and communicate what you hope they would do for you as well.

Maintain independence. A good relationship is a balance between individual independence and joint togetherness. Staying in love doesn’t mean being around each other all the time and putting your individual lives on hold. You should both still have time to see other loved ones, tend to your own mental health and physical wellness, perform meaningful work, and pursue enjoyable hobbies. When two fully formed individuals come together without any sense of codependence, they have a better chance of making their romantic love last.

Spice up your sex life. True love obviously goes quite a bit deeper than sexual attraction, but sex still remains a prominent aspect of staying in love. Sex can operate as a tangible experience in which you both can renew your sense of affection for each other. Try new things with each other in bed if you both are willing. Alternatively, there’s no problem with expressing your physical affection toward each other in more comfortable, routine ways, so long as you both remain satisfied.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[blushweddinggowns]

Eddie threw an arm over Steve's shoulder, bringing him into a half-hug, “So, what did you guys think?”

“It was great!” Steve said quickly, relaxing into Eddie’s side, “You guys killed it, dude!”

“He’s right,” Robin agreed, “It was awesome! Super, duper fun and we’re so glad we got to see it. But actually, we kinda got to go-”

Eddie frowned, the loose grip he had over Steve’s shoulder tightening on it’s own accord, “Go where? Don’t tell me you guys are tired already?”

For some reason, Robin didn’t look at him after he asked the question. Instead she looked to Steve, a brow raised as she waited for something. But then Steve was giving her a subtle nod, her queue to start talking again. She leaned in closer, whispering as loud as she could in the noisy environment, “So… you’re like cool, right? Steve said you were cool.”

Eddie cocked his head at her, beyond confused, “I-yes? I guess?”

“About the thing?” She pressed, jerking her head his direction, “Steve’s thing?”

“Oh!” Eddie blurted, finally catching on. But he still didn’t get what Steve being gay had to do with them ditching. He nodded quickly, “Very cool with it. Have zero issues.”

It was almost true. Whatever issues Eddie had with Steve’s sexuality involved his own bullshit more than anything else. Plus, his answer had Robin smiling. Gesturing for Eddie to lean in closer, “Good. Because we, um. Share the affliction if you catch my drift.”

“That’s fine,” Eddie said, not missing a beat. He had kind of figured that out along the way. Considering the process of elimination on who could have possibly talked Steve through his queer thoughts. Not that Eddie cared, “No problem here.”

“Good!” She said with a grin, “Then you know just how limited our options are where we live. And according to an insanely pretty girl, there is an honest to god gay bar, like a few blocks away!”

Eddie swallowed, discomfort suddenly settling in at the suggestion, “T-That’s where you guys are going?”

“Yeah!” She said excitedly, setting her sights back onto Steve, “It’s time for someone to realize that we are hot enough to flirt and be flirted with! Closets don’t matter when you’re hours away from home.”

“We share the exact same closet,” Steve groaned, “Don’t start preaching to me.”

“And tonight we can escape from it!” Robin argued, “Come on! Eddie’s going to be busy with his friends and groupies anyway. What else are we doing-”

“I’m actually not that busy,” Eddie interrupted, trying his damndest to keep his voice calm. Suddenly, he felt nauseous again. He didn’t-He knew Steve could handle himself. He did. B-But creeps were everywhere! And he wasn’t used to being around guys who only wanted one thing and Robin would be distracted with girls a-and Eddie was really struggling with this idea.

Though Steve seemed to disagree. The next thing he knew, Steve was smiling back at her. Letting out a good-natured sigh, “Fine, fine! We can go. Someone has to make sure you don’t get kidnapped.”

“Oh my god, yes!” Robin nearly squealed, bouncing a little in her seat, “This is gonna be so fun!”

Eddie’s heart squeezed uncomfortably in his his chest at the excitement, dread starting to fill him. He opened his mouth, words escaping before he could even think of it, “Sounds like you two might need a D.D. I can do it.”

It was probably the first time Eddie had ever invited himself to something he clearly wasn’t a part of. But he had to give himself some credit for how smoothly it came out. 

Robin looked up at him, clearly surprised, “Really? It’s not exactly your scene.”

Eddie shrugged, “It could be. I like George Michael.”

Steve snorted next to him, “That is the one true gay litmus test. You got us there.”

“Seriously though,” Eddie pressed, refusing to let it go, “Then you can both drink, dance, have fun. And not worry about how you’re getting back to the hotel.”

“But don’t you want to stay here?” Steve asked, “Robin wasn’t kidding about the groupies. You should have heard what some of them were saying.”

“You could definitely get laid,” Robin added. She was staring at him now, looking at Eddie in a way that seemed a little past confused. Like she was examining him. Testing him. Or maybe that was just in his head. 

Eddie held firm, “Maybe, but I’d rather hang out with you two vs playing wingman to the boys. What do you say?”

“If you really don’t mind…” Steve said, trailing off. But Eddie could tell that he was happy. He could barely keep his smile to himself as he looked to the side, biting his lip in a way that Eddie fucking knew other people would notice. How could they not? 

from the next chapter of this fic