arimoonlight1

[arimoonlight1]

LOVED

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter I

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 6.3k

a/n: So I started absolutely gooning for Jimmy from the moment he drawled “ugh fuckin’ geaux” in the ninety seconds of screentime he has and now here we are. And if you came to shame, save your breath—I already talked about the discourse around him here. My k-hole tracksuit cult-leading princess lives rent-free in my brain, and I’m charging him for every second. Stay mad. Stay wet. Stay blessed. Now ugh—fuckin geaux. Big shout out to @amaranthine-enihtnarama for beta reading, thanks pookie!! NO SMUT in this chapter it's all setup, sorry guys <333

warnings: dark!romance, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, creampie, corruption arc, sexual tension, mentions of blood and decay, mentions of death and violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, captivity, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, choking from behind, unsettling atmosphere, cult rituals, light threat of force, elements of stockholm syndrome, highly charged sexual context, dubcon overtones

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter I: Annointed

The air here smells like wet iron and peat. It clings to your throat, heavier with each breath, as if the land itself wants to remind you what’s been spilled on it. A silence rests over the hills—not peace, but the uneasy stillness of something watching. Listening. Holding its breath.

You haven’t seen another living person in days. Weeks? It’s hard to keep track when the sun rises behind a haze of ash and dusk always comes too soon. Even the sky seems starved. The clouds hang low and bruised, heavy with rain that never falls.

The forest stretches ahead like a mouth left open too long. You step lightly. Leaves rot wet beneath your boots. A broken fence curls under moss, the last gasp of an island that once had tidy borders and polite signs. You pass rusted-out trailers on cinder blocks, windshields shattered, doors long gone. The doors always go first. People rip them off in a panic, thinking it’ll help. It never does.

The cold bites through your clothes. Not sharp. Just damp. Soaks into your bones. Makes the ache constant. Your breath ghosts in front of you as you walk, and for a second, you pretend it’s cigarette smoke. You used to hate the smell of it.

Now you’d kill for it.

Your stomach hasn’t stopped making noise. You ignore it. You’ve become skilled at ignoring it, the same way you’ve learned to ignore your own smell, the taste of metal in your mouth, the dull throb in your calves from days of walking with no real destination. You’re looking for food. Shelter. A map. Anything.

You cross a clearing and crouch low in the grass, just like you’ve done hundreds of times before. You survey the landscape: a ruined farmhouse collapsed under its own roof. No movement. No dogs. No smell of death and decay that you've grown almost nose-blind to. Could be safe. Could be worse.

Everything could be worse now.

You move. Cautiously. Deliberately. The earth here is soft and the wind carries no scent—just the musk of damp bark and pine needles. Still, something feels…off.

You pause and tilt your head to listen.

Nothing.

Too much nothing.

Birds don’t sing out here anymore. The ones that do don’t last long. Sound gets you noticed. Attention gets you killed. And this silence is the wrong kind—the hollow kind, as if the trees themselves are waiting for a bloodcurdling scream.

You take another step. A branch snaps beneath your boot. Loud. Too loud. The noise cracks like a warning shot through the quiet.

And that’s when your spine prickles.

Not fear; not yet. Something worse.

Recognition.

You're being watched.

The hair on your arms stands up before your brain can catch up.

You don’t run. You don’t call out. You listen.

The kind of stillness around you isn’t natural. It’s curated. Like someone hit mute on the world.

No birds. No bugs. Not even the soft flit of wind threading through branches. The entire forest has gone tight—drawn taut like the string of a bow, pulled back and trembling, waiting for the moment it breaks.

You slowly lower yourself into a crouch, hand pressed into wet moss. It gives under your palm with a faint squelch, soft and cold and alive with decay. The loamy scent rises up, thick and rich and sharp in your nostrils. Earth and blood smell too close sometimes.

Your heart thuds once, a heavy pulse.

Your fingers curl tighter into the dirt. Grounding. You’ve learned to trust instinct over logic. Instinct kept you alive when logic said the people you loved wouldn’t turn. Instinct taught you how to sharpen a stick into a weapon. How to scavenge rats. How to sleep with one eye open.

Instinct is telling you now: you are not alone.

You shift your weight slowly, inching backward through the brush. One heel catches on a vine. A small sound, but loud enough to make your skin go cold.

Your breath starts to pick up. Not fast. But deeper. Sharper. Your throat feels too open—too vulnerable.

You scan the trees. Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t go away–it grows.

That same prickle at the back of your neck starts to burn. You can feel eyes. More than one set. You don’t know how—you just do. You feel them drinking you in. Not hungry. Not even curious.

Calculating.

You stand and backtrack carefully toward the collapsed farmhouse, thinking maybe you’ll duck behind the stone wall, find higher ground, get a better vantage point.

You take one step. Another. Then freeze.

Movement. Not in front of you. Beside you.

The sound is barely audible—just the faint rustle of fabric, the smallest crunch of gravel.

Your lungs go tight. Your mouth floods with the taste of copper. Your fingers twitch toward the handle of your rusted blade, tucked beneath your coat. Useless. Too slow. You already know.

Whoever—or whatever—is out here with you? They’ve been watching for longer than you realized.

And they’re close. Too close.

The sound comes first.

It doesn’t ring like a bullet or howl like a holler. It hisses. A sharp, slicing whisper that splits the space beside your filthy cheek and buries itself into the tree behind you with a heavy thock!

You freeze, breath clinging to your lungs.

The bark splinters. Chips rain down against your shoulder. A sliver catches in your collar, warm with friction. You feel it there, resting against your skin—proof that the shot wasn’t a miss.

It was a message.

Your pulse explodes behind your ribs. That thin line of stillness you were standing on? It breaks. Snaps. Shatters.

You wheel around, instinct gripping your limbs. One foot twists in the underbrush. You catch yourself against the tree trunk—the same one the arrow is now buried deep in, vibrating slightly as if it’s still alive. The shaft is black, smooth, and handmade. Fletching dyed dark green. No markings. No blood. Not yet.

You reach for your blade without thinking.

And then you see the second arrow—already drawn.

A figure steps out from behind the trees. Slow. Graceful. Like they’ve had all the time in the world to decide what happens next.

They wear a tracksuit—top unzipped, fabric torn at one sleeve, the color somewhere between piss-yellow and vomit-green. Their hair is long, tangled, hanging in ropes around their face. Their skin is streaked with dirt. Mud along the jaw. Ash on the hands.

And they don’t say a word.

Another shadow moves behind them.

Then another, and another. And another.

One by one, they emerge like ghosts stepping out of the woodwork—blonde, dirty, silent—clad in mismatched tracksuits stained with smoke and rain. Each one armed. Each one watching.

Some hold their bows. Some notched and ready. Others just stand with knives visible at their hips, bone-handled and used.

The archer who fired first tips their head to the side. Curious. Unbothered. Like you’re not a threat. Like you’re already theirs.

You don’t breathe. Your lungs refuse.

Another arrow hisses past you and strikes the ground by your foot. Close enough to kiss your boot.

Still no words.

Just eyes. Watching.

Measuring.

And then one of them smiles, just a little

It’s not warm.

You don’t plan it. You just move.

One moment you’re frozen, breath snagged between ribs, and the next—your muscles snap into motion like a trap springing shut. You pivot on your heel, throw your weight into the turn, and take off into the trees.

Branches slap your face. Mud sprays up the back of your legs. The forest blurs.

You run like you’ve never run before—like the ground might open beneath you if you stop, like air is poison and the only cure is speed. Your lungs seize in protest. Your legs burn. Your heartbeat crashes against your eardrums, a war drum in your skull.

Behind you, the forest doesn’t make a sound.

No shouting. No chase.

Just the sick, humming quiet.

And that’s worse.

Because it means they don’t need to run. They already know where you’re going.

Your boots slip on a slick patch of wet leaves. You catch yourself, barely, skidding through brambles that catch your clothes and tear at your arms. You don’t care. You don't feel it. All that matters is forward. Get to higher ground. Get to somewhere—anywhere—they can’t surround you.

You vault over a fallen log, fingers skimming the mossy bark. The scent of rot is thick in your nostrils. Dead wood. Old things. It clings to you like a second skin.

Somewhere up ahead—there’s a break in the dense canopy of trees. Light, maybe. A clearing. A way out.

You bolt for it, lungs screaming. Every step is thunder in your bones. You don’t look back.

But the air changes again.

A shadow flits past your periphery—too fast to track, too quiet to follow.

Another.

Then—

Crack.

Your foot catches on something taut and hidden beneath the brush.

Not a root.

A snare.

The loop cinches around your ankle, and before you can scream, your body slams sideways into the ground with a sickening crunch. The air punches from your lungs. You taste dirt. Cold. Blood. Pine needles jam under your nails.

Then—snap—a figure descends from the treeline like a wolf from a perch, boots landing heavy in the earth.

You try to scramble. Slip.

A hand grabs your arm.

Another closes around the back of your neck.

Then a voice. The first one you’ve heard.

Low. Calm. Male. Fucking delighted.

“That’s enough now, wee thing. Eden’s got ye.”

The hand at the back of your neck doesn’t squeeze.

It doesn’t have to.

It just settles there, heavy and final, fingers splayed wide like it’s already mapping your bones. It holds you in place—not hurting, not pinning, just claiming. Like you belong on your knees, pressed into the mud, spine curved and breath coming in sharp, humiliated bursts.

You twist. You kick. But the snare’s still wrapped around your ankle, biting into the skin. Any movement pulls it tighter.

You try to reach for your blade.

Another hand wraps around your wrist. This one is colder. Slimmer. It doesn't yank—it just presses, thumb digging in just enough to tell you: don’t.

You look up.

They're all around you now.

Six. Maybe seven. It’s hard to count through the blur of leaves and light and pain, but they stand in a wide circle, mismatched tracksuits streaked with earth and soot, hair hanging in matted ropes, eyes like damp stones. None of them speak.

One of them—barefoot, bow still drawn—grins, flashing a mouthful of decay. Some teeth are rotted through, black at the roots. Others jut out at odd angles, twisted by years without mirrors. One is missing several along the top row, exposing pale pink gums when they smile too wide.

“Slippery wee thing,” someone mutters from behind your shoulder. The one who caught you. The voice is deep. Smooth. Oddly kind.

You flinch when he touches your hair. Just a graze. Fingertips through the strands. It’s not affectionate. Not cruel, either. It’s closer to curiosity. A priest handling a relic.

They murmur to each other in low tones, too quiet to make out. The sound of their voices doesn’t feel like a conversation. It feels like a ritual.

One of them kneels beside you and cuts the snare loose. It snaps back into the undergrowth like a live wire.

You think—now. Move. Fight.

But the blade is already gone from your belt. You don’t even remember the moment they took it.

The realization sinks in slowly that you never had a chance. They weren’t hunting you. They were herding you.

You try to speak. A demand. A threat. A plea.

But all that comes out is a ragged breath and the taste of copper.

One of the archers—an older woman, face half-shadowed by dirt—leans down close enough for you to smell her. Woodsmoke. Sweat. Blood.

“He’s gonna be so pleased with ye.”

You’re cargo.

They move with purpose now.

The man behind you grabs the back of your coat and hauls you upright. Not violently. Just effectively. Like lifting a sack of flour. You stumble, one leg still half-dead from the snare. He steadies you with a hand to your spine, then turns you sharply toward the trees.

“Come along now,” he says, rancid breath hot against your ear. “Wouldn’t keep Him waitin’.”

They don’t blindfold you.

But they might as well.

The forest that follows looks like no place you’ve ever walked before. The path isn't marked—but it’s known. Worn bare by repetition. Sinewy footprints in the muck. Grooves dug into the soil from dragging something—or someone. The trees here lean inward, heavy with damp and time, their bark split and bleeding sap that smells sickly sweet.

The archers fall into formation around you, wordless. You hear their breathing. One whistles tunelessly through a gap in his teeth. Another pulls a long rag from her waistband and begins to wrap your wrists together—not tight, but tight enough.

“There. Now ye don’t get lost.”

The woman smiles. Three teeth. All bottom row.

You walk.

The cold bites deep now, not just into your body, but into your understanding. This is a procession. And you are the offering.

With each step, the terrain shifts—brambles give way to packed soil, then mud, then flattened leaves stamped down by boots. You spot bones underfoot. Clean ones. Stripped bare. Not fresh.

Not all are animal.

Someone carries a lantern ahead of you—oil-burning, the flame shielded by cracked glass. The light it throws is golden but small, and it doesn’t reach far. Enough to see the tracksuits shimmer damply in the gloom. Orange. Burgundy. Baby blue. One glittery purple jacket with rhinestones across the back that read PRINCESS.

It would be absurd if they weren’t so quiet. So coordinated.

So devout.

The deeper you go, the more the woods shift.

There are things hanging from the trees now.

At first, it looks like refuse. Rags. Rope. Plastic. But then you pass beneath one and realize—it’s a tracksuit jacket, tied by the sleeves, dangling like a flag. Faded. Bloodstained. Bullet holes across the front.

Another hangs beside it.

And another.

Rows and rows.

You keep walking. Your stomach clenches. Something between fear and nausea. The woman beside you leans in close as you walk.

“Ye smell good,” she mutters. “He’ll like that.”

Ahead, between the trees, a shape rises out of the fog.

Too square to be natural. Too still. A low wall. A break in the forest. Stone, maybe. Cracked and overgrown but not abandoned. Smoke curls from behind it. Not rising—crawling. Slipping through gaps like it knows how to sneak.

Then you see it—Eden.

Not a village. Not a home. A ruin made sacred by madness.

You’ve reached the edge of something ancient and wrong.

And He is waiting.

They lead you through the gate without ceremony. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Two archers bracket you like a pair of looming, mismatched statues come to life. One takes your elbow, fingers firm but not brutal, guiding you forward.

The other falls in step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the faint whisper of hot breath brushing the back of your neck. Together, they move like a single, breathing thing—as if this ritual of capture has been practiced countless times before.

The gate itself is little more than a broken arch of crumbling stone and rusted metal, tangled with ropes and strips of torn tracksuit fabric. You step through it like a witness passing into a holy site. The air inside is different. It’s thicker. Heavier. The smell of damp earth, old wood, and smoky oil threads itself around you.

Your guides do not march. They don’t shove. They don’t drag. They flow, forcing you to match their pace until your body finds its rhythm between theirs. The hand on your elbow doesn’t grip harder when you falter, it merely corrects, a quiet pressure that steers you along the path. The one at your back doesn’t guide with force, but with presence, an overarching warmth that reminds you any move backward would be met with a wall of muscle and sharp steel.

Each footfall becomes an announcement. The sound of your soles scuffing stone is echoed by theirs, precise and orderly. Not a word is exchanged. Not a glance thrown. But every movement feels orchestrated—as if every hand that guides you, every step that matches your own, is serving the same silent god.

They lead you through the gate, and you realize it’s not just an entry. It’s a threshold.

A point where belonging is no longer a choice. A moment where obedience is the only language you’re allowed to speak.

There is no archway. No guard tower. Just two leaning stone pillars draped in mold and rot, bound at the top with torn strips of tracksuit fabric, knotted into fluttering banners that shiver in the breeze. The wind shifts, and the smell hits you like a wet slap—woodsmoke, sweat, burned meat, something sour rotting under it all.

No one says a word as you cross beneath it.

Inside, Eden is...wrong.

Not abandoned,not thriving. Held together by will alone.

Shattered cottages lean against one another like drunkards. Doors hang from rusted hinges. Roofs are patched with sheet metal and broken crates. Every building is bruised and sagging, but still standing—as if the place refuses to die simply because someone commanded it not to.

There’s no power. No lights. No hum of life. Just the hiss of smoke and the wet slap of boots in the mud as you’re marched forward.

You pass people. Not many. Maybe a dozen.

They don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t ask questions.

They just stop what they’re doing—sharpening blades, scraping hides, pulling weeds from cold soil—and watch. Some lean against walls. Others crouch like animals. One man gnaws on a charred rabbit leg, letting grease run down his chin, his eyes never leaving you.

Their hair is tangled, matted, stuck to their foreheads with sweat or filth. Their tracksuits are soaked, stained, misbuttoned or zipped up all wrong. Their teeth—what’s left of them—gleam yellow or black or don’t gleam at all.

And yet, they glow. Not with health, but with devotion. The same way a fanatic glows just before the end.

They know where you're going.

And what you’re going to see.

Someone lifts a shard of glass as you pass, using it as a mirror. Not for themselves—for you. You catch your reflection. Brief. Blurred. Strangers’ hands on your arms. Mud on your jaw. Cold in your eyes.

They pull you toward the largest structure still intact. A chapel, maybe,or what was once a manor. The stone is cracked, the windows shattered, the doorframe splintered where something once forced its way in. Ivy curls up the side in long, choking ropes. Animal skulls hang from the guttering, bones threaded with string and beads and bits of plastic like wind chimes.

The archer beside you speaks for the first time in miles.

“Head down. No talkin’. Only answer if He asks.”

A door creaks open. Your feet hit stone instead of soil. The temperature drops. The smell shifts again—woodsmoke thickened by incense, something sweet gone bad. The air is full of it,like a mouth that’s never closed.

The inside is dark. Not pitch-black—just heavy. Filtered. Lit only by oil lamps tucked in alcoves, their glass streaked with soot. The flames flicker low, throwing long shadows that stretch and collapse as you walk.

The room isn’t empty.

Figures move at the edges. Not many. Two, maybe three. They stand still, but not relaxed. Like they’re waiting for a command. One of them holds a cloth. Another holds a bowl of water—brown and lukewarm, the rim charred black. A third has something folded in their hands. Clean fabric. A tracksuit. Less torn than the one you wear.

They don’t speak to you; they don’t smile.

They just wait.

The woman who cut the snare finally lets go of your arm and gestures forward, toward a wide wooden door. Someone’s carved symbols into it—crooked, hand-cut, messy but deliberate. A crude crown. A sun. Teeth. A flower.

“He’s in there,” she says. “Be grateful.”

Your wrists are untied.

No one grabs you again: you’re expected to walk through that door on your own.

Hesitantly, you step forward.

The wooden door groans open under your hand—warped from time and rot, but still standing. The sound it makes cuts the air like a blade.

The room beyond is dark, but warmer than the rest of Eden. Firelight licks at the walls from a hearth in the far corner, casting everything in flickering gold. The scent is sharper here. Not just woodsmoke. Something burned. Something sweet. A perfume made from candle wax, dried herbs, and rot.

Your boots echo across uneven stone. It’s quiet. Not silent—calm, in that same unnatural way a hunting trap is calm before it snaps shut.

He’s there.

You feel him before you see him.

He’s sitting in a long chair that might’ve once been a throne, might’ve once been a pew. It’s covered in scavenged fabrics—torn blankets, netting, old lace yellowed with age. His legs are spread wide, one elbow resting lazily on the arm, the other hand rolling a cigarette between two fingers.

His face is in profile.

And even that profile is chaos.

A cracked tiara tilts across his brow, nearly lost in the mess of long, greasy blonde hair. One eye is framed by an old smear of soot or charcoal. There’s blood on his tracksuit jacket—dry. Flaked. A constellation of it across his collarbone. His neck bears the weight of several gold chains, the slow pendulum swing of an inverted cross briefly snagging your attention. Rings stacked on every finger. A small, curved blade rests against his thigh like it belongs there.

When he turns to face you fully, he grins.

And it’s nothing like a human smile.

His teeth are uneven—some chipped, some yellowed, one gone entirely. But that doesn’t dull the power of it. That grin could lead armies. Could make monsters kneel. It beams at you like he already knows what you are and what you’ll be.

“Fuckin’ look at ye,” he says, voice thick and Scottish and sharp-edged with delight. “Fresh out the trees. All wild n’ twitchy.”

He leans forward.

His eyes are blue, but not bright. More like cracked ice over dark water. Alive with something violently unhinged and cruelly amused.

“Ain’t touched, are ye? Not claimed? Not branded?”

You say nothing.

He smiles wider.

“Even better.”

He tips his head, brushing the long, tangled hair from his eyes, and the faint glow of the room catches the gold and molten red at his throat. His voice drops into something almost intimate, almost holy.

“Name’s Sir Jimmy Crystal,” he tells you, the words tasting like a threat and a promise all at once. “Remember it, s'the only name that’s gonna matter ‘round here.”

The silence that follows is thick. Final. As if the room itself has memorized it.

He stands slowly—not towering but imposing, filled with the kind of presence that reaches. That carries. He steps down from the platform, boot heels scraping stone.

“Come here, then.”

You don’t move.

His head tilts.

“What’s the matter, love? Nobody ever asked ye polite before?” He chuckles, the tension in his shoulders radiating all the authority of a leader. “You’ll find I’m a very gracious host.”

Then, quieter—yet no less impactful—“when I want t’be.”

He closes the distance without waiting.

One hand comes up and brushes your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His knuckles are scraped, bruised. There’s blood under one nail. But his touch is almost soft.

“They said you fought,” he says. “Said you ran hard. Nearly got one of Jimmy Jimmy’s boys in the eye.”

He leans in, nose close enough to scent you.

You don’t flinch.

He smiles like that’s a gift.

“Yer not a Jimmy, though. You’re…somethin’ else.”

He steps back, hands on his hips. Studies you.

Then, finally:

“Petal.”

The name hits like a hot nail through the center of your chest.

“That’s what ye are, ain’t ye?” he continues. “Pretty wee thing, soft ‘round the edges, got thorns when you’re pressed.”

He gestures wide, like unveiling a painting.

“You’re mine now, Petal. Eden’s newest bloom.”

He steps forward again, crowding you slightly—he wants to see what you’ll do. What you’ll become under his heat. His shadow. His name.

“Say it,” he murmurs then reiterates, “say it back to me.”

Then nothing.

No further command. No raised voice. No gesture to prompt you.

Just his eyes—locked on yours, heavy and unwavering, his body stilled like a predator mid-pounce. All that earlier swagger, the grin, the biting charm—it drops. Slips off his face like a mask tossed aside.

What’s left is something still and unblinking.

His stare is pure scrutiny. Not rage. Not even anticipation. Just…expectation.

The kind that doesn’t account for refusal.

The fire crackles somewhere behind him, casting gold along the worn-out throne behind his shoulder, and still he doesn’t move. His jaw ticks once, slow. You see the faintest twitch of his fingers at his side—restless. Not angry. Just ready.

He doesn’t speak again.

Because Sir Jimmy Crystal doesn’t ask twice.

The room stretches.

You feel it in your chest first—tight, tense, a coil winding up behind your ribs. Your throat is dry. You don’t remember when your breath last came easy. You’re too aware of your heartbeat. Of the way your wrists still bear the red ghost of rope. Of the mud drying on your ankles. Of the way he’s looking at you.

Like he already owns you.

Like this is just a formality.

Your mouth opens.

And for a second, nothing comes out.

Then:

“Petal.”

Your voice sounds strange. Foreign. Like it didn’t come from you but was breathed into you. You don’t recognize how soft it comes out—how it hitches a little. How it lands in the air between you like a stone dropped in a still pool.

His head tilts. Just slightly. One corner of his mouth lifts—not a grin. Something quieter. Possessive.

“Good girl.”

The words land like heat across your spine.

He steps in again. Closer now. His boots bump yours, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

He just inhales. Deep, deliberate, like he’s dragging your presence into his lungs.

“I knew you’d be easy, underneath all that bark,” he says softly. “They always are.”

And then his hand comes up. Slow. Measured. He touches your jaw—not rough, not even possessive. Just assertive. His thumb brushes the edge of your lip, like testing the softness of something before he bites.

“Petal,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Gonna hear that name moaned through these halls, aye? Gonna have all of Eden know who the prettiest thing in it belongs to.”

The silence that follows is not awkward.

It’s complete.

He leans closer, nose brushing yours, voice barely above breath.

“Say somethin’ else, then. Something better. Say thank you.”

The words land soft, but they split your ribs open.

Not a bark. Not a threat. Not a demand, even. Just spoken like it’s inevitable.

His hand remains on your jaw. Fingers resting just beneath your ear, thumb dragging slowly over the corner of your mouth. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt. But it’s not gentle. It’s training.

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t take it in right.

The room feels too small now. Too close. The air clings to the back of your tongue, hot and damp and sour-sweet, like you’re breathing someone else’s exhale. Smoke, rot, and something metallic. Something intimate.

You feel your spine go stiff, shoulders rising like you might pull away—but your feet don’t move. Not because you’re frozen. Not exactly.

Because you’re listening.

And you’re waiting for him to say it again.

He doesn’t.

He just watches. That calm stare. That awful patience. As if there’s no doubt at all that the words will come.

Your mouth parts slightly. Not to obey. Not yet.

To stall.

To feel what it would be like to say it—to give him what he wants and taste how it feels in your throat. To feel how it might curl against your tongue and rot something inside you.

You don’t want to.You do.

Your heart punches the inside of your chest.

You blink—once, slow—and then tilt your head forward, just enough that your lips brush against the edge of his thumb.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

But the reaction is immediate.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens, just a breath, enough to tilt your chin higher.

“Go on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me think you’re ungrateful.”

And something breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. But with a quiet, traitorous tremor in your stomach.

Your tongue is slow to cooperate. Your voice doesn’t come easy. But it comes.

“…Thank you.”

Your voice sounds like a betrayal.

It sounds like submission.

It sounds like you meant it.

You hate that. You hate how easy it is to say.

You hate how it feels good to give it.

His smile widens—not wild. Not cruel.

Pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they hit like a nail through silk.

He steps even closer now—flush against you, chest to chest. You feel the heat of him. The weight of him. His free hand comes to rest on your hip, fingers curling just above your waistband.

“We’ll make a proper little thing outta you yet.”

And then, voice lower:

“Say it again. Like you mean it this time.”

He’s still touching you.

One hand cupped along your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip with the intimacy of a lover, the calculation of a surgeon. The other hand low on your hip, fingers curling with idle pressure. Not possessive. Not yet.

Just poised.

Waiting.

His voice has that same half-smile cadence, but the edge is sharper now—threaded with something heavier. The kind of weight that comes before a strike.

He wants it again.

And this time, he wants it perfect.

You feel your mouth go dry. Your muscles ache from how still you’ve been forced to hold yourself. Your wrists itch where the rope had left its imprint. Your brain is screaming for space—but your body doesn’t move.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re calculating, too.

You don’t say it right away. You let the silence stretch, just a breath longer than it should. Just long enough that it starts to feel wrong. You see it in his posture—the slight twitch of his hand, the flicker in his eye.

And that’s when you give it to him.

“Thank you…Sir.”

You say it sweet.

Too sweet.

You tip your head a little as you say it, lashes lowering like a smirk in motion. You speak with the kind of sugar-coating that’s almost mockery. Just enough to make it unclear.

Polite. Playful. Dangerous.

His thumb stills on your lip.

Then lifts—slowly, deliberately—tracing the curve of your mouth before sliding down your chin. His other hand firms against your hip.

And he doesn’t speak.

He just stares at you.

That same silent intensity from before—hot enough to blister. A fire without flame.

“You think I won’t know the difference?” he says at last, voice low and sharp as a knife dragged across bone. “Think I can’t smell when a thing’s just performin’?”

His grip tightens—not to bruise, but to remind.

His eyes roam your face like a wolf studying a lamb that forgot it was meat.

“You will mean it, Petal,” he murmurs. “One way or another.”

He leans in again—closer now. Lips near your ear, voice so quiet you feel it more than hear it.

“And when you do, it’ll drip off your tongue like prayer.”

You feel the press of his breath against your jaw, warm and patient and ruthless.

Then he pulls back—not far. Just enough to look you in the eyes again. Holding you in place by your silence.

“Now,” he says. “Be sweet. Try again.”

He pins you down with just his gaze.

The heat of his body radiates into yours—smoke and oil and something darker, like the breath of a house right before it catches fire. His hand at your hip has grown still, but it hasn’t let go. The other hovers at your jaw, no longer cupping it, just near—like he’s giving you space to hang yourself.

You feel the words curl in your throat like smoke before a scream.

You could obey.

You could soften your voice. Bow your head. Let the praise come warm and slippery from your mouth like honey melting over hot stone. Let him believe you.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your chin up. A small gesture. Barely there. But it shifts the whole balance of the room. His fingers still in the air near your throat. His nostrils flare—just once. You don’t miss it.

And when you speak…

You lace it with venom.

“Thank you…my King.”

You make it sound filthy.

Not reverent. Not frightened. Not grateful.

You say it like it’s a joke. Like you’re daring him to earn it.

His mouth parts just slightly—no smile now. Just breath.

You watch something dark flicker behind his eyes. It doesn’t rise, doesn’t lash out—but it pulses once, slow and dangerous. You’ve struck a nerve. Not one that makes him angry.

One that makes him hungry.

He steps closer, boot between yours. His chest brushes yours. That awful stillness in him thickens, slows, sharpens.

“That what I am to you already?” he says, voice hushed. “Your King?”

His hand moves again—slow, deliberate. The backs of his fingers trail down your throat.

“Careful, Petal.”

Your heart is a hammer in your ribs now.

He moves around behind you without warning, slow as smoke, one hand dragging across your collarbone as he passes.

You don’t turn.

You feel him behind you. His breath against your hair. His voice just behind your ear.

“You keep speakin’ like that,” he murmurs, “I’ll start to think you want to be ruled.”

You can’t see his face, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“And you don’t want me to think that.”

A pause.

His hand settles at the base of your throat—not tight. Not soft. Just there.

“Because if you do…I’ll give you the crown myself.”

His hand stays at your throat for three long breaths.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t give him the satisfaction of swallowing beneath his palm. But the silence that stretches between you is not victory.

It’s ritual.

You feel his body behind you—heat and weight and tension, close enough to make your skin tighten, far enough to make you ache. His breath grazes the curve of your ear like a blessing dressed in threat.

And then—

He pulls back.

The absence is as sharp as a slap. The cold rush of air across your neck feels like exposure, like being unwrapped. You almost—almost—step back to reclaim his heat.

But you don’t.

You hold your ground as he moves around you again, slow and loose-limbed, like a lion circling the last twitch of a dying thing.

When he stops in front of you, his grin is back. Soft. Filthy. Relaxed.

But his eyes are still locked on you like a snare.

“That’s enough for now,” he says, almost gently.

He reaches out and brushes something from your shoulder—a bit of leaf, a smear of dirt, it doesn’t matter. His fingers linger longer than necessary, then drop.

“You’ll need rest. Food. I’ll see to it.”

He turns from you like it doesn’t hurt him to look away.

“We’ve got time.”

He takes two steps toward his throne before glancing back over his shoulder.

His smile is lazy now. Pleased. Possessive.

“You’re not gonna leave, Petal. Not because you can’t.”

He sits down. Spreads his knees wide. Drags his hand along his jaw, watching you like he’s already undressing your soul.

“Because by the time I’m through with you…you won’t want to.”

He gestures lazily, and the room stirs like a beast waking from slumber. Figures shift from the walls, rising soundless as mist. Two of them move toward you—a man and a woman. They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate. They only bow when he nods.

“See she’s bathed,” Jimmy says, brushing a hand down the arm of his chair like he’s brushing dust from a relic. “Get the stink of the woods off her. Put her somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet.”

A tiny shift goes through the room—almost imperceptible. A glance exchanged. A breath held. Not protest, no. Not that. Not with him. But surprise. The kind that doesn’t rise from disobedience, only from obedience so deep it doesn’t comprehend difference.

He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t call out by their variations of the same holy name. They just know.

They step closer and one of them takes your hand. Not roughly. Not lovingly. Just certain. The other moves to stand behind you, brushing the snarl of your hair from your neck like she’s making way for a blade. Not because she’ll use one. But because she knows he can.

They lead you toward the door, and the room doesn’t speak. Not a word. Not a shift. Not a glance that doesn’t already belong to him. They accept it the way soil accepts a seed falling from a hand that can choose where it grows.

“Go,” he says finally, voice soft and sharp as steel. “Rest tonight, Petal. You’ve a long road ‘fore you.”

And then he leans back, sprawling in that long chair like a man resting between victories, brushing the pad of his thumb across his lower lip as if tasting the air your name has changed.

“An’ don’t worry,” he calls after you as the doors creak open, voice rising just enough for it to fill the space between the walls. “I’ll be seein’ ye soon. Real soon.”

No one questions. No one speaks.

In Eden, when Sir Jimmy Crystal chooses, no one ever needs to ask why.

[arimoonlight1]

❤️❤️❤️

rainy mornings and a new kitten - jack o’connell x reader

it’s all fluff!! just a sweet little raining morning with jack and the kitten he tells you he didn’t really like :)

i got a new kitten yesterday and i just couldn’t stop imagining jack with one hehe

the rain started right before dawn. the light tapping of the drops hitting the window would’ve lulled the two of you back to sleep had it not been for the tiniest of chirps and a slight weight bouncing on the bed.

you stirred under the sheets, snuggling closer to jack as you hooked your leg farther over his.

“not again,” he groaned faintly, raising his head to look down at the tiniest little ball of fluff making it’s way up the bed.

you looked down, in just enough time to see the kitten climb up jack’s side and walk up his stomach— it’s newfound favorite resting spot. as much as he denied it.

the kitten stretched out, the little arms kneading into jack’s exposed chest. “hey,” he muttered, shaking his head lightly. “got no manners, do ya?”

“the baby just wants in, it’s cold in here,” you said through a sleep laced smile. you’d had the kitten just under a week, and it’s taken to the both of you quicker than expected— especially jack. he thinks you didn’t notice, but the first night of having the kitten home, he held it like a baby and muttered quiet words of admiration. the little meows were just too cute to not fall for.

“cold? it’s got fur, that what it’s meant for.”

he grunts, tightening the arm he had wrapped around you. he squinted at the kitten, shaking his head slightly.

“i let you up here one time, yeah? and this is how i’m repaid? thinkin’ this is your bed,” the kitten walked closer to his face, meowing right in front of him, “one time.”

a little paw reached out ahead of its little body, placing itself right onto his cheek. he took a deep breath, before using his other free hand to run along the kitten’s soft fur.

“see? i knew you didn’t mind the little thing,” you said, reaching your own hand up to scratch under its chin.

“mmhmm, s’pose not, love,” he finally agreed. the little paw still resting on his cheek was now taken between his fingers, massaging the little pads, “emotional manipulation, this is.”

the rain started to become heavier, and the light purring turned into the sound of a little engine. the kitten’s eyes slowly started to close, laying it’s head on his chest and getting comfortable.

“she learned from the best. she’s got the nicest spot here,” you hummed, admiring the scene before you. something so domestic, so grounding. it’s refreshing for the both of you to have a day with no chores or errands, nothing job related or important to do. just the two of you and the newest addition to your family. it felt nice. your eyes slowly started to close, the comforting feeling luring you back to sleep.

“the baby’s claimed the spot forever, you know that, right?”

“yeah, i figured. ‘s not gonna move, is it?” his hand slowed on the kitten’s back. “can’t say i mind too bad.”

he turned his head, giving you a kiss on your forehead, lingering there for just a few seconds.

“told you that you were soft,” you smiled, nestling your face closer to jack.

“well, the kitten’s warm and doesn’t talk back. unlike someone i know,” he trailed off, warranting a little flick to the neck from you.

“i’m just kidding, love. worst part is,” he murmured, voice getting quieter as the peace coursed over him, “i don’t even mind.”

[arimoonlight1]

You know what..... I'm here for it🤭🙂‍↕️🫦

But should I see 28 years later? I originally wanted to see it just for Jack because that's my man, but since he's not there till the end, I'll probably just watch clips on TikTok? So seriously, should I because does it have something to do with the very first one with Cillian Murphy? Cause correct me if I'm wrong, but don't they show a zombie that looks like Cillian Murphy? So I'm curious if they got my boy Jim😔

HELP ME GUYS! The horror lover girl in me wants to see it because I loved 28 Days Later, but I'm scared this movie is going to suck, and I hate being disappointed with horror movies! Let me tell y'all when I seen Halloween Ends.... Boy, I crashed out for days because WTF WAS THAT MOVIE THEY DID MY BOY MICHAEL SO DIRTY 😭

Sorry, I just had flashbacks about that damn movie.... But for those who have seen 28 Years Later, is it worth watching?

[arimoonlight1]

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬~ 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐞 ˣ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐏𝐨𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐜:𝟏.𝟑𝐤

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐳𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐟𝐞́, 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚 (𝐘𝐨𝐮!) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧— 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐲 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟!

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭!: @𝐥𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐥𝐱𝐳𝐳𝐳

𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 😔 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!

You’d worked at The Blue Note for just over a year now—long enough to learn the regulars, memorize the creaky spot on the floor near the back table, and perfect your morning playlist rotation. The place was known for its velvet couches, jazz-stained walls, and blues that poured like warm molasses every Friday night.

And Sammie was part of that rhythm.

He’d first walked in one spring evening, guitar strapped over his shoulder, looking like he’d just stepped off a train from somewhere important. He wasn’t the loudest guy in the room. He didn’t demand attention. But somehow, the moment he walked in, the air shifted.

“Double espresso, no sugar,” he said every Friday, always with that same slow smile, like he was testing a joke only the two of you understood.

“You ever try anything else?” you asked him once, sliding the cup across with a teasing raise of your brow.

He leaned forward, his voice low. “Don’t fix what already keeps me up thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

You laughed it off, but your heart stuttered a little, like it had missed a step. He’d left the cup half-empty that night, but stayed later than usual, just strumming soft chords even after the set ended, eyes occasionally flicking up to where you were wiping down tables.

Weeks passed, and the flirting became routine—if a little shy. He’d linger longer, sit closer to the counter. Once, he brought you a record from a local shop, wrapped in brown paper.

“Thought you’d like this. Got a voice kinda like yours—smooth, but got bite.”

You turned it over, reading the label. “Mmm, Ella Washington. I’ll give it a spin.”

“She might not be better than you, though.”

You raised a brow. “You haven’t heard me sing.”

“I don’t need to. Heard you talk.”

That stuck with you for days.

One Friday night in August, you were elbow-deep in dishes when Sammie showed up earlier than usual. He walked in like the summer heat was chasing him and stopped just shy of the counter.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Got somethin’ new tonight. Thought I’d try it out.”

“Original?” you asked, drying your hands on a towel.

He gave a slow nod, brown eyes not quite meeting yours. “Yeah… Been sittin’ on it a while.”

“Well,” you said, leaning in, “I’ll be listening.”

The place filled up fast—folks packing in like it was church. The scent of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls wrapped around you like a shawl. Sammie stepped onto the stage just as the golden-hour light dipped behind the windows. He tuned his guitar, cleared his throat, then looked straight at you.

“This one’s about someone who makes the best coffee I ever had. But it’s not the coffee that keeps me comin’ back.”

Your breath caught, towel frozen mid-fold.

Then he played.

𝑺𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒉𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕,

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅,

𝑨 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆.

His voice was warm and a little frayed at the edges—like the last note of a long day. The whole café hushed. You could hear a spoon stir, a breath hitch. But mostly, you heard him. Really heard him.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝑰'𝒎 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚,

𝑺𝒉𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆,

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒍𝒚

𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒖𝒏𝒆.

You stood frozen behind the counter, the heat from the espresso machine rising behind you. Every line sank in, delicate and slow. You didn’t know where to look except at him, and he never looked away from you.

When the song ended, the room burst into applause—but Sammie didn’t seem to hear it. He stepped off stage, guitar still in hand, and walked straight to you.

“Well?” he asked, voice barely above the hum of the ceiling fan. “Too forward?”

You blinked, feeling warm. “I—no. It was… beautiful.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it all night. “Been workin’ up the nerve to ask you out for months now. Kept waitin’ for the perfect moment, but turns out they don’t really come. So I made one.”

You smiled, heart pounding. “So this is you asking me out?”

He nodded, finally brave enough to hold your gaze. “Would’ve done it sooner, but you always look so busy. I figured you’d say no.”

“Then you don’t know me that well.”

He tilted his head, hopeful. “So that’s a yes?”

You tapped your fingers against the counter like you were playing a piano key. “Only if we split fries. And I get first pick on the jukebox.”

Sammie grinned, dimples deepening. “Deal.”

Later, at Melba’s Diner, the two of you slid into a cracked red booth under flickering neon lights. The place smelled like fried catfish and vanilla milkshake. You shared a plate of golden fries and laughed at how sticky the menu pages were.

“So,” Sammie asked, sipping sweet tea, “what’s your dream? Can’t imagine you wanna sling lattes forever.”

You smirked. “Actually, I want my own spot one day. Something cozy—vinyl records, poetry nights, live sets. Maybe call it Sugar & Sound.”

He whistled low. “That’s got a ring to it. Sounds like a place I’d wanna play.”

“You’d be on the rotation,” you said, popping a fry in your mouth. “But only if you write another song about me.”

He chuckled. “You keep makin’ me nervous behind that counter, and I’ll have a whole album before you know it.”

You tilted your head, watching him closely. “What about you? This always the plan?”

“Always,” he said, running a thumb along the rim of his glass. “But lately… I’ve been wantin’ more than just songs.”

The silence that followed was thick—but not uncomfortable. You let your hand drift over the table, and he met you halfway, fingers brushing. Soft. Easy.

The jukebox kicked into Otis Redding’s These Arms of Mine, scratchy and soulful. Sammie leaned back, watching you with the kind of look that could melt the ice in your cup.

“Guess I got lucky,” he murmured.

You smiled, letting your fingers stay tangled in his. “Yeah. I think we both did.”

[arimoonlight1]

WHEN I SEE BO CHOW

Credit:lunarmoonwhispers

[arimoonlight1]

I’m sorry guys, but I’m in love with that white man😔🙈

I could literally hear the wedding bells😭🥹

[arimoonlight1]

𝐈𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦! 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐁𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐈 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡, 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.

[arimoonlight1]

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐘!

𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

❤️😌🥹

[arimoonlight1]

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐄𝐦 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤~ 𝐁𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐰 ˣ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐏𝐨𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐜:𝟏𝐤

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐨’𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟!, 𝐀 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬, 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦.

𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬!

The bell above the door let out a tired jingle when you stepped inside, the late-summer heat clingin’ to your dress like sweat-soaked cotton. The air was thick with the scent of flour, kerosene, and peaches just on the edge of turnin’. It was quiet in the store, ‘cept for the lazy buzz of a fan spinnin’ slow in the back.

Bo glanced up from the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sweat dark at his collar. When he saw you, that crooked smile of his bloomed—soft and familiar, the kind that still made your chest ache in a good way, even after all these years.

“Well now,” he said, voice smooth as creek water, “look what the sun dragged in.”

You held up the lunch pail. “You forgot your food. Again. Thought I’d bring it by before you shriveled up from pride.”

He came ‘round the counter and kissed your cheek, lingerin’ a breath longer than polite. “I’m a lucky man,” he said.

“You always say that when you forget somethin’.”

He popped the lid and peered inside. “Catfish and cornbread? You tryin’ to make me marry you twice?”

You smirked. “Ain’t nobody else would put up with you.”

The two of you laughed, like you always did. Like the world outside them yellow-painted walls couldn’t touch what y’all had built. And maybe it couldn’t—least not at first.

It had started ten years ago, when Bo Chow walked into your cousins’ juke joint with a stack of flyers for a little grocery he was settin’ up. You were on stage singin’ “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” and from the moment his eyes found yours, he never looked away. Came back three nights straight before he finally got the nerve to speak, offerin’ you lemon soda and red bean cake like it was a treasure.

Folks talked. Lord, did they. Some just whispered. Others spat their thoughts out loud. It wasn’t proper, not in 1932 Mississippi—a Chinese man and a Black woman buildin’ somethin’ sweet outta the cracked earth.

But Bo, he didn’t flinch. When he asked you to marry him, he did it loud, right there in front of the whole congregation after church one Sunday. Held your hand like it was his lifeline, dared anyone to tell him he was wrong.

He painted the shelves sunflower yellow for you. Let you spin Billie Holiday records while you stocked goods. Framed your picture behind the register, the one where you were smilin’ real big with lipstick the color of ripe cherries.

But time changes things.

First came the looks. The kind that stick to your back, crawl up your neck. When you and Bo walked through town hand-in-hand, or when folks spotted you behind the counter like you belonged there. Some white folks stopped comin’ in altogether. Others came more often, just to see, to whisper.

Then came the silences—sharper than any word. Bo’s family never said nothin’ unkind, but they didn’t say much at all. His mama served you dinner with eyes glued to her plate. And when conversation got serious, the room slipped into Cantonese like you was never meant to understand.

You never blamed Bo. Not once. But some nights, when the store was locked and the lights were low, a question would settle on your chest: Was love enough to hold up against a world built to break it down?

You started shrinkin’. Bit by bit. Skipped the town meetings. Wore plain browns instead of the reds he said lit up your skin. Kept your curls pinned back tight. Stopped singin’ when strangers were near.

Then one night, Bo found you sittin’ out back on the stoop, apron still tied at your waist, fingers twistin’ together like they were tryin’ to pray.

“Y/N,” he said, soft.

You didn’t turn. Just stared at the road, dusty and endless.

He sat beside you without a word, hands restin’ on his knees, the air thick with things unsaid.

“Ever wonder if life’d be simpler if you’d picked someone else?” you asked, barely louder than the wind.

Bo turned to you slow. “Where’s that comin’ from?”

You shrugged. “Somebody who don’t make folks stare. Someone your mama could talk to. Someone who don’t weigh on you every time you walk into a room.”

He didn’t say nothin’ at first. Let the silence sit a while.

“I know you love me,” you whispered. “But I been feelin’ like lovin’ me costs you too much.”

He reached for your hand, held it like glass. “You remember that night at the juke joint? You had a yellow scarf in your hair and a song that made the room hush. I ain’t never believed in fate till that moment.”

You let out a little laugh. “I was just tryna finish my set.”

“And you finished me,” he said, serious now. “Right then and there.”

He turned, took both your hands. “Y/N, I didn’t choose you for ease. I chose you ‘cause you made life real. You made it ours. You think I care what people say? Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em choke on it. I’d walk through this world a hundred times over, long as you walkin’ beside me.”

Your eyes stung. He saw it. Brushed your cheek with his thumb.

“I don’t want quiet. I don’t want small. I want you. Loud and wild and stubborn and singin’ like the trees are listenin’. You’re not a burden, baby. You’re the reason I breathe.”

You leaned into him, and he pulled you close like he meant to shield you from the whole world.

The next morning, Bo cleaned the store window and taped up a new photograph—one of the two of you on your last anniversary, arms wrapped around each other, grinnin’ like you had no idea what the world thought.

People stared, sure as sunrise. Some smiled. Some turned away.

Didn’t matter.

A white man came in later that week, looked at the photo, then at Bo. “That your wife?”

Bo didn’t even blink. “Damn right she is. Best part of my life.”

And behind the counter, where no one else could see, you touched your heart—steady, strong—holdin’ that truth close like it was a promise that couldn’t be broken.

[arimoonlight1]

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐄𝐦 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤~ 𝐁𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐰 ˣ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐏𝐨𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐜:𝟏𝐤

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐨’𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟!, 𝐀 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐬, 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦.

𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬!

The bell above the door let out a tired jingle when you stepped inside, the late-summer heat clingin’ to your dress like sweat-soaked cotton. The air was thick with the scent of flour, kerosene, and peaches just on the edge of turnin’. It was quiet in the store, ‘cept for the lazy buzz of a fan spinnin’ slow in the back.

Bo glanced up from the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sweat dark at his collar. When he saw you, that crooked smile of his bloomed—soft and familiar, the kind that still made your chest ache in a good way, even after all these years.

“Well now,” he said, voice smooth as creek water, “look what the sun dragged in.”

You held up the lunch pail. “You forgot your food. Again. Thought I’d bring it by before you shriveled up from pride.”

He came ‘round the counter and kissed your cheek, lingerin’ a breath longer than polite. “I’m a lucky man,” he said.

“You always say that when you forget somethin’.”

He popped the lid and peered inside. “Catfish and cornbread? You tryin’ to make me marry you twice?”

You smirked. “Ain’t nobody else would put up with you.”

The two of you laughed, like you always did. Like the world outside them yellow-painted walls couldn’t touch what y’all had built. And maybe it couldn’t—least not at first.

It had started ten years ago, when Bo Chow walked into your cousins’ juke joint with a stack of flyers for a little grocery he was settin’ up. You were on stage singin’ “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” and from the moment his eyes found yours, he never looked away. Came back three nights straight before he finally got the nerve to speak, offerin’ you lemon soda and red bean cake like it was a treasure.

Folks talked. Lord, did they. Some just whispered. Others spat their thoughts out loud. It wasn’t proper, not in 1932 Mississippi—a Chinese man and a Black woman buildin’ somethin’ sweet outta the cracked earth.

But Bo, he didn’t flinch. When he asked you to marry him, he did it loud, right there in front of the whole congregation after church one Sunday. Held your hand like it was his lifeline, dared anyone to tell him he was wrong.

He painted the shelves sunflower yellow for you. Let you spin Billie Holiday records while you stocked goods. Framed your picture behind the register, the one where you were smilin’ real big with lipstick the color of ripe cherries.

But time changes things.

First came the looks. The kind that stick to your back, crawl up your neck. When you and Bo walked through town hand-in-hand, or when folks spotted you behind the counter like you belonged there. Some white folks stopped comin’ in altogether. Others came more often, just to see, to whisper.

Then came the silences—sharper than any word. Bo’s family never said nothin’ unkind, but they didn’t say much at all. His mama served you dinner with eyes glued to her plate. And when conversation got serious, the room slipped into Cantonese like you was never meant to understand.

You never blamed Bo. Not once. But some nights, when the store was locked and the lights were low, a question would settle on your chest: Was love enough to hold up against a world built to break it down?

You started shrinkin’. Bit by bit. Skipped the town meetings. Wore plain browns instead of the reds he said lit up your skin. Kept your curls pinned back tight. Stopped singin’ when strangers were near.

Then one night, Bo found you sittin’ out back on the stoop, apron still tied at your waist, fingers twistin’ together like they were tryin’ to pray.

“Y/N,” he said, soft.

You didn’t turn. Just stared at the road, dusty and endless.

He sat beside you without a word, hands restin’ on his knees, the air thick with things unsaid.

“Ever wonder if life’d be simpler if you’d picked someone else?” you asked, barely louder than the wind.

Bo turned to you slow. “Where’s that comin’ from?”

You shrugged. “Somebody who don’t make folks stare. Someone your mama could talk to. Someone who don’t weigh on you every time you walk into a room.”

He didn’t say nothin’ at first. Let the silence sit a while.

“I know you love me,” you whispered. “But I been feelin’ like lovin’ me costs you too much.”

He reached for your hand, held it like glass. “You remember that night at the juke joint? You had a yellow scarf in your hair and a song that made the room hush. I ain’t never believed in fate till that moment.”

You let out a little laugh. “I was just tryna finish my set.”

“And you finished me,” he said, serious now. “Right then and there.”

He turned, took both your hands. “Y/N, I didn’t choose you for ease. I chose you ‘cause you made life real. You made it ours. You think I care what people say? Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em choke on it. I’d walk through this world a hundred times over, long as you walkin’ beside me.”

Your eyes stung. He saw it. Brushed your cheek with his thumb.

“I don’t want quiet. I don’t want small. I want you. Loud and wild and stubborn and singin’ like the trees are listenin’. You’re not a burden, baby. You’re the reason I breathe.”

You leaned into him, and he pulled you close like he meant to shield you from the whole world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Bo cleaned the store window and taped up a new photograph—one of the two of you on your last anniversary, arms wrapped around each other, grinnin’ like you had no idea what the world thought.

People stared, sure as sunrise. Some smiled. Some turned away.

Didn’t matter.

A white man came in later that week, looked at the photo, then at Bo. “That your wife?”

Bo didn’t even blink. “Damn right she is. Best part of my life.”

And behind the counter, where no one else could see, you touched your heart—steady, strong—holdin’ that truth close like it was a promise that couldn’t be broken.

[arimoonlight1]

Hello, my beautiful people! I’ve decided to share my work here. Honestly, I don’t know what I was afraid of. I blame my overthinking!

🤦🏾‍♀️

But please reblog, and feedback is highly appreciated. Of course, I’m a big girl and can handle myself.

I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this. Hehehe

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐏𝐭.𝟏~ 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐤 ˣ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐏𝐎𝐂!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐚𝐮!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In 1930s Mississippi, a young Black singer steps into the spotlight at her cousins' juke joint, chasing a dream her family don’t approve of. But when the club catches the eye of Remmick—a powerful Mafia leader with deadly ambition and a growing obsession with her—things turn dangerous.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+,Violence, Alcohol use/Substance use, Discrimination, Guns, Emotional Manipulation, Implied Threats of Sexual Violence, Reader is Stack&Smoke lil cousin of the, smut?(ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵘʳᵉ ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵘᵗᵘʳᵉ ) , Reader had a smart mouth ofc!

Remmick will be introduced in Pt.2 and I trust it will be longer.

You was sittin’ on a splintered bench at the old Jackson train station, legs swingin’ and heart beatin’ fast like a snare drum. The sun hung low in the sky, settin’ everything it touched in a syrupy gold. Heat rippled up off the tracks, and the air stuck to your skin like molasses. Sweat trickled down your back, but you didn’t mind none. You was waitin’ on your cousins—Smoke, Stack, and little old Sammie—and they always ran late. Especially when they was up to no good.

Rumor had it Smoke and Stack done bought themselves a juke joint out past the bayou—some run-down, shotgun-style place they picked up from a white man too scared to keep it after a bullet storm tore through one stormy Saturday night. Folks said there were still holes in the walls and dried blood in the floorboards. But Smoke didn’t care none. He said music was the only thing that ever made sense to him. Swore that beat-up joint could be the start of somethin’ big.

And you? You just wanted a piece of it.

You’d been beggin’ Smoke for days. “Please, Smoke,” you’d said, “just let me sing.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh that shook his chest and made his gold tooth shine. “Ain’t no place for a voice like yours,” he told you. “Not with your mama breathin’ down my neck.” But you didn’t stop. Swore you wouldn’t say nothin’. Swore you’d keep it secret. Smoke finally gave in, wiped the sweat from his brow and said, “Fine. But if you comin’, you better be ready for what comes with it.”

And you was.

You’d been singin’ since you was knee-high, beltin’ out old church hymns on front porches, hummin’ blues while hangin’ laundry, even croonin’ lullabies to the birds up in the trees. Folks always said your voice was touched—like honey over fire. Said it made ‘em feel things they thought was long gone.

But your folks? They wasn’t havin’ it. Called it sin music. Said singin’ like that opened doors better left shut.

You knew better.

You knew music could soothe. Could speak what mouths were too scared to say. It could bring peace, or raise hell—sometimes both in the same breath. And if that juke joint was the only place in all of Mississippi where folks might hear you, then that’s where you belonged.

Trouble was, your cousins weren’t in no rush.

The hour stretched long. Sweat soaked the back of your blouse and the wood of that bench was startin’ to bite into your thighs. You swiped at your neck, grumblin’ to yourself.

“Where the hell are these boys?”

Like somebody heard you, a voice called out over the whistle of the breeze.

“Y/N! Hey, Y/N!”

You turned, eyes squintin’ against the sun. There came Stack, strollin’ like the devil himself owed him money, and behind him was Sammie, taller than you remembered, grinnin’ wide. No sign of Smoke.

“Bout time,” you said, gettin’ to your feet. “Got me out here boilin’ like a pot of grits.”

“Hey there, little cousin,” Stack said with that crooked grin, arms open like he was expectin’ praise.

You popped him in the chest. “What the hell took y’all so long?”

“Damn,” he laughed, rubbin’ where you hit him. “Had to scoop up lil Sammie here, remember?”

You turned to Sammie and smiled wide. “Look at you, baby. You grew a whole foot since I saw you last. Your daddy still runnin’ you ragged ‘bout that blues music?”

Sammie chuckled and pulled you into a tight hug. “Yeah, he still preachin’. Said blues is the devil’s tongue and I’m bound for hell if I keep playin’.”

“Mmm.” You pulled back and raised a brow. “You sure we ain’t got the same daddy?”

He laughed louder at that. “Well, we all grew up in the same house. That count for somethin’.”

Your smile flickered for a second, your thoughts driftin’ to the times y’all didn’t speak on anymore. Nights too loud. Mornings too quiet. But before that could settle, Stack jumped in.

“Oh, so Sammie get all the love and I just get violence?”

You rolled your eyes. “Boy, hush. Got me standin’ out here like I ain’t got sense.”

“Keep talkin’ slick,” Stack said, “and I’ll leave your fast-talkin’ behind right here.”

You gave him that look, the one that made boys back off quick. “Where’s Smoke? Thought y’all was showin’ up together.”

“He had... business,” Stack said, scratchin’ his jaw.

“Uh-huh,” you said, arms crossin’. “By ‘business,’ you mean trouble.”

“If you must know,” he said, “he’s gettin’ things ready for tonight. Equipment. Booze. Folks.”

“Mmhmm.” You squinted at him. “Y’all always up to somethin’.”

Stack grinned. “Ain’t like that this time. Besides, you need to mind the business that pays you.”

“You two are my business,” you snapped. “Somebody gotta keep y’all outta trouble.”

“And that’s why I love you, cousin,” he said, pullin’ you into another hug. “But don’t worry that pretty head of yours. We got it handled.”

“Ugh, get off me,” you said, pushin’ him away with a laugh. “Can we go now? I’m sweatin’ through my damn stockings.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just gotta grab Slim’s drunk ass and then we rollin’.”

You sighed, watchin’ the two of ‘em walk off toward the edge of the lot. Their silhouettes wavered in the heat, laughin’ like they didn’t have a care in the world.

You stood still a moment, hand restin’ on your hip, eyes glancin’ toward the sunburnt sky. You didn’t know what tonight would bring, but somethin’ in your gut told you it was more than just music waitin’ at that juke joint.

No, it felt like change.

And maybe even danger.

But you was ready—for all of it.

[arimoonlight1]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐏𝐭.𝟏~ 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐤 ˣ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐏𝐎𝐂!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐚𝐮!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In 1930s Mississippi, a young Black singer steps into the spotlight at her cousins' juke joint, chasing a dream her family don’t approve of. But when the club catches the eye of Remmick—a powerful Mafia leader with deadly ambition and a growing obsession with her—things turn dangerous.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+,Violence, Alcohol use/Substance use, Discrimination, Guns, Emotional Manipulation, Implied Threats of Sexual Violence, Reader is Stack&Smoke lil cousin of the, smut?(ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵘʳᵉ ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵘᵗᵘʳᵉ ) , Reader had a smart mouth ofc!

Remmick will be introduced in Pt.2 and trust it will be longer.

You was sittin’ on a splintered bench at the old Jackson train station, legs swingin’ and heart beatin’ fast like a snare drum. The sun hung low in the sky, settin’ everything it touched in a syrupy gold. Heat rippled up off the tracks, and the air stuck to your skin like molasses. Sweat trickled down your back, but you didn’t mind none. You was waitin’ on your cousins—Smoke, Stack, and little old Sammie—and they always ran late. Especially when they was up to no good.

Rumor had it Smoke and Stack done bought themselves a juke joint out past the bayou—some run-down, shotgun-style place they picked up from a white man too scared to keep it after a bullet storm tore through one stormy Saturday night. Folks said there were still holes in the walls and dried blood in the floorboards. But Smoke didn’t care none. He said music was the only thing that ever made sense to him. Swore that beat-up joint could be the start of somethin’ big.

And you? You just wanted a piece of it.

You’d been beggin’ Smoke for days. “Please, Smoke,” you’d said, “just let me sing.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh that shook his chest and made his gold tooth shine. “Ain’t no place for a voice like yours,” he told you. “Not with your mama breathin’ down my neck.” But you didn’t stop. Swore you wouldn’t say nothin’. Swore you’d keep it secret. Smoke finally gave in, wiped the sweat from his brow and said, “Fine. But if you comin’, you better be ready for what comes with it.”

And you was.

You’d been singin’ since you was knee-high, beltin’ out old church hymns on front porches, hummin’ blues while hangin’ laundry, even croonin’ lullabies to the birds up in the trees. Folks always said your voice was touched—like honey over fire. Said it made ‘em feel things they thought was long gone.

But your folks? They wasn’t havin’ it. Called it sin music. Said singin’ like that opened doors better left shut.

You knew better.

You knew music could soothe. Could speak what mouths were too scared to say. It could bring peace, or raise hell—sometimes both in the same breath. And if that juke joint was the only place in all of Mississippi where folks might hear you, then that’s where you belonged.

Trouble was, your cousins weren’t in no rush.

The hour stretched long. Sweat soaked the back of your blouse and the wood of that bench was startin’ to bite into your thighs. You swiped at your neck, grumblin’ to yourself.

“Where the hell are these boys?”

Like somebody heard you, a voice called out over the whistle of the breeze.

“Y/N! Hey, Y/N!”

You turned, eyes squintin’ against the sun. There came Stack, strollin’ like the devil himself owed him money, and behind him was Sammie, taller than you remembered, grinnin’ wide. No sign of Smoke.

“Bout time,” you said, gettin’ to your feet. “Got me out here boilin’ like a pot of grits.”

“Hey there, little cousin,” Stack said with that crooked grin, arms open like he was expectin’ praise.

You popped him in the chest. “What the hell took y’all so long?”

“Damn,” he laughed, rubbin’ where you hit him. “Had to scoop up lil Sammie here, remember?”

You turned to Sammie and smiled wide. “Look at you, baby. You grew a whole foot since I saw you last. Your daddy still runnin’ you ragged ‘bout that blues music?”

Sammie chuckled and pulled you into a tight hug. “Yeah, he still preachin’. Said blues is the devil’s tongue and I’m bound for hell if I keep playin’.”

“Mmm.” You pulled back and raised a brow. “You sure we ain’t got the same daddy?”

He laughed louder at that. “Well, we all grew up in the same house. That count for somethin’.”

Your smile flickered for a second, your thoughts driftin’ to the times y’all didn’t speak on anymore. Nights too loud. Mornings too quiet. But before that could settle, Stack jumped in.

“Oh, so Sammie get all the love and I just get violence?”

You rolled your eyes. “Boy, hush. Got me standin’ out here like I ain’t got sense.”

“Keep talkin’ slick,” Stack said, “and I’ll leave your fast-talkin’ behind right here.”

You gave him that look, the one that made boys back off quick. “Where’s Smoke? Thought y’all was showin’ up together.”

“He had... business,” Stack said, scratchin’ his jaw.

“Uh-huh,” you said, arms crossin’. “By ‘business,’ you mean trouble.”

“If you must know,” he said, “he’s gettin’ things ready for tonight. Equipment. Booze. Folks.”

“Mmhmm.” You squinted at him. “Y’all always up to somethin’.”

Stack grinned. “Ain’t like that this time. Besides, you need to mind the business that pays you.”

“You two are my business,” you snapped. “Somebody gotta keep y’all outta trouble.”

“And that’s why I love you, cousin,” he said, pullin’ you into another hug. “But don’t worry that pretty head of yours. We got it handled.”

“Ugh, get off me,” you said, pushin’ him away with a laugh. “Can we go now? I’m sweatin’ through my damn stockings.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just gotta grab Slim’s drunk ass and then we rollin’.”

You sighed, watchin’ the two of ‘em walk off toward the edge of the lot. Their silhouettes wavered in the heat, laughin’ like they didn’t have a care in the world.

You stood still a moment, hand restin’ on your hip, eyes glancin’ toward the sunburnt sky. You didn’t know what tonight would bring, but somethin’ in your gut told you it was more than just music waitin’ at that juke joint.

No, it felt like change.

And maybe even danger.

But you was ready—for all of it.

[arimoonlight1]

Guys, I just finished writing the first part of my little one-shot.

I’m contemplating posting later today because it’s currently 3:52 am as I’m writing this. Either later today or sometime on Monday, for sure.

Please provide me with feedback and let me know by the end of Part 2 if you’d like me to making it into a series. Currently, I’m contemplating making it a three-part series. Also, remember that I’ll continue posting on Wattpad until I attempt writing here, so I’ll provide the link soon.

I’m so excited for you guys to read

Alright, I’m tired. Peace out, Girl Scouts.

[arimoonlight1]

No seriously!? That man is so fine, and I need more Bo chow x black reader fics rn bc people really sleeping on my man bc he’s Chinese 🙂‍↔️🙄

And yes I will be writing for this man in the future as well 😋

Where tf is all the Bo chow x black reader fics? Like, what's going on? Y'all don't see how fine that man is?

[arimoonlight1]

WE CAN’T HAVE SHIT 🤦🏾‍♀️😔🙂‍↔️

Sick and tired of seeing these sinners fics with a very clear white chick

Like let's US have this damn movie as it is for us in the fucking first place

YALL HAVE TVD, INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE ALL THESE SHOWS AND MOVIES STOP

[arimoonlight1]

Hello, my fellow people! Yes, I’m back on this account. I want to apologize for being M.I.A. for a while. You know, I’ve been going through a lot mentally, so sometimes I take breaks to prevent myself from going completely insane. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to start writing anything, so I do apologize for that.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I’d start writing anything anytime soon because when I tell you about my mental health, trust me, it gets really bad! But I’ll be okay, and I’m here to write and give my time to these fanfics, hehehe.

That being said, let’s give a shoutout to the movie SINNERS! It deserves an Oscar and is one of the reasons I’ll start writing again. I have so many ideas for the villain, Remmick, that fine Irish vampire. There’s also Bo Chow, that beautiful Chinese-American, and many more characters from that movie. Believe me when I say I’m a horror movie girl, so when I saw SINNERS, my mind was blown. It wasn’t just because of the gore and all the horror movie elements; it was also the history that came with the movie. I’m African American, so in some ways, the movie spoke to me and made me think about things.

So, yes, my beautiful people, I’m back and will start writing soon. I’m not sure if it will be on here yet, but I’ll link my Wattpad account so you’re still updated. I’m still trying to figure out how to correctly post my fanfics on here, so until I do, you can find my stuff on Wattpad if you’re interested.

Alright, peace out. ✌🏾